‘Do you write under your own name?’
‘Meaning you’ve never heard of me,’ she teased him.
‘I’m sorry—’
‘You don’t have to apologise. I think Sam Rogers mentioned that your subject’s history,’ she went on, hoping to lead him on to talk about his own interests. Unfortunately, the remark had the opposite effect. He clapped his hands to his temples and groaned.
‘Rogers … and Miss Monroe, his head teacher … they’re going to find out what I did … what I’m supposed to have done … they’ll see it in the paper and cancel my contract … it’ll start all over again!’ The spark of animation flickered and died; once again, despair overwhelmed him.
‘Now, you listen to me!’ Melissa adopted the brisk, slightly authoritative, maternal tone that, years ago, she used when reprimanding her son for some teenage folly. ‘You heard what that young man said—he’s only doing work experience and nothing he writes is going to get published. They probably got fed up with him hanging around the office and getting under their feet …’
‘So why did he pick on me? Someone must have given him my name.’
The same thought had occurred to Melissa. She knew—because she had checked with Matt Waters—that the police had not identified either of them in their press release, and the report in the Gazette had merely referred to Cissie’s body being discovered by a local resident while out for a walk. It would not, however, have been difficult for young Blake to find someone in the village more than willing to talk about the event that was still uppermost in people’s minds. Mrs Foster, for example, was always ready to offer her opinion and she had already hinted that she half suspected Graham Shipley of having something to hide. There was a real danger that when Blake returned to the office and reported his hostile reception, someone—Bruce Ingram, for example—would decide there was a story to be followed up.
‘I should have changed my name,’ Graham said suddenly. ‘I thought of it, when I applied for the job at St Monica’s, but it would have been difficult with official records and so on, and anyway it seemed unethical … it wasn’t as if I’d done anything wrong …’ He looked at her with a pathetic, almost hang-dog expression. ‘What should I do now?’
‘I’m afraid that’s something you have to decide.’ Melissa did her best not to let him see that she was becoming a little weary of her rôle as mother confessor. ‘We spoke this morning about your telling the police that you saw Cissie shortly before she died … have you done that?’
‘No. I can’t make up my mind—’
‘Well, think about it. The sooner they have all the facts, the sooner they’ll be able to clear up the case.’ Melissa stood up and began to clear the table. She glanced out of the window, trying to figure out a polite way of indicating that it was time for him to leave. She found inspiration in the sight of the laden branches of the one small fruit tree in her garden. ‘Would you care for some apples?’ she said. ‘I was thinking earlier, it’s time I started picking them.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ he said dully, and then, as if it struck him that he owed her a gesture of appreciation, ‘Shall I give you a hand?’
It was not what she had in mind, but it was better than being stuck indoors on what had become a brilliant afternoon. As it happened, he quickly tired of the exercise, complained that the sun was giving him a headache and went home half an hour later, thanking her profusely for her kindness and clutching a plastic bag full of apples.
Towards evening the air became still and heavy, with cloud building up from the west. Unsettled weather was forecast and some time in the small hours Melissa was awakened by the sound of the promised rain lashing against her bedroom window. Then came the lightning, swiftly followed by crashes of thunder indicating that the storm was practically overhead. Unable to sleep, she got up, put on a dressing-gown and went downstairs to make a pot of tea. The wind roared around the cottage like a marauding beast, with every so often a momentary, uncanny stillness as if the elements were silently regrouping for the next onslaught. She switched out the kitchen light and sat at the window to watch the jagged rods of lightning tearing apart the blackness of the sky. She tried to find words to describe the awesome spectacle, could think of nothing that did not sound twee and banal, thanked her stars that she did not have to be out in it, finished her tea and went back to bed.
A little over a mile away, Tommy Judd lay in a deep, snoring slumber, oblivious to the howling of the storm. Even had it been a still night and he wide awake, his muffled hearing would not have detected the creak of the kitchen window-frame being stealthily opened, nor the faint sounds of movement as the intruder carried out his search. Not until he came downstairs the following morning and saw the gaping hole in the floor did the old man realise that he had been robbed. His shock and anger were compounded by the knowledge that he dare not report the break-in to anyone, least of all to the police.
Thirteen
Wednesday was the day that Gloria Parkin, the blonde and buxom wife of Stanley Parkin, second-hand car dealer, and the proud and devoted mother of Darren, Wayne and Charlene, spent two hours energetically cleaning and polishing Hawthorn Cottage while bringing Melissa up to date with the latest news and gossip from the twin villages of Upper and Lower Benbury.
Today, inevitably, her sole topic was the tragedy that had befallen the little community. She was a warm-hearted, emotional creature, easily moved to both laughter and tears, and her eyes filled as she spoke of the grief of the bereaved mother. ‘Can’t get the poor love out of my mind,’ she declared, brushing moisture from her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘I keeps asking myself, what would I do if anything like that happened to my Charlene? And no man to comfort her,’ she added with a sniff.
‘Have you seen her? How is she coping?’ asked Melissa. ‘Mrs Yates said she’s staying with neighbours.’
‘That were just Saturday night. She went home Sunday morning. They tried to make her stay, but she would go, said she felt nearer to Cissie in her own home.’ Gloria’s tears flowed more freely and Melissa felt her own eyes pricking as she went on, ‘Mrs Yates and the rest of us pops in regular and takes in food and tries to cheer her up, but she spends most of her time in Cissie’s room, just sitting there looking at her picture and saying as how she should never have let her go to that disco and dance all evening with Gary Tanner.’
‘She seriously thinks Gary had something to do with it?’ said Melissa in disbelief. ‘But how?’
‘Search me.’ Gloria’s plump face puckered in bewilderment. ‘She’s got this notion in her head about teenage boys being sent by the devil to get girls like her Cissie into trouble.’
‘She told you that?’
‘Something like that, a while ago it were, before Cissie began working in the shop of a Saturday. Said she didn’t like the idea because of all the lads she might meet. I told her it was the older men she should be watching out for—like that Mr Lane at Benbury Park,’ Gloria added, her sorrowful expression giving way to a knowing wink. ‘Told her I’d spotted him more than once eyeing up the girls and she got quite shirty, said I must have imagined it.’
Melissa was about to comment that she too had observed what she had described in her recent letter to Iris as ‘a mischievous twinkle’ in Gideon Lane’s eye, but decided that it would be unwise. Gloria did not have a shred of malice in her make-up, but her tongue was inclined to run away with her and the last thing Melissa wanted was to be the source of any further rumours.
Gloria’s next remark filled her with dismay. ‘They reckons that Mr Shipley next door to you might know something,’ she said over her shoulder as, after enveloping her ample frame in a flowered overall, she began taking cleaning materials from a cupboard in the kitchen.
‘What do you mean, know something?’
‘Someone said they’d seen him out walking near the brook the day Cissie died.’
‘That’s not surprising. He was the one who found her.’
‘I mean,
earlier.’
‘Oh?’ So Colin must have mentioned Graham’s near-fatal dash elsewhere—unless there had been yet another witness to his presence. Trying not to betray her concern, Melissa said, ‘Who told you this?’
‘Mrs Foster. She got it from Miss Brightwell. Tell you something else, she saw that policeman driving this way on Monday and wondered if maybe he were going to ask Mr Shipley more questions.’
‘If I were you, I’d be careful about spreading these rumours,’ said Melissa. She had spoken a little more sharply than she intended and Gloria looked at her with a hurt expression.
‘It were only what Mrs Foster were saying,’ she protested.
‘I know, but if it got back to Mr Shipley, he might think people suspected him of having something to do with Cissie’s death. He’s upset enough as it is.’
Gloria’s toffee-brown eyes registered a blend of shock and remorse. ‘Ooh my, I never thought … but no, no one would think that of him, would they? Such a nice gentleman, my kids really took to him at the barbie. We just wish he were going to be their teacher—’ She broke off as she caught sight of the kitchen clock. ‘Oh my, just look at the time, I must get on,’ she said and bustled out.
Melissa went to her study and tried to settle down with her novel, but found her mind constantly harking back to the tragedy. So far as she knew, the police were still working on the theory that Cissie had met her death while fleeing from a potential attacker. There seemed no doubt that she had tripped and fallen into the brook, knocking herself out as she did so, but—as Matt Waters had told her in confidence—there remained the sickening possibility that whoever was chasing her had made sure that she never recovered consciousness. If Graham Shipley was telling the truth—and she sincerely believed that he was—then someone else, probably but not necessarily the girl’s pursuer, had pulled her body from the water but failed to raise the alarm. Why?
Further questions piled up in her mind. She had not set eyes on Graham since yesterday afternoon; had he in the meantime plucked up courage to go to the police and admit that he had seen Cissie shortly before she died? If so, had his explanation been believed? Perhaps by now Colin had heard about the appeal for witnesses and come forward. Could someone else have seen Graham at the crucial time and reported it to the police? And had Peter Blake’s abortive interview done anything to cause the Gazette’s editor to order some serious investigation? Because of his troubled history, Graham Shipley was already under exceptional stress. Who could tell what effect further harassment might have on his state of mind?
On impulse, Melissa picked up the phone and called Bruce Ingram’s number. It was a long shot, but there might be something he could do to call off the dogs.
‘Hi, I was about to call you,’ he said. ‘What can you tell me about your neighbour threatening to glass young Peter Blake? It’s caused quite a stir in the office.’
‘It wasn’t quite like that, and the chap was rather objectionable, wouldn’t go when he was asked.’
‘I’d like to hear your version, then. The editor has asked me to follow it up.’
‘I was afraid of this,’ Melissa sighed. ‘That’s why I called—I was hoping you could do something to play it down.’
‘No chance, I’m afraid, not with Shipley’s history—’
‘Bruce! I asked you not to—’
‘Don’t blame me. I wasn’t the one to dish out that assignment—it was just something for young Peter to do. If your friend had answered a few anodyne questions instead of cutting up rough, the kid would have come back and written up a nice little practice piece that would never have seen the light of day. As it is, a lot of questions are being asked.’
At that moment there was an interruption as an excited Gloria banged on the door and burst into the room without waiting for a response. ‘Guess what!’ she exclaimed. ‘That Mr Shipley’s been arrested!’
‘What!’ Melissa hastily covered the mouthpiece and gasped, ‘Are you sure?’
‘I were at the window shaking me duster … I saw him get in a car with two men … policemen, I reckons … they all drove off in a hurry.’ Her eye fell on the receiver in Melissa’s hand and she uttered an apologetic squeak. ‘Ooh, sorry, didn’t see you was on the phone, just thought you’d like to know. It’s nearly eleven,’ she went on, clearly oblivious to the shattering effect of her announcement. ‘Shall I make the coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Melissa weakly, ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’ Into the receiver she said, ‘I presume you overheard that?’
‘I heard the bit about the arrest. Is it true?’
‘I can’t be certain, but it sounds very much like it.’
‘Hmm.’ There was a short pause while Bruce considered this new development. ‘I’d better nip along to the nick and see what I can pick up,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, off the record, exactly what did happen when Peter Blake called on Graham Shipley?’
With an effort, Melissa controlled the urge to scream. ‘Just go away, Bruce, will you?’ she hissed.
Graham Shipley sat slumped in his chair in the interview room and stared down at the grey plastic surface of the table separating him from the two police officers. He felt a tight band round his head and a hard lump in his stomach; the room was warm to the point of stuffiness, but he felt cold. They had offered him a cup of tea and when a young uniformed officer brought it he clasped the thick pottery mug in both hands in an effort to absorb some of its heat into his shivering body.
The events of the past half hour had brought him to a state of utter confusion. One minute he had been staring out of the window in the upstairs room of Elder Cottage, seeing nothing, conscious of nothing but the need to take some sort of action, yet unable to decide which path to follow. The next, the choice had been taken out of his hands as the car drew up outside and two men—he would have known immediately that they were police officers even if he had not recognised Detective Sergeant Waters—got out and knocked on the door. He barely heard what they said; he only knew it meant they had found out that he had lied to them and that he had to go with them. He could no longer think; his mind was like a vehicle out of control, racing helter-skelter downhill towards an abyss. Nothing lay ahead but darkness and despair.
He had lain awake for hours during the night, trying to summon up the resolve to come clean, to go to the police, admit that he had been lying and do his best to make them understand why, rather than wait for them to find out from other sources. Common sense and his conscience told him that this was the right thing to do—make a clean breast of everything, tell the whole truth and trust that he would be believed. His faith had helped to sustain him during the Jazzie Dixon affair and he clung to it now, praying for guidance. And his prayers had been answered, hadn’t they, through the kindly wisdom of a sympathetic neighbour? He felt certain that she believed in his innocence; why had he not acted on her advice while he still had the chance? It was because he lacked the courage. He should have prayed for that as well. Now it was too late, and he had only himself to blame.
Detective Sergeant Waters began the questioning and despite his quiet manner and total lack of any hint of bullying there was a steely edge to his voice. ‘According to the statement you made shortly after you reported your discovery of the body of Cissie Wilcox,’ he began, ‘you had not previously been anywhere in the vicinity on the day of her death. Have you anything to add to that statement?’
With an effort, Graham raised his head to look the detective squarely in the face. His eyes met a penetrating, unblinking gaze that chilled him to the marrow and turned the hot tea in his stomach to ice. He licked his dry lips and faltered, ‘Yes.’
‘Fine.’ Waters settled back in his chair; his manner became almost avuncular as he added, ‘Take your time.’
It might have been meant to reassure, but it had the effect of reminding Graham that there was no hurry because they had the power to keep him here all day and all night if necessary. Maybe longer. Maybe for years. Maybe this time he would n
ever be let out. He had heard of what happened in prison to people found guilty of harming children and a wave of panic engulfed him. For a minute or two he could barely speak.
At last, in a series of jerky, ill-constructed sentences, he managed to stammer out the story of how the sight of a distressed Cissie running towards him seemed to threaten a repeat of the moment when Jazzie Dixon had sprung her trap and how the possibility of having to live through a similar nightmare all over again had swept every rational thought aside.
The two detectives listened in silence. When he had finished, Waters leaned forward and said quietly, ‘We know, because we have a reliable witness, that at approximately one thirty you rushed out into the road and almost got yourself run over by a white van. Are you claiming that what happened nearly two years ago had the effect of making you so desperate to avoid contact with any other teenage girl that you ignored the possibility that Cissie Wilcox might be in genuine need of help?’
‘Yes.’ Graham brushed a hand over his eyes as guilt and misery threatened to break his fragile self-control. ‘Do you think I haven’t thought of that a thousand times since?’
The detective made no direct reply, but took a sheet of paper from a file on the table in front of him. ‘I have here a note of a conversation I had with the head teacher of your last school. He said, and I quote, “My impression of Shipley was of a compassionate and caring teacher who achieved some very good results, sometimes with quite difficult students.” Is that how you see yourself, Mr Shipley?’
‘I’ve always tried to do my best for the kids in my charge. Some of them come from pretty miserable backgrounds … they need a lot of help and support—’
‘Quite so,’ said Waters with a nod. ‘“Compassionate and caring”,’ he repeated. ‘I put it to you, Mr Shipley, that an experienced schoolteacher with those qualities, seeing a sixteen-year-old girl in obvious distress, would be more likely to go to her help than to run away.’
Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9) Page 10