by Gwen Moffat
‘They took your Land Rover. You’ve seen one Land Rover, you’ve seen ’em all, whereas his van and her MG would be recognized. He paid you for the loan of it. You stayed inside Blind Keld with Gemma.’
‘No, she didn’t know! Christ, the woman was her sister-in-law! Look, I weren’t doing nowt wrong. I worked there, I just let un take my truck while I got on with me walling. Gemma weren’t there, ever.’
‘Who was he, Dwayne?’
‘I don’t know.’ He was sulking.
‘The witness got the registration of the van.’ A lie; the informant, who’d been out after rabbits, had recognized the MG, but the van’s registration had been hidden by weeds.
‘If you know, why ask me?’
‘You’ve been protecting him.’
‘No reason to. He weren’t doing nothing illegal.’
‘Then why didn’t you tell us to start with? You’ve had two sessions with the police and you never mentioned this arrangement of hiring out your van –’
‘Land Rover. The van’s his.’
‘Let’s get this straight: the van belongs to Blamire, the Land Rover’s yours, and the MG is Isa’s, right?’
‘Wrong, the MG is Walter’s. I mean, someone said it’s registered to him.’
‘OK. I’ve got it sorted now.’ Rosie stood up, weak with relief, not triumphant, the man was a fool. Stupid people couldn’t remember the lies they’d told, especially men. However, that didn’t have to mean he was too stupid to have engineered Isa’s death.
The front door of Elfhow was wide open but at this time in the morning, the sun reached no further than the flags of the porch, and the passage beyond was dim. DI Gibson gave a tentative cough and Sewell cocked an ear, trying to distinguish interior noises from the clamour of birds. Gibson’s eyes, adjusting to the gloom, took in the passage, cluttered with boots and shoes, coats on wooden pegs, the glimpse of a beamed parlour on the right. There was the faintest sound of music and the men focused on the staircase. ‘Hello?’ Gibson murmured. The music continued. They started up the stairs.
All the doors on the upper floor were open bar one; sunshine, direct or reflected, illuminated white walls, black beams, bedspreads in pastel shades. There was a bathroom, agreeably untidy, a crumpled orange towel on the floor. The music came from behind the closed door, a wide gap at its base where oak planks had shrunk. Gibson gave a perfunctory knock and depressed the thumb latch.
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ the occupant said, not turning from the computer.
‘We knocked and called out,’ Gibson said mildly.
Blamire turned, astonished, getting up to approach and peer at Gibson’s ID. ‘I know you,’ he said, casually dismissing Sewell. ‘What’s this about: first thing on Sunday morning?’
‘Nearly noon,’ Gibson demurred. ‘There have been some developments.’
‘Where? What? Look, why don’t we –’ He looked past them.
‘Go downstairs?’ Gibson completed genially. ‘A good idea.’ He turned and Sewell stood aside.
Blamire hesitated. ‘What are the new developments?’
‘Well, we’ve been talking to –’ DI Gibson was mumbling, walking away, descending the stairs. Sewell stood back, gesturing to Blamire to precede him. He went reluctantly.
In the parlour he didn’t ask them to sit down. ‘My wife’s about somewhere.’ He looked around as if expecting her to materialize and play the hostess.
‘We don’t want to trouble Mrs Blamire,’ Gibson said. ‘It’s about Mrs Lambert, sir.’
He didn’t like that, but it could have been the ‘sir’ that bothered him. ‘What about her?’
Gibson studied him, letting the pause stretch. ‘The meetings at Blind Keld,’ he said.
‘What meetings? You’ve lost me.’
‘Your meeting with Mrs Lambert. And goings on in Paxton’s Land Rover.’
‘He’s lying.’
‘We have an independent witness.’
‘Witness to what?’
‘You were having an affair with Mrs Lambert,’ Gibson stated, not answering the question.
Blamire’s eyes were jumpy, shifting from the window to the doorway. ‘I’d rather talk somewhere else,’ he muttered. ‘My wife’s had enough distress. I wouldn’t want to cause – Can we go?’
‘Certainly.’ Gibson nodded sympathetically but behind Blamire’s back Sewell was swelling with glee.
***
Rosie had found Jean at the back of her house sowing carrot seed. While they talked Holgate sat on a pile of slates at the corner of the house, surveying the vegetables with a connoisseur’s eye but in a position to give warning of interruption.
Rosie began by saying that there had been a development, they’d been talking to Dwayne Paxton again.
Jean was dismayed but resigned. ‘I suppose it had to come,’ she sighed, and then, in a bright, artificial tone: ‘But there didn’t have to be – intimacy; I mean, not to be illegal.’
‘Illegal?’ Rosie was baffled. Holgate stood up and took a step towards them, intent on a row of sprouting broccoli.
‘Definitely not.’ Jean was into her stride. ‘She’s very mature for her age and he’s just a handsome boy. No age gap. And they were pals, nothing more.’
‘Actually,’ Rosie said, ‘Dwayne has been telling us about Isa.’
‘Shit!’ Jean had spilled seeds. She looked at the soil helplessly, pulled out an empty packet and started to fill it with pinches of earth and carrot seed. ‘What about Isa?’ she asked, addressing the ground.
‘You know she was having an affair.’ A statement, not a question.
‘It’s not true.’ Jean stood up and faced the other woman. ‘I know the rumour’s going around, probably started by her – she was a nymphomaniac, did you know that? She slept around – with everyone, anyone – and she did make a play for Martin; she made a bloody nuisance of herself in fact, extremely embarrassing for all of us, but that was it: embarrassment.’ She smiled fiercely. ‘No affair, I assure you. That kind of woman doesn’t have affairs, she was like a bitch on heat.’ The smile slipped, became a rictus. ‘She ate men, she consumed them. She was the village whore.’
***
At the station in Bailrigg Blamire was defiant, casual and confiding in turns. Paxton, he said, was trying to cover his back.
‘We know about Gemma Lambert,’ Gibson said, as if sex with a minor were a misdemeanour.
‘And the VAT fraud?’ They listened, knowing that this was par for the course: the accused turning on the accuser. ‘He’s a handyman,’ he went on. ‘He charges VAT but he’s not registered. And he doesn’t give receipts and won’t take cheques.’
‘Let’s talk about Isa Lambert,’ Gibson said.
Blamire’s eyes were avoiding the tape recorder as if it were a camera. He shook his head. ‘She didn’t mean anything to me. I was sorry for her. She needed treatment. Everyone’s hand was against her.’ Gibson raised his eyebrows. Sewell waited. ‘Women loathed her,’ Blamire assured them. ‘She was attractive in a common way – but you’ve seen photographs.’
‘Where did you go?’ Gibson asked.
Blamire sucked in his cheeks. ‘Out on the old firing range. I was teaching her to drive.’
‘You were?’ Sewell allowed himself a lewd grin. ‘In her MG?’
‘That’s right.’
‘But you left her car at Blind Keld.’
‘Ah yes, it started with the MG and then we switched to Paxton’s Land Rover.’ Sewell looked sceptical. ‘OK!’ Blamire exclaimed. ‘ I wasn’t teaching her – well,’ he shrugged – ‘I tried. I couldn’t get anywhere –’ He stopped, then continued, man to man, confessing everything: ‘Quite honestly, I wanted out. She’d latched on to me and people were talking. You can’t hide a thing like that.’
‘When did your wife find out?’ Gibson asked.
The fellow looked rueful. ‘She knew all along. Of course I denied it but I couldn’t stall her, it was only a matter of time. I was dreading Isa
coming to the house. Jean’s a tiger when she’s roused.’ His eyes shone with admiration. He was looking down at the table as he spoke and he missed their sudden stiffening, the startled glances they exchanged.
Rosie said, ‘He wasn’t lying there, sir. Jean knew he was having it off with Isa. You should have seen her – Holgate heard, didn’t you?’ The DC nodded. The four of them were in Gibson’s office discussing the morning’s interviews, planning ahead. Rosie went on quickly, ‘At the same time that she denied he was having an affair, in the next breath she was slagging the woman off in terms I reckon she’d never used before – except to her husband maybe.’ She thought about that. ‘Probably,’ she amended.
‘We’ve got ourselves another suspect,’ Sewell said.
Gibson was silent. They looked at him, waiting for his opinion. He said slowly, ‘If it could be one woman, why not another? Another wife? Where are the rest of the boyfriends?’
‘Dwayne?’ Rosie hazarded. ‘No, he was drinking in the Grey Goat. But that was in the evening. He doesn’t have an alibi for the night.’
‘We’re not losing sight of him.’
Rosie was thinking. ‘If he was sleeping with Isa, would Gemma be jealous?’
‘She’s Walter’s sister,’ Sewell reminded them. ‘That would give her a double reason for jealousy.’
‘There’s the holiday people,’ Holgate said doubtfully.
‘No.’ Gibson was definite. ‘He has to be a local – he or she. After he pushed the car in the river he had to come back across the fields.’
‘Not if he had an accomplice.’
There was silence as they thought about couples: the Blamires, the Lamberts …
‘Swinburn,’ Sewell said.
They considered Swinburn. ‘And there’s his wife,’ Rosie murmured but this produced no reaction from Holgate and Sewell who couldn’t imagine Jacob and Mabel colluding in murder.
‘Does anyone care that much these days about extramarital affairs?’ Gibson mused.
‘If exposure could mean losing your job,’ Rosie countered. ‘Or losing something else valuable.’
‘Such as?’ Gibson was interested.
‘There had to be a reason for killing her,’ Rosie persisted.
‘We don’t have to concern ourselves with motive,’ Holgate pointed out but she was staring at Gibson.
‘Rage could be adequate,’ he said, ‘fury, a blow, an accident. It could be manslaughter.’
‘Not a blow, sir; she was strangled.’
Chapter Fourteen
Sunday afternoon: soft, somnolent, still; even the birds were dozing in this the hottest part of the day. Cooper, stretched in the cool shade of delphiniums, opened a lazy eye as Miss Pink walked down the lane but it was too hot to follow her. It was too hot for walking but she was on the prowl, looking for a computer buff, wary of Blamire’s reputed temper but about to play it prudent. And Jean should be at home.
She was, just. They met at her gate. She had been up to Sleylands for lunch, she said, sounding tired and looking haggard. Miss Pink regarded shade under trees beyond the gate and remarked inanely that Sunday was the traditional time for visiting. Jean was forced to ask her in but without enthusiasm, and when her visitor pointed out that she didn’t want to disturb Martin, announced with her first show of spirit that he was in Bailrigg with the police.
‘Nothing wrong, I hope?’ Stopping by a seat under a red oak, Miss Pink sank down, concerned and ready to be enlightened.
Jean laughed harshly. ‘It was monstrous! That woman – Rosie – and the fellow Holgate: they kept me occupied in the vegetable garden at the back’ – she gestured wildly – ‘while more police went in the front and took Martin away. You don’t believe me? You think I’m exaggerating? He left a note on the kitchen table.’
Miss Pink turned to look at the house. ‘What did the note say?’
‘Just that he’d gone to Bailrigg with them. I called the station twice. After the second time and I was told the party still hadn’t arrived I didn’t call again. I went up to my mum’s,’ she ended lamely.
‘I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about.’ It was anodyne but Jean felt obliged to respond. She shrugged and said, trying to be casual, ‘It’ll be about Isa no doubt.’
‘Of course, you were her nearest neighbours.’
‘That doesn’t mean we were on close terms.’
‘Everyone is under suspicion after a murder. You must know that.’
Jean bit her lip. ‘I do, but it’s still a shock, like death. You’ve been expecting it but when it happens it knocks you backwards.’
‘You’d been expecting it?’
‘Death – I was talking about death.’
‘Ah yes. Why didn’t they question your husband here, I wonder?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘As if they wanted to separate you.’ In the face of a tense pause Miss Pink rattled on: ‘They did it with Walter and Gemma too, and Dwayne and Gemma; no doubt the Honeymans were interviewed separately. The police are all at sea’ – she smiled benignly – ‘and all the time it was someone from outside.’
Jean gaped. ‘How do you know?’
‘It’s obvious, my dear. Who could it have been in this little community: Walter, Dwayne, your husband? Dwayne had no need to kill her, and Walter and Martin have alibis. You surely don’t think Ralph Honeyman and your father are suspects?’
Jean gave a sickly grin. ‘Not my dad, not with my mum keeping an eye on him. And Ralph – well, he’s a tub of lard, isn’t he? Certainly obesity wouldn’t have deterred Isa, but Ralph wasn’t capable of the amount of energy involved in that murder.’
‘You have a way with words.’
‘Do you think so?’ Her face softened. ‘I write a little,’ she admitted.
‘That’s interesting. What do you write?’
‘Only short stories at the moment. I heard that you learn to write as you do it. If I ever manage to sell some I’d like to tackle a novel.’
‘I do romances: novellas, nothing serious. Occasionally I’m commissioned to do a travel article.’
‘Really?’ Jean was awed. ‘I’d never have thought – How clever of you! Here it’s Martin who does the serious stuff, the guidebooks, while I dream of the great Lakeland novel.’ She laughed, it was a joke.
‘How does it work: two authors under one roof?’
‘I don’t write when Martin’s here; I couldn’t anyway, we only have the one computer.’
They were silent. A blackbird fled shrieking across the lawn. ‘Cooper’s about,’ Jean said, adding dreamily, ‘I like to write at night when everything’s quiet: in longhand, then I’m not disturbing him.’
Miss Pink regarded the other’s big capable hands. ‘Were you writing on Wednesday night?’
There was no immediate response. She looked from the hands to the eyes and was surprised to see that Jean was smiling. ‘We alibi each other,’ she said calmly. ‘That was what you were thinking, wasn’t it?’ She stretched her fingers. ‘That I could have strangled her. You’re not stupid, you’re a very discerning lady. Actually, I would have done worse than that, I would have made her die slowly. It’s no secret now’ – seeing Miss Pink’s astonishment – ‘I told Rosie this morning and Holgate’s ears were flapping. She made a dead set at Martin, you see. Poor chap, he was hag-ridden.’
‘Then that explains why he went to Bailrigg.’ And why husband and wife had been separated: to check their stories.
Jean was watching her closely. ‘You’re forgetting that he never left this house.’
‘Of course. Nor did you, so you’re in the clear too, even though you would have killed her if you’d known. When did he tell you about the affair?’
‘Affair? There was no affair! You weren’t listening. She did try to seduce him, but he wasn’t having anything to do with her; he couldn’t run fast enough.’
‘You knew all along?’
‘No! He had to tell me when he realized the police had him down
as a suspect. And then Gemma heard them fighting; it was about Isa’s crazy driving but Gemma misinterpreted it. So he had to tell me. Like I said, if he’d told me when she was alive I’d have been over there at Borrans and – and beating her with my own hands.’ Again she studied them. ‘And I’d have enjoyed doing it,’ she added defiantly.
Miss Pink sank back on the seat. ‘You have been through the wringer.’
‘Oh, I can take it, but my old man’s had a bad time. Imagine: living next door to that harpy after he’d rejected her –’
‘He did that?’
‘That’s what I’ve been telling you. With her it was either succumb or reject her, there was no half-way house. She had it in for him after that, no mistake about it.’
‘He told you all this? Of course he did, you could only get it from him. And all the time it was going on you had no idea?’
‘It wasn’t over a period of time; just the one episode, but that was bad enough. He couldn’t tell me, he was too terrified of my reaction. All part of the macho image: two women fighting over a man. Of course none of it was his fault except that he was weak. He said she was insatiable; he’d never come across anything like it before and he didn’t know how to cope. What would it have done to his ego if he’d come to me and asked me to deal with her? I’d have been happy to, but there you are, he was scared of what I’d do. And by the time he did tell me it was too late. She was dead.’
‘Hand me t’socket spanner, lad.’
Bobby dived for it, then crowded close as if the removal of a spark plug was the most exciting thing to do on a Sunday afternoon.
‘You’m in me light,’ Jacob growled, but the light was obscured by men blocking the entrance to the tractor shed. Jacob and Bobby stared, the one expressionless, the other searching for escape routes.
‘Your grandson?’ DS Sewell asked, advancing.
‘This is young Bobby,’ Jacob returned with dignity. ‘ ’Way you go then’ – to the boy – ‘get them calves sorted.’
Bobby slipped between Sewell and Holgate like a hare, followed by the latter’s thoughtful gaze. ‘Lad takes after you,’ he observed.
Jacob showed surprise. ‘You come ’ere to talk about me lad?’