The Vicarage Murder

by Faith Martin

  Monica looked at his open, honest face, and sighed. ‘Yes, Len, I think there might be. I’ll have to tell this to Chief Inspector Dury. He’ll probably be up here to talk to you all again. Sorry about that.’

  Len sighed fatalistically. ‘Oh well, I suppose you have to expect it,’ he replied philosophically. Then he shot another quick look at her. ‘And how’re you all coping? You and the rev are OK? You look a bit peaky.’

  Monica could have kissed him. ‘Thanks, Len, I’m fine.’

  * * *

  Jason Dury was feeling anything but fine. It was day five of the murder inquiry, and although evidence was dribbling in, it didn’t seem to be leading them anywhere. Their most promising suspects seemed to be slipping through the net, and new leads were beckoning. His superiors were already beginning to pile on the pressure for a result, and they had nothing concrete on either the husband or the blackmail victim to link them to the crime.

  He looked up as a timid tap came on the door, and when Monica looked in, he felt his spirits lift. She was wearing a white wraparound skirt and dark green blouse that clung to her in all the right places. Her dark curls gleamed in the sunlight.

  ‘Come on in, we won’t bite,’ he said softly. For once the incident room was unusually empty.

  ‘I forgot to tell you something yesterday. No, Monday,’ Monica began nervously. ‘It was something that Len said, in passing. Len Biggs, the decorator here.’

  As she began to explain, Jim Greer left his desk and came up to stand beside her and listen in. Jason’s face slowly darkened as she spoke, and when she’d finished, her voice was little more than an apologetic whisper. But Jason wasn’t angry with her so much as he was with himself for having missed it.

  ‘I think we’d better go and have a word with Mr Biggs,’ he said flatly. Jim, too, felt like kicking himself. He’d been present when they’d interviewed the decorator, and he hadn’t picked up on this tarpaulin business either.

  After Len Biggs had been visited, and had vociferously assured them that the tarpaulins hadn’t been on the walls Friday afternoon when all the decorators had left, the two policemen returned to the incident room.

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense, sir,’ Jim said peevishly.

  Jason retrieved the photographs of the scene of the crime and spread them across his desk, not sure what he was looking for. All they told him was what he knew already: that the tarpaulins were in place on the walls, except the one that had been pulled down and used to cover the body. So what did this latest information actually tell them? He was sure it should tell them everything, if only he was smart enough to see it.

  * * *

  Back in her kitchen, Monica rescued her quiche, thinking that if only she could figure it all out, Carol-Ann would be in the clear. The only trouble was, she felt hopelessly inadequate. And the mystery about the tarpaulins simply had her baffled.

  But she wasn’t a quitter, either. She’d figure it out if it killed her!

  CHAPTER 14

  John put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, feeling pleasantly replete.

  ‘That’s the best breakfast I’ve had since I came here the last time,’ he said, smiling in satisfaction.

  Vera smiled back, retrieved his plate, and took it to the sink, running hot water over it and adding a squirt of washing-up liquid. But her mind was clearly on things less domestic.

  ‘I see that Maurice is back,’ she said casually.

  ‘Yes, I saw him going to his flat,’ he confirmed. ‘Not that I was looking out for him or anything.’

  Thursday had dawned, as irrepressibly bright and hot as all the previous days. Vera returned to the table with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a creamer. She pushed the bowl filled with brown sugar a little closer to his place setting.

  ‘The inquest will have to be held soon,’ she mused, bringing a newly poured, piping-hot cup of coffee to her lips and blowing on it gently. Slowly, their eyes met and Vera sighed heavily. ‘It’ll all be over soon, won’t it?’ she asked softly.

  John nodded. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said levelly. ‘But I’m worried about Pauline.’

  ‘John, do you think we should do something?’ she asked worriedly.

  John continued to sip his coffee and said nothing.

  * * *

  Monica, with Carol-Ann chattering non-stop beside her, parked her little runaround in the centre of Cheltenham. And, as usual in these days of budget cuts and swingeing charges, was forced to pay handsomely by the council for the privilege. Sighing, she checked her already denuded purse and nodded.

  ‘Right, we’ve got seventy pounds between us to blow on an outfit and not a penny more. So choose carefully.’

  And after complaining bitterly about her miserly ways, which would have put Mrs Scrooge to shame apparently, choosing carefully was exactly what Carol-Ann did, dragging her mother remorselessly from shop to shop. Eventually, in about the fifth place they tried, Carol-Ann finally decided on a flowered granny frock, (which, for some reason, was back in vogue this season) which left Monica with about half an hour to find her own dress. She knew that Graham liked velvet, and a very pale blue evening gown in just that material which happened to catch her eye on a back rail, and which was on special offer, was undoubtedly the find of the day — no matter how much Carol-Ann made barfing gestures in the changing room about its ‘boring’ midi-length style and nicely decorous, ‘old-maidish’ boat-shaped neckline.

  On the way home, they chatted about Carol-Ann’s unsuccessful search for a job and her upcoming exam propositions. By mutual consent, they made no mention whatsoever of the murder or anything remotely connected with that weekend’s events. But as Monica slowed down on the busy main road and indicated to turn off towards Heyford Bassett, she nevertheless felt something suddenly niggle at her. Something important that her subconscious was trying to bring to her attention, if only she could remember, or figure out, what it was.

  But then they were home and trying on their purchases again in front of Monica’s bedroom mirror, testing certain accessories and different jewellery combinations, once more two giggling, carefree, sated shopaholics. And whatever the vague idea was that had been trying to slip into Monica’s consciousness, it slid away again.

  * * *

  If Monica and Carol-Ann had spent the day in idle pleasure, Jason Dury and his team most certainly hadn’t. And at just gone five o’clock, one of the constables, who had been set the task of researching the backgrounds of the residents ,came in with something interesting.

  ‘Sir,’ the constable approached Jason with eager respect.

  ‘Your hunch that you’d seen Paul Waring somewhere before was right.’

  Jason looked up. ‘Oh? Let’s have it then,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘Do you remember about six years ago, when you busted David Friel?’

  The name rang a bell. ‘Yes. He owned a health club and gym in Shrewsbury. One of his clients died — heart attack I think it was.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. But the autopsy was a bit iffy.’

  ‘I remember. Friel had been supplying him with steroids in dangerous amounts. They argued culpable homicide for a while, and his brief cried blue murder and held out for natural causes. In the end, he pulled a ten stretch for manslaughter if I remember rightly.’

  ‘You do, sir. Well, guess who was working at the gym at the time?’

  Jason suddenly grinned. ‘Is that so? He was one of Friel’s boys, was he? I wondered where I’d seen him before. He wasn’t implicated in the victim’s death, though, was he?’

  ‘No, sir. He was just a fitness instructor. I don’t think the victim was even one of his clients. They tended to be women, apparently, from what was noted in the file.’

  Jason smiled. ‘Yes. I can see our Mr Waring being a popular choice with the ladies. Well, Constable . . . er . . . ?’

  ‘Phillips, sir.’

  ‘Well, Constable Phillips, let’s go and have a word with our Mr Waring and see what he h
as to say for himself, shall we?’

  And Constable Phillips, who’d never been this close to a murder investigation before, wasn’t averse to that suggestion at all.

  * * *

  In her room on the top floor, Julie, under her mother’s watchful eye, sullenly packed her bags.

  ‘I still think this is a mistake,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Won’t the police think it’s suspicious, me going away like this all of a sudden?’

  ‘Why should they? You’re only taking a summer holiday, nothing suspicious in that,’ Joan responded crisply. ‘And when you’ve got a friend living in a Devon village as pretty as Combe Martin, with a mother who does bed and breakfast, it’s an obvious place to go.’

  Joan had changed out of all recognition these past days, and for once her daughter no longer felt as if she had the upper hand. In fact, Julie was just the littlest bit afraid of Joan now.

  ‘That’s everything then,’ Julie said feebly, snapping the case shut and hauling it off the bed. ‘What time’s the train?’

  ‘You’ve got plenty of time yet. I’ll just have a look outside.’ The last thing Joan wanted was for the police to spot her daughter sneaking out with a suitcase. Or Sean Franklyn seeing them leave, for that matter. She pulled aside the bedroom curtain and craned her neck to look below and then to the left and the right. There didn’t seem to be anybody about.

  Behind her, Julie took a big, shaky breath. ‘Mum?’ she said softly.

  Joan turned her head. ‘What, love?’

  ‘Oh, nothing I suppose. Just, well . . . thanks,’ Julie said humbly.

  Joan smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you, chick. You know that. Come on, let’s go, while the coast’s clear.’ She wouldn’t feel happy until her precious baby was safely out of easy reach. Then, whatever happened, Joan would be there to take the flack. And, like a mother tigress, she’d defend her cub to her dying breath.

  * * *

  Pauline tapped on Paul’s door and waited anxiously for a response, hopping a little nervously from one foot to the other. She was wearing an emerald-green silk top with no bra, and a close-fitting pair of denim jeans so stonewashed they were almost white. She smiled brightly as the door opened, and held out the bottle of expensive mineral water that she was carrying.

  ‘Hello.’ There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. ‘Truce?’

  Paul smiled ruefully and stepped aside to let her pass. ‘Of course. Come on in. Look, I’m sorry I snapped your head off the other day. It wasn’t right to take it out on you, but I’d just had a rotten day, and everything got on top of me I suppose, and you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m not usually that grouchy, it’s just—’

  ‘I know,’ Pauline interrupted his apology quickly — not that she wasn’t feeling relieved and gratified by it. ‘Things can get on your nerves, can’t they? I feel the same. This place just feels really oppressive right now, have you noticed?’ She waved the bottle again. ‘Have you got some ice and maybe a slice of lime or lemon?’

  Ten minutes later they were sat together on the sofa, sipping the water and using fingers of a somewhat dry and tough sourdough loaf to mop up an avocado dip that Paul had got from a health food shop in Cheltenham.

  Pauline watched him alertly, wishing the mineral water had a good dash of gin in it. Then she smiled to herself, remembering how she’d sneaked into his apartment on the day of the murder to spice his veggie drink with vodka. Oh, it had seemed like a grand plan at the time. And, once he was nicely drunk, she’d planned to jump his bones.

  But then Margaret had gone and got herself murdered, and all that sneaking around had been for nothing. Not even she had been able to think up an excuse to go calling on Paul with all of that going on. And she wondered, with another inner smile, if he’d noticed that that day’s batch of veggie juice had gone down rather better than most?

  When the doorbell suddenly rang, Pauline groaned.

  ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake! Just ignore it. They’ll go away, whoever it is,’ she snapped.

  But the doorbell sounded again, and when Paul reluctantly rose and answered it, it was to find Jason Dury and a blank-faced constable on the other side. He grimaced wryly.

  ‘Come on in, Chief Inspector, and join the party.’

  Jason took him at his word and cast Pauline a quick, assessing look. ‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you, sir?’ Jason said. And looked pointedly at Pauline. ‘Alone.’

  Pauline’s finely plucked brows rose. Sensing fireworks, Paul grimaced again.

  He said wearily, ‘I’m sure that whatever it is you want to ask me can be talked about in front of Pauline.’

  Jason shrugged. ‘Very well, Mr Waring.’ And on your own head be it, he added silently. ‘We’ve met before, did you know that?’

  Paul looked at him, openly surprised. ‘Have we? It must have been a long time ago.’

  ‘It was. Eleven years, sir, to be precise. In Shrewsbury.’

  Paul’s face suddenly shifted. ‘Ahh,’ he said, on a small sigh. ‘That. I was wondering when you’d get around to it,’ he added. On the sofa, Pauline moved to the edge of her seat and watched him like a hawk. ‘This is about David Friel, isn’t it?’ Paul asked grimly.

  He made no effort to ask them to sit down, or if they wanted refreshments. He himself remained defiantly standing.

  Jason nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look,’ Paul sighed. ‘I don’t say I agree with what David did, but as I said in court at the time, and would say again if I had to, Gregory Orland must have known what he was doing when he took those steroids. Orland wanted results fast, that much I do remember. He simply wasn’t prepared to work at it and get the results he craved by diet and exercise alone. He wanted to look good, and he wanted it fast. If you ask me, he was either trying to impress a woman, or make some bloke jealous. I know his sort. They want abs like Sylvester Stallone in his heyday, but have no real concept of what level of commitment that takes, so they look for a shortcut. It makes you despair sometimes, honest it does. And then when something goes wrong, his family look for a scapegoat to blame.’ His voice was heated, but, even to the policeman’s ears, he sounded sincere. ‘Don’t get me wrong, if Dave did supply him with steroids, he was an idiot. But if that was going on at that gym, I had nothing to do with it. Besides, I was way down on the totem pole at the time — me and the aerobics instructor weren’t paid as well as the cleaners, let alone given any say in the running or management of the place. That’s just one of the reasons why I was so determined to get my own gym.’

  To give himself time to think, Jason looked slowly around the room. Waring’s flat, number 10, was one of the three big, prestigious flats. Done out in cream with hints of silver and turquoise, with bamboo furnishings, it looked impressive.

  ‘The gym business obviously pays well, Mr Waring?’ Jason asked casually.

  Paul grinned. ‘Yes, I’m glad to say,’ he said. ‘And you can check up on any of my gyms, Inspector. They’re all drug-free, I assure you. Seeing Dave’s life ruined and the poor sod go to jail, not to mention having to testify in court, all really made their mark on me. I’ll say this for the whole sorry experience, it certainly taught me about some of the pitfalls in this business, and what not to do.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for the offer to check out your establishments, sir,’ Jason said mildly. And he’d probably be taking him up on that. When he got the time. ‘Well, that’s all for now,’ he said, and turned away.

  But just as he was going out the door, Jason heard Pauline’s harping voice demanding to know what all that had been about, and he realized that, wealthy or not, he didn’t envy Paul Waring one bit. There was something very hard and tenacious about the predatory divorcée that set his hackles rising.

  In the lounge, Pauline watched Paul finish his drink, and began to reach out with her hand to touch him. But Paul suddenly leapt from the sofa.

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll put the Nikes on and get
in a few miles. Fancy a jog, Pauline?’ he asked, with just a hint of malice.

  Pauline sighed. That hadn’t been the kind of exercise she’d had in mind.

  ‘Thanks, I think I’ll pass,’ she said drolly.

  Paul shrugged and showed her out.

  It wasn’t until much later, as Pauline was standing at her window and watching Joan park her car and cross the gravel back into the house, that she suddenly remembered something. Just what it had been about the afternoon of the murder, and the clothes, which had been niggling away at the back of her mind ever since.

  And remembering it made her thoughtful and curious, when it should have made her scared. Instantly, she reached for the phone.

  * * *

  Back in the incident room, Jim listened intently as Jason filled him in on the latest news.

  ‘But there was no hint that our friend Waring had anything to do with supplying steroids to this bloke that died?’ he asked, when Jason was finished.

  ‘None that came out at the trial, at any rate,’ Jason said, rereading the photocopies of the Orland case that had been incorporated in Constable Phillips’s report. ‘Of course, Friel claimed he’d never even so much as seen a bottle of steroids, let alone passed any on to Gregory Orland.’

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ Jim said with a grin.

  ‘Hmm. They never found out who Friel’s supplier was, though,’ he noted quietly.

  Jim glanced at Jason thoughtfully. ‘Are you thinking that it was Waring who was really behind it all, sir?’

  Jason sighed heavily. ‘No, not really. And there’s not even a hint in the original files that he might have been. But it’s possible. And if he has done it before, perhaps he’s doing it now. In which case, Margaret might have found out about it. She was the sort that did find out things, remember? Blackmailers have long noses, and they make a point of sticking them in where they don’t belong. That way they find out all sorts of useful things. Or maybe she was a member at one of his gyms, and was offered a little something to help her get her weight down? She was very slim, and maybe could have been a bit obsessive about that. Not steroids, of course, but something. Check it out anyway, will you?’