A Fatal Night

by Faith Martin

  Realising he’d lost Trudy’s focus, Duncan turned sharply in his chair, following her line of vision. He didn’t look at all pleased to see a good-looking, well set-up chap making his way towards them.

  ‘Vincent, this is Duncan Gillingham, a reporter for the Oxford Tribune,’ Trudy said at once, before either man could speak. ‘He was just importuning me, as always, for a story,’ she added, although she could see, with relief, that he needed no second warning.

  Vincent gave a barely perceptible nod of understanding, and then smiled at Duncan. ‘Hello.’

  Duncan, for his part, lounged more firmly in his chair and made no attempt to tuck his seat further under the table, giving the newcomer a bit more room to squeeze between their table and the empty neighbouring one.

  ‘It’s good to get out of this perishing cold,’ Vincent said amiably, shrugging off his heavy overcoat and hanging it on the back of a chair, revealing his brown corduroy trousers and cable-stitched sweater in dark cream. It set off his good looks too well for Duncan’s liking, and he shot a quick, suspicious glance at Trudy.

  ‘OK who’s this? A witness? A perpetrator? A narc?’ he drawled provocatively, and not surprisingly, Vincent’s hackles begin to rise.

  ‘Nothing so interesting, I’m afraid,’ he said, forcing himself to sound wryly amused. ‘Just a friend,’ he added mildly, and smiled across at Trudy. ‘I’m not late, am I?’

  ‘No,’ Trudy said, and shot a significant – and speaking – glance at Duncan. Unluckily, at that point the waitress arrived with his lunch, and Trudy became resigned to the inevitable.

  ‘Shall we order?’ she said to Vincent with a weary sigh.

  She opted for the tomato soup, with Vincent going with scrambled egg on toast. Duncan, damn him, kept up an amusing line of patter all through lunch, ranging from some of his more outlandish newspaper articles, to scurrilous gossip about the current mayor, and the names of likely horses for when the racecourses were finally open that Vincent pretended to make a note of.

  It was clear though – even to the waitress – that the two men couldn’t stand each other and the older woman gave Trudy an approving and friendly wink when she caught her eye. It did her good, on a slow and miserable day, to see a pretty young girl (in a policewoman’s uniform no less!) being fought over by two good-looking young chaps. Which, in her opinion, was just as it should be.

  Trudy, for her part, simply let the two men spar and patiently waited her time. Sooner or later even Duncan would have to tire of the game and leave.

  He did so eventually, but only after their plates were cleared and their teacups empty. ‘Well, I’d best be off,’ he finally informed them, standing up and buttoning his coat. ‘WPC Loveday, can I have just a quick word outside? I need a quote for the evening edition.’

  Trudy wanted to tell him what he could do with his quote, but discretion got the better part of her. If she didn’t say what he wanted, she knew that he was perfectly capable of saying something truly outrageous in front of Vincent.

  ‘Fine,’ she sighed. To Vincent she smiled and said, ‘Would you mind ordering us some teacakes or something? I don’t know when I’m going to get the chance to eat again.’

  *

  Duncan only felt how tight his shoulders had become once he was walking to the door, and cursed himself for being such a fool. Allowing his nose to be put out of joint by some second-rate Adonis. He deserved a good kicking!

  Once outside in the grey, bitter air, he turned to her and smiled breezily. ‘Scraping the barrel a bit with him, aren’t you?’ he said, jerking his head towards the café window.

  ‘Sorry?’ Trudy said, her tone about on a par with the ambient temperature.

  ‘Lover boy back there. He must be thirty if he’s a day. Bit old for you, isn’t he?’

  Trudy opened her mouth to tell him that it was none of his business, then changed her mind. Instead she looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘And how old are you, Duncan?’

  He paled slightly, drew in a sharp breath, and then he was laughing. ‘Oh, touché, my dear constable. Touché!’ But inside he felt definitely riled. Why did he let this girl, of all girls, get to him?

  ‘And how is your fiancée?’ Trudy, not content with one victory, added sweetly. ‘You are still engaged to be married to the daughter of the owner of the newspaper, aren’t you?’ She saw his jaw clench, but was in no mood to let him off lightly. ‘How long must it be now? Getting on for more than two years, at least, by my calculation.’ But even as she heard herself say it, she sensed that she’d made a mistake.

  First of all, what business was it of hers? More worrying still, why had she even thought of it? It implied that her subconscious mind, at least, had been keeping score. But before she could even begin to explore the reasons behind that unnerving thought, Duncan was already leaning in towards her, his green eyes flashing fire.

  ‘Yes, it has been a long engagement, hasn’t it?’ he gritted. ‘And have you really never asked yourself why I’m in no damned hurry to walk down the aisle?’

  This time, when Trudy opened her mouth, no sound came out. For a moment she simply stared at him, feeling totally nonplussed. Then, as she saw him smile with real satisfaction at the way he’d flummoxed her, she struggled to rally.

  ‘It’s really none of my business,’ she managed to snap. And turning away from him, she put her hand on the door handle of the café’s front door.

  ‘Isn’t it, Trudy?’ Duncan snarled, just before she slipped inside.

  Chapter 23

  Once back inside the warm café, Trudy became aware of just how fast her heart was beating. She suspected her face was also flushed, and she hoped that Vincent Ryder would put her high colour down to the rapid change of temperature from freezing to warm.

  She made her way back to the table, firmly keeping her gaze averted from the window and the world outside. But she had no need to worry, Duncan Gillingham had stomped away the moment he’d shot his last bolt.

  It might have comforted her to know that he was as angry with himself as with her – or it might not. Right then, she was feeling distinctly flustered.

  She thanked Vincent mildly for the slices of buttered malt loaf that were already being brought to the table by their attentive waitress, and sat down with a sigh.

  ‘So,’ she said briskly, forcing her mind to the matter at hand. ‘Was Geoffrey Thorpe where he said he was, New Year’s Eve?’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ Vincent said flatly. He had been looking forward to regaling her with how clever he’d been to get that information, but right now, he couldn’t care less. ‘That man, Gillingham,’ he said, very casually instead. ‘Known him long, have you?’

  ‘Too long,’ Trudy said wryly. ‘As a police officer we have to put up with pains in the bum like him all the time.’

  Although she sounded genuinely put out, Vincent hadn’t liked the intensity of that little scene he’d just witnessed outside, nor the flush on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye when she’d come back to the table.

  Did his father know about this reporter bloke, he wondered? One thing was for sure – as soon as Clement got back from his office, Vincent was going to find out all he could about him.

  ‘OK, what now?’ he asked. He tried to sound just as normal, but Trudy could sense that his old wariness around her had come back.

  For a moment she wanted to curse all men for being far more trouble than they were worth. What did it matter, after all, what either one of them thought of her?

  ‘Now we go to the library,’ she said firmly.

  ‘The library?’ Vincent asked, sounding surprised and slightly disappointed. ‘Why the library?’

  *

  The library was situated in the town hall close to the High (as all Oxford-dwellers called the High Street) and Carfax, and not surprisingly was almost empty on a near-dark Friday afternoon in the dead of a vicious winter. Most of the city’s population was very sensibly staying indoors in such weather, and those few that had d
ecided to venture out tended to select their reading material quickly and leave just as rapidly.

  So, settled into the reference section in glorious isolation, Trudy and Vincent were able to set about their task in peaceful silence.

  Trudy had explained to Vincent how vital it was that they found out more about their victim. Having questioned all the main witnesses, and with their time running out before the case was taken from them, the life and times of the dead man were becoming more important than ever. Someone had wanted to kill him, and they needed to try and get an angle on who and why.

  ‘And if we can find the connection between him and Phyllis Raynor, that’ll be a major breakthrough,’ Trudy had told Vincent as they left the café.

  Of course, the problem with that, Trudy realised very quickly once they set to work, was Phyllis Raynor might not be a local girl, since nobody at the party seemed to know her. Indeed, if she had any past connection with the dead man, it was just as likely to have been in Tunbridge Wells (or wherever their victim was from originally). And it was unlikely that she would have done anything noteworthy enough to have earned her any recognition even within her own backyard, let alone in Oxford.

  And so it proved. They could find no trace of Phyllis Raynor anywhere – not in the census, not on the voting register, and not in the newspaper archives. Trudy had deliberately given Vincent the task of trawling through the Oxford Tribune’s press cuttings for mention of any of the main players, whilst hoarding the Oxford Mail and Oxford Times to herself. She wanted no further reminders of Duncan Gillingham! But after two hours of diligent searching, the only snippets they found – not surprisingly – related to the triumphs of Katherine Morton’s artistic career, and a single mention of David O’Connor who’d won a prestigious flower arranging competition back in 1959! (Trudy’s imagination had no difficulty in supplying her with a mental image of the happy, gossiping, dapper ‘confirmed bachelor’ delivering a perfect posy to the impressed judges.)

  ‘The library will be closing soon,’ Trudy whispered to Vincent gloomily. ‘We’ll have to come back and finish this tomorrow. I haven’t managed to get through all the Mail and Times stuff yet.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Vincent heard himself volunteer, and felt slightly surprised. He had no idea why he’d done it. Sitting in a mausoleum of a library, going cross-eyed skim-reading newsprint on the off-chance that a name might spring out at him wasn’t his idea of fun, but something stubborn inside him wouldn’t allow himself to admit defeat.

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ Trudy said, and meant it. ‘Be sure to make a complete note of anything you might find, no matter how innocuous it seems. And no matter how tenuous a link it might be.’

  ‘I’ll be sure to do that,’ Vincent promised, mollified by the genuineness of the smile of gratitude she gave him. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful, though, if we could just type a name into some super-computer somewhere and have the answers printed out for us a few seconds later?’ he added, stretching his arms and loosening his aching shoulders.

  Trudy rolled her eyes. ‘It would be my idea of Shangri-La,’ she whispered back. ‘You have no idea how many records I have to …’ She stopped abruptly as one of the librarians leaned back in their seat and sent a stern look their way.

  Shame-faced, and taking the hint, they gathered up their belongings and stole away like naughty children.

  Once outside, Vincent nodded at her awkwardly, and said, ‘Well, I’d best be off. Dad will be home soon, and I was going to make something for supper …’ He heard himself wittering on and abruptly stopped. ‘Goodnight,’ he added firmly, and strode determinedly away.

  Trudy watched him go, slightly puzzled by his abrupt departure, then shrugged, and turned in the opposite direction to head to St Aldates, and the police station. Once there, she pushed open the door to the office gingerly and looked around, but there was no commotion. No grinning PC Rodney Broadstairs warning her that the inspector was on the warpath and wanting her to report to him the moment she showed her face. No notes from the inspector saying the same left on her desk. No sign, in fact, that Inspector Jennings had found the submerged toxicology report yet and was thus out for blood (namely hers!).

  With a sigh of relief and a weary eye on the clock, which was already saying that her shift was officially over, she reached for the pile of paperwork that had been left next to her typewriter and set about sorting out other people’s messes and responsibilities.

  Chapter 24

  But as WPC Trudy Loveday diligently set to and started tackling her workload, Phyllis Raynor left the Raven’s Rest Bed and Breakfast and set out to do some work of her own. Work that her very respectable, working-class parents would no doubt have described as ‘dirty’ had they known about it.

  Navigating the pavements, which had become little more than tunnels in the snow after so many days of unrelenting snowfall, she pulled her coat and scarf closer around her. The streetlights revealed very few people out and about in the premature darkness of a winter’s afternoon, but she was glad of the anonymity her bulky winter clothing gave her nonetheless.

  When she had finally battled her way to reach the entrance of the large, impressive house where Terry Parker had spent his last hours on earth, she regarded it thoughtfully. She’d seen it before on New Year’s Eve, obviously, but then she had been too tense to really give it its due. Now she could admire the solid, Cotswold stone bastion that screamed secure, understated wealth and upper-class respectability. She had to hand it to Terry – when he went digging for gold he didn’t mess about.

  She took a last look around the deserted, dark, freezing road behind her, then stepped onto private property and made her way to the door. There, after taking a long, slow breath, she straightened her shoulders and rang the bell.

  She was almost as tense now as she had been on the occasion of her previous visit. As then, a lot was riding on the outcome of the next hour or so. Would it be easier or harder for her to gain an advantage now? Was Millie Vander a better bet? True, she didn’t have as much on Millie as she did on Terry. But on the other hand, Millie had, possibly, far more to lose – depending on what sort of woman she was.

  Phyllis had been careful to avoid her at the party naturally (which had taken some doing, since the older woman had been – technically anyway – her hostess!) But from what she remembered of the attractive redhead, Millie had seemed very much the darling of society that Phyllis had assumed her to be.

  Not the sort, surely, to relish scandal or ridicule? Phyllis very much hoped not. She was going to have to play this by ear, of course, but on the whole, she rated her chances of success pretty highly.

  The door was suddenly jerked open, snapping her abruptly out of her nervous reverie. A young, rather lovely girl with a sulky face regarded her with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Yes?’ the girl demanded peremptorily.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Vander please,’ Phyllis responded amiably, totally ignoring the youngster’s rudeness. She recognised the girl as someone who’d been at the party, and assumed her now to be Millicent Vander’s daughter. She was well aware that Terry’s latest meal ticket was the mother of twins.

  She was also a complication that Phyllis could do without right now, and she only hoped she’d be able to get rid of the little madam quickly. She wanted no witnesses to her upcoming chat with Terry’s latest amour, or the negotiations that were sure to follow.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ Juliet asked, a shade less insolently. Just as Phyllis had remembered her from the party, so too had Juliet placed Phyllis. When she’d asked Jasper at the time who the stranger was, she’d been surprised and amused to discover that he didn’t know. She could usually rely on her twin to make the acquaintance of anyone who looked pretty in a skirt – no matter what her age. And the woman on the doorstep must be approaching thirty, if she was a day.

  ‘A friend of Terrence Parker’s,’ Phyllis said with another amiable smile, showing no annoyance at Juliet’s flat stare.

&nbs
p; ‘Mother isn’t seeing anyone,’ Juliet said stiffly, beginning to close the door. For some reason she didn’t like the look of this visitor, and besides, any friend of Parker’s was hardly a friend of theirs.

  ‘Oh, but she’ll want to see me,’ Phyllis said firmly, her hand shooting out to prevent the closure of the door.

  Juliet looked mulish. ‘You were at the party here, on New Year’s Eve,’ she said, her voice accusing.

  ‘Was I?’ Phyllis asked blandly. ‘Are you a maid? If so, you need to …’ Juliet wasn’t able to let this insult pass, and it totally distracted her, just as Phyllis had hoped it would.

  ‘No, I’m not the bloody maid!’ Juliet fumed. ‘And like I said, Mother’s not seeing anyone. She’s not well.’ She added the lie as a distinct afterthought.

  ‘Oh dear. I understand that Terry’s death must have upset her dreadfully,’ Phyllis said blandly. ‘But she really will want to see me, you know,’ she added firmly.

  And again, Juliet felt unsettled. There was something about the woman’s tone – something knowing in her voice – that made the hackles rise on her back. She also seemed so confident of herself. No doubt about it, this attractive woman was beginning to make her skin crawl. And why exactly was she so set on talking to her mother? She knew for a fact that her mother didn’t know this woman; she’d said as much at the party. They’d laughed about it in fact, with Jasper assuring their slightly put-out mother that no real party could be considered a success nowadays without at least one gate-crasher.

  Whilst part of Juliet wanted to shut the door in her face – sensing as she did that here was danger of some kind – another, perhaps more sensible part of her, was arguing that it might be a good idea to find out what this woman wanted.

  Especially since the police were still snooping around about Terry Parker’s death. Although she was fairly sure Jasper and herself were safe enough, still … This woman had been at the party, after all. Was it possible she had seen or heard something that could come back to haunt them?