He paused, studied her. ‘What made you hesitate, Mrs Hope?’
She looked apologetic and caught out. ‘Well, it must seem very gossipy and prying — Inez and I trying to work out when we’d last seen her, where she could be. But it really wasn’t like that. We were being as discreet as possible because Jaynie could have been about some blameless and private business and the last thing she’d want was everyone asking where she was. And I was concerned — Inez doesn’t take much notice of what goes on around her but she agreed with me it was so much out of character … ’
He let her talk on for a while; she was sincere in her good-natured concern, in her middle-class reluctance to mind anyone else’s business. But in the reserve that echoed behind her words lay an unmeasured and resolute distance between herself and Jaynie Turner.
He considered it. When she referred to Mrs Bryant as her friend it was with the ease of long familiarity; she would find it difficult, impossible at this stage, to admit that she and her friend disliked Jaynie Turner. And it was not a question he would ask her. Not yet.
As she showed him out, she said, ‘I did try to get in touch with Arthur — her ex-husband — before I started any other enquiries, but — ’
‘Yes. He was away.’
‘Poor man,’ she murmured, heartfelt. ‘Such a nice man … ’
‘Not much of a holiday homecoming for him. He had to identify her.’
‘Oh, good gracious … ’
They stood in the wide, beautifully tiled porch; the view of the frost-hung garden was exquisite. ‘Mrs Hope, I understand. You didn’t want to cause scandal, embarrassment for Mrs Turner, her family or friends. You did what you believed was right. And you were right.’
‘Thank you, I think that makes me feel better. I did wrestle with my conscience before I went to the police. It seemed such an extreme action. I didn’t do it lightly.’
‘Of course not.’ But she was the only one out of all the neighbours, friends, acquaintances who had done it at all. It would seem that Mrs Jaynie Turner was not a woman people cared about a great deal.
She asked him if he was going to see Mrs Bryant, and when he said yes she walked helpfully with him down the drive, ‘Look, it’s much better if you leave your car there, you’ll find it easier to walk.’ She gave him the address, directions, held out a firm hand to shake his. ‘I do hope you can … you will … catch … discover … I mean … oh dear.’ She turned and walked quickly back to her house.
From his car he telephoned Jaynie Turner’s number and left a message for Annette to meet him at Mrs Bryant’s house. Then he set out.
CHAPTER TEN
He had a recollection of a visit to Clerehaven, long ago, a family outing when his daughter was a little girl, spending the day as so many people did, in holiday mood, in the summer. But that Clerehaven had slipped into the past, unrecognisable now as this mist-hanging town of interweaving streets and stealing silence. He walked through it, hunched up in his British warm, following Mrs Hope’s directions, losing his way, finding it again. Everything was intermingled: houses, gardens, shops, parks, businesses.
As he negotiated a flight of steps and a footpath, he could understand why she had advised him not to take his car, but … easier to walk? Was this some kind of local humour? Did this bloody Cremorne exist?
At last, almost walking past the recessed entrance, he found himself studying, in admiration, the high, splendidly carved gates. He went through them.
Anything called Cremorne, in this town, had to be potty. And beautiful. It took his breath away: the bare branches of a weeping willow frozen into a silver cascade; bushes shrouded in spiders’ webs like white lace. He walked down curving gravelled paths enclosed by shrubberies glittering with scarlet berries and frost-edged gold leaves. And here and there, with their walls of softly worn old brick, weathered stone, the houses, hiding from each other.
So why should he be surprised to come upon two people, one of whom — a tall, eye-catching woman dressed in something flowing — was about to climb into a shopping trolley? She was accompanied by a young man, smart, slim as a whippet, with chestnut hair and wide blue eyes and the same scrubbed, head prefect look of Sergeant James Collier.
Inez gracefully abandoned her attempt to get into the trolley, a piece of foolery for herself and Sam, dismissed in the presence of strangers. Especially a stranger as big and beautiful as this. Good God …
It was the first time since Joe’s death she had experienced any sensuous response to a man — who was looking with interest, not at her, but at the trolley.
She said, ‘I say, it’s not yours, is it? Have you come to collect it?’ Then, registering his blank look, ‘No, of course not. People just abandon the damn things here. You know, like an elephants’ graveyard.’
Sam said, ‘And it must be at least a mile and a half from its home.’
‘So we were going to take it back, on our way. May I help you?’
Closer, Hunter could see a sprinkling of grey in her mop of tousled brown hair. She was his age, older perhaps, her face was serene, pleasing; a small nose, classically Greek, warm brown eyes; there was something bountiful about her that said she would laugh easily, forgive readily.
He said, ‘I’m looking for Mrs Bryant. I understand she lives here.’
Something long-forgotten in Inez squeaked, He’s looking for me? I have this kind of luck … ?
She said, ‘She does. I mean, I do. You’ve found her.’
He was producing some kind of official identification.
I refuse to believe he’s come to read the gas meter …
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Hunter of Chatfield subdivisional headquarters.’
Their immediate reaction — the swiftly exchanged glance, the frivolity quenched — reminded him, inescapably, of well-mannered children caught out in a prank.
‘It’s about Jaynie Turner, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. If I could have just a little of your time.’
‘Absolutely. Of course.’
Hunter’s gaze was drawn irresistibly to the country-looking wicker basket which the young man placed in the trolley. It held a jam jar of something with a gingham cover, half a dozen dainty small cakes, wrapped in cellophane — and a large plate pie of golden pastry. His mother had made pies like that when he was a boy, crumbling, rich … Hunter could have fallen on it and wolfed it down.
Inez passed the trolley to Sam, ‘Cut along now, there’s a good chap. See you at the Market Hall.’
‘Right-ho, mater.’ He set off at a trundling gallop with great good humour.
‘Your son?’ Hunter enquired. He had heard more or less everything in the course of his life, but never anyone addressed as mater. He had already decided that in this eerie, vertiginous, make-believe place, anything could happen.
‘My … Good God, no. I’ve never whelped,’ Inez said mildly. ‘He’s my pal, Sam. It’s the cancer research fund charity morning. We take things, and sell them, and buy them off each other.’
‘Yours was the pie,’ he said, studiedly neutral.
‘Lamb and mint.’ Her tone matched his. ‘Sam’s the fairy cakes. Now, let’s go in, you could lose your knackers standing about in this cold.’
He could think of nothing at all to say.
Her house was of whitewashed stone, the doorway so low he had to stoop. In the hall he trod on York flagstones it had taken three hundred years to wear smooth. There was a console table of Mexican pine, on its lower shelf a pewter jug, turned on its side, from which copper beech leaves spilled. She led him through to the living-room. The windows were small, peering — but there were many of them, set at all levels, the winter light came in at many angles and different densities giving the room a soft, shifting glimmer.
There were only two photographs displayed on a splendid Welsh dresser. One of a thin woman with a plain face and gentle smile standing before the cottage, taken some past summer. Inez said, ‘My cousin, Mary Weller, this was her house, she lived
here all her life. She left it to me in her will, seven years ago, or can it be eight now?’
The other, larger photograph, noticeable because of its prominent position, showed a big, untidy, friendly-looking man, his arm about Inez’s shoulders; they were smiling at one another.
‘Your husband?’ Hunter said.
‘Yes.’ There was a pause. ‘He died the year before I came here.’
‘Oh, I’m so … I … ’
‘No, it’s all right.’ But she touched the photograph, minutely rearranging it as if, simply by looking, he had somehow trespassed. Turned to him with a smile. ‘I say, let’s have some coffee, shall we?’
In the kitchen there was a small, beautifully restored iron range, open shelves crammed with domestic essentials, a sense of unfussed efficiency, the smell of mint and lemons; a generous kitchen table bore the signs of many uses. Inez sat Hunter down at it, put mugs, sugar and milk in front of him, switched on the kettle.
He said, ‘I’ve been speaking to your friend, Mrs Hope. She told me that you saw Mrs Turner the day she went missing.’
Inez sat down opposite, looked directly at him. ‘What’s happened to her? It’s the most appalling thing, none of us can quite grasp it. What was so awful, I never took it seriously — when Dora and I were discussing what to do — if we should do anything. Well, it’s Dora who does things, she’s the one with the Christian conscience. I just make unseemly jokes.’
‘About what?’
She looked awkward, ‘Oh, um, daft things.’ He waited, but she busied herself cutting him a slice of rich fruit cake. The coffee made, she sat down again; there was a suggestion of shoulders being squared, getting down to business.
He thought, someone else who hadn’t liked Jaynie Turner.
‘Do you know if she had any enemies?’
‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘Not someone who would — good God, no.’
‘She said nothing to you about someone behaving in a strange or threatening way to her?’
‘No.’
‘Would she have confided in you?’
‘Confided?’ She looked bemused, as if this was a thought too outlandish to be comprehended. ‘No. Why should she?’
‘You were her friend … ’ He paused deliberately. ‘Weren’t you?’
‘Well, I knew her.’
‘That isn’t an answer.’
‘No.’ She looked out of the window: at the radiance of ice, the mystery of fog. Turned back to him after a long moment. ‘I am genuinely deeply sorry that such a frightful thing has happened to her. But, I have to be honest — I didn’t like her. Somehow that makes things worse.’
‘You can’t go back and turn her into someone you did like.’
‘No, no I can’t. So I’m stuck with it.’
‘Yep.’
She smiled, but such a smile, a candid admission of a very human failing; he had to smile back. ‘All right. Give in. But what can I tell you? I’m damned if I know.’
‘What about the last time you saw her?’
She described her encounter with Jaynie in the bistro, making no apology for not listening to her — except in so much as, if she had, she might have had something to contribute to his enquiries.
‘Don’t bother about it,’ he said easily. ‘She seemed very taken up with this local history project.’
‘That was tosh. Sorry, but it was. She needed to get her life together after divorce — and for Jaynie that meant being the centre of attention. She did enjoy embarrassing people by digging up things they’d rather leave forgotten. Nothing important, just trivia … ’ She chatted for a while: names, occasions. He gave mild encouragement, mentally sorting and filing with shrewd precision.
‘Do you think it could be something connected with her research that she was telling you about?’
‘And I wasn’t listening. Honestly, I don’t know. You never knew what she was up to until she chose to tell. She would drop the odd hint, archly, then pretend it was nothing. She loved being secret.’
An inquisitive woman who delved into other people’s affairs and then delightedly broadcast whatever she discovered. It was a fair bet that this time she hadn’t been given the chance.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
They left Inez’s house together and, walking along the paths between shrubs and lawns, were overtaken by a lanky, dishevelled man moving rapidly. He called a greeting as he passed to which Inez replied cheerfully, at the same time politely edging Hunter to one side, murmuring, ‘Mind you don’t get caught in his slipstream — whoops.’ This as he executed a complicated galloping sidestep, narrowly avoiding Annette who was standing lost in admiration before the carved gates.
He had apologised and flung himself out into Clerehaven in a matter of seconds, while Annette was saying, ‘Er … ’
Hunter introduced Inez who said, ‘Sorry, my neighbour.’
Annette gazed after the flying figure. ‘Isn’t he the chap on telly who does that series about the Middle Ages?’
‘Yes, we learn to dodge when we hear him coming. He’s probably forgotten something. He’s always forgetting things. Rumour has it his wife left him because he could never remember her name. Well, jolly nice to meet you. Must find what Sam’s done with that damned trolley, be just like him to shove it in his front garden and fill it with plants. Cheerio.’ She went on her way, striding tall, faintly exotic, into the mist.
Annette smiled goodbye, puzzled. ‘Sam? Trolley?’
‘Oh, don’t ask,’ Hunter said. ‘Now, I left my car at Mrs Hope’s. She said it was easier to walk.’
‘Ah,’ Annette said thoughtfully. ‘And was it?’
‘Well … ’
‘Me, too. There’s something distinctly spooky about this place, isn’t there?’
‘Nonsense,’ Hunter said bracingly and then — after they had taken an unrecognisable turning into a huddled and charming lane, walked down a cobbled passageway and found themselves looking at the United Reform church — ‘You can bloody say that again.’ Setting out, determined: ‘If we keep climbing, dammit, it’s High Town, it’s got to be up there somewhere. Right. Now. What?’
Annette told him. On the Friday evening there had been no train arriving or leaving Clerehaven station at the relevant time.
‘Did you get a fix on the time from the neighbours?’
‘Nothing definite. There’s still only the poodle woman saw her coming out of her drive. Late afternoon was the closest she could get.’
‘So it could have been five — just before — time for her to get to Chatfield Central for five thirty.’
Annette breathed, ‘Five thirty. Chatfield Central. Oh, God … ’
‘Yes … ’
The comings and goings, meetings and partings: the surge of people on foot, getting taxis, picking up cars, making for the bus station, in such a great tide of humanity, how could an individual imprint their presence … ?
And the seed, planted in Hunter’s mind — if she was meeting someone who did not wish to be seen with her, it was the ideal time and place. If this was premeditated. And something in his bones told him it was.
*
The evening’s briefing confirmed Hunter’s gloomy perception that over three days little progress had been made beyond the identification of the victim. In spite of appeals no one had come forward with any information, there had been no sighting of her car.
Never one to discourage his team, he resorted to the cheerful platitude, ‘Early days yet, lads and lasses,’ and was rewarded with a noticeable refocusing of attention. ‘You’re right,’ he said decisively, as if an unassailable and popular decision had been reached. A few bewildered faces registered alarm (What have we missed?); old hands, inured to his non sequiturs, maintained inscrutable expressions.
‘You’re right in this: we don’t know enough about Jaynie Turner and until we do — short of someone walking in here and confessing — we won’t get anywhere near who had reason to murder her. So tomorrow, we concentrate on B.N. W
e’ve been through her papers till we know them by heart — no trace of a B.N. there. Yes?’ On the face of young DC Paul Evans, new to Hunter’s team, a troubled awareness moved.
DC Evans, painstaking and literal, with the deeply furrowed brow of the conscientious, said, ‘Her papers, guv.’
‘Her papers. Yes?’
‘Well, apart from the usual things, birth certificate, marriage lines, household stuff, the rest — the family history and local history — ’ DC Evans’ tone grew increasingly bemused, ‘well, they just seem to be — well, all about her. Photos, and notes about how people admired what she was wearing and things written on the back of invitations about how everyone had found her charming and — ’
‘That’s because the woman was in love with herself,’ WPC Mary Clegg said briskly. In her, cynicism and rock-bottom common sense were combined; it was well known she never allowed tact to get in her way when plain speaking was required.
‘Herself,’ DC Evans repeated slowly.
‘Who else?’
DC Evans frowned ever more deeply
‘Well, think about it,’ Mary said. ‘If there’d been some frantic feller he’d have shown up by now.’
‘Not if he had something to hide.’
‘You’ve got it there, lad,’ Mary said kindly.
Hunter listened with patience; his instinct to pair them to work together had obviously paid off. ‘What we do know without doubt is that she was very fashion-conscious, always wore gloves to match her outfit, certainly when she was driving.’
‘Could her murderer have known that?’ DS Hopper asked.
‘Whether he did or not, he took advantage of it.’
‘That’s why her hands didn’t show any signs. Then he removed her gloves, took them away — ’
Death Out of Season Page 6
