by Simon Brett
‘Some property developer.’ The old man spoke the words with contempt for the breed. ‘He’s been waiting to build a row of nice riverside town houses. Had the plans all drawn up for years . . .’
‘Who did the plans? Who was the architect?’
‘Local guy called Alan Burnethorpe. Got his office on the posh houseboat you must’ve come past.’
‘Funny, he seems to get everywhere.’
‘Oh, his family’ve been round here for ages. Always had lots of fingers in Fedborough pies, they have. Related to half the people in the town, for a start. His mother was one of the real characters of Fedborough. I remember, she always—’
But Carole had no time for folksy reminiscence. ‘So when are the houses going to be built?’
‘Not yet, that’s for certain. Developer can’t get planning permission. Still, he’s not losing money, like Roddy did. Roddy spent a lot on the place. This guy’s just letting it collapse slowly into the river.’ The unseeing blue eyes were pained. ‘Sometimes quite relieved I can’t witness what’s happened to the place. I can sit here and imagine how it used to be. And I won’t have to see the “attractive riverside development” when it finally is put up.’
‘You think it will be?’
‘No doubt at all. Local planners round Fedborough . . . well, it’s like everywhere else. The right politicians get their ears bent, the right palms get greased. Alan Burne-thorpe’s very good at all that stuff. It’ll happen . . . though with a bit of luck when I’m no longer around to see it.’
You wouldn’t be able to see it, anyway, thought the instinctive logician in Carole. But she knew what he meant.
‘That weekend,’ she began, ‘the weekend Virginia Hargreaves disappeared . . .’
‘Three years back we’re talking . . . Februaryish?’
‘That’s right. Do you remember anything about it?’
‘I remember I was very busy, that’s all. Still had my sight back then, and I was quite fit. Spend a lifetime doing manual work, you don’t get all flabby minute you stop. Anyway, that weekend I had a heavy job on.’
‘What was it?’
‘Told you Roddy had sold up. Well, suddenly the whole deal had gone through quick and the guy who’s buying the site says he wants it cleared by the following Monday. Roddy wasn’t in no state to do anything useful – and he said something about he was going away to France – so he offers me a hundred quid to empty everything out of the sheds. “What shall I do with it all?” I says. “Just chuck it down the dump?” And he says, “Yes. But if there’s anything you’re not sure about, take it up to Pelling House and leave it there. But make sure it’s tidy. Virginia likes things tidy.’”
Bob Bracken was fully aware of the effect his words were having. Carole’s pale eyes were sparkling with anticipation. Slowly he continued, ‘Most of the stuff was easy. Straight down the Amenity Tip. Couple of things, though, I didn’t know what they was, didn’t know whether Roddy’d want them or not . . .’
Carole could not keep silent any longer. ‘And one of them was a large box? A large heavy box?’
‘That’s right. Made of strengthened cardboard with, like, plastic corners. Kind of box bulk frozen meat gets delivered in. I didn’t know what was in it, but I put it on my handcart and pushed it up to Pelling Street.’
‘And put it in the cellar of Pelling House?’
Having totally captured their attention, he now didn’t seem to mind having his narrative hurried. ‘That’s right. And there was an old bit of chipboard down there, so – remembering what Roddy said about keeping things tidy – I boarded the space up with that.’ He gestured with pride around the interior he could not see. ‘Nice bit of chipboard makes a big difference to how a place looks.’
‘But did you board it up because you knew what was in the box?’
‘No. Just so’s to keep things nice and tidy.’ The way he gave the answer provided a completely logical explanation for his actions.
‘But I guess you know now what was in it?’ said Ted Crisp, unable to maintain his back-seat position any longer.
‘I’ve got a pretty good idea, yes,’ the old man replied.
‘Then why didn’t you tell anyone?’ demanded Carole.
‘Because no one asked me. Till now.’
‘The police haven’t been in contact with you?’
He shook his head. ‘Not much use as a witness once you lose your sight, you know.’
‘And you never had any conversation with Roddy about what you’d done?’
‘Nope. He’d paid me the hundred up front. Only times I saw Roddy afterwards was in the Coach and Horses or one of the other pubs, pretty drunk, never on his own; wasn’t the opportunity for conversations about the contents of his cellar. Anyway, very soon he’d got Pelling House on the market, and I assumed whatever was in that box’d been moved out.’
‘Hm.’ Ted Crisp scratched his beard disconsolately. ‘So, Carole, we’re still no closer to knowing who actually killed Virginia Hargreaves.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Mind you, Roddy seems even further out of the frame than ever. If he had done it and knew the torso was in the boatsheds, there’s no way he would have asked Bob to clear them out, is there?’
Ted’s shaggy head shook. ‘No way. So what have we got?’
‘It’s something to do with the people who work – or who have worked in Fedborough. I think we’re back to butchery.’
‘Hm?’ He looked puzzled.
‘We’ve got another detail, you see. The box the torso was in originally contained meat. And we mustn’t forget how neatly the corpse was dismembered. Definitely a professional job, according to James Lister.’
‘So does he become your number one suspect?’
‘His wife Fiona would have had the skills to do it, too.’
‘And of course,’ said Bob Bracken slowly, ‘they’re not the only people in Fedborough who’re trained butchers. There was always the Listers, but there was the Trollope family too.’
‘Look, if you’re going to push me in the bloody river,’ Jude shouted through the locked door, ‘do it! Just get on with it!’
‘Not yet,’ said her captor’s voice, still calm, as it had been since they met that afternoon. ‘Don’t want any witnesses. Some people just went to visit Bob Bracken in one of the houseboats further along. I’ll wait till they’ve gone back into town.’
The wait was not long. Jude was in the tiny washroom when she heard the thumps of two people jumping from deck to towpath. As the familiar legs walked past, she smashed the plastic lavatory brush against the tiny porthole with all her strength.
The glass was too strong to give, and too thick for the sound to penetrate.
Carole and Ted didn’t hear her, and hurried on towards Fedborough Bridge.
Chapter Forty
Her customary good manners forgotten, Carole Seddon hammered hard on the door. ‘I don’t understand why we’re here,’ Ted Crisp complained behind her. ‘I don’t see what the reason—’
‘This is the only lead we’ve got. We must save Jude. I’m certain she’s with the person who murdered Virginia and Roddy Hargreaves.’
When the door was opened by a surprised-looking Alan Burnethorpe, Carole blurted out, ‘All right, where is she?’
‘Joke? She’s not here.’
Pushing past him into the hall of 47 Pelling Street with uncharacteristic force, Carole announced, ‘I must see her!’
‘Joke’s away for the weekend with the kids. In Naaldwijk with her parents. I’m on my own.’
‘I wasn’t talking about Joke! You’ve got someone else here!’
‘Who’s there? Is that Carole?’
It was a woman’s voice, but it wasn’t Jude’s. Carole looked up to where the words had come from. At the top of the splendid staircase stood Debbie Carlton. Except for a towel gathered hastily round her waist, she was naked.
‘Debbie, Jude’s missing! She’s not here, is she?’
‘Good
heavens, no.’
‘I think she’s in serious danger!’
‘What the hell’s going on here?’ Alan Burnethorpe looked grudgingly out to an embarrassed Ted Crisp, still poised in the doorway. ‘You’d better come in. We don’t want all Fedborough hearing about this.’
As the door closed behind him, the landlord of the Crown and Anchor stood awkwardly in the hall, looking at anything other than Debbie Carlton’s small pointed breasts.
‘Now can we have some explanations?’ asked Alan Burnethorpe wearily. ‘Your friend isn’t here. Nor’s Joke. What is it you want?’
Carole was nonplussed. She had steamed up to 47 Pelling Street, convinced that she was going to find Jude there. Now she had to find some explanation for her arrival that didn’t accuse her unwilling host of abduction and worse crimes.
‘It’s to do with the time Virginia Hargreaves disappeared . . .’ she improvized desperately. ‘The time she was murdered.’
‘In that case, I don’t want to hear about it. You have pushed your way into my house and—’
‘No, Alan. I want to hear about it.’ Debbie Carlton, completely unashamed – or perhaps unaware – of her nakedness, was moving slowly down the stairs. ‘What is this?’
Carole’s mind was moving fast. Having rejected one idea, she had stumbled on to something potentially even more promising. She pieced her thoughts together. ‘The week before Virginia Hargreaves died, she was ill, confined to bed. Joke, as her housekeeper, had to look after her. I wanted to ask Joke the exact nature of her employer’s illness.’
‘I can tell you,’ said Alan Burnethorpe curtly. ‘If it means you leave my house quicker, I will tell you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Let’s say I was . . . in touch with Virginia Hargreaves at the time. She was suffering from food poisoning. Salmonella.’
‘From something she had eaten?’
‘Yes.’
‘Something cooked by Joke?’
‘Probably.’
As Alan Burnethorpe spoke, Carole looked at Debbie Carlton. Her face was almost as pale as her blonde hair. What had just been said contained some private pertinence for her.
‘One more question,’ said Carole. ‘Alan, are you related to the Trollope family?’
‘The butchers?’
He looked at her in bewilderment, then turned towards Debbie as she said, ‘He’s not, but I am. My mother was Len Trollope’s daughter.’
Chapter Forty-One
Billie Franks had a boning knife in her hand. Black-handled, long, with a tapering blade, unevenly scooped-out, as though it had been honed many times on a whetstone.
Jude had been allowed back from her prison into the largest room of the houseboat. Her captor stood between her and the exit to the towpath. Behind her were large windows, which perhaps she’d have more chance of smashing through than the portholes. But they were on the side of the boat that opened on to the Fether, and escape by that route might only hasten the end that was being lined up for her.
Billie Franks stood between her and the towpath. Jude knew she could try rushing the older woman, but Billie had said she’d use the knife and Jude had no reason to disbelieve her. Better to play for time, and try the old trick of engaging her enemy in conversation.
‘Why did you kill Virginia Hargreaves?’ she asked.
‘She was going to do our business down, ruin our reputation in Fedborough.’
‘How?’
‘That Friday afternoon she came in the shop and complained. Said she’d been ill, been poisoned, got salmonella from something she’d bought from Franks’s grocery. I wasn’t having that. Talk like that could ruin a business in a place like Fedborough. We had our reputation to consider.’
‘What had she eaten? What had made her ill?’
‘An egg sandwich.’
Of all the motives for murder acted on by real-life killers or invented by crime writers, an egg sandwich did seem one of the most unlikely. Even at that moment Jude could see how ridiculous the idea was.
But it wasn’t funny. The steely determination in Billie Franks’s eyes defused any potential humour from the situation.
‘Stanley always made the egg sandwiches,’ she went on. ‘He always made all the sandwiches. There was nothing in that shop that he hadn’t selected or prepared personally. Stanley had very high standards. It would have destroyed him to know someone claimed to have contracted salmonella from something in our shop.’
‘Are you saying he didn’t know?’
There was a momentary flicker of uncertainty in Billie Franks’s eyes before she replied. ‘No. Stanley wasn’t in the shop when Lady Muck came in. It was just me and her.’
The line sounded like one from an old Western. Again, Jude could not be unaware of the incongruity of her situation. She, a woman in her fifties, was in a standoff with an old woman the wrong side of seventy, a slightly drab, mumsy figure whose grey hair was petrified into an unchanging perm. It was ridiculous.
And yet the knife in the old woman’s hand was very real. She definitely claimed to have killed one person, and had implied she’d killed a second. The danger was not fanciful.
Jude looked for madness in Billie Franks’s blue eyes. Madness would somehow be reassuring, give a reason for the farcical situation. But Jude couldn’t see it. Just a cold, determined rationality, which was much more chilling.
‘So what happened, Billie?’
‘I asked Lady Hargreaves to come with me to the office at the back of the shop, so’s I could take down details of her complaint. She didn’t know where the office was, and I took her through to Jimmy Lister’s smokehouse. He’d let us have a key to the place. He didn’t do much smoking there any more, and both shops used it for storage.’ Billie Franks looked down with fascination at the knife in her hand. ‘Inside the smokehouse I stabbed her.’
‘With that?’
The old woman nodded, then repeated, like a mantra, ‘Stanley had very high standards. He’d built up a reputation in Fedborough. Through all his working life. I couldn’t allow that to be put at risk.’
‘So then what?’
‘I knew I had to dispose of the body. There was a lot of blood, but I cleared it up, stripped off her clothes and laid the body in the bath Jimmy used for draining and soaking meat before smoking it. And that’s what gave me the idea . . .’
Appalled, Jude whispered, ‘You mean, you smoked the body?’
‘I knew it would be easier to deal with if it was dry. I jointed it with this knife. Very easy. Very quick, if you know what you’re doing. My dad had taught me well.’ Jude’s terrified eyes homed in on the blade. ‘I should have left it to soak longer, but I didn’t have time. Most of the blood had been drained out. I hung the meat on the hooks inside the kiln and lit some oak dust under it.’
Jude was beginning to wonder about her diagnosis that the woman wasn’t mad. And yet, in spite of the horrors she was describing, Billie Franks’s voice remained level and unemotional.
‘But weren’t you afraid James Lister would notice the smokehouse was being used?’
‘No. Stanley and I did occasionally have stuff to smoke, cheeses and what-have-you. Anyway, it was Friday night. Jimmy would be on duty at Fiona’s precious dinner party. And I’d put the fire out before he went into the shop on the Saturday.’
‘So what did you do with . . .’ Jude couldn’t match Billie’s casual use of the word ‘meat’. ‘ . . . the remains?’
‘I packed the limbs and her clothes into empty meat boxes, and the torso into a bigger one, and hid the lot at the back of the smokehouse. That night, the Saturday, after midnight, I took them down to the Fether.’
‘How? How did you carry them?’
‘We’d still kept the big old pram Debbie’d had when she was a baby. I pushed them down to the river in that.’
Here was another image so incongruous as to be laughable in any other circumstances. A neat, ordinary old grocer’s wife going through the streets of a nice
middle-class West Sussex town, pushing a pram full of cured human body parts. Jude hoped she would survive to laugh with Carole at the picture.
But at that moment her chances didn’t look very good.
‘You did the limbs first, presumably?’
‘Yes. They slipped into the water, no problem. The tide was going out. They’d be lost quickly somewhere in the Channel.’
‘But the torso . . . ? Why didn’t you get rid of the torso?’
Billie Franks let out a little, rueful laugh. ‘Because of the tide. Because of the bloody tide. The box with the torso in it was the heaviest, took a long time for me to get it on to the pram. By the time I got down to the river, the tide had gone too low. I couldn’t risk the box getting stuck in the mud, so I hid it in one of the sheds in Bracken’s Boatyard.’
‘How did it get from there to the cellar of Pelling House?’
‘I’ve no idea. All I know is, next night, the Sunday, I go down the boatyard to finish the job, and the box isn’t there. I’m in a dreadful panic for days, weeks, months. I keep expecting the police to arrive at the house or the shop. But gradually time goes by and I start thinking . . . it’s all right. There is a God. There’s someone out there looking after us.’
Given the circumstances, this counted as one of the most bizarre expressions of belief Jude had ever heard.
‘And then Stanley’s health started to deteriorate,’ Billie went on. ‘Mental health, that is, not physical. He’s still as strong as an ox. And I’m kept busy looking after him, and arranging care for him, and selling the house . . . and I really do, genuinely, forget about it.’
‘About the torso? About Virginia Hargreaves’s murder.’
‘Yes.’ The head was shaken very firmly, but still not a hair of the perm shifted. ‘It never happened,’ she said, as if that were the end of the story.
‘But then the torso was discovered . . .’
Billie Franks sighed at the remembered inconvenience.
‘And you realized the danger, and tried to divert suspicion towards Francis?’
‘Yes. My anonymous letter.’ The old woman smiled at the recollection. ‘I thought it might work. And, even if it didn’t, I got great pleasure from giving that slimy creep a few nasty moments. After the way he treated Debbie—’
