The Marsh & Daughter Casebook

by Amy Myers

  ‘Is she his regular cook?’ Georgia poured her out a cup of coffee, which Dana immediately seized.

  ‘I don’t imagine with Toby anything’s very regular. When he has need of her, I suspect.’

  ‘Romantically?’

  ‘Between me and Toby, or between him and Cadenza?’

  Georgia laughed. ‘The latter. I don’t see you making a future home in Pucken Manor.’

  ‘Too right. I’ve had enough of matrimony. Tried it once and didn’t like it.’

  Georgia was surprised. She had put Dana down as long-term single, perhaps because she seemed so very independent. But then so was Georgia, and she was divorced. She was also ashamed to note her relief that Dana was apparently not hankering for another partner.

  ‘I’ve a daughter up at Cambridge,’ Dana continued, ‘and I split up with her father when she was ten. How about you?’

  ‘Only an ex who’s roaming the world somewhere.’ No, she would not mention Luke.

  ‘They’re safer that way,’ Dana reflected. ‘One can almost remember why one loved him in the first place.’

  Oh, yes. No problem about that, Georgia thought, and no problem in disentangling past from present – well, only a little. If Zac marched through the door, she’d run for her life. Or would it be to Luke? No. She had to solve her own problems. And that, she reminded herself, included not fussing about Luke and Dana. She longed to ask Dana why on earth she’d wanted to see Toby, but decided it wouldn’t be politic. Either it would emerge or it wouldn’t.

  ‘Peter and I are off to Winters’ Farm shortly,’ she told Dana.

  ‘Give Jane my love. I’d rather be there than selling semis. I shouldn’t complain, I suppose. It’s a living, and I enjoy it on the whole.’ Dana hesitated. ‘I suppose I should explain,’ she said diffidently, ‘that after you told me about Fanny and the rape, I thought I’d try to find out more. Toby seemed a good bet. Michael and Sheila are friendly enough, but I got the impression that Toby is a watcher. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Georgia most certainly did. If one looked carefully, watchers were everywhere, watching and listening, not doing. Nothing wrong about that, for they were one half of life’s equation, but if one wanted information, then – if they so chose – they would be the source to go to. ‘Did Toby cough up?’

  ‘Toby supports what Josh says, which is that Ron Gibb is in the frame,’ Dana continued, ‘though he wasn’t very communicative about it.’ She looked questioningly at Georgia.

  ‘To me, it doesn’t add up.’ Georgia buttered toast vigorously while she thought this through. Now Dana was in the picture, she could speak more freely. ‘I trust Josh, but not his story. Ron Gibb as a child abuser, that’s one thing, but Fanny was seventeen when this rape occurred. If she was cowed and meek by nature it might be understandable, but she wasn’t. If it was regular abuse, why hadn’t she left home earlier? It beggars belief that she just went on taking it – and anyway, would she have used the word “rape” about someone who had been regularly abusing her?’

  ‘I agree, it’s odd,’ Dana said. ‘I asked Toby about the gang, but got nowhere. He maintains it was composed of jolly girls and boys, mutually supportive and tender-hearted.’

  ‘If Josh were lying,’ Georgia reflected, ‘Toby would be top of my list for rape.’

  ‘I’d second that, but I don’t think Josh is lying.’

  *

  Peter arrived at nine o’clock precisely and tooted impatiently. The comparatively early hour was Jane Winters’ own choice. She would already have been working for some hours and this would be her first break, she had explained. Peter had no problem with early mornings and today drove with great gusto through the village.

  ‘Nothing like North Downs air,’ he proclaimed. ‘No wonder all the tubercular patients used to come here. It’s just like Switzerland.’

  ‘A vivid imagination helps,’ Georgia murmured.

  Jane Winters ushered them into the large farmhouse kitchen, where the large oak table was loaded with promising-looking piles of papers and files.

  ‘I’ve laid it out here, as you can see,’ Jane said, ‘but if you’d like to see where I found it . . .?’ She looked at Georgia, who promptly replied, ‘Yes, please.’ The hiding place might be relevant and, at the very least, seeing Alice’s own room might give her an idea about her life.

  She followed Jane to a small room tucked away on the first floor. ‘This is her den,’ Jane explained. ‘Her bedroom’s next door. We spread ourselves a bit after Bill died, so that we felt less like peas rattling in a pod.’

  Georgia looked round the den: a modern hi-fi system and posters mingled with dolls, ornaments, a guitar – Adam Jones’? she wondered.

  ‘Alice liked things straight and orderly,’ Jane continued, ‘and so I’d have expected to find Bill’s collection here in the desk, and I wanted to show you this first. In fact I found it at the back of the wardrobe in the bedroom. You’re welcome to look through anything you like. Dana’s been helping me clear out the clothes. That’s the worst. She said the best thing was to bundle everything up and she’d take it away, but somehow that seemed disloyal to Alice. So we’ve sorted it, and left it in bags in the bedroom. Silly, I know, but it seemed best to me,’ she said hopelessly. ‘I don’t know which is worst, the clothes hanging in a wardrobe or the empty space. Both remind me – as if I needed it. At least they’re in bags so that I can pretend all I need do is whip them out if this all turns out to be a bad dream and Alice comes marching in, demanding to know where her clothes are.’

  Georgia hated to ask Jane her next question, but there was no option. The police would have searched everything, but now there would be new lines of enquiry, and other material might be relevant. ‘If we find something here, amongst the papers or her possessions, that the police should see,’ she said hesitantly, ‘should we take it or will you?’

  ‘You. I’ve had police up to here,’ Jane said firmly. ‘I know they did what they could, but the thought of starting all over again makes me want to run like hell.’

  After Jane had left to return to work, Georgia browsed round the den and the bedroom with the least disturbance she could manage. There was plenty here to record a life, but nothing that she could see, apart from the guitar, to indicate an interest in, let alone an obsession with, Sweet Fanny Adams. That was puzzling, as though Alice had put SFA in a compartment of its own, a subject apart from her everyday life. She discovered nothing more, and it was with relief that she left these all too poignant personal memories to join Peter at the kitchen table and gratefully share his cafetière of coffee.

  ‘Interesting,’ Peter observed, as she sat down beside him. ‘There’s a lot here, and yet nothing tells a complete story.’

  Georgia had a preliminary rummage through the piles of handwritten notes, one or two formal-looking documents, a few loose photos, an album of photos, a pencil drawing of what looked like a cameo pendant or locket, and a file of letters, with computer-generated letterheads giving the Winters’ Farm address and a mobile phone number. She scored an immediate bull’s-eye as a name leapt out at her from a letter written in early March that year.

  Dear Mr Powell,

  My grandfather was a fan of Sweet Fanny Adams and amongst his papers were some interesting notes about the day of her death that I think you would like to know about. If you wish to hear more, please telephone me on my mobile, number as above.

  ‘What the blazes is this about?’ Peter wrinkled his forehead when she showed it to him. ‘It looks like “My first attempt at blackmail, by a young girl”.’

  Georgia felt torn between an odd relief that the link between Powell and Alice was firmly established at last, and the realization that if they were right, Mike Gilroy would almost certainly be following this up. If the case were reopened, so would Jane Winters’ wounds. ‘Obviously he did ring,’ she said reluctantly, ‘and they met here in Friday Street. The day she died. Not just coincidence after all.’

  ‘Proof
needed,’ Peter said briskly. ‘If this is new to Mike, Alice’s mobile phone records need to be checked, or rather re-checked.’

  ‘Hold your horses,’ Georgia said crossly. ‘What evidence is there that this letter is for blackmail purposes? She might not even have sent it.’

  ‘Unlikely, but possible.’

  ‘Let’s look further.’

  He pushed a photograph album over to her, and she turned over the pages with interest. These were the best photos she’d seen yet of Friday Street forty-odd years ago. Josh as an eager young man. Michael looking tall and as weedy as Drew. A young Toby. A picture of Brian and Liz, according to the caption, arms wrapped round each other, and a similar one of Sheila and Michael. A jokey one of Fanny with her head under Josh’s arm, pulling a face. Even Hazel with Oliver, a gangly youth looking remarkably like Henry.

  ‘None of Sheila and Fanny together,’ she observed, ‘though there’s one of them taken with Michael, who looks like the cock of the roost.’

  ‘Chance,’ Peter said. ‘Snaps aren’t taken with posterity in mind, only with the opportunity and impulse. The photographers don’t consider the poor biographer who comes along years later and wants to pick out the significant from the rubbish. That’s what makes albums fascinating and frustrating at the same time.’

  ‘The first in the album is one of Brian and Fanny,’ Georgia pointed out. ‘Does that tell us anything?’

  ‘That he fancied her? It’s more probable that he made up the album after the notoriety of her death, which puts a different perspective on the choice of pictures, if he thought there was a case to answer over Adam Jones.’

  Later in the album, she found three or four pages of photos taken on different cameras on the afternoon of Fanny’s death, simply captioned 22nd June, 1968.

  ‘Thus confirming,’ he said, ‘that this is a volume dedicated to the story of Fanny Star.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Look at this one. Adam Jones and Jonathan Powell, lounging in deckchairs with drinks in their hands. It’s captioned “AJ and JP at four p.m.”, and here’s one of Fanny and Henry, at the entrance to the house. “F and HL at four fifteen.” Looking relaxed and happy.’

  ‘Why the times?’ Peter mused. ‘Watson, do you think the game’s afoot?’

  ‘Not sure.’ She looked through the remaining pictures, all, it seemed, in chronological order. Pictures of groups on the terrace, but nothing to explain their inclusion, save perhaps a bad one of Jonathan and Adam at 7.35, neither looking at the camera. Neither did they look happy. There was another one of Jonathan a little later, now on his own, at what looked like an outside bar. She put the album on one side and continued looking through the papers.

  ‘I presume you’ve seen this, Sherlock?’ She studied the formal document. ‘It’s headed “Statement by Brian Winters, second October 1990, sworn before Commissioner of Oaths, Richard Tanner, solicitor”. It’s initialled at the foot of each page, BW, but there’s no final page or pages with the signed stamp on it.’

  ‘I thought you’d notice that.’

  Georgia quickly read it through. Brian had sworn:

  ‘I wish to set on record my memories of the afternoon of twenty-second June, 1968, based on diary notes I took at the time. When I heard the Friday Street music played that night, I decided not to come forward because I had no evidence to offer, nor any theories. I now have some supporting evidence, but the police would laugh it to pieces. I need to speak out somehow, just in case what I saw was important. I passed Fanny Star about twenty to five and said how good the concert was, and she was relaxed and happy. About half an hour later I saw her again. She was in a terrible mood and said she was heading for Owlers’ Smoke to get away for a while. She said Adam clearly thought more of Jonathan Powell than he did of her, and I could tell him that she was going to cancel the next concert and walk out. I could see she meant it, so thought I’d look for him. As I approached a walled garden, I could hear two men arguing behind it. I hesitated for a bit because they were talking about Frances, and then it became clear it was Adam Jones and his manager. Adam was saying that Fanny was determined to get rid of Powell, but that he would try to talk her out of it. Fanny felt they needed more time to themselves. I didn’t understand fully at the time, but thinking about it afterwards I realized it was not only work but also their personal lives that were at issue. Jonathan Powell was too emotional for it just to be about work. He told Adam that Fanny was coming between them, and that he’d make sure that never happened. He’d fix her. Adam could count on that. Adam would be better on his own, with him. They were meant for each other, and Fanny was deliberately wrecking their chance of happiness. If only Adam would go solo, all would be well.

  ‘Later when I visited Adam in prison he told me that on his return from Mr and Mrs Gibb’s home he had come into the gardens through the garden gate, not the house, intending to go straight to the stage. He could see there wasn’t anything happening there, even though music was blaring out over the amplifiers, so he took the woodland path which went by Owlers’ Smoke. Frances had shown it to him earlier that day. As he approached, he saw Jonathan Powell heading from the woodland towards the house, as if he had just come from the Smoke. Adam thought that meant Frances might still be there, so he went to see, and found her dead . . .’

  ‘So there we are,’ Georgia said. ‘The story with a ring of truth.’

  ‘If not embroidered by age,’ Peter pointed out.

  ‘You seem determined to clear Powell,’ Georgia said crossly. ‘Yet you can’t deny that everything comes back to him. And,’ she quickly read on, ‘Brian turns next to what Adam told him when he was giving him the lift, which we know from Josh.’

  ‘So nothing helpful, except for the interesting part about Owlers’ Smoke.’

  ‘Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘No,’ Peter said flatly. ‘This statement could be missing quite a bit. Not just the signature, but at least some of the text. Would you agree? For a start, the last page we have ends mid-sentence: “When I heard . . .” We’ve no idea how much else was in the complete statement, or what it was about. There could be another twelve pages, for all we know. Think of the logic. If Brian Winters was so sure Powell was guilty, why didn’t he take it further?’

  ‘Because he had no proof.’

  ‘He would have had enough at least to tell the police or the court that Powell was lying. Why wait until 1990 to write this statement?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Georgia muttered savagely.

  ‘Then let me suggest it’s because Brian Winters had conflicting ideas about what happened that day, and that it took time to mull over. All we have here is part of them. The part, dare I suggest, that Friday Street would prefer we saw.’

  ‘Then where is the rest of it?’

  ‘With these missing photographs, and who knows what else? The locket, perhaps.’

  ‘I searched the bedroom and the office thoroughly, and Jane has too. There’s nothing else that refers to SFA and no sign of any locket like that in this drawing.’

  ‘Then Alice must have hidden it even more successfully.’

  ‘Your logic isn’t adding up any more than mine.’ Georgia had been thinking furiously. ‘There’s a flaw in your soup. Alice writes her pathetic blackmail letter to Jonathan Powell and we have at least some evidence that looks black for him. If, as you proclaim, she actually has a secret cache with more damning stuff about somebody else, then why try to blackmail Powell? Or do you think she handed the proof of Powell’s guilt over to him?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘I don’t, and I think, dear child, we are getting ahead of ourselves,’ Peter said after a pause. ‘Just as a hypothesis, perhaps Alice wished to explore every avenue until the real truth emerged, and she had the glory of solving the case. She wrote to several people and waited for the right response. A dangerous game. And one that led to her death.’

  *

  Peter departed, after lunch in the pub, straight back to Haden Shaw and Suspects Anonymous.
The atmosphere had once again been strained. Michael and Sheila had been there, and Toby, with Cadenza in his wake, had emerged as they arrived. Tim and Drew popped in for lunch but there was no sign of Josh or Hazel. Instead their son Bob’s formidable presence loomed over them. Perhaps he saw himself as defender of his father’s privacy, but once again Georgia felt a pariah. The quicker she got Alice’s evidence to Mike, the better. Peter had rung him on the mobile and it was agreed Georgia would drive it over this afternoon.

  She realized she was beginning to long for her own home again now, not to mention missing Luke. Being so near made the separation worse. If she were in Haden Shaw, there would be no problem, but staying a mere ten miles away was frustrating. She missed the familiar interchanges between herself and Peter in his office. They had a concentration that was hard to achieve here. It was time that her jumble of thoughts and evidence gelled into one, and that could only happen in Haden Shaw. Thank heavens she could leave tomorrow for the weekend, go home and regroup. She’d be away from this feeling of a hundred eyes upon her, and she might be able to see things more clearly. Dana had asked her to stay for the village fete on Saturday afternoon, and the Ludds had promised her a starring role serving teas if she wished. She had declined with thanks.

  She walked back to the cottage, carrying the holdall containing the collection, glad that at least this marked a step forward in the Alice Winters investigation. Fifteen minutes later she left, relieved to be driving out of Friday Street towards the A2. She still couldn’t budge Jonathan Powell from her mind. It was pointless assuming there was missing evidence in the collection. There might only be the end of that sentence and the signature on the missing page. She was pondering on Brian Winters as she turned the wheel for an unexpectedly sharp bend. She’d be glad to get home; even the car felt odd today.

  She had only a second to register this before it was out of her control. The trees in the field on her right were rushing towards her as the car veered across the verge, then through the fence. Then everything went black.