Deadly Admirer

by Christine Green

  I sucked the extra strong he gave me while I waited impatiently for the mini-cab to arrive.

  Somehow Oakby's murder was far more horrific than May's: he was strong, tough and aggressive and whoever killed him I presumed was equally so – and violent – and getting desperate.

  Hubert tut-tutted a bit and I said how sorry I was that I'd spoilt his day but I'd had a lovely time.

  ‘You come back here,’ said Hubert. ‘Don't go driving back to Farley Wood this late. I'll wait up for you. The police will keep you hanging around for ages.’

  ‘There's no need for that, Hubert. I think I can find my way back to my own office.’

  He scowled, creasing his forehead into deep horizontal lines and said gruffly, ‘It's still my birthday and I want to know what's going on.’

  I patted his shoulder in a gesture of compliance. ‘You win, Hubert. I'll be back and I'll tell you all about it.’

  He smiled then. ‘I've had a great birthday, Kate – the best for a long time.’

  He didn't seem to mind that it had ended in a murder and the arrest of my only client. Perhaps he thought it added an interesting dimension to his celebration of fifty years.

  The police station was warm, the reception area buzzing with activity. People coming and going and then coming again. The phone rang incessantly and it was so busy that I simply sat down in a corner by the cactus and prepared for a long wait. I spent half an hour watching the faces of those walking to and fro. The police surgeon, Dr Benfleet, was one of those on his way out and he stopped and sat down on the chair beside me. His rounded cheeks glowed with either excitement or effort and he seemed a little breathless and spoke in a whisper.

  ‘Nasty one this is,’ he said. ‘Your client, isn't she?’

  I nodded. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘I most certainly have. She's in a bit of a state. It's not every day you find a dead man in your lounge, is it?’

  ‘But why have they arrested Vanessa?’ I asked in a whisper as the desk Sergeant with the large head appeared behind the counter and caught sight of me.

  ‘She's not arrested,’ replied Benfleet, ‘just helping with enquiries.’

  The desk Sergeant was by now signalling for me to approach the counter.

  Dr Benfleet smiled at me sympathetically and stood up as I did. ‘Take care,’ he said.

  The desk Sergeant couldn't drum up a smile sympathetic or otherwise. He seemed to be in a state of harassed anxiety. ‘Come on, Miss Kinsella,’ he said. ‘CID want to have a word with you.’ ‘Sounds ominous,’ I replied.

  He frowned at me. My attempt to lighten his mood obviously hadn't worked and I realised the alcohol I'd drunk had probably dulled for me the full realisation of what had happened. Someone had, after all, murdered a policeman. I just wasn't prepared to believe that Vanessa could have been responsible.

  Inspector Hook's expression of grim determination quite unnerved me as I entered the interview room. Potted plants and paintings were definitely not fashionable for interrogation purposes. The room was bare, save for a table and two chairs, and windowless. As grim as Hook's face and as I closed the door behind me I felt guilt spread over me as rapidly as a blush. I haven't done anything wrong, I told myself. I couldn't have prevented it – could I?

  ‘Sit down,’ said Hook.

  I sat down and smiled, trying to look as innocent as possible. I was innocent but somehow I didn't feel it.

  ‘You know of course what's happened,’ said Hook.

  I nodded. ‘Paul Oakby has been found murdered.’

  Hook stared at me. ‘There's murder and murder,’ he said with raised brows.

  I wasn't quite sure of the correct response to that, so I just said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know how he died?’ asked Hook, leaning towards me across the desk in a gesture I found intimidating.

  ‘I don't know anything about his death,’ I explained. ‘Just that he's dead.’

  ‘Who told you he was dead?’

  ‘Just one of my sources. I can't disclose who, can I?’

  He didn't comment but he took from his pocket a notebook and pen and then asked, ‘Where exactly were you this evening?’

  Just for a moment I hesitated. ‘Am I to understand I'm a suspect, Inspector?’

  ‘I'm waiting,’ said Hook irritably.

  ‘I was at Humberstones. I've been there since just after seven thirty. Mr Humberstone can verify that.’

  ‘No need to get agitated, Kate,’ said Hook, giving me, along with my name, a glimmer of a smile. ‘We're looking into every possibility, everyone's a suspect when one of ours is killed.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what happened?’ I asked.

  ‘This is my interview,’ said Hook. ‘I ask the questions. You answer them.’

  ‘I'll try.’

  ‘Good. Do you own a gun?’

  I had to smile at that. ‘Of course I don't own a gun. Why would I want a gun?’

  Hook didn't smile and then I realised why.

  ‘Oakby was shot?’ I asked in surprise.

  He nodded. ‘Point-blank range in the face. Very, very vicious. The person we're looking for is a real nutter. A head case.’

  I didn't say anything. What was there to say?

  After a few moments Hook said, ‘We haven't got very far with Miss Wootten. She's like a zombie. Frederic Tissot was more help. It seems they went out together, Tissot spinning his wife some yarn about late-night seminars. Anyway they went out for a curry and a drink and then stayed chatting in the car for a while. They were seen by a PC about ten thirty in the town centre. Tissot dropped Miss Wootten off at her house. They both say he didn't go inside at this point. She was alone when she found Oakby. Dead. Splattered against the walls of her lounge. The door was open and she found him almost immediately. The doc's not sure how long he'd been dead but rigor mortis hadn't set in and she'd only been out since eight. So time of death is set tentatively for between eight and eleven. But the guess is round about ten. Oakby didn't put up much of a struggle. I expect he was taken by surprise. He just got both barrels in the face.’

  I was glad I was sitting down. I couldn't think straight. My voice came out croaky and strained. ‘How did he get in?’ I asked, remembering he still had a key.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Either of them.’

  Hook shrugged. ‘We're not sure yet. A plywood board had been removed from a window by the kitchen door. The forensic team are still busy in the house and likely to be for hours yet.’

  ‘Did the neighbours hear anything?’

  Hook's irritation returned as unremitting as waves of colic. ‘That's one question too many, Kate. But I'll tell you because I don't want you doing any more snooping. Only one neighbour heard anything and she thought it was a car backfiring. No one saw anything because they had their curtains drawn. I suppose they were watching the news.’

  ‘Just one more question, Inspector,’ I said in a hopefully wheedling way. ‘Have you any firm suspects?’

  Hook shrugged despondently. ‘Not as yet, but I can tell you this: we won't rest until we find him. If necessary we'll interview every man in Longborough.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Yes?’ said Hook impatiently.

  ‘There is someone Vanessa mentioned; has she given you a name yet?’

  There was no immediate answer. Hook flicked open his notebook wordlessly and waited with poised pen.

  ‘Vanessa thinks the man responsible is a Colin Tiffield. But … I've been to see him today and he's physically and mentally disabled. It couldn't be him.’

  ‘We'll check him out anyway,’ said Hook as I gave him the address.

  After a short silence I guessed I'd been dismissed but then Hook said, ‘There's something else. A message was written on the mirror, in Oakby's blood, “YOU NEXT, V”, it said. So your client will have to be well guarded for a while.’

  As I stood up I felt my knees struggle to keep me upright. ‘You okay?’ asked Hook, taking me by the arm
. ‘You look a bit shaky.’

  ‘I'm … fine,’ I said. ‘It's just been a shock, that's all.’ ‘We may need to speak to you again, Kate. Where will we find you?’

  ‘I'll be at Humberstones.’

  ‘Good. A maniac is on the loose. It might be better if you stay there. Keep a low profile too; he may have plans for … well … just be careful. Remember we're the professionals.’

  ‘Yes, of course, Inspector. Would it be possible for me to see Vanessa?’

  Hook shrugged and then said with weary tolerance, ‘If you get any more out of her than us – good luck. She's definitely not telling us everything but she is in shock of course. Forensic say she's clean, and there was no sign of the weapon. She has been telling us for ages that someone is out to get her: perhaps we should have taken more notice.’ Then he added, ‘Come on, I'll take you to her.’

  I felt a little reassured that guilt was being shared round but when I saw Vanessa even that vanished. She looked ill. Pale and exhausted, she sat slumped over a table in another bare interview room. She wore a blue dress with a dropped waist and the hooped earrings had been replaced by pearl drops. A policewoman sat by her and in front of them on the table were a half empty cup of tea and a plate of curled-at-the-edges sandwiches.

  She looked up as I entered, one hand supporting her head in tired resignation. Her blue eyes, dull with misery and exhaustion, stared at me and she tried to smile in recognition but she failed, her eyes instead filling with tears.

  Hook signalled for the young WPC who sat beside her to leave and as she closed the door I sat down and reached out for Vanessa's hand. It was icy cold.

  ‘You're leaving here, Vanessa,’ I said, ‘with police protection. You'll be safe.’

  She continued to stare at me with a look as cold as her hand. A stare that said I'd failed her, everyone had failed her.

  ‘Poor Paul,’ she said. ‘That should have been me on the floor. He would have been expecting me. He was hiding in the house with a gun. Did you know that?’ Her voice trailed off hoarsely, a dull monotone, all emotion gone. ‘He said he'd kill me. And he will.’

  ‘When did he say he'd kill you?’ I asked.

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘You mean Colin Tiffield?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But it can't be him, Vanessa. I've seen him today. He's a physical and mental wreck. It couldn't be him.’

  ‘I shouldn't have told,’ she said dully, as though she hadn't heard me. ‘He's mad. He's always been mad.’

  I hugged her as she began to sob and after a while Hook signalled for me to go. As I left the WPC came back. I don't think Vanessa knew I'd gone.

  The desk Sergeant kindly rang for a mini-cab to take me back to Humberstones.

  ‘Best not to walk,’ he said. ‘Not till he's found.’

  A plain black four-door car turned up in a few minutes, driven by a reassuringly cheerful man who managed to tell me three very unfunny knock-knock jokes on the short journey back.

  ‘Keep smiling, duck,’ he said as I paid him outside Humberstones.

  Hubert must have watched me arrive because he came down to the side door to let me in.

  ‘I bolted the door,’ he said, ‘just in case.’

  ‘Very wise, Hubert. In the circumstances.’

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘Dire, Hubert, dire!’

  Upstairs in his flat Hubert made cocoa and we sat quietly sipping for a while. I knew he was longing to ask me what had happened but I needed time to think events through. So far in this investigation I had managed to accomplish – zilch. No, that wasn't quite true. I had found a one-legged man who had once abused Vanessa. Other than that – nothing. Perhaps it was even my fault that Paul Oakby had been murdered. He had been trying to get information for me. Was that why he'd gone to the house?

  ‘You going to tell me then?’ said Hubert, swirling the last bit of cocoa round in his mug.

  ‘He was shot, Hubert, in the face.’

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Hubert. ‘May he rest in peace.’

  ‘Amen. What do I do now?’

  ‘Well, there's no need to sound so defeated,’ said Hubert. ‘I take it Vanesssa hasn't been arrested so you've just got to come up with another suspect.’

  ‘You make that sound easy. Anyway I've given the police a few names and I expect they'll be interviewing every male she's ever said good morning to. It's just a feeling that somewhere I've missed something vital. Vanessa was so convinced it was him.’

  Hubert stood up then and took the empty from my hand. ‘You go to bed, Kate. You look knackered. In the morning you'll have one of your ideas.’

  I watched him carefully to see if he was being sarcastic but he didn't even blink.

  ‘Good night, Hubert,’ I said. ‘And many happy returns.’

  My ‘bedroom' seemed claustrophobically small after being in Hubert's spacious flat and I lay awake for a long time trying to think what to do next. Should I just leave everything to the police? Would they do any better?

  I dreamt that I was on rifle practice but I wasn't doing the shooting – I was the target. A big red cross was painted on my forehead and I was strapped to a huge dartboard and Hook and Roade were taking aim but instead of the merciful release of a fatal bullet they missed every time.

  I woke up suddenly, hot and alert. I threw off the duvet and then heard a slight noise on the stairs outside. Soft and shuffling. I held my breath as though silence would make the sound stop, but it didn't. Someone was moving about outside. Sliding out of bed I tiptoed to the door. It was unlocked. He could get in. I listened with my ear to the door, trying to breathe in short shallow breaths so that he couldn't hear me. The footsteps – slow, deliberate – were approaching my door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  My ear was still pressed against the door when the knocking began.

  Murderers don't knock on doors. I swung open the door sharply – there stood Hubert, smiling. In one hand he held a mug and in the other an airmail letter.

  ‘For God's sake, Hubert!’ I burst out. ‘Why on earth are you creeping about in the middle of the night? You could cause sudden death like that.’

  ‘It is eight o'clock. I brought you coffee and a letter,’ he said, cheerfully for him, and then added just as cheerfully, ‘I like your nightshirt. I've got one like that.’

  ‘Oh good,’ I said. ‘You'd better come in.’

  I guided Hubert through the darkness of the ‘bedroom' to my office and left him while I dressed quickly.

  When I returned he had pulled up the blinds and watery sunshine filtered on to my desk, catching speckles of dust that danced in the column of light. I watched it for a happy moment, glad that all that had terrorised me in the night had been dreams and Hubert's footsteps.

  Now he sat back in the swivel chair and handed me the letter. ‘It's from your Mum, isn't it? I'm pleased she's written to you. I thought you and she had stopped writing.’

  I opened the letter eagerly. The first few lines convinced me she was well. She had spent the summer watching the talent on Bondi beach and waitressing in the evenings. I thought she was a bit old for that sort of thing but she certainly seemed to be enjoying the adolescence she must have missed …

  ‘She's all right is she?’ asked Hubert.

  ‘She's fine,’ I said, folding up the letter half read to save till later when I was alone.

  ‘Good,’ said Hubert. ‘Families should always keep in touch. Nothing's worth falling out with family.’

  ‘We haven't fallen out. We just don't write to each other very often.’

  I'd drunk half my coffee and was trying to plan my next move

  when Hubert said, ‘Have you made up your mind what to do next?’ I sighed. ‘I won't even be able to do any door-to-door enquiries. The police will be all over Percival Road like …’

  ‘Ants over a dung hill?’ suggested Hubert.

  ‘Precisely. I could, I suppose, manage to find one or two patients and question them a
gain. Mrs Spokes might know more …’ I tailed off. I wasn't convinced. It all seemed so hopeless. I'd failed Vanessa and Paul had died.

  Hubert must have noticed I seemed down because he said, ‘I'd come with you if I could but I've got two funerals today and two tomorrow. The fridge is chock-a-block.’

  I feigned surprise but really I was getting used to the ordinariness of being in a house for the dead. ‘Oh, Hubert!’ I said. ‘You make the deceased sound like so many tubs of ice-cream.’

  ‘Be a lot easier, wouldn't it?’ he said with a grin. But he quickly grew glum-faced again. ‘Now just you take care, Kate. This lunatic might decide to come after you now that Vanessa is safe. It would be better if you didn't go about on your own.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I said. But I knew it wasn't.

  Before going to Mrs Spokes I tracked down Andrew Norten. Not that I actually saw him. His landlady informed me he'd gone to Saudi Arabia but she expected him back in a year!

  After that Mrs Spokes's caustic greeting of, ‘Oh, it's you again,’ seemed quite promising.

  I was invited in, though, when I explained I'd come merely for a chat.

  ‘I'm doing well lately,’ she said. ‘The police, Fred, even the vicar. Sit yourself down and I'll get you a bite to eat.’

  Despite my protestations in moments I had set before me a pot of tea and a huge cheese roll. In my honour she also turned off the sound of the television but she still positioned herself in front of the set and stared ahead.

  ‘You young girls don't eat enough,’ she admonished suddenly. ‘And you don't wear proper knickers.’

  Between mouthfuls I said, ‘You've heard about the murder, I suppose.’

  ‘Course I have. Longborough's never had so much excitement. I bet the TV cameras will be here today. How's Vanessa taking it?’

  ‘She's in shock.’

  ‘Poor little bugger. Bound to happen in the end though, wasn't it?’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘Something like this. A girl as pretty as she is is bound to cause trouble.’

  ‘What do you think happened, then?’

  Mrs Spokes shrugged and rearranged her floral apron. ‘I dunno for sure but perhaps that Paul Oakby saw someone in the house, went to investigate and POW! he gets his head blown off.’