Deadly Admirer

by Christine Green

  ‘Why would a burglar shoot him?’

  ‘Aren't you supposed to be a detective?’

  ‘Well, yes …’

  ‘Huh! You don't look very tough to me.’

  ‘It's more brains than brawn you need, Mrs Spokes.’

  She gave me what my mother would have called an ‘old-fashoned look' and said nothing.

  I was on my second cup of tea when Mrs Spokes said, ‘Funny the way she got so scared about that bloke who was supposed to be following her. She had boyfriends but I don't think a single one of them made her happy, you know. Not for long anyway. I reckon …’ Mrs Spokes tailed off and folded her short arms so that they rested on the roundness that combined both breasts and stomach.

  ‘What do you reckon, Mrs Spokes?’

  ‘I think there's only one man who is right for her in Longborough and she turned him down.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘I never told the police though. Well, they'd suspect their own mother, wouldn't they?’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Dr Hiding of course. He'd taken a real shine to her but she said no. He's a bit of a dark horse that one.’

  ‘Mrs Spokes,’ I said trying to sound outraged, ‘surely you don't think Dr Hiding is capable of murder?’

  ‘No, duck, I don't think he'd do anything violent but he is tuppence short of a shilling, isn't he?’

  I tried not to smile. ‘Anyone else who may have asked her out?’

  ‘Let me think,’ she said. ‘There was someone. A few months ago. She didn't say his name but she seemed surprised if you know what I mean. Like he was too young for her or drawing his pension.’ ‘Did she say where she'd met him?’

  Mrs Spokes stared into her gas fire for a moment. ‘I think he was a patient. Perhaps she didn't like what he'd got? Perhaps it was catching.’

  I left Mrs Spokes having promised I'd visit again and drove straight to the Health Centre. Surely, I thought, Dr Hiding would be aware of any local disturbed man. Not that David Hiding was a bench-mark for normality.

  I was lucky: he had just seen his last patient of the morning and was sitting in his consulting room with the door wide open, staring at a pile of correspondence on his desk. He looked up as I entered.

  ‘Ah, I was meditating, Miss Kinsella. Finding new strength from the Almighty. Do you ever pray?’

  ‘When I'm scared.’

  ‘I see. You believe God will help you in times of trouble?’

  ‘Not exactly. I'm just hedging my bets.’

  He sighed, as if seeing I would stay a heathen and flourished a cardigan-covered arm towards a chair. As I sat down he said, ‘How may I help?’

  ‘It's about Vanessa Wootten.’

  ‘Ah, yes. She's getting over the shock, I hope. A terrible thing to happen here.’

  ‘Pretty bad anywhere,’ I agreed.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Of course,’ he said irritably. He lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and stared at me.

  ‘You were quite friendly with Vanessa, I believe?’ I asked abruptly.

  His eyes widened. ‘Of course. She worked here. We were on good terms.’

  ‘Asking out terms?’

  Hiding put his glasses back on properly. ‘We didn't have a relationship if that is what you are implying.’

  ‘But you would have liked one? You did fancy her?’

  ‘Fancy is a crude word, Miss Kinsella. I liked her, that's all.’

  ‘You did ask her out though, didn't you?’ I persisted.

  ‘Yes,’ he said wearily. ‘I did ask her out once or twice. She refused. There isn't much else to say.’

  ‘For you, perhaps, but I have heard that a patient may also have asked her out and been refused.’

  Hiding shrugged. ‘She is popular. That doesn't surprise me.’ My questions had made Dr Hiding edgy and defensive. Now I tried a different approach. I smiled.

  ‘I'm sorry about the questions, David. I've come to you because I'm sure Vanessa would have confided in you about her past. And I'm sure you'll agree we need to do everything we can to bring the murderer to justice.’

  There was silence then as if he were wrestling with his Hippocratic oath or his conscience, or both. ‘You know about her family background?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes. Well, from her sister's viewpoint.’

  ‘Vanessa was undoubtedly abused as a child and is terrified of the man, but as for him following her for years I think that is a delusory manifestation of her past fears and misery.’

  That sounded so convincing that it took me a moment to reply. ‘But what about this other fellow? The man who blasted Paul Oakby to death. That's not delusory manifestation, is it? Or poor May Brigstock. I've met the man Vanessa is so afraid of, and he's not capable of murder.’

  ‘Have you any idea who this man is, then?’ asked Hiding.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That's why I've come to you. Vanessa only gave me a very vague description of the man and at the time she thought she knew who he was. He's medium height, medium build, drives a car and seems to have access to others, and he owns or can get hold of a shotgun.’

  David Hiding smirked a little at that.

  ‘What's so funny?’ I asked.

  ‘Kate, my dear, this is a country town. There are shotguns all over the place. The farmers, members of the gun clubs and rich Londoners doing a bit of shooting at weekends.’

  ‘And they all have a licence?’

  ‘I'm sure they do. I'm often asked for character references by the police.’

  ‘Any lately?’

  ‘Not that I can remember. Of course the other partners may have. I'd have to check our records and then go through the computer – we're in the middle of changing over to a fully computerised system at the moment.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘God willing, only a few months.’

  ‘Months,’ I echoed.

  Hiding smiled. ‘I might have luck with the manual records.’

  ‘Thank you, David. One last question; well, the same question. The one you avoided answering.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘Do you know of any admirers Vanessa may have had in the practice, particularly unstable ones?’

  An expression of reluctance passed across the doctor's face. ‘Oh, very well,’ he said. ‘Young Christopher Collicot has a crush on Vanessa. It's been going on some time and now it's interfering with his studies. His parents even know about it. He is apt to hang about the Health Centre just so that he can catch a glimpse of her. But I can assure you he is perfectly sane and of a nonviolent disposition.’

  ‘Being in love changes people,’ I said. But surely not that much? As I drove back towards Humberstones I reasoned that it was better to have one suspect than none and that perhaps I should keep a sharp eye on young Christopher. I'd been so convinced that the past was all that mattered in Vanessa's life that it was a shock to realise that I had been concentrating only on the past few weeks. Maybe Vanessa had cried wolf once too often and then when somebody really was after her no one believed her. Just as her sister hadn't believed her.

  I'd just got out of the car and had turned to get my shoulder bag from the front passenger seat when I heard Hubert's voice: ‘Kate, you coming my way?’

  I turned in surprise to see Hubert directly in front of me. ‘Which way's that, Hubert?’

  ‘Towards the Swan of course.’

  ‘Oh all right.’

  ‘Don't force yourself.’

  ‘I won't then.’

  ‘Go on, Kate, be a sport. A drink will do you good. Perk you up.’ ‘I'm perked enough, thank you.’

  But insistently Hubert stuck out his arm and I shrugged in defeat and looped my arm through his and we walked along the High Street to the safe haven and soft lights of the Swan.

  ‘We must look a queer couple,’ I said.

  ‘Not as queer as some,’ he answered as he opened the door to the lounge bar.

  The lunchtime trade was, as usual these days, less tha
n brisk. There were only two other customers and Hubert was soon back.

  ‘Here's your drink,’ he announced placing half a pint of cider in front of me.

  ‘I'm still reduced to cider, I see. I should have bought the drinks.’

  ‘Brandy will knock you out,’ said Hubert knowingly.

  ‘You're probably right,’ I said, sipping the liquid and trying to look pleased with it.

  ‘What's wrong, Kate? You look like a woman whose knicker elastic has just given way in the High Street.’

  ‘Hubert,’ I said, ‘you've changed. When I first came to Humberstones you seemed shy and retiring. You didn't swear and knickers wasn't a word in your vocabulary.’

  Hubert smiled as if I'd paid him a compliment. ‘The cider's reviving you, I can see that. You're back on form.’

  I smiled. ‘I'm only pretending, Hubert. I'm at a loss. I've failed on this one. Where do I start looking for the invisible man? The gun could be a big lead but Dr Hiding says guns are common round here.’

  ‘Well he should know – he's got one.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I've seen him out shooting rabbits.’

  ‘And him a Christian,’ I said. ‘You'll be telling me next the vicar's got one.’

  ‘He has. Shoots the crows that try to feed on his garden produce. He's a very keen gardener. Has to be, I suppose. Vicars don't earn much, do they? His wife only does voluntary work for the disabled, they have a son to keep and the rectory must cost a fortune to heat.’

  ‘Don't tell me they both shoot as well.’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Hubert. ‘Mind you, I was surprised that Christopher went off to theological college.’

  ‘Why? He seems just the type to me.’

  ‘He went through a bit of a wild stage. I heard it rumoured he was in trouble with the police once.’

  ‘What was he supposed to have done?’

  ‘I'm not sure but I think it was taking and driving away. Anyway the police didn't press charges so it couldn't have been very serious, could it?’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ I agreed. ‘Dr Crippen was a mild-looking man, wasn't he?’

  ‘What are you talking about, Kate?’

  ‘It's just that young Christopher is besotted with Vanessa … I was just thinking about appearances being deceptive.’

  ‘Well,’ said Hubert, ‘you could always try to get an invitation to the rectory. To eliminate him from your enquiries.’

  ‘Perhaps you could come with me, Hubert. I might need to have a look round, especially Christopher's bedroom. You could keep the family occupied.’

  Hubert looked undecided. ‘Not after the last time I helped you. That dog, do you remember?’

  ‘It was only a scratch, Hubert, don't be such a baby.’

  ‘I'm surprised you haven't heard.’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Christopher's got a dog. A Rottweiler puppy.’

  But he's not the type, I was about to say. But perhaps he was.

  Chapter Twenty

  Vanessa phoned that evening. She felt much better but she was bored with reading and playing patience.

  ‘Have you made any progress, Kate?’

  I had to admit I hadn't, but I said, ‘The police are doing everything they can. It won't be much longer.’

  ‘I do hope not,’ she said. ‘I want to go back home. This flat is quite comfortable but it's not home. I don't think I can stand it much longer. The police have visited my sister. HE was there of course, but they assure me he isn't capable of being Paul's killer.’

  ‘All this will soon end, Vanessa, I promise you. He'll be found.’

  ‘I hope you're right,’ she said, ‘I really do.’

  It was true about the police. They really had been trying. Doorto- door enquiries had been extensive; they'd even put a short piece on TV's Crime Watch. According to Hubert that had resulted in hundreds of phone-calls but mostly from oddballs who either hated the police or were overly keen to confess to almost any murder on offer.

  I'd almost forgotten about the fête but Mrs Morcott rang to remind me. ‘Could you be there by twelve thirty? We've rather more jumble than I anticipated.’

  ‘I'll be there,’ I said, grateful that I'd have something to do. And perhaps I'd be able to have a word with the vicar's wife about Christopher, who was beginning to become rather more promising as a suspect. Although owning a Rottweiler and having a crush on a pretty young woman seemed thin grounds for suspicion; for a vicar's son anyway.

  The WI hall, a converted brick-built barn with a red corrugated roof, was within walking distance of my house but the weather had taken a turn for the wintry and snow was promised, so I decided to drive. The small parking area was nearly full and I couldn't fail to notice the black van with dark windows parked nearest to the door.

  Inside, the activity looked like preparations for the immediate civil defence of Farley Wood. Mrs Morcott was valiantly trying to organise everyone.

  ‘Over there, dear … that's it, Mrs Warton, all the cakes and biscuits on one table … Mrs Goody, that's right, knick-knacks and haberdashery on the white elephant table.’

  She looked up as I came into the hall. ‘Ah, Miss Kinsella, good of you to come early. Your table is in the corner; there's a lot of sorting out to do, I'm afraid. Mrs Collicot will give you a hand though.’

  As I began to wade through the boxes and worried-looking helpers Verna Collicot touched my arm. ‘It's arriving by the carload,’ she whispered. ‘At this rate we'll have at least three trestle tablesful.’

  I glanced from her pale worried face to the corner and the mound of old clothes that was already at table level. ‘It's like something from a horror movie, isn't it?’ I said, refusing to be panicked by the sight of piles of old and, I suspected, smelly clothes.

  Verna gave me a weak smile. I had seen her very occasionally walking round the village but this was the first time I'd spoken to her. She had a smaller nose than her son and more chin but her lips were equally thin. Her hair, fair but tinged with grey, was straight and wispy and her skin had a faintly mottled appearance as though she went out unprotected in all weathers. She wore a grey cardigan, darned at the elbows, and a white blouse pinned at the neck with a tiny blue butterfly brooch. A gold cross lay just below the butterfly. Her skirt was of faded navy, thick, with an elasticated waist that made her slim figure look bunched in the middle. Could this genteel, fragile lady possibly be the mother of a murderer? I wondered. But since a murderer's mother is a subject I know less about than village fêtes, I kept a very open mind.

  ‘Would you sort out the men's clothing?’ Verna asked. ‘Just pile the better-looking articles to the front to attract people. I'll do the ladies' table.’

  I began gathering up an armful and picking out the jackets and shirts that looked reasonable and folding them quickly but carefully as I put them to the front of the trestle. The noise in the hall gradually reduced to a gentle buzz of conversation as the various stalls became organised.

  Verna and I spoke little. Occasionally she murmured, ‘That's nice,’ and ‘What do you think of this?’ as a dress or a blouse took her fancy. I noticed that if I seemed to approve she placed the article in a carrier bag at her feet. When she realised I was aware of it she blushed and whispered, ‘I have to alter them a bit so people don't recognise them, but I can't afford to buy new clothes.’

  ‘I'll see if I can find something for Christopher,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, thank you. He's been off sick now from college such a long time I sometimes doubt he'll go back. I'm afraid he's clothed entirely from jumble sales. The villagers don't notice men's clothing so much, do they?’

  I smiled and continued searching for clothes with Christopher appeal.

  At last our tables were covered but we still had piles around our feet. A musty old clothes smell seemed to surge up like an invisible cloud but that didn't diminish the satisfaction of the organised tables.

  ‘Well done, you two,’ said Mrs
Morcott, advancing on us with mugs of tea. ‘I hope Verna's prepared you for the onslaught.’ I looked questioningly at Verna.

  She smiled. ‘I didn't want you to run away, but it can be … well … really awful. The pushing and shoving and grabbing and arguing. But don't take any notice, Kate. As for prices, we used to vary them a bit but we don't any more. There was too much bargaining going on. Now it's twenty pence each item and no reductions; well, not until about four thirty.’

  I drank my tea and at just before two everyone manned their stalls and stood ready and alert.

  ‘Right, everyone,’ called out Mrs Morcott. ‘I'll start the countdown. Good luck and courage to you all. Ten, nine, eight …’

  As she got to one she took a deep breath and opened the door. People swarmed in, most of them seeming to make for our stall and suddenly my carefully arranged clothes were snatched up, yanked, held up, seams were pulled, labels examined, money thrust at me, bags demanded. And the noise of excited bargainhunters assaulted my ears so that I couldn't hear myself saying ‘Who's next?’ or ‘Thank you'.

  It was possibly the worst few hours of my life. A fight nearly broke out between two elderly women who wanted the same skirt and as one thrust it at me the other grabbed my arm.

  ‘You're too fat for that, you silly cow,’ said one.

  ‘Oh no, I'm not, you old bag.’

  ‘Ladies, please,’ I said, which I thought would mollify them. It didn't.

  ‘You stay out of this, you stuck-up bitch,’ said the younger of the two.

  Dragging me into their squabble seemed to dampen their keenness to fight and angrily one said, ‘It's far too big for me anyway. I'd have to alter it and I've gone off the colour. It's an old woman's skirt, I don't want it.’

  Which left the victorious owner feeling no doubt fat as a house and with a skirt she'd never enjoy wearing.

  Eventually five o'clock came and the last few customers had left, leaving me in a state of post-fête shock. Although Verna sighed with relief she seemed hardened to it. Mrs Morcott supplied more tea and we began the wearisome task of clearing up the debris.