‘Thank you,’ Pollard said. ‘I’ve got all that quite clear. Speaking of the lecturers, I’ve been noticing that recent-looking unframed photograph on your bureau. Does Mr Boothby feature in it?’
‘Yes, he does,’ Marcia admitted unwillingly. ‘Mr King, who’s almost a professional, took a lot of groups of members of the Fortnight, and people bought them as souvenirs.’
‘I’m going to ask you to lend us that one of yours for a short time, then. Great care will be taken of it, and we’ll give you a receipt. Don’t look so distressed, Mrs Makepeace. Let’s face it. If Mr Boothby has nothing to do with Wendy Shaw’s death, the sooner we clear up his movements on Friday night, the better for him. If he has, well, I don’t think you’d want to shield him, would you?’
Without replying, she got up and fetched the photograph for him.
‘Thank you,’ Pollard said. ‘The young chap with long hair and sideburns is Boothby, I take it? Make out a receipt, will you, Inspector? Now just one last point. Was Mr Medlicott at the film show?’
Marcia looked surprised.
‘Not that I know of. He’s a bird watcher, so I suppose he might have been invited down to see the extra film on birds that was shown first. I believe he went on one of Paul King’s expeditions. But I didn’t see him around, and he certainly didn’t come in for tea afterwards.’
On the way out Pollard and Toye waited while she fetched the list of addresses from her office.
‘I thought you might like to have the whole lot,’ she said, handing him some sheets of typescript fastened together.
‘How very efficient,’ Pollard commented. ‘Even the car registration numbers.’
‘Absolutely essential, the way people park. There always seemed to be somebody being asked to move.’
He put the lists into his briefcase, and asked her when she planned to leave Kittitoe.
‘I had meant to go today, actually. But with all this upset we’re behindhand with the cleaning. Is there any reason — I mean, do you want me to stay around?’
‘I shouldn’t feel justified in asking you to do that. Are you by any chance going abroad for the rest of the holidays?’
‘Oh, no. I shall be in London. I can give you my address there.’
‘That’s all I want, just to be able to contact you if necessary. Perhaps you’d let Pike know when you decide to go?’
‘Certainly I will. Here’s the address.’
‘Thank you for being so helpful, Mrs Makepeace. I can only say that I’m very sorry you’ve been involved in all this.’
A few minutes later they drove away from the school.
By now trade was brisk in the bars of the King William, but Jack Nancekivell obligingly extricated himself. Asked if he recognized anyone in the photograph of the five Horner lecturers, he studied it with knotted brow.
‘I’ve seen all this lot in ’ere, the last week or two,’ he said, ‘but it’s the young chap you’re after, isn’t it? Well, ’e came in Friday night, an’ ’ad words with Mr Bleeding Snooper Stubbs. Didn’t come to nothin’, but I ’ad me eye on ’em.’
‘What time was this?’ Pollard asked.
‘Just gone twenty after ten. ’E come in, with Stubbs right on ’is ’eels, an’ started shovin’ ’is way up to the bar. Stubbs got ’old of ’is arm, an’ started ’oldin’ forth, but the young chap shook ’im orf, an’ came on up, an’ arst for a double whisky. No, ’e wasn’t sozzled, but ’e looked properly browned orf. Gulped down ’is whisky, an’ pushed out again. But this ain’t what you’re after.’ Pausing, the landlord subjected the photograph to another lengthy stare. ‘No, t’ain’t no bloomin’ good,’ he said at last. ‘’E’s like the chap the Shaw girl was with, but I couldn’t swear to it. Not on my bible oath, I couldn’t. Sorry.’
‘OK,’ Pollard said. ‘Who’s this Mr Stubbs you don’t seem to be all that keen on?’
Jack Nancekivell’s reply was colourful. Pollard gathered that Mr Stubbs was against visitors, and anybody in Kittitoe who tried to make an honest living out of them. He wanted the village kept for what he called the residents, and this mostly meant chaps like himself, not Kittitoe born at all, but who’d retired there for the cheap living. What he expected people to live on who hadn’t retired on pensions or had private fortunes was anybody’s guess. Stubbs and Don Glover who’d started up the caravan site were daggers drawn. Almost came to blows right here in the bar they did, last spring…
With some difficulty Pollard stemmed a complex narrative involving visits to the village by a fish and chips van, the illuminated sign at the entrance to the caravan site, and the enlargement of the public convenience. In reply to a direct question, Jack Nancekivell said that he’d sign a statement about the young chap in the photo and Stubbs, so long as it put things proper. Where did Stubbs live? Along the street, and second on the left, in an old place he’d bought cheap and had done up. All la-di-da and tubs of flowers round it… Wouldn’t the two gentlemen like a bit of lunch? They didn’t do lunches, not as a rule, but the wife always had a ham on the go, and there was nothing wrong with King William beer — folk came in for it from miles round.
By now Pollard and Toye were decidedly hungry, and accepted the offer with alacrity. Mrs Nancekivell’s idea of a bite was comprehensive and they left the pub half an hour later feeling comfortably replete.
There was no difficulty in locating Mr Stubbs’s house from the landlord’s description. External decoration and surrounding garden were in a state of unnatural perfection, suggesting a photograph in a glossy magazine. Pollard pressed a bell push, and a decorous burr sounded within.
The door was opened by a grey-haired man immaculate in light suit, collar and tie. He scrutinized the callers through rimless spectacles, contriving to give the impression of having been summoned from work of importance. Accepting Pollard’s official card, he examined it carefully.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, in a voice lacking both volume and resonance. ‘Detective-Superintendent Pollard. I have been anticipating a call from you. Come in. We shall not be disturbed in my study.’
As they followed, Pollard risked a wink at Toye. The study was a small, austerely furnished room, with a huge kneehole desk on which stood a typewriter and several wire baskets of correspondence. There was also a filing cabinet, and a bookcase containing standard reference books and numerous pamphlets. One wall was almost completely covered by an enormous large-scale map of the village and its environs. Mr Stubbs seated himself at the desk, and indicated two chairs facing it.
‘And in what way, Superintendent,’ he enquired, clasping his hands and resting them on a silver-mounted blotter, ‘can I be of assistance to you in your enquiry? No doubt Superintendent Bostock of Winnage has already shown you my letter?’
‘Quite,’ replied Pollard, rallying swiftly to this unexpected development. ‘But I’m sure you’ll understand that we always find it helpful to go over the ground again at first hand.’
‘A very proper attitude, if I may say so. I shall endeavour to give you a full and accurate account of the incident dealt with in my letter, beginning with my departure from this house at approximately 9.45 on the night of last Friday.’
Mr Stubbs broke off, and glanced at Toye, who had taken out his notebook. Apparently satisfied that a record was to be made of his utterances, he adopted the relaxed position of a man about to expound at length.
‘On Friday evening last,’ he began, ‘my wife and I had supper at eight, as is our custom during the summer months. After the meal had been eaten and cleared away, I read The Times, and watched the nine o’clock news on BBC1. As the following programme was wholly trivial, and held no interest for me, I finished my perusal of The Times. At a quarter to ten precisely I set out to give our spaniel his final run of the day.’
‘You must be a devoted dog owner,’ Pollard interposed. ‘I understand that it was an appalling evening.’
‘You understand correctly, Superintendent. It was raining heavily, and a strong southerly wind
was blowing. For this reason I took Humphrey in my car, going through the village and out on to the Biddle Bay road. Here I drew up, and let Humphrey out for a run in the dunes. I turned the car, allowed him about ten minutes, and then we started back. I need not say that I was driving with special care owing to the heavy rain and poor visibility. As I reached the drive entrance to Uncharted Seas, the residence of Mr Edward Horner, a car suddenly shot out at high speed, positively forcing me into the nearside hedge. It tore on, and I could see its lights disappearing into the car park of the King William inn. I followed, determined to remonstrate with the driver. When I got to the car park myself, a young man was coming away from the vehicle in question, one of these noisy dangerous sports car which are responsible for so many of our road accidents. I called out to him, and he ignored me. I followed him into the inn, and attempted to speak to him. He merely uttered an obscene expression and made for the bar. Rather than create a disturbance, I left the premises, and took the number of his car. I then returned home, and wrote a strong letter of complaint to Superintendent Bostock of Winnage, to which, I may say, I have not yet received the courtesy of a reply.’
‘May Inspector Toye have a copy of this letter for a moment? No doubt you kept a carbon, Mr Stubbs?’
‘Certainly. It is my invariable practice. I have it filed here.’ Going across to the filing cabinet, Mr Stubbs swiftly extracted the letter, and handed it over with an air of being gratified by his own efficiency.
‘I did not realize at the time,’ he added, ‘how important this step I had taken might prove to be.’
‘Did you recognize the car?’ Pollard asked.
‘I did not. It was the noisy dangerous type one associates with the highly irresponsible young men of the present day.’
‘Do you recognize anyone in this photograph?’
Mr Stubbs took one look at the group of the five lecturers, and without the slightest hesitation indicated Geoff Boothby.
‘This is the young man who nearly crashed into me on Friday evening, and was offensively rude in the King William afterwards. I am prepared to state this on oath. I congratulate you, Superintendent, on running him to earth so promptly. It will not surprise me in the very least to learn that he has been charged with that young woman’s murder.’
‘No charge is being preferred against this young man at the moment,’ Pollard replied. ‘Why didn’t you report the near accident to Constable Pike?’
Mr Stubbs assumed a long-suffering expression.
‘It shall suffice to say, Superintendent, that on previous occasions I have found Pike unco-operative over matters of dangerous driving and undesirable behaviour by visitors. Consequently, I now appeal to Caesar.’
Caesar be blowed, Pollard thought. Of course, the letter went into a non-urgent file at the Winnage station, its real importance being overlooked…
He realized that a further grievance was being aired, ‘…still less hope of getting the second complaint in my letter dealt with by Pike. I had another narrow escape from a serious motor accident on Friday night. As I edged out of the car park at the inn — with the greatest care, on account of the poor visibility — a Mr Glover, resident in the village, came down the street in his car at quite sixty miles an hour. Had I not been able to stop dead, he would have gone straight into me. There was not the smallest…’
‘Which direction was he coming from?’ interrupted Pollard.
‘From the Winnage direction, going towards Biddle Bay.’
‘Are you prepared to swear that this second car was being driven by Mr Glover?’
‘Under the circumstances it was hardly practicable to read the number plate, or positively to identify the driver,’ Mr Stubbs replied huffily. ‘The car was all too familiar. Mr Glover owns a white Ford Capri, and the outrageous driving was typical of him. As President of the Kittitoe Residents’ Association I have made endless complaints in the interests of public safety…’
The tirade continued in a slightly rising key, accompanied by thumps on the desk with a clenched fist. Observing Mr Stubbs with interest, Pollard noticed a certain weakness about his chin.
When they had extricated themselves, and regained their car, he turned to Toye.
‘Anything strike you in all this tub thumping?’ he asked.
‘Sounds as though there was quite a crowd around at the Horner bungalow end of the village on Friday night, say between ten and half-past, doesn’t it?’
‘Yea. However, let’s get down to brass tacks, and compare this car number Stubbs gave us with Boothby’s on Mrs Makepeace’s list.’
Investigation showed that the numbers were identical. Toye whistled briefly.
‘Don’t start chucking your hat in the air,’ Pollard said. ‘Have you thought about the time factor? If Boothby didn’t leave the school premises until ten minutes to ten, when the film show ended, and Nancekivell saw him come into the pub at twenty past or a minute or two later, it’s damnably tight, you know. How long would it take to drive up to Uncharted Seas?’
‘For a young chap who blinds along? Four minutes, door to door? Same coming down, I’d say.’
‘That gives him about twenty minutes up there to commit the murder, get the body into Beckon Cove, and collect the handbag, unless the girl brought it out of the bungalow with her. Possible, I suppose, but we’re still left with the problem of where the murder was actually committed. Incidentally, Stubbs was out and about five minutes earlier, wasn’t he?’
Toye looked incredulous.
‘You don’t seriously think that old geezer…?’
Pollard grinned.
‘You can’t have been reading the papers lately. Endless articles about the sexual potentiality of the elderly. No, but seriously, I’m not washing out Stubbs altogether. The man’s a fanatic. Did you see his eyes as he ranted and banged the desk? And the slope of his chin? Over-compensation, and what-have-you. I wonder if there’s any means of checking what time he went out? Let’s go and pump Pike.’
A few minutes later Toye drew up behind a badly-parked white Ford Capri at the gate of the police house. They looked at each other. As he switched off the engine, sounds of an altercation came from an open window.
‘We seem to be making a habit of turning up at awkward moments,’ Pollard remarked. ‘We’ll gate-crash this time.’
As they went quietly up to the door, the owner of a broad back in a sports shirt was objecting forcibly to police enquiries at his caravan site.
‘…enough to make the whole damn crowd pack up and clear out. Who wants coppers mucking around when they’ve come for a holiday?’
‘Who indeed?’ agreed Pollard, neatly fielding the ball as he walked in. ‘Who is this gentleman, Constable?’
There was a startled silence. Pike, standing behind his desk, came smartly to attention.
‘This is Mr Glover, sir, the owner of the Kittitoe Caravan Site. He wishes to lodge a complaint about his tenants being questioned about their movements last Friday night.’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Glover. I am Detective-Superintendent Pollard of New Scotland Yard, in charge of the investigation into the murder of Miss Wendy Shaw. In this connection, every house in the area is being visited, and the inmates asked if they can give any information. What exactly is your complaint?’
The man standing with his back to the window was burly, with a square suntanned face, and bright watchful eyes. Pollard recognized an underlying uneasiness, and a quick decision to compound for civility.
‘I’m not complaining about the enquiry. Whoever killed the girl’s got to be run to earth. But there’s no call to set the whole place by the ears. If Pike here had come to me first, I’d have put him on to the site manager, and the whole business could have been done without upsetting people.’
‘There’s no occasion for innocent people to be upset by being asked a few questions, Mr Glover. My experience is that members of the public enjoy the experience — unless they have anything to hide, of course. Incidentally, I was going to
call on you yourself this afternoon with a question. When you drove through the village in the direction of Biddle Bay, at about ten-twenty-five last Friday night, did you notice any person or any vehicle near the drive entrance to Mr Horner’s bungalow?’
There was an electric silence, in the course of which Don Glover swallowed, and moistened his lips.
‘I remember a car coming out of the pub car park,’ he replied offhandedly. ‘Nothing else. It was a lousy night — raining like hell.’
Pollard glanced at Toye.
‘Take this down, Inspector,’ he said. ‘We’ll get a statement typed out for you later, Mr Glover, and ask you to read it over and sign it.’
Don Glover leant back against the window sill, his posture over-emphasizing relaxation.
‘What time was it when you drove back into Kittitoe?’ Pollard asked.
‘Say five minutes later.’
There was an interrogative silence.
‘Damn it!’ Don Glover finally burst out. ‘Why should I have to give an account of my private affairs like this? If you must know, I’d started out for Biddle to see a chap on business, and my windscreen wiper suddenly packed up. No one but a bloody fool would have tried to carry on.’
‘Very wise of you to turn back, Mr Glover. I wish all motorists were as cautious. Did you see anyone about this time?’
‘Not a soul.’
‘Do you live in the village?’
‘Half a mile out on the Winnage road.’
‘And what time did you get home from this abortive trip to Biddle Bay?’
‘God, I don’t know to the minute. Why should I? About quarter to eleven, I suppose.’
‘Would any member of your household have noticed?’
‘My wife might. Nobody else was in. Why not ask her? Or isn’t a wife’s evidence worth having?’
‘Well; thank you, Mr Glover,’ Pollard replied, ignoring this final remark. ‘We needn’t keep you any longer now. I hope your tenants will settle down again. Tiresome about your windscreen wiper. Have you been able to get a replacement yet?’
No Vacation From Murder Page 9
