by Mike Ashley
“Go on,” she said bleakly.
“He was forced to cross over. No choice. And that’s when I did it. Put my foot down and went for him. Tossed him up in the air like a pancake and then, when he hit the deck, reversed back over him just to make sure. I’m telling you, no-one could have survived that. I even saw the blood making a pool on the roadside before I drove away. Believe me, he was dead all right. The car was in a right state when I dumped it.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“I swear to you. On my mother’s life.”
“There’s only one more question, then.”
“What’s that?” He sounded bewildered. He’d been expecting her undying gratitude and now it had all gone wrong. “Hurry up, there’s someone at the door. They’re leaning on the buzzer. What’s your question?”
“Who exactly was it that you did kill?”
That was it, Claire said to herself as she pulled down the ladder that led up to the loft. Zack was finished, as far as she was concerned. She should have remembered her late father’s favourite saying. If you want a job done properly, do it yourself. How could she ever have believed that he would do what she wanted without a slip-up? She blamed herself, even though it wasn’t her habit. All her life, it seemed, she’d been seduced by men talking big. They always acted small. That nice sergeant would be different, she thought. He hadn’t worn a wedding ring: she noticed these things. If only . . .
She reached up to switch on the loft light. It was a large loft, running the length of the house, but so dusty that it made her want to sneeze. Telling the sergeant that Karl had been up here tidying the previous night was probably the biggest lie of all. Her husband thought that life was too short for tidying and he never bothered with their attic. Taking a job with Slickloft had not made the slightest difference. His argument was that if he’d wanted a fourth bedroom he’d have bought a bigger house on day one. Besides, he said that nine out of ten loft conversions were only any use for midgets who liked walking down the middle of a room, and he was six feet three. The loft was, therefore, an admirable hiding place so far as Claire was concerned and she often made good use of it. Amongst the bits and pieces she kept here was the note she had made of Jennifer Bailey’s name, address and telephone number: information she had needed for Zack’s briefing and which she’d managed to copy surreptitiously from Karl’s personal organizer.
In fact, there were two numbers. Home and work, presumably? The codes were different. She recognized one immediately; it was the code for Bradford, she had a cousin who lived there. Next to the other were the initials “AA” and a couple of exclamation marks. Karl had a tedious sense of humour and she could not imagine what had been in his mind. Alcoholics Anonymous? Automobile Association? Agony Aunt? Nothing seemed to make sense at the moment. However, she had more important things to worry about.
She hurried downstairs and dialled the Bradford number, having taken care to withhold her own. “Yes?” The woman sounded subdued, very different from the night before.
“Mrs Bailey? You may not remember, but you rang me last . . .”
“This isn’t Mrs Bailey,” the woman interrupted. Of course not: she was elderly by the sound of her, probably a pensioner. “My name’s Dora Prince, I’m her next door neighbour. I’m sorry, but she’s not able to come to the phone right now. I’m afraid she’s still in shock. You know what’s happened, do you?”
I wish, Claire thought. “No . . .”
“It’s a terrible tragedy,” the woman said, lowering her voice. “Her husband went out last night to pick up some fish and chips and he was run over as he was crossing the road. The driver didn’t stop. The policewoman’s here now. She hasn’t even got round to asking me anything. She’s too busy comforting Jennifer, of course. You can imagine.”
Yes, Claire could imagine. “Oh dear,” she said.
“Awful, isn’t it? Such a lovely chap. And a dab hand at do-it-yourself, too. He’ll never finish that pergola now, poor fellow. Shall I tell Jennifer you rang?”
“Oh, it’s all right. Don’t bother. We – we hardly know each other. I don’t want to intrude.”
As she put the phone down, Claire’s heart was pounding. She had solved one mystery, only to be confronted with others. What on earth had possessed Jennifer Bailey to telephone her the previous night? Come to think of it, why had she lied about having seen Karl? And why had Karl said she was a one-legger when her husband – her late husband, thanks to bloody Zack, a real case of collateral damage, poor sod – had apparently been at home with her throughout the evening?
She sighed and looked for Jennifer Bailey’s second number, the one which Karl had marked with the initials “AA”. The code seemed familiar. Wasn’t it Crewe? Curiouser and curiouser. Why would a woman who lived in Bradford have a work number in south Cheshire? Well, it was possible, but it seemed strange. She was seized by the urge to find out what “AA” stood for. She rang the number.
“Hello?” The woman who answered sounded familiar.
“Who is that?”
“Who’s calling?” Definitely evasive.
The penny dropped. This was the woman who had rung the previous evening. Jennifer Bailey. Or rather, someone purporting to be Jennifer Bailey.
“Is that AA?” Claire asked in a hopeful tone.
“Yes.” The woman sounded less guarded. “How may I help you?”
“Well, I just wondered . . .”
“You’re interested in our services?” The woman seemed to recognize Claire’s hesitancy, and to regard it as natural enough.
Claire pondered. Was she calling some kind of brothel? She wouldn’t put much past Karl. “Could you give me some details?”
“Of course.” The woman became business-like. “It’s very simple. The Alibi Agency’s name speaks for itself. We provide excuses for people who need them. Most of our business comes by way of word-of-mouth recommendation, but you may have seen that feature article about us in The Sun. You want to be in one place when you’re supposed to be in another? We can help. Our rates are very reasonable and . . .”
“That’s all right, thanks,” Claire said faintly. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Well, well, well. She made herself a coffee after her evening meal and congratulated herself once again on solving the conundrum. Perhaps she had missed her way in life. She should have been a private detective. It was all so simple. Karl had never intended to visit Jennifer Bailey. She was a blind; he’d mentioned all that stuff about the one-legger simply to throw Claire off the track, lend a touch of verisimilitude to his tall story. He’d arranged to see Lynette and hired the Alibi Agency to impersonate his customer, so that Claire was none the wiser. He knew that their marriage, already on the rocks, could not survive if Claire found out that Lynette was still around. But he’d fallen out with Lynette – perhaps she had wanted him to get a divorce and move in with her and he’d fought shy of making the commitment. Something like that would be typical. Whatever. He’d lost his temper and she’d lost her balance and hit her head on something hard. End of Lynette. Claire smirked to herself. She’d always loathed Lynette.
It occurred to her that she might yet be able to kill two birds with one stone. Suppose she told the police that Karl had threatened her with violence so that she would back up his story? She might say that her conscience would not allow her to live a lie, that she’d decided Karl must pay for his crime. True, she was going to miss out on the life insurance, but she would at least be rid of her husband. And it would serve him right.
She rang the number that the nice sergeant had left with her and was quickly put through.
“This is Claire again. You remember our conversation?” she asked. Just the faintest seductive hint at this stage. Then see how he responded.
“I certainly do,” he said. Was it her imagination or was there a faint leer in his voice? She hoped so.
“I won’t beat about the bush. I lied to you about my husband. He was out last night, but he threatened
what he would do to me if I didn’t back him up.”
“Ah.”
“I hope you won’t think too badly of me,” she said in her meekest voice. “I felt as though I was under duress.”
She told him the story, making no mention of the Alibi Agency. She didn’t want to draw attention to the existence of the recently bereaved Mrs Bailey. The policeman listened intently, murmuring his agreement every now and then when she insisted that life with Karl was hellish and that her only wish now was to do the right thing. He was sympathetic, a very good listener.
“I thought,” she said tentatively, “that you might like to come back here and take a statement from me. A detailed statement.”
“Yes, I’d love to do that.”
“You would?”
“Oh yes,” he said softly. “And perhaps when we’ve finished talking about your husband . . .”
“Yes?” she breathed.
“. . . I can introduce you to a couple of colleagues of mine from Bradford CID. They’ve just finished interviewing a young man called Zack Kennedy.”
She swallowed. “Oh yes?”
“It’s in connection with a death in their patch. A Mr Eric Bailey was killed in a hit and run incident last night. The vehicle was a Fiesta that was later dumped. What’s interesting is that they found a photograph in the car. It had slipped between the driver’s and passenger’s seats. A picture of a man standing proudly next to a Slickloft van, apparently parked outside his own house. Right next to the street name, the name of the street where you live, actually. On the back of the photograph was your husband’s name and a brief description. The handwriting is distinctive. As soon as it was shown to me, I recognized it from the note you gave me of your phone number.” He paused. “All rather puzzling. Mind you, once it turned out that Mr Kennedy’s fingerprints were on the photograph, things started to become clearer. He has a criminal record. Nothing big league, just a few burglaries and car thefts. Possibly you didn’t know that?”
Claire made a noise that was half-way between a sigh and a sob.
“No? Ah, well. By the way, the Baileys’ neighbour, Mrs Prince, saw the Fiesta yesterday afternoon. The driver was behaving suspiciously, and she gave a description which bears an uncanny resemblance to Mr Kennedy. He’s been arrested. The charge will be murder, I guess, but his lack of competence is equally criminal, wouldn’t you say? We can chat about it later. I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour.”
Slowly, as if in a trance, Claire put the receiver back on the cradle. She couldn’t help glancing at the clock. She’d always been impatient, always hated having to hang around. The next fifteen minutes would, she knew, be the longest of her life as she sat helplessly on the sofa and waited for Godstow.
THE ODOUR OF SANCTITY
Kate Ellis
Kate Ellis (b.1953), who was born in Liverpool but now hails from Cheshire, achieved literary success in 1990 by winning the North-West Playwrights’ competition with her play “Clearing Out”. More recently she is the author of the fascinating series of West Country crime novels featuring archaeologist Neil Watson and Sergeant Wesley Peterson. The books intriguingly forge connections between modern-day crimes and historical events. The series began with The Merchant’s House (1998), followed by The Armada Boy (1999), An Unhallowed Grave (1999) and The Funeral Boat (2000). The following story takes Kate Ellis back to her first job as a teacher. “It was inspired by memories of school trips spent herding classes of unpredictable school children around places of historical interest.” Well, they certainly inspired a most unusual mystery.
The brakes hissed with relief as the coach drew up in the car park at the back of Bickby Hall, and Vicky Vine – known as “Miss” on weekdays – climbed out onto the concrete first, clutching a clipboard protectively to her ample chest. Only two girls had been sick on the coach and one boy had bumped his head on the luggage rack. Three casualties: that was good going at this stage.
Vicky did a swift head count as her class emerged from the coach under the disapproving eye of the small, balding car park attendant. All there, every one of them: chattering; pushing; slouching; strutting; blazers shiny and misshapen, ties askew. 8C . . . the flower of Bickby Comprehensive: Vicky looked at them and sighed. She had done the history trip to Bickby Hall so many times: year after year; class after class; the bright and the dull; those interested in history and those who found the Elizabethan mansion, perched incongruously on the edge of a run down housing estate, less appealing than a double maths lesson.
Some girls began to giggle as they spotted their guide. Most of the boys stared, open mouthed, at the apparition.
“Is that the ghost, miss?” one wit asked as the dark haired woman emerged from the Hall’s massive oak door in full Elizabethan costume; a huge-skirted creation in faded brocade with big padded sleeves, topped by a limp, yellowed ruff. The woman seemed to glide across the car park towards them, and when she reached Vicky she gave her a nervous smile.
“Hello, Muriel,” said Vicky, trying to sound cheerful. “8C today. They shouldn’t be much trouble but we’d better search them on the way out. After that unfortunate incident with the penguin on the zoo trip last year, I’m not taking any chances.” She lowered her voice. “I was thinking about your Francesca last night. How is she?”
Muriel Pablos managed a weak smile. She looked strained and tired, older than her forty-eight years. “Still the same,” she said quietly.
Vicky sighed. “Daughters are such a worry. It was always a pleasure to teach your Francesca . . . unlike some.” She looked at her charges whose volume was increasing with their restlessness. It was time to begin the tour before a minor riot broke out. “We’ll get started then, Muriel. Ready?”
Muriel watched, straight backed and silent, as Vicky brought some order to 8C. After the din had died down – and all chewing gum had been collected efficiently in a paper bag – she led the way slowly towards the house with a ragged procession of pubescent youth trailing behind.
The excitement began, from 8C’s point of view, when they were in the Great Hall. But it wasn’t the magnificent hammer-beam roof that grabbed their undivided attention. It was the scream . . . a desperate, primeval cry. It came when Muriel Pablos was in full flow, giving a colourful, fleas and all, description of Elizabethan life. The unearthly sound made her stop in mid-sentence.
“Sounds like someone’s being murdered, Miss,” a precocious thirteen-year-old girl speculated knowingly.
“Someone’s met the ghost, miss,” the smallest boy, who looked no more than ten, added with relish.
Then two crop-haired boys skulking by the window turned towards Vicky, their faces ash pale. “We saw him, Miss,” said one of them in an awed whisper. “He fell . . . like he was flying. He’s there . . . in the courtyard. Do you think he’s dead, Miss?”
Vicky and Muriel pushed their way through the crowd of children who were standing, still as startled rabbits. When they reached the leaded window which looked out onto the cobbled courtyard, Muriel knelt up on the window seat and her hand went to her mouth. “It’s Jonathan. He was working up in the tower room. I’ve always said that window was dangerous. I’ll have to call an ambulance . . . the police. The nearest phone’s in the office upstairs.” She scrambled to her feet, preparing for flight.
Vicky took a deep breath as she stood in the doorway watching Muriel hurry away up the great staircase. Then she turned to her class who had fallen uncharacteristically silent. “There’s been a terrible accident. As soon as Mrs Pablos gets back from calling the police, I’ll go out and see if there’s anything I can do. In the meantime can everyone stay away from the window,” she added firmly.
Surprisingly, 8C behaved with impeccable restraint until the police arrived.
“Suicide? Chucked himself from that open window up there?” Detective Inspector Anastasia Hardy looked up at the squat, square tower which glowered over the courtyard. “Not much mess, is there . . . considering?” She wrinkled her nose and turned
away from the corpse of the fair haired, once handsome, man who lay at her feet in an untidy fashion.
The young doctor who was kneeling on the cobbles examining the body, glanced up at her. “Not suicide,” he said casually. “He was already dead when he hit the ground. That’s why there’s not much blood about.” He turned the body over gently. “Here’s your cause of death . . . look. Knife wound straight to the heart. And he’d been dead at least half-an-hour before he fell. Sorry to add to your workload, Inspector.”
Anastasia Hardy turned to the young uniformed constable standing a few feet away and gave him the benefit of her sweetest smile. She found charm worked wonders with subordinates. She herself had worked for a host of unpleasant superiors on her way up the career ladder and had always vowed never to follow in their footsteps.
“Constable Calthwaite, have you checked that window yet?”
“The door to the tower room’s locked, ma’am, and the only key was in the possession of Mr Pleasance . . . er . . . the deceased. I had a look through his pockets before the doc got here and I found it . . . a big old iron thing. With your permission, ma’am, I’d like to try it in the locked door . . . make sure it’s the right one,” said Joe Calthwaite, eager to make a good impression.
Anastasia nodded. She’d let Constable Calthwaite have his moment of glory . . . or disappointment. He was young and keen; his enthusiasm almost reminded her of her own when she had first joined the force . . . before paperwork and the exhaustion of combining police work with family life had set in.
Calthwaite chatted as he led the way up the winding stairs that led to the tower room. “Someone’s already talked to the staff, ma’am. It seems nobody was near the tower when Mr Pleasance fell. And everyone has someone to back up their story. There was a school party in the Great Hall and a couple of the kids actually saw him land in the courtyard. They heard a scream too. A costumed guide was with them . . . a Mrs Muriel Pablos: she called the emergency services. And their teacher, Mrs Vine . . . actually,” he said, blushing. “She used to teach me. I was in her class.”
