But he turned left at the end of Tellingford’s main street, instead of to the right, in the direction of Sycamore Road.
Lynn said nothing at first. Perhaps he had someone to see on the way home. She sat beside him, silent, while the screen-wipers scraped to and fro before them both.
As the traffic thinned, Ronald began to drive faster. He smiled, grasping the wheel in his gloved hands. He asked about her day.
Lynn told him that she had been painting scenery for the play. The performance would be in two weeks’ time.
They had left the town behind now. Ronald turned from the main road into a minor one where there weren’t even any cats’ eyes in the middle. Lynn hadn’t been able to see the signpost on the corner.
Uncle Ron had begun to hum under his breath. She had never heard him do that before. It was an odd, tuneless sound and she did not like it.
‘Where are we going, Uncle Ron?’ she asked him. ‘This isn’t the way home.’
‘No, my dear,’ said Ronald. ‘I’ve got something to attend to first.’
He resumed his humming. Then he took off his gloves, first one, pulling it with his teeth to free his fingers and tucking it under his chin until it was loose enough to shake off. The other was shed in the same way. All the while the dirge-like noise continued.
The road they were on was a quiet one; they met no other traffic. Lynn felt troubled. He had not answered her question about where they were going. Still, it wasn’t late; her parents knew she would be busy with the scenery after school and they wouldn’t expect her home just yet, so they wouldn’t be worried. Whatever Uncle Ron had to do wouldn’t take long.
‘Where do you have to go, Uncle Ron?’ she asked.
‘You’ll see,’ he said, and he patted her knee with his bare stubby hand with the ginger hairs on the back.
At first, he’d been content, just driving along in the van with Lynn while he anticipated what was to happen. He’d planned to park in a lonely spot. Afterwards, he could simply leave her there. But it would be difficult in the van, and uncomfortable. Suppose she struggled? He hadn’t brought the knife. She must be made to cooperate, or it wouldn’t be nice; he’d found that out. Only once in his life had he known it as it should be; that single time with Dorothea Wyatt. He tightened his grip on the wheel and the humming ceased. Lynn glanced at him; she could not see his expression in the darkness, but she felt the change of mood and she began to feel frightened. Grown-ups could behave so strangely.
Ronald turned down another road and went faster. The headlights cut through the darkness and after a mile or so Lynn saw a signpost as they passed. It indicated Crowbury.
‘You’re going to the shop,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he agreed.
Why hadn’t he said so, at the beginning of their journey? Why had he come this long way round, instead of taking the usual road?
‘Did you forget something?’ she asked anxiously.
‘Yes,’ said Ronald, and began to hum again. There was no time to waste now. He knew what to do. He would take her down to the cellar, where from the pile of packing sacks he could make them a bed. Afterwards, he would bundle her up, put her in a dower chest that was waiting to go to Will Noakes and take her away again. That bit could wait till tomorrow, for he might need help from the greengrocer’s son to lift it into the van. Sometimes the greengrocer’s son did lend a hand when something was too heavy for him alone.
But Lynn wouldn’t be heavy.
He might need the knife at first, to make her obey him, but he wouldn’t use it afterwards. There mustn’t be any blood. He flexed his hands on the wheel and imagined them round her throat – her little neck. She wouldn’t suffer – anyway, not long.
They reached the shop and he parked outside.
‘Come along, Lynn,’ he ordered, getting out and moving round to the passenger door.
‘But you won’t be long. I’ll wait here, in the van,’ Lynn said.
‘Nonsense, my dear. It’s warmer inside, and I’ll be ten minutes or so. Time for coffee. You shall make it for me. Come along, Lynn, it’s raining and I’m getting wet.’
Lynn was by nature a docile girl, and mistrust was alien to her. The habit of obedience was strong in her, and she obeyed him now, getting out of the van and walking into the shop ahead of him.
He closed the door behind them both and pushed the bolt home.
‘Go ahead, my dear, and make the coffee,’ he said.
Slowly, reluctantly, Lynn did as she was told, moving to the lobby at the rear, filling the kettle and plugging it in. It was an automatic one that boiled fast. She heaped instant coffee into two mugs, and put sugar in Ronald’s; he took two spoonfuls.
Ronald came round behind her, watching her. There was milk still left in a bottle on the window ledge and he passed it to her, smiling.
She didn’t like his smile; it was somehow different from his usual one. Best hurry with the coffee-making; then he’d finish whatever he had to do and they’d be on their way home, she decided, willing the kettle to boil.
‘I’ve something to do in the cellar, Lynn. Bring it down, will you?’ he said.
‘Yes.’ That was good; that meant he’d get on with it.
When he’d disappeared downstairs she did, just for a moment, contemplate leaving the shop, running off down the road. But it seemed so stupid. How would she explain when he told her parents what she had done, as he certainly would? And how would she get home? She was forbidden to hitch-hike, and she did not know the times of the buses. She’d get soaked, waiting at the stop, and Uncle Ron would soon find her there.
She went down the cellar stairs, a mug of coffee in each hand, carrying them carefully so that she didn’t spill them, concentrating.
His voice came from behind her when she reached the small room with the desk and the chairs, and the bundle of sacking and cardboard stacked in the corner.
‘Put them down on the desk, Lynn dear,’ she heard him instruct, and she did so.
The cellar door closed and she turned.
He was standing there, smiling, a strange, terrifying sort of smile now, and he held a knife in his hand as he moved towards her.
‘Just a kiss to begin with, Lynn, my dear child,’ he said. ‘Don’t be frightened. Uncle Ron’s never hurt you, has he? It’s you who’ve hurt him, by wanting to leave. Now, we can’t have that, can we? Just a kiss, little Lynn. It’ll all be quite easy, if you do as you’re told.’
She opened her mouth to scream, backing away from him, stopped by the desk behind her.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘No, Uncle Ron,’ on a rising note that became a shriek.
‘Not a sound, my Lynn,’ he warned. ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’
But he must, as he had those others. He struck her across the face, and it silenced her, just as it had the other two women, but this time he hated to do it.
‘Dear little Lynn, it won’t hurt at all. You’ll see. You’ll be happy,’ he said. ‘But no more noise. I won’t stand for that.’
Lynn groped behind her on the desk, without a plan, just reaching for something to help her. A mug of coffee spilled and the hot liquid splashed her hand.
Ronald seized her arm, turning her round as he twisted it up behind her.
‘No, Lynn,’ he said. ‘No tricks. I’m far stronger than you are.’
And he was. He gagged her with a clean white handkerchief which he took out of his pocket, and he tied her arms behind her back with the twine he used for packaging.
Then he tied her legs together and bundled her on to the floor while he prepared their bed of love in the corner.
During Monday afternoon the post-mortem report on Dorothea Wyatt came through. It stated that she had consumed the equivalent of four double gins and tonics, and half a bottle of red wine shortly before her murder. The time of death was between seven-thirty and ten; because of the central heating in the house and the fire in the room where she died, which may have stayed warm all night, the pathologist coul
d not be more precise.
She had left the Plough at half-past seven, according to a number of witnesses; this evidence narrowed down the time when she could have been attacked. She left alone, and presumably went straight home.
According to George Fortescue’s statement, he had been at home all the evening, but there was no witness to the truth of what he said. So far, though, no single shred of evidence had been found to connect him with the killing. If he was guilty, he might break in the end. He would not run away; the police could pick him up at any time.
Cooley had reported what Valerie said about the hand of the man who attacked her, and his report had duly gone on file. It contributed nothing to the investigation; only if a link could be proved between the attacks would it be significant. At the moment Cooley was the only officer who believed the attack on Valerie had even taken place.
Turning over in his mind what he knew about the murders, Cooley saw that, if George Fortescue was not the killer, there was no trace of a lead to anyone else. The forensic evidence might produce one – or there might be another killing.
His thoughts turned towards Valerie. She was a comfortable sort of a girl to be with and she seemed to trust him. She was attractive, too – not stuck up, and not a bit tarty. But to touch her would be disaster. It would be a long time before she would be able to accept, much less respond to anything like that. Yet her nature was warm, he was sure. He sighed a little. Well, he’d keep on seeing her, anyway, even when all this was over, as it must be eventually. He’d no other female who stuck in his mind in quite the same way just now, and she could do with a hand. That Timmy was a cute little guy; he’d had a fine time sailing his boats in the bath the day before. When the weather was better, it would be an idea to take him on the river, in a real boat. With Val too, and Melissa, of course. Val would put up a great picnic, for sure. He could tell she was a good cook of the wholesome sort; that bread of hers was the proof.
Detective Chief Superintendent Brownley had ordered a lot more probing into George Fortescue’s activities and his connection with both the murders in the area; both the women were of a certain age, and a similar background. Other links might be traced, for instance, that Fortescue was acquainted with Mrs Cartwright, though he had declared he had never met her. She had a lover, Hugo Morton; George Fortescue might have been his predecessor and could have killed her from jealousy. Overlapping features in each case might be found. Officers must search in the Manor House garden for traces of fibre which might match the fragment found at Fletcham, thought to be from a piece of tweed. All the reports must be combed for possible links, and there must be conferences between the officers investigating each case. Detective Chief Inspector Hemmings and Detective Inspector Maude must maintain constant touch.
Cooley brooded. George Fortescue and the killer of Felicity Cartwright shared the same blood group. So far no traces of blood which could be that of the murderer of Dorothea Wyatt had been found, though some might be discovered on her clothing. This would indicate whether or not she had scratched her attacker; that large ring she wore, for instance, might do damage.
If the same man killed those two women, he could also be Valerie Turner’s assailant, but in that case George Fortescue was innocent.
Cooley stretched out his own large, well-shaped hand, which Valerie had seemed to admire. True, it was almost hairless, but he had a lot of dark hair on his chest. What would she think about that? She could learn about it gradually, if he took the kids swimming. There’d been a woman who had once seemed to like it quite a lot.
Detective Chief Superintendent Brownley had wanted to know why forensic were being so slow in coming up with any firm evidence from the Fletcham case. They reported that the wool fragments found under Felicity Cartwright’s nails were a match with the dark sweater taken from George Fortescue’s house but, since the wool was of a common variety, a good barrister would make mincemeat of that unless it was supported. What about this second case? What about Fortescue’s Rover? A tiny drop of blood in it – Felicity Cartwright’s, or Dorothea Wyatt’s – would be enough, but it would take time for the laboratory to find it.
And someone else might die first.
George ran through the falling rain, faster than his normal jogging pace. His town shoes were not as comfortable for running in as his plimsolls, and the overcoat he was wearing because his raincoat was with the police was bulky. Luckily he had a spare tweed hat, an old one, but now he had to take it off and carry it, lest it blow away. His bald head, exposed to the weather, felt cold. There was his briefcase, too, a handicap. He must look ridiculous.
He slowed to a walk. There was no pursuit. He put on his hat and walked briskly, eyes looking to the front.
He continued this for some time, passing rows of houses with cars parked outside or garages tight shut, lights behind curtains at most windows. People were living happy lives in these houses, George reflected; men with wives who would be content to have someone coming back to them each night, paying the bills, doing their duty.
Dorothea had been one of those contented wives, until Harry died. She hadn’t wanted to break out, like Angela. Poor Dorothea. No woman deserved such a dreadful death.
He walked on, past a shopping precinct supplying daily needs. It seemed a peaceful area. Then he met a group of boys, all with motorcycles, gathered on a corner near a bus shelter. Some were inside the shelter, seeking cover from the rain, no doubt. The engines of two bikes were revved as George passed. He thought he heard mocking cries. That would be because he was a neat-looking establishment figure. Yet all youngsters weren’t so disrespectful. Daniel, for instance, had been grand through all the recent trouble, and the girl too, despite her strange floating garments and untidy long hair.
Hadn’t he promised to telephone Daniel this evening? If he didn’t, and Daniel called him and got no answer, he’d be anxious.
But the police wanted him.
He’d be allowed to telephone, if they took him in. He was entitled to make one call. He was getting to know the form. They’d find him in the end, for he had nowhere to go; they’d only to send a few cars out looking for him. He’d done no good by running away.
George saw a bus approaching. Its destination was, he read, Middletown. It must pass through Crowbury and would take him home. He hailed it, and because the night was wet the driver, though between stops, slowed down to let him on.
They’d come for him to Orchard House, but George no longer cared.
Cooley had spent much of Monday at the Manor House in Crowbury, helping sift the place for possible clues. The search of the grounds for fragments of fibre must wait until first light on Tuesday, and soon after six Cooley left the manor to return to Tellingford. He had had only a sandwich lunch, and as he approached the Plough in Crowbury High Street he decided to stop for a pint and something to eat. Maybe they did chicken and chips.
He parked outside the pub, got out of his car and locked it. Across the road was the butcher’s shop where Valerie had noticed George Fortescue’s smooth hands. Over there was Nanron Antiques, for whom Valerie worked so hard stripping furniture in her cold garage. There was a light on in the shop, and a small van was parked outside.
Ronald Trimm had been among those in the Plough on Friday evening when Dorothea Wyatt was in the bar. He had left before her, Cooley knew from the reports. He had worked late that evening, normal practice for a Friday, Cooley remembered reading. He was working late tonight, too. He didn’t live above the shop, but in Tellingford. Cooley had never, to his knowledge, met him.
A pint of bitter would go down well, and a ham sandwich, if there was no chicken and chips, would do, thought Cooley, still looking over at the shop. The street lighting was effective and the sign, Nanron Antiques, stood out.
Felicity Cartwright had dealt in antiques.
While his mind was registering this fact, Cooley strolled across the road. He might just glance in at the window of the shop, see the sort of things they sold, besides Valerie’s
furniture. The rain beat down as he approached the shop and he turned his collar up against it.
The blind was down on the door and a sign stated Closed. Cooley could see that the light came from somewhere at the back of the shop, where there must be some sort of second room. There were china ornaments in the window, and a case containing medals. He turned away, and his eye fell on the van. Nanron Antiques was painted on the door.
Cooley walked round it and shone his torch through the rear window. Its light fell on a dry-cleaner’s polythene bag printed with the name of the shop in Tellingford, and a cone-shaped parcel that was obviously flowers. Coming to the front of the van, he looked at the tax disc, which was in order. Then he walked round it again, examining the tyres. It was not a reasoned action, just something he had done automatically before transferring to the CID.
One tyre at the rear was worn rather smooth, smoother than was legal.
Antiques, thought Cooley.
Valerie Turner’s attacker could have known from the cycles in the garage that she had children, but she was connected with antiques. Ronald Trimm, who employed her, might know she sometimes worked at night. He would certainly know that she worked in the garage; would know how to approach it unseen; would be able to open the unlocked door unheard above the noise of the sander, peer in and seize his moment.
Cooley knocked on the door of the shop.
Nothing happened.
He knocked again, loudly, rattling the handle, making quite a noise.
‘Open up,’ he called sharply. ‘Police.’
Everyone in Crowbury knew that the police were active in the village, investigating the murder. Only those with something to hide need fear their probing.
Cooley rattled the door again. There might be another way in at the back, perhaps unlocked. As he thought this there was a movement in the shop, and a voice called, ‘I’m coming.’
The door opened. Cooley saw a middle-aged man with thick greying hair, dressed in a corduroy jacket and a white shirt with a light brown tie. In the light that fell on him from the street lamp outside, his face was a trifle flushed.
Hand of Death Page 21
