Clare mentioned Ada first. ‘Poor Mrs Hellidon. That came as quite a shock. She always seemed reasonably fit. I didn't like her much but I certainly didn't wish her any harm. Do they think she had a stroke or something?’
‘A fall, it seems. One thing puzzles me about her death, though.’
‘What's that?’
‘She was all ready for the funeral and yet one of her neighbours said she hadn't been invited.’
Clare glanced away. ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she asked, her eyes fixing on the filter machine as though willing it to spring to life. I accepted. The coffee-making seemed a clumsy affair, Clare's nervousness apparent in every gesture she made. Cups clattered loudly into saucers, cream trickled down the side of the jug and dripped on to the tray.
‘Oh, dear,’ said Clare. ‘I find it so hard to concentrate these days. Look at the mess I've made.’
‘Please sit down, Mrs Byfield,’ I said. ‘I really don't want to keep you too long.’
The implied threat seemed to work. She sat, expectant, still nervous.
‘Is it true Mrs Hellidon wasn't invited to the funeral?’ I asked.
‘Quite true. I really detested that woman. She was an interfering, gossipy old harridan. Not the sort of person I wanted at my daughter's funeral.’
‘Could anyone else have invited her?’
Clare sniffed delicately. ‘No one! My sister certainly wouldn't have. She disliked her, too.’
‘Fine. That's all I wanted to establish,’ I said, trying to sound encouragingly satisfied. ‘Now, though, I'd like to ask you a few personal questions about Jacky. Do you feel up to coping with that at the moment?’
‘Oh, yes. I'd like to get everything sorted out, once and for all. What do you want to know about my daughter?’
‘I'd like to know exactly how much money Jacky had in her bank account. I have reason to believe she was quite well off.’
For a moment there was silence, a silence in which Clare stared at me in pained disbelief. Then she laughed, without humour. ‘Don't be so ridiculous,’ she said. ‘All Jacky ever had was her salary. Admittedly she had a very careful attitude towards money, but she certainly wasn't well off and it's ludicrous to suggest she was.’
‘You'd have no objection, then, to my seeing her bank statements.’
‘No, of course not. Although there are no recent ones. I had a massive sort-out some weeks ago.’
‘Is her bank account closed?’
‘Not yet. I have to wait for the Letters of Administration, so my solicitor tells me. Everything takes so long in a case like this, doesn't it? I'm going to see my solicitor, Mr Harlstone, today; perhaps you'd like to come with me?’
‘On Saturday?’ I queried.
She nodded. ‘Longborough is quite progressive in some ways, you know. Harlstones keeps open on Saturday morning because the estate agents are open.’
Clare Byfield then gave me a quick head to foot glance, as if to check my presentability for the local solicitor, and managed to make me feel about as welcome as a parasitic worm. It seemed to me Jacky had probably felt that way too.
She left a note for Alan with love and kisses almost jumping off the page, and I drove into Longborough and parked outside the discreet office of Harlstone, Harlstone and Firs.
Inside, the receptionist, a middle-aged lady, sat stiffly at a desk and enquired equally stiffly, ‘Are you expected?’
Clare nodded.
‘Mr Harlstone senior or junior?’
‘Senior,’ replied Clare, forcing a smile.
After about ten minutes Mr Harlstone senior came out to greet us as if his receptionist had summoned him by thought alone.
‘Dear lady,’ he said, advancing on Clare and shaking her hand. He was tall but with a slight stoop and thin floppy white hair and glasses on a piece of elastic dangling on his chest.
‘Dear lady,’ he said again.
Clare introduced me briefly and he smiled and guided us through to his office.
‘Do sit down, ladies,’ he said, indicating what could only be described as a bench to sit on, just like one of those brown forms I remembered from school PE.
We sat awkwardly close to each other, upright and alert, whilst Mr Harlstone moved great piles of pale blue and dusty beige folders to either side of his large desk so that he could see us properly. He sat down on a high winged leather chair and fixed his glasses on the end of his nose.
‘Now, then,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
I realised then that he didn't have a clue as to who we were or why we'd come.
Clare explained our mission and after a lot of searching and opening and closing of folders he mumbled, ‘Ah, yes – young Jacky. I do have the Letters of Administration. She didn't make a will, unfortunately. Everyone should make a will. I tried hard, I can assure you, to persuade her to make a will but she remained very stubbornly opposed.’
‘Surely,’ I said, ‘she didn't have that much of an estate to worry about.’
Mr Harlstone stared at me sternly for a few seconds. ‘Her current bank account was in a fairly healthy state, about four thousand pounds and of course there was her insurance policy and …’ He paused, his eyes flickering over us as though he was uncomfortable or had something uncomfortable to tell us. ‘And …’ he continued, ‘and she did intimate to me that she had a large sum in a London bank – quite a large sum.’
‘How much?’ asked Clare sharply.
‘I did say she only intimated, she wasn't exactly direct but I got the impression she had a deposit bank account under a false name – for about twenty-five thousand pounds. That was, of course, when I suggested she made a will …’
‘Impossible!’ said Clare angrily. ‘How on earth did she get that sort of money?’
Mr Harlstone shrugged. ‘It may not be true,’ he said. Clare had edged forward on the bench and was rubbing her knees in anxious thought.
‘Have the police found out where the money is?’ I asked.
‘Ah … well … unfortunately I forgot at the time. My son was away ill and I was very busy and you know how it is … Anno domini and all that …’
‘So they don't know?’
‘Sadly not,’ said Mr Harlstone, shaking his head.
‘Will I get the money?’ asked Clare, rapidly getting over her shock.
‘If there are no other claimants. For the current account that is. As for the other account …’
‘What do you mean – other claimants – I'm her mother.’
‘Her father still lives, though, and he is entitled to a half-share.’
Clare's mouth opened silently and then closed again. Her face had paled and she swept her hands nervously through her hair.
‘About the account in the false name?’ I asked. ‘How do we find out about that?’
‘Now that could be difficult,’ answered Mr Harlstone. ‘If not impossible, unless you have the pass book. Without that, there is no way of knowing what name she used. The money could just sit there … if it really exists.’
It existed, I felt sure. But where the hell was the pass book?
Chapter Eight
‘You've had two phone calls this morning,’ said Hubert as I arrived at Humberstones. His tone was accusatory. He stood by the office door gazing in.
‘You can come in,’ I said. ‘I'm going to open a bottle of whisky.’
I thought he looked disapproving but he walked in and sat down eagerly in the armchair. He even managed a smile. ‘You cracked it yet?’ he asked as I opened the bottle.
‘Here's your whisky and don't upset me.’
For a moment he swirled his drink and stared into its depths.
‘Are you going to tell me or shall I go?’ he said, without even tasting my whisky. Hubert either knew something I didn't or thought he did. His tone was so crisply defiant that I decided that, along with the reflexology course, he was probably taking assertiveness training. I drank half my whisky.
‘Not much to report really, M
r Humberstone – except that it seems Jacky may have mysteriously amassed twenty-five thousand pounds. And no one seems to know where it came from, least of all her mother.’
Silence from Hubert. Not a flicker of surprise crossed his face. ‘You knew, didn't you?’
‘Guessed. Don't forget I knew Ada Hellidon. She was a shrewd old girl,’ Hubert said, as he raised his glass and drank his whisky in one brave gulp.
‘How did Jacky make that sort of money? That's what I keep asking myself. And where did she keep her pass book? No doubt the police and her mother have searched the house from top to bottom and if it wasn't in the house—’
‘Maybe,’ interrupted Hubert, ‘Maybe.’
‘You're not being very encouraging. I was hoping the money angle might lead somewhere.’
‘I've heard a rumour,’ said Hubert. ‘About a suspect.’
‘Murder suspect?’
‘Yes. The police are going to make an arrest soon. They seem to think a peeping Tom called Kennie Litchborough killed Jacky.’
‘Have they any evidence?’
‘I've only heard they're expecting him to confess. It seems he's admitted to hanging round the hospital hoping to catch a glimpse of nurses' uniforms and that's all.’
Suddenly I felt a glimmer of optimism. Perhaps the police had got the wrong angle – not a suspect, more an observant informer. Someone who had perhaps seen or heard more than he realised. ‘Do you know where he lives?’
Hubert smiled and I noticed that his skin had improved, and he definitely looked happier and healthier. ‘He lives in one of the houses at the back of the hospital, 2 Leys Court, with his mother. She used to be a prostitute.’
‘I didn't realise there were houses at the back of the hospital.’ ‘Small estate, used to house some of the staff when the hospital was big and thriving.’
I poured us both another whisky. ‘Mr Humberstone,’ I said, ‘you are not only a fund of knowledge, you're also quite a fascinating person. My ambition in life is to marry you off.’
‘Too late,’ he said.
I raised an eyebrow and was about to go into my ‘it's never too late' routine when Hubert said, ‘I'm already married. I've been married for twenty years. Mind you, we only lived together for a year. Then she found out. She accused me of love at first foot, said I was perverted and she'd make sure I'd suffer financially for the rest of my life.’
‘And you have?’
‘Oh, yes. But there's never been anyone else for either of us. I don't mind keeping her. I see her once a week, we have a drink and a chat, I slip her some money and then I look forward to seeing her again the next week.’
The whisky made everything particularly poignant and I had to force myself not to think of Hubert and his doomed love, in case my judgment became clouded and in my imagination Hubert became Heathcliffe and hearses became horses.
‘Are you all right?’ asked Hubert.
‘Fine, fine. Just drank the whisky too fast. I'll be off to see Kennie Litch …’
‘Litchborough.’
‘That's him.’
‘I'll call you a taxi,’ said Hubert. ‘And just you take care. He could be the murderer, you know. Not all perverts are harmless.’
‘I'll bear that in mind. And, by the way, who phoned this morning?’
‘Jacky's aunt and Kevin Stirling. He wants you to ring him back.’ Hubert rang for a taxi and I resolved to drink more slowly in the future.
On the way to Kennie's house I began to wonder why Kevin had phoned me. Not to confess, surely? Although he struck me as the type who would think it necessary to confess to the most trivial of sins, would he simply deny, even to himself, a serious crime, like murder?
The Litchborough home backed on to open fields but the front looked towards the hospital grounds. A woman in late middle age opened the door. She wore blood-red lipstick, blue eye-shadow and a gold chain around her ankle. I got the impression she was still gainfully employed.
‘I'm from Action for Victims of Wrongful Arrest, that's AVWA for short. I'm from the Sexual Division,’ I said, smiling sympathetically and flashing my UKCC card with self-attached passport-size photo.
‘Come on in, dear,’ she said unhesitatingly. ‘We have been having a few problems lately. You sit down and I'll make us a nice cup of tea.’
The house smelt of stale cigarettes and disinfectant; a switchedon, but silent colour television sat in one corner, with a brown and white striped settee a mere four feet or so from the screen. I sat down on the settee next to a sleeping tan-coloured mongrel.
A sleeping male slumped in the only other chair. I presumed he was Kennie, knackered after a night's peeping Tommery.
‘That's it, dear, you make friends with the dog,’ said my hostess as she carried in the tea on a tin tray. ‘He doesn't like many people, especially the police. Here's your tea and a biscuit to go with it.’
‘You're Kennie's mum, I take it,’ I said as I struggled to accept the tea and avoid the dog who was now awake and snuffling at me most suggestively.
‘I'm his mum all right. He's been a trouble to me all his life, I can tell you. Ever since he was about four. At first I thought it was a joke, sort of childish nonsense but it didn't stop. Believe you me, I went everywhere with that boy. Most of the doctors we saw said he'd grow out of it, in time. That's a joke, he's twentysix now. Not going to change now, is he? He's harmless, though, completely harmless.’
‘What exactly does he do, Mrs Litchborough?’ I asked in a whisper.
For a moment she stared at me. ‘You call me Renée, dear, I'm not married. Isn't your hair a lovely colour, so curly as well. Mine's always been straight. Have to have it permed every few months. Now then, dear, you wanted to know about Kennie. Well, first off, he's not all that bright. I don't think he knows what he's doing. Exposes himself, see. To young girls mostly but especially in uniform, nurse's uniform, school uniform. He likes uniforms. And watching, of course. Seems to turn him on. I try to keep him in, but I have to work, don't I?’
I nodded. Kennie began to stir.
‘He's a lazy git,’ said his mother fondly. ‘Has to take these pills to calm him, which is why he's always sleepy. Come on, Kennie, wake up. This lady here is going to help you get off.’
Kennie seemed to wake immediately, primed to be on the defensive. ‘I didn't do nothing. I didn't do nothing. And I didn't see nothing.’ Kennie's round childlike face screwed up in anguish and his voice grew higher and higher. His skin, the colour of semolina, showed two red blobs high on his cheeks – the jam in a plate of milk pudding.
‘Calm down, Kennie, I only want to help you,’ I explained. ‘I'm sure you haven't done anything bad. I only want to find out if you saw anyone else doing bad things.’
There was silence for a moment while Kennie looked from me to his mother.
‘You answer the lady's questions. She's trying to help you. She's not going to ask you to sign any confessions either. So just speak up and be sensible.’
‘Have the police asked you to sign a statement?’
Kennie nodded. ‘I can't read though, but I haven't told them that yet. But I can write my name.’ He grinned slyly.
‘Tell me about the hospital grounds, Kennie, and who you see there at night.’
He thought for a moment, looking worried. His mother lit a cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. His eyes followed them.
‘Kennie, try and remember – is there someone you like specially at the hospital? A nurse?’
Eventually he said, ‘Yeah. I like the uniforms.’
I sighed inwardly, trying to be patient. ‘Kennie,’ I said, ‘when you leave here to walk to the hospital – what do you do next?’
‘I stand by the entrance behind the bushes and watch the nurses coming and going. Then I walk around a bit and wait.’
‘For what?’
‘For when they come out again.’
‘You mean you wait there all night?’
‘No. Not all night. I watch the
m. Sometimes the nurses go to other wards.’
‘And did you see Jacky Byfield the night she died?’
Kennie's eyes flickered with fear and he looked towards his mother pleadingly, ‘Mum,’ he said, ‘what do I say?’
‘I've told you. Just tell the bleeding truth or I'll clip your ear. I told you he wasn't all there,’ she said. ‘He'd need to have his wits about him to get away with murder – wouldn't he?’
I nodded in agreement. ‘Come on, Kennie,’ I said. ‘What did you see that night?’
He looked at the floor and began to mumble. ‘I saw her leave the ward, she was carrying something. She was going to another ward. I followed her. I waited outside the ward and when she came out I followed her again.’
‘Was she wearing a cloak?’
‘No. Just her dress. She went into the main building. The next time I saw her she was lying on the ground. I ran away. I was scared. I didn't touch her or anything.’
‘That's good, Kennie. You're being very helpful. There's only one thing I don't understand. Why didn't you wait for her to come out of the main building?’
He looked up, and seemed less worried now. ‘I did wait for a bit, but then I saw someone else going towards the porter's place. And I followed her.’
‘Was the person you followed a nurse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know her name?’
‘No.’
‘Would you know her again?’
‘Not sure. I only saw her from the back. She was wearing a cloak.’
‘What were they doing in the porter's lodge – could you see?’
‘I looked, but the curtain was pulled.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘I'm not saying. I'm not saying any more. It's none of your business. I didn't hurt anyone.’ Kennie's voice rose hysterically and he began to tremble. I could see beads of sweat appear on his forehead and his face paled alarmingly.
‘Now then, Kennie, don't get in one of your states. You'll only start off an attack.’ Renée walked over to him and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘He's asthmatic, gets ever so bad when he's upset,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should go now.’
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