Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  After Mrs Morcott had left, I drank tea, had a bath, camouflaged my face as best I could and decided I felt much better. I rang Clare Byfield and she seemed quite happy for me to see Jacky's room.

  ‘It's as she left it,’ she said wistfully. ‘Just as she left it.’

  Later in the day when I saw the room I could see that it was. Neat, clean and as bare as a nun's cell. The bed was covered with a fine patchwork quilt.

  ‘Did Jacky make the quilt?’ I asked Clare as we stood at the door looking in. ‘It's lovely.’

  ‘No, someone gave it to her. I can't remember who. It was some time ago.’

  By the bed was a low mahogany table on which stood a lamp with a tasselled shade. On a lace mat lay an open Bible and by its side an alarm clock – the old-fashioned sort that goes ticktock loudly. I was disconcerted to realise it had been rewound and still ticked and tocked. A large wardrobe, circa pre-World War One, dominated the room, the only other furniture being a chest of drawers and a wicker chair painted cream. Sitting there was an elderly teddy bear. His black eyes seemed to stare at us disapprovingly.

  ‘I'll leave you to look round on your own.’ Clare spoke as if I were a prospective buyer inspecting the house.

  I closed the door when she had gone and as I did so noticed the picture on the wall behind it. ‘The Light of the World'. I wondered why she'd put it where it was hardly visible from the bed. Somehow the picture completed the room. It was an old lady's room. Add a few sepia photos in ornate frames, some laxative tablets and a bottle of aspirins, and it would have been perfect.

  The wardrobe contained a few classic skirts and blouses, mostly in shades of blue and beige, four summer dresses and five pairs of shoes – all polished to perfection. I half expected shoe-trees but there were none. The shoes rested on a pile of magazines, all Ideal Home. The bottom drawers of the chest of drawers contained neatly folded plain cotton underwear. A faint whiff of lavender escaped from the drawers and I shuddered. It reminded me of old ladies, death, in such a sweet smell. The top drawer yielded more of interest – a few letters, a row of pearls, a wrist-watch, a brush and comb set in mother-of-pearl, three or four antique-looking silver spoons – and a diary. There was no make-up, nothing young and frivolous about this room. It was neat and organised to the point of being secretive. And I knew without any doubt I would find nothing of any real value in the diary.

  Downstairs I asked Clare if I could take the diary and the letters to my office.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘The police have already seen them, so why not you.’

  ‘Jacky's room is a bit sparse,’ I said. ‘Was her room always like that?’

  Clare stared at me for a moment and then a soft smile lit her face. ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Once she had a lovely room, with posters and bright colours and loud music blaring out all over the house. She went to pop-concerts and discos and had lots of fun.’ The smile of happy reminiscence left her face abruptly, to be replaced by the tight controlled look of someone unable to face such bittersweet memories.

  ‘When did all that change?’ I asked.

  ‘It changed,’ she said, ‘when Jacky got involved with that weird church. She withdrew into herself, became quiet and introspective. It was about four years ago, when I met Alan. Perhaps she was jealous that I didn't give her so much attention. I don't know. Perhaps it would have happened anyway. All I know is, once religion took a hold, she changed and for the worse. It was like a drug, she had to have a fix – either do-gooding or actually being in church. To be honest, in those last four years she was more like a lodger. We hardly saw each other. Alan was completely ignored. He was an angel, he never complained. Just reassured me that one day she would marry and that she would come to her senses. I clung on to that but it wasn't to be, was it?’

  I was leaving and Clare was just about to close the front door when she said, ‘I've looked everywhere for that pass book. It isn't here. I don't believe she ever had one.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ I said. ‘But I'll make every effort to find it if it does exist.’

  ‘Good,’ she murmured, and then she added, ‘It's sad, isn't it, no one really liked Jacky – except Kevin, I suppose.’

  I nodded before turning away. What could I say?

  Chapter Eleven

  Hubert rang that evening to ask how I was and to give me the news he'd had to suppress all day. His voice sounded high-pitched and excited and he sensed my response was less than enthusiastic.

  ‘Do you want to know what I've found out or not?’ he asked testily.

  ‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘It's the end of the day and I'm just feeling a bit tired, that's all.’

  ‘It can wait till tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Be a sport – tell me now.’

  ‘The PM's been done on Ada Hellidon.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Strange really, they say she was full of Mogadon. That's why she fell down the stairs.’

  ‘You mean the police think she was murdered.’

  ‘Seems like it,’ said Hubert. ‘A bottle of paracetamol had been replaced with the sleeping pills – although the police seem to think she could have done that herself. They are not quite sure how many she took although the stomach contents contained about two. However, she had very high levels in her bloodstream. She could have been drugged for days.’

  Poor old Ada, I thought.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Humberstone. I was just thinking about Ada.’

  ‘There's something else. She was ready for a funeral. An old friend of hers, being buried in Longborough. Only Ada had got the wrong day. Her friend's funeral was the next day.’

  Full of Mogadon, Ada had obviously become confused. I could imagine her struggling through the morning, trying to get herself dressed, trying desperately to keep awake, to concentrate, to keep faith with her dead friend. Probably she had just forgotten to change her shoes. She might have lived if she'd worn shoes with more support.

  ‘So it looks like two murders,’ I said eventually. ‘And I'm not having much luck with one.’

  ‘Give it time,’ Hubert said. ‘Give it time.’

  I'd put the phone down before I realised I hadn't asked if the Mogadons had been prescribed for Ada. If they were, she would either have to go into town to the chemist there, or get someone in the village to go for her. In bed that night, I wished I had both the Mogadons and the paracetamol. My head still ached slightly and I couldn't sleep. Ada had told me something about Jacky and yet I couldn't work out how it fitted in. Someone was missing in Jacky's life and because he was so conspicuously absent, I had failed to realise his importance. I had read through the diary as though I were an MI5 decoder – nothing. Each entry was as dull as a calorie chart. “Bright morning, glad to be off duty. Going into town. Seeing Kevin tonight. Jesus saves.” If there were clues there I was missing them. I found only one puzzling entry, “AA”, at the top of a page. Alcoholics Anonymous seemed unlikely. Knowing Jacky, though, she was probably trying to save a few whisky-drenched souls. I finally slept.

  My black eye was definitely a better shade of mottled in the morning and my headache had completely gone. I decided to go to Short Brampton first, then visit the old girl who lived near Kennie at Leys Court. I might even visit Kennie and show him my eye.

  Frost covered Short Brampton, sifted like icing sugar over rooftops and gardens. There was little sign of life otherwise. I knocked at both sides of Ada's empty house and was about to give up when a thin woman wearing a red jogging suit that drained the colour from her face opened the door about three inches. ‘Yes?’ she said suspiciously.

  This time I thought honesty was the best policy. ‘I'm a private detective on an investigation and I wondered if I might have a few words.’

  ‘Is it a good job?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is being a private detective a good job?’

  ‘Yes, it's okay,’ I said, feeling wary, now that I could see her eyes. I swear
they bulged with desperate interest.

  ‘Do you get abused and attacked physically?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, not so far.’

  ‘Good. You can come in then and we'll have a chat.’

  I followed her along the hallway into the sitting-room. She hadn't tidied up in a long time. Newspapers and magazines lay as thick as dust. And you could actually see dust. Unwashed cups and saucers decorated every available shelf and had even crept underneath the coffee table, which itself was covered with magazines, papers, and empty chocolate wrappers. Half-written letters lying on the sofa she scooped up and threw on to an overflowing waste-bin.

  ‘Find a seat,’ she said. ‘I know it's a mess. I'm off sick with depression. I've been off for weeks now. I don't care any more. I'm a teacher, well, an ex-teacher now.’

  I lifted a magazine and a ball of knitting wool and sat down on the sofa. I had a strong feeling this interview was not going to run an easy course. Strange, that in all the detective novels I'd ever read the interviewee always keeps to the point with only minor deviations. In real life people want to talk out their problems, seeing life only as it affects them. Murder is still a rarity and for most people it's of interest because they can feel not only a vicarious fear but relief, too. Perhaps some feel envious that murder has removed for the victim the effort of worrying about their own death.

  ‘I'm Gwenda Carey, by the way,’ Ada's neighbour was saying. ‘I teach at Longborough Comp. Well, I used to. It just got too much for me. You've no idea how awful teaching is. Really awful, especially these days. And the kids! My last day of trying to play sane, this girl brought in a suitcase of clothes, opened it in the classroom and started to hold up various bits and pieces – as if it was an auction. For God's sake, it was an auction! They all started bidding. I asked her to stop, quite nicely, calmly. I didn't let myself get rattled. I suggested she could sell her clothes when the lesson ended. She stared at me for a moment and then said, “You fucking old cow. What you need is a good screw.” I could take the abuse – I'm used to it. But she wouldn't stop. She sold all her stuff. I just stood there. I tried shouting, threatening them. Nothing worked. Then I just found myself standing there, tears pouring down my face. I was still standing there when break was over, like a statue but still crying. The deputy head brought me home. That was two months ago. I haven't left the house since. I've been applying for jobs; trouble is, I never finish the letters …’ She paused, looking at me carefully as if suddenly realising I was there and I was a guest. ‘Would you like a drink – vodka, scotch?’

  ‘It's a bit early for me. I'd love a coffee with a tot, though.’

  She left the room, looking back at me once, as if to make sure I was still firmly in place. The coffee took much banging of cupboard doors and clattering and general sounds of confusion, but eventually she reappeared with a tray and she set it before me by sweeping off the paper debris from the coffee table on to the floor in one continuous motion. It wasn't done for effect; I could tell that. It was just less effort. The plastic tray's flowers were covered in old stains and the coffee had slopped into the saucers. A bottle of whisky stood in the middle of the tray.

  ‘I'm a born-again drinker,’ she said, smiling at her own joke. ‘I've taken to it like the proverbial duck. Oh, fuck the duck. You were going to tell me about your job. Could I do it?’

  ‘I'm sure you could,’ I said. And as I spoke I could see her eyes glimmering with frantic hope. A desperate sort of madness. I would have to keep hold of her self-interest if I wanted to find out anything about Ada's last days. ‘I'll give you a hypothetical question and you see if you can glean any more info on it or give me a new angle.’

  ‘Fire away, I like puzzles,’ Gwenda said with her hands cupping her face and leaning forward slightly.

  ‘An old lady dies after falling downstairs, seemingly an accident; she's dressed for a funeral. She lives alone, is a little eccentric and lonely but otherwise in average health for her age. She has few visitors but would probably invite anyone in. She has a tenuous link with a much younger neighbour who was murdered three months before. The post-mortem reveals she has been taking sleeping pills from a paracetamol bottle. I suppose you could say she was either committing suicide at a snail's pace or being murdered, equally slowly, by an optimist …’ I paused. ‘How would you begin to deal with that?’

  She stared at the floor for several seconds and then grinned at me without humour. ‘I'd interview the neighbours, first of all. The police did interview me. I told them I saw nothing. Why should I tell them I spend my day watching from my windows? It was all right for Ada, she was old. It's acceptable in the old. I'm still young. I'm only thirty-six. I'm divorced, you know. Three years. He ran off with a shop assistant. Cheerful little thing, made a change from me; I was just practising for misery then. I've perfected it now. Chocolate and vodka, what more could anyone want? I could get better, you know, if I had a job like you.’

  ‘Did you talk to Ada?’ I asked, trying to keep her on track.

  Gwenda looked down at her hands and began to stroke them lovingly. After a while she looked up. ‘Talk to Ada. Yes, I talked to Ada. Sometimes I invited her in for a drink; she liked sherry, large glasses of it. She was kind to me. Sometimes she helped me to tidy up. She had a lot of arthritic pains but that didn't stop her doing things. Occasionally I went next door to her. She missed having the district nurses but she did have one nurse who came to see her now and again. I think she came the day before Ada died but I didn't actually see her.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘I don't know. I'm not always watching at the windows. Anyway, she always came along the path at the back. I'm usually at the front of the house. But I used to hear her.’

  ‘Going in the back door, you mean?’

  ‘No. I used to hear the wheels of her bike. She always came on her bike.’

  ‘Did you tell the police about her?’ I asked.

  Gwenda frowned angrily. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I did not tell them. I've already said. I didn't want them to think I was some sort of window-watching moron. Anyway I've only ever seen her from the back view. She was cycling away in the pouring rain. I couldn't tell you what she looks like. I do know that Ada didn't like her very much.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  She smiled then, slowly with a hint of malice or delight, I wasn't sure which. ‘I'm helping you, aren't I? You didn't know about this woman before, did you?’

  I agreed that I didn't.

  ‘Good. You'll be one up on the police, won't you? Have a drink, I'm going to have another one.’

  I declined. ‘I'm driving. Do you know this visitor's name?’ I asked as casually as I could.

  Gwenda didn't answer at first; she pulled out a vodka bottle from behind a cushion and poured some into a used coffee cup. Then she took a large gulp. ‘Never told me her name. Just called her “my friend”.’

  ‘But she didn't like her?’ I pressed.

  ‘I told you that. No, she didn't like her. I think this woman had even offered her a home. Ada had laughed at the suggestion. “She'd kill me with kindness,” she said.’ Gwenda paused then, realisation flooding her face. ‘Oh, my God … You don't think that she did, do you?’

  ‘I really don't know, but it is a possibility. What I do need to discover is what happened about the tablets. Was Ada ever confused about what she had to take?’

  ‘No, I don't think so. I knew she took paracetamol quite often. “Helps to get me moving in the morning,” she used to say. As the day went on she eased up. And I knew she took sleeping pills because one evening she knocked on the door with one in her hand and asked me to check that there was “5” printed on the tablet. It looked like a paracetamol but it did have “5” on it. She couldn't see too well and I did tell her to be careful.’

  She gulped again on the vodka. ‘It wasn't my fault, you know. That was a few days before she died. I could see she wasn't well and I did tell her to see the doctor but she t
hought all doctors were suspect, especially that lot at the Health Centre. Really it wasn't my fault … You won't tell anyone, will you, not the police or anyone.’ Her voice tailed off miserably.

  ‘Please don't worry,’ I said. ‘You've really been a great help. And in my job I have to rely on other people all the time. I use my discretion and I certainly wouldn't break a confidence, especially of people who have nothing to do with the crime. It's up to me to pick up on the things people don't tell the police.’

  Gwenda Carey began to cry then, silent, unwrenching tears that simply flowed. I handed her a tissue from my pocket, put an arm round her and said, ‘Why didn't you tell the police?’

  Eventually she wiped her eyes and her face. ‘He reminded me of a boy at school. This boy was six foot tall, handsome, he never cheeked me or answered me back but there was something about him, something that scared me and the CID man was like him … just like him.’

  ‘I understand. You've told me now. So with any luck I'll be able to find this woman and if she had anything to do with Ada's death I'll get the evidence and pass it on to the police.’

  ‘How will you get evidence? Fingerprints, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Criminals aren't always so helpful. Fingerprints and fibres are the stuff dreams are made of. Forensic science is good PR material, makes the public feel less vulnerable. In reality it's talking to people that really counts, talking and listening. It's harder than it looks. Words can trap criminals just as solidly as fingerprints …’ I tailed off. ‘At least that's the theory.’

  I said all this with a confidence about as steady as a sapling on a windy day. But I liked to think Gwenda was convinced I knew what I was doing.