Deadly Errand

by Christine Green

  ‘From the church, instead of Jacky,’ I replied as I sat in the high-backed chair opposite her.

  Mrs Tonbridge stared at me for a moment and I felt conscious I probably didn't look the part in my red and black skirt and makeup and costume jewellery.

  ‘Jacky was a nice girl,’ she said, her whiny voice hinting that perhaps I wasn't. ‘I went to the funeral. Lovely service. Nothing was too much trouble for that girl, she had lovely manners too. Always took an interest in old people. Not like most young people nowadays.’

  I nodded. ‘Is there anything you'd like me to do?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I'm trying to think what Jacky used to do. Sometimes she went on errands for me, to the shops. She'd go straight after work. Not like Margaret. All she wants to do is go straight to bed. She's got no go in her. Now Jacky, she was full of energy. And she was always willing. Margaret didn't know how lucky she was. Didn't appreciate how lucky we were to have Jacky. When Margaret wanted to go out Jacky would stay with me. Mind you, Margaret does take me to church. Not that she comes inside, she leaves me in my wheelchair just inside the door. She doesn't hold with religion. She goes off for a walk or sits in the car. Probably goes to sleep – she's always complaining she's tired. I'm nearly eighty and I don't complain I'm tired.’

  ‘How often did Jacky come?’

  ‘Every two weeks, more sometimes. We were always glad to see her. Margaret doesn't have many friends, she's very reserved, likes to keep herself to herself. Never been much for boyfriends either. The ones she did bring home when she was young were scruffy and no good. I said to her, “Margaret, you'll be better off with me than with a lazy good-for-nothing man.” Anyway she took my advice. She couldn't have coped with children, she hasn't got the patience. Now poor Jacky would have made a lovely mother, she had lots of patience. And she had good taste.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly – good taste?’

  Mrs Tonbridge looked round the room, her eyes resting admiringly over the spotless but old-fashioned decor. The chairs with antimacassars, the oak table with a potted fern resting on a crocheted runner, a glass cabinet full of neatly arranged crockery. My eyes followed hers.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ I said, feeling like a real creep. ‘Jacky appreciated it. She was always admiring my lovely things. I gave her one or two presents over the years. Just little things. She offered to buy them, of course, but I wouldn't hear of it. You can't take it with you, can you?’

  I agreed that you couldn't.

  ‘Will you stay for something to eat? I wake Margaret up about twelve and she cooks and we eat at one. If I don't wake her she'd sleep all day and it's bad enough when I'm on my own at night. It's terrible being old. I just pray I'll be with the Lord in paradise soon, although I don't know what Margaret would do without me.’

  Start to live, I thought, but I smiled, asked if there was anything I could do for her and got up to leave.v ‘Well, I have enjoyed your visit,’ she said. ‘Perhaps next time when you come Margaret will be up. Not that she talks much. Mostly just sits and sews.’

  Mrs Tonbridge followed me slowly to the door, rested on her Zimmer frame for a moment and then waved me goodbye. I forced a farewell smile and a wave. The Tonbridge house had felt oppressive; discontent hung in the air as strongly as if it were the smell of fresh paint. Margaret had all my sympathy. In keeping with her whiny voice, Mrs Tonbridge had the taut downturned mouth and pinched expression of a person who rarely laughed, and who had been rarely satisfied. Jacky had flattered her, had no doubt talked about the joys of everlasting life. Encouraged her to believe that God handed out compensation as surely as an insurance company and that she would be one of the few to benefit. Margaret, on the other hand, merely slaved in this life without hope and with a lot of criticism.

  As I drove along the High Street I saw Hubert going into the Swan. I pulled into the forecourt and then had misgivings. He could be meeting someone, his wife perhaps? I peered cautiously round the door, not wanting to intrude, but he was alone. The pub was empty and he sat in one of the booths staring into a full pint with the air of a man who'd lost yet another funeral to the Co-op.

  ‘Mr Humberstone,’ I said, ‘just the person I wanted to see.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘I'll get you a drink,’ he said and in his haste to get to the bar his beer spilt on the table. He shrugged, as though one more blow in life's struggle wouldn't make any difference. By the time he bought my drink I'd mopped up the table.

  ‘My wife's met someone else,’ he said and he looked about to cry.

  What could I say? From then on I just kept buying him strong ale, while I sipped shandies wishing I could talk about the case.

  After four pints he began to verge on the maudlin. ‘Why don't you call me Hubert?’ he said. ‘That's my name. No one calls me Hubert any more. My wife, she's the only one to call me Hubert and she's found herself a toy-boy. Well, he's over forty but he's younger than me.’

  I sympathised and bought yet another round.

  ‘Hubert,’ I said, ‘try to concentrate. I'm making headway with the investigation.’

  He gave me a beery smile in return for calling him Hubert. ‘So who dun it?’

  ‘I'm not quite that far advanced but I think I know how Jacky made her money.’

  Hubert propped his head up with one hand and made an obvious effort to listen.

  ‘Jacky may have made her money with antiques, admiring the most valuable pieces in old ladies' homes and gradually being told, “You keep it, dear, if it means so much to you.” Then she sold them to antique shops or maybe to only one shop.’

  ‘Who killed her, then? Not one of the old ladies. They didn't rise up out of their graves, did they?’

  Hubert's tone had changed, from the maudlin to the aggressive. It was time to leave. I appealed to his sense of chivalry by suggesting I was more drunk than him.

  ‘I'll take you back to the office, my duck,’ he said. ‘You lean on me and we'll be there in no time.’

  I took his arm and together we walked down the High Street, shoppers having to stand aside for us. Halfway to the office Hubert began to sing, ‘If you were the only girl in the world'. He sounded as if he were choking. Brazen it out, I told myself as I joined in.

  Once we were back at Humberstones, Hubert had reached the dizzy, silent stage and I handed him over to the receptionist.

  ‘He can't drink much, can he?’ I said.

  ‘It's not like him. He's a two-pint man at most,’ she said, taking his arm and helping his slump into a chair.

  ‘He was led astray. He fell into bad company.’

  ‘Don't you worry, dear,’ she said. ‘I'll look after him.’

  My telephone was ringing as I started up the stairs so I managed to run up two at a time and picked up the receiver sounding as though I'd just run a marathon.

  ‘Are you okay? You're not ill, are you?’

  At first I thought Pauline Berkerly was genuinely concerned. Then all became clear. St Dymphna's needed a staff nurse on Harper Ward – tonight. She was sorry it was such short notice but would I?

  Of course I would.

  But first I had to see Adam Angel about his antiques. I found the shop in a back street on the outskirts of Longborough. I walked there, my car still being in the Swan's forecourt. I'd drunk too many shandies to risk driving. The shop, in a row of terraced houses, had once been just a front room; now, it had the quiet elegance of a thriving antiques business. Through the window I could see a middle-aged man flicking a feather duster over his treasures. He obviously didn't specialise, for crammed into the ex-front room were grandfather clocks, tables, chests of drawers and, on all surfaces, plates, saucers, porcelain figures, silverware. The walls were decorated with paintings and miniatures and apart from the man and his wares the shop was empty.

  He smiled as I walked in. ‘Good afternoon,’ he called. ‘Looking for anything special?’

  I shook my head. ‘Just browsing.’

  The shop smelt of lavender polish a
nd coffee and the clocks ticked away in resonant accord and I was mesmerised by the peace. The room contained so many lives. Ex-lives mostly, I reminded myself. Lives probably dominated by the ticking of clocks and the chimes of the hour. One clock in particular interested me. A plain-faced grandfather that I thought I had seen before, but that had stood silent. I just couldn't remember where.

  My browsing had become embarrassingly long and the owner had begun to watch me. He was a short, thin man, in his fifties I supposed, with gold-rimmed glasses, unusually heavy eyebrows and wearing a grey pinstripe suit. He would have looked more at home in a jeweller's. He had given up dusting and was now sitting at a child's desk sorting through a stack of papers. He looked up as I approached.

  ‘I'm looking for a chamber-pot,’ I said.

  ‘Very popular choice at the moment, madam. They make a wonderful setting for plants. I've only got one in stock and it's not in perfect condition. I'll fetch it for you.’ He disappeared into a back room and returned in seconds with a grimly dark green pot with a broken handle.

  ‘Lovely glaze on this one,’ he said, caressing it with as much finesse as if it had been a woman's rump.

  ‘I was really looking for a … more floral one.’

  ‘This one's a bargain at a hundred pounds. I really don't get many in. Snapped up by Americans usually. You could decorate it yourself, of course.’

  Of course. Why didn't I think of that!

  ‘I did have a particular one in mind. A friend of mine brought one in recently. You paid her fifty pounds for it. I wanted to buy it back as a keepsake.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘And it wasn't this one?’

  ‘No, hers was floral.’

  ‘I'll check the incoming book. The name?’

  ‘Ada Hellidon.’

  As he began checking through a large bound ledger I managed to look over his shoulder.

  ‘I'm surprised Jacky didn't bring you a few things in.’

  ‘She did,’ he said and in that instant he knew he'd been trapped. His mouth tightened and paled at the corners.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded. ‘How did you know Jacky?’ ‘I'm a private detective investigating Jacky Byfield's death. And you, I presume, are her father?’

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was a guess of course. But the slight tremble of his hands on the ledger and blinking of his eyes convinced me that he was indeed Jacky's father.

  He closed the ledger and sighed. ‘How did you find me?’ he said. ‘Jacky swore never to tell a soul.’

  ‘I wasn't looking for you. You were noticeable by your absence. And you do look rather like Jacky – especially around the eyes and brows.’

  ‘Oh, God! My wife doesn't know about me, does she?’ I could see the muscles of his jaw twitch in agitation and at that moment a customer came in.

  ‘Go into the back room,’ he murmured. ‘We can talk in there. I'll deal with the customer.’

  I sat on a rocking chair in the storeroom cum kitchen, and waited and thought out the questions I needed to ask him. I needn't have bothered, for when he came back he launched into an explanation after getting me to promise I wouldn't tell Clare that he was in the area.

  ‘But surely you're taking a risk that you'd pass each other in the street or that she'd come into the shop?’

  ‘That's a risk I have to take,’ he said. ‘In the antiques game it pays to move around. This shop came up for sale and business is good so I've stayed for a while. I've had businesses all over the country. Jacky came across me in the Cotswolds about four and a half years ago. She was on holiday and we recognised each other. I was as pleased to see her as she was to see me, and she promised not to tell anyone we'd met. After that, we kept in touch, usually by phone. And when I worked nearby she'd come and see me. Then she became a born-again Christian, involved in all sorts, but we still managed to meet up. I'm an atheist so I suppose I was a bit of a challenge—’

  ‘And the antiques,’ I interrupted. ‘She gave you some to sell.’ He frowned. ‘She didn't give me them. I paid her a good price, over the top mostly. Guilt, I suppose. She'd paid for them anyway, so we weren't making a great deal of profit. Usually she brought me small bits and pieces, snuff boxes, a few nice plates, porcelain, the odd picture.’

  I signalled with my head towards the shop. ‘And the grandfather clock, second on the left?’

  ‘The plain one?’

  ‘That's the one.’

  ‘Came from an old lady around here. Jacky told me she had a few larger pieces she wanted to sell. A Miss Holcot, I think. I can always check.’

  ‘Did you pay Miss Holcot direct?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, no,’ he replied. ‘Strange that, she said to give the money to Jacky. I gave Jacky something for her trouble of course. It was good stuff. Only the clock left to sell now.’

  ‘Over the past few years, then, Jacky provided you with quite a fair stock of antiques?’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘But what's wrong with that? You're not … you're not trying to say that I had anything to do with her death, are you? I couldn't … I mean I wasn't a good father, I know, but I was fond of her. I wouldn't have hurt her.’

  ‘Relax, Mr – it isn't still Byfield, is it? But I don't think you had any connection with your daughter's murder.’

  He sighed with obvious relief, removed his glasses and wiped a hand over his face. ‘No. It's Angel now. I changed it by deed poll. It goes well with antiques. I thought it had a ring to it.’

  ‘There's no other reason for the change of name, then?’

  ‘If you must know,’ he said, peering at me with his now naked eyes. ‘If you must know, I wanted a new identity – Clare has been after me for maintenance for years and years. I didn't want children. I hate children. Why should I pay for something I didn't want? I got out and I wanted to stay out. I wasn't going to give her a penny. So I changed my name, my appearance, my job and I never looked back. And I never remarried. Jacky recognising me was a shock I can tell you. Coming here was chancy but Jacky found me these premises and she was self-supporting so I came. It was our little secret. She liked secrets. She was the secretive sort.’

  ‘She was indeed,’ I said. ‘So much so that she'd managed to take you for a ride.’

  ‘What's that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Jacky never bought those antiques. She was given them. She may even have stolen them, I don't know. But you paid her for them, fenced for her if you like. And you must have paid her well, because in her deposit account she had twenty-five thousand pounds. In fact you paid for them twice. It must have knocked your profits somewhat.’

  I'd expected some kind of angry reaction but instead he smiled. ‘Who'd have believed it?’ he said. ‘Crafty little bitch. She was a chip off the old block after all. And I thought she was …’

  ‘An angel.’

  ‘Very funny,’ he said, not in the least amused.

  ‘You haven't asked yet who could have murdered Jacky?’ I said. He shrugged. ‘The papers said it was a psychopath, a nutter on the loose.’

  ‘I don't agree. Psychopath just means a sick mind and people with sick minds aren't just roving around looking for someone to kill. They live in houses, with people, go to work, have hobbies. In situations you or I could cope with, they can't. And then those with criminal tendencies are compelled to steal or kill. It cures their immediate problem. Psychopath or not, I think she was sussed by someone. Someone who realised Jacky was no angel. Someone who had lost something or someone or who was threatened with loss—’

  ‘Look, I'm telling you it wasn't me,’ he interrupted. ‘She was bringing me business. Even if I was overpaying her I was still making good profits. Nowadays if something's old, whatever it is, some fool will pay the earth. Anyway she wasn't about to shop me – was she?’

  ‘Oh, no. I found you via a receipt for a chamber-pot.’

  I got up to leave, the rocking chair moving backwards and forwards on its own in a slowly dying motion.

 
‘It's a pity you didn't keep in touch with your daughter when she was a child. Her fate might have been different and you would have made a great team.’

  To a more sensitive soul that remark would have caused a moment's anguish, a pang of regret for what might have been. But not to Adam Angel. He smiled fleetingly as though I'd paid him a compliment. Somehow I could imagine Jacky smiling that way on her way to the bank, relishing the moment when she handed over the money. She probably justified her actions as divine retribution. And somehow it made me like her.

  It was late afternoon when I arrived at the cottage, growing dark, and beginning to snow. All I really wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and watch something cheerful and trivial on TV. Instead I sat in the kitchen for a while, planning supper and dreading the night ahead. Night duty is like that, like work in general I suppose. The worst part is thinking about it. Perhaps premeditated murder was like that, too, planning and dreading and scheming and then actually doing the deed. Thinking, it's over now. It's done. Forget it. Pretend it didn't happen.

  I ate sardines on toast, followed by marmalade on toast, followed by half a chocolate bar. I'd used a knife to cut the chocolate bar, cutting with careful precision down the middle groove, and I was admiring the neatness of my work when I began to think about the murder weapon never having been found. Where would I hide a knife if I had just used it to stab someone? I definitely wouldn't throw it away – I might need it again some time. Oh, God! Surely not? But if it wasn't needed again, where would I hide a knife in hospital? In a geriatric hospital? Somewhere no one would look, somewhere no one would want to look. And then I knew. Soon, I told myself, I'm going to crack this case. But my optimism quickly gave way to apprehension, for if I was right, one of the people I was working with had murdered not just once but twice, and possibly three times. Could I be sure Kennie's death was totally natural? Had he lost his inhaler or had someone stolen it and then literally frightened him to death? ‘I saw her,’ Kennie had said and he'd recognised her. A woman perhaps; definitely more clever and a damn sight more deadly than the male.