The heavy desk was between him and Melissa and the door was behind her, ten feet away. The key was on the outside; she remembered noticing it when Preston showed her in. He, with luck, was in Stow getting petrol for the Rolls and the place seemed otherwise empty. Praying that Francis would be slow to react, she made a dive for the door, wrenched it open and slammed it behind her, clinging with all her strength and weight to the heavy brass handle and managing to turn the key just as Francis, shouting obscenities, began tugging from the other side. She yanked the key from the lock and raced back towards the front door, dropping the key into a huge porcelain vase that stood on an oak chest in the passage. That should delay things a bit.
She was halfway across the hall when she heard the sound of a car in the drive. That must be Preston coming back. He would hear the disturbance and come running to investigate. For a moment, she thought of trying to find another way out, then realised that the muffled shouting and hammering from the library would be unlikely to reach him from the other side of the courtyard. Forcing herself to move naturally and composedly, she opened the front door. There was no sign of the Rolls but a white Mercedes had just been parked a few feet from her own. Out of it stepped a big man in country tweeds and a woman in a Burberry outfit complete with hat and scarf. In their unfamiliar costume it took a moment for Melissa to recognise Pete and Annie Crane.
For the second time in thirty-six hours, she felt a trap was about to close on her. She stood, physically and mentally paralysed, on the top step as the couple turned from the car and came hurrying towards her. Then something clicked in her brain and it sprang into life.
Come on, girl, you’ve got Nathan Latimer out of tighter corners than this. Those two look het up about something and anyway they won’t recognise you without your U.P. Club warpaint. Just take it easy, keep your cool! With her head upright and her right hand firmly closed over the car key in her pocket, she descended the steps and went to meet them.
‘Preston is out and the door is on the latch,’ she informed them briskly. ‘Mr Francis is in the library.’
‘Thanks!’ Pete strode past her with barely a glance but Melissa felt Annie’s hard green eyes sweep over her face as she went by. She met them with a cool nod, fighting the rising urge to break into a run. She reached her car, got in and fastened her seat-belt. As she started the engine and engaged first gear, she glanced back at the house. Pete and Annie were standing at the top of the steps, looking at her. Annie seemed to be saying something; they were hesitating. The front door was wide open and they must surely by now hear the pandemonium from the library and realise that something was wrong. Any minute now, the heat would be on. Melissa let in the clutch and sent the Golf hurtling towards the entrance.
At the same moment, the Rolls turned in from the road and began a slow, majestic progress along the middle of the drive towards her. In normal circumstances she would have waited for it to pass but this was no time for knight-of-the-road tactics and she kept her foot firmly on the throttle. The Rolls made an undignified swerve to its left as Preston jerked at the wheel but the drive was too narrow for both cars and Melissa had to put two wheels on the grass. She shot past, narrowly missing a tree and with barely the thickness of a coat of paint to spare, leaving Preston goggle-eyed with fury and amazement.
At the bottom of the drive, a quick glance in the mirror before she turned out into the road revealed the Rolls still moving ponderously forward but no sign of anyone else. That meant nothing. It could only be a matter of minutes, seconds perhaps, before someone gave chase. As she accelerated away, racing through the gears along the empty road, she imagined what might be going on in the house.
Gregory Francis had, in her presence, as good as confessed to murdering Babs. Whether or not, in his unbalanced state of mind, he was aware that he had betrayed himself, it would not take long for the Cranes to realise that Melissa was a threat that must be eliminated. The hesitation on the doorstep, the staring back at her as she prepared to drive off, indicated that Annie had recognised her. The snapping green eyes that had examined her so thoroughly at their first meeting had seen through her amateurish efforts to change her appearance and registered the features beneath the make-up. It would have taken no more than a few seconds for Annie to place her in the U.P. Club.
What then? Seeing her come away from the house, they might assume at first that she was working for Gregory Francis, was perhaps there to report on the distribution system at the U.P. Club, even to check on the loyalty of the manager and his wife. A policeman friend had once told Melissa that drug dealers mistrusted one another almost as much as they feared the law. Annie would remember finding her alone among the coats and shopping trolleys at her last visit and their first reaction might be resentment and indignation. But employees do not normally lock their masters up in their own libraries and whatever garbled story the agitated Francis was shouting through the door, it would not take long for the message to get through that Melissa had to be pursued, caught and silenced.
She remembered the road from her drive out; it had long straight stretches, interrupted by sweeping curves and some nasty sharp bends. There were a few minor intersections and a sprinkling of farms but no villages, not even a cluster of houses or a country pub, for several miles. On this dull, drizzle-soaked Sunday afternoon, she had it to herself.
Except for the white Mercedes. It appeared in her mirror after she had been driving for no more than a minute or two and it soon began gaining on her. She trod hard on the accelerator and the Golf responded with a surge of speed but still the big car drew closer. A bend was approaching; with clenched jaws and her stomach knotted with fear she braked as late as possible before hurtling round, praying that the tyres would keep their grip on the wet road. Once, Simon had proudly demonstrated how good the little front-wheel-drive car was at cornering but she had never put it to this kind of test. For one petrifying moment it seemed that she was losing control. Then, miraculously, they were on the straight again and the gap between the two cars had widened a shade. Almost immediately came another curve, another teeth-gritting, stomach-churning battle with brakes, throttle and steering-wheel.
The Golf was holding its own but it couldn’t last. On every straight stretch of road, the more powerful car began eating up the distance between them and the few yards the Golf gained on the bends could only delay the inevitable outcome. The Mercedes was near enough for her to recognise Pete at the wheel. Any minute now and he would be close enough to run her off the road. Was that how Clive’s accident had been caused? She would never know the truth now, never learn whether the crazy risks she had taken would bring about the destruction of the drugs ring that she was now certain was centred at Benbury Park. The terror that had ridden on her back during the whole reckless, nightmarish chase dragged from her throat a dry, despairing sob.
As they came out of the next bend, the Mercedes was barely fifty feet behind and the road ahead seemed to run, straight as an arrow, into infinity. A final, frantic glance in the mirror showed Pete looking almost relaxed, as if he was enjoying himself, his big hands gripping the wheel and his fleshy lips parted in the loathsome, sensual smile he turned on for the women at the U.P. Club, the smile that never reached his pebble-brown eyes. He pulled out as if to pass; in a moment he would be alongside.
She saw the smile vanish and the thick lips mouth an obscenity as he fell back behind her before she realised that there were cars ahead. Two of them, approaching fast. White, with blue lights flashing on the roof. Police. They must be in a hurry but somehow she had to attract their attention. She switched her headlights on full beam, put a finger on the horn button and stamped hard on the brakes.
In her panic, she forgot for a crucial moment to steer and she found herself heading for the verge. The nearside tyres lost their grip on the loose gravel, sending her veering back on to the road just as she wrenched the wheel to the right. Over-corrected, the Golf slewed round and screeched to a halt in the middle of the road with the Mercede
s heading straight towards it. Melissa had a glimpse of Pete sawing frantically at the wheel as the big car swerved, catching the rear of the Golf as it hurtled past. There was a deafening bang and she felt the shock of the impact crashing through her body. Hedges, cars and trees spun madly past her windscreen. Paralysed with fright, she sat staring ahead, vaguely aware that there were men all over the road and that the rear end of the Mercedes was sticking skywards out of the ditch like the stern of a sinking ship. Then she passed out.
Twenty-Three
‘The headline writers really went to town, didn’t they?’ said Melissa, showing Joe her press cuttings. ‘“Dawn Swoop on Jet-Setters’ Playground”! “Cotswold Manor Concealed Drugs Laboratory”! “Local Antiquarian and Prominent City Figures held in Murder and Dope Scandal”! This one’s my favourite though: “Crime Writer Gives Tip-off in Real-Life Thriller!”’
Three weeks after the “Benbury Bust”, as Bruce insisted on calling it, Joe sat drinking tea and eating fruit-cake in Hawthorn Cottage while listening to the story behind the newspaper reports. By the time Melissa had finished, his normally deep-set eyes were almost bulging from his head.
‘You’re mad!’ he spluttered. ‘You need a minder! You shouldn’t be allowed out alone!’
‘You wanted me to get some publicity,’ she pointed out.
Joe exploded. ‘Oh, so it was my idea! That’s a good one! “Literary Agent Goads Writer into Deadly Research Project” — how’s that for a screamer?’ He got up and began pacing up and down. ‘You could have been killed, Melissa. Hadn’t you any idea . . . ’
‘. . . of the risks I was taking?’ she interrupted. ‘Now don’t you start. I’ve had all that from everyone from the chief constable downwards.’
‘I’m not surprised. What the hell possessed you to go tearing off like that on your own?’
‘You mean to call on Clive’s father? I was only trying to do a little peacemaking. You don’t suppose I’d have gone if I’d known who he really was, do you?’
Joe sat down again and gazed at her with a troubled expression. Anxiety had drawn deep lines on either side of his normally humorous mouth.
‘Nothing would surprise me after the way you went tracking that plane. I shan’t sleep for a week, thinking of you being hunted by those thugs. And as for that murdering bastard in the Mercedes — if the police hadn’t happened along when they did . . . ’
‘They didn’t just happen along.’
‘No?’
‘They were on their way to Oaklands Park after a tip-off.’
‘Who from?’
‘Bruce. Well, Rowena really. You see, when she gave me Gregory Francis’s telephone number, we both referred to him as Clive’s father. She was on the phone to somebody else at the time and never thought to mention that Clive was using a different name.’
‘So what made her realise . . . ?’
‘Now that was pure chance. She was with Bruce that Sunday afternoon. He’d heard from Sophie — his colleague on the Gazette — that she’d spotted someone she recognised as a plain-clothes copper chatting to the driver of the Hanger Hill delivery van, round the back of The Usual Place. Evidently Pete had seen this as well and didn’t like the look of it. He called the driver over and they exchanged a few words. Then the chap got into the van and drove away. Sophie said Pete looked distinctly edgy and I imagine that was why he and Annie went to Oaklands Park, to persuade Francis that it might be as well to suspend the Tuesday trolley-run for the time being.’
‘So it was Francis who was masterminding the operation?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the drugs were being distributed along with the fruit and vegetables?’
‘Right. They were getting them to outlets all over the county. The Drugs Squad are rubbing their hands . . . it’s been one of the biggest clean-ups on record.’
‘You still haven’t explained why the fuzz were heading out towards Oaklands Park.’
‘Bruce thought I’d be interested in Sophie’s report and tried to call me. When he got no reply, Rowena said, “She’s probably gone to see Mr Francis.”’
‘And Bruce picked it up and put two and two together?’
‘That’s right. He remembered my telling him that one of the members of the Benbury Park consortium was a Mr Gregory Francis. Bright lad, Bruce. He should do well in the police force.’
‘Police force? You mean he’s giving up journalism?’
‘He thinks he’s found a more direct way of helping to clean up society. He’ll probably start writing crime novels in a few years’ time. You’d better sign him up.’
Joe rolled his eyes upwards. ‘If I had two like you to deal with I’d be a nervous wreck! I’d rather stick to agony aunts.’
‘How’s the steamy novel coming along, by the way?’
Joe grinned. ‘Getting more salacious by the minute. Talking of things salacious, what about the porn racket that was supposed to be going on at that model agency? Was there any connection with the Benbury Park set-up?’
‘No . . . that was all very small beer. Just the agency photographer doing a little moonlighting, using the firm’s models. Twenty pounds apiece that poisonous little creep paid Babs and her partner for that session.’
‘Squalid trade!’ agreed Joe. ‘Hope he gets sent down for a good spell.’
Silly kid, Melissa thought, degrading herself for such a paltry sum. Yet who could blame her? At a stroke, society had in its wisdom robbed her of a loving — all right, an all-too-loving but also a well-loved — father and thrust her into an alien environment where she had quite possibly been exposed to even more corrupting influences. No wonder she had sought the company of older men and gone to desperate lengths to make a secure future for herself. The day she was taken to Clive’s old home, she must have thought she was driving through the gates of Paradise. Instead, she was going to her death.
‘What about that hairdressing salon?’ asked Joe. ‘Were they involved?’
‘Apparently not . . . Bruce was very disappointed! He was convinced they were all tied up together in some huge, devilish conspiracy.’
Joe frowned as another thought struck him. ‘Gregory Francis must be a cold-hearted devil, killing that girl for what you might call purely snobbish reasons. I suppose Crane organised the heavies from Benbury Park to dispose of the body. It’s a miracle none of Francis’s domestic staff saw what was going on.’
‘There was only old Preston there at the time and he’s been with the family for nearly thirty years so they were confident he’d keep his mouth shut. Just the same, it must have been a severe test of loyalty for him. The poor man was broken-hearted when Francis was arrested but thankful to be able to unburden his own conscience.’
‘And then to order his own son’s murder . . . !’
‘No, that was Pete using his initiative. He was terrified Clive wouldn’t give up until he’d found out what had happened to Babs. Then the whole set-up would have been blown open. Of course, he had no idea at the time who Clive really was. When he did find out, he must have been scared stiff that Francis would find out he was the one who’d caused his son’s accident. He left Annie in charge of the bar that night to go after Clive. It’s ironic, isn’t it? The police picked up Clive’s trail right up until he left the pub at closing-time but never thought to check that Pete was at The Usual Place all evening.’
‘What about the note? The one Babs was supposed to have written?’
‘Annie left that when she went to get Babs’s things. They had the wind behind them that day . . . it was early closing, Petronella’s was shut and no one saw her.’
‘So Pete and Annie have been singing?’
‘Not Pete. Annie. He’s been fooling with other women for years and she’d had it up to here. She sang and sang until her voice cracked.’
‘Aha! Hell hath no fury . . . I suppose the heavies who buried Babs also killed that farmer friend of yours?’
‘That’s right.’ Melissa got up and went to look out
of the window. The year had moved on and the May blossom had made way for creamy masses of elderflowers. Lambs ran about the sunlit pasture, bleating pathetically as they sought their shorn mothers. ‘Poor Dick! That’s something I shall never quite forgive myself for.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ Joe said gently.
‘It was so diabolically callous. He’d been seen near the laboratory — the police think someone must have been careless and left it open — and then he was overheard talking to me on the phone. They must have thought he’d found out what was going on and was going to shop them.’
Joe’s face grew grim. ‘It’s lucky for you they didn’t have the nous to make him tell them who he’d been speaking to . . . ’ he began, and Melissa jumped as his meaning dawned on her.
‘I never thought of that,’ she whispered. ‘You mean, they might have come after me?’ Her veins seemed to run with ice-water. ‘I suppose I was lucky . . . they could only have overheard bits of the conversation and not realised he’d told me anything significant.’ She closed her eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the horror of it all. ‘They kept him at the Park, giving him drinks and pretending to be friendly until about the time he’d have left the Woolpack. Jennie was staying at her mother’s with the children, you see, and he simply wasn’t missed. And then . . . then they . . . took him out to the ornamental lake and . . . ’ Her voice cracked and the tears began to flow. Joe got up and put an arm round her shoulders. She leaned against him for a moment, thankful for his comfort and sympathy. ‘If only I’d tumbled sooner to what that message meant . . .’
‘I doubt if it would have made any difference to Dick,’ said Joe. ‘Even if you’d been able to convince the police that there was something fishy going on, and they’d mounted some kind of operation, it would probably have been too late to save him.’
‘Perhaps I could do something for Jennie and the children . . . set up a trust fund or something out of the proceeds from the novel . . . if there are any.’
Murder at Hawthorn Cottage: An absolutely gripping cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1) Page 27
