Cruel as the Grave

by Meg Elizabeth Atkins

  No. He needed to go off like a child, to somewhere where no one knew he had been naughty; to someone kind, who would spoil him. And then to come back when Helen had smoothed everything out, put their life back into shape. As if nothing had happened.

  Four

  She was a maternal body; enjoyed a good gossip, cuffed her children and grandchildren into shape. She’d been known to manhandle local louts who got in her way — but she had to steel herself to enter the gleaming vestibule of Chatfield police station. This modern stuff was all very well; the old nick had been homelier — although she’d had as little as possible to do with that.

  From a heroically veteran handbag she drew the latest copy of the free weekly newspaper and said to the desk sergeant, ‘I know who she is. This woman. Beattie Booth. None of it’s nothing to do with me, but if someone doesn’t speak up, he’ll get away with it and he oughtn’t to be allowed.’

  ‘Now then, Mrs Wellbed,’ Hunter said.

  Defensive, determined, she took her time, glanced about his office, establishing her importance at being there. Her eyes came to rest on Hunter, sharpening. ‘I know you, don’t I? Enid Hunter’s lad.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I remember when you moved off the estate. Your mam came into a bit of money from — her brother, weren’t it? And his house. So you moved. Went up in the world.’

  Modestly enough: a characterless semi in a suburb of numbing respectability... He resented the lost lawlessness of the streets, returned whenever he could. But time and new horizons sorted that out.

  ‘You always was an untidy bugger,’ Mrs Wellbed said, gazing at his chaotic desk.

  He grinned, ‘I can’t argue with you there. So, she was a friend — Beattie Booth.’

  ‘Friend, no. I scarce said two words to her in years. Seen her about often enough. And I hear tell of her through our Marge and her lot, they’re all regulars at the Prince Albert. And what they thought when she didn’t turn up Friday night after all her big talk was that he’d just ditched her. Well, a feller like that — well-off, posh — answer to a maiden’s prayer. Not that she was no maiden since she was fourteen. She hadn’t let herself go, mind, and when she was dolled up she was worth a second look, I’ll say that. When she was a girl she was a looker — like her mother’d been — but you know what happened to her.’

  Hunter, listening carefully, made a show of amused helplessness. ‘Hang on, Mrs Wellbed, I’m not taking all this in.’

  ‘It’s what you’re for, isn’t it?’

  ‘I sometimes wonder. Now, if you’ll just bear with me — ’ He would have tried charm, but it wouldn’t work on Mrs Wellbed. She needed to look down on him, get her own back for his desertion, all those years ago, of her and her kind. His own kind. The decision, then, had not been his. She knew that, of course, but refused to take it into account. ‘Can I just start with a few details. Beattie Booth. Miss? Mrs?’

  ‘Miss. But not for want of trying.’

  ‘And her address?’

  ‘How would I know? Used to be Owen Street, when she was a kid — well, you remember all round there.’

  — Of course he remembered. Terraces, yards, alleys, survivals of the Industrial Revolution, and his own roaring, depersonalised council estate — the whole area designated Greenacres, in harsh mockery of forgotten fields.

  ‘... then, when it were pulled down, her and her mam were rehoused in the Causeway. You know.’

  He knew. And like everyone marvelled how a new development could be an immediate slum. There was one thing to be said for Causeway — you could get away from it bloody quick. On the thundering arterial roads that hemmed it in. Not for nothing was it known as Suicide Row.

  Hunter thought about Causeway, briefly consulted his mental gazetteer of Chatfield. ‘The Prince Albert’s not her local, then?’

  ‘Course not. But it were. Not everyone as moves away goes for good. Some folk like to keep in touch. A few as was shifted to Causeway still comes round.’

  ‘And she was a regular at the Prince Albert?’

  ‘Every Friday.’

  ‘With this man?’

  ‘With him.’ She made a sharp, scornful sound, like a swallowed laugh. ‘With him. That’d be the day. No one ever set eyes on him.’

  ‘Did she mention his name?’

  ‘Not her. Played it close to her chest.’

  A constable brought tea in, properly, on a tray, with matching cups and milkjug and sugar bowl. A small attention, visibly bringing out the best in Mrs Wellbed. Stirring in three fortifying teaspoons of sugar, she said reflectively, ‘Y’know, I said to our Marge once — does he bloody exist? Cos they used to call him Mr Moonshine. And our Marge said, “I’ve wondered, mam, specially at first when she just dropped hints. Wouldn’t put it past the silly cow to make the whole thing up. Then I weren’t so sure. There’s summat mam. Definite.” Cos Beattie were — different. She’d got money to spend, bought herself some new clothes, new handbag, and not from one of them Oxfam places.’

  ... the problematic handbag. Where was it?...

  ‘Did she have a car?’

  'Car!' This time Mrs Wellbed’s laughter erupted, shrill as a train whistle. ‘She was on Social Security. Lost her job a while back at Norton’s Packaging — they laid fifty off. Time I knew her, when she lived in Owen Street, she did cleaning jobs. Car? When did she ever have money for a car? When did I? Buses do us.’

  Buses. One of the roads by Causeway fed directly into the north' eastern section of the by-pass. Once on that... a straight journey to Hambling. Hambling bus station lay to the west of the town, close to the centre. Then, whether you went by car, taxi or pogo stick, Miller’s Bridge lay a good two miles south east. A long walk on a rainy night.

  ‘You don’t recollect her?’ Mrs Wellbed asked. ‘You’d be of an age, all you lads and lassies together. Owen Street wasn’t far from you... ’

  ‘I’ve been trying to think.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t honestly say even her name means anything to me. What are we talking about — the fifties? The place was teeming with kids... ’ Territorial animals. It was risky wandering into the wrong street; asking for trouble if you set out on gang trespass. True, there were common meeting grounds where non-aggression pacts mysteriously operated — and in all that swarm of faces and names and comings and goings, he might have known the girl. Even so, it was unlikely she would be rediscoverable in the face of the woman — his fleeting recognition had been of a type, not an individual. ‘Has she any family round here still?’

  ‘No. Last one were her cousin Muriel, took off with some feller, Newcastle or thereabouts. They wasn’t speaking then on account of Muriel never giving much of a hand to help with Beattie’s mam. Drove Beattie mad, the old woman did, specially later on — but Beattie soldiered on. Well, she’d no choice. But she didn’t give in. That’s what I mean... ’ Mrs Wellbed paused, perplexed; the point at which she wished to arrive evidently eluding her. ‘She were working at Norton’s when her mam died, so she had a chance after all them years, earn a bit of money, enjoy herself a bit. Then she was laid off — but before you know it, up she pops with this feller as was going to put her in clover... That's what I mean. She might have been a fool and a bit of a cow, and I can’t say I had all that much time for her — but she deserved better than that. Drowned in some place with strangers all around her. All on account of a feller she was daft enough to listen to. She was like her mam where fellers was concerned. Unlucky. Dead unlucky.’

  Beattie’s antecedents were not Hunter’s concern; however, with a decision forming in his mind, he allowed Mrs Wellbed to talk. She was too dedicated a gossip to need encouragement, or to notice how skilfully he directed her. When he was satisfied, he said, ‘You’ve performed a valuable service in coming in to see us, Mrs Wellbed, and I’m grateful. There’s something you can do that will assist us even more. It’s a favour, you’re under no obligation and I’ll quite understand if you refuse. Would you identify Beattie?’


  She stared at him. He had probably established a record: the only man to render Mrs Wellbed speechless.

  ‘You see, there’s no immediate family available, as you said. You’ve known Beattie all her life; you’re a sensible, reliable person. We can see to it straight away I’ll get a woman detective sergeant to go with you to the mortuary, and then afterwards you make a statement of identification. That is, if you’d be good enough, if it wouldn’t distress you too much.’

  She found her voice, subdued but determined. ‘Nay, lad, it’ll not be the first dead face I’ve looked on. Yes, yes, I’ll do it.’

  Of course she would — she had her reputation in the neighbourhood to consider. At the prospect of giddying fame, Mrs Wellbed squared her shoulders, grasped her handbag and, under Hunter’s ironic eye, surged forth to do her civic duty.

  ‘Right, we’ve got a name,’ Hunter said to Collier. ‘No, don’t rush off and start playing with your appliance, I’m not sure yet where we’re going with this one, not till I’ve spoken to the pathologist. Beattie Booth. Miss. She lived at Causeway but we don’t know where exactly. Get someone on to the DHSS, they'll let us have her address. As I understand it, she lived alone, a neighbour might have a key.’

  ‘At Causeway?’ Collier said expressively. No one handed round door keys in a combat zone.

  ‘Mmm. Doubtful, but you can try. And I want a word with George Withers; find out from the control room when he’s next on duty, will you?’

  ‘He’s the local beat bobby round the old Owen Street area, isn’t he?’

  ‘Prince Albert. Our Marge, too.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’ Collier cast about with perfectly controlled incomprehension.

  ‘On his patch.’

  Unable to find a connection between such widely separated areas as Causeway and Owen Street, Collier struck out on his own.

  ‘Hambling have been on, they’ve got someone who saw the woman on Thursday evening near Miller’s Bridge. Taylor’s checking up on it.’

  ‘Good. Chase them up. And when you come back, I’ll tell you about Mrs Wellbed.’

  ‘Was she the — er — large lady with the handbag?’

  Hunter narrowed his eyes. ‘Watch out for that handbag, lad. It’s brought down stronger men than you.’

  *

  ‘What I’m saying,’ Hunter bellowed into the phone, ‘those injuries to the legs... If there’d been a struggle before she went into the water... There were no indications in the immediate vicinity but the ground was so churned up it was difficult to tell.’ He wondered if his voice or his patience would give way before the old boy turned up his hearing aid.

  Matthew Ames, the pathologist, was nearing retirement and allegedly sensitive about his deafness. Knowing his demonic humour, Hunter suspected there were days when he set out deliberately to exhaust people or drive them mad with lengthy answers to questions they had not asked. Hunter experimented: a quiet, conversational tone. ‘Are you having me on, you wicked old fart?’ The low whistle of a much-fiddled-with hearing aid preceded Ames’s voice. ‘I know the area. Charming. Beautiful old bridge, that low stone parapet. You’ve taken a look at it?’

  ‘Not personally. What I want — ’

  ‘She was wearing calf-length boots; her raincoat came midway between calf and knee. Her tights were torn. The injuries extended up to the thighs and were more severe at the back of her legs, although the knees were badly bruised.’

  ‘So if she was back up against the parapet, fighting someone off, her raincoat would ride up... I’ll tell the scene-of-crime boys to have a look at that bridge. Slim chance, though, with all this bloody rain. It’s scarcely stopped since it happened.’

  ‘There could still be traces embedded in the stone.’

  Hunter gave this some thought, to the accompaniment of distant whistling sounds. ‘You’re saying it wasn’t an accident?’

  ‘I’m not going on record with that — but we both know it wasn’t. By the position and nature of the injuries — this was deliberate. And I’m not a wicked old fart.’

  ‘Yes, you are. Sometimes. This is one of your good days. Thanks, Matthew.’

  *

  Collier returned, accompanied by PC George Withers. ‘You just caught me, I was on my way in for a community liaison meeting,’ George said. A slow-moving man with a down-to-earth manner that made people comfortable, George brought dignity to his uniform, contentment to his human lot; it was no good looking to him for the flash of inspiration, but for sheer tenacity he was unbeatable.

  Chatfield was his home ground, just as it was Hunter’s: a childhood shared in the same streets, Hunter the gang leader even then, although he was the younger of the two. A pattern was established: Hunter ambitious, striving, achieving; George standing stoically by. Time embedded them in their divergent personalities: Hunter had his seniority, a divorce, an alienated daughter; George, a clutch of children and a devoted wife. Time had embedded them in understanding, too, mutual respect and a quicksilver communication where a nod, a smile, a word, were signposts to an unforgotten landscape. So when Hunter had recounted the substance of his conversation with the pathologist and the information supplied by Mrs Wellbed, a flicker of a smile that crossed George’s face was mirrored on his own.

  ‘Beattie Booth?’ George worried over the name, shook his head.

  ‘No. And from her photograph she looked like anyone around there. If Friday night was her regular, I wouldn’t have come across her. Still, I’ll do some asking around. I can see where you’re going — she was at Miller’s Bridge with this feller and he pushed her over.’

  ‘Someone did, she didn’t jump in of her own accord.’ Hunter turned an enquiring eye on Collier.

  ‘She was on benefit, but she didn’t go into the U.B.O. on Friday to sign on.’

  ‘And we know why. Anything further from Hambling? The eyewitness.’

  ‘Yes. Hambling resident, a Mr Bannon, saw a woman dressed like her walking towards Miller’s Bridge just before nine on the Thursday night.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘Alone. He was a bit surprised anyone was out in that weather, he’s sure he didn’t see another pedestrian anywhere. What it was — he lives near the centre of Hambling and he left home about 8.40 p.m. to drive to the Well Green Methodist chapel to pick up his wife from choir practice. He passed a woman just before he got to the bridge. As they were both going in the same direction he didn’t see her face but he noticed her clothes. He collected his wife, stood chatting, so it must have been about 9.30 when he made the return journey. No sign of the woman by then, no sign of anyone.’

  ‘No car conveniently parked? It’s exceptionally well-lit at that spot.’

  ‘Nothing. The road’s so narrow he’d have remembered if he’d had to pull out around one. There’s a small car park and picnic area on the east side of the bridge, much used by courting couples — but if there had been anyone parked there, he wouldn’t have seen, even in daylight it’s so shielded by trees and bushes you can’t see into it.’

  ‘Mmm. She was heading towards the car park, but if she didn’t have a rendezvous with someone there she was walking away from the town. She couldn’t have got back to Chatfield under her own steam going that way — the bus station’s on the opposite side of Hambling.’

  George said, ‘I was there in the summer, evening stroll with the missus. It’s rural, but not what you’d call isolated. There are houses on either side of the bridge, and in the lanes leading off it, not many, it’s true, and some of them are pretty secluded. Even so... ’

  Hunter nodded yes in agreement with George’s unspoken assumption. ‘Let’s get the Hambling lads started on house to house, just in the immediate vicinity.’ He brooded. ‘There’s too much that doesn’t add up in this, isn’t there?’

  George said, ‘Yep.’

  Collier made the kind of movement that presages a surge of activity, to be stilled at once by Hunter: ‘Don’t say it — you want to start playing with your damned instrument. Just wait. I
can’t treat this as murder until I get the go-ahead from the boss.’ He reached for the telephone. ‘And it’s time I had a word with him.’

  Five

  Headquarters Information Technology department worked through the night, setting up the Holmes terminals in the newly established incident room at Hambling police station. First thing in the morning, Detective Chief Superintendent Garret drove over to Chatfield. ‘A murder in Hambling,’ he said, entering Hunter’s office. ‘Hambling of all places. And the timing’s bloody awful. I mean, why do they always wait till funds are low? You’re going to have to wrap this up fairly quickly. Drug squad are quiet at the moment, you can use them.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, sir. This is George Withers. I told you yesterday what a good job he’s doing this end.’

  DCS and constable measured one another with the respect of men at the same stage of service; Garret fully aware that a good area man knew everything — or, if he didn’t, had cultivated contacts to provide him with information.

  'Right, George. Murder briefing’s not till ten and it’s only half an hour’s drive at most to Hambling. Now, I understand you’ve got a fair amount of background.’

  George wasted no time. The Prince Albert pub, he explained, was the dead woman’s stamping ground. She was a Friday night regular; not a heavy drinker, went for the company, a laugh and a natter — habit, really. ‘About the beginning of September, Mrs Wellbed’s daughter, our Marge, said Beattie started dropping hints about this man she’d met — she didn’t say how or where. He took her ‘somewhere ever so nice’. Asked his name — that’d be telling, etcetera. Asked why he didn’t come in the Prince Albert — he wouldn't be seen dead in a dump like that. After a while all this started getting up everyone’s nose. The last time she was at the Albert someone accused her of behaving like effing royalty and she said — she’d had a drop more than usual — she’d soon be living like effing royalty. She was going to be in clover, have her own car, live in a posh house. Some sarky bugger said no doubt with a swimming pool and tennis court. She said no, the garden was big enough but she wasn’t bothered about things like that.’ George paused and looked at Hunter.