A Choice of Victims

by J F Straker

  ‘I’ve never heard anything,’ Sybil said.

  ‘And you hear most things, eh? How about him?’

  ‘Nor him neither.’ She pushed back a wayward lock of hair. ‘But whatever caused her to go couldn’t have been planned in advance, could it, or she’d at least have finished the round first? So it must have been a sudden impulse.’

  He nodded. ‘She could have been hijacked, I suppose. Ten hours, though. I’d expect something to have broken by now.’

  ‘Hijacking doesn’t seem to go with Meals on Wheels and West Deering.’ Sybil stood up, slowly and laboriously. ‘I’m off to bed, darling. I feel lousy tonight.’

  He smiled at her. ‘You look great.’

  ‘I know.’ She patted her bulging stomach. ‘That’s the trouble.’

  *

  Detective Superintendent the Honourable James Fraser Hunt, elder son of Baron Hunt of Whitley and known throughout the Force as ‘Driver’, was normally a cheerful and contented man. Aged 41, educated at Rugby and Balliol, unmarried but not lacking in girlfriends, with a small private income that permitted the occasional extravagance beyond the scope of his pay, happy in his work and popular with his colleagues, it would have been strange had he been otherwise. But on that particular Saturday morning he was very much otherwise. Four months previously he had splashed out ten thousand pounds on a brand new six-cylinder Rover 2300 saloon, and yesterday, on his way back from lunch, he had parked the car briefly on the road south to the coast outside the home of his chief, Detective Chief Superintendent Greenway, while he called to enquire how Greenway was progressing after a severe bout of pneumonia. He had been talking to Edna Greenway in the hall when they heard the sound of the collision. It was a tearing sound rather than a bang, and it had taken a few seconds for the implication to sink in. Then he was out in the road, staring in horror at the off-side of the Rover, which was scratched and scraped and dented for almost its entire length. The offending car was out of sight—‘An old Morris 1100. Grey, I think,’ a knowledgeable neighbour called to him as he struggled to open the buckled off-side front door. ‘And going like the clappers. I just caught a glimpse of the tail end as it rounded the bend.’ Then he was in the driving seat and doing as fast a three-point turn as the traffic permitted and streaking off in pursuit. After twelve miles he gave up—there were too many side turnings down which the driver could have made his escape—and he returned to division and put out a general call for a grey Morris 1100, or any car with a similar rear end and carrying evidence of having been involved in a collision. Not that he expected a satisfactory result. Probably some young tearaway who had nicked the Morris for a joyride. They might find the car, but they were unlikely to find the driver.

  The windows of his office overlooked the parking lot. He was staring down at the damaged Rover when Hasted came in.

  ‘A photograph of the woman missing from West Deering,’ Hasted said. ‘You wanted to see it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Driver said, not bothering to turn. ‘Leave it on the desk, George, will you? There’s no news of her, I suppose.’

  ‘No.’ Hasted joined him at the window. ‘Sorry about the car. Made a right mess of it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Cost the insurers a packet to put right. And you’ll probably lose your no-claim bonus.’

  ‘Yes. But do you mind if we forget the car? It’s a sore point.’ He turned away from the window and picked up the photograph. ‘Hm! Not a bad likeness.’

  ‘You know the lady?’

  ‘We’ve met.’

  He had been introduced to her at the Follicks’ cocktail party in June; Brigadier Follick was an old friend of his father, they had been at Sandhurst together. But it was not the image of Elizabeth Doyle that drew his attention now, but that of the girl standing on her right. That was the first time he had met Felicity Scott. He had met her twice since; once at the art gallery in London where she worked, after which he had taken her to dinner at Lacy’s, and a fortnight ago at the Scotts’ tennis party at their West Deering home. She was tall and slim and beautiful, with rich auburn hair and a captivating smile, and was rapidly rising to the Number One spot in his list of desirable girlfriends. In fact...

  ‘I’ll arrange for blow-ups to be distributed,’ Hasted said.

  ‘Eh? Oh, yes! Yes, do that, George, will you?’ Thinking of Felicity Scott had improved his mood. ‘How’s Sybil, by the way? Just about due, isn’t she?’

  ‘Just about,’ Hasted said.

  ‘Must be a trying time.’ The telephone rang. Driver picked up the receiver. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Put him through.’ He looked at Hasted. ‘For you.’

  It was Andrew Doyle. He had remembered the name of the friends with whom his father was staying, Andrew said. Fisher. But he did not know the initials and he did not know the address, and there could be a lot of Fishers with a Winchester number. So what did he do? Leave it to me, Hasted said, and told the switchboard operator to get cracking. Fifteen minutes later he had Mrs Fisher on the line. Mr Doyle was out, she said, and she had no idea when he would be back. Her husband would know, but he was unavailable at the moment. Could he ring the inspector back? In ten minutes, say? Hasted said he could, gave her his number and rang off.

  He was in his own office when Fisher rang. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector,’ Fisher said. ‘I was on the throne. Now, what’s this all about, eh? Doyle’s not in, I’m afraid. Can I give him a message?’

  ‘I’d prefer to speak to him myself, sir,’ Hasted said. ‘When do you expect him back?’

  ‘Sometime between twelve-thirty and one. In time for lunch.’

  ‘Well, ask him to ring me as soon as he comes in, will you? Tell him it’s urgent.’

  Hasted replaced the receiver and checked the time. Eleven-twenty. Over an hour to wait. So why did he not return to West Deering and have Doyle call him at home? Or perhaps at the Manor; Doyle would want to speak to his son. And after the call he could join Sybil for lunch, perhaps for the afternoon. That would please her. Her main criticism of the job was that she did not see enough of him at weekends.

  He rang Andrew. ‘But I won’t be here, Mr Hasted,’ Andrew said. ‘I’m lunching with the Scotts. Patricia’s just called to pick me up. We’re leaving in a few minutes. Couldn’t you ask my father to ring me there? I’m sure the Scotts won’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll have to be there too,’ Hasted said. ‘For the call, not for lunch.’

  ‘Of course,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ll tell them.’

  Hasted went into Driver’s office and told him what he had arranged. ‘It’s important I speak to Doyle myself. I’m hoping he’ll have some idea of where his wife may have gone.’

  ‘Yes.’ Driver smiled. ‘And then you could pop home for lunch, couldn’t you?’

  Hasted echoed the smile. ‘So I could. Now why didn’t I think of that?’

  ‘Well, give Sybil my love.’ Driver thought for a moment. ‘You know, there’s something about the Fishers that puzzles me.’

  ‘Oh? What’s that?’

  ‘If Mr Fisher knew Doyle was returning for lunch, why didn’t Mrs Fisher know?’

  *

  Andrew replaced the receiver and looked at the girl. ‘I’m afraid your parents will be having another visitor this morning,’ he said. ‘Is that all right?’

  ‘For lunch, you mean?’

  ‘Oh, no! It’s Mr Hasted. He’s arranged for my father to ring me at your place, and he wants to be there when he does.’

  ‘Is that all?’ Patricia laughed. ‘Of course. Come on, let’s go. I want a swim before lunch.’

  ‘All right if I bring Blondie?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It was a hot sunny morning with the rain of the previous day forgotten. The distance from the Manor to Holland Farm was short, and Andrew would have walked it had not Patricia called for him in her mother’s car. In general the Scotts were an athletic family—they all rode, swam, played golf and tennis—but they got no pleasure from exercise taken sole
ly for the sake of exercise, into which category walking seemed to fall. If transport was available, they used it.

  Patricia, at 17 the younger of the two daughters, had only recently passed her driving test, and although she handled the car competently she was not completely relaxed behind the wheel. As she drove through the village she felt compelled to concentrate her gaze on the road ahead instead of on the young man beside her, as her emotions prompted. She adored Andrew; she thought him the most handsome, the most exciting young man in her life. It was disappointing that he did not respond to her barely concealed advances. But she was optimistic that time and perseverance would change that.

  Holland Farm lay north of the village, the farmhouse reached by a narrow drive that ran gently uphill between fields in which cattle now grazed; the farm itself, apart from the stabling and the area immediately surrounding the house, was leased to Jacob Wilshire, whose farm adjoined it. The house was a long, two-storeyed building of local stone over which clematis and wisteria and climbing roses luxuriated. To the left of the house were smooth lawns and well-stocked flower beds, to the right was a hard tennis court surrounded by a high wire-mesh fence, with the stabling beyond. Despite the long hot spell of dry weather, broken only by the downpour of the previous day, no arid patches disfigured the even green of the grass and no flowers wilted. But then Harvey Scott was a merchant banker and a very rich man, well able to afford the skilled labour necessary to keep the grounds in perfect trim.

  They got out of the car and walked round the house to the wide covered patio at the back, where Harvey Scott sat reading the Financial Times, a gin and tonic on a low glass-topped table beside him. He flapped a hand at them and called a greeting to Andrew, but did not get up. A little man—both his daughters were taller—he had a deep, booming voice.

  ‘Any news, Andrew?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  ‘Extraordinary! Well, get the lad a drink, Patricia. What’ll it be, Andrew? Gin?’

  ‘I’d rather have a beer, sir,’ Andrew said.

  She brought him a beer, cold from the fridge, and he sat with the dog at his feet listening to her chatter but taking little of it in. Nor did he notice the view, admirable though it was: a wide lawn sloping down to woodland, and in the far distance the greys and greens and purples of the Downs. Colourful flower beds rimmed the lawn in the centre of which was a large swimming-pool surrounded by a mosaic of pastel-coloured paving, the blue water sparkling in the bright sunlight. But Andrew’s thoughts were elsewhere. He was wondering how the future would have looked had he had Harvey Scott for a father. Elizabeth might be rich, but Harvey Scott was considerably richer. He was also reputed to be generous—to his family, to the village, to charity. Harvey Scott would not have stamped so brutally on his son’s dreams.

  ‘Well?’ Patricia said.

  ‘Eh?’ Andrew looked at her. ‘Well what?’

  ‘How about that swim?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Dad won’t be ringing just yet.’

  When the girl went indoors to change he explained to Scott about Hasted and then walked down to the summer house with Blondie and chose a pair of swimming trunks from the available selection. He was already in the water when Patricia came skipping down the lawn to join him. She was a pretty girl, but she lacked the grace of her elder sister. Stocky and plump, with thick ankles and wrists, she moved clumsily, as if her limbs were not properly coordinated.

  They were stretched out on the lawn, drying in the sun, when Hasted arrived. Scott put down his paper and fetched him a gin and tonic, and then collected a telephone on a long lead and placed it on the table between them. Five minutes later the telephone rang.

  ‘It’s your father, Andrew,’ Scott said.

  Andrew came running. He looked questioningly at Hasted, who nodded. ‘Have a word with him first,’ Hasted said.

  ‘What’s all this about, Andrew?’ Doyle demanded. ‘What’s going on?’

  Andrew told him. Then Hasted took over, explaining that although the police had circulated descriptions of the car and the missing woman there had been no reported sightings of either. ‘We’re now circulating photographs of your wife, sir,’ he said. ‘There’s no evidence that she has come to any harm. But she’s been gone for twenty-four hours and we’re worried.’

  ‘So am I,’ Doyle said. He sounded more aggrieved than concerned. ‘It’s completely out of character.’

  ‘She’s never done anything like this before?’

  ‘Good God, no!’

  ‘And you’ve no idea where she might be heading? Or why?’

  ‘None whatever. I’m as mystified as you are.’

  ‘A pity,’ Hasted said. ‘We were hoping you might be able to give us a lead. I assume you’ll be returning home?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll leave after lunch.’

  If Sybil were missing, Hasted thought, I would not worry about lunch, I would leave now. ‘Your father will be on his way shortly,’ he told Andrew. ‘Let me know when he arrives. If I’m not at home you can get me at this number.’ He wrote the number on a leaf from his notebook. ‘Thanks for the drink, Mr Scott.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Scott said.

  Hasted drove back to the village and pulled up at the garage pumps for petrol. Over on the cricket field Rory Bates was now marking the wicket. Two other men were busy with a roller. Hasted watched them, envious of their freedom to plan their weekends with certainty. He was a fair cricketer and played occasionally for the Sunday eleven, but too often he had to cry off at the last minute.

  ‘How’s Sybil?’ Derek Mollison asked, as he removed the hose from the car’s tank and slotted it back into the pump. ‘Getting nervous, is she?’

  ‘I don’t know about Sybil,’ Hasted said. ‘I know I am.’

  He handed Derek a tenner and followed him into the office. Looking through the door into the garage proper his gaze was arrested by the sight of a red Fiat estate. It was not a car popular in the area, and he took out his notebook and checked the number.

  ‘Good God!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘What’s up?’ Derek asked.

  ‘That red Fiat. It’s Mrs Doyle’s car, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. What of it?’

  ‘What of it? Dammit, man! We’ve got every copper in the area looking for that car, and here it is, tucked away in your bloody garage!’ Hasted took a deep breath. ‘How long has it been here?’

  ‘She brought it in Wednesday. The speedo cable is broken; I had to order a new one.’ Light dawned. ‘Oh, I see. You thought she was driving it yesterday when she disappeared. Is that it?’

  ‘Of course that’s it. Nobody told us she wasn’t.’

  ‘Well, she wasn’t,’ Derek said. ‘I lent her an old banger. A Morris 1100.’

  Chapter Three

  ‘Oh, no!’ Driver exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe it! Going like the clappers,’ the man said. ‘Does that sound like your Mrs Doyle?’

  Hasted agreed that it did not. ‘But the man also said the car was grey, didn’t he? Well, so was the Morris Mollison lent her. What time was your shunt?’

  ‘It wasn’t my shunt, damn you, George! It was the other bastard’s.’ Jacketless because of the heat, Driver scratched his chest under the white cotton shirt. ‘What time? Around one-thirty, I suppose, give or take a few minutes.’

  ‘Well, according to Philipson, Mrs Doyle left his cottage shortly after one o’clock,’ Hasted said. ‘Allow ten minutes to get back on the road—another ten to drive the six miles to the chief’s house—and there you are. It fits.’

  ‘Maybe. But it proves nothing. How does she handle a car? Do you know?’

  ‘Not from personal experience. Andrew says she’s competent, but a mite too cautious for his taste.’

  ‘There you are, then! It wasn’t her Morris. Or, if it was, she wasn’t driving.’ Driver moved to the open window, breathed in the warm air. ‘Christ, it’s hot! Must be murder for your Sybil, carrying all that extra weight. Bearing u
p, is she?’

  Hasted nodded. He had managed lunch with Sybil but it had been a hurried meal, and Mollison’s news about the Morris seemed to have put paid to his afternoon at home. Sybil had been disappointed but had not complained. She appreciated that his job had to come first.

  ‘She’d prefer to start bearing down,’ he said.

  Driver laughed. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered and with a stomach that hinted at too little exercise and a penchant for good living. His dark hair, lightly streaked with grey, was expertly cut, his nails well-manicured. Although it was only two-thirty in the afternoon his chin and cheeks already showed an incipient stubble that formed a dark fringe to his deeply tanned face. His eyes were grey, with long lashes. Women found him attractive, as much in his temperament as in his looks. With his cavalier attitude to life in general he could find amusement in most situations—including, on occasions, his job.

  ‘This Mrs Doyle, George,’ he said. ‘No possible lead from her old man?’

  ‘No. Maybe I’m being unkind, but I got the impression he was more upset at having his weekend interrupted than by his wife’s disappearance.’ Hasted frowned. ‘You thought it odd, didn’t you, that Mrs Fisher didn’t know Doyle would be returning for lunch?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I also think it odd that Doyle should have been out when both the Fishers were in. If you’re spending a couple of days with friends you don’t usually go off on your own. Or do you?’

  ‘Not usually, no.’

  ‘No. So could there be a Miss Fisher, I wonder?’

  ‘You have a nasty, suspicious mind, George,’ Driver said.

  *

  The Morris was located three hours later, in the car park of a pub down on the coast. ‘The hot-boxes are still on the back seat,’ Driver’s police informant told him over the telephone. ‘And the car’s unlocked. Keys in the ignition.’

  ‘But no sign of the woman, eh?’

  ‘No, sir. But she left her handbag in the car.’

  Why would she do that? Driver wondered. Particularly when the car wasn’t locked. ‘Anyone at the pub see her arrive?’ he asked. ‘Or leave?’