by J F Straker
‘Perhaps not,’ Frances said. ‘But now he has to rely entirely on his father. And although I’m sure David’s fond of him, he—well, he’s not an outward-looking person, is he?’
‘You mean he’s selfish,’ Harvey said. ‘Unsympathetic.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Andrew isn’t exactly a hail-fellow-well-met type either, is he?’ Maisie wiped perspiration from her brow. ‘Not what you’d call a mixer. So withdrawn.’
‘You can say that again,’ Harvey said. ‘Did you know we are off on holiday on Wednesday, Frances? No? Well, we are. To Cos. However, yesterday Felicity told us she couldn’t make it—something to do with that gallery of hers—and when Patricia heard the news about Elizabeth she asked if she might invite Andrew to take Felicity’s place. Well, it seemed like a good idea. Get the lad away for a bit, and he’d be company for Patricia. You know how she feels about him. Besides, why waste a ticket?’ Harvey shook his head. ‘Blow me if Andrew didn’t turn it down!’
‘Really? Did he say why?’
‘No. Or if he did Patricia kept it to herself. But I can guess.’
So could Frances. The prospect of an adoring Patricia Scott as a constant holiday companion had scared Andrew stiff. She was about to ask if her children might continue to use the Scotts’ swimming pool while they were away (the Scotts would consider the request superfluous between friends, but courtesy demanded it) when she saw George Hasted in conversation with her husband and moved away to join them. Before she could do so, however, she was button-holed by Margaret Shawby, who lived with her retired schoolmaster husband in a modern bungalow down Yellham Lane. She was a frail little woman in her late sixties and fluttered her hands nervously as she talked. What a terrible thing to happen, Mrs Shawby said; she had heard of it only that morning from Ivy Bates, who had given her a lift to church. ‘I don’t drive, you see,’ she explained. ‘And Arthur’s in hospital.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Frances said. ‘I didn’t know. I hope it isn’t serious.’
‘Waterworks. He had the operation Thursday. Doing nicely, they say. But it means I’m on my own, you see, and when something like this happens it—well, it makes you think, doesn’t it?’ Frances nodded. The Shawby bungalow was isolated. ‘Only yesterday—no, Friday—two young men knocked on the door and asked if they could shelter somewhere from the rain. Lunchtime, it was, during that downpour. Well, I had the door on the chain, like I always do when I’m alone in the house, but even so I was nervous.’
‘I’m sure you were,’ Frances said. ‘Were they local?’
‘No. Londoners, they said. They said they’d spent the night in a barn and were making for the coast, hoping to find work.’
‘You didn’t let them in, did you?’
‘Oh, no! I felt sorry for them, poor things, they were absolutely soaked. But I couldn’t risk it.’
‘Very sensible,’ Frances said. ‘You know, I think Inspector Hasted might be interested in what you’ve just told me. He’s over there, talking to my husband. Come and have a word with him, will you?’
Hasted was very much interested. He listened intently as Mrs Shawby said her piece. Then he said, ‘Let me drive you home, Mrs Shawby. I’d like to hear more about your visitors. All right?’
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Are you thinking they might have killed poor Mrs Doyle?’
‘I’m in no position to say,’ he told her. ‘But I’m interested in all strangers who were in the neighbourhood on Friday.’ He put out an arm to usher her away. Frances stopped him. ‘Those hot-boxes in the Morris, Mr Hasted,’ she said. ‘When do we get them back?’
‘When will you be needing them again?’ he asked.
‘Tuesday. Tuesday morning. The dishes too, of course. And I need to know now, because if they’re not going to be available I’ll have to ask the social services people to find replacements.’
Hasted nodded. ‘Tuesday should be okay, Mrs Holden. We’ll have got all they can tell us by then.’
‘Well, that’s a relief,’ Frances said. ‘How’s Sybil?’
‘Still expecting. On the brink, one might say.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I wish she’d get a move on. The suspense is killing me.’
The Shawby bungalow was little more than a mile from the church. Mrs Shawby invited him in for coffee and did her best to describe her two visitors. Both had been around twenty years of age, she thought, slimly built and slightly above average height. Both were unshaven and looked as if they had slept rough. The one who did the talking had long untidy fair hair and was dressed in a blue anorak and tightfitting jeans. The other also wore jeans, and a leather jacket with bright metal studs. His hair was slicked down, perhaps by the rain, and he had a gold ring in his left ear.
‘I congratulate you, ma’am,’ Hasted said. ‘You’re very observant. Was their manner intimidating in any way?’
‘Oh, no! The one who spoke to me was quite polite. I’m not very good on accents, but I’d say he was a Cockney.’
‘And the other?’
She fluttered her hands at him. ‘I don’t know, Inspector. He never spoke, you see. Not a word. Just stood there in the rain with a funny sort of smile on his face. I got the impression he wasn’t quite all there. But I could be wrong, of course.’
‘Did you see which way they went when they left?’
‘Yes. Down the lane towards Yellham.’
South. That figured. The lane joined the Yellham road about five hundred yards north of the gateway to the track leading to Philipson’s cottage. And the gateway seemed as likely a spot as any in which the murder might have been committed.
‘Would you know what time they left here?’ he asked.
‘I can tell you exactly,’ she said, with an air of triumph. ‘I looked at the clock, you see, wondering if I’d missed the news. It was thirteen minutes past one.’
Driving to the gateway, Hasted clocked the distance at roughly half a mile. Eight minutes walking time, say—which would have put the men there at around one-twenty. According to Philipson the dead woman had left his cottage shortly after one o’clock. How long would it have taken her to reach the gateway?
Police in shirt-sleeves were meticulously searching the area around the gate, others were spread out along the track. Hasted drove down to the woods, confident that the dead woman would have done the same. Some fifty yards into the trees he came to the end of the track, where tyre marks indicated that a car had turned. He had not previously visited Claud Philipson, but he had studied the map, and he followed the footpath through the trees to the clearing. Even in the warm August sunshine the garden wilderness looked depressing. A waste, he thought, as he stood in the porch waiting for his knock to be answered. No one came, and presently he opened the door and stepped into the narrow hall.
‘Mr Philipson?’ he called.
There was no answer. A door to his right was ajar, and he pushed it open; the room was a bedroom and unoccupied. He called Philipson’s name again and walked along the hall. The door to the next room was closed, and he knocked and opened it. A man and a woman stood facing him a few feet apart. The man was old, white-haired and bearded: Claud Philipson, he supposed. The woman he recognized as Cheryl Mason, wife of the West Deering postmaster.
‘Good morning,’ he said. Cheryl Mason smiled and nodded, a beringed hand smoothing her hair, and he looked at the man. ‘Mr Philipson?’
‘That’s me,’ the man growled. ‘And who might you be, mister? Bought the place, have you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Hasted said. ‘I knocked and I called, but no one answered. So—’
‘So you walked in, eh? Just like that. You got a nerve, mister.’
‘It’s all right, Philly,’ Cheryl said. She was a good-looking blonde of around forty, with a trim figure and prominent breasts that clearly were not confined by a bra. Hasted noticed with interest that some of the buttons down the front of the low-cut summer frock were undone. ‘It’s Mr Hasted. You know—the police.’
‘Oh! Sergeant
, is it?’
‘Inspector.’
‘Come about that woman, have you? The one what was killed?’ Philipson moved slowly to a chair and lowered himself into it. ‘Cheryl here’s been telling me. You got the man that done it?’
‘Not yet,’ Hasted said. ‘But you may be able to help us there, sir. You’re probably the last person to have seen Mrs Doyle alive. Other than the—the killer, that is.’ He had been about to use the plural noun. But Mrs Shawby’s two visitors were only suspect because they had been in the relevant vicinity at the relevant time. There was nothing to connect them with the crime; it would be a mistake to jump to an unwarranted conclusion. ‘When she called here Friday lunchtime was there anything in her manner—anything she said—that might be considered unusual?’
‘Not really, no.’
‘How do you mean, “not really”?’
‘Well, most of them likes a bit of a natter when they come. But not her. It’s dish out the grub, grab the money and off. Friday, though, it was different. Almost chatty, she was.’
‘What did she talk about?’
‘About how I wasn’t to get depressed about my health and how I needed a lady friend to cheer me up.’ The old man grinned, deepening the creases in his craggy face. ‘I asked her if she was offering.’
Hasted smiled. ‘And that’s all?’
‘Ay.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mr Hasted?’ Cheryl asked. She had a rather singsong voice that although pleasing enough in tone could become monotonous. ‘It won’t take a minute.’
Hasted shook his head. He noted with surprise that she wore neither shoes nor stockings. ‘I’ve just had coffee,’ he said. ‘Oh! One more point, Mr Philipson. Can you remember whether Mrs Doyle was carrying a handbag? A red one, probably.’
Philipson considered. ‘No, she wasn’t. Just a purse. She took it out of her mackintosh pocket when I give her the money.’ He exhaled noisily. ‘Sixty-five pence! That’s what it costs now. Bloody robbery, if you ask me.’
‘It’d cost you a lot more in a restaurant,’ Cheryl said.
‘You told Mrs Holden that Mrs Doyle left here shortly after one,’ Hasted said. ‘Could you be more precise?’
‘The news was on,’ Philipson said. ‘Been on a few minutes. Five past, perhaps? Something like that.’
Cheryl accompanied Hasted to the front door. ‘I like to come over Sundays,’ she said. ‘Make sure he’s all right. Summertime I usually come of an evening, while Ed’s visiting his mother in Yellham. He always spends Sunday evenings with his mother. Sunday evenings and Friday lunchtime; never misses if he can help it. But this weekend I’ve got my sister staying, so I thought I’d pop over now while she and Ed are at church.’
‘The service ended nearly an hour ago,’ Hasted said.
‘Did it? Yes, I suppose it did.’ The knowledge did not seem to bother her. ‘I’d best be getting back. They’ll be wanting their lunch.’
‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘I’ve got my car,’ she said. ‘Left it at the Falcon.’
She opened the door. With her body silhouetted against the bright sunlight, Hasted saw that she was wearing nothing underneath the frock, and as he walked back to the car he wondered about her. Was the heat the sole reason for her being so scantily clad? According to Sybil, if local gossip had it right then Cheryl Mason was doing more for the old man than feeding him, but although there was probably enough smoke to give credence to the suspicion of fire, it seemed unlikely that a man as old and as sick as Claud Philipson could kindle much of a flame. And what of the husband? The gossip must surely have reached him. The majority view in the village, Sybil said, was that he countenanced the affair, however reluctantly, in the hope of financial gain on the old man’s death; it was common knowledge that business at the post office stores was on the slide. Others, Sybil said, believed that he had no choice—that despite her apparently easy-going manner Cheryl dominated him completely, that his protests had no effect on her decisions. That, they said, accounted for his general irritability.
The news of Mrs Shawby’s visitors delighted Driver. Forensic had found straw and traces of animal excreta in the Morris, which tied in with the youths’ statements that they had spent the night in a barn. ‘And there are prints galore,’ he added. ‘If those two yobbo’s are our killers, which it’s a hundred to one they are, it looks like being in the bag.’
‘We have to catch them first,’ Hasted said.
‘Ah! There speaks the voice of caution,’ Driver said cheerfully. ‘True, we have to catch them. Well, that shouldn’t be too difficult. They’re not super-criminals, George. They’re just a couple of—’ The telephone rang. ‘Yes. Yes, he’s here.’ He handed the receiver to Hasted. ‘For you.’
It was Frances Holden. They had been trying to contact him for the past hour or more, Frances said, ever since Sybil’s pains had started. But not to worry. Tom had called an ambulance to take her into Limpsted General. ‘I don’t suppose you’re a father yet,’ she said. ‘But it won’t be long. Congratulations!’
He thanked her and put down the receiver. His hands were sweating and he felt light-headed, and as he told Driver the news the words tumbled over themselves. ‘All right with you if I clear off?’ he said. ‘I’d like to be there. Not at the actual birth—that isn’t my scene—not Sybil’s either. We discussed all that before Jason was born. But I’d like—’
‘Stop prattling, George,’ Driver said. ‘Off with you, lad. Run along and be a daddy.’
*
Cheryl Mason was seldom up of a morning in time to get breakfast ready for her husband. Most days he had eaten and was out of the house before she arrived downstairs, which was usually in her dressing gown. That was how it was that Monday morning. She wandered into the kitchen to find her sister hunched over the table, a large mug of black coffee held between her hands. A frying pan and the remains of Ed’s breakfast were in the sink. Cheryl shuddered when she saw them.
‘God, I feel awful!’ she said huskily.
‘You look awful,’ Blanche Seaton said.
Cheryl peered into a mirror. Her eyes looked sunken, there were dark shadows beneath. ‘My head’s splitting.’
‘So’s mine,’ Blanche said. There was a similarity of features between the sisters, but Blanche was older and plumper. She too was wearing a dressing gown. ‘Want some coffee? It’s instant. I couldn’t find the percolator.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll do it.’ Cheryl switched on the kettle and spooned coffee granules into a mug. ‘Do you want anything to eat?’
‘Ugh! Even the thought of food makes me want to throw up.’ Blanche sipped coffee. ‘What was that stuff we were drinking last night?’
‘Gut-rot. Some of Ed’s cheap plonk.’
‘What time did we get to bed?’
‘God knows! Well after two, anyway.’
‘Was Ed awake?’
‘No. Snoring his head off. What was he like this morning? Or didn’t you see him?’
‘Polite but distant. He obviously disapproved of our booze-up. Does he usually go to bed before you?’
‘Ed’s a creature of habit.’ Cheryl poured boiling water into the mug and sat opposite her sister. ‘What time do you want to leave?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m spending the night with Phyllis. Going back to Aberdeen tomorrow.’
‘A pity you live so far away,’ Cheryl said. ‘How long since we last met? Four years? Five?’
‘Something like that.’ Blanche lit a cigarette. ‘How is it between you and Ed these days. Still bad?’
Cheryl shrugged. ‘Well, we don’t bicker any more. Or not often. We’re past that. There’s the occasional flare-up, but mostly we just don’t bother. Or I don’t; he still gets the odd fit of jealousy. Otherwise—well, he goes his way and I go mine.’
‘Not much of a marriage,’ Blanche said.
‘Not much of anything. He’s selfish and boring and bloody mean.’
‘He bought you that car.�
�
‘He didn’t. I paid for it myself, out of mother’s money.’ Cheryl frowned. ‘Didn’t we go through all of this last night?’
‘Did we? I don’t remember. Yes, I suppose we did. Oh! There’s a letter for you. There— behind you. Ed said it was on the mat when he came down this morning.’
Cheryl reached back to the dresser. The envelope was flimsy, almost transparent. Her name was on it, printed in capitals, but there was no address and no stamp. She put it down and picked up the mug and sipped.
‘Must have been shoved through the letter box,’ she said. ‘I bet Ed thinks it’s from a man.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Probably.’
‘Your boyfriend?’
Cheryl shook her head, and winced. ‘He wouldn’t risk a note. He’d be scared Ed might open it and spread the news to his father-in-law. That could cost him the garage. His father-in-law owns it. He’s just the manager.’
‘Who, then?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Why don’t you open it, then?’
Cheryl slit open the envelope. It contained a single sheet of thin lined paper. For a full minute she stared at the few words printed on it. Then she put it down and looked at her sister.
‘What is it?’ Blanche said. ‘Something wrong?’
Cheryl slid the paper across the table. Blanche picked it up and read it.
‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed.
Chapter Four
Driver’s optimism was justified. The men were picked up on the Tuesday. After a midday drinking session they had settled in a shelter on the sea front, where they had been spotted by an off-duty police constable who happened to have chosen the same shelter. Because he too had had a few beers he was not particularly alert, and it was not until one of the men produced a gold propelling pencil to make notes in the margin of his newspaper that his curiosity was aroused and he realized that their appearances tallied with the descriptions of the two wanted men. Half an hour later they were in the local nick. Another two hours and they were at divisional headquarters, waiting to be interrogated.
