A Choice of Victims
Page 9
Hasted thanked him. ‘I’ve been talking to Andrew, Derek,’ he said. ‘I gather you were over at the Falcon with him lunchtime on Friday. He said you—’
‘That’s right,’ Derek interrupted. ‘I wanted to talk to George Glover about his Vauxhall. Ruddy thing’ll never pass the test. Rust everywhere.’
‘He said you left early to meet someone. He seemed to think—’
‘Meet someone?’ Plummer said sharply. ‘I thought you went over to Corston to look at that Metro.’
‘So I did,’ Derek said.
‘Oh! Well, maybe I got it wrong,’ Hasted said, recognizing his faux pas and hoping to correct it. ‘You know he got pickled after you left?’
‘Yes. But then I reckon it wouldn’t take much to get him going,’ Derek said, welcoming the change of topic. ‘He’s not used to drinking. But he certainly looked as if he’d overdone it that morning.’
‘Oh! You saw him, did you? After he got back?’
‘Saw him? Oh, yes. Yes, I did. He was making for the Green as I turned into the garage on my return from Corston. He looked as white as a sheet. He wasn’t too steady on his pins, either.’
‘He didn’t look all that good when I saw him,’ Hasted said. ‘And that was some eight hours later. What time did you see him?’
‘Well, now!’ Derek was watching his father-in-law, who had started to clean the windscreen. ‘I think—yes, that’s right. It was a few minutes after one. Joe was a trifle peevish, I remember. He’d wanted to leave early for lunch. They had a cousin down from Scotland.’
Hasted drove on up the Green to the post office stores. The shop was empty of customers and Ed Mason, a thin beanpole of a man with enormous eyebrows and a hangdog expression, was hovering in the doorway. Hasted gave him the list of goods Eileen had prepared. ‘She’ll collect them this afternoon,’ he said. ‘When she takes Jason for his walk.’
‘It’s Wednesday,’ Mason said. ‘Early closing.’ He looked up at the clock behind the post office counter. ‘And it’s close on one now.’
‘Damn! I forgot. Well, get the stuff together now, will you, and I’ll run it back.’
Mason took the list and disappeared to the rear of the shop. Hasted chatted with Mrs Barnes. Inevitably she brought up the subject of Elizabeth Doyle’s murder, and they were discussing that and the subsequent arrests when Cheryl Mason came into the shop. She hesitated when she saw Hasted, a look of doubt—or perhaps it was apprehension—on her handsome face. Then the look passed and she smiled.
‘Morning, Mr Hasted,’ she said. ‘How’s your wife? And the baby?’
‘Both flourishing, thank you.’
‘I’m glad you’ve got those men who killed Mrs Doyle,’ she said. ‘I liked her, you know. Well, not liked, perhaps, I didn’t know her well enough. But I admired her. She knew what she wanted and she made sure she got it.’
‘She got killed,’ Mason said, joining them. ‘She didn’t want that.’
‘You know what I mean,’ Cheryl said tartly.
Recalling his last meeting with her, Hasted said, ‘Your wife was telling me you go over to Yellham on Fridays, Mr Mason. To lunch with your mother. Did you go last Friday?’
‘I did. Why?’
‘If you left here shortly after one, when the shop closed, you should have seen those two men. On the road, perhaps, or in the car. Did you?’
‘No. But it was raining hard, of course. I could have missed them.’
‘You didn’t notice the car? A grey Morris 1100?’
‘No.’
‘You wouldn’t have done, would you, Mr Mason?’ Mrs Barnes said. ‘You left early that morning. Remember? Just after half-past twelve. You asked me to lock up.’
‘Why was that, Ed?’ Cheryl asked. ‘I’ve never known you leave early before.’
‘Nothing in particular,’ Mason said curtly. ‘Anyway, how would you know when I leave? You’re never here.’ He handed Hasted the box of groceries. ‘That’ll be four pounds seventy-two pence, please, Mr Hasted.’
Hasted paid and carried the box out to the car. He was closing the lid of the boot when Cheryl came out. She looked nervous. She said haltingly, ‘There’s something that—well, I wanted to ask you...’
She stopped. Mason was watching them from the doorway.
‘Yes?’ Hasted prompted.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, it doesn’t matter.’
What had she intended to ask him? Hasted wondered as he drove away. It had obviously been something she did not want her husband to hear. And Mason. Was it significant that he had left the shop early that Friday? He had said there was no particular reason, but both his tone and his manner had suggested he could be lying.
A curious and rather unpleasant couple, Hasted reflected. And certainly not a happy one.
Chapter Five
Driver stood at the window, staring up at the sky. For the first time since that tragic Friday there were clouds, but although they temporarily obscured the sun they did not minimise the heat. He wondered what it would be like down on the coast. Too calm for sailing. And probably a haze coming in off the sea. It might even be cool.
He turned away. ‘We’ve heard from Winchester,’ he said. ‘They’re unable to confirm that Doyle was there over the weekend. The Fishers are on holiday abroad. Left on Monday. No known destination, but believed to be touring Italy.’
‘No nosy neighbours?’
‘Apparently not. Or not nosy enough.’
‘A pity,’ Hasted said. ‘He seems genuine; after all, Fisher confirmed his story. But it’s nice to be one hundred per cent sure.’
‘It’s an imperfect world,’ Driver said. ‘How about the son?’
‘Andrew? According to Grover, the landlord at the Falcon, he left the pub around a quarter to one. In a somewhat inebriated condition, too. Shortly after one o’clock he was seen in West Deering. If those times are correct he’s in the clear.’
‘Could the times be out?’
‘Possibly. But they’d have to be out by something like half an hour to make him a serious contender.’
‘OK, forget him. What’s this fellow Mason like?’
Hasted told him. ‘I was surprised to see him at the inquest,’ he said. ‘He knew her, of course, but only as a customer presumably. Seems an odd way to spend a free afternoon.’
‘Morbid curiosity, perhaps. Was his wife there?’
‘No. At least, I didn’t see her. But then they’re not that sort of a couple. She plays away from home while he sits and broods.’
‘You can’t know that, George.’
‘Not the brooding, perhaps, although that’s the impression he gives. But the playing away—that’s fact.’
‘Philipson, you mean?’
‘Him and others.’
‘So where do you place him in the chummy stakes?’
‘Practically a non-starter. No conceivable motive. If he hadn’t left the shop early that morning he wouldn’t even be on the list. Dixon’s checking with his mother, but I think we can forget him.’
‘And the Bateses?’
‘Rory—that’s the son—he’s in the clear. Both the brigadier and Billy Young confirm that he never left the Follicks’ place. But Sam—the father—he’s a bit of a problem. His story is that after leaving the bank at around twelve-thirty he spent the next three-quarters of an hour in St Margaret’s before driving home.’
‘St Margaret’s Church? What the devil was he doing there?’ Driver grinned. ‘Correction. Delete all reference to the devil.’
‘Meditating. Meditating, praying and wandering around. Or so he says.’
‘And he expects us to swallow that?’
‘Sounds indigestible, doesn’t it? Anyone else, and I’d have told him to pull the other one. But Sam—well, he’s different. Got religion in a big way. Churchwarden, lay preacher—a teetotaller and a non-smoker—attends both Matins and Evensong on Sundays and any weekly service that happens to be going.’ Hasted shook his head. ‘You know, i
t’s just conceivable he’s telling the truth.’
‘If he’s that devout he wouldn’t lie, would he?’ Driver said. ‘Nor commit a murder. Unless it’s all a pose.’
‘If it is he’s had it a long while.’
‘True.’ Driver stroked his chin, feeling the incipient stubble. ‘I’m sorry I can’t give you more help, George. On the ground, I mean. But until Greenway is back—well, you know how it is.’
‘Not to worry,’ Hasted said. ‘It’s a good team.’
‘Yes. And it’s your own patch. You know the people. That should help.’
On his way out of the station Hasted was hailed by an elderly uniformed sergeant. ‘We’ve had an enquiry from Tunbridge Wells about one of your neighbours, George,’ the sergeant said. ‘Chap named Doyle. Know him, do you?’
‘I know him. What’s he done?’
‘Well, apparently he witnessed an accident on the A264 last Saturday afternoon, but cleared off before their chaps arrived. Claimed to be in a hurry. Gave his name and address to the injured party and then hopped it. T. Wells want us to check his credentials.’
‘OK,’ Hasted said. ‘I’ll be seeing him this evening. I’ll mention it. But you can tell T. Wells he’s genuine.’
Not until he was en route for West Deering did he realize the significance of what the sergeant had told him.
*
Despite the heat of the afternoon they did not take tea in the garden. Unless they were on a picnic—and Andrew could not recall when last that had happened—they never ate meals out of doors. Elizabeth had disliked the practice—uncomfortable and plebeian, Elizabeth had said, and all those disgusting insects—and what Elizabeth had disliked was never done. Now, although Elizabeth had gone, the habit remained.
David was reading a letter. It was a long letter, handwritten on blue paper. He had read it during breakfast and again at lunch and, for all Andrew knew, many other times as well. He wondered at the contents that made it so important. Would his father confide in him? Or was it too personal?
David reached for his cup and lifted it to his lips. ‘Pass the scones, Andrew, will you?’ he said between sips.
Andrew passed them. ‘Did I tell you the police want your fingerprints?’ he asked. ‘For elimination purposes, Mr Hasted said.’
‘You told me.’ David buttered a scone and returned to the letter. ‘I’ll look in later.’
‘I went this afternoon.’
‘So you said.’
Andrew waited until the letter was back in its envelope. Then he said, ‘May I talk to you, Dad?’
‘Of course.’ David took another scone. He enjoyed afternoon tea and Mrs Trotter’s scones were special. ‘You’ve been talking, haven’t you?’
‘About us, I mean. For instance, are we going to stay on here?’
‘Ah! Well, I haven’t thought about that yet. It’s early days. Why? Do you want to move?’
‘That depends.’ Andrew watched his father pour tea. ‘I suppose you’ll get all Elizabeth’s money, won’t you?’
‘Probably. She may have left something to her sister.’
‘So you’ll be rich, eh?’
David eyed him speculatively. ‘That’s a loaded question if ever I heard one. What’s on your mind, Andrew?’
‘I was wondering whether you’d let me join that racing drivers’ school.’
‘Ah! I thought that might come up.’ David sighed. ‘Well, in the first place, six thousand a year is a hell of a lot of money. Particularly when we’ve no idea that you’ve got what it takes.’
‘I have. I know I have. And that fellow at Brands Hatch said I was a natural.’
‘Maybe. But even if you have—well, the money doesn’t stop at six thousand, does it? That’s just for starters. Above all, it’s a chancy business. I’m not referring to the danger—though there’s always that—but—’
‘The danger doesn’t frighten me.’
‘Perhaps not. But only the top few make big money. The rest...’ David shook his head. ‘Like I said, it’s too damned chancy, Andrew.’
Andrew’s fists clenched under the table. ‘So the answer’s no, is it?’
‘Not necessarily,’ David said petulantly. ‘Don’t push me, dammit! I need time to consider. I also need to know how I stand financially, and that won’t be for a while yet.’ He mopped perspiration from his forehead and reached for his pipe. ‘There is also an aspect that may not have occurred to you.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We would be spending Elizabeth’s money on something she was dead against. Unethical, wouldn’t you say?’
Andrew did not answer. He knew his father. His father’s objections were not concerned with danger or possible failure, and the reference to ethics was a laugh. Just about every penny of Elizabeth’s money would be spent contrary to her wishes were she alive to voice them. Certainly the school would be expensive—an expert had put the cost at around ten thousand plus—but Elizabeth’s fortune could surely stand that. What concerned his father was that it might take some of the gilt off the gingerbread, put a limit on the luxury that now promised. And David Doyle was not a man willingly to deny himself.
‘That’s the front door bell,’ David said. ‘See who it is, will you?’
It was Hasted. Glad of the interruption, David’s welcome was uncustomarily affable. ‘Tea, Inspector?’ he asked. Hasted refused tea. ‘Andrew’s been telling me about this fingerprinting business. I’ll be across shortly.’
‘If you would, sir,’ Hasted’s tone was cool. ‘But right now I’m here about another matter. Could I have a word with you in private?’
‘Of course,’ David said. ‘Off you go, Andrew. And don’t look so bloody grim. We’ll work something out.’ As the door closed behind his son he turned to Hasted. ‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
‘We’ve had an enquiry from the Tunbridge Wells police,’ Hasted said. ‘I understand you witnessed an accident on the A264 last Saturday afternoon. That’s correct, isn’t it?’
‘Quite correct,’ David said. ‘I know I should have waited for your fellows to arrive. But you know the sort of hurry I was in to get home. I left my name and address, though. So why the enquiry?’
‘To check that the particulars were correct,’ Hasted said. ‘But what concerns me right now is how you came to be on the A264 on your way back from Winchester.’
‘Ah!’ David took a deep breath and licked his lips. ‘Yes, I can see that needs some explaining.’
‘Then perhaps you would care to explain, sir.’
As Hasted had probably guessed, David said, he had not gone to Winchester that weekend, but had been staying with a friend at a hotel in Kent. It was an arrangement he had used before, and on each occasion he had told his wife he was visiting the Fishers in Winchester. ‘They didn’t like my wife, I’m afraid, which was why they agreed to the deception. And although I’m certain Elizabeth never rumbled me there was always the danger that something might crop up here which would prompt her to try and contact me.’
‘Inconvenient,’ Hasted said drily.
‘Very. So it was arranged that should she telephone the Fishers; they would say I was out and that I would ring back when I came in. They would then contact me at my hotel and I would ring my wife from there—pretending, of course, that I was in Winchester.’ David sucked on his pipe, discovered it had gone out and put it down. ‘Actually, the situation never arose. Not until last weekend, that is, when you tried to ring me about Elizabeth being missing.’
‘And you followed the arranged procedure, I suppose.’
‘Yes. I—we were out walking when Harry—Harry Fisher—rang. But the hotel took the message.’
Hasted nodded. ‘This friend you were staying with. A lady, was it?’
‘Yes.’ The admission did not seem to embarrass him. ‘And in case it offends your moral sensibility, Inspector, I should explain that my marriage was purely one of convenience, for my wife as well as for myself. Love was not involved.’
‘Your morals are no concern of mine, Mr Doyle,’ he said stiffly. ‘But I’ll need the lady’s name and address.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d have thought that was obvious, sir. The movements of anyone who might conceivably have had a motive for killing your wife will have to be investigated.’
‘And I fall into that category, do I?’
Hasted shrugged. ‘I’m afraid you do. By your own admission you were having an affair with another lady, and you lied about your whereabouts on the day your wife was killed.’ He realized he was being pompous. But once in that vein it was difficult to snap out of it. ‘Presumably you also benefit financially by her death. I understand Mrs Doyle was a wealthy woman.’
‘I see. Well, I didn’t kill her, Inspector. I was miles away at the time. However, if it’s an alibi you want, the lady’s name is Frost. Marjorie Frost.’ David took a blue envelope from his pocket, extracted the letter, tore off the heading and handed it to Hasted. ‘That’s her address. And at the risk of increasing your suspicion, Inspector, I may as well admit that in due course we hope to marry.’ His laugh sounded hollow. ‘I say that now because I am sure you—’ He broke off. ‘Andrew! What the devil do you mean by interrupting us? Get out, boy! We haven’t finished.’
Neither man had heard the door open. Andrew stood just inside the room, and the expression on his face suggested he had heard at least part of the conversation and disliked what he had heard. He scowled at his father. Then, without a word, he left the room.
‘You were saying?’ Hasted prompted.
‘Nothing. It doesn’t matter. Anything else, Inspector?’
‘I’d like the name of the hotel where you and Miss Frost were staying.’
David told him. ‘We registered under the name of Watson,’ he said. ‘My mother’s maiden name.’
‘What time did you arrive there?’