A Choice of Victims

by J F Straker

  ‘Yes,’ Hasted said. ‘I think I do.’

  ‘So he writes this note and then chickens out.’ Burbidge shook his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense, that.’

  ‘It does if he was stuck with the baby.’

  Hasted felt deflated. On their way to the Rye they had visited Mason’s mother, who had confirmed that her son had spent Sunday evening with her as usual. The information had not surprised him; Marston had seemed a far more likely suspect. But now...

  ‘Let’s check with the daughter,’ he said.

  As Hasted had expected, Monica Ebbutt confirmed that her father had been at home with the baby when they returned from evensong at around seven o’clock, the time at which Cheryl Mason claimed to have left the Philipson cottage. Even allowing for a favourable adjustment of as much as five minutes in the timings at both ends, Marston would really have had to travel to cover the distance in ten minutes. Well, perhaps, as Driver had suggested, he was a fast mover. But he would also have had to pass Andrew and the woman en route—something the woman would surely have mentioned.

  So where now? Hasted wondered. His interest in the abortive attack on Cheryl Mason had been engendered primarily by his suspicion that the man would also prove to be Elizabeth Doyle’s killer, attempting to rectify his original error. But only Mason and Marston seemed to fit into that category; Mason from jealousy, Marston from avarice. And if he now had to look for another suspect, did it not follow that his thinking had been wrong and that he also had to look for another reason to account for the events of the previous evening?

  ‘What now, sir?’ Burbidge asked. They were sitting in the stationary car, with Hasted staring unseeing through the windscreen.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘What now, sir?’

  ‘What now?’ Hasted took time to consider. ‘I’ll tell you what now, Peter. I want you to take the car to West Deering, collect Mrs Mason, and bring her back here. Be polite, but firm. Tell her we need to know exactly where the events of yesterday evening took place, and that we need to know now. If she’s reluctant—well, you know the form.’

  ‘Yes.’ Burbidge hesitated. ‘Where will you be, sir?’

  ‘At the Falcon,’ Hasted said. ‘Drinking beer in the garden.’

  He did more thinking than drinking. He was still on his first pint when Burbidge returned with the woman, and he downed it quickly and joined them. Cheryl Mason’s mood was almost sullen. She had not wanted to come, she told Hasted. Anyway, what was the point of it, since she would not be visiting the cottage again? The point, Hasted said, was to clarify exactly what had happened the previous evening. If that no longer interested her he was sorry. But it interested him, so could they please get started?

  The promised rain still held off. But the sky was overcast and the air considerably cooler, and they walked along the ride as briskly as Cheryl Mason’s high heels permitted. Conversation was desultory. Burbidge was a taciturn man and Hasted was engrossed in speculation, and the woman continued to sulk. She took the lead when they turned on to the track that led to the cottage. Hasted was surprised at the density of the wood. The trees seemed to crowd in on them, their foliage forming a heavy canopy overhead.

  Cheryl slowed and looked about her. Then she walked a few paces and stopped.

  ‘Here,’ she said.

  At the far end of the narrow tunnel through the trees Hasted had a glimpse of the white walls of a cottage. ‘Where was the man?’ he asked.

  ‘Over there.’

  Burbidge moved off in the direction she indicated. When he had gone some fifteen yards she called to him to stop. Although visible, a step to either side would have placed him behind a tree.

  ‘Now go back to where you met Andrew,’ Hasted said. She did not go far. ‘About here,’ she said.

  ‘And the man?’

  ‘How should I know? I didn’t look, did I?’

  ‘But you could hear him?’

  ‘Yes. I told you, he was like a bull in a china shop.’

  ‘Do you think he might have been more interested in frightening you than in catching you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, would I?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ Hasted said. ‘I don’t suppose you would.’

  They walked back to the car. For Hasted the experiment seemed to support the suspicion that had been forming in his mind. Thinking back he realized that there had been other incidents that could also support it. Could—but not necessarily did. And that was the devil of it. How did he get to know?

  Frances Holden was preparing lunch. She smiled when she saw him. ‘You didn’t come yesterday,’ she said, in mock reproof.

  Hasted laughed. ‘Yesterday was Sunday.’

  ‘So it was! Silly of me. Well, how can I help you on Monday?’

  ‘Well, for a start, how’s the new fridge?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m still waiting for it to arrive.’ She looked to where Burbidge and Cheryl Mason sat watching from the car. ‘Is this a social call, then?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I have a problem. I’m hoping you can help to solve it.’

  ‘I’m not all that hot on problems,’ Frances said. ‘But I’ll do my best.’

  *

  Sybil Hasted hummed to herself as she cleared away the remains of the evening meal. She was in a happy mood. For the first time in weeks George had spent a whole afternoon at home—and on a Monday, too. The children had been angelic—hardly a peep out of Martin James—and the morning post had brought her a letter from an old friend with whom she had lost contact after her wedding. All in all it had been quite a day.

  ‘Coffee?’ she called from the kitchen.

  ‘Please,’ Hasted said.

  He too was in a jubilant mood. They had taken the children out after lunch, and he had then rung the station to say he would not be coming in and had settled down to study his notes in context with the idea that had come to him that morning. Now, some five hours later, he was confident that he knew who had killed Elizabeth Doyle. There were snags, of course, the worst of which was the lack of solid evidence, and although it was clear that a second person had been somehow involved, and although he had a fairly shrewd idea who that person might be, the how and the why eluded him. But at least he would no longer be thrashing around in the dark. He knew his quarry. Now all he had to do was nail him.

  Sybil brought the coffee. Just the one cup. ‘Aren’t you having any?’ he asked.

  ‘Not tonight.’ She peered out of the window, where clouds moved across the sky in a freshening breeze. ‘Looks like the end of the heat wave, doesn’t it? I know we need the rain, but I’m going to miss all that lovely sunshine.’

  ‘It’ll be back,’ he said. ‘It’s not the end of the summer.’

  ‘No, thank goodness!’ She left the window. ‘When will the Scotts be back? Do you know?’

  ‘Sometime tomorrow, according to Driver.’

  ‘Poor things! What a homecoming!’ She ruffled his hair. ‘I tell you what, lazy. You should have mown the lawn this afternoon. It could be raining tomorrow.’

  ‘Too dry,’ he said. He knew it was a lame excuse, but mowing was something he was always happy to miss.

  ‘I said mow it, not shave it.’ She bent to kiss him. ‘I’ll wash up while you drink your coffee. Then we’ll have a nice long evening together. Just the three of us.’

  ‘Three of us?’

  ‘You, me and the box.’

  She sang as she wielded the washing-up mop:

  ‘Gin a body meet a body,

  Comin’ thro’ the rye.

  Gin a body greet a body,

  Need a body cry?

  Ilka lassie has her laddie,

  Ne’er a ane hae I.

  But a’ the lads they smile on me

  When comin’ thro’ the rye.’

  She had a clear and pleasing voice and Hasted liked to hear her sing. But after the opening lines imagination took hold and the rest of the words were lost to him. That was how it should have been, he thought. But unfortunately
for Elizabeth Doyle it had not happened. And so she had died.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘All right,’ Greenway said. ‘There’s a discrepancy that needs explaining. So why haven’t you checked with this fellow Mollison?’

  ‘He’s away, sir,’ Hasted said. ‘Left Saturday, after the garage closed, to visit his mother in hospital. But he’ll be back this morning. I’ll talk to him later.’

  ‘What if he sticks to his story?’ Driver asked.

  ‘He won’t. He was lying, and I’m pretty sure I know why.’

  ‘But if he does?’ Driver persisted.

  Hasted shook his head. The situation would not arise, he knew that. But he could not expect the others to share his conviction.

  ‘All right,’ Driver said. ‘Let’s say you get the answer you expect. We then have motive and opportunity. But it’s a bit thin on real evidence, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thin?’ Greenway snorted. ‘It’s non-existent. You’d need a full confession to get anywhere with that lot.’

  ‘I know, sir.’ Hasted was unperturbed. This was the reaction he had expected. ‘And that’s not impossible either. I’m hopeful, anyway.’

  ‘And if you don’t get it?’

  ‘We’re back to square one, sir. Looking for evidence.’

  ‘Hm! I think it was Benjamin Franklin who said that he who lives upon hope will die fasting.’ Greenway leaned forward to tap the bowl of his pipe against the ash tray.

  Nothing emerged, and he stuck the empty pipe back in his mouth and sucked. ‘And by evidence I assume you mean all evidence, George. Not just that which seems to support your own particular fancy.’

  ‘Of course,’ Hasted said.

  ‘Never blind yourself to the possibility that you could be wrong. It happens to the best of us. “Explore all avenues” may be a cliché, George, but it’s not a bad motto for a policeman.’

  ‘No, sir.’ Typical Greenway, Hasted thought.

  ‘Good. Well now—evidence. Nothing from the general public? Didn’t anybody see anything?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Driver said. ‘But that’s not surprising, is it? It happened at lunchtime and in pouring rain. There’d be few people about.’

  ‘No sign of the weapon?’

  Nor likely to be, Driver said. The pathologist’s report showed that the dead woman had suffered at least two blows to the back of the head with some form of wooden club, probably a heavy stick, with a projecting spur that had penetrated hood and skin and had drawn blood. ‘We’ve searched the area where she was killed—or where we’re pretty sure she was killed—to a radius of some twenty or thirty yards, which is a hell of a lot further than you could throw a stick in a wood that dense, but none of the likely weapons we’ve tested has traces of blood on it. So what do we do? Extend the search? Send every heavy stick in the wood to be tested?’ He shrugged. ‘It’s like searching a hive for one particular bee.’

  ‘It may not even be there, of course,’ Hasted said. ‘Chummy could have taken it away and destroyed it.’

  ‘Anyway, what have you got if you find it?’ Driver persisted. ‘Dabs? I doubt it. The key to the Morris boot would be a far better bet.’

  ‘And that’s equally elusive,’ Hasted added.

  There was silence while the chief superintendent put down his pipe, selected a cigar from a box on the table and lit it with due ceremony. ‘Edna disapproves of cigars,’ he said. ‘They stink the place out, she says, as well as being bad for my health.’ He puffed contentedly. ‘About those two tearaways, Driver. They come up again tomorrow, don’t they? Will you ask for a further remand?’

  ‘No, sir. I want them out. They’ll be charged with taking the car and with theft from the woman’s handbag. Neither of them has form, so they’ll probably get six months suspended.’

  ‘You’re sure they’re clean on the murder?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Driver said.

  ‘And how far do you go with George’s intuition?’

  ‘Not intuition, sir,’ Hasted said. ‘Reasoned diagnosis.’

  ‘It makes sense,’ Driver said. ‘Particularly after that business of Sunday evening. But I don’t see it as gospel. It’s top of the list, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, keeping looking. There has to be something somewhere.’ Greenway took the cigar from his lips and contemplated the ash. ‘I’ll be back on Monday. If you haven’t wrapped it up by then I suspect God will want to bring in outside help.’ He nodded at the dismay on their faces. ‘God’ was Sir Gerald O’Donnell, the chief constable. ‘Yes, I know. I don’t like it any more than you do. But what God wants, God gets.’

  Hasted left Driver in Limpsted and drove back to West Deering in his Cortina. On the way the engine started to miss, and he limped into the village and stopped outside the garage. Plugs, probably, Derek said. He sounded breathless, as if he had been running—which obviously he had not. But Hasted was in no mood to bother with minor mysteries. ‘How long will it take to fix?’ he asked.

  ‘Not long if it’s plugs,’ Derek said.

  ‘I’ll wait, then. I have to talk to you, Derek.’

  Derek frowned. ‘Not now, George. I can’t tackle it right away, I’ve another customer to sort out first. Why not go home, have a coffee or something? I’ll give you a ring when it’s ready. We can talk then.’

  Reluctantly, Hasted agreed. ‘But I’ll be at the Manor,’ he said. ‘I prefer Mrs Trotter’s coffee. And make it snappy, Derek, will you? I’m a busy man.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Derek said.

  Tom Holden and David Doyle were drinking coffee in the sitting room when Hasted arrived at the Manor. The doctor had been putting a fresh dressing on David’s left forearm, which had been badly torn by barbed wire. ‘It happened on Saturday,’ David explained for Hasted’s benefit. ‘I slipped climbing a gate. Bloody thing hurts like hell.’

  Mrs Trotter brought another cup. Watching David pour, Hasted said, ‘Has the new fridge arrived yet, Doctor?’

  ‘Yes, thank goodness! Amazing how we’ve come to rely on the damned things. How’s the family, by the way?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ David said. ‘I hear we have to congratulate you, Inspector. Another boy, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’ From where he sat Hasted could see the clouds massing overhead, black and menacing. A few scattered raindrops landed on the window. ‘We’re both delighted.’

  ‘I’m sure you are.’ David leaned back and crossed one knee over the other. ‘However, now that we’ve got the social bit over, let’s get down to business, shall we? I presume this is an official visit.’

  ‘I wanted a word with Andrew about Sunday evening,’ Hasted said.

  ‘Andrew’s out, I’m afraid. He’ll probably be back for lunch, but don’t count on it. Andrew’s a law unto himself these days. Anyway, what about Sunday evening?’

  ‘He rescued a lady in distress.’

  ‘Did he, though! So my son’s a Sir Galahad, is he? What happened? Who was the lady?’

  Hasted told him. ‘At least, that’s Mrs Mason’s version,’ he said. ‘I was hoping to get Andrew’s.’

  ‘I’ll tell him.’ David brought out his pipe and started to fill it. ‘I’ll also suggest he might be a bit more communicative to his old man. He never mentioned it to me.’

  Holden drained his cup. ‘It’s been one hell of a week, hasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Or fortnight, rather. Your wife’s tragic death, David—the robbery at Holland Farm—and now this. And although I don’t wish to knock the police, Inspector, it’s true, isn’t it, that so far you’ve no solution to any of them?’

  ‘No,’ Hasted said.

  ‘No? Does that mean no, it isn’t true, or “no, you haven’t a solution”?’

  ‘No, it isn’t true.’

  That shook them. ‘Could you expand on that, Inspector?’ Holden said. ‘Or would that be indiscreet?’

  ‘If you want names, Doctor, yes, that would be indiscreet. But I’ll tell you this. Mrs Mason was in no danger on Sunday eve
ning. The man had no intention of assaulting her.’

  That shook them even more. ‘But you can’t know that!’ Holden protested. ‘It’s just guesswork.’

  ‘It’s logic, Doctor,’ Hasted said, gratified by their reaction. It augured well for his purpose. ‘Put yourself in the man’s place. If you intended to attack her would you wait until she had passed you and then go after her, making enough noise to alert her and anyone else who chanced to be around? Wouldn’t it be more logical to step out and confront her?’

  They digested this in silence. Then David said, ‘So you think he just wanted to frighten her? Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why? What would be the point?’

  ‘If she believed—as she did—that, thanks to Andrew, she had had a lucky escape from God knows what, the news would almost certainly get around.’

  ‘And what purpose would that serve?’

  Hasted smiled and shook his head. ‘Sorry. That’s where the indiscretion starts.’

  ‘Well, it all sounds very mysterious,’ Holden said. ‘But how about—’

  He broke off as Mrs Trotter came in. ‘There’s a telephone call for you, Doctor,’ she said.

  ‘For me?’ Holden shrugged and stood up. ‘Excuse me, David.’

  David lit his pipe. ‘Wonder how they knew he was here,’ he said, sucking hard.

  Hasted made no comment. Moments later Holden was back. ‘There’s been an accident at the garage,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to go. Thanks for the coffee, David. I’ll call in tomorrow to check on that arm.’

  ‘An accident to Mollison?’ Hasted asked.

  ‘No. A customer,’ Holden said. And was gone.

  David sat contemplating his pipe, his brow creased in a frown. Hasted watched the windows, already blurred by the rain. He knew what was in the other’s mind, and he sipped coffee and waited expectantly for the questions.

  David coughed and cleared his throat. ‘About my wife, Inspector. You seemed to imply earlier that you know who killed her. Or did I misunderstand you?’

  Hasted carefully replaced the cup in the dead centre of its saucer. ‘No, Mr Doyle,’ he said. ‘You didn’t misunderstand me. I know who killed her.’