by Jill McGown
Lloyd was of the opinion that meetings with the ACC would last a third of the time if he would leave out all the unnecessary words. And learning which of the ones he left in were singular and which were plural wouldn’t hurt either.
“We have to tread a very fine line between giving the public adequate warning and alarming them,” said Yardley. “And between ensuring their safety and going for broke over what turns out to be a hoax. Naming the town would be counterproductive in my view.”
“Either way, we won’t win,” said Lloyd. “If it is a hoax, we’ll have thrown too many resources at it. If, God forbid, someone dies, we’ll not have done enough.”
“If he does kill again, at least we might find a few more leads than we have with Mrs. Fenton,” said Yardley.
There was a bright side to everything, thought Lloyd.
“Obviously the ongoing investigation into Mrs. Fenton’s death is our best hope of apprehending this person before he carries out his intentions,” said the ACC. “To this end, we have doubled the manpower being made available to the murder inquiry—DCS Yardley will give you the list of personnel being seconded.” He turned to Judy. “I’m assuming that we’re no closer to an arrest than we were last night.”
“I’m afraid not, sir,” said Judy. “We’re hoping that the reconstruction put out on local TV last night will have—”
“I’m not convinced you should have let Halliday go,” said Yardley. “The press will have a field day if it turns out to be him in the end.”
“I was satisfied with the explanation he gave for his fingerprints being found on the purse, sir. He has never denied that he was with Mrs. Fenton shortly before the murder, and we have two witnesses who saw him leaving the scene twenty-five minutes before the incident occurred. I don’t believe we had enough to hold him.”
Oh, yes she did, thought Lloyd. She agreed with Yardley that he should probably have been put under arrest and therefore under pressure, so that they could see if he stuck to his story. But she was backing Tom Finch’s judgment.
“And Scopes?”
“Well, his record and the fact that he went missing from work for an hour and a half and won’t say what he was doing counts against him. But he’s always been quite open about being in the alleyway.”
“And Baker? For all we know, he wrote that letter to himself.”
“There seems to be no possible motive for him to have killed Mrs. Fenton. But he didn’t tell us that Halliday left at the same time as she did, so it’s possible that he saw or heard more than he’s saying.” Judy sighed. “The truth is that without independent witnesses, and without the murder weapon, we’re up against it.”
The rest of the afternoon was taken up with preparations for the invasion of press that was anticipated once the scoop was on the streets, and it was growing dark when Lloyd and Judy finally got back into her car, and headed for Stansfield.
“We’re not going to stop this joker,” Lloyd said. “Not if he really wants to kill someone. We might delay him, but we’re not going to stop him, not unless we find out who he is before he makes the attempt, and we stand very little chance of doing that. We don’t know how much of that note is true—we might be protecting Stansfield bingo players while he’s picking off a bookie in Barton.”
“That’s what Tom said. But I don’t think there would be much point in writing the letter if he was just going to tell lies. If he doesn’t want us to have any idea where he’s going to strike next, wouldn’t it be simpler not to write a letter at all?”
Lloyd smiled. “Not everyone has your logical turn of mind. And anyway, the letter’s so vague it doesn’t matter if he is telling the truth. We can’t line the streets of Stansfield with policemen, so the chances are that he will murder again, and the press will be demanding to know why we weren’t there with our truncheons at the ready.” He thought about what she had said in the briefing. “If you think Baker might know something more than he’s telling us about Mrs. Fenton’s murder, you should talk to him again.”
“I know. But he’s an old hand, Lloyd, and he doesn’t have much confidence in the police. And talking to him is hampered by the fact that he’s still technically a suspect himself, as Yardley pointed out.”
“But only because he found the body?”
“Yes. I don’t think he killed Mrs. Fenton, because apart from having no reason whatever to do so, he of all people would have done it properly. But he does lodge with Stephen Halliday and his mother.”
“Do you seriously suspect Stephen Halliday of murdering Mrs. Fenton?”
“Not really. Tom doesn’t think he did it, and he’s no pushover.”
“If you could cross him off, would you have any reason to suspect Baker of covering up for someone?”
“Well, sort of.” She sighed. “Tom thinks he might want to investigate this on his own. That maybe he got a better look at the attacker than he says he did.”
“What about Yardley’s suggestion that he wrote the letter himself?”
“It crossed my mind,” said Judy. “I can’t see why he would, though. He doesn’t need the publicity, does he? But it’s a personal challenge to him, and I think his ego is quite large enough to take it on.”
“Ah, then all you have to do is make him feel guilty. If people start dying, it’s all because of him. What should have been an isolated and unintentional murder is going to be the first of several, all because he found the body, and this person now wants to challenge him to a duel. And he could have given us a description to go on, and didn’t, because he wanted to be a hero again.”
“Mm. I’m not sure that being told I was responsible for it all would make me say, ‘Oh, did I forget to mention that he’s six feet seven and has a tattoo of the Humber Bridge on his forehead?’ I think I’d keep quiet.”
“Not if it was before anyone else died and you still had time to make amends. And you’d be a little more subtle than I was being,” said Lloyd. “You wouldn’t go in accusing him of trying to pervert the course of justice. You know how to make me feel guilty—try your technique on him.”
“What technique? When do I make you feel guilty?”
“How many times in my life have I apologized to you? Half the time I don’t know what I’m apologizing for—I just know I feel guilty.”
“Lies. All lies.”
“You’re making me feel guilty at this very moment!”
“What about?”
“The loft conversion.”
“Why should that make you feel guilty? If you want Mum to have her own sitting room, then—”
“See? That technique. Already, I’m having visions of your mother sitting alone in her room weeping gently while we’re downstairs laughing and joking and cracking open champagne.” He shook his head. “So we’ll end up doing what she wants. We’ll share the house properly, and I’ll be begging forgiveness for having said she sometimes gets on my nerves.”
Judy laughed. “Of course she sometimes gets on your nerves,” she said. “So do I. You don’t banish me to my own sitting room.”
“You’d give your eyeteeth for your own sitting room—you’d have kept your own flat if you could have afforded it. You always want somewhere to retire to if things get a bit bumpy.”
“Like when you’re getting on my nerves?”
The atmosphere remained slightly frosty after that, and Lloyd was relieved when he was finally dropped off at Stansfield, and she went on her way to Malworth.
Michael had chosen this room for his study because of the view, and tonight, he went in there when he came home from work purely in order to look at that view. He stood in the darkened room, looking out at the sweep of trees sheltering the path that led down to the summerhouse. The lake, the edge of which could just be seen, shimmered in the starlight of another cold, crisp evening.
He could see Ben and Keith as children, racing each other along that path. They had been great friends in those days. Sometimes there had been a whole gang of them there, playing fo
otball in the winter and cricket in the summer. They had had a dinghy, and they would take it out on to the lake, and play pirates. Ben had always seemed like a happy child.
Had he really wanted him to marry the nanny who he’d employed? Michael could barely remember her. She had left when Ben turned thirteen, and according to Keith, it hadn’t been too much of a wrench, but that was when Ben had started getting into trouble. Aided and abetted by Keith, of course—probably instigated by Keith. But maybe Ben had been missing a woman’s influence.
Michael’s answer to that had been to send Ben away to boarding school, but that option hadn’t been available to Keith’s family, so he had just carried on getting into trouble. Michael had taken Keith on in the knowledge that he was no stranger to the police. But he was useful, and loyal, and a risk-taker, which endeared him to Michael, being a risk-taker himself. All bookies were risk-takers, even though they usually came out on top. You had to be prepared to pay out when you didn’t, and Keith was prepared to take the consequences if the risks he took didn’t come off. No, he had no complaints about Keith.
In fact, he sometimes wished Keith was his son. He understood him far better than he understood Ben. Keith was the sort of son he should have had. Someone who could take care of himself in a punch-up, someone who followed football and knew how to handle a pool cue, both for the purpose for which it was intended and, if he had to, in self-defense.
But Ben was his son, not Keith. He picked up the phone and dialed Ray’s mobile number.
“Ray Yardley.”
“Ray—sorry, I know you must be busy.”
“No—I’ve just got home, as it happens. It’s been nothing but meetings for the last two days, and we’re no further forward with Mrs. Fenton’s murder, I’m afraid. There have been developments, but none of them good. It’ll be all over the pap—”
Michael felt obliged to interrupt him, or he’d be here all night. “I heard that you’d taken young Stephen Halliday in for questioning again, and I wondered what was happening.”
“Oh, it was just routine. Something that needed clearing up. DCI Hill was quite happy with his explanation. But he still won’t say where he was that night, so I’m not so—”
“Keep me posted about him, will you? I mean—if you have occasion to talk to him again.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Ray.” He hung up before Ray could start again.
CHAPTER FIVE
* * *
Tony finished his coffee, and sat back. “That was absolutely delicious, Mike,” he said. “Where did you find her?”
Michael smiled. Tony wasn’t the first of his guests to be startled at the quality of his housekeeper’s cooking. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. More wine?”
“No—thank you. I honestly can’t remember when I had a better Sunday lunch. Grace Halliday is a good plain cook, but I hadn’t bargained on eating good plain food for this long. I was supposed to have finished here at the end of February.”
Michael frowned. “The police can’t make you stay here if you don’t want to,” he said.
“No, it isn’t them.” Tony looked worried. “I just don’t think I can leave with this nutcase threatening to murder someone because of me. I would feel as though I was running away, or something.”
“It might just be a hoax,” said Michael. “The papers are beginning to think it is.”
“Let’s hope so. And that the police catch whoever it is soon, if only because I can’t take much more of Grace Halliday. Her food’s all right, but she isn’t what you’d call stimulating company.”
Michael had always found Grace very pleasant and attractive. He’d steered clear of her once her husband left, because he didn’t want to be regarded as husband material himself. But that was no reflection on Grace.
“Of course, she’s permanently worried about Stephen, because the police questioned him,” Tony went on. “Which really doesn’t help. I’m glad of the days I get to be in London.” He looked out of the French windows at the paved terrace, and the woods beyond. “Is all that land yours?” he asked. “Including the woods?”
“And beyond them,” said Michael. “There’s a lake down there.”
“Is there really?” He patted his flat stomach. “I think I might go out and have a stroll round—work off some of this good food.”
“Be my guest,” said Michael. “I’d advise you to wrap up warm, as my mother would have said.” He would probably benefit from a walk himself, he thought. “If you want company, I can show you where everything’s going to be on May Day.”
“That sounds like a very good idea.”
The Stoke Weston May Day celebrations had traditionally been held on the village green, but twenty-first-century greed had overtaken tradition. The owners of the land had applied for planning permission to build four houses on the green, and when the Stoke Weston Parish Council had objected on the grounds that no building could be erected on a village green, the owners had declared that it wasn’t village green within the meaning of the act.
Many months of legal wrangling later, a ruling by the House of Lords had found for the owners. While village activities had been permitted to take place on the green under successive owners, it had never been exclusively for the use of villagers, and there had been no automatic right for this use, merely a toleration of it. And now, it was going to have four luxury houses on it instead.
Michael had been annoyed at the decision, but at the same time pleased that he could do what he did, which was to offer the village his grounds for their festivities. Ben would say he was playing the lord of the manor, and perhaps he was, but he genuinely felt that Stoke Weston village traditions should be maintained. And he’d thrown in a few extras.
The two men stood at the top of the steps from the front door, and Michael pointed to his left, to the grassy area beyond the driveway. “That’s where the fête will be,” he said. “All the various stalls will be there, and the public car park will be there, too, so people can just pull off the driveway. The maypole, the Morris dancing, and all the traditional May Day stuff will take place on the lawn here.” They went down the seven steps from the front door. “This area here,” he said, as they turned right and walked along the close-clipped grass, “will have a bouncy castle on it, and a bit fenced off with a sandpit and soft toys and things for the little ones, with someone to keep an eye on them.”
They left the house behind, and walked along the lawn.
“Staying at the Tulliver is making things quite awkward,” Tony said. “Grace keeps telling me how Stephen can’t possibly have had anything to do with it, but I find myself wondering what he was doing there in the first place.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, his motorbike was parked at the back, so wouldn’t you have expected him to go out that way?”
“Was it?”
“Yes. So when she’s going on about it, I can’t help thinking how it looks as though he did follow Wilma Fenton on purpose. I mean—you saw him, too—chasing after her like he did. So, as I said, things are a little awkward.”
Michael got the impression that Tony wasn’t so much worried about Stephen’s possible part in the murder of Mrs. Fenton as hoping that the invitation to stay at the Grange would be renewed, but he wouldn’t do that to Grace. It would be far too obvious, for one thing, and he was sure Grace was glad of the extra money that her out-of-season guest was paying.
At the end of the sweep of lawn, he pointed out the meadow where the fair rides would be set up.
“A fair?”
“Why not? I thought I’d make a proper day of it.”
Tony grinned. “You’re loving all this, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.” Michael couldn’t remember when he’d had such good fun. It was almost like being a child again, planning where everything would go, and trying to remember everything that people might want. He was throwing a huge party, and loving every minute of it.
“It must be costing you a bob or t
wo.”
“I can afford it. And the marquee for the talent contest has to go there,” he said, “right beside it.”
A local music teacher was organizing a children’s talent contest, with her at the piano. Michael had agreed to judge that, possibly a little foolishly, because he would end up being unpopular with a lot of parents, and he didn’t like being unpopular. He smiled, as he saw a way out of this rash decision. Why would they want him when they had a real, live celebrity in their midst?
“It seems it doesn’t matter how much space you’ve got to play with,” he went on, “there’s always something that you can’t put just anywhere.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Well, it means that the contest has to be held very early—from nine thirty to about ten thirty, because we can’t start the fairground rides until it’s over, or the noise would ruin it. But we don’t want the rides standing idle for any longer than we can help.” Now, he thought. Now, or never. He can only refuse. “Actually, I’m looking for someone to judge the contest,” he said. “I wondered if maybe you . . .”
“Me? What do I know about children’s talent contests?”
“What do you need to know? Give the prize to the one who does the least damage to your eardrums. You’re a celebrity, Tony. That’s what you’re for.”
“Nine-thirty to ten-thirty?”
“Yes. A very short contest. We’re not exactly overloaded with talent in a village this size.”
“All right,” he said. “I expect I can manage that.”
“Brilliant. And this path,” said Michael, steering Tony across the grass to the rear of the grounds, “leads to the lake, and the tennis courts. This is the path you should take when you come.”
