‘Pip? No, she wouldn’t say anything to him. She was proud of him, and proud of the way he had stuck by her and not tried to change his identity, but she didn’t talk to him much. They had nothing to talk about.’
Lou managed a smile for Emily, the two of them had become companionable, if not exactly friendly during the time that Joan had been living with her.
‘She knew what she was going to do,’ said Charmian, thinking of her flight down the darkened lecture hall towards the door hidden behind a curtain. ‘She must have planned it.’
‘I think she wanted a bit of freedom,’ pleaded Lou, ‘you can understand it after all those years inside … And she was more disturbed than she admitted about Diana being killed.’
‘Why should that disturb her?’
‘They knew each other a long while.’
‘But they weren’t friends.’
‘No, not friends.’
‘And they had quarrelled.’
‘But Joan didn’t kill Diana, she wasn’t running away because of that.’ Lou shook her head. ‘She wasn’t running away. All right, she had some plan, yes, but she knew she couldn’t run anywhere.’
‘Was she going to meet someone?’ Charmian put the question she had been longing to ask.
Lou was silent for what seemed an eternity, blinking her eyes and not looking at Charmian and Emily. ‘Yes, could be,’ she said at last. ‘That’s why I didn’t want to talk about it, if it’s a friend she wanted kept out of things, which you can understand.’
Charmian nodded. Yes, she could understand.
‘And if that’s so, then she’ll be back soon. She’ll come walking through the door, any minute now. We only have to wait. She’s going to be upset to find all of us here.’
‘Who would that friend be?’
Lou shook her head. ‘I don’t know, don’t know if there was one. Joan could be very close when she wanted to be.’
‘She’d made friends with various people in prison … They came down here with her.’
‘But they went back. They may have been in touch with her, she did have letters and phone calls, but I didn’t listen in to her calls. I tell you, she hasn’t gone off, she’ll walk in any minute.’
Emily crouched in her corner and prayed that this would be so. She was in trouble, but it would be easier if Joan came back. They could share the complaining between them.
‘I’m interested in that school photograph. Who do you think Cathy Cathedral was?’ Charmian asked.
Lou shook her head. ‘No idea, I’ve told you that already. It was a joke, I suppose. Or it might even have been her real name.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Charmian stood up. ‘Thank you for answering my questions.’ Not that you’ve been any help, she managed to imply this in her tone. ‘Let us know the minute Joan gets back.’
As they walked down the stairs, Charmian handed the school photograph over to Emily. ‘Check with the school to see if they can identify Cathy Cathedral. She’s the tall girl behind Joan and Rhos. It’s a long while ago, but they may have a record. And take a note of the badges the girls are wearing. Remarkably like the cuts on both early and later murder victims.’
It rained hard that night. Emily was up early to go to the school that Rhos and Joan had attended to see if their records went back twenty odd years. It seemed doubtful, especially since the school was now subsumed into a great comprehensive, but she had to try.
She got nothing immediately but a promise that the secretary would look through the archives.
Meanwhile, Dolly Barstow and Rewley were going out looking for Joan Dingham. They were sharing a cup of coffee before starting for the day.
‘She’s definitely hopped it,’ said Dolly.
‘That would be so stupid.’
‘Yes, but she’ll have had a taste of freedom. She’ll be caught, of course she will, but I reckon she thinks it’s worth the risk.’
It was Dolly who took the call from Inspector Parker who, in his turn, had been alerted to an incident by the park police.
A woman’s body had been found in the lake. There was reason to believe it was Joan Dingham.
Suicide was suspected. There were attempts at suicide every so often, but usually they failed, because the police kept a careful watch. But a large lunch party with royalty present at one of the big houses in the park, together with a horse show, and the flowering of some special plants recently had strained the security forces, so this suicide had succeeded.
Dolly in her turn got in touch with Charmian.
‘She’s turned up. In the big lake. Drowned. Looks like suicide.’
The police surgeon, a quiet Scot called Dr Murdoch, the product of Edinburgh, was a careful, methodical man. At the end of his survey of the body, although certainly able to confirm she was dead, he had a problem.
Charmian got there quickly, in time to meet him before he left.
‘Suicide?’ she said.
He frowned. ‘Not clear. There appears to have been a blow to the back of the head.’
Charmian was alert. ‘Is that suspicious?’ She knew it was, she just wanted him to put it plainly.
‘She didn’t kill herself,’ he said bluntly. ‘In my view, someone hit her on the back of the head and then dropped her in the water.’
‘So it’s murder.’ A statement, not a question. It was similar to the way Rhos had died. ‘Who had it in for Joan Dingham so badly that she had to be killed?’
‘I’m only the police surgeon. The police pathologist will give you the official version.’
The area was ringed off, SOCO had arrived and the forensic team were at work.
‘There are plenty of us here,’ said Charmian, who was sitting on the grass with Dolly. She could see Inspector Parker and Emily Agent, and the local CID man, Inspector March. ‘What’s become of the band of friends and hangers-on that came south with Joan?’
‘Been advised not to show their faces.’
Charmian nodded, as she looked at the police team.
‘Let’s leave them to it. I want to take the dog for a walk.’
Dolly was surprised, but she had learnt to take Charmian with calm.
‘For some time,’ Charmian said to Dolly, as she drove home. ‘I have been wondering about Dr Harrie. I think he is worth pursuing.’
‘Do you think he killed Joan?’
‘He might have done … he’s in there somewhere, I swear.’
‘But not as Dr Harrie.’
‘No, another face, another hat.’
Charlie Rattle watched the police activity from a discreet distance (although the word discretion was not in his personal dictionary), then withdrew further into the deep bushes. He had made a careful disposition of what he called his treasure and felt quite happy about that. A high IQ is not necessary for the peace of mind of a killer. Might as well have a nap. He settled himself comfortably, unaware and uncaring of the activities of careful police searchers and forensic gleaners of evidence.
Charmian arrived to stop Humphrey in the drinking of his third cup of coffee – usually the best of the day.
‘I want you to come with me, plus that dog, to the street where you said he lingered and wanted to go down and you wouldn’t.’
Humphrey frowned. ‘Don’t know if I can remember where it was.’
‘Come on, act like a dog, remember the way as you go.’
The dog, on the leash but charmingly eager, stepped out at a cracking pace. He led rather than was led, and was followed by Charmian and Dolly, with Humphrey holding the lead and protesting that he didn’t quite believe in all this.
‘Yes, it was near here,’ said Humphrey as the dog sped through the neat, quiet back streets of Windsor. ‘But we shall be in Old Windsor if he doesn’t stop soon.’ Breathlessly (he must remember to tell his doctor he could not walk so fast and get a check-up) he demanded of Charmian what she was up to. ‘Solving several murder cases at once … Joke … I think the dog knows more than we do.’
‘I
wouldn’t be surprised.’ As they walked, Charmian told him that Joan Dingham was dead, probably murdered.
‘Ah. And you are looking for Dr Harrie? You think the dog knows where he lives?’
‘He might do, I hope so.’
‘And you are putting together a picture?’
‘I’m getting there,’ said Charmian. ‘Not crystal clear by any means.’
At the corner of Jackson Street, the dog paused, looked up at Humphrey and then walked on round the corner.
‘I don’t remember it being Jackson Street, but we might have approached it from the other side,’ Humphrey said. They had been walking fast for about twenty minutes.
Halfway down Jackson Street a passage way led to a small row of houses, all neat and prosperous looking. A woman was in her front garden, trimming her roses. She looked at them with interest.
‘Oh, there you are, Georgie,’ she said to the dog. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while.’
The dog gave a quick bark and pressed on.
‘He’s going home, you see. Such a clever dog. I don’t know if Mr Chappell’s there though. I think he’s out.’
‘Which is Mr Chappell’s house?’
The woman gave Charmian a doubtful look, but decided Humphrey at least looked respectable. She pointed. ‘Next door but one, but the dog knows.’
The dog pushed open the gate and led them round the side of the house to the back door. Here he sat down and looked at them. He had done his bit, the rest was up to them.
‘Mr Chappell,’ said Charmian aloud. ‘He’s a craftsman and builder. He’s done work for Baby’s salon, she told me so, and I believe I saw him in the grounds around the block where Lou lives.’
‘And you think he is Dr Harrie?’
In answer, Charmian hammered on the back door. ‘ You go and bang on the front door,’ she told Dolly. She could hear Dolly banging, but no one came, either to the
back door or the front.
‘I’d like to see inside,’ said Charmian.
‘I could break in.’ Dolly was game. ‘No problem.’
Charmian shook her head. ‘Probably got an alarm system.’
Humphrey handed the dog’s leash over to Charmian. ‘Let an old
soldier give you advice: always take the easy way out.’
He took the handle of the door, turned it and pushed. The door
opened.
‘It didn’t look locked, somehow.’
The dog led the way in, found his water bowl and began to lap.
Home, of a sort.
Charmian stood in the back hall which led to the kitchen.
‘I’m going to have a look round. Humphrey, stay with the dog,
Dolly come with me, and both of you forget this is happening.’
‘I’d only do this for you,’ said Dolly. If there’s any trouble I will
blame it all on you.’
Humphrey called to them. ‘Look,’ he was pointing at a row of
hooks from which hung the usual raincoats and thick tweed
overcoats, and next to them two wigs and one long hairy object.
‘Dr Harrie. Wigs and a beard,’ he said. ‘ Theatrical, isn’t it?’
I always knew it would be, thought Charmian. The third type
of killer, the theatrical type.
‘Be quick,’ Humphrey called after her as they went through the
house. ‘ Something else I learnt in the army: be careful, be quiet
and be quick.’
He could hear them moving about upstairs. It was to be hoped
Mr Chappell did not come back. Then he heard them murmuring
to each other. Come on, you two, he thought. There was a door
in the back hall leading down to the basement, he had seen Charmian
give it a look and he was afraid she might want to go down there. They came down the stairs. ‘All orderly and quiet up there,’ said
Charmian. ‘But in a drawer in the desk, I found this.’
She held out a blue folder.
‘Photographs … Let’s go. You can look later.’ Humphrey pleaded.
The woman had finished pruning her roses, but she watched them from the window and gave a wave.
Humphrey groaned. ‘A witness … we shall all go to prison.’
‘To prison, hell, in this folder I have evidence that this man was the third person in the early killings and that he killed the two later girls.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘As a coming-home present for Joan.’
Dolly said nothing, she felt sick. She had seen the police photographs. There was one of Diana, too, her head hanging back and her eyes pushing out of her head after she was strangled.
In the Great Park, Joan’s body had been taken away by the pathologist for examination. The forensic team were at work, inspecting the area around where Joan must have been rolled into the water. They found traces of her passage down the slope where she had rolled or been pushed. Traces of soil and vegetation, which would be checked, had been found on her clothes.
But to their surprise, they had found bloody traces on the grass and in the bushes. There was even a half-eaten hamburger as if someone had been sitting there. They had also found dog hairs. But it was the blood that interested them.
Joan had not bled. But someone else had done.
As soon as she could Charmian made her way to where Inspector March was installed in a police van which acted as a temporary incident room.
‘I think I know who killed Joan,’ she said quickly, handing over the blue folder. ‘And I think he killed others as well. John Chappell.’
Inspector March listened gravely as he turned over the photographs in the folder. He had, of course, like Dolly, seen what official photographs there were but these were closer to the moment of approaching death, possibly taken while the victim was still alive. ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘At least he didn’t use a video as well like that American killer.’
‘He’s the killer.’
March nodded. ‘You could be right … Only thing is, someone has killed him.’
They had searched the bushes, following the trail of blood.
Hidden in a thicket was the body, folded up neatly on itself like an embryo.
‘It’s John Chappell all right, he had identification on him,’ he went on, ‘Dr Murdock had a good look at him, examined him with care. He died from several stab wounds.’
‘Yes, good.’
‘The only other thing is: he’s not a man, he’s a woman.’
‘Cathy Cathedral,’ said Charmian, when she had collected her thoughts. ‘It was a joke, she was a tall, hefty girl, probably boyish and she got that nickname. Catherine Chappell. She’ll be in the school records.’
She sat in the temporary incident room talking things over with Inspector March.
‘I am sure he killed Joan. She wanted to be free, and he wanted to hang on to her. She was frightened of him, I think, as Rhos had been. He must always have been the prime mover in those early murders. He was a theatrical murderer with a strong sense of drama. I am going to go on saying him not her … he had built himself up so successfully as John Chappell, builder. But who killed him?’
‘The stab wounds,’ said Rewley from a spot by the door where he had managed to find room, ‘ don’t they suggest something to you? If I had to make a guess I’d say Charlie Rattle. He’s on the loose with a knife and he’s a man who enjoys using it.’
‘Does he have a dog?’ asked March, looking at the forensic notes. ‘One with rough brown hair?’
‘No,’ said Charmian, ‘but Chappell did, and I think the dog may have been out looking for him.’
‘If you are looking for Charlie,’ said Rewley, ‘perhaps we should get the dog.’
But there was no need. Charlie was found by a park ranger who could hear his snores coming out of the bushes where he was asleep.
Lou and Pip were told about Joan’s death and Pip went to the mortuary to identify her.
/> ‘Yes, that’s Mum. I never knew her well, but she was good to me.’
Pip was asked if his father was still alive and said that he had no idea, he had left the scene a long while ago, for which Pip did not blame him. Yes, he would see to the death announcement and to the funeral once the coroner released the body.
Lou and Pip went home together.
Charmian told Baby that she thought that Diana’s killer had been found dead himself. She told her briefly what it seemed right she should know.
Baby listened. ‘I think Diana and her book must have seemed a threat to Chappell. And of course, he had done so much work for me that he knew his way in and out of my place.’ She gave a shiver. ‘Nasty. He might have got me too.’
‘I shouldn’t worry about that.’
‘No. I won’t.’ Baby was always practical. ‘But the sad thing is, I don’t believe Diana would have written that book. She was going to die anyway. She was playing a game like she did sometimes. Now Lou will write the book. He ought to have gone after Lou.’
‘He might have done, if he hadn’t got killed first.’
Hard to think of Charlie Rattle as a good angel, but perhaps they came in odd packets.
‘That’s the end of the bodies,’ one of the police team said to Charmian. ‘Not a bad total.’
To Inspector March, she said that she wanted a thorough inspection of Chappell’s house. ‘We may find relics and evidence relating to the earlier crimes. He lived here then, it was his – her parents’ house, he was at college in London, already working on a building course. He may have done some practical work here.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the alert Inspector March.
‘Just thinking.’
‘Naturally we will be making a survey of the house. We might find his camera.’
Down the basement stair was a wine cellar and a coal cellar with an old furnace. The floor had been covered with paving stones of some antiquity, but an area had been disturbed.
Charmian looked at Inspector March who nodded at the team working with him. ‘ Dig it up,’ he ordered.
Not far down, but neatly disposed of were the skeletal remains of a man.
‘I am only guessing,’ said Charmian, ‘but I would say this is Joan Dingham’s husband, of whom Chappell must have been bitterly jealous. I think Mr Dingham was the first victim of all, and that as a result of the pleasure Chappell got from this killing all the rest followed. This chap was Act One.’
Dead Again Page 19
