Six Proud Walkers

by Anthea Fraser

  Barefoot, Hannah raced along the terrace and hurtled round the corner of the house. Outside the open French windows, Ashley Walker was leaning over the low terrace wall, sobbing and retching.

  ‘What is it? Whatever’s wrong?’

  Ashley turned a wild face towards her, showing no surprise at her presence. ‘It’s Mother. She’s on the floor in there—dead!’

  Hannah gazed at her in horror, then turned towards the windows. She heard Ashley say, ‘No—don’t—’ and, dodging her outstretched hand, parted the half-drawn curtains and stepped inside.

  It was the smell she noticed first: the warm, sickly, unmistakable smell of blood. Then she saw Mrs Walker crumpled on the floor, her face—her face—

  Hannah swayed, feeling the bile rush into her mouth. God, don’t let her faint. David—

  Shuddering she pulled herself together, shivering in her still-damp swimsuit. Because the face wasn’t a face any longer, simply a red, pulpy mess, out of which protruded white pieces of bone. And the blood—blood was everywhere, glinting in pools on the carpet, caking the dead woman’s clothes, splashed on the chair above her body. On the hearth, its grisly business done, lay a discarded poker.

  Hannah stumbled back outside. ‘The phone—’ Her voice was a croak. She cleared her throat and tried again. ‘Where’s the phone?’

  ‘In the hall.’ Ashley spoke jerkily, between gasps. ‘Don’t go back that way—the front door’s open.’

  Hannah hesitated. ‘Will you be all right for a minute, while I call the police?’

  Ashley nodded and she set off along the terrace, grateful for its warmth on her bare feet. The front door opened to her push. The telephone, immediately visible on an oak settle, took on the aspect of a lifeline, a link with the sane, outside world. Luckily she knew the number.

  A woman’s voice sounded in her ear, blessedly calm and matter-of-fact. ‘Shillingham CID.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Webb, please. It’s urgent.’

  ‘I’m sorry, madam, he’s not available at the moment. Can I take a message?’

  Hannah said, ‘But he must be!’ Then, more rationally, ‘I’m sorry. Someone has just been murdered. Mrs Dorothy Walker, of the Old Rectory, Honeyford.’

  ‘Honeyford?’ Nina interrupted.

  ‘Yes. I’m speaking from there now. Can somebody come at once?’

  ‘Of course.’ The relevant information was quickly obtained. ‘You’re quite sure she’s dead, Miss James?’

  ‘Quite sure.’ Hannah’s voice shook.

  ‘Then please stay where you are and don’t touch anything. I’ll get on to the local police-station. They’ll be there within minutes, and we won’t be far behind them.’

  ‘And Mr Webb?’

  ‘He’ll be contacted as soon as possible.’

  By the time the local bobby arrived on his bike, Hannah had regained a modicum of composure. Ashley’d accompanied her back to the pool and waited while she slipped on dress and sandals. Hannah understood how she felt. They were united by the unspeakable horror they’d seen, and for the moment they needed each other’s presence.

  PC Hobson, unused to violence in his peaceful village, was as shocked as they were. Mrs Walker was—had been —an important member of the community, and he was stunned by her brutal end. Having satisfied himself, at some cost, that there was no chance she was still alive, he had taken up a position outside the French windows, ‘preserving the scene’, as he told them. Ashley’s request to phone her husband had been. stalled. ‘Best wait till CID get here, ma’am. They’ll know what should be done.’

  Side by side on the low wall, the two women awaited the next influx of police.

  It was some minutes before Webb could extricate himself from the court, where he’d been giving evidence, and make his way to a phone in response to his bleeper.

  Jackson answered, excitement in his voice. ‘Got second sight, have you, Guy?’

  ‘Look, Ken, if you’re wasting my time—’

  ‘That murder in Honeyford you were asking about. It’s happened. A Mrs Walker, at the Old Rectory.’

  Webb felt his chest constrict. ‘Which Mrs Walker?’

  ‘Dorothy’s the name. Inspector Petrie’s gone straight there, with Harry Sage.’

  ‘Who reported it?’

  ‘A Miss James. Would that be the young lady you—?’

  ‘Wait for me outside. I’m on my way. Dropping the phone on its hook, Webb strode out of the Courthouse.

  ***

  Webb and Jackson were escorted along the terrace by PC Hobson, and stood surveying the scene from the French windows.

  ‘It’s all right, Constable,’ Webb said drily, seeing the man’s anxiety lest they inadvertently destroy evidence. ‘We can see all we need without going inside. Has the police surgeon been called?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but Dr Pratt’s already been, seeing as how he’s local and knows the deceased. He didn’t move nothing. Didn’t need to; it was clear she was dead.’

  ‘Quite.’ Webb stood for some minutes noting details and drawing sketches in his pocket-book. The savagery of the scene sickened him, and he was appalled to think that Hannah’d been subjected to it. As he turned away, Dr Pringle and the Scenes of Crime team were coming along the terrace.

  ‘It’s all yours,’ Webb said shortly. ‘Not a pretty one. I’ll be in the house if you want me.’

  Hannah was giving her statement at the hall table. She broke off as he came in, rising to her feet as though pulled by strings. It took all her self-control not to run to him. Harry Sage, turning to see what had distracted her, also rose.

  ‘This is Miss James, sir, who reported the incident.’

  ‘Murder,’ Hannah corrected in a clear voice. ‘Don’t let’s mince words, Sergeant, it’s murder.’

  Webb said gently, ‘I gather you found her?’

  ‘No, Ashley did. I’d been swimming in the pool. It must have happened while I was there.’ Only as she spoke did she realise the significance. Suppose the murderer had looked out of a window and seen her? It would have been a simple matter to hold her head under water—

  ‘Hannah.’ Webb raised his voice, noting Sage’s surprise at the Christian name. ‘It’s all right. I’ll speak to you later.’ He turned to Sage. ‘Where’s Inspector Petrie?’

  The man jerked his head in the direction of the dining-room. ‘In there, sir. With Mrs Walker. That is—’

  ‘I know who you mean, Harry.’ He went down the hall with Jackson behind him, and opened the dining-room door. Ashley was sitting on one of the mahogany chairs, hugging herself as though for warmth, her face pale and streaked with tears. The contrast to the confident, self-assured woman he’d last seen added to the poignancy. As a result, Webb spoke more brusquely than he’d intended.

  ‘Thank you, Inspector. I’ll take over now.’

  Nina flushed. ‘I’m half way through the statement, sir’

  ‘I said I’ll take over.’

  ‘Very well.’ She stood up, shuffling her papers together. Ashley was looking at him in bewilderment. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Have the next of kin been informed?’ he asked Nina.

  ‘A call was put through to the factory.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘No details—just an urgent request to come at once. Mr Neville Walker’s away and not expected back till tomorrow. They’ve no way of reaching him.’

  ‘Very well. Let me know when the rest of them arrive, and field their questions till I get there.’

  She nodded and left the room, head high.

  ‘Exactly what do you think you’re doing?’ Ashley demanded ringingly. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Webb, Shillingham CID.’

  For a moment she stared at him. Then she said softly, ‘You bastard.’

  Jackson blinked. There were undercurrents here he didn’t understand. Poor Mrs Petrie’d had her head bitten off, and now it seemed the Governor knew this woman. Was that why he’d asked about murder? Jackson decided a low profile would he po
litic, and seated himself at the carving table, out of her sight and at an angle to Webb.

  ‘You never said you were in the police,’ Ashley accused.

  ‘There was no reason to. Mrs Walker, I’m very sorry about your mother-in-law. How did you come to find. her?’

  She closed her eyes briefly. ‘I’ve just been through that with—’

  ‘Tell me. Please. Why did you call here this afternoon?’

  ‘Well, because Gavin—’ She broke off, looking up at Webb with widening eyes. He waited in silence. After a moment, taking a grip on herself, she continued. ‘My son had been invited to tea. I was on my way home, and decided to drop in and join them.’

  ‘Was he here?’

  ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘He’d been and gone?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that, Mrs Walker.’

  ‘He wasn’t due till four. It was only just after when I arrived.’

  ‘He might have come early.’

  Ashley shook her head decidedly. ‘Mother’d said she had an appointment earlier, and not to come till four.’

  ‘What kind of appointment?’

  ‘She didn’t say.’

  ‘Would she have driven herself to it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘This is your sister-in-law’s house; where is she?’

  ‘She has French Conversation on Wednesdays.’

  ‘And where were you yourself this afternoon?’

  An eyebrow lifted, but she answered his question. ‘Playing golf.’

  ‘With a low handicap, no doubt.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  He made a dismissive gesture. ‘Please go through everything you did when you arrived here. How did you get in?’

  ‘The front door’s never locked if someone’s home.’

  ‘And it wasn’t today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you came in and went straight to the drawing-room?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you touch anything?’

  She shuddered involuntarily. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Just answer the question, Mrs Walker.’

  She raised her head, meeting his eyes with an expression of dislike. ‘No, Chief Inspector, I did not.’

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I ran outside and called for help.’

  ‘The French windows were open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re quite sure about that?’

  ‘Positive. The curtains were partly drawn; I had to push them aside to get out.’

  ‘And you called for help. You were a long way from the road; did you expect anyone to hear you?’

  ‘I hoped Gavin might.’

  ‘Ah yes, your son. Has he still not arrived?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Isn’t that surprising, when he was expected at four?’

  ‘Not really. I didn’t think he’d come; that was why I called—to check.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘There were personal reasons,’ she answered coolly.

  ‘Mrs Walker, personal reasons have no place in a murder investigation.’

  ‘It was a family matter—nothing to do with what’s happened.’

  ‘Which is also a family matter.’

  He saw the sudden fright in her eyes. She said tightly, ‘Gavin and his grandmother had a disagreement.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Whether or not he should take a year off before university.

  That was probably true, Webb conceded, in which case there was little to be gained by more questions. Better to ask the boy himself—when he finally showed up. There was a tap on the door and Sage put his head round it. ‘Excuse me, sir, Inspector Petrie said to tell you the gentlemen have arrived from the factory.’

  Ashley came swiftly to her feet. Ignoring her, Webb said, ‘Thank you, Sergeant. I won’t be a minute.’

  The man withdrew. She said, ‘I’d like to see my husband.’

  ‘Sit down please, Mrs Walker, I haven’t finished yet. To go back, then, you called for help and Miss James heard you. Did you know she was by the pool?’

  ‘No, but I’d heard my sister-in-law say she could use it.’

  He was silent for a minute, tapping his pen on the table.

  ‘Had your mother-in-law any enemies? Anyone who bore a grudge for some reason?’

  ‘Wealthy people always have enemies. It’s an occupational hazard.’

  ‘Anyone specific?’

  She shrugged. ‘You saw the episode at the fete.’

  ‘What was behind it?’

  ‘Dick Ridley’s father was sacked from the factory for petty thieving. Three weeks later he hanged himself.’

  ‘Had he a history of dishonesty?’

  ‘No, but he was in a responsible position. He had to be completely trustworthy.’

  ‘And his son blames the firm for his death?’

  ‘It would seem so.’

  ‘Very well; that will do for the moment.’ He stood up. ‘I must break the news to your husband and his brother.’

  ‘I can come with you?’

  ‘On the understanding that you say nothing till I’ve finished.’

  She nodded impatiently, hurrying to the door. Webb exchanged a look of resignation with Jackson. He hadn’t enjoyed the last half-hour and he wouldn’t enjoy the next one. With a sigh, he followed Ashley into the hall.

  CHAPTER 5

  Hannah’d finished her statement, and David, en route through the hall with Ashley, had told her she could go. She was driven back to Wychwood in a police car.

  Still clutching her towel, she walked up the path and let herself into the cottage. Alone for the first time since seeing the body, the memory flooded her mind with merciless clarity: the pleasant drawing-room on which violence had left its obscene stamp; the tea-trolley, its cloth spattered with blood; the crumpled, faceless horror on the rug.

  She drew a deep, shuddering breath, which turned into a gasp as something soft touched her leg. But even as she recoiled, she saw that it was Arthur, come to welcome her home.

  ‘I’ll get your supper,’ she told him, grateful for something definite to do. She went into the kitchen, opened a tin, and divided the contents between the three bowls. She set Arthur’s down in his accustomed corner and leant against the sink, fighting the sickening memories. But a moment later, ignoring the food, he again rubbed against her, and as she turned, stretched up a paw to pat her hand.

  ‘Oh, Arthur!’ Hannah said unsteadily and, bending down, she scooped him up in her arms and buried her face in his soft fur.

  ***

  As the evening ground on, the machinery of a major investigation rolled smoothly into action. Renting of the church hall opposite provided them with both an Incident Room and facilities for interviews. British Telecom were already installing extra lines. House-to-house inquiries were under way, and laundries and dry-cleaners alerted for anyone handing in bloodstained clothing. Here at the house, the maid had returned from her afternoon off and been treated for hysterics; the Forensic Team had taken over from the SOCOs and the body, bagged in polythene, had been removed.

  Webb straightened his aching back and watched Melanie Walker leave the dining-room.

  ‘What did you make of that, Ken?’

  ‘The flower bit? Didn’t quite ring true, somehow.’

  ‘Read back what she said.’

  Jackson flicked through his pocket-book. ‘“We were told at College to practise making letters.” Question: But why choose that word? Answer: “Why not? I closed my eyes and jabbed at a page of the Telegraph, and that’s what I came up with.” Question: Did your father ask you about this last Saturday? “Yes, he was embarrassed because it had been seen from the church tower.”’

  Jackson looked up. ‘Any more?’

  ‘No, that’ll do.’

  ‘Bit of a turn-up, the younger girl reacting like that. Not many kids f
aint these days.’

  Webb nodded absently.

  ‘Backed up her sister on the flowers, though,’ Jackson added. ‘Couldn’t budge her on that one.’

  ‘No luck with the old girl’s appointment, either. It’s odd she never said what it was. Well—’ he stretched ‘that’s all of them bar the churchwarden and his missing nephew, and we’ll catch up with them tomorrow.’

  According to his wife, Neville Walker had phoned at lunch-time to say he’d be away overnight; he was following up a complaint, but hadn’t given details.

  ‘Did he call back here for a suitcase?’ Webb had asked. But it appeared the visit had been anticipated; Walker had taken an overnight case with him that morning, and the phone call was merely confirmation. His wife’s main concern was that he might learn the news from the papers, but Webb reassured her on that; nothing would be released till all the family’d been notified.

  He thought back to his question about the ‘disagreement’.

  ‘Oh, at the party, yes,’ she’d answered absently. ‘The fur positively flew.’ Then she’d stopped, colour suffusing her face. ‘It wasn’t serious, of course. Gavin’s always had a temper—’ And she’d broken off again, realizing, poor woman, that she was making matters worse. ‘Oh God!’ she’d said, tears brimming in her eyes, ‘I wish my husband was here!’

  But despite his sympathy, Webb wheedled out of her the facts about the cheque.

  ‘I think Mother regretted it,’ she’d finished. ‘I’m sure that’s why she asked him here today. Now, poor boy, he’ll have to live with the memory of how he parted from her for the last time.’

  If it was the last time, Webb thought privately now. The boy’s mother’d reacted strongly to the suggestion he might have called earlier. Had she protested too much? He moved uneasily; the memory of that interview discomfited him, forcing him to acknowledge that he’d worked off his reactions to Ashley Walker on Inspector Petrie. It was unfair and unprofessional, and an apology was called for.

  He said briskly, ‘Right, Ken, once you’ve seen them off the premises, you can go. Lucky the Howard Walkers can put them up till the lab boys have finished. I want a word with Miss James before I knock off, but Harry’s taken her statement, so you needn’t stay. Hitch a lift back with him, and leave me the car.’