‘Um.’ Webb pursed his lips. ‘And I gather you’ve also seen the maid?’
‘Yes; she was in an awful state, poor woman. She’s been with the family for years, and it’s coming apart before her eyes. As far as today’s concerned, she was in the kitchen during the crucial time, but she’d made an interesting discovery.
‘Apparently when “Mrs Neville”, as she calls her, went shopping on Wednesday morning, Phyllis asked her to buy a packet of bin-liners. She duly did so, and Phyllis put the unopened packet in the sink-cupboard, ready for the bin collection the next day. But of course, by the next day they’d all moved out of the house and she herself was at her sister’s. However, when she went to the cupboard this morning, she noticed that the packet had been ripped open, and one of the bags was missing.’
Webb gave a low whistle. ‘And presumably, in the normal course of events, there was no call for anyone to take one?’
‘No, she was definite on that.’
‘Who knew where they were kept?’
‘Lydia, certainly, because she saw to the bins when Phyllis was on holiday. But I suppose anyone in the family might know.’
Jackson said, ‘We keep them in the sink-cupboard at home, Guy. It’s a pretty obvious place to look.’
‘What kind of bin is it? A pedal one?’
‘No, I asked her that; it’s a swing-top, so it’s quite large. And they’ve been getting extra-strong bags, since one of the cheaper ones split.’
‘So you could get quite a lot of stuff inside one. A shirt and trousers or a dress, for instance?’
‘Easily,’ Nina confirmed. She hesitated, then said tentatively, ‘You’re thinking the murderer might have stripped at the scene, to avoid leaving tracks? But he could only do that if he’d something else to change into.’
‘Or “she”,’ Webb reminded her. ‘But well done, Inspector; you’ve a point there. He’d hardly have come prepared if it was unpremeditated—and I still think it was, or he’d have brought his own weapon. So the next question is, has anyone missed any of their clothes? Though if he’d any sense, Chummie’d have taken something from the back of a cupboard, which the owner wouldn’t miss for a while.’
‘He might, of course, have changed into something else of his own.’
‘That fact hadn’t escaped me,’ Webb said drily. ‘But since no one apparently did a quick change today, it seems we’re still looking for an outsider. Both murders were messy and the killer couldn’t have avoided at least a splash of blood on his clothes. Added to which, the back gate was unlocked. It’s covered with smudged prints, Bob says, which’ll probably involve dabbing a bevy of gardeners and dustmen for elimination.’ He sighed and pushed back his chair.
‘Have another word with Mrs Darby, will you, Inspector, and check if Fay was talking to Robin. It’ll be some time before we can ask the girl herself. In the meantime, I want a look at his room. Let’s find someone to take us up.’
Lydia, pale but more composed now, led Webb and Jackson up the two flights of stairs to her brother-in-law’s flat. There was a large, light living-room, with an easel by the window which Webb had to restrain himself from going immediately to inspect. In an alcove behind a curtain was a small kitchen, and bedroom and bathroom led off the landing. Much the accommodation he had himself, Webb reflected, but decidedly more plush. The chairs in the living-room were of soft hide in a deep honey colour and there were Chinese rugs on the floor. He glanced at the walnut desk against one wall.
‘No doubt that’s locked, and we’ll need to open it. Do you know where the key is?’
‘On Robin’s keyring, I should think. He always had it on him.’
‘Then it’ll be on its way to the lab. Well, we’ll try not to cause too much damage.’
She gave a little shrug and turned to go downstairs. Then she hesitated, flushing slightly. ‘I shouldn’t have spoken as I did earlier, Chief Inspector. I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right, Mrs Walker. You were under considerable strain.’
She nodded and went back downstairs, leaving the two men to look about them.
‘The desk’s the obvious starting place,’ Webb observed. ‘Like to do your Raffles trick, Ken?’
As Jackson got down on his knees, fumbling in his wallet for his credit card, Webb walked over to the easel by the window. He found himself looking at an exquisite pastoral design in soft colours, surrounded by the distinctive gold and silver scrolling which would identify it worldwide as Broadshire Porcelain. The minute detail of petals, delicate stems and hovering butterflies had been executed by a master, and Webb felt a rare shaft of envy. To be able to paint like that! He hoped it was sufficiently advanced to go into production, even though its designer hadn’t lived to complete it.
A click behind him came simultaneously with Jackson’s grunt of satisfaction, and Webb returned to the desk. The three drawers were individually locked, and Jackson turned his attention to them while Webb inspected the papers in the pigeon-holes. Bank statements, insurance certificates, lists of investments, would all need to be gone through, but yielded nothing of immediate interest. Then Jackson, tugging open the bottom drawer, gave an excited exclamation.
‘Look what we’ve got here, Guy! These look more promising!’ And he put into Webb’s outstretched hand some half-dozen exercise books with decorated plastic covers.
Webb opened the top one, and drew in his breath. Then, as Jackson waited impatiently, he rapidly flicked through another, a grin spreading over his face.
‘Well, well, well! Been saying your prayers lately, Ken? Because here’s the answer to them! Nothing more nor, less than a detailed account of Robin Walker’s love-life! Complete and, as they say, unexpurgated, as far as I can see. It’ll make fascinating reading.’
‘Any names, Guy?’ Jackson asked eagerly.
‘Only initials, unfortunately. An irritating precaution, in view of the frankness of the rest of it.’ He gave a low whistle, his eyes racing down the pages. ‘If we were only looking for his murderer, we’d have a list of suspects as long as your arm; but I can’t see how they’d tie in with his mother’s death.’
‘Perhaps they’re two separate crimes with two separate motives.’
‘And two separate murderers? Perish the thought!’ He extracted the book from the bottom of the pile. ‘The first entry’s dated May ‘78. Listen to this, Ken: “I’ve decided it would be amusing to keep a record of my liaisons. It’ll provide hours of happy nostalgia in my old age, quite apart from the pleasure I’ll get from writing it! I can be completely frank, since no one else will ever see it, and I’ll leave instructions in my Will for it to be burned unread.
“On a more serious note, it might even be therapeutic where TG’s concerned. If I can write uninhibitedly about her, perhaps the pain will go and the nightmares end. There’s no doubt she’s the deepest, darkest secret of my soul, and if it’s to be damned, it will be because of her.”’
‘Bloody hell!’ said Jackson.
‘What the devil does he mean, Ken? It almost sounds as if he’s committed murder himself.’
‘When’s the last entry?’
Webb flicked through the top book. ‘March—four months ago. “TG again. God, this can’t be happening! What should I do?” Then a day or two later: “Have decided the only thing is to marry E. That should put an end to it.”’ Webb looked up. ‘“T” presumably being Eleanor. I’m sure she’d he chuffed to read that.’
‘But who’s TG, Guv?’
‘Whoever she is, she’s certainly long-term. He mentioned her both in the first entry, in ‘78, and the last, ten years later. And if she was still around in March, at least he can’t have murdered her. So why does she give him nightmares?’ Reluctantly Webb put the book down. ‘These will have to be gone through carefully, but in the meantime we can ask if the initials ring a bell. Anything else?’
‘Some piles of envelopes tied together. Love letters, probably.’
‘Fine—we’ll take them too.’
‘Rather a drastic way,’ Webb observed, ‘unless he was already thinking of it.’ He glanced about him. ‘While we’re here we’ll have a quick look round, but time’s getting on. We’ll leave a thorough examination to the SOCOs.’
The flat held no more interesting secrets. It did, however, reveal its owner as a man of taste. Webb would have liked to spend longer studying the modern paintings on the walls, the display cabinet full of the Broadshire Porcelain the dead man had designed, the interesting and well-handled books on the shelves. A life brimful of interest, only to end abruptly with the swing of an axe.
Nina was in the hall as they came downstairs. She confirmed that Eleanor had indeed seen Fay with Robin on the terrace, but did not know how long they were together. And Fay was still in her drugged sleep.
Webb looked at his watch. ‘It’s six o’clock. I’m going over to the hall to read through these notebooks. I’d be grateful, Inspector, if you’d hang on here till Fay comes round, then play it by ear. In the meantime, you could start asking everyone if the initials TG mean anything to them.
‘Ken, since no doubt you’re hungry, I suggest you have an early supper and collect me at the Incident Room about seven-thirty. Then we’ll go and tackle Clive Tenby about Fay’s abortion. Not to mention asking where he was this afternoon.’
***
Harry Sage was coming down the path from the church hall as Webb turned in the gate.
‘Dick Ridley’s in the clear, Guy, at least where the old girl’s concerned. We’d a couple of blokes in earlier who picked him up at the bottom of Church Lane soon after three-thirty on Wednesday. They’re sure of the time, because they’re shopkeepers and had been paying their takings into the Bank. They just caught it before it closed, and the clerk followed them to the door and locked it behind them. They found Ridley draped over a wall, out for the count, and took him home.’
‘Why the hell didn’t they say so before?’ Webb asked irritably.
‘Didn’t realise he was a suspect. They let themselves in with his key and laid him out on the sofa in the front room. Then they removed his shoes and let themselves out again. That’s what I call friendship!’
And at three-thirty the cab-driver had delivered Mrs Walker to her front door. Exit number one suspect, not that Webb had ever really fancied him in the role.
‘OK, Harry, thanks.’
Webb went into the hail and put his head round the door of the Incident Room. ‘I’m going to the back room to do some reading. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’
In the room where, in more normal times, the vicar discussed wedding arrangements with engaged couples, Webb laid the notebooks out on the table. There were six in all—not bad, he reflected, for ten years’ shenanigans. He selected the most recent, which dated from the spring of the previous year, and as he read, noted the various initials on a pad beside him. His tea was brought, and left forgotten as he turned the pages.
It was indeed the journal of a Don Juan, but though Webb admired the writer’s prowess, his main concern was to establish clues as to the various women who fell so easily under Robin’s spell. Any of their partners could have been goaded to murder.
One point was apparent from the first: apart from the enduring TG, all the other initials were single ones. There was a B, an S, and a single T. Was the G added to distinguish the two? But TG far predated her rival. When, recorded just before Christmas, he came upon an A, he added her to the list without any sense of significance. But as he went on, suspicion grew, and he leafed back and read it again more carefully.
“Think I might be in with a chance with A. She’s very jumpy at the moment, and when on the offchance I treated her to one of my looks, she went gratifyingly red. Fingers crossed!”
And again, some days later: “A’s definitely ripe for the plucking. Can’t think how this has happened, but who am I to question it? Feel a bit of a heel regarding H, but if she’s that way inclined, we might as well keep it in the family.”
In the family! There was the proof. Ashley Walker—and Howard! In his head, Nina’s voice repeated, ‘She seemed more upset than Mrs Darby.’
Then came the triumphant entry: “Landed A last night. An all-time high. Tears of remorse afterwards, but only to be expected. Gather she and H haven’t been getting it right lately and she’s a lady who needs her oats. Positively no complaints on either side!” Did Howard know he’d been cuckolded by his younger brother? If so, how would he have reacted?
But she would not be caught a second time. Perhaps the remorse was genuine. Robin pursued her for a while without success, then ‘A’ disappeared from the page as ‘E’ gained prominence.
Webb owned himself surprised. Ashley Walker had not struck him as someone who’d play around in her own backyard. But Robin hinted she was frustrated. Which, Webb thought, growing hot, could explain her scrutiny of himself at the fete.
A knock at the door was a welcome diversion. One of the typists stood there, a plate in her hand. ‘We’ve just made sandwiches, sir, and wondered if you’d like some?’
‘Thanks,’ Webb said gratefully, ‘I should.’
‘Cheese and pickle all right?’
‘Perfect. And I let my last cup of tea get cold. Any chance of another?’
‘Of course, sir.’
By the time Jackson called for him as arranged, Webb had finished the notebook and was staring broodily at the list of initials on his pad.
‘Trouble is, Ken, our Robin got about a fair bit. He often went abroad on business, and spent a lot of time in London, which was where he met Eleanor.’
‘So his conquests are quite spread out?’
‘Exactly, including several one-night stands. Sometimes he refers to the location, sometimes not. It’ll be like a needle in a haystack tracking down this lot.’
Except, he conceded silently, for Ashley and Howard Walker. He’d not yet decided how to make use of that knowledge, and in the meantime was keeping his own counsel.
‘Are you ready to see young Tenby, then?’
Webb nodded, stretched, and got to his feet. ‘Let’s see what he has to tell us.’
They arrived at the house to find Mr and Mrs Tenby out and Clive entertaining friends. The sounds of the stereo greeted them as they got out of the car, and through the sitting-room window, they could see couples gyrating around.
Clive himself flung open the door, obviously expecting more of his guests. He looked taken aback to see them, but not alarmed.
‘Yes, Chief Inspector?’ he said warily.
‘Sorry to interrupt your party, but we’d like a word with you.
‘OK. Come in.’
The house was throbbing with the beat of the music—not quite the atmosphere in which to talk of death and abortion.
Clive said apologetically, ‘The dining-room should be fairly quiet,’ and led them to the room on the far side of the house, closing the door behind him. At least the noise was muted here. Webb cleared his throat.
‘I have two pieces of news for you—if, indeed, they are news. But first, would you tell me, please, where you were around lunch-time today?’
‘Oh yes, my mother said you called. We’d gone over to the Plough at Fallowfield for a pub lunch. We often do on Saturdays.’
‘Who’s “we”?’
‘A group of friends and myself.’
‘What time did you leave here?’
Clive shrugged. ‘Around twelve-thirty.’
‘And you got hack when?’
‘Not till after four. We went for a long walk through the woods.’
‘You were with your friends the whole time?’
‘
Yes.’ Clive looked puzzled. ‘You said you had some news, Chief Inspector?’
For the second time, Webb informed him of a violent death in the Walker family. Clive stared at him in horror. ‘Robin? I can’t believe it! Who’d want to kill him?’
‘That, my lad, is what we intend to find out.’
‘Well, it, wasn’t me!’ Clive said hotly. Then, as Webb made no comment, ‘You said there were two things?’
‘Ah yes.’ Webb paused, his eyes on the boy’s face. ‘Are you aware that Fay Walker had an abortion last April?’
Clive blinked convulsively, as though he’d been physically struck. Then colour suffused his face and he said in a strangled voice, ‘That’s a dirty lie!’
‘No, it’s the truth. I ask you again if you slept with her.’
‘And I tell you again, no! And there was no one else, if that’s what you’re thinking. We were going out together—don’t you think I’d have known?’
His shock was obviously genuine, and Webb felt sympathy for him. ‘Nevertheless, we can’t argue with facts.’ He paused. ‘Wasn’t it about then that your friendship ended?’
‘You’re saying that was why? They thought it was mine? But of course, they would. Why didn’t she tell them?’ Then the answer seemed to come to him. ‘She must have been raped! Poor girl—she’d have been too ashamed to say anything.’
It was possible, Webb conceded. According to Melanie, the family had no doubt the child was Clive’s, but Fay had never confirmed it. If indeed she’d been raped, it would dispose of the father as a possible murder suspect.
Warming to his solution, Clive went on, ‘Believe me, Chief Inspector, it must have been that. I know she wouldn’t have gone with anyone else. She’s not that kind of girl.’ And from his own observance of Fay, Webb was inclined to agree.
‘God, what she must have gone through! Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘I can’t answer that, I’m afraid. Well, we won’t keep you from your friends any longer.’
Six Proud Walkers Page 14
