The man nodded and thankfully moved away. Jackson gave a low whistle. 'And what do you make of that, Guv?'
'Interesting, Ken. Very interesting. What exactly did Selby say about her—can you check?'
Jackson thumbed through his notebook. 'First off, he said he'd had no personal dealings with her. Then when you asked if they'd met when he was up before, he said, "No, the cottage wasn't available at the time."' Jackson looked up, his blue eyes brilliant with excitement. 'Looks as though he took steps to make it available, doesn't it?'
'We mustn't jump the gun, Ken, but the man has to be crazy. Surely he knew we'd check? Well, we'll have another word with Mr Matthew Selby as soon as he's had his lunch.'
To Jackson's relief, they'd finished eating themselves before the Selbys emerged from the restaurant. Webb eased himself out of his chair and moved slowly across to intercept them. Selby looked surprised, but not worried, to see him.
'I'd like another word, sir, if you can spare us a moment. No need to trouble your wife. Perhaps she'd care to wait for you here.'
'If you're sure this is really necessary.'
'Oh, I am, sir.'
Selby glanced at him quickly, then helped his wife to a corner table, propping her crutches against the wall. Webb saw the quick, anxious glance she sent him. In silence the three men walked to the small parlour. Webb ushered Selby ahead of him, and Jackson closed the door behind them.
'I really don't see the point of this, Chief Inspector. It's barely two hours since we spoke to you, and you covered everything pretty exhaustively then.'
'We now believe, sir, that the statement you made was incorrect.'
He frowned. 'In what way?'
'You stated, sir, twice, that you'd never met Mrs Freda Cowley.' 'So?'
'You still maintain that, sir?' 'Of course I do.'
'The landlord here informs us that you lunched together on the fifth of September.'
Selby stared at him for several minutes. Webb could have sworn his expression was total incomprehension. Then either understanding or memory filtered through, and with it a dawning horror. And Jackson had said it was his wife who did the acting.
'That was Freda Cowley? I swear to God I'd no idea!'
'Perhaps,' said Webb pleasantly, 'you'd like to start again, sir. Had you arranged to meet Mrs Cowley here?'
'For God's sake, man! I'd never seen her before in my life. She just brought her drink to my table, that's all.'
'You sat talking for some time and left together.'
Selby moistened his lips. 'But we didn't exchange names. You don't, in those circumstances. It was just a casual conversation between strangers.'
'What did you talk about, sir?'
'I told her I was hoping to rent a cottage here. She said she hadn't heard of anywhere available. Then we talked quite a lot about America. I said I was going over later in the year, and she'd stayed with friends out there.'
'You left with her.'
'We went out of the door together, yes. I offered her a lift, but she said she only lived round the corner, so I left, her and drove back to the Hall. I never thought about her again.'
'That would be Sandon Hall, sir? What time did you arrive there?'
'God, I don't know. About two-thirty.'
There was a silence. Webb was idly tracing the cracks on the table with his fingernail. 'As you know, sir, I was always bothered about you taking the cottage unseen. That's why I asked several times if you'd met Mrs Cowley. Now it turns out you had. And since you left here at the same time, what more natural than her inviting you back, for coffee, perhaps?'
'That's bloody ridiculous! I didn't know the woman, it was just a chance encounter.'
'But we're told, sir, that Mrs Cowley was a lady who made the most of such encounters. And, if you'll forgive me, your wife's out of bounds, so to speak, and I believe you've not been married long. Tough luck that is, sir.'
A dull red flush suffused Selby's face. He started out of his chair, and sank slowly back again. 'By God,' he said thickly, 'if you weren't a police officer, I'd give you a bloody nose for that!'
'Did Mrs Cowley invite you back with her, sir?'
'No, she did not.'
'Did you suggest it yourself?'
'Definitely and categorically not.'
'You see, sir,' Webb said softly, 'from what we've established so far, it's just possible that you were the last person to see her alive. Apart from her murderer, that is.'
Selby sank his head into his hands. Jackson saw they were trembling. When he raised it again, his face was haggard.
He said, 'I can see it looks bad, my denying having met her. But I didn't know I had! I'd even forgotten sitting with a woman over lunch, though of course I remember now. My mind was full of other things—the meeting with the Sandons, finding accommodation, getting back to my wife in London. But I swear to God our conversation was entirely innocent. My wife could have overheard every word of it.'
'It didn't occur to you, when the agents phoned, that the cottage belonged to the woman you'd lunched with?'
'Why the hell should it? And let's get things straight. I didn't lunch with her. You make it sound like an assignation. I was eating my lunch, and she came and sat at my table. That's all there was to it.'
'Convenient, though, wasn't it, the cottage coming on the market just as you needed it.'
'I wasn't desperate enough to murder for it, if that's what you're getting at.'
'So you reckon it was about two-fifteen when the pair of you left here?'
'About that.'
'And your car was parked—where?' 'Round the back, in the car park.' 'Did you see which direction she took?'
'She turned right.'
'As though she was going home?'
'Yes, though I didn't know that.'
'Did anyone else leave at the same time?'
'I think there were a couple of men behind us. I didn't pay much attention.'
'So when you last saw Mrs Cowley, she was alone and walking back towards her cottage?'
'Yes.' Selby hesitated. 'How do you know no one else saw her?'
'Someone might have, sir, but if so, they haven't come forward yet. Mrs Markham rang her at nine the next morning, Thursday, and there was no reply. Since the agents phoned you on the Friday, they must have received the keys in the post that morning. It seems probable she was killed the day you saw her.'
Selby asked in a low voice, 'How was she killed?'
'Suffocation, after a blow to the head knocked her unconscious.'
'Poor soul,' he said softly.
'And there's nothing else you can tell us, sir? She didn't say what she was doing that afternoon?' 'No.'
'Very well, that's all for the moment.'
Webb made no attempt to rise. Selby blundered to his feet and Jackson opened the door for him. Jessica was waiting anxiously in the saloon bar, oblivious of the approving glances coming her way. As Matthew reached her, she blurted out, 'What is it? What's happened?'
'Let's get out of here.' Matthew was aware of the landlord's eyes following them as they left the room. Last time he'd come to the bloody Orange Tree.
'Darling, what is it?'
He paused in the act of opening the car door, leaning briefly on its roof. 'I suspect they think I'm the murderer.' 'What?'
'I had met her, Jessica. How about that? She chatted me up while I was lunching here. But I swear before God I didn't know who she was.' 'My darling, I believe you!'
'Get in the car. I'll tell you as we drive along. I need to get away from this bloody village for a while.' He tossed her crutches on to the back seat and helped her into the front. She was suddenly frightened. They couldn't really suspect Matthew, surely? But he hadn't mentioned meeting this woman, name or no name. Why? Because he hadn't thought it important? Or because it was too important?
They drove rapidly past their cottage. Several cars were drawn up outside, and the front door stood open. The Scenes of Crime people, the Chief Inspector cal
led them. Did that mean their house was the scene of crime? She shuddered, imagining them poking and prying among her things, perhaps finding evidence of murder. She said suddenly, 'This hasn't changed your mind about staying here, has it? You don't want to go back to London?'
'That would start them talking, wouldn't it?' He shook his head grimly. 'I'm sorry, darling, we'll have to stick it out. I'm not going to be driven away by a nosey landlord and a policeman who's too big for his boots. God, some of the things he hinted at!'
'What kind of things?'
'Unrepeatable. I'd like to sue him.'
She laid a hand over his. 'Darling, don't take it too personally. They're probably like that with everyone.'
'Not everyone has drinks with a murder victim just before she cops it.'
'She was killed that day?'
'They seem to think so.'
'Do they know at what time?'
'I doubt it, after ten days.'
Jessica shivered. 'Anyway you went back to the Hall after lunch.'
'Yes, but I didn't see anyone. Dom had gone off shooting, he told me to let myself in. I just went to the library and worked by myself for a couple of hours. There were servants about, but I didn't see any and I don't suppose they saw me. Not much of an alibi. I left about four and drove home.'
As they reached the main road and turned in the direction of Heatherton, Matthew relaxed slightly. He glanced at his wife's taut face and patted her hand. 'Never mind, my love, at least it has publicity value. "Biographer in murder inquiry." Quite a ring to it, hasn't it?'
CHAPTER 7
James Bayliss stared at the policeman the other side of his desk. 'You're telling me these instructions didn't come from the owner of the cottage?'
He spoke, Jackson thought, like an Army officer addressing the ranks. Even looked like one, with his greying hair and small military moustache.
'It would seem not, sir. On the day this was dated, Mrs Cowley had been asked about accommodation in the village. If she'd been going to let herself, she'd surely have said.' Webb glanced at the letter. 'Is it a good copy of her signature, would you say?'
'I've no idea. I'd never heard of the lady till that arrived.'
'You haven't still got the envelope, I suppose?'
'No, I haven't, Chief Inspector. It came more than a week ago. In any case, I can't see what use it would have been.'
'We might have established the blood group, sir, from saliva traces on the stamp. The characteristics are often present in other body fluids.' Even a negative result would have helped, Webb thought morosely. For had the substances not been present, showing the sender to be one of the unhelpful fourteen per cent who didn't secrete them— then he was almost certainly Nurse Daly's attacker as well.
Bayliss accepted the information without comment. He placed the tips of his fingers together, making a pyramid, and regarded them sternly over its apex. 'Am I permitted to know, then, who did send that letter?'
'Very likely the murderer, sir. It seems he planned carefully. Left the cottage ready for tenants to move in.'
The man's lips tightened. 'I must say I resent being duped in this way. I'd no reason whatever—'
'Of course not.' Webb paused. 'Now, sir, about Mr Selby. You checked the contents with him, I suppose?'
'My son did.' He still spoke crisply. The family firm was eighty years old, and nothing remotely shady had touched it before. Now, through no fault of his own, it would be linked in the public's mind with murder. It really wasn't good enough.
'So you've not seen the property yourself?'
Bayliss forced his mind back to the issue at hand. 'Oh yes. I drove over when the keys arrived, to see if it was suitable for Mr Selby.'
'That would be Friday morning. Did you notice anything unusual about the place?'
'Only that the milk and papers hadn't been cancelled. There were two pints on the step, and two Daily Mails, one on the hall floor and one in the letter-box. I called at the post office, and the woman said she'd speak to the milkman. No point in advertising that the place was empty.'
'Did she seem surprised Mrs Cowley hadn't notified her?'
'Quite the contrary. She laughed and said something like, "That's Mrs Cowley all over."'
Had the killer banked on that reaction? Webb wondered. If so, it implied he knew his victim. But he could hardly have cancelled them himself.
'Is it unusual, sir, to receive keys through the post like that?'
'Unusual, yes, but it didn't strike us as sinister.'
'If we could have a word with your son, then.'
Though Webb had met Julian Bayliss before, neither betrayed the fact and the older man noticed nothing. Nor had the boy anything useful to impart. Taking the typewritten letter with them, Webb and Jackson returned to Shillingham. There'd been a typewriter at the cottage. Ten to one, it would prove to be the one used. And for the rhyme in the dead woman's pocket.
His phone was ringing as Webb reached his office and he stretched across the desk to answer it. Pips bleeped briefly in his ear, followed by the sound of a coin falling. Then a woman's tentative voice: 'Chief Inspector Webb?'
'Speaking.' He hitched himself on to the corner of the desk.
'Good afternoon. I saw your advertisement in the paper.'
The anonymous letter-writer! Webb caught Crombie's curious eye and gave him a thumbs-up. 'Yes, madam. Thank you for phoning. Is it possible for us to meet?'
'I'm afraid not.' It wasn't a young voice, and Webb guessed the stress even this call was causing her. 'In any case, I can't think it would help. But I'll try to answer your questions.'
'Thank you. First, then, exactly when and where did this incident take place?'
'Three years ago last June, in Ashmartin Park.'
He said gently, 'Could you tell me what happened?'
'I was on my way home from Mothers' Union. It was about nine-thirty, but still quite light. I remember wondering what time they locked the park for the night. He—he stepped out of some bushes just behind me, and put a knife to the back of my neck.' Webb closed his eyes briefly as his last, wild hope that this could be a different attacker faded away. 'Then he pulled a woollen helmet over my head. Some kind of Balaclava, I think, but back to front so that I couldn't see anything. And he—dragged me back into the bushes.'
As her voice faltered, a rapid bleeping sounded in his ear, indicating that the money was used up. Webb swore softly, praying she wouldn't let the connection go. To his relief, another coin rattled home.
'You mentioned nursery rhymes,' he prompted.
'That's right. He wouldn't allow me to stop. They seemed
to—to goad him, somehow.' Her voice warmed with anger.
'Can you imagine, Mr Webb, what I go through, when my
grandchildren request them now? It's ruined their babyhood
for me.'
'There's no way you'd recognize this man, if you saw him?'
'None at all. He tied my hands, and I could scarcely breathe in the helmet, let alone see anything.' 'His voice?'
'A whisper only. I'd no idea it could sound so sinister.'
'You haven't heard reports of similar incidents?'
'Not until now. I'm not surprised, though. Not many women would come forward, after an experience like that.'
Webb sighed and stood up. 'I'm sorry to have distressed you by going through it again, but I assure you it was most helpful. Thank you very much for contacting me.' He put the phone down and looked at it thoughtfully. 'By tomorrow, the papers will have connected the murder with the rape. Thank God I spoke to her before she realized she'd been with a murderer. Right, Alan.' He straightened, and his voice became brisker. 'Arrange a briefing, will you, in an hour's time. The first priority is blood tests for all males in and near the village, if we can twist their arms sufficiently. Given the secretion factor, that could rule out ninety-nine per cent of them. At the same time, check if any of them has any connection with Ashmartin. You can make a start on the names Carrie Spe
ight gave us. No word on the ex-husband yet?'
'Nothing's come through here.'
Webb sat down at his desk. 'I had another session with PC Frost, but he can't come up with a motive other than possible blackmail.'
'Was there anyone who'd a lot to lose if his association with her got out?'
'That, my lad, is what we'll have to discover.'
His phone rang again. It was the editor of the Broadshire News. 'Hi, Dave. This murder business. Any crumbs you can drop an old pal before the big boys scoop the lot?'
Webb smiled. 'Don't say I never do anything for you! Two things, both of which will be public property tomorrow. One: the murdered woman had a typed nursery rhyme in her pocket.' He heard Romilly's low whistle. 'And two, the couple who've taken her cottage are apparently celebrities, Matthew Selby and Jessica Randal. No doubt their names mean more to you than they did to me.'
'Bless you, Dave! We'll pull out all the stops. Cheers.'
At his desk across the town, Michael Romilly reached for the internal phone. This was front page stuff all right. Just occasionally it paid, being local.
'Jill? My office, please, at the double.' He dropped the receiver and frowned momentarily, resenting the forced note in his voice. He was still uneasy in her presence, and the fact annoyed him. A year ago, when his marriage was going through a bad patch, they'd had a brief affair, though he acknowledged it had been more than that to Jill. Pity, she was a nice girl. When it ended and Kate came back, he'd expected her to hand in her notice. She hadn't, and he could scarcely ask her to go. In any case, she was a damn good reporter.
He looked up as, after a brief tap on the door, she came
in.
'Yes, boss?' She hadn't used his name since they broke up.
'This murder the nationals have got their teeth into.' He kept his gaze on the paper on his desk, preferring to meet the dead woman's eyes rather than Jill's. 'Seems to be linked with the nursery rhyme rape in Westridge. What's more, the victim's cottage has been taken by the biographer Matthew Selby, who won some literary prize a year or two ago, and his actress wife Jessica Randal. I want this in tonight's edition, so high-tail it out there, will you, and phone in a report? The photos will have to wait till tomorrow, unless we can dig some out of the library.'
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