The Murders of Mrs. Austin and Mrs. Beale

by Jill McGown

  Mickey couldn’t look at him as he listened to the lecture. He kept his eyes on the desk, on the Mitchell Estate file that he wished he could just tear up.

  ‘Everything you learn about a villain is worth knowing. Who his women are, who his contacts are – which addresses he can use if he’s in a jam. I keep a lot of it in my head – Inspector Hill writes it all down. Connections. You have to be able to make connections. This woman’s called Leonora – that woman was called Leonora. It’s not a very usual name … then, Tasker would have crossed your mind. You’d have checked, discovered that he’d been released from prison two months ago … and we’d have him, not Beale.’

  ‘Sir,’ muttered Mickey.

  Lloyd sat back. ‘Tell me something,’ he said.

  Mickey lifted his eyes.

  ‘I’ve been looking at your file,’ said Lloyd. ‘You started off eager and keen – you were always in the thick of it, you were being noticed by the top brass – well, your flying tackle on Tasker is a case in point. Then after that you … well – you’d have been kicked out if it hadn’t been for your previous record. You missed more than one court appearance, you were persistently late on duty, you were worse than useless. What happened?’

  Mickey sighed. ‘I gave up smoking, sir,’ he said, with a hint of hostility.

  Lloyd looked angry for a second, then relaxed a little. ‘It had that bad an effect on you?’ he asked.

  ‘I gave up because someone asked me to,’ said Mickey, with a reluctant little sigh. This was always going to happen. Getting the man’s back up wasn’t sensible; besides which, he was trying to understand. He lifted his head. ‘I got involved with a woman,’ he said defiantly. ‘My marriage broke up. It didn’t officially break up until a couple of years ago, but that’s when it really happened couldn’t keep my mind on work.’

  Lloyd nodded. And understood. Mickey had heard bits and pieces about Lloyd and Judy Hill; their story wasn’t dissimilar, and Lloyd wasn’t pretending that it was.

  ‘You’re not the first that that’s happened to,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You were married then? How old were you? Twenty-one?’

  ‘Yes. I’d been married two years by then, sir. I was … well, just going through the motions at work.’

  ‘Not even that on occasion,’ said Lloyd. ‘And it’s cost us valuable time now, hasn’t it? And what I have to know is – are you about to go walkabout again? Because if you are, you’re no good to me.’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Mickey vehemently. ‘There’s no one. Not now. Nothing. I just want to do my job.’

  Lloyd nodded briefly. ‘Then I suggest you start doing it,’ he said.

  Mickey had no option; if he didn’t give Lloyd some reason to respect his ability now, then he was done for. He could be wrong; but he couldn’t let that bother him. Judy said he had a sharp tongue, but he gave credit where it was due. He just had to keep his fingers crossed that he was right, and that some credit would come his way before the man gave up on him altogether.

  ‘Sir,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant.’

  ‘Mrs Beale’s office,’ he said. ‘Someone had helped themselves to her whisky. She doesn’t use the office much, and the other bottles were unopened.’

  Lloyd nodded.

  ‘I think we can discount vandals,’ said Mickey. ‘Whoever it was used a glass.’

  ‘I’ll have you know we’ve got very cultured vandals in Stansfield,’ said Lloyd, just as though the previous conversation hadn’t taken place. ‘Wouldn’t dream of drinking out of the bottle.’

  Mickey smiled. Lloyd confused him, but it was a joke, so he would smile. ‘Thing is, sir – if whoever it was had a drink beforehand – Dutch courage, or whatever – the natural thing to do would be to use the drinks cupboard to stand the bottle on. And it would just have got left there when he tried to set it alight.’ He could feel Lloyd listening to his every word, and suddenly it didn’t seem so intriguing. It seemed of monumental unimportance. He took a deep breath. ‘But it wasn’t there,’ he said. ‘It had been dropped, by the look of it. Near the door. Bottle and glass.’

  Lloyd looked a little uncertain, and Mickey licked his lips nervously.

  ‘I think he was drinking after he’d started the fire, sir,’ he said. ‘I think he was in there, and dropped the bottle and the glass when the smoke got to him.’

  Lloyd frowned a little. ‘He?’

  ‘The fumes, sir. They’d make him seem drunk – especially if he had had some alcohol. But he’d be functioning quite clearly. He might well be able to drive home, and pass out for a few minutes when he stopped being active. I – I asked the fire officer. He says it’s quite possible. He’d be a bit lightheaded for a few hours, he said. Those were Pearce’s symptoms, sir.’

  ‘And memory loss?’

  ‘I asked if it could result in memory problems, and he said it had never done that to any of his firemen. Sir.’

  Lloyd raised an eyebrow.

  ‘You see, sir, I can’t see when Pearce got drunk. Austin says he had two at his house, and his wife says he came straight home. Inspector Hill didn’t believe her, and I think he was …’ He tailed off.

  ‘I think I’ll have a word with Mr Pearce,’ said Lloyd. And smiled.

  Mickey could only hope that this bit of inspiration wasn’t misplaced.

  ‘Jonathan?’

  Pauline was startled to find Jonathan Austin at her door. In these security-conscious flats, only neighbours could call unannounced.

  ‘I was in Frank Beale’s flat,’ he said, by way of explanation. I thought I should—’

  ‘Come in,’ she said, belatedly remembering her manners. She didn’t know what to say to him. ‘How are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, you know.’ He sat down. ‘Frank Beale’s taking it very hard.’

  ‘Is he?’ Rosemary had seen him, once or twice. He didn’t seem much different. Still going about his dubious business, as far as she could see. A couple of unpleasant-looking characters had called on him in the afternoon.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan, ‘He tries to look as though nothing’s happened, but it’s hurt him.’

  Pauline raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘ I wouldn’t put it past him to have done it himself,’ she said.

  Jonathan looked up at her. ‘Are the police saying that?’ he asked.

  ‘How should I know?’ She sat down. ‘All I know is that they think Lennie died because she heard what was happening to Rosemary Beale.’ Too late, she remembered that she was speaking to Lennie’s husband. It was strange; she had never really been able to think of Jonathan like that. ‘ Sorry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘She is dead; not talking about it won’t alter it’ He sighed. ‘They’ve told me their theory too,’ he said.

  Pauline caught the nuance. ‘You don’t think that’s what happened?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve told them about an ex-boyfriend of hers that turned up. She was frightened of him, I know she was.’

  Pauline hadn’t got that impression, not at all.

  ‘Do they have any … theories about Mrs Beale?’ he asked, getting her back on to what he regarded as safer ground, presumably. But that rather depended on where you were standing, and it didn’t seem like safer ground to Pauline.

  ‘They seem to be suspicious of Gordon,’ she said icily.

  ‘They asked me what our meeting had been about. I had to tell them.’

  ‘And did you tell them about you and Rosemary Beale?’ she asked.

  ‘That isn’t true! Gordon’s wrong about that.’

  ‘It isn’t just Gordon.’

  ‘Then everyone’s wrong. And they asked me about it, if you must know. Pauline, I didn’t come in here for a row – is Gordon here?’

  ‘He’s asleep.’

  ‘This early?’

  In Jonathan’s world, you did everything at properly arranged times. You ate, you slept, you worked, you – She remembered with a stab of conscience what she had
heard that night. Was Lennie working? Was she with this man? She had lied about when it was.

  ‘He’s hardly had any sleep,’ she said.

  He wasn’t asleep. He was lying, fully clothed, on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t come out.

  ‘I just wanted to tell him that he can forget about that agreement,’ said Jonathan. ‘The board won’t be making any changes now.’

  Pauline frowned a little. ‘You’ve spoken to them?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t have to. It was Mrs Beale who wanted the changes made, and that doesn’t apply any more.’

  Pauline felt her legs grow suddenly weak. ‘Did Gordon know that?’ she asked.

  ‘He guessed that Mrs Beale was the moving light,’ said Jonathan. ‘The other thing is just Leonora’s paintings. I want him to have whatever he’d like. I’m giving the others away. Tell Gordon I’ll … I’ll talk to him later,’ he said.

  He showed himself out.

  Slowly, Pauline got up. Her legs shook as she made her way out of the room, into the bedroom, where Gordon still lay, staring at the ceiling.

  ‘We have to be very certain of what we are going to tell the police,’ she said. ‘They’ll be back, I know they will.’

  He looked at her, then got off the bed. ‘I’m going to the pub,’ he said. ‘ Tell them what you like.’

  Lloyd was right.

  Judy put her hand over her eyes to block out the daylight that still streamed through the closed curtains, and tried to sleep, but the image of Lennie’s body stayed in her mind, as it had all day. She shouldn’t have gone. Lloyd was right; Lloyd was always right. It must be boring.

  But she had had to go. After that call, what else could she do? She had been so sure that he was lying, that something terrible had happened. A hollowness in his tone, a falseness; she had heard it hundreds of times in a career which consisted for the most part of talking to liars. She had heard it then. She had heard lies, and something else. Something worse.

  And then the call about Lennie. How could she have stayed at home? So, she told herself sternly, if you felt you had to see for yourself, then stop trying to forget what you saw. Face it. Think about it. If you think about it, you won’t keep dreaming about it.

  The flat, the door standing open. Looking into the room first; seeing Lennie lying there. Then making herself go in. Lennie, lying in amongst upturned furniture. Broken, smashed chairs. A bookcase with splintered shelves. All around, the destruction which had terrified the neighbour. One blow had killed her; one blow to the temple, apparently from behind. She would have turned away from the inevitable, Freddie had said. But perhaps she didn’t even see it. Perhaps he had hit her from behind. One blow, and she was dead.

  Then what? Why would he ring her, of all people? If he’d just killed his wife, perhaps his powers of reasoning were at a low ebb. He’d killed her, and he wanted to get away with it. Ring a convenient police officer and say she isn’t home and he’s worried. But no … the phone wouldn’t work.

  But she had heard a police siren. And he could have phoned on his way back to the house, from the telephone-box at the post office. But then, he would have had to ring before he killed her, and the desperate reason didn’t apply. Then it would have been premeditated, thought out, if only for a few moments. He wouldn’t have been ringing her in the after-shock of having committed murder. And why make it sound as though he was at home, when that would be the last place …

  She opened her eyes. What? What was she thinking about? She had lost the place somehow. Jonathan Austin. That’s what she was thinking about Austin, and his phoney call. A phoney-call. From a phoney-box at the post office.

  She opened her eyes again. Phoney. Who’s a phoney? Austin. Austin is a phoney, living in a flat that Lloyd could afford, when he was rolling in it. Rolling. Rolling in it.

  Judy, he’s rolling in it.

  She opened her eyes. Who said that? Lennie. Lennie said it. She’d met her just before she got married. And she wasn’t like a bride-to-be, and didn’t pretend to be. Judy, he’s rolling in it. Not a figure of speech; not just by comparison to someone trying to live on the proceeds of her art. Really rolling in it. Chief Superintendent Allison said so. Rolling in it … rolling in money. Lying on the floor, banknotes scattered round like so many tissues, killed by a single …

  She opened her eyes. No, not Jonathan. Jonathan wasn’t killed. He was rolling in it, but Lennie was killed. He wasn’t the victim – what made her think he was the victim? He was a phoney. A rich phoney. Lennie was the victim. Lennie, killed by a single blow. She shouldn’t have gone in. She shouldn’t have gone to see for herself. She shouldn’t … Lloyd was right.

  She closed her eyes; sleep finally came, but it was fitful and troubled, and her racing, confused thoughts were overtaken by the dreams that she had tried and failed to chase away.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Gordon looked up to see one of the policemen who had been at the Beales’ flat that morning.

  ‘Your wife said I’d find you here.’

  Gordon sighed, and looked out at the river, sparkling this evening in the setting summer sun. ‘I had hoped to have a quiet pint,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I’m very quiet. Lloyd – DCI, Stansfield Division.’ He held out his hand; reluctantly, Gordon shook it.

  Just let me do the talking. So why send the chief inspector to the pub? How was she going to do the talking at the pub? Tell them what you like, he had said. So, she had told them he was at the pub. Fair enough. He didn’t know how long he could go on with it.

  It was your idea, Gordon, old son. You said you were drunk. Couldn’t remember a thing. Long before Pauline did her Joan Crawford bit.

  It wasn’t Joan Crawford, it was Barbara Stanwyck. I remember now. And that was when I thought it was my problem. She made it hers, and I don’t know how she knows …

  ‘You were very unhappy when you left Mr Austin last night, weren’t you, Mr Pearce?’

  ‘I know,’ Gordon said carefully, ‘ what Austin’s told you. I know how it must sound. But I wasn’t angry with her – I didn’t mean those things. I know, I know …’ He let out a long sigh. ‘I know how it must sound. I … I blamed her for what was happening.’

  He looked out at the sunshine; people strolled along the river bank, families out on the fine evening, enjoying the weather. He and Pauline could have had that. Late. Late parents. He’d thought that might be a good thing, might keep them young. But now that might not be possible.

  ‘Who are we talking about, Mr Pearce?’

  ‘Mrs Austin,’ he said. ‘I loved her, Mr Lloyd. I’ve known her all her life, and I loved her. I trusted her, and it seemed to me that my trust had been betrayed. But it hadn’t. She wasn’t to know he would take up with a woman like that.’

  Lloyd took another apparently unconcerned sip of beer. ‘Austin didn’t tell us any of that,’ he said, removing a fleck of foam from the corner of his mouth.

  Oh. That hadn’t occurred to him.

  ‘Were you with Mrs Austin last night?’

  ‘Only until she went out.’

  ‘When was that?’

  Gordon shrugged a little. ‘Nine – something like that.’

  ‘And you didn’t see her again?’

  Gordon shook his head.

  Nice one, Gordon. Pauline got you into this.

  No, she didn’t I got myself into it.

  She’s the one insisting you got home at quarter past ten, Gordon, old son.

  Lloyd finished his drink. ‘ Shall we take a walk by the river?’ he asked, as the pub began to fill.

  The sun hung low in an impossibly blue sky; pink-tinged children who would be crying when the sheets touched the tender skin still laughed, and chased the ducks along the bank. An old man in a white linen jacket and a panama hat took a stroll. People wore bright colours and extravagant clothing; next week, they might be switching on their central heating and taking their dark suits back out
of the wardrobe.

  ‘We believe that Mrs Austin was a witness. She heard what happened to Mrs Beale. Oh, it wouldn’t have meant anything at the time, but we think the killer believed she would be able to identify him once she knew.’ He looked over the river to the flats on the other side. ‘And what Mr Austin did tell us was that you were very resentful of Mrs Beale.’

  Gordon closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘You were asked to come in to let us have your fingerprints for elimination – have you done that yet, Mr Pearce?’

  Gordon shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  He didn’t speak.

  ‘Is it because we’ll find your prints on the bottle in Mrs Beale’s office?’

  Gordon sat down on a bench, and stared at the river.

  ‘You did set fire to her office, didn’t you, Mr Pearce? You were affected by the smoke when your wife saw you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Lloyd sat down beside him. ‘Why?’ he asked.

  Gordon looked at him. ‘I tried to set fire to the whole place,’ he said. ‘I wanted it to go up in flames, with me in it. But then I couldn’t breathe, and I wanted to breathe. I didn’t want to die. So I ran. I left the way I had got in, and came home. Pauline thought I was drunk, and I let her think that.’

  ‘When did you go to the factory?’

  Oh God, trying to remember all the ties was almost impossible.

  ‘When I left Austin.’

  ‘So you got there just after ten?’

  Gordon nodded, his eyes closed.

  ‘Your wife says you were home by ten fifteen.’

  He shook his head. ‘About an hour later,’ he said.

  ‘Did you see anything, or hear anything when you got home?’

  He shook his head again. ‘I wasn’t taking any notice of anything. I could hardly see. And I thought I had burned the place down,’ he said. ‘Pauline smelt burning – I thought that that was the factory ablaze. But it was just me. My clothes. I couldn’t believe it when the factory manager rang me and said would I be coming in because there had been a bit of a fire.’ He looked at Lloyd, and smiled. ‘A bit of a fire. That’s about my range,’ he said. ‘A bit of a fire. Pauline lied for me.’ He swallowed. ‘Will I go to prison?’