The Murders of Mrs. Austin and Mrs. Beale

by Jill McGown

  ‘But nothing was going to happen until he got elected,’ said Steve. ‘ That was part of the deal. It suited Rosemary – she would have a couple of years to establish her credentials. If anyone was suspicious of her sudden interest in commerce, they’d have given up by the time it really got going.’

  Judy looked up. ‘She was very sure he was going to be elected,’ she said.

  Tasker smiled. ‘A staunch Tory, our Rosemary,’ he said. ‘But it didn’t really matter if he wasn’t. It would all have been very expensive, but she wasn’t spending her money on setting it up. It was his, or the firm’s. His own, I think. And I don’t imagine Rosie’s word was necessarily her bond. I think it would have gone ahead anyway.’

  Judy nodded, ‘And what was your part in all of this?’

  ‘Nothing much. A few presents for tipping her the wink about Austin, the offer of a job – which I wasn’t going to take – and being in good with the Beales, which doesn’t hurt, as you’ve probably noticed.’ He looked pointedly at Mervyn as he spoke.

  I’ll bet, thought Judy. She wondered how Stephen Arthur Tasker would have been if his life had taken a different turn.

  ‘And did you tell Mrs Austin all this, too?’

  ‘No. Just that he was queer.’ He sighed. ‘You won’t believe me, but it wasn’t just to change her mind. I thought she ought to know. I wish I’d kept my mouth shut now.’ He looked at Judy. ‘She told him she knew,’ he said. ‘She must have done. She must have threatened to divorce him, make it public.’

  She sighed. ‘ Thank you for your co-operation,’ she said. ‘ It is very much appreciated. I’ll have your statement typed up, and once you’ve signed it, I’m told we won’t be needing you further today.’ She smiled. ‘You won’t do another disappearing act?’

  ‘He won’t,’ said Mervyn. ‘You can depend on it.’

  In Lloyd’s office, she rang Malworth, and arranged to see the squad car crew who had answered the 999 to the Riverside Inn, complete with notes. That would worry them, she thought wickedly.

  She went out to the car she had reluctantly hired that morning. It wasn’t too bad, she supposed, as it started first time, and blew refreshingly cold air at her. Perhaps she should get a new one. She drove round the town centre to the hotel, but Austin had left; he had gone home, she was told, so off she went to the Mitchell Estate.

  Lennie’s car was parked by the garages at the side of the flats; Judy felt a lump in her throat as she pulled in off the road, and parked beside it.

  ‘He’s just gone out, dear,’ said the next-door neighbour as she prepared to knock. ‘He’s gone to see about his wife’s paintings. At the studio, you know.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Judy. ‘Thank you.’ She was turning to leave when she heard the voices upstairs.

  ‘You could move in on Monday, Mr Lloyd, if you’re that keen.’

  The footsteps began to descend, and Judy illogically wanted to hide.

  ‘It’s much bigger than your present place – these old village flats were never really meant for two people. I’m sure you and your good lady will find the space invaluable.’

  Lloyd’s good lady sprinted to her hired car, and blessed it for starting like it did as she shot off, back to Malworth, back to get on with her work and to push thoughts of leaving Lloyd’s lovely little flat right to the back of her mind.

  What was he doing, looking at it without her, anyway? Was it supposed to be some sort of surprise? He had said he could afford one of them … he surely didn’t think she wanted to live there? But he did like surprising her. And he listened to things she said – if she had ever said she liked the place, or … oh, God. A new thought occurred to her.

  Was he that upset? Surely not. But he had hardly spoken to her last night, and he was worse this morning. He was still in a filthy mood at the station. But she’d told him that she wouldn’t try for promotion if it bothered him that much. Of course that would just bother him even more, she knew that now. Maybe he thought the solution was to … leave her? No. No, that was just silly.

  But this wasn’t the back of her mind, she told herself sternly, and walked into the station to find the two crew of the squad car sitting waiting for her, looking less than pleased at being dragged in when they were off duty.

  ‘My office, please,’ she said, and led the way.

  She sat behind the desk, and looked up at them. ‘Have you got your notebooks with the entries on the call to the Riverside Inn on Monday night?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘What time did you arrive there?’

  One of them glanced at the book, as though he hadn’t just written it all down when he knew he was being called in. ‘Ten forty-eight, ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘And how long were you there?’

  ‘About half an hour, ma’am. They took a bit of calming down. All hell was about to break loose – someone had insulted Beale’s wife, and you know what he’s like.’

  ‘And you prevented it,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Well done.’

  They looked at one another, trusting her much less far than they could throw her, she was sure.

  ‘You called in to say that you were bringing Beale and the other man in at …’ She looked at her notes because she could never remember exact times and figures, not for show. ‘ Eleven seventeen,’ she said.

  ‘Ma’am.’

  She sat back. ‘ Were the traffic lights against you?’

  They frowned in unison; she liked that.

  ‘Were they?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t really remember, ma’am,’ said the driver.

  ‘Yes, you do,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, they were.’ He sighed.

  ‘And did you run the red light, using your siren, even though it wasn’t an emergency?’ She tutted.

  ‘Am I getting done for jumping the red?’ he asked.

  She smiled. ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he said crossly. ‘Everyone does it. You can get held up forever there – and there’s no traffic at that time of night.’

  She sat back, her hands clasped behind her head. ‘So you used your siren at approximately eleven twenty p.m. on Monday, the 24th of June,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, ma’am. And if I’m on the carpet, shouldn’t I be speaking to Inspector Menlove rather than you? I don’t see why I can’t just get done for it like anyone else, anyway. Ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, you won’t be getting done for it,’ she said; forgiving the usual heavy emphasis on rank, the hostility, in her relief at being given the right answer. ‘Inspector Menlove doesn’t know or care. And next time we’re all in the pub, remind me to buy you a drink. Thanks for coming in – sorry to have spoiled your day off.’

  They left, convinced she was off her trolley. The euphoria she had felt evaporated as she contemplated Austin. He was in Lennie’s studio, so she didn’t have far to go.

  Sandwell knocked and came in, ducking under the door.

  ‘You really don’t have to,’ she said. ‘There’s a inch clearance, at least.’

  ‘You tell that to my forehead,’ he said. ‘Some builders like to fool you. I’ve just been told that one of the latents on the outside of the Beales’ front door can’t be identified.’ He sat down. ‘It’s not yours, or Drake’s, or either of the Beales’. It isn’t Tasker’s, or Austin’s – or Mrs Austin’s. They’ve spent hours trying to match it to any we’ve got and it isn’t on file, so it’s not likely to be one of Beale’s band of merry men. Anyway, they think it’s a woman’s.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Judy, a little grimly. At least it put her interview with Austin off for a little while. ‘I know whose print it is, Bob. And it’s time you and I went to see her.’

  Pauline had expected Gordon back; he hadn’t wanted to go and look at Lennie’s paintings, and she had thought he wouldn’t stay. But he must have decided to get it over with. He didn’t want to do anything much at all, and mentioning Lennie’s name would be enough to make him go into a depression fr
om which it seemed he would never recover. But it would lift a little, eventually, until the next time. He had been much better, until Jonathan had come to get him to pick what he wanted.

  It was odd, his attitude to Lennie. It wasn’t like before, when Lennie could do no wrong, but it wasn’t mourning, either. It was as though he blamed himself for what had happened, and didn’t want to think about her. She didn’t like him hating Lennie’s memory like that. It wasn’t natural. Nothing had been natural since Monday night, and she felt as though it never would be again.

  She wasn’t surprised to see Inspector Hill’s face on the security screen; she hit the button with resignation, and left the door open for her, as she would a member of her own family.

  ‘Mrs Pearce – I don’t know if you remember Sergeant Sandwell.’

  ‘Yes.’ Pauline nodded to him. ‘Please take a seat.’

  The sergeant sat, but Inspector Hill didn’t, and that made Pauline a little uneasy.

  ‘Mrs Pearce,’ she said, ‘ can I suggest that this time we get the whole truth and nothing but?’

  The courtroom terminology did nothing to make Pauline feel any better. And she wasn’t about to give guarantees.

  ‘You thought originally, that your husband had done some harm to Jonathan Austin,’ said the inspector. ‘You wanted to protect him, so you lied to us.’

  She nodded, her head barely moving. This woman was moving in for the kill; she could see it in her face.

  ‘But you very soon knew that he had done nothing of the sort; Jonathan Austin was alive and well – Mrs Austin was dead. And not only would you never have suspected your husband of that in the first place, but he was actually with you when it happened.’

  Right so far. Pauline sat down, opposite the sergeant, who had taken over the note-taking, she noticed. Or would have done, if she had said anything other than a asking him to take a seat.

  ‘So why did you continue to lie to us, Mrs Pearce? Why did you have to wait until your husband had confessed to these murders before you even began to tell us the truth?’

  The word truth seemed to echo. Truth, truth, truth. She had never told lies. She had liked that about Lennie. Lennie was truthful. She hung about with people who would cut their grandmother’s throat, never mind tell lies, but Lennie herself was honest, and truthful, and Pauline had liked that. Jonathan Austin had said that she had told him she was frightened of Steve; that wasn’t true. Lennie wouldn’t have said that, wouldn’t have let him believe that. It was Jonathan she should be questioning. Who cared who killed Rosemary Beale?

  Rosemary Beale had been everything Pauline hated. She lied and cheated and stole. She helped her husband run his sordid clubs and made money out of inadequates.

  Truth. It still whispered in the air, as the inspector waited for an answer. Truth. What was so important about the truth? It wouldn’t bring Rosemary Beale back, and who would want to, anyway? Jonathan said Beale was cut up about it, but Pauline couldn’t believe that. He was just like Rosemary: hard as nails. She had modelled herself on Rosemary when the police had come that morning; it would seem that she wasn’t as skilful as Rosemary had been.

  ‘Would you be prepared to let us have your fingerprints for elimination?’ the sergeant asked mildly.

  Pauline looked up. ‘Elimination?’ she said. ‘But I was just outside. The police were all there when I got there. I wasn’t in the Austins’ flat. Are you trying to prove that I was? The chief inspector says a woman couldn’t have done it anyway.’

  ‘No, Mrs Pearce,’ he said. ‘We are investigating Mrs Beale’s murder, not Mrs Austin’s.’

  It was a trick. At least she knew not to fall for tricks. But you didn’t find any fingerprints in the Beales’ flat, that’s what they wanted her to say. ‘If you like,’ was what she did say.

  ‘You forgot the outside of the door, Mrs Pearce,’ said the inspector quietly. ‘Are you still as keen to let us have your fingerprints?’

  Don’t panic. Stay calm. She stayed calm, but it really didn’t seem to get her anywhere. She supposed that was the thing about calm, really. It didn’t. They had found her fingerprints. That was almost funny.

  ‘You knew your husband had been hurt dreadfully by the Austins and Rosemary Beale,’ the inspector went on. ‘You thought he had done something to Jonathan Austin. You came home, you came up in the lift …’

  ‘Her door was ajar,’ said Pauline. ‘I was worried. I didn’t know what on earth was happening. And her door was open at almost midnight. I … just touched it, pushed it.’ She looked at the inspector defiantly. ‘I killed her,’ she said.

  Inspector Hill closed her eyes briefly in annoyance. ‘No, you didn’t, Mrs Pearce,’ she said, her voice as patient as the gesture had been impatient. ‘But you cleaned up very thoroughly after the person who did.’

  Pauline went to the window when they had gone. No police cars – presumably they wouldn’t park obediently in the side-street. But they might; they might want to be discreet, in an area like this. Gordon had been clever without knowing it. Confessing to a murder he hadn’t committed made them disbelieve the other confession. And of course he genuinely hadn’t known that all possible traces of his presence had been removed.

  She sighed, and waited, watching for him being taken away. She hadn’t removed traces of her own presence. That really was almost funny.

  Gordon couldn’t have picked paintings. He had caused all this; he just wanted to die, and Jonathan had wanted him to pick out paintings.

  ‘I really don’t know,’ he had said.

  ‘It’s just that I want to close up this place as soon as possible, and I want to give Beale whatever you don’t take.’

  Gordon had looked away from the painting he was supposed to be considering, and stared at Jonathan instead. ‘Beale?’ he had repeated, incredulously.

  ‘I think they should go to someone who appreciates them.’

  Gordon drove into the Austin-Pearce car park, thinking about the collection. Beale would appreciate them, all right.

  ‘But you must have whatever you want first,’ Jonathan had insisted. ‘However many you want. All of them, if you like. I just don’t want to have them, that’s all.’

  He had let his feelings for Lennie blind him to everything; to what was happening to Pauline, to what was happening to Lennie herself. He had seen her with him. And he had known that she didn’t want to be with him. She had told him, three years ago.

  ‘Oh, Gordon, save my life, there’s a love. If you’re with me, he’ll just go away.’

  And he had seen her, and all he had seen was perfidy and betrayal. He hadn’t made him go away. He hadn’t saved her life this time.

  He had told Jonathan that he couldn’t pick out paintings, not yet.

  Jonathan had looked upset ‘ Oh – of course, I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me … grief takes people different ways, I suppose. I just want to get it all over with.’

  Grief. There hadn’t been time for grief. Just lies, and more lies, and wanting to die and being afraid to die.

  He had barely got into his office when the phone rang to say that Chief Inspector Lloyd was there. He sighed. ‘Ask him to come in,’ he said.

  He swivelled the chair round, and looked out at the sky. Silver grey, with a high blanket of cloud.

  ‘It looks as though the rain will stay off,’ Lloyd’s voice said.

  Weather. Was he supposed to reply? Yes, it does look as though the rain will stay off. Not like last night – eh? Where were you in the thunderstorm? Let’s have an animated conversation about how loud the thunder was. Loud enough to waken the dead. And it had. The dead had visited Gordon.

  ‘Save my life, Gordon, there’s a love.’

  ‘Just a few points we have to clear up about your statement to us,’ Lloyd said cheerfully.

  Gordon turned. His nonsensical statement? What could they possibly want to clear up?

  ‘You told us that you went to the factory at about five past ten on Monday night,’ said
Lloyd. ‘And left about half an hour later.’

  Oh, that statement. The fire. He had almost forgotten that. Had he said five past ten? He couldn’t remember all the lies.

  ‘But we know that it isn’t true,’ he said. ‘You altered the time that you went to the factory to accommodate two murders that you didn’t commit.’

  So? He had set fire to the factory. He might have made a dog’s breakfast of it, but he’d done it, all the same.

  ‘Isn’t it?’ he asked, no longer caring what he was supposed to have done.

  ‘No. You sat in your car in front of the Austins’ flat for about twenty minutes, Mr Pearce.’

  How did they know that? Gordon sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘So you didn’t storm off from Austin’s and set fire to the factory.’ He got up, and walked over to the wall.

  My God, they didn’t even believe he’d done what he had done. ‘I set fire to it,’ he said. ‘I did.’

  Lloyd looked at the Queen’s Award for Industry certificate for a moment, then turned round. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ We know you did. You left lots of evidence. But you didn’t do it then and there. Something else happened. What made you do it, Mr Pearce?’

  Lennie. ‘Save my life, Gordon, there’s a love.’

  Sorry, Lennie. I’d rather set fire to a factory.

  ‘Something pushed you over the edge, Mr Pearce.’

  No. He pushed her over the edge. He left her there with that man. He looked away. ‘I saw her,’ he said ‘ I saw her with him.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Lloyd.

  ‘Lennie. With that man.’

  ‘Steve Tasker?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never knew his name. She didn’t tell me about her boyfriends. But he lived with her for a little while. About three years ago.’

  ‘Where was she when you saw her with him?’

  ‘At the Red Lion – oh, that’s not what it’s called now. You know where I mean.’

  He had had her pinned against the wall. Why couldn’t he have seen what was going on? Why did he assume that she was a willing participant?

  ‘He’d pestered her before,’ said Gordon.