The Ten Commandments

by Anthea Fraser

  "Morning, Dave. Harry Good, in Ashmartin.'

  'Hello, Harry. What can I do for you?'

  'Boot's on the other foot, old lad. I think we can supply a name for your body.'

  Webb straightened. 'Oh? Someone reported missing?'

  'Yep, one Simon Judd, a social worker. I haven't any details yet, but according to his wife he arranged to meet someone for a drink last night and never came home.'

  'Do we know who?'

  'Bloke called Jim Fairlie, for what it's worth. Judd doesn't seem to have known him – took him for a new client. Anyway, he rang Judd at work, and they arranged to meet outside the Jester on Dominion Street at nine o'clock.'

  'That's a long way from the Nutmeg.'

  'That's what she's clinging to, poor woman, but the description ties in. He left home about ten to nine, and that was the last she saw of him.'

  'Did he take a car?'

  'No, they're only ten minutes' walk from the town centre.'

  Webb said thoughtfully. 'Remember the Feathers case, Harry?'

  'No, when was that?'

  'It'll be six years now, come November.'

  'I was still with Gloucestershire then.'

  'Well, see how this grabs you. An estate agent, one Trevor Philpott, received a phone call from someone claiming to have a house to sell. The man offered to drive him out to value it, since the place was difficult to find. They met outside the Stag at Oxbury, and, some hours later, Philpott's body was found between two cars behind another pub, the Feathers, off the Erlesborough road.'

  'Good God, that's quite a coincidence.'

  'Or perhaps not; the murderer's still on the loose.'

  Good whistled softly. 'The pub killer strikes again?'

  'Could be. There's another point that tallies: I'm just back from the PM, and death did not occur in situ. He was dumped afterwards – and so was Trevor Philpott.'

  'Good God!' Good said again, with even more emphasis.

  'Erlesborough handled the last case, but I've been through the file and there's very little to go on. No evidence of any kind and no apparent motive.'

  'Doesn't bode too well, does it? Anyway, to come back to this one, we're about to bring Mrs Judd over to identify the body, if that's OK?'

  'Yes, he's been tidied up. I'll be glad of a talk with her, if she's up to it.'

  'She should be OK, her brother and sister-in-law will be with her. We should be there in about half an hour.'

  'Right, I'll meet you at the mortuary.'

  'And perhaps, when the formalities are over, we can get together over a pint?'

  'You're on. See you then.'

  However, when, an hour or so later, Webb and Good settled down in the Brown Bear to pool their knowledge, they had little further to add. Mrs Judd, pale and trembling, had identified the body as that of her husband. Under Webb's gentle questioning, she tearfully insisted that he'd no enemies, had not quarrelled with anyone, had not seemed under any kind of strain. It was the Philpott case all over again.

  They finished their lunch in gloomy silence. 'We've got two house-to-house inquiries under way,' Good said eventually, finishing his beer. 'One in the area around his home and one in the town centre, on the off chance that someone saw them meet. God knows what happened after that. Our lads will be in the Jester this evening to speak to the regulars, but two blokes talking in a pub wouldn't have made that much of an impression.'

  'Perhaps,' Webb suggested, 'the Jester was only a rendezvous – you know, "on the corner at nine". Then Chummie draws up in his car and says, "It's a lovely evening – let's drive out and find a country pub.'"

  'Bit hypothetical, isn't it?'

  'Have you any better suggestion? Assuming the murder was premeditated, he'd have wanted to get Judd out of town to do the dirty deed, and he must have had a car to get to the Nutmeg. We know Judd hadn't taken his.'

  Good pushed back his plate. 'OK, Dave, it's your baby now. Anything I can do, you've only to say the word. I've arranged for half a dozen DCs and DSs to report to the Incident Room. They might be able to help.'

  'Thanks, Harry. I'll be following you over shortly; the first priority is to interview Judd's colleagues and see what they know about that phone call. I'm determined this case isn't going to fizzle out like the Philpott one.'

  'That's right, think positively,' Good said with a grin. 'With a bit of luck, you might finish by cracking both of them.'

  Ashmartin lay to the east, near the Berkshire border. It was a charming old town which had expanded over the years to become the third largest in the county. In the process, however, it had had the wisdom – or good fortune – to retain its nucleus of attractive old buildings, the responsibility for which had, over the last thirty years, been in the hands of a vigilant preservation society.

  To Webb's mind, a large part of the town's charm lay in its centre, for the parish church of St Giles, resplendent with towers and turrets, overlooked a large green complete with duck pond – another legacy from the past. Here, in the summer, office workers picnicked, children played, and older inhabitants sat in the shade under spreading trees.

  Several private houses also overlooked the green, and in fan, as Good had indicated, most of the residential areas were within walking distance of the centre. Consequently, Ashmartin was spared the nightly migration of its population suffered by most town centres.

  And as if these blessings were not enough, it was here that the Broadshire and Avon Canal began its winding journey westwards across the county, affording pleasant walks and interesting pubs along its banks.

  This is where I'm coming when I retire,' Jackson remarked. 'You can keep your south coast – Ashmartin's the place for me.'

  'You could do a lot worse, Ken. Look, there's a space here. Pull in, and we can walk round the corner to Social Services.'

  The heat of the afternoon hit them as soon as they left the car, beating up from the pavement and down from the molten blue sky, and they were thankful to turn into the shady side street, screened from the sun by its tall buildings.

  The Social Services Department was halfway along, and Webb pushed open the door to find himself in a foyer not unlike a doctor's surgery. To the right was a children's play area, where much shrieking and banging was in progress, and a few dispirited women – presumably the children's mothers – sat patiently round the room flicking through magazines.

  He took out his warrant card and approached the desk, raising his voice to make himself heard. 'DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, from Shillingham. We'd like to speak to someone about Mr Judd.'

  The young woman bit her lip. 'Yes, of course. We just can't believe –' She broke off. 'Just a moment, I'll see if the duty officer is free.'

  She lifted the intercom and spoke quickly in a low voice, then turned back to them. 'He'll come straight down, sir.'

  'Thank you.'

  One of the doors on the left opened to discharge a young couple, shepherded by an older man who stopped on the threshold and shook their hands. Interview rooms, Webb thought, much as they had at Carrington Street. He turned as footsteps sounded on the stairs and a dark, bearded man hurried towards them.

  'Chief Inspector – Steve Parker, one of Simon's colleagues. As you can imagine, we're all shattered. Would you care to come up to my office?'

  Webb and Jackson followed him back up the linoleumed stairs and into a room shaded by Venetian blinds, where an electric fan whirred officiously in a corner. There were two desks, one of them poignantly bare. Parker seated himself at the other and waved them to a couple of chairs.

  He said in a strained voice, 'I suppose there's no chance of a mistake?'

  'I'm afraid not; his wife identified him this afternoon,'

  'God!' Parker put his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. After a moment, he raised his head and met Webb's eye. 'He broke all the rules, you know, going off alone to meet someone.'

  'Then why did he do it?'

  Parker shrugged. 'I was here when the call came throu
gh; I –'

  'Just a moment, sir – about that call; was it for Mr Judd specifically, or did he just happen to be free?'

  'I checked with Diane downstairs; she said he was asked for by name.'

  So it wasn't a random killing – always supposing that the caller was the murderer. 'It would be a help if you could remember what was said.'

  'I've been over and over it, but you see the phone was for ever ringing, and to begin with I didn't pay much attention. The first thing I registered was Simon saying, "I'm sorry, I can't place you. When was that?" But I really pricked up my ears when he said, "I think it would be much better if you came here. We can speak quite privately.''

  'The other bloke was obviously arguing, and I made signs to Simon asking what was up, but he just shook his head. He finished by saying, "Well, all right then, if you really think that's best. Yes, I'll be there. Nine o'clock outside the Jester."

  'I said quickly, "Simon, you know you can't -" but he'd already put down the phone.'

  'And the caller gave the name of Jim Fairlie?'

  'That's right. It didn't ring a bell with Simon, but the man said they'd met a few years ago. He rattled off names of supposedly mutual friends, though Si didn't recognize any of them. Anyway, he'd got some problem, and suggested discussing it over a pint.'

  'Why wouldn't he come here?'

  'Said his wife worked in an office across the street, and he didn't want her to see him. I think Si finally gave in because of the alleged social connection.'

  'Even though he didn't remember the man, or any of the names he'd mentioned?'

  Parker gave a wry smile. 'That was nothing unusual; old Simon was famous for his bad memory. It caused him endless embarrassment, and he'd pretend to remember people, even if he didn't, to avoid hurting their feelings. Anyway, I did my best to stop him going, though I knew it was hopeless; you can't let a client down once an appointment's made, and he'd no way of contacting Fairlie. So I told him I'd go with him, but he laughed and said, "Stop fussing, Steve, it'll be OK. Anyway, he might clam up if there are two of us, and I'm only going for a drink, for God's sake."'

  Parker stopped speaking, and in the silence noises floated up from the street through the open window and the fan whirred relentlessly.

  Webb said, 'Did he make any comment about the man's voice, how he sounded?'

  'He said he seemed on edge.'

  It wasn't much to go on. 'Well, we'll do our best to trace him.' Privately, Webb feared Fairlie would prove as elusive as Philpott's bogus house vendor. He went over to the window and separated two slats of the blind to peer across the street. 'What offices are over there?'

  'Solicitors, patent agents, accountants – you name it.'

  'We'll get a team on to it, see if there's a Mrs Fairlie working in any of them. Not,' he added heavily, 'that I'll be holding my breath.'

  'He might have given his own name,' Parker said desperately, 'if he hadn't actually planned to kill Simon.'

  'Possibly.' Webb nodded to Jackson, who put away his notebook and stood up. 'You can't think of any client Mr Judd had an altercation with? Anyone who might have harboured a grudge?'

  'No, he was a placid chap, dedicated to the job. He didn't let anyone rile him; in fact, the rest of us used to call him in to calm things down if tempers got frayed.'

  'Well, thank you, Mr Parker, Get in touch if you think of anything else, however unimportant it seems.'

  Parker saw them to his door and they went in silence down the stairs. Webb walked over to the reception desk.

  'Did anything strike you, miss, about the caller who phoned Mr Judd yesterday?'

  She blinked back tears. 'His voice was shaking – he sounded upset.' She looked up at him. 'That's not unusual, though. We get all sorts ringing in.'

  'Was it a young voice, would you say?'

  'It was hard to tell, with the shaking. Not

  old, anyway.'

  'Accent?'

  'Local, I think.'

  'And he asked for Mr Judd by name; what were his exact words?'

  "'Is Mr Judd there? It's very important that I speak to him."'

  'That was all?'

  'Yes. So I – put him through.’

  Webb nodded. 'Thank you.' He turned on his heel and, with Jackson beside him, strode through the noisy reception area out into the street.

  2

  Hannah felt oddly nervous as she stood on Gwen's doorstep and pressed the bell. It was eleven months since they'd seen each other, and a lot had happened to both of them.

  It was still warm; the sun was low in the sky, bathing the park behind her with its rich light. A game of tennis was in progress, and the plop of balls and the occasional call of 'Out!' reached her as she waited.

  Then the door opened and Gwen stood there, squinting in the sunlight which gilded her face – Gwen, just as she'd always been, with her tall, gawky frame and the strands of hair escaping from their French pleat to curl endearingly on her neck.

  'Hannah! You're a gem to do this! How lovely to see you!' She clasped Hannah awkwardly to her, endangering the basket of food which she held.

  'Welcome home, Gwen! What a long time it's been!'

  'Come in. Isn't it hot? Just like a Canadian summer.'

  They went together into the little hall, dark-seeming after the evening light outside, and, by tacit agreement, made for the kitchen. The table-top was almost invisible under a pile of mail and free newspapers, and Hannah perforce laid her basket on a counter.

  'I'm afraid there's rather an odd smell,' Gwen said apologetically, 'due, I suppose, to the house being shut up for so long, though Beatrice did come in to air it.' She shot Hannah a glance. 'She tells me you've seen quite a bit of each other over the last twelve months.'

  'We – met at various functions.’

  'And also on less congenial occasions?'

  But Hannah was not yet ready to discuss the deaths of a member of staff and a school governor during Gwen's absence, both in distressing circumstances.

  'I'll put the wine and food in the fridge, shall I, till we're ready for them? It's salad – I didn't think you'd want anything hot on an evening like this.'

  'No, indeed, and your salads are so special. Unlike mine, which, as you know to your cost, are simply bits of lettuce and tomato thrown on to a plate.'

  'Have you seen your mother yet?' Hannah asked, disconcertingly aware of the need to make conversation.

  'No, I was shattered when I got home and went straight to bed. I spoke to her on the phone, though. Bea suggested not bringing her back till tomorrow, to give me time to settle in.'

  Old Mrs Rutherford had lived with Gwen for as long as Hannah could remember – or perhaps it was Gwen who lived with her. During the sabbatical, she had stayed with her elder daughter and son-in-law. Hannah gathered from John Templeton, who was also the school doctor, that the old lady's eyesight was troublesome, and wondered anxiously how that would affect Gwen.

  I thought we might have a drink on the terrace,' Gwen was continuing. It's still warm, though the sun's moved off it.'

  'That'd be lovely.'

  'What will you have? Duty-free gin and tonic?'

  'Sounds perfect.'

  Hannah watched her pour the drinks, splashing tonic water over the mail in a typically 'Gwen' fashion. She never failed to marvel that this gauche woman with the diffident brown eyes was in reality a brilliant academic with a will of iron. Many was the parent, Hannah reflected, who, to his cost, had underestimated the headmistress of Ashbourne School for Girls.

  'You carry the glasses – I'd only spill them – and I'll go ahead and open doors.'

  They walked back into the hall and through the familiar sitting-room, which, as Gwen had said, did smell a trifle musty. She bent to unbolt the old-fashioned French windows and pushed them wide. Out on the narrow stone terrace was a wooden bench and a rickety iron table which, to Hannah's mind, could have done with a good scrub. No doubt at least a year's grime coated it, but Gwen didn't seem to notice. Sh
e sank down on the bench with a sigh, stretching out her long legs.

  'Home sweet home!'

  'Are you glad to be back?' Hannah asked her.

  'Oh, I think so, though I hated leaving Canada.'

  'From your letters, you seemed to have a busy social life.'

  'Yes, there was always something going on.'

  'And you liked the school?' Hannah prompted.

  'It was excellent; I'm hoping to adapt some of their ideas for Ashbourne. We must discuss them as soon as we have a moment.'

  There was a pause. Hannah said, 'Thank you for going to see my parents.' They had emigrated to Canada twenty years previously.

  'It was a pleasure, especially to find them so well. They wanted to hear every last detail about you.'

  'But they already know it! I write regularly and we speak on the phone at least once a month.'

  'Well, they still had plenty of questions.' A sly, sideways look. 'They wanted to know if you had a "young man".'

  Hannah smiled. 'And what did you say?'

  'That if you had, you were keeping him to yourself.' She added gently, 'They want grandchildren, Hannah, and you're their only chance.'

  'A pretty slim one, by now.'

  Gwen reached for her glass and stared thoughtfully into it. 'Do you ever feel you're missing out, not being married?'

  Hannah raised her eyebrows. 'No; do you?'

  Though they'd been at school together, Gwen was in fact five years Hannah's senior, a prefect when she herself was in the first form. To Hannah's knowledge, there had never been a man in her life; but then, she reminded herself, Gwen knew nothing of David. Close though their friendship had been, there was an unspoken ban on discussing intimate subjects, and Gwen's question now had taken her by surprise. She was even more surprised that Gwen hadn't immediately answered hers.

  'Do you, Gwen?' she repeated, turning to face her.

  Gwen was staring dreamily down the length of the garden. 'A year ago, I'd have said of course not. Now, I'm not so sure.'

  'Don't tell me you've fallen for a Mountie!' Hannah teased, and was amazed to see her friend flush.