'I admit I'm intrigued by the possibility; the more so, since I had the notion of including an unsolved crime among my ten, in the hope of discovering a new slant. By ironic chance, it was the murder of Trevor Philpott which I selected.'
Page leaned forward excitedly. 'How about that? And what was the motive for that one?'
'Oh, I've not started work on it yet. No, really –' He held his hands up as Page prepared to press him. 'I can't say any more about it at the moment.'
The interviewer, hiding his disappointment, leaned back again. 'Well, Mr Mace, it's been very interesting to talk to you, and I'm sure we've all learned something. I confess my knowledge of the Commandments was limited to the story of Moses coming down from Mount Sinai and saying to the Israelites, "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"'
He paused, as though expecting some reaction. Frederick merely waited.
'"The good news,"' Page continued, "'is that I kept Him down to ten. The bad news is that adultery's in."'
He laughed, and Frederick smiled politely. There was a final exchange of courtesies and the credits began to roll. Edwina pressed the remote control and the screen went blank.
'Well, I must say you didn't seem reluctant to talk about it,' she remarked.
'That's just the trouble; once I let myself start, I say too much and then regret it.'
'I don't think you said too much,' she declared staunchly. 'I found it fascinating, and so, obviously, did Gregory Page. It will be interesting to read the reviews.'
Frederick said irritably, 'Did you notice he said "Si-ni-ai"? Why have people started doing that? For donkey's years we've learned about Moses bringing down the tablets from Mount Sinai – pronounced exactly as it's spelt – and now, for some unknown reason, everyone puts in the extra "i". No doubt some inexperienced newsreader started it, and everyone blindly followed suit. I even heard a clergyman say it. Lord help us.'
Edwina laughed and leaned over to kiss his cheek. 'I do love you,' she said.
'Well,' Hannah commented, switching off the set, 'what did you think of that?'
'Ve-ery interesting, as they used to say on the
Laugh-in.'
'Seriously, though, do you think he has a point?'
'He might well have,' Webb conceded, 'though I don't see that it gets us much further.'
'Can you think of a crime that wasn't prompted by breaking one of the Commandments?'
'How about so-called mercy killing, allegedly done with the best of intentions?'
'"So-called", "allegedly"! You policemen! Anyway, some people don't regard that as a crime.'
'It is in the eyes of the law.'
'He came to talk to us at school once, Frederick Mace. He was excellent. Have you ever met him?'
'Not personally, though I've read his books. He gets carried away sometimes, like all these academics, but basically he's pretty sound.'
'It would be interesting to know if, when he's had time to study them, he concludes it was the same motive for both killings.'
'Whatever he concludes,' Webb responded, draining his glass, 'I sincerely hope we'll have beaten him to it. It's all very well for these writers; they can sit back and hum and haw for months on end. They haven't got the press or the Super on their backs wanting a quick result.'
'Do you think it's the same killer, David?'
'I hope so; it would be gratifying to clear up two cases at once.'
'That wasn't exactly what I asked.'
Webb smiled and got to his feet. 'Like your pal Mace, I can't say any more at the moment. In other words, I haven't a clue.'
It was, he reflected, as he went up the stairs to his own flat, a depressing admission on which to end the day.
4
Paul Blake said over the phone, 'I enjoyed the interview, sir. Well done.'
Frederick smiled bleakly. 'Good of you, but I said more than I should, and now I've got the newshounds on my track. Serves me right, I suppose.'
'Yes, I've seen the papers. "The answer to pub murders lies in the motives," says criminologist. Are you still interested in meeting Philpott's widow?'
Frederick's hand tightened on the receiver. 'You've not tracked her down?'
'I have, as it happens. Following your instructions, I went to Oxbury yesterday and had lunch in the local pub. As you can imagine, this talk of links between the latest murder and Philpott's was the main topic of conversation. All well-trodden ground, of course, but then I really had a break. One of the men commented that the person he felt sorry for was Philpott's wife, having it all dragged up again.
'So I said casually, "She remarried, didn't she? What was the name again?"
'And he said, "A chap called Bradburn. They moved down to Broadminster."'
'Well done, Paul. Do we know where in Broadminster?'
'We do. All I had to do was look them up in the phone book.'
Frederick said anxiously, 'She might not want to see me; she must have tried to put all that behind her.'
'Oh, I think she will, sir. Human nature being what it is.'
'How do you mean?'
'Well, you're not in the same category as the police or a common-or-garden reporter, are you? Even if she didn't watch the programme, she'll have seen today's papers. You're a celebrity, after all; she'll be flattered you want to see her. I suggest you give her a call.'
Frederick hesitated, his natural disinclination to intrude at war with his writer's curiosity. Then, well aware which would triumph, he said resignedly, 'Give me the number, then.'
A man's voice answered the phone, abrupt and impatient. It could be that Mrs Bradburn had already had more than enough calls that morning. However, on hearing Frederick's name, the tone changed.
'The one who was on the box last night?'
'I'm afraid so,' said Frederick deprecatingly.
'Just a minute.'
A woman's voice came on the line. 'Hello?'
'Mrs Bradburn? My name is Frederick Mace. I realize this is a difficult time and I'm sorry to trouble you. You might perhaps have heard that I'm studying your first husband's murder for my new book?'
'Did the same man kill the social worker?'
Straight to the point, which, thankfully, meant he needn't tread warily. 'It's possible, but I might have a clearer idea if we could discuss it personally, which is the reason for this call. May my assistant and I come to see you?'
A slight pause, while he held his breath. Then, 'I haven't anything new to add.'
'Even so, a first-hand account would help enormously.' He glanced at his watch, anxious to tie her down before she changed her mind. 'Would later this morning be convenient? We could be down in about an hour.'
He heard her sigh. Then she said, 'Very well. But I warn you, you might feel it's a wasted journey.' She cut short his protests. 'Have you got our address? It's off Lower Broad Street, just before you come to the hospital. Batchwood Drive, number twelve.'
'Thank you,' Frederick said, checking it against the address Paul had given him. 'I'm most grateful. In about an hour, then.'
On that sunny Saturday morning, the country road was clogged with caravans, joggers and cyclists. Frederick, checking his watch for the umpteenth time, said, 'What do we know about her? Anything?'
'Only that she and Philpott were married for ten years, very happily, it seemed. No children.'
Frederick lifted his briefcase and took out the notes he'd made while waiting for Paul to collect him, several sheets closely covered in his small, cramped handwriting.
'She sounded quite calm on the phone; I hope it won't upset her, resurrecting it all.'
'It's water under the bridge now, and she'll have her new husband for moral support.'
Something in his tone made Frederick glance at him sideways. Blake was a tall, thin young man with dry-looking dark hair and brown eyes which peered short-sightedly through horn-rimmed spectacles. He was the ideal researcher: thorough, efficient and meticulous. Frederick frequently marvelled at the speed with which
he transcribed his own tightly packed pages into neat, easy-to-read print.
Of his private life, Frederick knew nothing, nor wanted to, grateful only that he had materialized in response to the advertisement for a researcher which he'd placed in a professional journal. He never spoke of family or friends or of his life before he came to Ashmartin, but there had been no cause to; theirs was, after all, a business relationship. All Frederick knew was that he was unmarried and had lodgings in Sheep Street, a location within five minutes' walk of the main library, which was doubtless why he'd chosen it.
'It's good of you to give up your Saturday morning,' he said suddenly, as the thought struck him for the first time.
Blake smiled. 'It's no hardship; I'm as interested as you are.'
They slowed down still further on the approach to Broad- minster, entering the old town from the north east and filtering through the shoppers on to Broad Street before reaching Lower Broad Street and the turning to Batchwood Drive. The houses here were a mix of semi-detacheds and bungalows, each in a colourful and well-kept garden. Paul pulled up outside number twelve, a bungalow, and both men got out into the stifling heat.
As they walked up the short path the front door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stood there. 'Peter Bradburn,' he said, holding out his hand. 'My wife's expecting you.'
She came forward as they were shown into the sitting- room, a small, pretty woman in her forties, wearing a print dress and sandals.
'We thought you might like coffee on the terrace? It's shaded out there at this time of day.'
'That's most kind of you.'
'Peter will take you through while I get the tray.'
'We sent the kids out to play, so we could have some peace,' Bradburn said, as they settled on the wrought-iron chairs.
'Oh? I understood –' Frederick began, before he could stop himself.
'My kids,' Bradburn explained, 'from my first marriage. We have them at weekends.'
'I see. Forgive me, it was just –'
'You're right, Aileen hasn't any of her own.'
'Did you know your wife's first husband, Mr Bradburn?'
'No,' Bradburn said, shaking his head for extra emphasis. 'I'd read about the murder, of course, but I didn't meet Aileen for a good two years after that – just, as luck would have it, as my own marriage was coming apart.'
'Has this latest case upset her?'
He shrugged. It's brought it back, naturally, and all the speculation in the press hasn't helped.'
'I'm afraid I added to that,' Frederick admitted ruefully.
'Well, as I said to Aileen, once you've featured in a murder case, you're considered public property.'
'Not by me, I assure you. If you'd rather I didn't –'
'Is Pete being overprotective?' Aileen Bradburn asked, setting down a tray with coffee cups and a plate of biscuits. She flashed her husband a smile. 'It's all right, love. I wouldn't have agreed to see them if I hadn't felt up to it.'
Frederick, still diffident about questioning her, was reassured.
She handed him a cup and saucer. 'Anyway, Mr Mace, I was interested in your ideas on motives.'
'You saw the programme?'
'Oh, yes, I watch everything to do with crime.'
She glanced at him, catching his surprise, and smiled. 'Perhaps I should explain; when Trevor – died, I buried my head in the sand, and for years I mentally blocked out any news items about murder or death of any kind. But later, when it started to fade a bit, I suppose I went to the other extreme. I think I reasoned that if I watched and read everything I could about it, I might somehow work out why it happened.
'Do you see what I mean? It would have been different if the killer had been caught; then I'd have been able to face it, come to terms as you have to with any death. But I was still living in Oxbury then, and I used to find myself looking at people I passed in the street, thinking, "It could have been him.'"
'That's very understandable.'
She nodded, satisfied, and settled back, sipping her coffee. 'So – what is it you want to ask me?'
'Before I start, would you mind if we switched on a recorder? It makes life so much simpler these days.'
'I've no objection.'
Frederick nodded to Blake, who took one out of his pocket and laid it on the table alongside the tray.
I realize, Mrs Bradburn, that you gave a detailed statement to the police at the time, but that was strictly facts, and I'd like to try a different approach. You've now had time to look back – and I'm sure you've done so many times – over the weeks and months leading to your husband's death. That is what I'd like you to speak about – his character, his friends, his attitudes, your own relationship with him, and whether it changed immediately before his murder. In fact, anything unusual that might have taken place. But first, have you by any chance a photograph? The ones I've seen in the papers aren't too clear.'
'Yes, I – still have some old albums somewhere.'
'I'll get them,' Bradburn said, getting to his feet and going in through the patio door.
'How will seeing his photograph help?' Aileen asked curiously.
Frederick smiled. 'After motives, my main interest is faces; I believe they give away far more of our character than we realize. Oh, I know the old chestnut about murderers looking like the boy next door, and they might well do so. But if you study – really study – their features, there are often clues to be found.'
'But Trevor wasn't a murderer,' Aileen protested.
'It goes for all of us. Little traits in our characters leave traces which can be read if one knows what to look for.'
She moved uncomfortably. 'It hardly seems fair, searching for faults in the victim.'
'I didn't specify faults,' Frederick reminded her. 'Good traits are also to be found. But whichever, surely it's acceptable to look for them if they point to the motive for murder?'
She lifted her eyebrows. 'Back to the Ten Commandments?'
'In all probability the breaking of one.'
Bradburn returned with an album, still in its Cellophane cover. 'I presume it's the latest one you want?'
'Thank you, yes.'
Frederick took it from him, resting it on his knees while he extracted his glasses from his pocket and put them on. The album was dated six years previously, and he began slowly turning the pages until he came to a clear photograph of Philpott. He was seated at a café table – somewhere in Europe, by the look of it – and staring straight at the camera.
Frederick sat for several minutes letting his eyes move slowly over the face in front of him. If he knew nothing of this man, what would his appearance have told him? That he was confident, perhaps a trifle arrogant, judging by the tilt of his head. And, even more clearly than in the blurred newspaper print, he was again conscious of his likeness to Roger Denby, the man he'd known years before who had a reputation as a philanderer. An expression in the eyes, the set of the mouth – Was it fair, on that basis, to tar Philpott with the same brush?
He looked up, meeting Aileen's gaze. 'I presume the marriage was happy, Mrs Bradburn?' That was the story that emerged at the time.
Was there, perhaps, just the slightest hesitation before she nodded? He couldn't be sure.
'There's nothing you'd like to add? You realize, I hope, that this isn't idle curiosity?'
For a moment longer she sat staring into her coffee cup. Then, with a glance at her husband, she said flatly, 'I wasn't lying, Mr Mace; as far as I was concerned, our marriage had been happy, and I told the police so at the time. Oh, we had the odd tiff, and I suppose, looking back, it wasn't all rosy, but it never occurred to me there was anything wrong.'
'Until-?' he prompted gently.
'Yes, you're right – until last year, when I met a couple Trev and I'd been friendly with. We used to see quite a lot of them, till they moved away and we lost touch.
'Then last summer, we met quite by chance – at the races, of all places; Pete had taken me to the Broadminster Cup.
Well, he and Jerry went off to place some bets, and Debs said something about what a nice chap Pete seemed. Then she added, "Much more your type than Trevor. I often wondered how you put up with him."
'She must have seen my face, because she suddenly went scarlet and said, "Me and my big mouth!" I asked her what she meant and she didn’t want to say, but I finally wheedled it out of her. Apparently, one evening at the cricket club, Trevor'd had too much to drink, and Jerry walked him home. On the way, Trev had suddenly started bragging about various women he was seeing, and offered to fix Jerry up, if he was interested.'
Frederick could not resist a glance of triumph at Paul. The memory of Roger Denby had not, after all, let him down.
'The next morning he rang to apologize,' Aileen was continuing. 'He was terribly embarrassed. Debs said, tried to make out he'd been pulling Jerry's leg, and asked him to forget it.'
Frederick said sympathetically, 'It must have been a tremendous shock.'
'Yes; I couldn't help wondering whether he'd have gone on having girlfriends for the rest of his life, and then I started remembering all kinds of little things – the times he'd cancelled something we were doing because he "couldn't get away", evenings when he was supposed to be showing people round houses, things like that.
'Of course,' she finished wretchedly, 'it might all have been quite genuine, but once the doubts were there, they tarnished everything.'
'Have you any idea when that incident took place? How near to your husband's death?'
'She didn't say; but they left Oxbury about a year before it happened, so at least that long.'
'Do you know if he actually named these women?'
'I've no idea. Debs certainly didn't.'
Even if he had, Frederick thought, 'Jerry' would be unlikely to remember after all this time – unless, of course, he'd known those concerned. But in any case, Philpott had probably met the crucial one during the last year of his life; it was doubtful if his affairs would have lasted longer than a few months. All the same –'
'Have you mentioned this to the police?' he asked.
It was Bradburn who answered. 'There didn't seem much point. It was all pretty vague, and we couldn't see what help it would be after all this time.'
The Ten Commandments Page 5
