The Ten Commandments

by Anthea Fraser

  'It might at least provide a motive.' Frederick turned back to Aileen. 'The police do know where you are?'

  'Yes, but I'm of no interest to them; I told them all I knew.' She met his eye. 'Well, I did at the time. Ought I to contact them, do you think?'

  'It would do no harm.'

  'You think the same man might have done it, then?' It was the second time she'd asked that question, but Frederick was still not ready to answer it. Instead, he countered it with one of his own.

  'Can you think of anything else your husband did that might have caused trouble or resentment? Had he, for instance, any particular prejudices – racial, perhaps, or even sexual?'

  She started to shake her head, then paused, frowning a little. Frederick leant forward.

  'You've remembered something?'

  'Well, not really. I mean, it wasn't anything much – in fact. I'd forgotten all about it. Talking of Debs and Jerry must have brought it back.'

  'Go on, Mrs Bradburn.'

  She gave a dismissive little gesture. 'Really, it's nothing. Not even worth mentioning.'

  'Please.'

  'Well, it was one evening at the cricket club. We were sitting on the verandah after some match or other, and Trev and Jerry went inside for more drinks. When they came back, Trev was flushed and muttering something about "bloody perverts", and Jerry said he'd had to drag him away because he'd insulted some gay men at the bar. And that was it, really.' She paused. 'Sorry, but when you mentioned prejudices, it just reminded me.'

  'Was your husband openly hostile to homosexuals?'

  'Oh no, not at all. I think it was just that he'd been drinking, and he made some off-the-cuff comment which they reacted to.'

  'Nothing like that ever happened again?'

  She shook her head decidedly. 'Never.'

  'And you never heard him make any racial comments which could have caused offence?'

  She looked distressed and Peter Bradburn, frowning, moved to her side.

  'No, definitely not. I feel awful, now, having told you – it gives quite the wrong impression of Trev. All right, he was a bit of a Jack-the-lad – more than I realized at the time – but there was nothing vindictive about him. Basically, he was – a nice man.'

  She sounded close to tears, and as her husband bent to comfort her, Frederick nodded to Paul to switch off the recorder.

  'I'm sorry, Mrs Bradburn, I didn't mean to upset you. Please forgive me.'

  'I'm just sorry I mentioned it, that's all.'

  'I shouldn't let it worry you. We all say things we don't mean, at some time or other.'

  'Yes.' She brightened. 'I'm sure that's all it was.'

  He rose to his feet. 'We've taken up quite enough of your time. I'm extremely grateful to you for being so frank with me.'

  As they walked together back through the house, Bradburn remarked, 'You never made any comment on the photograph, Mr Mace. Was it any help?'

  'Yes, indeed; that's why I asked Mrs Bradburn about her marriage.'

  Bradburn turned to stare at him. 'You're telling me you could tell from Trevor's photo that he was unfaithful?'

  'I got an impression, that's all. I assure you, Mr Bradburn, there's no magic involved. There are people who make a profession out of such studies, and they've solved some pretty complex cases on the basis of them.'

  'Nice woman,' he commented to Paul as they got into the car. 'But for all her defence of him, I don't think I should have cared much for Trevor Philpott. And I was right, wasn't I, about the womanizing. If you can find me a photograph of Judd, we'll see if we have the same luck there. First, though, I'd like to visit the firm where Philpott worked – what was it called?'

  'Ward and Johnson.'

  'That's right. It'll be interesting to know if anyone there knew of his peccadilloes.'

  'But you don't want to go there now, surely? It's a hell of a round trip – a good hour from here to Oxbury, and the best part of two from there back to Ashmartin. Won't your wife be expecting you?’

  'I didn't put a time on it, but I'll phone and let her know what we're doing. In the meantime, we'll have some lunch before we set off. There's a pleasant place in Monk's Walk, I remember.'

  The cathedral and metropolitical church of St Benedict in Broadminster, commonly known as Broad Minster, lay at the heart of the town, a glorious Gothic extravaganza soaring upwards into the summer sky. Having of necessity parked their car some distance from the centre, they came upon it suddenly as they turned into Monk's Walk which fringed the green in front of it, and as always Frederick felt his heart lift.

  'A wonderful sight, isn't it?' he said, stopping abruptly on the pavement the better to gaze, and causing some muttering among the people directly behind him. 'I used to sing in the choir there as a boy.'

  'The sight on the green isn't quite so inspiring,' Paul commented drily, nodding across the road. On this Saturday lunchtime the grass was covered with families enjoying picnics, children playing, and sunbathers, their clothes inelegantly bunched up or pushed down, making the most of the sunshine.

  Frederick laughed. 'Good luck to them. Now, if I remember correctly there's an excellent wine bar along here which will do us nicely.'

  As they sat over poached salmon and salad, Paul said curiously, 'Do you think this story of Philpott's playing around really has a bearing on his death?'

  Frederick refilled his glass. 'All I know is that a motive was never discovered, and we might now have unearthed one. Or even two, come to that; the homosexual angle might bear looking into.'

  'Surely not; from the sound of it, it was only a drunken insult.'

  ‘In vino veritas. If he really considered them "bloody perverts", it might have come out again, with more serious consequences. Still, I tend to agree with you; I think it's the women who will prove to be more pertinent.'

  'What about Judd?' Blake asked after a moment. 'Are you hoping to suss a motive from his photograph?'

  'Possibly,' Frederick replied imperturbably, 'but that's not all we have to go on. You're forgetting that in each case the most conclusive evidence could be the voice of the murderer on the telephone. And voices, like faces, give away more than their owners realize.'

  He reached for his wallet and extracted a newspaper clipping from it. 'I cut this out of the News the other evening.' He unfolded it, fumbled on his glasses, and read aloud: 'Diane Pearcy, 32, the receptionist at the Department who took the call, described the speaker as sounding nervous. Pressed further, she stated that the voice was male, light in tone, with a local accent. He asked for Mr Judd by name, and she assumed he was a client.'

  If you're hoping to compare that with Philpott's killer,' Paul said, 'there was no description of his voice in any of the papers I went through.'

  Frederick refolded the clipping, put it back in his wallet, and removed his glasses. 'I know,' he said, picking up his knife and fork again. 'I went through them, too. But with luck, whoever received the call might still work at the firm.'

  'The police will have checked it out, surely.'

  'I don't doubt it, my boy, but they're unlikely to pass any information on to me. I'm not working for the police. I'm working for myself and my book.'

  To which Paul could find no reply.

  The town of Oxbury was noted firstly for its boys' public school, Greystones College, and secondly for being built on the Kittle, one of Broadshire's most attractive rivers.

  Again they had trouble parking, and again people were out in their hundreds along the river banks. Having circled a multistorey twice, they were fortunate enough to have a motorist pull out just in front of them, and slid into the space ahead of another driver approaching from the opposite side.

  'An omen, perhaps,' Frederick said as they got out. 'Let's hope our luck holds.'

  The offices of Ward and Johnson on the High Street were fronted by large plate-glass windows, through which they could see a row of desks, each with someone behind it and a couple of people seated opposite.

  'The prop
erty market seems to be booming,' Frederick commented, 'which is not what one reads in the papers.'

  Though he had phoned his wife from the wine bar, he'd ignored Paul's suggestion of booking an appointment with Ward and Johnson, and Paul, following him inside, wondered if the estate agents would be too busy this Saturday afternoon to deal with an elderly gentleman and his questions on what happened here six years ago.

  They stood inside the door for several minutes without attracting so much as a glance. No doubt it was assumed they were awaiting a vacant desk. Then Frederick's patience gave out. 'See what you can do, Paul,' he said testily, shifting his weight. 'There's a door down at the bottom there – probably the manager. Flush him out, there's a good chap.'

  Expecting a rebuff, Paul did as he was asked, and was relieved to discover that once again Frederick's television interview stood in his stead.

  'I was about to send you packing,' the manager admitted. 'We've had the police and the press sniffing round again this week and quite frankly we had enough of that at the time. However, if Mr Mace would like a word, of course I'll be glad to help if I can.'

  Paul turned and beckoned Frederick, who hurried to join him, seating himself gratefully on the chair indicated.

  'This is kind of you, Mr Laycock,' he began, having noted the name on the door as he came in. 'I have a couple of questions, if you can spare the time. The first is a delicate one: could you tell me whether there were any rumours about Mr Philpott's – er – having an eye for the ladies?'

  The manager shook his head. 'No, the police asked that at the time. There wasn't so much as a hint of gossip – and he'd a very pleasant wife.'

  'His name was never even casually linked with anyone else?'

  'Not in my hearing, and I'm sure that goes for the rest of the firm. Of course, several of those who knew him have moved on now; in fact, come to think of it, most of our present personnel have joined us since his death.'

  'Not whoever took the phone call that day?' Frederick demanded urgently. 'That person's still here?'

  Laycock frowned. 'I'm not sure it wasn't Trevor himself.'

  Frederick stared at him in consternation. Was that why there'd been no description of the voice among the papers? But as this setback stared him in the face, Laycock went on, 'No – wait a minute – I remember now. It was Sandra, I'm sure it was. Would you like to speak to her?'

  Frederick, weak with relief, could only nod. Laycock picked up the phone. 'Sandra, when you've finished what you're doing, would you come in, please?'

  She proved to be a freckle-faced young woman with curly hair, who looked a little harassed. It was hot in the outer office with all that glass, and her nose was shining. However, though she hadn't seen Frederick's programme, she'd read about it, and was obviously overcome to be speaking to someone she regarded as famous.

  'Yes,' she replied when the question was put to her, 'I took the call. He sounded nice – like a gentleman. I couldn't believe, afterwards, that it was him.'

  'By "like a gentleman",' Frederick asked her, 'do you mean he hadn't a Broadshire accent?'

  'Oh no, sir, he was very well spoken. Polite, too.'

  'Did he sound nervous in any way?'

  'Not at all, cool as you please. He said, "Would it be possible to have a word with Mr Philpott?"'

  'Was his voice deep or light?'

  She thought back. 'Medium, I'd say. He sounded nice. Just shows you, doesn't it?'

  'When you handed the phone to Mr Philpott, what did he say?'

  She flushed. 'I didn't listen, sir. A couple had sat down at my desk and I went over to attend to them. The police asked me the same thing, whether Trevor made any note of the man's name or anything, but all he wrote on the pad was: The Stag – nine pm.'

  'The Stag?' Frederick repeated. 'Not the Feathers?'

  'No, sir, the Stag, here in town. He must have arranged to meet the man there and then been – been taken to the Feathers later.' She bit her lip.

  Just as Judd had met someone at the Jester and been taken to the Nutmeg. Yet another similarity. So far, only the voice seemed different.

  Once again, Frederick courteously thanked his informants for their time and, deep in thought, returned with Paul to their car and settled down for the long drive back to Ashmartin.

  5

  That same afternoon, Webb received a phone call from DCI Good.

  'Spot of good news, Dave: bloke by the name of Bragg rang in. He's been abroad for a couple of days and has just read all the hoo-ha in the press. Thinks he might have seen our lad arriving at the Nutmeg.'

  'Go on.'

  'Says he was leaving the pub and about to turn left towards Ashmartin when he saw this car approaching at speed with its indicator flashing, and it swerved into the "In" gateway. The chap in the passenger seat was lolling all over the place, only kept in place by his seat belt, by the look of it. Bragg remembers thinking he'd already had more than enough.'

  'Did he get a look at the driver?'

  'No, the passenger was on his side, and anyway it was all ever in seconds.'

  'What time was this?'

  About nine-fifteen, he reckons.'

  'And from his description, Judd was already dead?'

  'I'd say so, or close to it.'

  'What about the car?'

  'More help on that one: light-coloured Ford Escort, three or four years old, sun visor, faulty near-side brake light.'

  'Too much to hope for the reg.?'

  There was a smile in Good's voice. 'Have a heart, Dave. So, we've started another round of inquiries in the town centre and at local garages. Someone might recognize the description.'

  'Ten to one it'll turn out to be stolen.'

  'Even so, there could be bloodstains on the passenger seat.'

  'Well, let's hope the PNC comes up with something. Thanks, Harry.' Webb dropped the phone on its cradle, pushed back his chair and went into the outer office.

  'Come on, Ken, we're off to Ashmartin again.'

  In the car on the way there, Webb told him the latest development. 'I want another word with Mrs Judd,' he finished. 'She should be over the initial shock, and might have remembered something relevant.'

  Jackson slowed the car to allow a couple with a toddler to cross the road. Webb said, 'Sorry to keep you from the family on a Saturday, Ken.'

  'That's all right. Guv. In any case, Millie's taken the kids to her mother's for the weekend.'

  'You should have gone with them?'

  'I'll survive. Had Judd any kids?'

  'Two, I believe, five and seven.'

  They drove in silence into the town, took a left-hand turn before reaching the green, and followed the road uphill past the Queen Elizabeth Hospital to Chestnut Drive, where the Judds lived. The children Webb had just mentioned were playing in the front garden, chasing each other and laughing. Thank God kids were so resilient, he thought as he pushed open the gate.

  His ring was answered by a woman in her fifties. Webb introduced himself and Jackson, and she nodded.

  'I'm Ella's mother. You'd better come in.'

  Ella Judd came into the hall to meet them, drying her hands on her apron.

  'Sorry to trouble you,' Webb said, 'but we've a few more questions. I'm afraid.'

  She led the way into the front room and her mother, after hesitating a moment, went back to the kitchen.

  'Mrs Judd, I'd like you to tell me everything you can about your husband's friends and colleagues. Was there anyone he was particularly close to? At the office, for instance?'

  She pressed her hands together. 'He got on well with all of them, but I wouldn't say he was close. He didn't see them out of office hours.'

  'Who did he know socially, then?'

  Well, there's Bill Price, I suppose, but really Simon was a home bird. He met so many people during working hours, often in very distressing circumstances, that when he came home; he just wanted to relax with me and the children.'

  Price's name and phone number were noted. It di
dn't seem much to go on.

  'Can you remember anyone else he might have mentioned?' Webb persisted. 'Someone who'd been in some sort of trouble, perhaps?'

  She smiled sadly. 'Most of his clients were in trouble, Mr Webb. That's why they went to him, but he never talked to me about them.'

  'What about the man he was meeting on Monday?'

  'Jim Fairlie.' She said the name thoughtfully.

  'He did mention him, then?'

  'Yes; when he came in, he asked me if I remembered him speaking of anyone by that name.'

  'And did you?'

  'No. He told me this man had rung him and said they'd met on some course, but he didn't remember, and various other names the man reeled off didn't ring a bell, either. But Simon was always bad on names – we used to tease him about it.' Her eyes filled with tears.

  It tied in with what Steve Parker had told them. Webb had hoped Judd might have said more to his wife, but it seemed not.

  'But you gathered it was a professional rather than a social call?'

  'I suppose so, since he had a problem to discuss.'

  Webb thought for a moment. He'd more or less dismissed the claimed acquaintanceship as a ploy to coerce Judd into a meeting – but suppose it was true? Could Judd have injured someone seriously enough to warrant his own death, when he couldn't even remember meeting the man?

  'Did he get any personal calls at work?'

  'You'd have to ask the Department. I only phoned there if it was urgent.'

  'And you can't remember having heard of Jim Fairlie before? Not just recently, but in the past?'

  'No – and I've a good memory, Simon used to rely on me. But it wouldn't have been his real name, would it? You'd hardly give that over the phone, when you were planning to – to –' She came to a halt, and after a moment added unsteadily, 'If he had done, I might have recognized it.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Judd,' Webb said gently. 'Now, if you don't mind we'd like to take a look at your husband's papers – letters, insurance policies, his will, anything personal he kept at home.'

  'I doubt if it'll help.' Ella Judd went over to the desk against the wall. 'Simon went through his papers regularly, throwing away everything that had been dealt with. He never kept letters once they'd been answered.'