Webb could have wished he'd been less methodical.
She watched while they systematically worked through the folders. As she'd intimated, the paperwork was minimal and everything neatly in place. As with Judd's office files, there was nothing at all to give them a lead to his death.
Resignedly, Jackson stacked the papers and replaced them in the various drawers. Another necessary task completed, Webb reflected as he watched him, and, like many another, it had got them precisely nowhere.
It was the normal practice for the family to gather for lunch at Brighton Villa on the first Sunday of the month. However, since she and Frederick had been away at the beginning of July, Edwina had decided this month to bring the arrangement forward a week. It seemed a long time since they'd all been together and she was looking forward to seeing them, albeit with underlying anxiety. Alex had been singularly uncommunicative when she and the boys came for tea; by actually seeing her with Roy and watching the interaction between them, it should be easier to gauge how things were.
Not, she told herself hotly, as this thought occurred to her, that she was spying on them; she merely wanted to satisfy herself that things had not deteriorated during her absence.
She came out of the kitchen and paused in the hallway, enjoying the sunlight which streamed through the pane in the front door and burnished the polished floor. No fitted carpets at the villa, just the lovely old boards and a selection of pretty, if faded, rugs.
She particularly loved the house on these family days, when it really came alive. It was a house meant to echo with running footsteps, voices calling, laughter. She supposed it was too big for their present needs, but could imagine living nowhere else. No modern flat could hold all their treasures, amassed over a long and happy lifetime, let alone their large furniture, which varied from valuable antiques to shabby but equally loved pieces bought at the salerooms in the early days of their marriage. And Frederick, she thought fondly, would wilt if his desk was moved from the window overlooking the green.
She frowned suddenly, remembering her husband's account of his previous day's sleuthing. It was all very well to concern himself with crimes which had been neatly rounded off and their perpetrators either locked away or dead. She was not so happy with his probing a live one, as it were, one which, following through the metaphor, might go off in his face.
She gave a little shiver, then told herself she was being fanciful. If the entire Broadshire police force had not tracked down the murderer over the last six years, it was unlikely in the extreme that Frederick would stumble over him.
Except, added that inner voice worriedly, that the case had been resurrected with this new murder. Even if two different killers were involved, it was a reminder that the first one was still around.
The lunch went well. Alex chatted and laughed, Roy was almost defiantly relaxed, Gilly and Hugh were their usual dear, dependable selves. Loveday looked uncannily as Gilly had at her age, Edwina thought; the same clear blue eyes and that silver-blonde hair hanging down her back. They had both inherited Frederick's colouring, Alex and the boys hers. Looking round the table, she felt an almost unbearable love for them all. Please keep them safe, she prayed spontaneously, then instantly mocked herself. What was the matter with her today? The next thing, she'd be reading tea-leaves.
'If you children have finished, you may leave the table,' she said, as she always did before the coffee was served.
'Thanks, Gran.' Toby and Jack slid off their chairs and disappeared in the direction of the garden. Edwina turned to her granddaughter. You're also excused, dear, if you'd like to go.'
Loveday, who jealously maintained her four years' seniority over the twins, flashed her a smile. Caught in the in-between stage and bored equally by her young cousins and the conversation of her elders, she was grateful for her grandmother's understanding.
'I did bring a book with me,' she admitted.
'The lounger's under the apple tree.'
'Brilliant!' And she, too, was gone. On cue, Mrs Davidson, who had been with the Maces for the last twenty years, brought in the coffee cups.
'I hope you're all coming to Frederick's talk on Tuesday,' Edwina said, pouring the strong, dark liquid. 'It's at the Central Library, eight o'clock.'
'Good gracious me,' Frederick protested, 'it's not a command performance! There's no compulsion about it.'
Gillian laughed and laid a hand on his arm. 'Of course we're coming, Pop! Try keeping us away. What's the title of it?'
' "Murder Under the Microscope". It's a dissertation, really, on the way I examine crime.'
'With questions from the floor afterwards?'
He grimaced. 'Unfortunately, yes. I usually enjoy that part, but they're sure to ask about the pub murders. It's my own fault, for allowing myself to be drawn on television. I should have known better.'
'But what's wrong with discussing them?' Alex asked.
'Well, I'm studying the first for my new book, and as you know, I dislike talking about current work. As for the second, I don't know any more about it than anyone else. Anyway, the police might take a dim view of my holding forth.'
'I don't see why; it's no different, surely, from all the speculation in the press?'
'No, I suppose it isn't. I mustn't give myself delusions of grandeur.'
'You'll have to put plants in the audience, Frederick,' Hugh said humorously, 'to ask the questions you're prepared to answer.'
'Well, I'll be there rooting for you,' Alex declared, 'though I can't speak for Roy. He has his own priorities these days.'
Edwina's stomach lurched. From the corner of her eye she saw Roy's hand clench on the table, but he said levelly, 'I certainly hope to be; it should be a most interesting evening.'
'More interesting than your sons' Sports Day?'
Roy raised his hand and brought it sharply down on the table, making the spoon dance in his saucer. 'I thought you'd find a way to bring that up.'
Frantically, Edwina lifted the coffee pot. 'Anyone ready for a refill?'
No one answered; the atmosphere had suddenly become charged. Alex turned to her, her voice vibrating with tension.
'You know how the boys look forward to Sports Day – specially this year, when, as I told you in my letter, both of them were picked for their house teams. They even persuaded Roy to volunteer for the Fathers' Race. Then what do you think happens? The day before, there's a hitch at some office in Glasgow, and off he flies without a backward glance. Glasgow! You'd have thought they could have found someone nearer, wouldn't you?'
Roy said tightly, 'Alex is convinced I arranged it all deliberately, even though I explained it was my programme that had gone wrong, and I was responsible for it. I still hoped to be back in time, but the sorting out took longer than expected.'
'But it was the weekend, Roy. It could have waited till Monday, specially when you'd something important on.'
'Even if it was Christmas, it would have made no difference. If I hadn't seen to it at once, they'd have lost millions of pounds' worth of orders. But you wouldn't see that. You took it as a personal slight – as, let's face it, you take most things these days.'
'It was because of the boys,' she said shakily. 'They won their races, and you weren't there to see them. Toby was in tears afterwards.' She sounded close to them herself.
Frederick cleared his throat. 'Well, it was disappointing, of course, but it's not the end of the world, now, is it? I'm sure Roy –'
Alex pushed back her chair and stood up. 'If that's all the support I'm getting. I'll spare you any further embarrassment and take Goldie for a walk.' The long-haired retriever, asleep by Frederick's chair, thumped his tail at the sound of his name.
'Come along, boy! Walk!' she repeated sharply. The dog sat up, surprised at the break in his routine, then, as she patted her thigh, got to his feet and trotted after her out of the room.
There was an awkward silence. Then Roy said flatly, 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have risen to that. We've spoiled your lunch p
arty.'
He looked round at their grave faces. 'I'm sure you all know we've been having problems. I just don't know how to handle it. I still love her, but she won't let me near her. Everything I do seems to irritate her.'
'She's very unhappy,' Edwina said quietly.
'She's not the only one, but she absolutely refuses to discuss it. Do you think one of you could have a word with her?'
'I have tried, Roy,' Gillian said, 'but I didn't get very far, either.'
'I think, my dear,' Frederick remarked, 'you'd better try again. Things can't be allowed to go on like this, for the boys' sakes as much as anyone's. And talking of the boys, it's time we went outside to join them.'
Gillian met Roy's anxious eyes. 'All right,’ she told him, 'I'll have another go.' And, already regretting the promise she'd been forced into, she followed her mother out to the garden.
It was a day for family meals, but Sonia, whose working week tended to be fraught, found herself resenting the unspoken assumption that each Sunday, month in, month out, Patrick's mother and sister would come to lunch.
It would be pleasant, she thought, making the mint sauce, to have a Sunday alone together. They could laze in the garden, perhaps go for a pub lunch, recoup their forces for the following week.
As it was, preparations for the meal spilled over into Saturday, dominating the whole weekend. Unless she'd managed to shop after work, it meant trailing out to the supermarket, where she'd stare hopelessly at the shelves seeking inspiration. All of which took time she could ill afford, since Saturday was also the day on which the household chores must be done; the house had to be cleaned, the washing seen to, and everything tidied away for the Sunday visitors.
It seemed they had no time alone, and with her fears about Patrick's straying attention, she was even more conscious how much they needed it.
His voice broke into her thoughts. 'They're here!'
She heard him walk through the hall, open the front door and go out on to the gravel to meet them. Sighing, she took off her apron, and went to join him.
As they sat over their pre-lunch sherries, Sonia surreptitiously studied her in-laws. Sybil Knowles must have been pretty at one time, but years of suffering from a debilitating illness had taken their toll. Though she'd never been anything other than pleasant, Sonia felt Sybil resented her, would have preferred Patrick's attention to have remained fixed solely on herself and her daughter.
And Zoe seemed to be a replica of her mother. In her case, the prettiness had not quite gone, lingering in the grey eyes and thick fair hair she shared with her brother. But she was pale while Patrick was tanned, small where he was tall, timid while he was outgoing, and altogether seemed much younger than she actually was.
She had had a breakdown some years previously and her mother and brother continued to treat her as an invalid. However, it seemed to Sonia that she played on her fragility, and was actually capable of doing more than she admitted. The fear which she'd voiced to Gillian, that on Mrs Knowles's death Zoe would move in with them, returned, filling her with dread.
'We thought we might go away for a few days,' Zoe was saying, 'just for a little break, to give Mother a change of scene.'
'Good idea,' Patrick said heartily, refilling Sonia's glass. (Sybil and Zoe had both refused a top-up, making her feel like a seasoned toper.) 'Where will you go?'
'Oh, not far. Up into the Cotswolds, probably. As you know. I'm not a very confident driver.'
'If you want to go farther afield, I could always run you there,' Patrick volunteered. 'And collect you, when you're ready to come home.'
'Oh, we couldn't expect you to do that!' Zoe protested, but Sonia knew, from her satisfied expression, that it was, in fact, exactly what she'd expected.
'Nonsense. Just say the word.'
'Well, we had talked about the Lake District –' Zoe's voice tailed off.
Sonia heard herself say, 'There are always trains, you know, if you don't want to drive.'
They all turned to look at her, three Knowles faces expressing surprise. For an uncomfortable moment, she felt a complete outsider. Then Sybil said equably, 'Of course there are. Sonia wants Patrick to spend his weekends with her, dear, not ferrying us around the country. It's only natural.'
'In that case,' Zoe said with a small sigh, 'we'll stick with the Cotswolds. You know you couldn't cope with a long train journey.'
Sonia wanted to protest that a train was more comfortable, allowed more room, provided meals, but she'd already said too much and had been subtly wrong-footed for doing so. Instead, she smiled brightly. 'I'll go and make the gravy,' she said.
Out in the kitchen, though, she felt ashamed of herself. Between them, they'd made her look selfish and ungracious – and perhaps she was. It had, after all, been kind of Patrick to offer his help; she knew he felt responsible for them, and their claim on him predated her own. He'd been taking care of them since he was fifteen, when his father died. Her intervention had been petty and, she admitted, motivated by jealousy.
Resolving from now on to brim over with charity, Sonia took the joint out of the oven.
The studio was flooded with the mellow evening light. Hugh stood in the doorway with two glasses of wine and looked across at his wife, who was staring out of the window.
'I thought you were working. I've brought you some sustenance.'
She turned. 'I should be, I'm behind with this commission. But I keep thinking of what I’ve let myself in for, and it gets in the way.'
'Talking to Alex, you mean?'
She nodded, perching on her stool as she sipped the wine.
'I really like Roy, you know He doesn't deserve this.'
Hugh lowered himself on to the chaise longue. 'You think it's her fault?'
'From what we've seen, don't you?'
'These things are usually six of one and half a dozen of the other.'
'Very profound, darling, but not a lot of help. If you ask me, all Roy has done is work hard and long, and not be available every time she lifts a finger. He obviously still dotes on her; when he snaps back, it's only in self-defence.'
'If you take that attitude, you won't get far with your sister,' Hugh commented astutely.
'She already knows it. The trouble is, when you fall out of love with someone they automatically start to irritate you. It's cruel, but a fact of life.'
'Oh, come now, you don't think it's that serious?'
'I'm beginning to wonder. Let's hope it's only a temporary blip.'
Hugh was silent for a while, then he asked, 'What will you say to her?'
'Lord knows. She won't tell me anything she doesn't want to. She never has.'
'What about her friends? Could you approach one of them?'
'I don't think it would help. She has plenty, but I doubt if she confides in them. Amy Paxton was the exception, and she emigrated to Australia a couple of years ago. Alex still misses her.'
'Will you phone in advance, or just go round?'
'Drop in, I think. If she's warned, she might try to put me off.'
Hugh finished his wine and stood up. 'Are you coming down?'
'In a couple of minutes. I'll just tidy up here.'
He nodded, and went back downstairs. Gillian drained her glass and turned back to the easel, but her thoughts were still elsewhere. Sonia and Alex; she loved them both dearly, and both were unhappy. Furthermore, on Thursday they'd be here for dinner, with their respective husbands. Not, perhaps, such a good idea after all, but it was too late now to retract. The evening looked like being difficult, and Gillian felt her heart sink. Still, Hugh would back her up.
Bless him, she thought with a rush of affection. How lucky she was to be able to depend on him so completely, confident that he would always be there to support her. If only all marriages could be like theirs. And they lived happily ever after really did seem a fairy tale these days.
But enough philosophizing, she told herself. Briskly she rinsed her brushes, wiped the palette and closed the paint
box. Then, picking up her empty glass, she went downstairs.
6
Frederick was sorting out ideas for his talk when Paul Blake arrived the next morning. He swivelled in his chair as the younger man was shown in, and waved him to a seat.
'Damn nuisance, this,' he said, indicating the papers on his desk. 'I wish I'd never agreed to it. Much rather get down to work on the book.'
'Talking of which. I've typed up the notes you made in Canada.' Paul handed over a file.
'Thanks.' Frederick laid them on the desk on top of a pile of newspapers. 'I've been reading up on this blasted murder – it's sure to come up in the questions, and I should at least know what I'm talking about.'
'Well, this might help.' Paul took a large envelope out of his briefcase. 'It's a photo of the victim, as requested. I managed to wheedle it out of a friend who works on the News.'
'Excellent man!' Frederick eagerly drew out the print and sat in silence for several minutes while his eyes moved slowly and assessingly over it. It showed a man in his mid-forties, whose hair was already beginning to recede. The eyes were diffident, the mouth vulnerable, the chin rather weak. A very different character from Trevor Philpott.
'He looks pretty harmless,' he commented at last. 'I'm amazed he was capable of arousing such violence.'
'That's what struck me.'
'He's more the random-victim type, attacked in the course of robbery, for example. But we know that wasn't the case; he was specifically lured to his death. In heaven's name, why?'
Blake crossed his legs. 'I tried your trick with the photo, asking myself how he'd have struck me if I hadn't known anything about him.'
Frederick looked up interestedly. 'And?'
'I'd have said he was kindly, caring, possibly a little too anxious to please. Would you agree?'
'I suppose so, yes.'
'What occurred to me, though, is that people like that can be surprisingly stubborn if they think they're in the right. They hold to their opinions or course of action like terriers, and won't let go.'
The Ten Commandments Page 7
