'The awful thing is, we're not comfortable with each other any more. It's almost as though we don't trust each other.'
'A year's a long time,' Webb said, unconsciously echoing Gwen. 'You're bound to have grown apart a little. Things will ease next term, when you're back in harness again.'
Hannah said reflectively, 'It'll be hard for me too, having been in charge for a year. I'm surprised how much I mind the prospect of stepping down.'
'But you always knew it was temporary,' Webb reminded her.
'Somehow, that doesn't help! And she did go on, David. Even during tea, everything was Canada this and Canada that. I felt like asking why she'd bothered to come home!'
'Obviously she's full of it, after being out there so long,' he pointed out reasonably. 'Give her time. Keep out of her way for a while and let things die down.'
'But suppose we can't regain our old footing? It would make things very awkward.'
'I still think you're jumping the gun. Relax; you've got about six weeks of holiday ahead of you. I wish I had your problems!'
Hannah laughed. 'Sorry, but I needed to get that off my chest. All right, I promise not to bring it up again. Tell me how the inquiry's going.'
So he told her about the elusive Lee Baring and the watch being kept on his house.
'If he's the villain, there should be no difficulty nailing him – there are bound to be traces in the car. And once we have that under our belts, we can sound him out on the Feathers case.'
'But there's no doubt, is there? It's virtually an identical crime.'
'On the face of it, yes, but that's not conclusive. Still, it would be a terrific bonus if we could tie them both up at the same time.'
'Which reminds me. I'm going to Ashmartin tomorrow evening, to hear Frederick Mace.'
'Again? His publicity agent's working overtime.'
'Well, he's a local celebrity and it's the Broadshire Festival of Literature, in case you hadn't noticed.'
Webb grinned. 'I admit it had escaped me.'
'I thought he might come up with something interesting that I could pass on to you.'
'I'm not sure how to take that,' he protested. 'I like to think we're capable of solving our own crimes, without depending on academic old gentlemen!'
'All right, be like that, but I want to hear him.'
'Mind you don't break any Commandments,' Webb said, and ducked as Hannah threw a cushion at him.
'Anyway,' she finished, 'perhaps by tomorrow evening, Mr Baring will be behind bars, and that will be an end of it.'
7
Inquiries had established that Bill Price, nominated by Mrs Judd as her husband's closest friend, worked as a clerk in the National Bank in Dominion Street. Webb and Jackson were shown into a private room and minutes later Price himself appeared, a tall, thin man with a stoop and an unsuccessful moustache.
Webb waved him to one of his own – or at least the bank's – chairs.
'We understand from his wife that you were a friend of Simon Judd,' he began.
'Yes, that's right.' Price spoke quickly, as though eager to be of help. 'A terrible thing – quite unbelievable. Old Simon wasn't the type to get himself murdered.'
Webb's mouth twitched. 'I wasn't aware there was a "type".'
'Well, you know what I mean. He'd not a wrong word to say about anybody. He was just an ordinary, decent chap going about his business and trying to pull his weight in the community.'
St Simon. Like St Trevor in Oxbury. Damn it, both men must have had some faults; this was carrying not speaking ill of the dead too far.
'How well did you know him, sir?'
'As well as anyone. I'd say. Since schooldays.'
'Would you say his marriage was happy?'
'Good Lord, yes. He wasn't a womanizer, if that's what you're wondering. In fact, he was so shy we wondered if he'd ever pluck up the courage to propose to Ella.'
'We?'
'Me and his other pals.'
'Who were they?'
'Keith Denham, Mark Scott and Bob Naylor. We used to go round in a crowd at one time, then we lost touch. Keith moved away, Mark works on the continent, and Bob just seemed to drop out of sight.'
'What about more recently?' Webb inquired. 'Who was Judd friendly with at the time of his death?' He'd had no luck with Judd's wife on that question, perhaps some names would emerge now.
But Price was shaking his head. 'As I said, I knew him as well as anyone, but I wouldn't say we were close. Simon got on with everyone, but he kept himself to himself. Even when we were lads, swopping experiences with girls, Si would listen to the rest of us, but he'd never volunteer anything. Come to think of it, maybe that's why he was good at his job – just listening.'
'Can you recall his having an argument with anyone, disagreeing with something someone had done?'
'I wouldn't call them arguments, but he had strong principles and he stuck to them.'
'What kind of principles?'
'Well, that you should be punished if you did something wrong. That kind of thing. Funny, really; a lot of people think social workers are too soft by half – do-gooders – but Simon wasn't like that. He'd move heaven and earth to help someone in trouble, but if they'd done wrong, he thought they ought to take the consequences.'
Interesting, Webb thought. 'Any particular instances?'
'Can't think of one offhand, but it was always general stuff, something in the papers or on the news. He never talked about his work.'
Unlikely, then, to be of much relevance. All the same, the conversation had given a slightly different slant on Simon Judd. Had he stuck to his principles once too often? It was an angle which might warrant investigation.
As they came out on to the street, Webb saw a notice advertising Frederick Mace's talk that evening and, despite his comments to Hannah, felt a flicker of interest. The old boy was pretty astute; would he consider that Judd's judgemental qualities strengthened or weakened his theory of broken Commandments?
Shrugging aside such hypotheses, Webb reached for his mobile to check if there'd been any sighting yet of Baring.
Patrick Knowles steered the car on to the verge and drew to a halt. As the engine died, silence enfolded him, broken only by the distant hum of a plane, almost invisible in the summer sky. Ahead and behind, the country road stretched emptily, shimmering in the heat-haze.
He had twenty minutes before his next appointment, and was glad of a breathing space. Life was becoming altogether too complicated; only a few months ago, he'd been happily cruising along, with no problems of any consequence. Now, a host of them buzzed in his head, battling for supremacy. Unfastening his seat belt, he wound down the window and settled back, drumming his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.
High on the list, as always, came his mother and sister. Neither was strong, and recently both seemed to be deteriorating. Zoe was increasingly nervy, making him fear the onset of another breakdown, while his mother's health, uncertain for years, was now failing rapidly. The time was fast approaching when she would be too much for Zoe to cope with on her own. Then what? He hated the idea of a nursing home, but if it did become necessary, what would happen to his sister?
Common sense dictated that she should move in with them, but since she and Sonia barely tolerated each other, it would not make for a congenial household.
Sonia. Another of his worries, though admittedly of his own making. The trouble was that his affair with Alex had got completely out of hand. How the hell could he have known, when he gave her that New Year kiss, that it would light such a fuse between them? Even thinking of her now aroused him. He reached for the car phone and dialled her number.
'Hello?'
'It's me. Can you talk?'
'Briefly – the twins are in the garden.'
'Any chance of seeing you today?'
'Not when the boys are home, Patrick. You know that.'
'How about this evening? Invent someone you have to visit!'
He heard her low laugh. 'Afraid I can't; we
're all going to the library for Pop's talk. Still, I'll see you on Thursday.'
'With Sonia, Roy and your sister. Wonderful.'
'Patrick –' There was a hesitant note in her voice.
'What?'
'I think we should go carefully for a while. Sonia told Gilly she thinks you're seeing someone.'
He drew in his breath, eyes narrowing. 'When was this?'
'Last week, I think. She doesn't know who, though.'
'Then why did your sister mention it?'
Silence.
His voice sharpened. 'Alex?'
She said quietly, 'I told her. About us.'
'God, are you out of your mind? When she and Sonia are so close? Whatever possessed you to –?'
'She came round to see if she could help.'
'What do you mean?'
'I snapped at Roy during the family lunch, and he despatched Gilly to find out what was wrong.'
'And you told her!'
'Oh, she won't pass it on; you needn't worry about that.'
'But she knows, damn it, and she'll be watching us like a hawk on Thursday. Sonia's bound to notice. God, what a mess.'
'So what do we do? Stop seeing each other altogether?'
'Is that what you want?' he demanded harshly, and heard her sigh.
'No, not yet. Do you?'
'You know damn well I don't. God, Alex –'
'Yes,' she said softly, 'I know. I know. But we never meant to hurt anyone, did we? If it's going to cause –'
'We'll just have to be more careful, as you said. You stop snapping at Roy and I'll tread carefully with Sonia. God knows how she latched on to anything, I didn't think I'd been any different.'
'I must go – Jack's calling.'
'Till Thursday, then.'
Bye.'
The line went dead and he switched off the phone. The call had been intended as an antidote to his problems; instead, it had merely added to them. He refastened his seat belt, started up the car and drove on to his appointment.
Hannah had invited her friend, Dilys Hayward, to accompany her to the talk. A writer herself, Dilys had in fact already participated in the Festival of Literature – with a talk at Shillingham Library – but she was eager to hear Frederick Mace, and Hannah arranged to collect her at seven-fifteen.
'This should be interesting,' she commented, settling into the car. 'I saw him on TV the other evening; a fascinating man.'
'He came to the school a few years ago,' Hannah said.
'Talking of school, I hear Gwen's back?'
Dilys and Hannah had been contemporaries at Ashbourne, Gwen some five years their senior. Though the gap had been insurmountable during schooldays, in latter years the women – all unmarried and successful in their careers – had become friends and met regularly for dinner or the theatre. Monica Tovey, Gwen's contemporary, had been a fourth until her recent marriage to the local bank manager.
'That's right; I went there for tea yesterday.'
'And?' Dilys prompted.
'We went through everything that's happened while she's been away.'
'I meant, how was she? Has she changed at all?'
'Yes,' Hannah said slowly, 'I rather think she has. Either that, or I have. Perhaps a bit of both.'
'Oh dear.'
'I suppose we're bound to be a bit constrained with each other after so long.'
'And you did have one hell of a year,' Dilys said feelingly, remembering her own encounter with the religious cult which had threatened the school. When Hannah made no comment, she added, 'How was she different?'
'Well, for one thing, she never stopped singing Canada's praises. I'd had quite enough of it by the end of the afternoon, I can tell you. What's more, she wants to introduce all kinds of things they do over there which I'm convinced wouldn't transplant.
'It wasn't only that, though,' Hannah went on, negotiating the traffic as they joined the main Ashmartin road. 'She seemed different in herself. If I had to define it. I'd say she was unhappy.'
'Probably culture shock, coming back to dear old Mum after all the bright lights.'
Hannah laughed. 'That might well be it. No doubt she'll settle down.'
'I must give her a ring,' Dilys said. 'I can't believe it's a year since I saw her.'
'Tell you what. I'll try to fix a dinner later in the week, then you can judge for yourself. I'll see if Monica's free, too. It'll be like old times.'
Ashmartin Central Library had a car park at the rear, and they managed to secure one of the last spaces. 'Just as well I reserved our tickets,' Hannah commented, 'it seems to be a popular event.'
They walked round the modern building, its golden stone glowing in the evening sunlight, and through the open double doors. The library itself lay behind a glass wall to the left, but the man who took their tickets directed them upstairs for 'refreshments', where they found themselves engulfed in a milling throng.
As they stood hesitating, a girl came forward with a tray of red and white wine and soft drinks. Hannah and Dilys each selected a glass and moved to the long trestle tables where a selection of sausage rolls, slices of quiche and canapés was laid out.
Hannah, turning away with her plate, surveyed the crowd around her, noting that they were a varied cross-section. There was the expected sprinkling of academics, earnest young men and women in long cardigans despite the heat, some with glasses perched on their noses and all clutching notebooks.
There was a proportion of local residents, conscientiously supporting their library; and there was a section which Hannah suspected, possibly unjustly, of being sensation-seekers: people who would not ordinarily have crossed the street to hear Frederick Mace, but who had either seen his television interview or – more likely – heard about it afterwards, and hoped to learn something more of the local murder. But among all the varied crowd, she didn't see one face she recognized.
Eventually someone rang a handbell and raised his voice above the babble of conversation. 'Ladies and gentlemen, if you'd like to make your way downstairs and take your seats, Mr Mace will begin his talk.'
Hannah and Dilys moved with the flow down the wide staircase and through the now open doors into the library, which was set out with rows of chairs forming a semicircle. In front of them was a table and chair and over to one side, another table bearing several piles of books, guarded by a representative from Mace's publishers.
The audience settled itself expectantly and Frederick Mace appeared from one of the aisles of books, escorted by the chief librarian, who proceeded to introduce him.
Hannah only half listened, her eyes on Mace. He was tall and narrow-shouldered and wore his clothes comfortably, like a man not unduly concerned with his appearance. He had, she thought, an interesting, lived-in face. There were heavy grooves down his cheeks and slight pouches under the eyes. The eyes themselves, narrow and grey, were sharp but kindly, and he was fortunate enough to have kept his hair, which had a slight wave and was a dark iron grey.
The theme of the talk, as its title implied, was his work as a criminologist, and – possibly mindful of his publisher – he made frequent reference to his book, The Muddied Pool, which had been the subject of his tour. Hannah surreptitiously removed a notebook from her handbag and jotted down a few points, as much for her own interest as David's. Mace was obviously a seasoned speaker; he did not talk down to his audience, but stated his findings and made his deductions in clear, easily understood language rather than the scientific jargon frequently heard in that context. There was genuine and enthusiastic applause as he came to an end. The chief librarian stood up briefly to thank him, and to invite questions from the audience.
'Here we go,' murmured Dilys under her breath, as several hands shot up.
At Mace's nod, a man a few rows behind them stood up. 'Mr Mace, I'm sure many of us saw your interview on television last week, and were fascinated by your Ten Commandments theory. I wonder if you'd enlarge on that for us, especially with regard to murder?'
There wer
e several murmurs of agreement.
Frederick Mace shifted on his chair – uncomfortably, Hannah thought, though he must have known this was coming. 'Well, as I mentioned in my interview, murder is, of course, the ultimate crime, but other, possibly lesser, ones frequently lead to it.'
'Making the victim partially responsible, you mean?' asked the questioner, who had remained standing.
'In some cases, possibly; in others, it is a third party who has, either wilfully or inadvertently, set the thing in train. Because in most cases, the murderer has a motive for his crime, and it follows there must be grounds for that motive, whether real or imaginary – something which has ignited his hatred of that particular person. It can often be traced to the prior breaking of a Commandment.'
Another member of the audience, a woman in the second row, raised her hand and simultaneously stood up. 'Could you tell us, Mr Mace, how this ties in with the two pub murders?'
He steepled his fingers and regarded them for a moment. 'You must understand that anything I say is pure hypothesis. I'm not privy to police cogitations, nor have I anything to go on other than my own observation. However, having now read a considerable amount about both cases, I do not believe, however closely they might resemble each other, that these crimes were committed from the same motive.'
There was a stirring of interest, an excited whispering which spread through the audience and was immediately stifled.
'To illustrate my point,' Mace continued, 'let us look not at the similarities between the murders, but at the differences, and these, I suggest, are apparent not only with regard to the murderer – who, in each case, appears to be the telephone caller – but also to the victims.
'Let's take the victims first: I never met either of them, but I've studied their photographs, and from these, together with reports I've read in the press, it appears they were very different types. Mr Philpott was jovial, self-confident, perhaps a little boastful – a typical salesman, you might think. Mr Judd, on the other hand, was much quieter, shy but with, I suspect, an underlying strength. A dedicated social worker, he was essentially an intensely private man.
'When we come to the killer, we have to rely on those phone calls, and fortunately we have descriptions of the voice in each case. Mr Philpott's caller was well spoken, with a fairly deep tone – perhaps not unlike Mr Philpott himself. At any rate, the girl on the switchboard warmed to him. I spoke to her personally, and she told me he'd sounded "nice".
The Ten Commandments Page 9
