'On the other hand, according to the press, Mr Judd's killer had a much lighter voice with a slight local accent, and it was described as "shaky".
'I might be entirely wrong, but I'd deduce from this that in the first instance the murderer was out to avenge someone else – someone close to him but at one remove, as it were, which enabled him to retain his self-control. In the second, he felt himself so deeply and personally involved that he couldn't conceal his emotions. This, mind you, despite the fact that Judd recognized neither his voice nor his appearance. How, I ask myself, could Judd have done him so great a wrong "long-distance"?
And this is what intrigues me most of all – the fact that each man spoke directly to his killer, but neither of them recognized his voice. Nor, one must assume, his appearance; because if, despite the probably false name, the caller turned out to be someone the victim had met, he'd immediately have become suspicious and not got trustingly into the car with him. I'm therefore forced to conclude that neither victim was known personally to his killer, which, since both murders were premeditated, I find fascinating.
'Obviously, some murders are motiveless, committed merely for the sake of killing, and such victims are picked at random. But in both these cases he was asked for by name, and I believe the killer had a strong personal reason – or at least thought he had – for committing murder.'
Frederick Mace paused and surveyed his audience. 'However,' he went on into the expectant silence, 'I do not believe it was the same reason, nor the same killer.'
There was a collective gasp from the audience, followed by a buzz of conversation.
'Well, go on, lad!' someone called from the back. 'You can't leave it there!' And tension was released in a spontaneous burst of laughter.
'Very well, but again I emphasize this is purely my own opinion. The difference between the voices is not, of course, conclusive; since it could have been disguised, it would be necessary to test each call scientifically, which, since they obviously weren't recorded, is impossible.
'But another consideration is the fact that if the same man was responsible for both cases, he'd be on the way to becoming a serial killer. And serial killers tend either to go for the same kind of person – prostitutes, for instance, or young boys – or kill from the same motive. Which, as I've explained, does not apply here.'
He looked at the rapt faces in front of him, and smiled mischievously. 'I rest my case!' he said.
'So which Commandments would you say had been broken?' someone called, but Frederick Mace had had enough.
He smilingly shook his head. 'I think we should leave it there. I've waffled on quite long enough.' His eyes twinkled. 'And we must leave the police something to do, after all!'
The questioner made one last attempt. But couldn't you just –?'
The chief librarian cut him off. 'Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Mace has been more than generous, giving us so much of his time. We must allow him to stop now. I'm sure you'd like to know he'll be happy to sign copies of his book, which is available over here.' He gestured towards the publisher and her table. 'And now, please will you show your appreciation for such an interesting and informative talk.'
'I’m going to buy a copy,' Hannah said, under the storm of applause, though I confess I'll be more interested in the next one.'
'An intriguing theory,’ Dilys acknowledged, 'but I'm sure the police would find flaws in it.'
Hannah smiled without replying. She would shortly find out. She rose and threaded her way past the others in their row towards the book table, where already a queue was forming.
A few people had now joined Frederick Mace – his family, presumably. Hannah studied them with interest. His wife was a fairly small woman, sensible-looking, with short brown hair and a clear skin unembellished by make-up, but the two younger women – daughters? daughters-in-law? – were very attractive, one fair and one dark. Their husbands, seemingly unwilling to step into the spotlight, stood awkwardly to one side, conversing with each other.
When it came to her turn for the signing, Hannah said, 'It was a fascinating talk, Mr Mace, thank you.'
He looked up with an automatic smile, then his expression sharpened. 'Haven't we met? Surely –'
'How clever of you – yes. I'm Hannah James, deputy head of Ashbourne. You came to speak to us.'
'Of course – I remember. Good to see you again, Miss James. Have you met my wife?' Hannah smilingly shook her hand. 'And my daughters, Gillian and Alexandra.' The two younger women dutifully came forward.
Hannah murmured something appropriate, smiled again, and, conscious of the lengthening queue behind her, moved away.
Dilys was waiting for her by the door. 'Let's make a move before there's a crush in the car park.' She glanced sideways at Hannah as they walked round the building. 'Why this sudden interest in crime?'
'Not so much crime, as the psychology behind it – what makes people criminals. Surely the more we understand it, the more hope we have of preventing it.'
She unlocked the car and Dilys slid inside. 'It will be interesting,' she commented, fastening her seat belt, 'to see in due course if he's proved right.'
Back at Beechcroft Mansions, Hannah took the lift to the floor beyond her own and knocked at Webb's door.
'Come in!' he greeted her. 'How was the oracle?'
'Thought provoking; I bought a copy of his book. Would you like to borrow it?'
'You reckon I need it?'
She smiled. 'No, I didn't mean that. It was an excellent talk, but, as you'd imagine, it was the Commandment business the audience really wanted to hear about.'
While he poured a drink she went to the window, leaning on the sill and looking down the long hill to the town nestling at its foot, shimmering with lights. It was a superb view from this height, especially in daylight, when the Chantock Hills were just discernible. The outlook from her own windows at the back of the house gave only on to the gardens.
'So,' Webb said, joining her with two glasses and motioning her to a chair, 'what did he come up with?'
'About the pub murders? Basically, that there are two different killers with two different motives.'
'Wonderful.'
'You were hoping to tie them to one person?'
'It would have made life simpler. What grounds had he for that deduction?'
'It was mainly based on the telephone voices, which certainly seemed different, and on the victims' photographs.'
'Photographs?'
'He said a serial killer would have gone for the same type, and these two weren't. That, as you'll appreciate, is an oversimplification.'
'If he's right, we've precious little hope of catching Philpott's killer. All the stops were pulled out at the time, to no avail, and the trail's stone cold now.'
'What about the latest one?'
'We're still waiting for this Baring chap to show up. Bloody frustrating, hanging around not knowing when he's going to put in an appearance. According to his office he's now overdue.'
'Perhaps they told him you were making inquiries.'
'They were asked not to, but you never know. If he doesn't turn up tomorrow, we'll put out an All Ports Warning.'
Hannah stared into her glass. 'Mr Mace underlined the fact that neither Philpott nor Judd seemed to know their killers. He thinks Philpott was murdered by someone "at one remove", as he put it, that is, acting on behalf of another person.'
Webb raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'The crystal-ball syndrome. And Judd?'
'By someone who thought he'd done him a personal wrong, despite the fact that Judd didn't recognize him. Mace wondered how such a deep injury had been committed "long-distance".'
Webb took a mouthful of whisky. 'Well, he's been spot-on in the past, but to be frank, this sounds like a lot of baloney.'
'He did stress they were only theories.'
'So I should hope, and believe me we need more than theories. We're over a week into this now, and only the elusive Baring on the horizon. Or not even there.'<
br />
'But you had registered the voices on the phone were different?'
Webb said irritably, 'Of course we bloody registered it, but there's such a thing as disguising your voice, you know. We may even have an actor on our hands. Did your precious Mr Mace consider that?'
Hannah forbore from confirming that he had. She said softly, 'David, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ram him down your throat. I thought you'd be interested, that's all.'
He reached out a hand and pulled her to him. 'No, I'm the one to apologize. Of course I'm interested, but all the theories in the world won't nail this bastard without some proof to back them up.'
'I know.' She nestled into his arms. 'Something'll break soon, I'm sure.'
'This crystal-gazing must be catching!' But he was smiling as he put his glass down on the table. 'And now let's talk about something much more interesting. Or, better still, not talk at all.'
8
The talk made the national papers the next morning, with an accompanying photograph of Frederick which appeared on his dust jackets.
BROADSHIRE PUB MURDERS NOT CONNECTED, SAYS CRIMINOLOGIST was a typical headline.
'This isn't going to endear Pop to the police,' Gillian commented a little anxiously over breakfast.
'Or to the killers,' Hugh added.
'So you do think there are two?'
'I'd say he proved that pretty conclusively, wouldn't you?'
'I don't know which is worse, having a serial killer on the loose, or two separate ones.'
'Well, from your father's angle it's all good publicity.'
'He hates it, though. You know how he loathes discussing the book he's working on.'
'Not this time, apparently.'
'He didn't want to talk about it,' Gillian protested. 'They just didn't leave him any option.'
'Oh, I don't know; I reckon airing it all in public crystallized his ideas; he'll be raring to go this morning, you mark my words.' Hugh looked at his watch, and stood up.
'I hope you're right – and I also hope he is. He stated his opinion very publicly; I'd hate to see him proved wrong.'
Hugh bent to kiss her. 'Don't worry, my love, he's a tough old bird. Criticism runs off him like water off a duck's back. He wouldn't have survived this long if it didn't. I must go. What are you doing today?'
'I suppose I'll have to shop for the dinner party.'
'Anyone would think you weren't looking forward to it!'
Gillian forced a smile and, as the front door closed behind him, refilled her coffee cup. She wasn't looking forward to the dinner party, but she couldn't admit it to Hugh since he didn't know about the Alex-Patrick-Sonia triangle. Though for how much longer it could be kept secret, she had no idea.
DI Crombie dropped a folded newspaper on Webb's desk, and the craggy face of Frederick Mace stared up at him.
'This man is beginning to haunt me,' he complained, running his eye down the column, which was more or less a recap of what Hannah had told him.
'Think he's right?'
'Lord knows. Just wheel in Lee Baring and I might give you an answer. Where the devil is he, Alan?'
The phone rang and Webb lifted it.
'Harry here, Dave. There's good news and bad news.'
'Let's hear it, then.'
'Baring was spotted leaving the M4 at the Ashmartin exit. He accelerated when he saw the patrol car, and they only caught up with him on the outskirts of town.' Good paused, then ended flatly: 'But before they could nab him, he was out of the car and had disappeared into a housing estate.'
'Brilliant.'
'The area's been sealed off and we're doing a house-to- house, but he almost certainly got clear.'
Webb said heavily, 'And the good news?'
'Well, we have got the car. SOCO are already working on it.'
'Does it fit the witness's description?'
'To a "t". Light-coloured Escort, faulty brake light, plastic sun visor, the lot.'
'Well, that's something. I'll look in later – there might be news by then. In the meantime I've put inquiries in hand concerning some old friends of Judd's, whose names I was given yesterday. It's a long shot, but it might pay off.'
Good's grunt reached him over the wire. 'With luck, we should be able to scrub the long shots. My money's on Baring. All we've got to do now is find him.'
Frederick sat at his desk, staring at the sheet of paper in front of him. At the top he'd written in his cramped hand: Thou shalt not kill/commit adultery/covet thy neighbour's wife. Which, as he was only too ready to admit, completely fudged the issue. Still, it was logical to turn to the Philpott case next, while it was so much in the news and he'd just met the widow. It could be slotted into the appropriate place once he'd settled on the most likely motive.
He frowned suddenly, wondering if Aileen Bradburn had, as he'd advised, notified the police of Philpott's affairs. It could give them a much-needed new lead – though not, he remained convinced, to the killer of Simon Judd.
He looked up the note he'd made when Paul gave him her number, pulled the phone towards him, and dialled it, resolving also to ask for 'Jerry's' surname and address; it would do no harm to contact him, both about the women and the cricket club incident. But the ringing sound continued unanswered, and eventually, frustrated, he hung up. He'd try again later.
Propping the photograph of Trevor Philpott in front of him, he stared at it morosely. Why had he died? Which of his conquests had proved to have a jealous husband? Or had none of them?
Frederick opened the file of notes which Paul had typed up following his research, and began to read through it. He was interrupted by the phone.
'Mr Mace? Dick Thomson, Radio Broadshire Current News. I wonder if you'd be prepared to do an interview for us tomorrow morning?'
Frederick said gruffly, 'I've nothing further to say.'
'Actually, there are several angles we'd like to explore, especially regarding –'
'I'm sorry,' Frederick interrupted. 'I shan't be doing any more interviews for the moment. Goodbye.'
He put down the phone, feeling ungracious. But, Lord knew, he had to draw the line somewhere. At this rate, his whole time would be spent rushing from one place to another and he'd never get any work done.
Determinedly closing his mind to all else, he returned to Paul's notes.
Edwina was uneasy, and, as always when something was worrying her, she had donned her gardening clothes and gone out to attack the weeds. In retrospect, she thought, the Canadian tour seemed like a holiday, where their only concern was to be ready for the limousine to conduct them from one venue, hotel or airport to the next.
She took out the secateurs and began methodically to deadhead the roses. It was very hot in this corner of the garden, and the sweet, heady scent of the flowers mingled with that of warm earth and the dusty brick wall alongside. In the full glare of the sun, Edwina was grateful for her old straw hat.
Snipping her way along the bed, she mentally lined up her worries for consideration.
First, of course, Alex. The atmosphere at Sunday lunch had been most uncomfortable, and she was as much concerned for Roy and the children as for her daughter. Gilly had said she'd go and see her, but with all the milling about at the talk last night, she'd not had the chance to ask the outcome.
She sighed, dropping the faded blooms into the trug. She loved her younger daughter dearly, but Alex had always been headstrong and inclined to ride roughshod over anyone who obstructed her. In, of course, Edwina added smilingly to herself, the nicest possible way. For the first time, she wondered whether there was more to Alex and Roy's difficulties than she'd realized. Could one of them, for instance, have met someone else?
She straightened, rubbing her back as she gazed, eyes narrowed against the sun, down the length of the garden, considering the possibility. If so, it was unlikely to be Roy; he obviously still adored her. But Alex? Could she have become involved, without one of them noticing?
Edwina gave herself a little shake and re
turned to her deadheading. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Lots of marriages went through difficult patches; they would sort themselves out. But, added a niggling little voice in her head, lots more didn't sort themselves out; one heard of so many breaking down nowadays. She couldn't bear that to happen to Alex and Roy.
She'd ring Gilly this evening and find out how she'd got on. Meanwhile, her mind moved to another, more recent, worry, centred on Frederick. Basically, she did not care for the way he had suddenly been thrust into the limelight of this latest murder. It was fine to discuss, as he had in Canada, the theories outlined in his last book. Even the new one – though she'd been surprised he was prepared to talk about it – as long as the crimes concerned were safely solved and in the past.
But why, oh why, had he admitted that he'd chosen the Feathers case for examination?
The television interview, the widespread press coverage, the library talk – all had combined to push him to the forefront of people's minds, synonymous with both the local murders. Suppose the killer decided he'd more to fear from Frederick than from the police?
In the fierce heat, Edwina gave a little shiver. All at once, she'd had enough of the empty, silent garden and her own thoughts. She'd go inside and have a glass of the lemonade she kept in the fridge. Then she'd prepare some salad and wash the strawberries for supper.
With everyday matters once more restoring the balance, she retrieved the trug, and set off purposefully towards the house.
It was late afternoon by the time Webb and Jackson reached the Ashmartin garage where SOCO were working on Baring's car. The senior man, seeing them standing in the doorway, came across.
'Anything worthwhile?' Webb asked, holding up his warrant card.
'The interior'd been given a pretty thorough cleaning, but we found traces of blood, both in the rubber mat on the passenger side and on the back of the seat. There were also samples under the driver and passenger seats – hairs, fibres, blades of grass.'
The Ten Commandments Page 10
