Sonia came forward to kiss her. 'How are you, love?'
'Coping, and very glad to see you both. What would you like to drink?'
Gillian wondered if she sounded as stilted to the others as she did to herself. The evening was not boding well; Alex was jumpy, Roy guarded, she and Hugh tired. Now Sonia and Patrick had brought their own anxieties to add to the already fraught atmosphere.
Quite suddenly, the prospect of walking on eggshells all evening seemed unbearable, and it was only by a conscious effort of will that she prevented herself from running upstairs and leaving them all to their own devices.
Then Hugh came into the room with a tray of glasses. As though he sensed her distress he looked quickly across at her, and in that held glance she read love, reassurance, encouragement. He would help her out; he always did. She gave him a shaky smile and turned back to her guests.
Some hours later, Gillian was sitting up in bed, an unread book propped in front of her, listening to the sound of the shower from the adjoining bathroom. Well, the evening was over, thank heaven, and all things considered, it had gone reasonably well. As far as she could tell, Sonia had no inkling that Alex was the other woman in Patrick's life; her attitude towards her was as natural and friendly as always.
And after a shaky start, Alex herself, drawing on some inner reserve of energy, had sparkled and bubbled as though she had no cares in the world. Gillian had seen Roy's eyes on her, puzzled, but with a faintly dawning hope. Oh God, what a mess it all was! If only she could discuss it with Hugh; but she'd promised Alex to say nothing.
He reappeared in her line of vision through the half-open door, vigorously towelling himself dry.
Echoing her thoughts, as so often happened, he commented, 'Alex seemed in good form, for a change.'
'Yes, I was just thinking that.'
'Wonder what brought it on. Perhaps your pep talk the other day.'
'Perhaps,' Gillian said noncommittally.
'Patrick seemed a bit under the weather,' Hugh continued, in an unnerving, if unwitting, sequence of thought.
'His mother's had another attack – Sonia told me. It's a constant worry for them both.'
'And his sister's rather a broken reed, from what I remember.' Hugh came into the bedroom, the towel draped strategically round his waist.
'Son's terrified that if his mother goes into a home, he'll want Zoe to live with them.'
'I shouldn't envy her that.' Hugh shed his towel and climbed into bed beside her.
'I was very proud of you this evening, Mrs Coburn,' he commented, slipping an arm round her. 'You looked gorgeous, as always, and, despite the last twenty-four hours, carried everything off with aplomb – no mean feat.'
'I was glad of your support,' she answered, leaning against him. Then, suddenly, she sighed. 'Oh, Hugh, whatever would I do without you?'
'I'd rather you never found out!' he answered, and bent to kiss her.
10
Harry Good didn't know what time it was – the middle of the night, anyway, and he was damned if he could get to sleep. He longed to talk the case over with his wife – she'd a sound head on her shoulders, and he valued her opinion – but despite the tossings and turnings by which he'd surreptitiously hoped to waken her, she slept on, and he'd had to abandon the attempt.
With a sigh, he turned his pillow over yet again in search of a cool patch of linen, tucked it under his chin, and allowed his overactive brain to resume its treadmill.
That toerag Baring was still playing games with them; the story of the stolen car was so much baloney, though they'd no means of proving it. So what had they got? His car'd been seen at the crucial time entering the pub car park, and the blood, hairs and fibres proved conclusively that Judd had been in it at some stage.
But frustratingly enough, there was nothing other than ownership of the car to put Baring himself on the spot. The only witness to have come forward had caught a glimpse of the corpse, not of the driver. Which was a case of sod's law, if ever there was one.
And, as Baring's solicitor had not failed to point out, since they'd been unable to establish any link between his client and Judd, what possible motive could he have had for killing him? It was the Feathers case all over again.
As for the murder weapon, Baring's house and garden, together with the surroundings of the Nutmeg, had been exhaustively searched, to no avail. But hell's teeth, the bloke had left next day for a tour of the bloody country. He could have dumped it anywhere.
Good turned over restlessly. And as if all that wasn't enough, Dave Webb was convinced it wasn't Baring who'd attacked old Mace. Which meant they had two -
Mace! As the old man's face formed in his mind, he remembered the urgent request he'd promised to attend to – and instantly forgotten. Well, a day's delay wouldn't make much difference; ten to one there was nothing in the old boy's theories anyway.
Good eased into another position, considering the message he should have passed on.
Philpott had apparently been consistently unfaithful to his wife. Which, if true, was certainly a turn-up for the book. The picture painted at the time had been of a blissfully happy marriage, roses round the door and all the rest of it. Amazing, if Mace was right, that the wife hadn't cottoned on he was two-timing her. Or had she exaggerated her husband's peccadilloes for Mace's benefit, knowing his interest in the case?
She'd met some old friends, he'd said. Well, there are always 'friends' who enjoy stirring things up. Perhaps after all it was nothing stronger than malicious gossip – which probably also went for his anti-gay stance. No doubt the same 'friends' had told her that, too.
In the dining-room below, the clock whirred preparatory to striking. Morosely, Good counted the chimes. Four. If he didn't get some sleep soon, he'd be good for nothing in the morning.
He heaved himself over yet again, pushing aside the duvet in search of air. He'd performed this manoeuvre twice already, only to pull it back again minutes later, feeling chilly. Who'd invented these damn-silly things, anyway? He wished Meg hadn't succumbed to their ubiquity and dispensed with the time-honoured sheets and blanket, which at least gave you some control over your body temperature.
Very gradually, almost without noticing, he drifted at last into sleep.
It was time, Webb told himself later that morning, that he met Frederick Mace. The old boy had been on the edge of the case from the very start; Webb had seen him on television, heard him quoted on all sides, listened to Hannah's account of his talk and read all the press reports of it. Now, in one night, Mace had got himself attacked and had his house broken into, and while Webb still didn't think it was connected with the Judd case, as officer in charge it behove him to investigate the incident.
He reached for the phone and dialled Harry Good's number. I'm thinking of calling on old man Mace. Where is he, exactly?'
'In the QE – Queen Elizabeth Hospital, on Denham Hill. If you're coming from –'
'It's OK, I know where it is; we passed it en route to Mrs Judd. Ward number?'
'He's in the private wing – a room to himself. There'll be a copper outside – you can't miss it. And Dave, would you give him a message for me? Tell him I've been on to Ted Ferris at Erlesborough.' No need to add it was only five minutes ago.
'Oh?'
'He asked me to tell him that it seems likely Philpott had had a string of lady friends.'
'Really? How did he dig that one up?'
'From the widow, no less, but I'm taking it with a pinch of salt.'
'OK, Harry, thanks. I'll be in touch later. Nothing new on Baring?'
'What do you think?' said Good disgustedly.
It was a close day, the sky pewter-grey with no hint of sunshine, but the heat was unrelenting. A bit of thunder might clear the air, Jackson thought, following the familiar road to Ashmartin.
'How do you think Mr Mace can help, Guv?' he asked curiously. 'He didn't see his attacker, did he?'
'No, but he might have some inkling who it could have bee
n. Here's the turning now, Ken.'
They were directed to the first floor of the hospital, and from the stairhead, as Good had intimated, a uniformed figure could be seen outside a door halfway down the corridor. Between it and them was the nurses' station, where they identified themselves and were allowed to proceed.
Webb again presented his warrant card to the bobby on guard and the young man stood to attention.
'Has anyone tried to gain entry. Constable?' Webb inquired.
'No, sir.'
'You've been told to ask everyone for identification?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Beware the men in white coats,' Webb added with heavy humour.
The PC looked puzzled. 'Sir?'
'Come now, surely you've seen all those films where the villain gets past the armed guard by the simple expedient of borrowing a white coat and posing as a doctor? I'm just saying, be extra vigilant with anyone in a white coat.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
Webb winked at Jackson, knocked on the door, and went inside.
Frederick Mace was sitting up in bed reading the Daily Telegraph, a cup of coffee on the table beside him.
'DCI Webb, sir, from Shillingham, and my colleague. Sergeant Jackson.'
'Good morning, gentlemen. Come in and sit down.'
Webb drew a chair up to the bed, while Jackson plonked himself against the wall and took out his notebook.
'I hope you're feeling a bit better?'
'Much, thank you, even though I do look like a Turner sunset.'
The area round his eyes was streaked with purple and yellow, the eyes themselves still bloodshot.
'You were very lucky, Mr Mace. That blow would have shattered most men's skulls.'
'Tough as old boots – always have been,' rejoined the old man, with obvious pride.
'You didn't see your attacker?'
'Not so much as a whisker.'
'Were you aware of anything that might identify him – a particular smell, perhaps – sweat, tobacco, aftershave?'
Frederick thought for a moment, then regretfully shook his head. 'I’m afraid not. It all happened so suddenly.'
'Have you any idea who might have had it in for you?'
Frederick surveyed him, raising one eyebrow. 'The odd murderer, perhaps? I have been, as the Americans say, shooting off my mouth rather a lot lately.'
Webb smiled. 'You've certainly been hitting the headlines. I gather you're convinced the murders aren't connected?'
'Oh, they're connected, Chief Inspector.' And, seeing Webb's surprise, he went on, 'That is to say, one was taken as a blueprint for the other. That must be so, surely. But I'm quite certain we have two different killers.'
He could be right, Webb reflected; at least it wasn't Baring who had broken into the house. Had it, then, been Philpott's killer, who, when he couldn't find what he wanted, went after the old man in the hope that any information he held was only in his head?
'Well, Mr Webb?' Frederick prompted as he remained silent. 'I expected you to disagree with me; are you, too, coming round to the idea of two murderers?'
'All we can do is go by the evidence. I'm aware of your theory, though, that a serial killer would go for the same type of victim each time.'
'And these two were very different, weren't they? I was positive from the first that Philpott was a lady's man, despite all the protestations to the contrary. Well, now it looks as though I was right.'
'That reminds me,' Webb put in, 'DCI Good asked me to tell you he's been in touch with Erlesborough.'
'Excellent. Then things should start moving.'
'You think Philpott's involvement with someone precipitated his death?'
'I'm sure of it.'
'How did you learn about his – philandering?'
'From his widow, who is now Mrs Bradburn. Some old friends kindly told her when she bumped into them last summer.'
'Did she give you the name of these friends?'
'Not their surname. I rang back to ask, but she was out. Still, the police will follow it up, won't they? I suppose you're hoping Philpott identified his conquests?'
'It might be useful. Still, that's not really my problem; I wasn't involved in that case, but I am with Mr Judd, who was found on my patch.'
He glanced at the alert old face. 'I was particularly interested in a phrase you used the other evening – that he might have done his killer a "long-distance wrong". Could you enlarge on that?'
Mace shrugged. 'You know more about these things than I do, but in premeditated murder, surely it's unusual for the victim not to know his killer?'
'Yes, I grant you that.'
'It might be explained in Philpott's case by his being killed by a jealous husband, but I don't think that holds for Judd, who really does seem to have led a blameless existence. Yet his killer sounded more personally involved and was almost certainly fighting his own battles. Which, I must say, seems incomprehensible when Judd recognized neither his name, voice, nor appearance.'
Webb was prevented from commenting by a tap on the door, which opened to admit an elderly lady with short brown hair and a freckled face.
Seeing the two policemen, she came to a halt. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?'
Webb and Jackson had risen to their feet. 'Not at all, ma'am,' Webb assured her. 'We were just leaving.'
'Chief Inspector Webb, my dear, and Sergeant – Jackson, is it? My wife.'
'I hope you've been telling him, Chief Inspector, that if he kept his nose out of your business, he wouldn't get it bloodied.'
The stern words were belied by the loving look she bestowed on her husband as she bent to kiss him.
Webb said diplomatically, 'If you're writing about true crime it's obviously safer to stick with old ones, but your husband has some interesting ideas.'
'Too interesting,' Edwina returned darkly. 'Look where they got him!'
'But if we can flush them out, my dear – and note. Chief Inspector, I said "them" – it will be worth the odd bump on the head.'
'Bump!' Edwina echoed indignantly. 'You were almost killed!'
She turned back to Webb. 'But since he wasn't, Chief Inspector, is the man likely to try again?’
'It's always a possibility, which is why we'd like to keep Mr Mace here for the time being, under police guard.'
'But good God, man,' Frederick objected, 'you might never catch him! I can't spend the rest of my life cooped up in this place!'
'I trust it won't be for too long, sir. In the meantime, if there's anything else you think of, or remember, the officer on the door can contact me at any time.'
'Let's hope we do clear it up quickly, Guv,' Jackson commented as they went back down the stairs. 'I shouldn't fancy trying to hold that one for long against his will!'
Sonia unwittingly passed the two detectives in the hospital car park. She was dreading the next half-hour, uncertain what state she would find her mother-in-law in and hoping no mention would be made of any long-term plans for either her or Zoe. The two of them had moved to the village of Honeyford, some ten miles from Ashmartin, after Zoe's breakdown, 'to be closer to Patrick'. It was Sonia's constant fear that Zoe might now wish to move closer still.
Outside the room she paused briefly to marshal her resources. Through the circle of glass in the door, she could see Zoe sitting beside her mother and holding her hand. Sybil, eyes closed, lay back against her pillows, looking, Sonia thought with quickened heartbeat, extremely frail.
She quietly pushed the door open. Zoe greeted her with a strained smile but the older woman didn't open her eyes.
'How is she?' Sonia asked softly, laying the flowers she had brought on the bedside cabinet.
'She had a reasonable night. They won't commit themselves much further.'
'Has Patrick been in?'
'Not yet.'
'He said he'd come as soon as he could, but he'd several appointments this morning.'
She pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed. The sick woman's
shallow breathing barely lifted her chest. If Sybil wasn't aware of her presence, there was little point in staying, she thought uncharitably. Certainly her sister-in-law showed no desire for her company. Zoe's gaze had returned to her mother, and Sonia took the opportunity to study her, searching as she always did for resemblances to Patrick, and finding few.
Zoe was ten years younger than her brother, and would have been in her mid-twenties when her illness struck. She'd not had much of a life, Sonia thought with pity; yet she was now such a negative personality that the thought of closer contact with her was unbearable. Which, Sonia upbraided herself, was a thoroughly selfish outlook.
Most importantly, how would Patrick react if she raised objections to Zoe living with them? Sonia admitted that she didn't know. She could no longer gauge Patrick's reactions to anything.
The woman on the bed stirred suddenly and opened her eyes. 'Sonia,' she said drowsily. 'How nice.'
Sonia leaned over and dutifully kissed her. 'How are you, Mother?' The word came unnaturally to her, but they all expected it.
'Tired, my dear. Very tired.'
'Would you rather I left?'
'Of course not,' Zoe protested, 'you've only just arrived! Look, dear, at these flowers Sonia brought. Aren't they lovely?'
'I meant,' Sybil explained faintly, 'that I'm tired of being a burden on everyone.'
'That's nonsense!' Sonia declared roundly, and broke off as she encountered Zoe's unreadable gaze. For while it was true Sybil hadn't been a burden to her – she'd not allowed her to be – she couldn't speak for the other two. Was that, despite their love for her, how Patrick and Zoe now regarded their mother?
'Of course it's nonsense,' Zoe was confirming, 'and you mustn't think it for a minute. We'll soon have you back on your feet.'
Sybil Knowles made a faint, protesting movement, but had not the strength to argue her point and there was an awkward silence. Then Zoe, taking her mother's closed eyes as indication that she'd withdrawn from the conversation, said unexpectedly, 'I heard about your friend's father. Patrick said you should have gone to supper there last night.'
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