Although he wasn’t aware of it, Webb followed Michael’s car back to Shillingham. It had been an eventful but frustrating week; hours and hours of sifting evidence, comparing statements, checking, questioning, checking again. Two things had developed from the requested phone call to the Assistant Chief Constable. First, as he’d anticipated, the second murder had stepped up official concern and Chief Superintendent Fleming was assigned to the case. Secondly, the centre of operations had been moved from Shillingham to Headquarters at Stonebridge, which was equidistant from both crimes. And, Webb thought wryly, more convenient for the Chief Superintendent.
Not that he had anything against Fleming. He’d have preferred to run the show himself and knew he was capable of it, but higher authority had to be shown in action. And there was grim satisfaction in the fact that, despite the increased backup, Fleming had so far got no further with the second murder than he himself had with the first. The Delilah killer had seemingly appeared out of the blue, made his strike, and disappeared ‘leaving no trace behind.’
Not strictly true, of course, Webb conceded, dipping his headlights for an approaching car. Forensic would certainly dispute it, poring over their infinitesimal samples. But they didn’t add up to much. The first victim had some white fibres under her fingernails, most probably from the murderer’s gloves. The second only had minute scraps of material from the armchair on which, in her death throes, her fingers had tightened. For the rest, there were no footprints, no conveniently dropped button or handkerchief, nothing but a few dried pine-needles trodden into the carpet — and even they hadn’t been present at the second crime.
One good thing about Fleming coming in was that, barring fresh developments, he was himself released for what remained of the weekend. ‘You look shattered, Dave,’ the Chief Superintendent had remarked. ‘Better knock off till Monday and come back to it fresh. We’ll contact you if we need you.’
He’d hardly been in the flat all week, reaching it at varying hours of the late evening or early morning only to fall into exhausted sleep. Now, with a few hours in hand, he’d better make his peace with Hannah. Hell, it was almost like being married again.
On an impulse he stopped at a roadside flower stall and bought a bunch of dahlias, spiky and wet with the day’s rain. They might ease the way. But dammit, she’d had no right to assume he’d spend his birthday with her. He’d been looking forward to a day alone sketching and painting; how should he know she was preparing a special meal?
All the same, he could at least have returned to eat it with her, instead of spending the evening at the pub. That had been sheer bloody-mindedness.
The sun was setting as he turned into Hillcrest and the purple clouds were tinged with gold. A hundred years ago, this had been a well-to-do avenue of stately, well-spaced houses in their own grounds. But the zealous bulldozers of the fifties had razed all but a few and in their place, like a flock of gawky phoenixes, had arisen one block after another of slab-faced flats, each pretentiously called after the dignified old house it replaced.
Webb turned into the driveway of Beechcroft Mansions and garaged his car for the first time in a week. Hannah’s flat on the first floor, more spacious than his, looked out over the large back gardens, well-tended now by contract gardeners and divided equally between the six flats in the block. He had never made use of his own portion.
He paused, pocketing the garage key, and let his eyes pass over the sweeping lawn, the vivid flower beds and the wild area at the far end. If he’d had his sketch-pad handy he might have been tempted to capture that interplay of light and shade as evening shadows advanced across the grass.
With a mental shrug he turned away, walked back round the house and in the front door. Usually he went up the stairs two at a time but it was a measure of his tiredness that he opted this evening for the lift, sailing without effort to the second floor, the bunch of dahlias in one hand, his meagre supper in the other. He let himself into the flat and on impulse crossed to the window and stood looking out. No, he didn’t envy Hannah her view of trees and garden. From his eyrie up here he looked right down the hill to Shillingham nestling at the foot, lights twinkling now at the approach of darkness. His patch, he thought, his little kingdom.
God, he was more tired than he’d thought! He turned away with a twisted smile, mocking his moment of sentiment. All the same, he liked his home, the position of it high on the hill, the neat masculinity of the interior.
In the pocket-sized kitchen he dumped the flowers on the draining board and unwrapped the solitary pork chop, deciding to make some chips to go with it. When his marriage broke up three years previously, he’d promised himself grimly that he wouldn’t live out of tins, and it was characteristic of him that, having made the decision, there was no tin-opener in the flat. Methodically he tied an apron round his middle and began to peel potatoes. He didn’t regret his aloneness. There was no longer any need to make phone calls of apology if he was late or called away, no one to whom he was accountable, and there was a certain bleak freedom in that. Which, he thought solemnly, brought him back to Hannah.
It wasn’t that she made claims on him — he couldn’t accuse her of that — but, circumstances being what they were, he couldn’t escape a sense of indebtedness.
An hour later, having eaten and tidied everything away, Webb collected the flowers, their purple heads already wilting in their paper sheath, and, pulling his door shut behind him, ran lightly down the stairs to ring Hannah’s bell.
It was some moments before she came to the door, wearing a housecoat and with a towel swathed round her head.
‘Hello, David. Come in. I’m just washing my hair.’ No hint in her voice of sulking or reproach, either for the circumstances of their last encounter or of the week’s silence that had followed it. But nor should there be, he reminded himself, following her inside.
‘I presume you’re not on duty, so pour yourself a drink. I’ll be with you in a moment.’
She disappeared and Webb went into the sitting room. This flat was a different layout from his, larger, more airy, and stamped with an indefinable character as charming and elusive as Hannah herself. There were watercolours on the walls, chairs in apple-green velvet, and the windows were open to the dark garden below. Though she hadn’t noticed his flowers, there were plenty of others, crammed into vases and containers round the room and all managing to look as though they’d been professionally arranged.
Hannah came back, her hair, towel-dry, about her shoulders.
‘Are those flowers for me? How lovely — thank you.’
They were the first he’d bought her and he was relieved that she treated them so naturally. He watched as she bent to take a vase from a low cupboard, and it wasn’t only the artist in him that appreciated the curve of her body. Who was he fooling? He knew damn well why he was here, and it had precious little to do with apologizing. Despite himself, he said baldly, ‘I use you. You know that, don’t you?’
She turned from arranging the shaggy heads, momentarily surprised. ‘And I you. It works both ways.’
‘I wasn’t at all sure I’d be welcome.’
‘Hence the peace offering?’ She smiled in genuine amusement.
‘I am sorry, Hannah. About last weekend. It was thoughtless of me—’
‘No,’ she interrupted swiftly. ‘It was my fault for keeping the dinner a surprise. It never occurred to me you might have other plans, and that was stupid.’
‘I could have changed them.’ He was his own prosecuting counsel.
‘But why should you? It was your birthday.’ And she his defence. Dismissing the conversation, she ran her fingers through her thick hair to dry it. ‘I don’t see that drink.’
‘I hadn’t got round to pouring it.’
‘Do it now, then, and one for me, too.’
She moved to the windows and closed them. ‘It’s getting cooler in the evenings, have you noticed? Or perhaps it’s just my wet hair. I’ll put the gas fire on to dry it, so t
ake off your jacket if you like.’
There were no overhead lights and the lamp in the corner shed only a soft, localized gleam. Webb poured out two glasses, went through to the fridge for ice. Even the kitchen blossomed under Hannah’s touch. There were more flowers on the windowsill, in pots this time. A selection of exotic postcards was pinned to a notice board and the air smelled of spices.
When he returned she was kneeling by the gas fire, her hair reflecting the redness of the element, her neck fragile and exposed. He had an overpowering desire to bend and kiss it. Instead, he said more brusquely than he’d intended, ‘Your drink.’
‘Thanks. Put it on the table, will you?’
He lowered himself into a button-backed chair beside her, his eyes still on her shining hair.
‘I presume you’ve had a bad week,’ she went on quietly. ‘I read about the other murder.’
‘It’s been tiring, I’ll say that.’
‘Any progress?’
‘Not that you’d notice.’
‘Poor David. I’ve been thinking about you.’
‘And what have you been doing? Didn’t school start this week?’
‘Yes, Thursday. Back in the old routine.’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Looking at you now, I can think of no one less like a deputy headmistress!’
She laughed in her throat and he felt his pulses quicken. ‘Hannah—’ He broke off, not knowing what he wanted to say. She turned her head under the curtain of hair and then, shaking it back, swivelled round to look at him. She was lovely, he thought, with her wide brow and clear grey eyes that met his so steadily. His gaze moved across her face, the high cheekbones, soft, generous mouth and, on either side, the curtain of thick tawny hair, with the gold highlights still lingering from the summer sun. Their eyes locked and she rose slowly to her feet.
‘I think, Chief Inspector, that you’d better put that glass down before you spill it.’
On the way through to the bedroom, she asked suddenly, ‘Suppose they need to contact you?’ and saw that she’d embarrassed him. He met her eyes, smiled slightly, and looked away.
‘I gave them this number,’ he admitted.
So! she thought, and was satisfied.
***
Much later, as an owl swooped over the garden with its haunting cry, only Hannah heard it. Beside her, David Webb slept the sleep of exhaustion. She turned her head but in the pale moonlight could only distinguish the outline of his head, a darkness in the indented pillow.
It was an odd relationship, hers and David’s. They had met a year ago, when a spate of anonymous letters among the staff had led Gwen to call in the police. Now, lying in the luminous darkness, Hannah tried to remember her first impression of him. He wasn’t a handsome man. In repose his face had a stern, unhappy look, bitterness about the mouth and disillusion in the eyes. Yet his smile had a charm which constantly surprised those who saw it for the first time. It was probably the smile that started it, warming her to the reserved man behind it, with his quiet manners and the soft hint of Broadshire in his voice.
As she came to know him better, she found him a man of contradictions: ruthless yet compassionate; shrewd, but capable of surprising naivety, hard-headed yet with an artistic gift that produced pleasing landscapes as well as startlingly life-like caricatures. Even their relationship was two-sided: contented, undemanding friendship for long weeks and urgent comings together like tonight.
It was she who had told him of the vacant flat upstairs. At the time they met, David was still in the lodgings to which he’d moved when his wife left. Hearing that he wanted somewhere of his own, small and easily managed, Beechcroft had seemed the perfect solution. Even so, Hannah had weighed the position carefully before mentioning it. His moving into the same building would inevitably draw them closer, and she had no wish to embark on a relationship which might make claims on her. That David apparently felt the same was an enormous relief, and ironically enough their first love-making had been at her instigation.
Nostalgically, Hannah thought back to it. It had happened soon after David moved in, when he was working on a child-murder case. It was obvious that he was deeply disturbed by it, but though they’d sat for hours drinking coffee he’d avoided all mention of the case and she hadn’t liked to raise the subject. Then, when he looked at the clock and rose reluctantly to his feet, she had said quite spontaneously, ‘I don’t think you should be alone tonight.’ It had been as simple as that.
And, after their love-making, he had suddenly started to talk. It had all come pouring out till she had to bite her lip to prevent herself crying out for him to stop. And that proved the forerunner of other occasions. The only time he spoke of things that mattered to him was in bed. Their physical intimacy seemed to trigger a corresponding mental one and he would settle back with an arm behind his head and begin to talk, quietly and steadily, to himself, she sometimes felt, as much as to her, using her as a sounding board for his theories and beliefs. She would listen drowsily, aware that the only contribution required of her was her presence, and occasionally, guiltily, fall briefly asleep, to wake minutes later to the steady rhythm of his voice.
It had been the same tonight: his doubts and worries about the Delilah killings, his fear that the murderer would strike again before they could find him.
Yes, all in all it was an unusual relationship, but one that she treasured and which suited them both very well. She stretched sleepily, feeling the cool sheet move over her naked body. Beside her David stirred and sighed in his sleep. Hannah leaned over and gently kissed the hump of his bare shoulder. Then, snuggling down beside him, she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 8
Madge had warned Kate that as a school chorister Josh would be expected to attend services in the Minster. ‘On the third Sunday every month they join the main choir for ten o’clock matins. It’s very impressive, Kate. They wear cassocks and white ruffs and look quite angelic! On the other Sundays, like tomorrow, there’s school evensong at six-thirty — the public go at four o’clock. Paul and I’ll call for you and we can go together.’
It was the first time Kate had been inside the Minster and its sheer size overpowered
her. The soaring arches, the richness of stained glass, the cold, rounded marble effigies filled her with a sense of awe, bearing witness as they did to a daily round of worship stretching back seven hundred years. She was proud that her son now played a part in its continuance.
On the Monday morning, it was a surprise to find Richard Mowbray in the shop. ‘I thought you’d have been off on your travels again by now,’ Kate told him.
‘I’ll be here for a while yet. We’ve an art exhibition coming off shortly and there’s a lot of arranging to do.’
‘And you’d been expecting to stay at the flat? I’m so sorry. You’re surely not going home every night?’
‘No, Martin and Nella are putting me up. They insist it doesn’t put them out, and I’m inclined to believe them. By the way, you’ll be glad to hear you have Nella’s seal of approval.’
‘I’m very relieved.’
He flicked through some brochures, not looking at her. ‘Weekend all right?’
‘We survived.’
When Lana came in, she was paler than ever and her skin had a glistening sheen. Kate watched her through the window as she made her daily trip to the bird table, saw her sway and wipe the back of her hand across her forehead.
‘You don’t look well, Lana,’ she said with concern as the woman came back into the office. ‘Surely you shouldn’t have come in this morning?’
‘I’m all right.’ Lana’s shallow, rapid breathing belied her words. ‘I’ve a sore throat, but it’ll pass. I can’t afford to be ill.’ She took the cover off her machine and sat down. ‘Did you have a good weekend?’
‘So-so.’
‘Your husband came, I gather.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I’m so glad.’
Richard came in with a list in his hand. ‘Publicity
all in hand for the exhibition, Lana? Posters up, and so on?’
‘Yes, Mr Mowbray. The leaflets are going out with newspaper deliveries this week and I’ve arranged for a write-up in the Evening News.’
‘Fine. Then all we do now is pray for good weather.’ He turned to Kate. ‘We serve wine in the courtyard the first evening, with a few paintings tastefully arranged, though of course the main exhibition is inside.’
‘When does it take place?’
‘The private view’s a week on Wednesday, then the paintings are on show for ten days. Would you be available to help out that Wednesday? Serve the drinks and generally look decorative?’
‘I should think so.’ Kate saw that Lana’s face, bent ostentatiously over her papers, had turned a dull brick red. ‘Doesn’t Lana—?’
‘She can’t leave her father in the evenings.’
Lana looked up, her eyes fixed on a patch of wall between them. ‘As you know,’ she said tightly, ‘I can always arrange to be available if I’m needed, but I shouldn’t of course fill the requirement of looking decorative.’
‘Lana, my love, you’re completely indispensable, as well you know, but you’re the first to admit you hate mixing with people. Be thankful you’re not called on to socialize.’
Martin, who had appeared in the doorway during the exchange, caught Kate’s eye and winked at her. It appeared Lana’s weakness for Richard was no secret. Kate felt a wave of protectiveness towards her, combined with rather angry sympathy. When the men had gone, she said lightly, ‘You get out in the evenings sometimes, then?’
Lana nodded, still embarrassed and resentful, but a moment later added, ‘Actually, I have every Thursday free. Father has a friend in the next village who comes once a week to play chess. I cook them an evening meal, then I’m free till about eleven.’
‘You must come over for supper sometime.’
‘That’s very kind. I should enjoy it.’ Her smile ended in a wince of pain and she put a hand to her head.
‘You’re no better, are you?’
A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) Page 6
