A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1)

by Anthea Fraser

  She drained the spaghetti, poured the meat sauce over it, and called to her son. As she put the plate in front of him, the telephone shrilled.

  ‘Madge here, Kate. I wondered if you’d like to come to Heatherton tomorrow? There’s a new branch of Faversham’s opening, with lots of special offers. Paul will bring the boys home, and you could stay for supper.’

  ‘That sounds lovely.’ This time, she’d let Paul drive them home.

  ‘Come round when you close and we’ll have lunch before we go.’

  ***

  It was eleven-thirty at night and Webb had just returned from six gruelling hours in Larksworth, but Headquarters had a time scale all its own. The Incident Room was crowded with men chalking names on the blackboard, checking indexes, answering the almost continuous phone calls. In the midst of it all, Phil Fleming prowled restlessly, picking up statements, looking over shoulders. He turned as Webb entered.

  ‘Come and sit down, Dave. Someone’ll get you some tea. Any developments?’

  Webb shook his head, lowering himself into the seat the Chief Superintendent pulled out. ‘Not a thing out of anyone. She was chatting on the phone at two-fifteen. At two forty-five she was dead. And no one saw a goddamned thing.’

  Fleming stretched out his legs, waiting while Webb sipped at the steaming tea. A pleasant-faced man with greying hair, he had the calm, soothing manner of a family doctor but his staff had long discounted it. The Chief Superintendent had a brain like a rapier and he expected his subordinates to be equally sharp-witted.

  ‘There are the usual points of similarity,’ he said as Webb put down his cup. ‘Any notable differences?’

  ‘Not that I can see.’

  Fleming sucked in his cheeks. ‘Let’s talk the thing through, Dave. See if anything new hits us. Start with the Meadowes case.’

  Webb wiped his hand over his face, widening his eyes to relieve the strain. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘it looked at first as if she was killed by someone close to her, but that only held till the second murder. M.O. identical, so presumably the same killer, but surely a different motive. It was stretching it to suppose he was involved enough with two women to the point of murdering them. Yet they’d let him into their homes and the attacks obviously came out of the blue. No defence marks on any of them, including this last one. Now, God help us, we’ve got three bodies, and the only common denominator is that they were divorced women. As far as we know, they’d never met each other, didn’t belong to the same club, frequent the same pubs, go on the same holidays. Hell, there’s nothing that links them except the way they died.’

  Fleming was listening intently, head slightly on one side like an intelligent bird. ‘There’s one other experience they shared: they’d all been mentioned recently in the press. Meadowes for her court appearance, the other two in connection with their divorces. Suppose, just suppose, the murderer uses the local rag to keep abreast of divorce cases and chooses his victims from that?’

  Webb stared at him. ‘You mean he might not even know them? Then why should they let him into their homes?’

  ‘That’s what we’ve got to find out.’

  ‘Well, if that’s his little game, we can soon put a stop to it. I’ll get Romilly to withhold the names in all divorce cases till we give him the all-clear.’

  ‘Let’s hope Chummie hasn’t an advance fixture list!’ Fleming permitted himself a smile. ‘And there’s another point. The three deaths were not only similar, but identical, even to the position of the bodies. They were all sitting down. What does that suggest?’

  Webb thought for a moment. ‘That it wasn’t just any old caller who’d come to the door and forced his way inside. It was someone they were prepared to spend some time with. Jane Forbes had even broken off her baking to make tea.’

  ‘Precisely,’ Fleming confirmed with quiet satisfaction. ‘The caller was expected to stay for a while. It was worth sitting down, even making a cup of tea. So who could fit into that category?’

  ‘The vicar?’ Webb suggested with a lopsided grin.

  ‘You’re on the right track. Suppose it was not the man himself but his occupation which the women accepted? Meter reader, delivery boy, door-to-door salesman?’

  ‘I doubt if any of that lot are invited to sit down, unless they’re flogging encyclopaedias. We did check along those lines, people so familiar as to be almost invisible — postmen, paper boys, milkmen, and so on. Trouble is, not many of them are still around by the afternoon, and the Gas and Electricity Boards hadn’t any men out at the time. Also, don’t forget, Mrs Burke was killed on a Sunday. That narrows the field.’

  ‘Back to the vicar, perhaps! It’s incredible he wasn’t seen entering or leaving any of the houses. In each case there were plenty of people about. Even on Sunday afternoon the neighbours would be working in their gardens or washing their cars.’

  ‘And no one saw a thing.’

  Fleming pulled reflectively at his lower lip. ‘He must have his own transport. He might have managed without in Shillingham and Broadminster, but in a village everyone knows each other. He wouldn’t risk public transport even on market day unless he was a very cool customer. I know you’ve been through them dozens of times, Dave, but have the statements checked again to see if any one car, van, bike, anything crops up more than once.’

  Webb made a note on the pad in front of him. ‘There’s another thing. Although all three women seemed to accept the visitor, he hadn’t been expected. I can’t vouch for Linda Meadowes, but Mrs Burke and Mrs Forbes were very methodical. There were engagement diaries hanging in both kitchens, and even a regular visit to the hairdresser was noted down. If someone had been expected, his name would have been there.’

  ‘Unless we’re back to the grocery order which was delivered every week.’

  ‘Again, not on Sundays. And Mrs Forbes was the only one in her kitchen. The other two were in their front rooms, rather formal entertaining for the grocer’s boy. Nor could it have been a doctor. They were all healthy and in any case didn’t belong to the same practice.’

  Fleming sighed. ‘You know what’s worried me all along? The fact that none of the victims was raped. Damn it, the word “Delilah!” places them fair and square in the category of sex murders and in all such cases there’s assault of some kind, rape, mutilation, and so on. But our Delilah man contents himself with one neat, lethal incision and goes on his way.’

  ‘Perhaps he just doesn’t like women. Could be a homosexual.’

  ‘That’s a possibility. Widen your inquiries to take in any known gay communities. We might get a lead there. Is the press conference fixed, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, nine-thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Then I suggest we both get some sleep while we can.’

  Amen to that, Webb thought wearily as he followed his superior out of the room.

  ***

  ‘BROADSHIRE KILLER STALKS DIVORCED WIVES’ proclaimed the papers the next morning. Kate averted her eyes and Lana smiled sympathetically.

  ‘There’s no getting away from it, is there?’

  ‘That’s how I feel. Last night I’d have given anything to get out, go to the cinema, anything to take my mind off it, but of course I couldn’t.’

  ‘I could sit for you on Thursdays,’ Lana offered, ‘while Mr Parsons is with Father.’

  Kate smiled. ‘That’s sweet of you, but you mustn’t give up your free evenings for me.’

  ‘But I’d enjoy it — really. I’m fond of Josh and it would be a change for me too to get out of the house. If I could be sure of catching the last bus, I’d be pleased to come.’

  Kate told Madge of the offer as they were driving to Heatherton.

  ‘That’s nice of her. Josh could always sleep at our place, but for a visit to the flicks it’s hardly worth the upheaval.’ She pulled in behind a lorry. ‘As it happens, you’re about to be honoured with an invitation to the Danes’. Sylvia mentioned it yesterday. I’ll try to steer her towards a Thursday.’

&n
bsp; On the right of the road Kate recognized the sprawling shape of The Duck Press restaurant. ‘That’s where we went after the private view.’

  ‘Looks plush. How are you getting on with them all?’

  ‘Martin’s pleasant and easy-going, and Richard’s not there very often.’ She hesitated. ‘Actually, I spent Sunday with him, while Josh was with Michael.’

  ‘With Richard Mowbray?’ Madge turned in surprise and the car swerved slightly. ‘Well, well, you dark horse!’

  ‘It seemed preferable to hanging round on my own or trailing back to Broadminster.’

  ‘He’s quite attractive, isn’t he, in a pale, intense way.’

  ‘I suppose so. Lana would agree. I told you she has a soft spot for him.’

  ‘And have you?’ Madge’s eyes were on the road.

  There was a pause, then Kate said consideringly, ‘Not a soft spot, no, but I’m very aware of him.’

  ‘Physically, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’ Kate gave a strained little laugh. ‘At least, I think so. Since I was eighteen there’s never been anyone but Michael; I’m not used to standing back and considering men in that light.’

  ‘More importantly, in what light is he considering you?’

  ‘Probably none at all, but any intentions he might have will be strictly dishonourable. He’s been through the divorce courts and he’s no intention of letting anyone come too close.’

  ‘He told you that?’

  ‘More or less.’

  They were running into the outskirts of Heatherton and fell silent as Madge threaded her way through the traffic to the car park.

  It was a pleasant little town, not as large as Shillingham nor as old as Broadminster, but content with its own position in the county. It had a new shopping precinct, an ice rink, and a repertory theatre of which it was very proud. Kate and Madge window-shopped their way along, enjoying the change of scenes and making several small purchases. The new store when they reached it was attractively set out and they spent some time there, relaxed and laughing as they examined the more extreme fashions on display.

  ‘There’s no hurry to get home,’ Madge remarked. ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’

  The café was crowded. They were met with a babble of conversation and the unmistakable smell of tea urns and buttered toast. There were no free tables but Kate spotted a couple of empty chairs and they made their way over. Seated at the table were two elderly women, grey hair tightly curled, faces flushed. They broke off their conversation as Kate and Madge sat down, but immediately one of them, catching Madge’s eye, blurted out, ‘There’s been another murder. Have you heard?’

  ‘At Larksworth? Yes, I know. I—’

  ‘No, I mean today. There’s been another today! A divorced woman again, in Otterford this time. It was on the billboards as we came in. Stop press, it said. Where’s it going to end, that’s what I’d like to know.’

  Having deposited their bombshell, the women gathered together an assortment of string bags and shopping baskets and, nodding to the two friends, made their departure.

  ‘Do you believe it?’ Madge asked after a moment.

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Surely they’re mistaken? The billboard was probably left from yesterday.’

  ‘Not if it said Otterford.’

  The waitress appeared and Madge ordered a pot of tea. Neither of them had any appetite.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ Kate said. ‘Not two days running.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s working his way through the villages now. Better tell Lana to watch her step.’

  ‘At least she’s not divorced.’

  On the car radio the news headlines confirmed the story. The body of Rose Percival, at twenty-five the youngest victim to date, had been found at home, et cetera, et cetera. No break-in, no robbery, the lipstick accusation. Delilah.

  Paul met them at the door, his face drawn. ‘Come into the dining room; I don’t want

  the children to hear this.’

  ‘Paul, what is it?’ Madge clutched his arm in sudden fright.

  ‘Nothing too terrible.’ He closed the dining room door and stood leaning against it. ‘Simply that I was there this afternoon. In Otterford.’

  Madge moistened her lips. ‘Why?’

  ‘One of the boys wasn’t well and Matron was under pressure. We’re heading for a whooping-cough epidemic, by the way. So since I had a free period, I ran him home. God, Madge, that girl could have been someone I passed in the street. So could the murderer, come to that.’

  ‘Is it a large village?’ Kate asked.

  ‘Fairly, and it was market day. Like yesterday in Larksworth.’

  ‘That’s why he struck again,’ Madge said flatly. ‘Crowds, and no one expecting another murder so soon.’

  Paul glanced at the clock. ‘Let’s go and watch the news on the portable.’

  It was cool in the bedroom. Kate was shivering as she sat on the bed, partly with the change in temperature, partly from apprehension. The opening headlines were a macabre echo from the previous evening, then Detective Chief Superintendent Fleming, solemn-faced, appeared on the screen.

  ‘I see that a press report compares this killer with the Yorkshire Ripper,’ the interviewer was saying, ‘obsessed not with prostitutes but unfaithful wives. Would you go along with this?’

  ‘On the face of it, yes, but that doesn’t mean everyone else is safe. This killer is extremely dangerous, able to talk his way into people’s homes and then stab them before they realize they’re in danger. I would strongly advise everyone to be on their guard. Don’t let anyone into your home if you’re alone, even if you think you know them. I can’t stress enough that the murder victims also felt perfectly safe.’

  Paul switched off the set, glancing from his wife’s pale face to Kate’s. ‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ he said.

  But the sombre mood stayed with them and they sat in silence, listening to the murmur of the children’s voices from the kitchen. After a while Paul stood up and went to the window, his hands deep in his pockets as he stared out at the darkening garden. ‘I keep trying to remember everything I saw after I turned off the main road. There might be something useful.’

  ‘And what did you see?’

  ‘Not much, till I came to the village. I was concentrating on young Beddowes, who was an unhealthy shade of yellow. There were a few cars and delivery vans, a moped. No doubt a lot of the market people were in Larksworth yesterday. It could be one of them, but I don’t remember any names. The police will be following that up, anyway. I did notice a Telecom van, but I don’t know how near it was to where Mrs What’s-her-name was killed.’ He laughed briefly. ‘Perhaps someone is describing my car to the police!’

  ‘In which case,’ Kate advised, ‘I should get your story in first.’

  ‘My story?’

  Madge said lightly, ‘Don’t get edgy, darling. We don’t really think you did it.’ ‘Thanks.’

  Even Madge’s cooking couldn’t raise their spirits. They ate almost in silence, hung over with disquiet. Kate remembered the words of the woman in the café: ‘Where’s it all going to end — that’s what I’d like to know.’

  Towards the end of the meal the three children, bored with being on their own, wandered into the dining room. Donna was holding a small box and Kate’s reflexes snapped into action, surprising herself as much as the others.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked sharply, snatching it from the child’s hand. Inside, under a lump of cotton wool, lay a tiny doll.

  Donna gazed up at her wide-eyed. ‘It’s Debby’s bed.’

  ‘Yes, so I see.’ Kate tried to steady her voice, aware of Paul and Madge’s surprise.

  ‘Where did the box come from, Donna?’

  Madge said quietly, ‘It had a brooch in it. Is anything wrong, Kate?’

  Impossible to go into it all now. Kate shook her head and gave Donna a strained smile as she returned the box. ‘It makes a cosy bed, doesn’t it?’ she said. />
  For seconds longer the tension held. Then Tim gave Josh a nudge and shouted, ‘Bet I can beat you to the top of the stairs!’ They thundered out of the room, closely followed by Donna, and the adults, after an embarrassed exchange of smiles, relaxed again.

  Later that evening Richard phoned. ‘Kate, I can’t get hold of Martin, they must be out. Would you tell him I’ll be back at midday tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How’s the exhibition going?’

  ‘Quite well. About half the paintings have been sold.’

  ‘Should add up to a tidy little commission. See you tomorrow, then.’

  Without analysing the reason, Kate felt her spirits suddenly lift. Humming softly to herself, she went in search of her novel.

  CHAPTER 12

  When Kate caught sight of Martin, she almost forgot Richard’s message. There was a damp, unhealthy look to his skin, his eyes were sunken, and the usual boyish charm had vanished. Without it to belie the grey hair, he seemed ten years older.

  ‘Whatever’s wrong?’ she exclaimed involuntarily. ‘Are you ill? Shall I get a doctor?’

  He raised a hand and attempted to smile. ‘No, no, I’m all right. Haven’t you seen a hangover before? We were out drinking last night and I rather overdid it.’

  ‘Richard was trying to contact you. He asked me to tell you he’ll be back at lunchtime.’

  ‘Right. Thanks.’

  She hesitated, not convinced of the explanation for his malaise. ‘Would you like some black coffee?’

  ‘To put it bluntly, I’d bring it straight back. I’ll be OK if I take things quietly.’

  The doorbell rang and with a last anxious glance at him, Kate went through to the shop. Sylvia Dane was standing there. ‘Ah, Kate. Just the person I wanted. I’ve been

  trying to fix a date for you and the Netherbys to come for dinner. Madge tells me Thursday is your best day. Are you by any chance free next week?’

  ‘I think I could be. Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll expect you at seven-thirty unless I hear from you. Now, to business. How many of my portraits are left?’

  ‘Only one, the young girl. It had a reserved disc on for two days, but the purchaser changed his mind.’