‘It was true in Ralph’s case. And in Mr Mowbray’s.’
‘Richard’s?’ Surprise rang in Kate’s voice. ‘I didn’t know his parents were divorced.’
‘How should you? We were talking about it once, at the time of Ralph’s death. I can’t tell you how kind he was, how sympathetic. The tragedy seemed to bring us much closer, somehow.’ Her face flamed and she bent hastily for her sherry glass.
‘Well, I’m sorry you were all hurt, but so was I. I didn’t reach my decision lightly.’ And why, Kate thought with silent resentment, should I feel compelled to defend myself?
Lana’s head was still bent over her glass. ‘But it’s always up to the woman, isn’t it, to set the standards? First a man’s mother, then his wife. If either of them fails him, he can go to pieces.’
Kate stood up. ‘It’s kind of you to be concerned, Lana, but this is something Michael and I must work out for ourselves.’
‘And I’ve no right to interfere. I’m sorry. Let’s change the subject. I believe Mr Mowbray’s thinking of taking you with him next time he goes up north? I heard him discussing it with Mr Bailey.’
So that was it. Unattached, Kate loomed as a rival for Richard’s attention. No wonder Lana wanted her safely back with Michael. Pitying her insecurity, Kate forgave her intrusion.
For the rest of the evening the conversation kept off the personal. On the surface at least, both women were relaxed and the time passed pleasantly. Lana left for her bus and Kate, mentally reviewing the evening, tidied up and washed the dishes. Perhaps she had been too quick to condemn Richard’s treatment of Lana, since he’d been kind when she was in trouble. It was yet another shift in perception, another correction to her appraisal. How shallowly she must have judged them all.
Kate wrung out the dishcloth and draped it over the sink. She turned the lights out and had started towards the stairs, when the phone rang out in the darkened room. She hurried towards it, stumbling in her haste to reach it before its strident ringing woke Josh.
‘Hello?’
Silence crawled along the wire, doubly sinister as she stood alone in the dark.
‘Hello?’ she repeated, trying to prevent her voice rising. ‘Who is it? What do you want?’
Another pause, and then the impersonal click of the replaced receiver. Kate was trembling. Had someone been watching, waiting till Lana left and she was alone? Unlikely, this second time, for it to be a random call. She pulled back the curtain and looked out. The pavement below, fitfully illuminated by the sparsely spaced street lamps, was deserted. Across the expanse of the Green the Minster lay humped like a prehistoric monster in its lair. No one sat in the darkness on the wooden seats. And there wasn’t a public phone box in sight.
Kate let the curtain fall, felt her way back across the room, and went up to bed.
CHAPTER 15
‘Broadshire Evening News on the line for you, Guy.’
‘Right. Put ‘em through.’ Webb pushed the pile of papers aside and leaned back in his chair. The phone crackled in his ear. ‘Michael? What can I do for the gentlemen of the press?’
‘Hello, Dave. Thought you’d like to know we’ve received a so-called confession to the murders.’
Webb grunted. ‘Anonymous phone call?’
‘No, a letter. Name and address supplied. He must want us to find him.’
‘Have you done anything about it?’
‘Not yet. I felt it was your pigeon. It was probably addressed to me because of that feature story I did.’
‘Right. Let’s have it, then.’ He reached for a pad.
‘Name of Riley, eleven, Milton Avenue, Bridgefield. It’s that new estate off the Nailsworth road.’
‘OK, we’ll follow it up. Any lead’s welcome at the moment.’
‘If you want to collect it on your way, I’ll leave it at reception.’
‘Thanks, Mike. Cheers.’ He replaced the phone and raised his voice. ‘Ken! On your feet, lad. We’re on our way to Shillingham.’
Saturday morning. Ten days now since the last murder, and still nothing concrete to go on, though a few clues were beginning to emerge, thanks to Forensic. Pine needles, for instance. Not much to go on, heaven knew, but traces of pine needles had been found at two of the four scenes of crime. And that was a puzzle in itself. Why only two? Had the murderer set out from different places?
Ken Jackson was driving. Webb settled back and closed his eyes, but the Sergeant knew it was not in relaxation. The Chief Inspector’s mind would still be ticking over possible leads, dead ends, points to be clarified. In confirmation of his thoughts, Webb spoke suddenly without opening his eyes.
‘Tell me, Ken, what the hell did we do with our time BD?’
‘BD, Guy?’
‘Before Delilah. There was such a time, I suppose.’
Webb heard the grin in the Sergeant’s voice. ‘Suppose there must have been, but I don’t remember it myself.’
Saturday morning. Hannah’d be home, padding about the flat on her weekly chores, hair tied back with a bit of ribbon. So clear was his mental picture of her that he wished with brief vehemence that he could drop Jackson off and go to her, spend an idle day loafing about with regular toppings up of the coffee she made so well. The peace, the restfulness of her: that, more than her body, was what he craved at that moment.
He became aware that the car was stopping and opened his eyes. They were outside the offices of the Broadshire News.
‘I’ll just nip in and collect the billy-doo.’ The way Jackson pronounced it made no spelling variant possible. Webb smiled, looking after the slight, hurrying figure. Who was he to complain? At least he had no wife patiently awaiting his non-arrival. Poor Ken. He must be getting withdrawal symptoms for his plump, even-tempered Millie.
He held out his hand for the letter as Jackson climbed back into the car. ‘Needn’t bother about fingerprints, since we’re on our way to see him.’
‘The address was checked, I suppose?’
‘I did it myself. An F. Riley does indeed live at eleven, Milton Avenue.’ He glanced at the printed signature. ‘Though this is from Maurice of that ilk.’
‘What does he say?’
‘“You can tell the coppers it was me that done the Delilahs, all four of them. Jolly good riddance too. Yrs truly, Maurice Riley.”’
‘Brief and to the point.’
‘Semi-literate hand. So much for our educational system.’
They took the northwest road out of town and minutes later the ugly, uniform shapes of the council houses appeared on their left. Milton Avenue lay in the heart of the estate, and No. 11 was a small semi-detached house painted a vivid shade of turquoise. The grass at the front was rough and untended, looking, Jackson thought, as though it had been cut with nail scissors. Farther down the road some noisy little boys were charging up and down on bicycles, shouting to each other. Nearly every driveway boasted a car of some sort, and fifty percent of them were in the process of being washed.
With Jackson behind him, Webb strode up the path and pressed the bell. A peal of ‘Jingle Bells’ reached them and the door opened to reveal a boy of about seventeen. His long dark hair had received much the same treatment as the front grass, and his eyes, long-lashed and velvet brown, made Jackson think of cows. His mouth was full and sulky and he wore a soiled T-shirt and scruffy jeans.
‘Ma’s out,’ he said without interest. ‘Gone to Bingo. And Dad’s at the pub.’
‘Mr Maurice Riley?’ Webb asked smoothly. The girlish eyes widened. ‘Yeh?’
‘Detective Chief Inspector Webb of Shillingham CID.’ He held up his card. ‘I’d like a word about the letter you sent to the Broadshire News.’ He was watching the boy closely, analysing the expressions that crossed his face in rapid succession: initial panic, then gratification at the success of his ploy, and a swaggering bravado.
‘Yeh?’ He squared his narrow shoulders.
‘Perhaps we could come inside?’
‘Well — I suppose so, bu
t Ma’ll be back soon.’
Some murderer, Jackson thought disgustedly, afraid of his mother! The small front room was a study in beige. Three-piece suite, curtains, walls, and carpet were uncompromisingly the same. The room had a little-used air about it, not conducive to probing motives behind the letter-sending.
‘I think we’d be more comfortable in your room,’ Webb said decisively. ‘Would you like to lead the way?’
Riley seemed taken aback. ‘But it’s not been tidied.’
‘We won’t worry about that.’
They followed him up the narrow staircase. Through the thin wall they could hear a baby crying next door. At the top of the stairs a door stood open showing a bathroom tiled in bright pink. A dirty towel lay crumpled on the floor.
The boy’s room was the small front one over the porch. It contained an unmade bed, a chair weighed down with discarded clothing, and a chest of drawers on top of which stood a mug of cold tea, a lurid paperback, a transistor radio, and a bicycle lamp. Behind the chest a spotted mirror hung lopsidedly on the wall, the only other decoration being a dog-eared photograph of Elvis Presley torn from a magazine.
Webb seated himself at the foot of the bed, motioned Jackson to join him, and the Sergeant took out his pocket book.
‘Right, Mr Riley. Now perhaps you’d like to make a statement.’
The boy licked his lips, eyes darting as though for reassurance round the familiar room. ‘Don’t I have to go to the nick for that?’
‘Not in the first instance. Go ahead, please.’
‘Well — I mean, I said it all, didn’t I? In the letter.’
‘You murdered these four women?’
Riley nodded, adding for emphasis, ‘Like I said.’
‘And how exactly did you go about it?’
‘Well, I — went to their houses, like, and when they wasn’t expecting it, I plunged the knife in.’
‘What knife would that be, Mr Riley?’
‘The bread knife. I took it with me.’
‘I see. So you went along the road carrying a bread knife, rang the bell, and the victim unhesitatingly let you in?’
‘Yes. I said I was a friend of her old man.’
‘I see. Go on.’
‘That’s all. I told you.’
‘But what did you do next?’ Webb asked with heavy patience.
‘I knifed her, didn’t I? Then I walked out of the house and came home.’
‘What about the writing on the mirror?’
‘Oh yeh. I done that, and all.’
Webb produced a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Would you write here, please, exactly what you wrote on the mirrors?’
Riley hesitated. ‘You seen it, didn’t you?’
‘Nevertheless, I’d like you to write it down.’ He handed over his own pen. After a moment, in uncertain capitals, Riley wrote slowly ‘Death to Dililha’.
‘That’s how you spelt it, is it?’
‘I know there’s an haitch somewhere.’
Webb pocketed paper and pen and rose to his feet. ‘I take it you’ve no objection to our searching the room?’
For the first time, alarm showed on the boy’s face. ‘Yes. Yes, I have, as a matter of fact. You have to have a warrant for that.’
‘Not if we’ve your permission. Otherwise, of course, we can always get one.’
‘But it’s — private like. I don’t let no one in there.’ His eyes were fastened anxiously on the chest of drawers.
‘Mr Riley, you’ve made a confession of murder. You should have realized we’d search your belongings, and with or without a warrant, I intend to do so. Which is it to be?’
The boy muttered something and turned away.
‘What was that?’
‘All right, if you must. But them things are private.’
Jackson had already moved to the chest. There were four drawers in it, and by the time they reached the bottom one, Webb was wondering what the boy was so frightened of. Admittedly, there were some soft porn magazines of the type readily available at less reputable newsagents. Other than that, there were simply belts, sweaters, shirts, and a couple of combs black with dirt. But as Jackson reached for the last drawer Riley’s tension was tangible and Webb could smell his sweat. He watched with interest as Jackson neatly and efficiently removed more shirts, another pair of jeans, some socks. At the back of the drawer, finally exposed, was a flat white box. From the corner of his eye, he could see Riley’s clenched fists as he waited, not breathing, for his secret to be revealed. It had to be dope, Webb thought resignedly. Though the boy didn’t look like an addict, it could be nothing else. He bent forward curiously as Jackson lifted the lid, and for a moment both men stared uncomprehendingly at the contents. Then, with a blank face, Jackson lifted them out one by one and laid them on the dingy carpet. A transparent black nightdress in cheap nylon, a brassiere, a pair of French knickers, a suspender belt and a pair of stockings. And last of all, in the back corner, a tube of lipstick and some mascara.
‘Your girlfriend’s?’ Webb asked expressionlessly, but he knew the answer.
Riley’s face was wretched. ‘If Ma found out—’
‘Are they stolen property?’
‘No — no, they’re not. Honest. I bought them out of my wages. Said they were for my sister.’
‘But they weren’t?’
Riley hung his head and Webb felt a stab of pity. ‘When do you wear them?’
‘When they’re all out. I dress up, like. It doesn’t do no harm, does it?’ He was miserably defiant.
‘Not as much as murdering people.’
‘Yeh. Well, I was having you on there.’
‘You withdraw your statement?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’
‘You realize there are penalties for wasting police time?’
Riley licked his lips again. ‘I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t mean no harm.’ He paused. It was clear which anxiety was uppermost in his mind. ‘You won’t tell Ma, will you? Honest to God I didn’t nick ‘em, I swear it.’
Webb’s eyes moved over the pretty face, shining now with perspiration. There was unlikely to be any more trouble from this source.
‘As you say, Mr Riley, dressing up doesn’t hurt anyone. We’re more concerned with the making of false claims and wasting our time. However, for the moment we’ll take no further action.’
***
Back in the car Jackson said unbelievingly, ‘What do you make of that? He’d rather be thought a murderer than a transvestite!’
‘One of nature’s accidents,’ Webb commented.
‘Odd about the spelling, too. He got it right in the letter.’
‘Probably copied it from the paper the first time.’
They emerged onto the main road and Jackson turned the car in the direction of Shillingham. ‘One consolation, anyway,’ he said gloomily, ‘we didn’t expect to get anywhere on this one.’
The Chief Inspector did not reply.
***
‘Interested in classical music, Kate?’
Kate looked up from the invoice she was studying. ‘Of the lighter kind, yes I am.’ ‘How do Bruch and Vivaldi grab you?’
‘Two of my favourites. Why?’
‘Naomi Fairchild’s playing at the Southern Hall. I wondered if you’d like to go along.’
Kate’s eyes flew to Lana who, with compressed lips, embarked on a machine-gun rattle of typing.
‘I — don’t see how I can, Richard.’
‘Why not? Lana’d babysit, wouldn’t you, my love?’
Lana said stiffly, ‘I’m already sitting for Mrs Romilly on Thursday. I’m afraid that’s my only free evening.’
Kate said in a rush, ‘I really think we’d better leave it, Richard. As Lana said, I’m going to the school on Thursday, and—’
‘Nonsense. Nella’ll come if you ask her. Since you’re booked for Thursday and I’m out tomorrow, we’d better make it Wednesday. We can have something to eat first.’
Kate knew
she wanted to go. Enigmatic and infuriating though Richard could be, she was increasingly attracted to him: in direct relation, she admitted, to Michael’s steady withdrawal. And it was Michael who’d insisted they regard themselves as free during this period; advice which he was undoubtedly following himself.
Richard had reached across Lana and pulled the phone towards him. ‘Nella? Could you be a lamb and sit for Kate on Wednesday while I entertain her?... What time would that be?... Oh, no problem, then. We’d be back by then. Bless you, my love.’
Did he call every woman his love? Kate wondered on an upsurge of irritability. Richard said easily, ‘That’s settled. She’s going to supper with a mob of photographers, but as they’re meeting in the pub they won’t move till closing time. I told her we’ll be back in time to release her.’
Kate wondered if Martin were included in the jollifications. He was still subdued after his confession and had been keeping out of her way.
‘Incidentally, Kate,’ Richard added, ‘I’d be grateful if you’d do something for me. I bought some etchings yesterday from a woman in Beaumont Crescent, but I hadn’t the car with me. Could you pop in this afternoon and collect them? It’s a Mrs Rammage at number twenty-two. Martin will be here to keep an eye on things.’
Kate hadn’t done errands for the shop before, and she enjoyed the break in routine. Beaumont Crescent was in a wealthy part of town, the houses solid and well maintained, the road lined with trees. There had been a wind during the night and shoals of leaves, crisp and golden, whirled desultorily in the gutters.
A pretty French girl, presumably an au pair, opened the door to Kate and handed over the unwieldy parcel. Kate drove slowly back to Monks’ Walk, supposedly to protect her cargo but in fact to prolong the outing. She parked briefly outside Pennyfarthings, where Martin came out to relieve her of the parcel, and then made her way back to her parking space in Lady Ann Square. The sky overhead was wide and blue, the sun mellow. It was, she thought ruefully, the day for a brisk country walk rather than being shut up indoors.
She was aware of voices as she got out of the car and found they were coming from behind the wall immediately in front of her. But it was only as she turned from locking the car that, with a shock of surprise, she identified them. They belonged to Paul and Sylvia. Bewildered, Kate paused to get her bearings, and realized for the first time that the Danes’ garden must back onto the square. From the closeness of their voices, Paul and Sylvia were just the other side of the wall.
A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) Page 13
