“Well, as it happens he’s home now, sir. He hasn’t been too well the last couple of days.”
“I’m sorry. Is he in bed?”
“Yes. Dr. Charles says there’s a bug going round. But I’m sure he’d come down, if you want to see him.”
“If he’s up to it, I’d be grateful.”
She excused herself and they heard her running upstairs and voices from the room above. Then came the squeak of springs, a thud as feet reached the floor, and a creak of boards.
“Not a lot of privacy, is there, Guv?” Jackson said in a low voice.
“No; it must be pretty trying.”
Joe Barlow appeared at the door in a red plaid dressing-gown, a bear of a man with shaggy hair. Webb had the impression he was usually ruddy-faced, but now his cheeks were pale.
“I’m sorry to drag you from your bed, Mr. Barlow,” he said, rising.
“That’s all right, sir.” Moving slowly across the room, Barlow seated himself on one of the upright chairs at the table, from where he eyed Webb a trifle warily. “What can I do for you?”
“I was hearing about the fight the other evening, and wondered if any of those involved could have had anything to do with the burglaries. I presume you know them all?”
“The village lads, of course, but not the campers.”
“When did the caravans arrive?” Webb remembered seeing them on Saturday.
“The day of the fight, the first of them. There’s always trouble when they come, rivalry, you might say.”
“I believe you have a son of your own about that age?”
Mrs. Barlow drew in her breath and her husband flushed. “Yes, but he wasn’t involved. He’s living in Shillingham now.”
“The local lads will be his friends, though?”
The man nodded. “Word has it there’ve been other robberies round about.”
“That’s true.”
“Well, our lads wouldn’t go far afield. I doubt you’ll find the culprits here.”
He might find a murderer, though.
“The gentleman was asking about Mrs. Dexter, Joe,” murmured his wife.
“Did you know her, Mr. Barlow?”
“In a manner of speaking. I delivered her milk and helped out now and then in the garden.”
“Were you aware of any stress between her and her husband?”
Joe shook his head. “I never saw them together; he was always at work when I was up there.”
“Ever see her with anyone else?”
“No. She seemed to keep herself to herself, if you know what I mean.”
There seemed little more the man could tell him, and he was obviously tiring. Webb said, “Thank you for your help, Mr. Barlow. We won’t keep you out of bed any longer, but we’d be grateful for a word with your father.”
They were led back along the passage to the small, stuffy room the old man inhabited. He sat like a wizened spider in his wheelchair, glaring up at them. “Well? What is it, then?”
“I understand, sir, that you work on the gate up at the estate?”
“What if I do? Nothing wrong with that, is there?”
“I wonder if you happened to notice Mrs. Dexter going through on Monday afternoon?”
“Young man, have you any idea how many tickets I issued on Monday? Six hundred and fifty-seven. I was that busy I wouldn’t have noticed my own mother.”
Webb, who hadn’t been addressed as “young man” for more years than he cared to remember, murmured an apology. “Did you know the lady, sir?”
“Used to see her flashing round in her fancy motor.”
“Was she ever with anyone?”
“Only her kids. Who else did you expect—the Queen of Sheba?”
Webb and Jackson exchanged glances. “We won’t bother you any further then, sir.” And meekly they allowed Hazel Barlow to show them out.
CHAPTER 8
The Cummings family were in their front garden when Webb and Jackson arrived. The two boys, pleasant-looking youngsters of about fourteen and sixteen, were sent round the back with the dog while their parents led the policemen inside.
Not much indication that this was a former cowshed-cum-stable, Jackson thought, noting the highly polished beams and the Chinese rugs on the floor.
“On holiday, are you, sir?” Webb was asking Mr. Cummings.
“Yes, I’ve taken a couple of weeks while the boys are off school.” He paused. “Any news on the burglary?”
“Not as yet, I’m afraid.” Webb turned to the woman. She was small and dark with short wavy hair and brown eyes, and was now watching him with apprehension.
“I suppose it’s me you’ve come to see,” she said jerkily. “But I told the other man all I know.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cummings; I know it’s a nuisance to have to go through everything again but it is necessary, especially since we now know we’re dealing with murder.”
She flushed. “Of course. How selfish of me.”
Led by his questions, she told a story which dovetailed neatly with Hazel Barlow’s.
“I’d spoken to Dexter as he left for work,” Bob Cummings put in. “The poor devil was in a frightful state, and I gathered your lot hadn’t been too helpful.”
“Missing-person cases are tricky, sir. If an adult wishes to disappear, it’s not up to us to track them down, however much their family wants them back. And she had taken a coat and handbag with her, which made it appear voluntary.”
“I see your point. Where is Dexter, by the way? I called round last night to invite him to supper, but there was no one there.”
“He’s moved back to London for the moment. Staying with friends.”
“Best thing, I suppose. Poor devil,” he added again. “Gina!” called a voice from the hall.
Bob Cummings rose swiftly and moved to the door, but he was too late. An elderly woman had pushed it open and stood staring at the assembled company.
“These are the police, Ma, come to see Gina about Mrs. Dexter. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Irving.”
“Well, I hope to goodness you’re going to do something about all this,” Mrs. Irving said severely, fixing them with a steely gaze. “We’ve been here just over a week and suffered robbery, murder, fights outside the house and wilful damage to our property, and I for one am not prepared to put up with it.”
“Mother—please!” Gina Cummings also rose.
“It’s not as though I wanted to come here in the first place. I did tell you, Gina, that I thought it extravagant and unnecessary to buy this house when you’ve a perfectly good one in London. If you want a second home, I said, why not choose one where it’s warm and sunny and there’s a good class of people about? The South of France, for example.”
Webb, feeling his way through this tirade, extracted something that had interested him.
“You spoke of wilful damage, madam. Was this apart from the burglary?”
“Yes, there was some obscene graffiti on our front door.”
“Oh Mother, really! It wasn’t obscene and no damage was done. It washed off.”
“Eventually,” she conceded with a sniff.
Remembering the faded circle on the door of the Dexters’ house, Webb’s interest deepened. “What exactly was it, ma’am?”
“Only a face,” Gina said. “Some children probably drew it.”
“There was nothing childish about it,” Mrs. Irving maintained. “It had a disgustingly hideous leer.”
“How was it executed?” Webb asked her daughter. “Chalk?”
“No, green felt pen.”
“And when did you discover it?”
“When we arrived a week last Wednesday to find the house broken into. I suppose the burglars might have done it; I never thought of that.”
“Did you mention it to the officers who came about the burglary?”
“No, I didn’t think it important.” She hesitated, anxiously noting Webb’s frown. “It isn’t, is it?”
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Cumming
s. But I suspect that the Dexters had a similar experience.”
“And look what happened to them!” exclaimed Mrs. Irving triumphantly. “I said you should have told the police, but then no one takes any notice of me.”
“Can you describe the face, Mrs. Cummings?”
Gina shrugged. “Tight curly hair, a squint, I think, and a tongue sticking out. Not pleasant, I grant you.”
“You haven’t heard of anyone else acquiring one?”
“Actually, Chief Inspector, we hardly know anyone here, and it’s not a thing you’d mention casually in the street, is it?”
“You didn’t speak of it to Mrs. Dexter, for example?” She shook her head.
“To come back to Easter Monday, then. What time did you go to Beckworth House?”
“About three, I suppose. We’d seen cars and coaches streaming past, and thought it might be interesting to look round.”
Webb turned to Mrs. Irving. “Did you go as well, ma’am?”
“No, I didn’t, thank heaven, or I might have ended up with my throat cut, too.”
Forbearing from pointing out that no one had had their throat cut, Webb turned back to Gina. “And can you tell me again how you came to see Mrs. Dexter?”
Patiently she repeated what she’d told Alison Carey and, later, Sergeant Sage.
“So she was standing at the top of the drive, but you didn’t notice what direction she took after that?”
“That’s right. Though even if I had, it wouldn’t have occurred to us to go after her. After all, we hardly knew her.”
It was a constant refrain in this village, Webb thought irritably. “You might have noticed if someone had followed her, though,” he pointed out sharply.
“Oh, I see. Well, I’m sorry, but I didn’t.”
“What made you think, when you heard she was missing, that she might still be in the grounds?”
“Well, Mr. Dexter and the children had left mid-morning, and I reasoned that if she’d intended going away, she’d have gone soon after they did. It was at least six hours later that I saw her, which seemed odd. So I thought I ought to do something.”
A somewhat belated twinge of neighbourliness, Webb reflected sourly as he prepared to take his leave.
“Lunch, Guv?” Jackson queried hopefully when they were back on the pavement.
“Yes, I reckon so. We’re meeting Sage and Pierce for a briefing at two; I want them to interview the people at the campsite.”
The Green Man was well patronized, but the buzz of conversation faltered as they entered the public bar, though the landlord greeted them cheerfully. After placing their orders they retreated to a window table with their beer, and gradually the volume of sound regained its previous level.
“And the Swindon restaurant wasn’t much help on Dexter?” Webb recapped, wiping the foam from his mouth. Real ale, he thought appreciatively.
“Not really. They were fairly hectic on Monday and not prepared to estimate the length of time any one person might have taken over his meal.” He grinned. “Probably thought we were from Egon Ronay investigating a complaint!”
“Which means it’s still possible he could have nipped back, done the dirty deed, then made himself scarce and arrived home openly much later.”
“Be a bit risky though, wouldn’t it? I mean, Mrs. Cummings saw his wife; she might easily have seen him too. Added to which, he didn’t know his missis was going to the gardens.”
“We’ve only his word for that.”
Their number was called and Jackson went to the bar to collect their sausages.
“When we’ve finished eating,” Webb said with his mouth full, “I’d like you to ring through to Carrington Street and get them to check up on young Barlow; it’s quite possible he’s got a record.”
Jackson grunted acknowledgement. He’d take the chance to phone home as well; Paul had still been asleep when he left for work.
“And we must get on to house-to-house. I want to find out if anyone else had drawings on their doors.”
Jackson stopped chewing and looked at him in surprise. “You’re taking that seriously, Guv?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve got an odd feeling about it, I don’t know why. Anyway, we’ve little enough to go on; we can’t risk overlooking what we have.”
***
Hazel said, “We had another visit from the police this morning. A different pair this time.”
Alison nodded absently. “Yes, they wanted to know what time my husband gets home.”
Hazel flushed. “I hope I haven’t got Mr. Carey into trouble, saying I saw him with Mrs. Dexter.”
“He was only giving her a lift,” Alison said lightly, keeping her eyes on the computer screen. “I doubt if they’ll be after him for that. They’re probably hoping she said something that might give them a clue.”
“Yes, of course.” Hazel breathed a sigh of relief, watching as Alison punched the keyboard and studied the figures on the screen. “You make that look so easy,” she added admiringly. “It would frighten me to death—and to think I had the nerve to apply for your job!”
“You did?” Alison turned in surprise. “I never knew that.”
“Oh, I hadn’t a hope really. But the money would have been useful, and if we could have had the Lodge, it would have left more room at Number Seventeen.”
“Sorry about that!”
Hazel laughed. “Don’t be; even if you hadn’t got it, I’d have been a long way down the list. Well, I must stop wasting your time and get up to the greenhouses.” She paused at the door of the little office. “Do you think we’ll be opening tomorrow? Dad was asking.”
“I don’t see why not. They seem to have finished in the gardens.”
Hazel shuddered. “I’ll never go near that lily-pond again.”
“Lucky we didn’t find her in the greenhouse, then!”
When Hazel had gone, Alison’s thoughts returned to Neil. Had he been hoping to start a liaison with Carol Dexter? Why else had he failed to mention he’d spent an afternoon with her? Restlessly she stood up and moved to the window. She felt unsettled, threatened, ill-at-ease. Hardly surprising, when there was a murderer at large. But the killer would be miles away by now; he was hardly likely to hang around when the village was full of police.
Of course! she thought suddenly; that car she’d seen from her window must belong to the police! It was such an obvious solution she was surprised it hadn’t occurred to her before. They probably kept a team of men in the village overnight.
The extent of her relief was an indication of how much the car’s presence had disturbed her. If only all her other problems could be so easily resolved, she thought wistfully as she returned to her work.
***
The campsite halfway down the hill was filled to capacity. At least two dozen caravans lined the perimeter in what seemed to Sally uncomfortable proximity, and since it was early afternoon, the smell of several dozen lunches still hung in the air. In a far corner three dogs were chasing each other, barking shrilly, and transistor radios vied with each other for prominence.
Surveying the pandemonium, Sage mentally went over Webb’s instructions. “There are various things we want to know, Harry. First, whether any of them went up to the opening of Beckworth House, and if so, details of times, etcetera. Second—though they’re not likely to volunteer the information—who was involved in the fight last week. If no names are forthcoming, take a note of the most likely participants. Third, how many kids there are aged ten and over, whether any of them have been up in the village un-accompanied, and how many have felt pens.”
“If you’re on about the drawing, Guv,” Ken Jackson had interrupted, “the Cummingses found it when they arrived on the twenty-second, and according to Barlow the first campers only got there that day.”
“Nevertheless, we might as well rule it out officially. And if any of the families are regulars, Harry, probe around and see if any specific enmity exists between their lads and those in the village.”
All of which could keep them going till the middle of next week, Sage thought glumly.
“Well, Skip,” Sally prompted at his side, “where do we start?”
“You take the left side and I’ll take the right. Last one home’s a sissy.”
It was slow and not very rewarding work. The campers were understandably jumpy about the murder and, however innocent, reluctant to volunteer anything that could link them with Beckworth. Two families had already cut short their holiday and returned home, and clearly some of those remaining were now wishing they’d done likewise. Sage noted without comment the names of those who’d departed.
Sally, possibly because of her ingenuous manner, was meeting with less resistance. Under the influence of her smile, several families admitted to having visited the Stately Home on Monday, though a description of Carol Dexter rang no bells with them. She also uncovered a number of last week’s pugilists, some of whom would have been hard put to deny their participation since they still sported cut lips and black eyes.
“Think they own the place, that village mob,” one youth said indignantly. “All we were trying to do was have a peaceful drink, but they wouldn’t leave us alone.” Which, naturally, was the direct opposite of what they’d been told in Beckworth.
“You were heard to say you’d go back and sort them out,” Sally reminded him.
“We might, at that,” he muttered rebelliously.
“Oh no you won’t, my lad!” put in his mother. “They’ve got more important things to do up there than worry about you lot. You can do your drinking in Lethbridge or Shillingham from now on.”
On the felt-pen topic Sally suffered an embarras de richesse. Every family with young children, which was about seventy-five percent of them, admitted to possessing sets of the pens; it seemed they were an essential provision on camping holidays, in case of wet weather. Green ones were included among every other colour, but mothers insisted that the children had never been as far as the village unaccompanied. Whether their big brothers had pocketed a pen or two was anybody’s guess. Frankly, Sally couldn’t see that it mattered. Kids scribbled on any available surface—it was a fact of life. If it was on someone else’s property they deserved a smacked bottom but not, surely, police interrogation. Still, no doubt the Governor knew what he was doing; he usually did. Slowly and methodically, she continued with her task.
David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door Page 10
