David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door

by Anthea Fraser

  ***

  Jackson’s lunch-time phone-calls had established that Darren Barlow had twice been convicted of petty larceny, and that his son Paul was slightly better—the latter item being to his mind much the more important. All the same, he’d be glad when he could go home and check for himself. Which, he reflected, as he and Webb stood on the doorstep of the Lodge, shouldn’t be too long now.

  They had timed their arrival to give them half an hour with Mrs. Carey before her husband was due home. The stone house nestled just inside the estate walls but had a minute front garden of its own and a somewhat larger back one, screened from prying eyes by a high hedge.

  Webb ducked his head as they were shown into the sitting-room. It was as small and prettily furnished as a doll’s house and he felt large and out of place, nervous that he might inadvertently knock something over.

  Mrs. Carey was a handsome woman with bright chestnut hair and hazel eyes, and she had greeted them calmly enough. But there was an undeniable sense of strain about her, and Webb wondered if this was solely due to having discovered the woman’s body.

  “Were you home yourself on Easter Monday, Mrs. Carey?” he inquired, settling himself cautiously on a spindly-legged chair.

  “No, we went to a point-to-point at Chipping Claydon.”

  “Getting home at what time?”

  She shrugged. “Soon after six, I suppose.”

  “By which time the main gates were locked?”

  “Oh yes, but that doesn’t concern us; we garage the cars behind the Green Man.”

  “And you’ll have a key to the small gate?”

  “That’s right. There are other entrances to the estate, of course, for tradesmen and estate workers, but when they’re unlocked they’re under constant supervision. There are priceless treasures up at the House, and the insurers insist on maximum security.”

  “Very wise,” said Webb drily. His question was academic. Had Carol Dexter been alive when the main gates closed, she would already have left. Therefore her killer, whether her husband or anyone else, must have entered in the normal way during public admission. Unless he was already on the estate.

  For the third time he went through the details of finding the body, and again they tallied closely with what he’d heard before.

  “You didn’t know Mrs. Dexter yourself?” So Hazel Barlow had led him to believe.

  “No. I regret now that I never contacted her.”

  “But I gather your husband had met her?”

  A quick, sharp glance from those hazel eyes. “He gave her a lift once, when her car broke down.”

  “Which was only a couple of days before her death?”

  Alison nodded, avoiding his eyes. Something was worrying her, Webb thought. And Dexter had hinted that his wife’s interest in the House stemmed from her meeting with Carey. Still, if the man had been at the point-to-point—

  “I gather you’re booking manager here, ma’am?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So you must know the grounds pretty well?”

  “Yes, though I’m mainly involved with the House.”

  “But surely you walk round the garden fairly regularly?”

  “It’s a private house, Chief Inspector. Unless I’m on business, I respect that privacy.”

  Which put him in his place. “Did business take you into the grounds on Tuesday?”

  “No.”

  “If you hadn’t specifically searched for Mrs. Dexter, how long might it have been before she was found?”

  She shrugged. “The gardeners go round before an Open Day, tidying up generally. But they didn’t notice her on Tuesday and they probably wouldn’t have today.” She paused. “We are allowed to open tomorrow?”

  “Yes, that’s been cleared.”

  She nodded. “Anyway, by this time she might have—floated out to the middle, or sunk—” She broke off with a shudder. “I don’t know, thank God, what happens in such cases, but I’d say there’s a good chance she’d never have been found.”

  Before he could answer they heard the front door open, and a minute later Neil Carey came into the room. He was a tall man with mid-brown wavy hair, a lean, intelligent face and slate-grey eyes.

  “I was expecting you,” he said shortly, as his wife performed the introductions.

  Webb said smoothly, “You have the distinction, sir, of being almost the only person in the village to have spoken to Mrs. Dexter.”

  A quick look at his wife. Was he wondering what she’d told them? “That’s right. Her car was out of action and she had some urgent shopping to do. I was at a loose end, so I ran her to Lethbridge.”

  “Which would have given you the chance for quite a long chat?”

  “Yes. We discovered a mutual dislike of Beckworth.” Alison Carey moved protestingly and Webb, taking up the cue, said, “You don’t like living here?”

  “No. I find the house cramped, the village unfriendly and the distance from work inconvenient.”

  There was a brief, embarrassed pause. Then his wife said, “We came here when I was offered this job, Chief Inspector. My husband was—out of work at the time, and we were glad to get it.” It was, she realized, the first time she hadn’t used the word “redundant”, which had always been an unconscious lie.

  “You’ve found another position now?” Webb was concentrating on the man.

  “Yes, in Reading. We’ve been discussing the possibility of moving nearer.”

  “And Mrs. Dexter also found Beckworth unfriendly?” From what he’d seen of it, he wasn’t surprised.

  “Yes, she was quite strung up about it. She seemed to feel—vulnerable.”

  “After the first burglary, you mean?”

  “That was one thing. Then there was the graffito on her door, though I was able to reassure her on that.”

  Webb’s sudden movement took Jackson by surprise and he dropped his notebook. He stooped quickly and retrieved it.

  “Tell me about the graffito.”

  Carey looked surprised. “Oh, it was nothing. Just a face some vandal had drawn. But it really upset her—out of all proportion, I thought. Still, she calmed down when I told her we’d had one.”

  “You had a face drawn on your door?”

  “That’s right. A couple of weeks ago.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Like a gargoyle, really. Snake-like hair and tongue sticking out.”

  “Did you see it, Mrs. Carey?”

  “No, Neil only mentioned it after he’d washed it off.”

  “And Mrs. Dexter was reassured to know you’d had one?”

  “Yes, she’d thought it was something personal. She said, ‘Then my husband was right, it was just a yob with a felt pen going round the village.’”

  “The people at Mews Grange had one as well,” Webb said.

  “Really? There must have been a plague of them.”

  “That doesn’t worry you, Mr. Carey?”

  “Worry me? No, why on earth should it?”

  “Because in the two other instances we know of, one was followed by burglary and the other by murder.”

  “My God, you’re not saying there’s a connection?”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m saying there might be. We certainly have to find out who’s been going round daubing front doors, and why.” He paused, wondering how to frame his next question without upsetting Carey’s wife.

  “When you left Mrs. Dexter last Saturday, did you make any arrangements to meet again?”

  To his surprise, the man flushed darkly. “No, I did not, why should I?”

  “Well, you knew she was lonely, and you had something in common in your dislike of the village.” Another pause. “It occurred to me that you might have suggested she come to see the House and gardens on Monday, but your wife tells me you were out.”

  Some quality in the sudden silence made Webb glance quickly from husband to wife. He was staring at her, she at the floor. Webb said sharply, “You were out, weren’t yo
u, Mr. Carey? At the point-to-point?”

  “No, Chief Inspector, as it happens I wasn’t. My wife and daughter went but I didn’t.”

  Jackson, pencil poised, sat motionless.

  “Then did you arrange to meet Mrs. Dexter in the grounds, sir?”

  “No, I most definitely did not.”

  “Did you perhaps bump into her by accident?”

  “No, damn it!”

  “Can you tell me, then, how you spent the day?”

  “My wife had left some trays of bedding plants for me to attend to. That took all morning, then I had lunch and watched bank-holiday sport on television.”

  “You didn’t go into the grounds at all?”

  “I did not. As my wife will bear out, I intensely dislike the House being open to the public. Humanity in the mass is to be avoided at all costs.”

  “Is there anyone who can confirm that you didn’t leave the house, sir?”

  “Since I didn’t see anybody, I doubt it. Old Bert Barlow was on the gate, but he was far too busy to notice my movements, even if he’d been interested in them. Had I known the poor woman was going to get killed,” he added venomously, “I should, of course, have been careful to arrange an alibi.”

  Ignoring the jibe, Webb said mildly, “Did Mrs. Dexter mention anything else that upset her?”

  “The village boys played her up, making remarks as she passed. That kind of thing.”

  “Nothing more specific?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Well, if anything should come back to you, I’d be grateful to hear of it. In the meantime we’ll leave you to your evening meal. Thanks for your help.”

  Back outside the gates, Jackson said, “I thought you were going to nab him then and there, Guv!”

  “On what grounds, Ken? What possible motive could he have? If he did fancy her, he wouldn’t be likely to bump her off when he’d just established contact.”

  “Unless she wouldn’t play ball and threatened to tell his wife.”

  “He doesn’t seem the type to kill to keep a bit of hanky-panky quiet. If he is our man, we’ll have to dig deeper to find a motive. But not tonight. Time we knocked off. It’s been a long day.”

  CHAPTER 9

  At Beckworth House that Saturday there was a team of uniformed policemen in the car-park and two plainclothes men alongside Bert Barlow’s kiosk.

  Though logically it was unlikely that visitors who’d been there on Monday would return so soon, Webb was student enough of human nature to take the ghoul factor into account. The type of person who slowed down on motorways the better to stare at an accident was more than likely to beat a path back to Beckworth House, whether they’d already been there that week or not. So DCs Marshbanks and Finch, holding photographs of Carol Dexter, spent their afternoon asking the same two questions: “Were you here on Monday?” and, if answered in the affirmative, “Did you see this woman?” Should the reply to that also prove positive, they were to bleep the incident room and someone would be sent to assist in the questioning.

  In the car-park, the task of the uniformed men was equally repetitive. Quite a few of the coach drivers had been over on bank holiday, but when asked if on the return trip there had been a shortfall in numbers—or, indeed, a surplus—or if anyone boarding had appeared wet, dishevelled or generally upset, they disclaimed any knowledge of their passengers. It appeared the organizations in charge of the various outings had been responsible for checking numbers, and they had already been contacted as a matter of routine.

  Webb sat in the village hall-cum-incident room drinking coffee and staring morosely at the blank wall of the estate across the road. Teams had now visited every house in the village, and from the mounds of information still to be sifted he’d extracted the fact that the front doors of five of them had been defaced with green ink. Three he’d been aware of: Coppins Farmhouse, Mews Grange and Beckworth Lodge. Of the others, Number 2 The Schoolhouse, he noted grimly, had also been the victim of a burglary. The remaining house was one of the luxury retirement bungalows.

  Furthermore, the instances had been spread over several weeks. The Careys had repeated their original estimate of “a couple of weeks ago”, which was echoed by the Parrishes. On the other hand, the retired couple in the bungalow were quite definite that their graffito had appeared at the beginning of the month, and the Cummingses had discovered theirs when they arrived in Beckworth just before Easter. Though it might, of course, have been there some time. The only one they hadn’t been able to check on was the most important—that at the Dexters’ house.

  Frowningly Webb studied the map of the village pinned on the wall. The Schoolhouse, Coppins and Mews Grange were all in a row next to each other, the bungalow faced Coppins across the main road, and the Lodge was diagonally opposite the school. Very cosy. But why had the other section of the Schoolhouse escaped attention? A leftover fear of “the Beak”? That might reinforce the Bruisers theory.

  What he found more disturbing was the serious consequences that had befallen three of the five marked houses. Again, why? And was there a connection? The possibility that the graffiti had been an advance guide to the burglars didn’t even merit consideration. Visiting the area twice would have doubled the risk for the thieves, and even more obviously, the occupants were not likely to leave such vandalism unexpunged.

  There was nothing for it but to go and see the people concerned and ask if anything else unusual had occurred.

  He pulled a file towards him and, flicking it open, ran through both Sage’s and the house-to-house interviews with the Parrishes. Giles Parrish had admitted “strolling over the road” to Beckworth House on Monday, but not to seeing Carol Dexter there. The drawing, Webb noted, had not been mentioned at either interview and emerged only in response to a direct question later. Perhaps, like Neil Carey, they’d attached no importance to it. But Mrs. Dexter had. Again, why? Did she know or suspect more than the others did about the source of the drawing? And was that why she died?

  Collecting Ken Jackson on his way out, Webb crossed Church Lane and turned into the second gateway of the Schoolhouse.

  Giles Parrish appeared round the side of the house in answer to their ring and, after Webb identified himself, led the way to the back garden where his wife, resplendent in lime-green trousers, was kneeling in front of a flowerbed with a tray of seedlings beside her. She scrambled to her feet and came towards them, brushing the soil from her hands. An odd-looking woman, Jackson thought; her plume of orange hair and the vivid trousers made her look like a rather bedraggled parrot.

  “How can we help you, Chief Inspector?” Parrish inquired, waving them towards a garden bench. “I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s been any development on the burglary?”

  “Not as yet, sir. You informed an officer making a routine check that you’d found some graffiti on your door.”

  Parrish frowned. “Why all the interest? It wasn’t anything serious.”

  “Have you any idea who might have done it?”

  “Oh, the young louts that hang around here, I should think. A ne’er-do-well bunch if ever I saw one.”

  “Are you aware of doing anything to antagonize them?”

  “Only existing and being relatively successful. There’s a creed of envy nowadays, Inspector, a longing to see those better off than yourself brought low. Not a pleasant attitude, but unfortunately pretty universal.” He paused. “How did you hear of it, anyway? We didn’t report it.”

  “You weren’t the only recipients, sir. There were four other instances.”

  “Well, in a selfish way that’s quite a relief. Means we haven’t been singled out, if you know what I mean. Who else had them?”

  “The people at the Lodge, Mews Grange, one of the bungalows—and your next-door neighbours.” He nodded towards the fence dividing the garden from that of the Dexters.

  “And one of them reported it?”

  “No, but it came out during an interview.” Webb paused, and added delibe
rately, “In connection with Mrs. Dexter’s death.”

  Parrish sobered. “That was a god-awful thing, wasn’t it?”

  “Did you know her, sir?” He asked the question almost casually, expecting the standard Beckworth reply. But to his surprise Parrish replied, “We exchanged the odd word on a couple of occasions.”

  “When was the last time?”

  “About two weeks ago, I suppose. We arrived at our respective gates at the same time and made the odd comment as one does. In fact—I’d forgotten all about it—she asked if we’d one of those devices for aerating the lawn and I said I’d look it out for her.”

  “And you’re quite sure you didn’t catch even a glimpse of her on bank-holiday Monday?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “So that meeting at the gate was the last sight or sound you had of her?”

  He intercepted an exchanged look between husband and wife, and at his raised eyebrows Mrs. Parrish flushed slightly.

  “We did overhear them—talking—one evening,” she said unwillingly.

  “Talking?”

  “Having a row, actually,” Giles Parrish said briskly. “It quite surprised us, they’d always been so quiet before.”

  Webb let his breath out in a long sigh. “And when was this?”

  “The day that young fool nearly ran into me on his bike. Last weekend, it must have been.”

  “Can you be more exact, sir? It might be important.” “Saturday, then. Yes, that’s right, Saturday evening.”

  “And did you gather what the row was about?” Parrish moved uncomfortably. “Look, Chief Inspector, the poor man’s suffered enough, surely, without dragging all this up.”

  “We’ll use our discretion,” Webb said ambiguously. “In any case I don’t really remember. I know Carey’s running her into Lethbridge came into it.”

  “She said she should have known no one here could be trusted,” Lalage put in. “And that she’d been glad of someone to talk to.”

  “Meaning Mr. Carey, presumably.”