David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door

by Anthea Fraser

  “When did you leave home after Easter?” Webb began, gingerly lifting his polystyrene cup. “Tuesday, wasn’t it? End of the holiday.”

  “Did you go to Beckworth House while you were there?”

  Darren made a derisive sound. “You must be joking.”

  “Does that mean you didn’t?”

  “No. I mean yes—I didn’t go.”

  “Did you know the woman who was killed?”

  The boy darted a glance at him with his mother’s eyes, which in his face had a habitual shiftiness. “Might have seen her around.”

  “You knew her by sight?”

  “Can’t say. I’ve seen some of ‘em along the top road, but I dunno which one she was.”

  “She lived at Coppins Farmhouse.”

  “Yeah. All right for some. We used to live there, and all.”

  Webb couldn’t hide his surprise. “You did?”

  “Well, the family, like. Before I was born. Farmed it for generations.”

  “They owned it?”

  “Tenant farmers. It belonged to the Duke, like the rest of bloody Beckworth.”

  “Why did they leave it?”

  “Grandad fell off the barn roof, didn’t he? Flat on his back for months and never walked again. Dad was only fourteen so there was nothing for it but to get out.”

  “So they moved to Tinker’s Lane?”

  “Yeah, thanks to ‘is Grace. Big deal.”

  Webb turned this new information over in his mind.

  “And another farmer took on Coppins?”

  “That’s right. George Powell. Him and his sons ran it till a few years back. Then the old man died and his sons moved into agricultural machinery, and the place was empty for a while.”

  Ripe pickings for developers, Webb thought, and very lucrative for the already bulging coffers of the Hampshire estate.

  “In view of that,” he commented, after another sip of scalding coffee, “I’m willing to bet you knew damn well who Mrs. Dexter was, if only because she lived in your family home.”

  Darren flushed. “All right, then, I knew her by sight. Toffee-nosed bint.”

  “There’s no call to be offensive, Barlow. The woman’s dead, after all.” He paused. “I suppose a lot of your old pals are still in the village?”

  Surprised at the change of subject, Darren nodded warily.

  “You keep in touch?”

  “We have a jar when I’m home.”

  “And you all resent the newcomers, consider them ‘toffee-nosed’?”

  “Well, they are. Not proper villagers at all.”

  “So you annoy them at every opportunity? Make them jump out of the way of your motorbike, for instance?” As Giles Parrish had related.

  “No harm in that,” Darren said sulkily.

  “And go round scribbling on their doors?”

  He could have sworn the boy’s blank look was genuine.

  “Do what?”

  “Did you or your buddies draw faces on various front doors in the village?”

  “Faces? Of course we didn’t. That’s kids’ stuff.”

  “Would you know if any of the others had?”

  “Yeah, we compare notes.”

  “Scoring points for who’s been the biggest nuisance?”

  Darren’s silence was confirmation that he’d hit the mark. “Have you any idea who might be responsible, then?”

  He shook his head. “Kids’ stuff,” he repeated scornfully. “Nothing to do with us.”

  Webb said thoughtfully, “You could have had a special grudge against Mrs. Dexter, with her living at Coppins.”

  The boy sat bolt upright, alarm in his eyes. “Oh, now look, you’re not hanging that on me. Why should I, anyway? Not as if we had to get out to make room for her—it happened years ago.”

  Which, Webb had to concede, was no more than the truth. Another interesting sideline had led them precisely nowhere.

  ***

  “Finished your report, Sal?” Harry Sage bent over her, his hand familiarly on her shoulder.

  “Not quite, Skipper.”

  “How about a break for lunch, then? We still have a rain-cheque on that drink.”

  “I don’t think so, thanks. I usually just go to the canteen.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pick up the bill. There’s a new pizzeria in Fenton Street—we can give it a try.”

  “I really—”

  His hand tightened, kneading her shoulder, and an edge crept into his voice. “Not being very friendly, are we, Constable? Still carrying the torch for your fancy man? You know the best remedy for that, don’t you?”

  “It’s just—”

  “No more excuses. Get your handbag and let’s go.”

  As they went together down the stairs, Sally was hoping desperately that the DCI would appear with an urgent task for her. But there was no one about and, despairingly, she walked with head high past the ornamental pond in the forecourt of the police station and out on to the thronged pavement.

  Sage took her arm as they crossed Franklyn Road—an unnecessary precaution since there was no traffic in sight—and when she attempted to free herself on the opposite pavement, simply tightened his hold. Short of making a scene, there was nothing she could do. There was a rank, male smell about him, compounded of imperfectly disguised sweat, tobacco and aftershave, and Sally held down a shudder of distaste.

  The pizzeria when they reached it was dimly lit and featured discreet little booths, each containing a table with a candle stuck in a Chianti bottle. There was an overpowering smell of garlic. Automatically she took the menu the waiter handed her. At least there were people about, she told herself. This was better by far than a parked car in Chantock Forest. With a bright smile she chose her pizza, hoping she wouldn’t choke on it. Perhaps after all he was only being friendly.

  A bottle of Chianti arrived but Sally, who never drank at lunch-time, dared make no further demur. She sipped the wine slowly, feeling it rough on her tongue and trying to ignore the pressure of Sage’s leg under the table. Friendly, my eye! she thought, and was grateful when the food arrived to distract him.

  Throughout the meal she chatted lightly about the Beckworth case, blocking any opportunity for the conversation to turn personal. She was careful to cover her glass each time Sage lifted the bottle, with the result that he topped up his own instead. Even the small amount she had drunk made her head ache and, she realized in dismay, Sage’s much larger intake was also having an effect. He was now leaning permanently towards her, his hand frequently brushing against hers, and beneath the table the pressure of his knee had increased. The sooner they got back to the station, Sally thought fervently, the better.

  The meal over at last, she stood up thankfully and bent to retrieve her handbag. But in the same moment Sage rounded the table, and as she straightened she felt his hand on her buttocks. She turned swiftly to find him close against her, and before she could evade him his hot, searching mouth closed over hers. Foolish to have felt safe, when the wooden cubicles offered such unwelcome privacy. Which, no doubt, was why he’d chosen the place. Though she was struggling fiercely to free herself, it was the approaching steps of the waiter that rescued her.

  “Atta girl, Sal,” Sage said thickly. “You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. In a manner of speaking.”

  Back at the police station Sally made straight for the cloakroom, where she scrubbed furiously at her mouth with soap and water. Then, gathering her shredded dignity about her, she went to see Inspector Petrie.

  ***

  Since burglary and murder had disrupted the first week of their holiday, the Cummingses were determined to get maximum value from the second. Each day’s activities had been exhaustively discussed and planned, and that Monday they’d elected to go to Bristol and look over the great iron ship that was moored there.

  However, as they were finishing breakfast Edith Irving made a theatrical appearance in her dressing-gown, announcing that she’d hardly closed her eyes all
night, that she had shooting pains in her head, and that Gina must take her to the doctor without delay. Nothing that any of them said could dissuade her, and she was therefore driven, hand clasped to her forehead, to the nearest doctor, who happened to be in Lethbridge. There, after a long wait at the surgery, she was given a prescription for something resembling aspirin and told to rest quietly, which, as Bob did not hesitate to point out, had been the remedy he’d suggested in the first place.

  There was another long wait at the chemist while the prescription was made up, resulting in a totally wasted morning and a late lunch, by which time tempers were frayed all round.

  With the aim of retrieving something from the shambles, Bob suggested to his sons that they take the dog for a walk in the woods. Gina, it was accepted, would be unable to accompany them, since her mother refused to be left alone “in her state of health.”

  “What an old misery-guts Gran is!” Duncan commented as they set off at last. “I don’t know how Mum puts up with her!”

  “Oh, she’s not a bad old stick,” Andrew replied. “She likes to be the centre of attention, that’s all, and since we came here she hasn’t been.”

  Which, Bob reflected silently, summed up his mother-in-law pretty astutely.

  It was a perfect day for a walk, and an agreeable sense of male comradeship soon dispelled their frustrations. They entered the forest at its uppermost limit, striking out along the well-trodden paths while the spaniel, in a frenzy of delight, set off in search of imaginary rabbits and squirrels, and had to be called back at frequent intervals in case he got lost. Despite the well-marked tracks, they had vast expanses of woodland to themselves, for the forest, popular with weekend visitors, retreated into its silences during the week. Only down by the camping site was there much sign of life, and the Cummingses gave that a wide berth.

  Time passed as they threw sticks for the dog, discussed the weekend’s rugby matches and examined the different kinds of leaves beginning to appear. Bob, forgetting they’d started out late, was surprised when the light beneath the trees began to dim, and, glancing at his watch, discovered it was after six. It was also getting colder, he realized as soon as he stopped walking.

  “Hey, we must be getting back,” he exclaimed. “Your mother will be wondering where we are. Come to think of it, I’m not so sure myself!”

  He paused, surveying the lie of the land. They’d been walking aimlessly, first in one direction, then another, and had covered a fair bit of ground. To his relief the distant sound of a car reached them, and they turned in the direction from which it had come.

  “Where’s Kip?” Bob asked after a few minutes, looking about him.

  “He ran ahead.”

  “Well, it’s time he went back on his lead; we don’t want him disappearing at this stage. From the look of it, it’ll be dark soon.”

  Andrew put his fingers to his mouth and gave the piercing whistle which usually brought the dog running. This time, however, though they also called his name, there was no sign of him.

  “I hope he’s not stuck in a rabbit hole,” Duncan said anxiously.

  “He’s probably shot off on some trail or other. If we keep calling he’s sure to hear us.”

  “Kip!” yelled Duncan again, and this time, some distance away, an excited yapping sounded in reply. “Here, boy! Good dog!”

  They stood waiting expectantly but, though the barking continued spasmodically, the dog still didn’t appear. Bob said irritably, “What’s the matter with the animal? His only good point is that he comes when he’s called.”

  “It’s a funny kind of bark,” Andrew said uneasily. “I think we’d better go and look for him.”

  The occasional shrill yaps were coming from ahead and slightly to the left of the path they were following. Swearing under his breath, Bob turned off into the undergrowth and the boys overtook him, calling the dog’s name. Beneath his irritation, he was aware of disquiet. Kip was obedient, but even now, when they must be quite close to him, he was not responding to their calls. Could he be caught in a trap?

  Then Andrew’s relieved voice reached him. “There he is! Come on, boy!” And then, with a change of tone, “What is it? What have you found?”

  Bob stopped, waiting for them to come back and join him. Somewhere in the branches overhead there was a rustle of wings and a harsh cry. Despite himself he shivered. And suddenly Andrew reappeared, his face white in the shadows. Bob had just time to think, “Oh God, it is a trap!” before the boy said in a quavering voice, “Dad, it’s Mr. Carey from the Lodge. His throat’s been cut.”

  ***

  “But you must be mistaken,” Alison repeated patiently. “He can’t be dead—his dinner’s in the oven.”

  All in all, Sally thought, this was proving to be quite a day. At least, after her talk with Inspector Petrie, she had Liz Denton with her instead of the odious Sage. She took Alison’s arm and led her into the tiny living-room.

  “Perhaps we could have a cup of tea?” she suggested, submerging her helpless pity in routine.

  “I don’t want tea,” Mrs. Carey said, her voice rising. “We’ll be having dinner as soon as my husband gets home.” She glanced at the clock. “Which should be any minute now.”

  The sound of the front door reached them and she added triumphantly, “There! What did I tell you?”

  Sally turned sharply, a primeval shiver moving coldly down her spine, but it was a flesh-and-blood girl who stood in the doorway. Before she could speak, Mrs. Carey said clearly, “Darling, these people are trying to say something’s happened to Daddy.”

  The girl’s eyes flew to Sally. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Sally’s fingernails dug into her palms. She’d never get used to this. “I’m very sorry, Miss Carey, but—”

  “He’s dead?”

  Sally nodded, and the girl hurled herself across the room into her mother’s arms, which rose hesitantly to receive her. Above her bent head and shaking body, Mrs. Carey’s eyes met Sally’s, the first doubt in them.

  “Neil’s dead?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry.”

  The girl started to sob quietly but the woman remained calm. In shock, Sally thought.

  “A car crash?”

  “No, I’m afraid his death was deliberate.”

  The girl turned at that, her tear-stained face paling. “You mean he was murdered? Like Mrs. Dexter?”

  “It’s possible.” Suicide hadn’t been ruled out, but would that be any comfort? She added, “He’d have died very quickly.”

  Mrs. Carey moistened her lips. “Where is he? I must go to him.”

  The girl shuddered a protest but Sally was already shaking her head. “Not just yet. There are—doctors with him at the moment.”

  “Where did it happen?” Though still dry-eyed, she’d started to shake and a tremor had come into her voice.

  “In the forest below the village.”

  “The forest? But what was he doing there?”

  Sally raised her shoulders helplessly. “That’s what we’ll have to find out.”

  Putting her daughter gently aside, Alison Carey felt behind her for a chair and lowered herself carefully into it. Then she looked up at the sombre policewomen. “I think perhaps we should have that tea after all,” she said.

  ***

  “And when we came to the road, by one of those lay-by places, we saw his car.”

  Bob Cummings was sitting with a glass of whisky at his side, opposite a grim-faced Webb. Gina hovered solicitously at his side and the two boys, unnaturally subdued, were on the sofa. Of the old woman, thankfully, there was as yet no sign. Having upbraided them over her daughter’s finding one body, Webb shuddered to think of her reaction to her grandsons discovering another.

  “Were any other cars there?”

  “No.”

  “Not even your own?”

  “No; we’d walked down, but through the woods. We hadn’t been near the road until then.”

  “And this wa
s at six-fifteen, you said.”

  “Give or take a couple of minutes.”

  Webb was silent for a while, reviewing such facts as he had. He’d stopped at the scene on the way up: the murdered man’s car had been tidily parked, and his body lay some hundred yards into the forest. Either he’d stopped voluntarily and for some reason walked into the woods, or he’d been flagged down and led to his death. There seemed no logic in either hypothesis, certainly not robbery, since his watch and full wallet were on his body.

  Bob Cummings cleared his throat. “Do you think there’s a connection between the two deaths, Chief Inspector?”

  “It’s too early to say, sir.” Carey and Mrs. Dexter had known each other, but only briefly. The other link they had was shared by the Cummingses among others—the graffiti on their doors. The appalling possibility of three more deaths to come was not one to dwell on.

  “You’re no nearer finding who killed Mrs. Dexter?” Mrs. Cummings was asking.

  “There are various leads,” Webb said enigmatically, avoiding Jackson’s eye.

  “I feel so sorry for her husband. Poor man, he was looking very drawn today.”

  Webb sat forward so suddenly that she jumped. “Mr. Dexter was here today?”

  She stared at him with rounded eyes. “Yes, this afternoon. He’d come to collect some things.”

  “What time was this, Mrs. Cummings?”

  “About half past five, I suppose.”

  “When he arrived, or when he left?”

  “When he left. I watched him drive away.”

  “I see.” And he did see. If Stewart Dexter had left home about five-thirty, he might well have encountered Neil Carey on the road through the woods.

  CHAPTER 11

  “Now, Guv?”

  “Yes, now, Ken. We don’t want to lose any time on this.”

  “But—we don’t even know he’ll be there. Shouldn’t we phone first?”

  “And tip him off ? Not on your nelly. I know it’s late to be setting off for London, but in the circumstances it can’t be helped.”

  Jackson sighed and started the car. All day the worry about Paul had been at the back of his mind, and he’d been glad when it was time to go home. But as he was on the point of leaving the news about Neil Carey came through. Now, with a trip to London ahead of them, it would be well past midnight before he got home. He’d have liked to phone Millie but there was no sign of a public call-box, and the determined set of the Governor’s jaw suggested any delay would be unwelcome.