David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door

by Anthea Fraser

  “We’ll see just how long it takes to get there,” Webb was adding. “Friend Dexter’s travelling times are eccentric, as we know. It’s now eight-fifteen: unless he stopped off in Chantock Forest, he should be arriving just about now.”

  “Mrs. Cummings only said about five-thirty,” Jackson pointed out, “and he could have been caught in the rush-hour.”

  “Carey was found at six-fifteen and judging by body temperature had been dead only minutes. Which means if Dexter’s our man, he wouldn’t have got away before six at the earliest. Provided he arrived in London before eight-thirty, he’s in the clear. If not—” Webb lifted his shoulders.

  “You’re thinking he might have killed his missus and then come back to do for her feller?”

  “There’s no evidence Carey was her feller, though given time he might have been.” Webb made a dismissive gesture. “No, my thoughts are nothing like as definite as that. I just want to see Dexter as soon as possible and gauge his mood. If he has just topped Carey, there might be something to show for it.”

  They were approaching the M4, a roaring channel of rushing headlights. Jackson eased the car down the slope and cautiously joined the continuous stream, to be immediately swallowed up in its frenetic anonymity.

  ***

  By the light of the street-lamp, they checked that it was just on eleven as they knocked on the door of the Kingdoms’ house. A light still showed in the hall, though both bedroom windows were also lit. Nice thing it would be, Jackson thought, if after all this no one came to let them in.

  Catching an echo of his thought, Webb knocked again. It was cold, a frost sheening the grass of the lawn to their right. “Come on!” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his hands together. In response the bulb in the porch flowered suddenly into light and, with the sound of sliding bolts, the front door opened at last and Raymond Kingdom stood peering out at them.

  “Who is it? What do you want at this time of night?” He sounded irritated but not alarmed, proof that, despite the much-trumpeted increase in crime, the citizens of leafy England still did not fear the late-night knock at the door.

  “Shillingham police, Mr. Kingdom. Sorry to disturb you so late, but we’d like a word with Mr. Dexter.”

  “Good grief!” Kingdom grumbled. “Surely it could have waited till morning? The poor chap’s gone to bed.” But he stepped aside and gestured for them to enter.

  “Could you tell me, sir,” Webb said casually, relishing the welcoming warmth of the house, “what time he got back this evening?”

  “Later than usual, because he’d been to Beckworth. We held dinner back for him.”

  “Could you put a time on it, sir?” Webb persisted. “Oh, between eight and half past. Why?” he added, suddenly suspicious.

  Webb ignored the question. “You’re certain of that? It could be important.”

  “Well, you’d better ask him yourself.” He turned, called up the stairs, “Stewart! Some chaps here to see you!” and opened the door of the room they’d been in previously. The television muttered quietly in a corner, the newspaper lay discarded on the floor, and the cushions on the vacated chairs were comfortably dented. It looked like hundreds of other late-evening rooms all over the country and Jackson felt a stab of longing for his own, and the sound of Millie’s knitting needles and Paul safely asleep upstairs. And at the thought of his son, the worm of worry began to gnaw again.

  Stewart Dexter appeared in the doorway in pyjamas and dressing-gown. “Chief Inspector? You’ve found out who killed my wife?”

  “Drawn” was the word Gina Cummings had used to describe him, and it was an apt one. His eyes were haunted and sunken, but whether from loss or guilt, Webb could not be certain. “Not yet, sir.”

  The man’s face fell. “I was sure, when you came so late, it must be that.”

  “Could you tell me, Mr. Dexter, what time you got back here this evening?”

  His expression was purely surprise, Jackson would have bet on it. “Tonight? Not till after eight. Why?”

  “Can you be more exact, sir?”

  “Probably, but can you give me any reason why I should?” Hope and disappointment had, in the face of questioning, given way to resentment.

  “Where were you this afternoon?”

  “I went to Beckworth. I’m surprised your spies didn’t tell you.”

  “Why was that?”

  “Why did I go to my own house? I’m damned if I see that it’s any of your business.”

  “Mr. Dexter, you’re entitled to an explanation, and you’ll get it in a moment. In the meantime, I’d be grateful if you’d answer my questions. Exactly what time did you get back here?”

  “Just before eight-fifteen. I sat in the car at the gate to catch the end of the programme I’d been listening to.”

  Which time, roughly confirmed by Kingdom, was within the leeway Webb had allowed.

  “And your reasons for visiting Beckworth?”

  Dexter’s jaw tightened, but he answered steadily. “To collect some papers I needed.”

  “When you drove down to the main road, did you notice any cars parked in the lay-bys in the wood?”

  “Not that I remember. Why?”

  “Did any cars pass you, going up the hill?”

  “One or two.”

  “Any you recognized?”

  “I only glanced at them.”

  “And you didn’t stop for any reason as you drove through the wood?”

  “No, I did not. Look, what is this? Are you telling me you got me out of bed at this time of night to answer damn-fool questions about lay-bys?”

  Webb sighed, abandoning his most promising suspect.

  “Mr. Neil Carey died in the woods this evening.”

  Dexter stared at him. “Died? What the hell do you mean, died?”

  “Was probably murdered,” Webb said.

  “My God!” Dexter sat down suddenly on the arm of a chair. Then indignation struggled through shock. “And you thought I’d something to do with it?”

  “Mr. Dexter, these are routine inquiries. We’re trying to find your wife’s killer, and now Mr. Carey’s. Surely you want that?”

  “Not,” said Dexter, with a touch of wry humour, “if you’ve selected me for the part.”

  “They’d been together that afternoon in Lethbridge.”

  “That’s a motive for murder?”

  “It could be.”

  Dexter made a sound of disbelief. “But you did know I’d been back there. How? Ah—Mrs. Cummings. I saw her as I was leaving.”

  “It came out quite innocently. She was concerned about you.”

  “Nice of her. And on the strength of that you come haring over here after me? You must be pretty desperate.” Yes, Webb thought tiredly, we are.

  “How was he killed? Not drowned, like Carol?”

  “No, his throat was cut. There’s an outside chance it was suicide, but he’d a bruise not consistent with the way he fell.”

  “So there’s a homicidal maniac loose up there. Thank God I moved the kids out when I did.”

  There was a tap on the door, and Mrs. Kingdom came in, also wearing a dressing-gown. Her eyes went to Dexter, full of concern. “Are you all right, Stewart?”

  “Yes, I’m all right. They came over on a wild-goose chase.”

  She closed her eyes with a sigh of relief, then turned to Webb. “You’re going back to Broadshire tonight?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we’ll be on our way. Sorry for disturbing you.”

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  Webb hesitated, catching Jackson’s eye. “No, there hasn’t been time. We’ve another murder on our hands; I’m afraid. Mr. Neil Carey.” He paused, watching her to see if the name meant anything, if perhaps either of the Dexters had mentioned him, but her shocked exclamation was quite impersonal.

  “How dreadful—I am sorry. But you’ve a long drive ahead of you; would you like some coffee and sandwiches?”

  “That’s extremely kind of yo
u.”

  It was a quarter to midnight when they left the Kingdoms’ house, but the food and hot drink had put new life in them. Now they were homeward bound, Jackson’s spirits rose. No doubt he’d been worrying unnecessarily and Millie’d tell him Paul was over the upset. Children were up and down so quickly.

  His optimism lasted until, home at last, he put his key in the front door. But as he pushed it open something about the quality of the stillness resurrected his fears, even before his eyes fell on the note on the hall table. He caught it up with a rush of fear, holding it to the light so his tired eyes could make out Millie’s scrawl.

  8 p.m. Have gone to the General with Paul. Children with Mary. Please come as soon as you can.

  Eight P.M.! It was now after two in the morning and she hadn’t come back! To make sure, he went up the stairs two at a time, looking in one empty bedroom after another. Two minutes later he was back in the car and driving swiftly through the deserted night streets, past the entrance to the police station to the general hospital next door.

  “Paul Jackson!” he repeated urgently to the nurse on the desk. “My son. Probably an appendicitis. He came in about eight.”

  “Oh yes, the little boy. Just one moment.” She spoke briefly into a phone while Jackson tried to hold down his fear. He’d always hated hospitals, and in the middle of the night their unnatural brilliance and bustle struck cold terror into him.

  “Churchill Ward,” the nurse was saying, “on the first floor. The lifts are over there.”

  “Is he all right?” Jackson demanded urgently.

  “He’s out of theatre and back in the ward. Your wife’s with him.”

  No lift had ever moved more slowly. Emerging at last, he stood looking frantically about him, his eyes alighting on the words “Churchill Ward” over the entrance to a large, dimly lit space. Then he was hurrying down the length of it to the closed curtains at the end and fearfully drawing them aside. Millie rose swiftly from the chair beside the bed.

  “Ken! Oh thank God! He’s going to be all right!” And as his arms closed fumblingly about her, she burst into a torrent of tears.

  ***

  Banks Moorhouse, a well-known electronics firm, occupied two floors of a building in the centre of Reading. Having spent the night at the hospital, Jackson had taken a day’s leave and Webb was accompanied by DC Marshbanks, as eager as a puppy to sniff out suspects.

  “He could have learned something to his advantage and been blackmailing someone,” he suggested as, following the directions given by the girl on reception, he drove into the private car-park at the rear of the building.

  “Indeed he could, Simon,” Webb agreed, regretting his own lost enthusiasm, and feeling, as he usually did in Marshbanks’s presence, older than his years.

  “After all, he was personnel director, wasn’t he? He’d have access to private files and so on.”

  “You reckon his death had nothing to do with Carol Dexter, then?”

  “Oh.” Briefly abashed, Marshbanks reconsidered swiftly. “Well, perhaps she told him something about her husband, and Carey was blackmailing him.”

  “Unfortunately,” Webb observed, “Mr. Dexter appears to be in the clear. Anyway, let’s keep an open mind, shall we, and see what we can learn here.”

  The staff at Banks Moorhouse had not yet heard of Carey’s death, and Webb studied their reactions as he broke the news. Everyone seemed genuinely shocked, and there was nothing to give pause to even the most suspicious mind.

  “How long was he with you?” he asked one of the directors.

  “About a year, I suppose. Seemed a pleasant, competent chap. Only yesterday he was telling me of some new scheme he’d thought up to facilitate—but you don’t want to hear about that.”

  “Did he ever mention meeting anyone outside the firm?”

  “No; being in personnel he’d not much contact with outsiders during working hours. But his secretary’s the person to ask about that.”

  Lucy Fielding was crying quietly over her word-processor when they were shown into her office. An attractive girl in her mid-twenties, she blew her nose as they sat down and tried to compose herself.

  “I’m sorry, it’s the shock,” she said. “I can’t really take it in...”

  “That’s all right, miss. Now, can you tell us if Mr. Carey received any phone calls yesterday?”

  “Only internal ones.”

  “Were they private?”

  “No, as it happened I was in the room with him each time.”

  “Did he ever have calls from outside?”

  She thought for a minute, then shook her head. “His wife rang once, but I don’t remember any others.”

  “How did he spend his lunch-hours, do you know?”

  “He usually went to the wine bar with Mr. Phillips.”

  Webb made a note to see Mr. Phillips. “Was there anything unusual in his diary, any meetings you hadn’t arranged yourself ?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “And how did he seem yesterday?”

  “The same as always. He brought me a bunch of violets back from lunch.” Her eyes brimmed at the memory, going to the delicate flowers in a jar on her desk.

  “He often gave you flowers?”

  “Sometimes.” She added quickly, “It didn’t mean anything, it was just his way. ‘Here you are, Lucy,’ he said, ‘here’s a breath of spring to cheer your Monday.’” And she reached for her handkerchief again.

  Webb waited patiently while she dabbed at her eyes. “Did he ever speak of personal matters? Things that happened at home, for instance?”

  “He told me about that woman’s murder, and that he’d given her a lift only a couple of days before.”

  And he himself died one week later. Could he have killed Carol? He’d admitted being home at the time. But even if he had, there seemed no way Dexter could have killed him, which would have been the tidy solution.

  “What time did Mr. Carey leave here last night?”

  “A little earlier than usual. He had a dental appointment in the afternoon, and told me he’d be going straight home afterwards.”

  “You can’t put a time on it?”

  “Actually, I can. This window overlooks the car-park, and I happened to glance out about four-thirty and saw him getting into his car.”

  Which explained why he’d reached Chantock Forest around six.

  Their meeting with Mr. Phillips was of little help. Yes, he’d usually lunched with Carey, and was clearly shaken by his death. But theirs had been a business comradeship, with no confidences exchanged.

  “He did say he was trying to talk his wife into moving closer to Reading,” he added. “I gather she wasn’t keen.” Which was the closest they’d come to discussing personal matters.

  With nothing to add to their knowledge of Neil Carey and his circumstances, Webb and Marshbanks returned to Shillingham.

  ***

  “Mrs. Carey spoke of seeing a parked car late at night,” Webb told a meeting of his men that afternoon. “I want to know if anyone else saw it, particularly any of the clients of the Green Man, which is just across the road. Get on to that, will you. And arrange round-the-clock protection for the old couple in the bungalow. It might be coincidence, but they’re the only recipients of graffiti to whom nothing further has happened. I intend to keep it that way.”

  As they dispersed, Webb sat tapping his pen on his blotter, deep in thought. He was remembering his question to Simon that morning: You reckon his death had nothing to do with Carol Dexter’s? And the boy’s hasty readjustment. But suppose that unspoken assumption had been correct? Suppose it was only by chance that, for completely different reasons, they’d met their deaths within so short a time of each other?

  Marshbanks was hovering hopefully just inside the door, like a puppy begging for a walk. Sergeant Jackson would be back tomorrow, after which he’d be relegated to routine work. He intended to make the most of today.

  “Anywhere I can drive you, Guv?” he i
nquired.

  Webb pushed back his chair. “Yes, we won’t do much good here. Back to Beckworth, then, Simon. The car knows its own way by now.”

  Hazel Barlow had spent a fair bit of time with Mrs. Carey, he was thinking, and had seen her husband with Carol Dexter. Perhaps that wasn’t all she’d seen. Worth sounding her out, anyway.

  But at Tinker’s Lane their knock was answered by a young, plain woman, heavily pregnant. “Mum’s not in,” she informed them. “She’s up at the greenhouses.”

  Webb hesitated. “You’ll be Mrs.—?”

  “Hobbs,” the girl supplied.

  He nodded, seeing a slight family resemblance to the obnoxious Darren. “I believe you were up at the House on Easter Monday?”

  “I helped out with the teas, yes.”

  “Did you see Mrs. Dexter, by any chance?”

  “No, but I only stayed an hour. I’ve not to be on my feet too much.”

  “Did you see anyone you knew up there?”

  “Only Grandad on the gate. I’ve been through all this already,” she added, but without rancour. She seemed, in fact, to enjoy being questioned, revelling in the vicarious excitement.

  “Did you know Mr. Carey at all?”

  The girl gave an exaggerated shiver. “I used to see him round the village before he got a job, like. They’re saying he was murdered, and all.”

  “You hadn’t seen him lately?”

  Regretfully she shook her head.

  “Well, thank you for your help.” And with Marshbanks at his side, he started back up the road.

  Blue uniforms were again in evidence as inquiries got underway on the second murder. And this time last week, the first hadn’t been discovered. What smouldering violence had suddenly flared in this formerly peaceful village, extinguishing not one life but two?

  To Webb’s relief it was WDC Denton, not Mrs. Carey, who came to open the gate for them. He hadn’t wanted to express his condolences through the wrought-iron, nor, in fact, to become involved with her at all today. Which was why he’d arranged for Nina Petrie to interview her.