David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door

by Anthea Fraser

  “It’s a line of inquiry, sir, nothing more. It might well lead nowhere, but it has to be followed through.”

  While his wife was sulkily giving Jackson the names and addresses of her confidantes, Webb turned back to Warrender.

  “What was the young woman called, sir?”

  “Mayfield, Belinda Mayfield.”

  “Was she by any chance married herself?”

  “Very much so,” Warrender said, for the third time. Whatever happened to the good, old-fashioned word “yes”?

  “Do you know where she lived?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “They’d know at the office,” Mrs. Warrender put in.

  The firm’s name and address were also taken down. Someone else could go chasing after this lot, Webb thought feelingly. He’d sit back and wait till they found the girl. Though was it likely, after all this time, that she’d chase after her ex-lover and cut his throat? As he’d admitted to the Warrenders, the whole exercise would probably turn out to be another wild-goose chase.

  ***

  There was good news of a sort awaiting their return to Carrington Street, late that afternoon. Inquiries into a local shoplifting had brought to light a number of items stolen during the suspected motorway-gang robberies. Crombie and his team already had six or seven other names to work on, and the recovered loot was awaiting identification by its owners, several of whom were now on their way to view it.

  But as far as could be seen at the moment, the thieves had no connection whatever either with the graffiti or the murders that followed.

  “It’s too early to be sure, of course,” Crombie told Webb, “but they seem to be professionals, interested only in a quick heist, rapid disposal of the goods and the best possible deal for themselves. If the deaths had occurred on the days of the break-ins it’d be different, but as it is I can’t see any link. Sorry, Dave.”

  “Sod’s law,” Webb replied. “I couldn’t really see it myself either. By the way, when the Parrishes arrive, tell them I’d like to see them, would you. I want a brief word with everyone I’ve not seen since Carey’s death; I’ll catch up with the others tomorrow.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “Just to weigh up previous impressions in the light of the second murder.”

  It was nearly eight o’clock when the Parrishes were shown into his office, since they couldn’t be contacted till they returned from work.

  “Well, Chief Inspector!” Parrish said, beaming broadly as he came forward with outstretched hand. “This is the best news we’ve had in weeks.”

  “You’ve recovered some of your possessions?”

  “The ones that matter, yes—my wife’s jewellery, which was irreplaceable, and several knick-knacks we’re fond of. Difficult to get rid of, I suppose, once their descriptions were circulated. No sign of the music centre, but at least it was insured.” He gestured to his wife to seat herself, and sat down on the chair opposite Webb. “So what can we do for you?”

  “I was wondering, sir, since you live opposite the Lodge, whether you could throw any light on Mr. Carey’s death?”

  “You mean did we see anything suspicious? I can’t say we did, but it’s hardly surprising since we didn’t get home till after he’d been found.”

  “You’ve been asked about a parked car, I believe?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t notice it. We’re very busy at work just now, so as soon as we get home we draw the curtains, get supper and settle down for the evening.” He paused. “It’s very disquieting, though, all this sudden violence. Have you any leads?”

  “One or two, sir.”

  “That’s good to know. Right, if there’s nothing else, then?”

  “That’s all for the moment, thank you.”

  Webb watched them go with a jaundiced eye. Any leads, indeed. He’d give his eye-teeth for a good one. He thought back over their previous statements, the most important of which was the overheard quarrel between the Dexters. Why should he feel that was significant? The watch which had caused it had since turned up safely.

  And, he reminded himself, Parrish had been in the grounds on Easter Monday. Suppose he and Carol had met, and she’d reminded him about the aerator for her lawn? And then—what?

  For a few moments more he pursued his mythical hares. Then with a sigh he abandoned them, realizing that what he was most in need of was hot food and a stiff drink.

  Wearily he sorted the papers on his desk into separate piles and put them away. Jackson had gone home long since, eager to check on the boy, who was now making good progress. And Alan was still downstairs interviewing. Good luck to him.

  Webb stood up and stretched. After he’d eaten, he told himself, he’d get out his sketching pad. Various niggling impressions were swimming in and out of his memory. With luck they’d sort themselves out when he captured them on paper.

  It was peaceful in the little flat at the top of Beechcroft Mansions. Very faintly through the wall came the sound of his neighbour’s television, providing a nebulous and unobtrusive companionship. With a couple of pork chops under his belt and a replenished glass of whisky at his side, Webb set himself to the task which usually presented itself at some point in an investigation. Mind maps, the boffins called them, but he’d been doing them long before they’d become fashionable practice. And his facility with cartoons, for which the local paper clamoured ceaselessly, made of his sketches not maps so much as character studies. The little cartoon figures, easily recognizable though with exaggerated features, often pointed him in the way of the villain.

  Rapidly he began to draw, beginning with the five households that had attracted the graffiti. A shadowy figure for Carol Dexter, whom he’d seen only in death, with her husband, tall and fair-haired, beside her. The Cummingses, Gina dark and petite, Bob towering over her, and the difficult mother-in-law. Next, Alison and Neil Carey, the flamboyant Parrishes and the retired couple from the bungalow.

  For good measure, in the upper corner of the sheet Webb reproduced the grimacing face and studied it for several minutes before continuing with his live cast, the gentle schoolmaster, and the Barlow family: the crippled old man in his wheelchair, the ponderous milkman, the woman in the greenhouse. And their son, as Webb had seen him across the café table. Had he known more about the drawings than he’d been prepared to admit?

  When he’d peopled the sheet with them all, he sat back and let his eyes move slowly over each one, concentrating as he did so on the statement that person had given, hopeful that one of them might jump forward to claim his attention with some inconsistency. They remained stubbornly static, each in turn staring back at him from the paper, as though daring him to accuse them.

  Tearing off the sheet, he let it fall to the floor and began on the scene of crime, drawing the village of Beckworth in cartographical detail, houses, pub, forest, and the spreading gardens of its Stately Home—the path which led to the lily-pond and the pool itself, encrusted with lily-pads.

  Now came the crucial part, the merging of people and places. On the second sheet he began to insert little figures in the positions where they claimed to have been when first Carol Dexter, then (in different coloured crayon) Neil Carey, had met their deaths. And over this sheet he sat long and silently, from time to time reaching out a hand to his whisky glass but barely registering the fiery liquid as it went down his throat.

  Could Neil Carey’s past, known now to have been peppered with affairs, have any bearing on his meeting with Carol Dexter? Suppose they had arranged to meet on the Monday, while Dexter was taking the children to his sister? Suppose that in the seclusion of the herbaceous border he had made advances to her, confident they’d be acceptable. And if they hadn’t? If she’d drawn back, perhaps flared out at him? Might he have hit her, knocking her over to bang her head on the metal urn they’d found covered in her blood?

  And again and again he came back to the fact that of the five recipients of the graffiti, she alone had been alarmed by it. Why? Had some deep-b
uried instinct warned her that it foreshadowed her death? If so, the same instinct had not served Neil Carey, who’d dismissed the drawing out of hand. Yet it was oddly disturbing that those two, both of whom had disliked the village, had both died there.

  Webb rubbed his hands over his eyes and looked at his watch. It was well past midnight and he was suddenly desperately tired. Tomorrow, he would see the live counterparts of some of these drawings, and perhaps after that things would fall into place.

  Leaving the paper on the easel, he turned out the light and went to bed.

  CHAPTER 13

  Webb’s habit of sketching people and places in a case was well known at Carrington Street, and regarded with almost superstitious awe since it so frequently bore results. They referred to it among themselves as “the Governor ‘drawing conclusions’.”

  The next morning on the drive to Beckworth, Jackson deduced, from Webb’s continuing abstraction, that he had been at work the previous night.

  “Any new ideas to kick around, Guv?” he ventured; to break the long silence.

  Webb stirred and his eyes focused. “Only that it seems we have two cases in one. Different motives, different murderers.”

  “Great!” Jackson muttered under his breath. Then, curiously, “But there were links between the victims even apart from them living in the same place. The car-ride, the graffiti—”

  “True. But the more I think about it, the more convinced I am that Carol Dexter’s death was an accident.”

  “You mean,” Jackson asked sarcastically, “her murderer thought that even though she was unconscious, she could still swim?”

  “No,” Webb said patiently, “the accident was in her cracking her head. And when she lay there motionless he thought he’d killed her, panicked, and tried to hide her body.”

  Jackson thought it over. “But you’re sure it wasn’t Carey?”

  “By no means. It could well have been.”

  “But even if it was, you reckon his death was unconnected with hers?”

  “Yep.”

  Jackson sighed. “Well, I hope it all makes more sense to you than it does to me.”

  To which Webb made no reply.

  Their first call was at the Scotts’ portion of the schoolhouse. Mrs. Scott came to the door, her neat grey jumper and skirt matching her hair. She smiled a welcome.

  “Come in, Chief Inspector; you’ve saved my husband a walk. He was wondering how to contact you.”

  “Oh? Has something come up?”

  “Perhaps he should tell you himself.” She pushed open the living-room door, raising her voice slightly. “Leslie, the police are here.”

  “Ah, Chief Inspector! Good to see you! I was going to leave a message for you at the village hall. I presume your men are still there?”

  “Yes, and likely to be for some time now we’ve a second murder.”

  “Alas, yes. Well, what I wanted to say to you is this: one of your chaps was round the other day asking about cars parked across the road. I said I hadn’t seen one, but...” He gave a little shrug and smiled ruefully. “My memory isn’t what it was, I’m afraid. Last night as I lay in bed turning things over in my mind, I remembered that I had indeed seen a car I didn’t recognize last week, though it wasn’t parked. That was probably why I didn’t think of it.”

  “You mean you saw it arrive?”

  “Exactly that. I was in here one evening—I’m almost sure it was Wednesday—when there was a sudden outburst of barking outside. We’ve had a spot of bother with the paper-boy leaving the gate open, so I went to the window to see if the dogs had got into the garden. They hadn’t, but sure enough the gate was open, so I went out to close it. And as I was doing so Mr. Carey drove up the road. He turned into Tinker’s Lane and drove round behind the Green Man, where he garages his car. Used to garage it, that is.

  “The dogs were still circling each other on the pavement, growling and jumping about, and I was trying to remember who they belonged to, because if they became excited and ran into the road it could have been dangerous. And while I was watching them, this other car came quickly along the road and also turned into Tinker’s Lane. Then it suddenly stopped, and I remember wondering if the driver was looking for Mr. Carey. At that point he reappeared on foot round the corner of the Green Man, crossed the road in front of the stationary car, and went through the little gate into the grounds. I remember he waved to me as he did so.”

  “And what did the other car do?”

  “Alas, there I must disappoint you. After returning Mr. Carey’s wave I came back into the house. I’ve no idea where it went.”

  “Did you get a good look at the driver?”

  “Not really. It was getting dark, and he was going quite fast as he rounded the corner, as though he expected Mr. Carey’s car to be some way ahead of him.”

  “It was a man, anyway?”

  “Oh yes, no doubt about that. But whether young or old, fair or dark, fat or thin, I haven’t the remotest idea. I’m so sorry.”

  “This idea that he was looking for Mr. Carey’s car; is that with the benefit of hindsight?”

  “No,” the old man said consideringly, “it was the way it struck me at the time.”

  “And you think it likely he turned into the estate car-park?”

  “To be honest, Chief Inspector, I didn’t give it another thought. But if he wanted to see Mr. Carey, then yes, I suppose he might have done.” He paused. ‘Did he call at the Lodge?”

  “Not as far as we know.” Webb turned to Jackson. “Can you check, Sergeant, when Mrs. Carey saw the car?” They all waited while Jackson flicked through the pages of his notebook. “Wednesday 29th was the first occasion, sir. As she was going to bed.”

  “Then it tallies!” Scott said excitedly.

  “What time did you see it?”

  “It was just before supper, I remember. About half past six.”

  “And you didn’t see it again?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Do you ever go over to the pub, sir?”

  “Only very rarely these days. Not for several months now.” He paused, then said eagerly, “Have I been any help?”

  “I think you might well have been. It seems likely Mr. Carey was followed home, and it’s certainly possible that has some bearing on his death.”

  “Well, that’s gratifying. Thank goodness I told you about it.” He hesitated. “Chief Inspector, on your last visit I was telling you about Darren Barlow. Did you interview him?”

  “Yes, we did.” Meeting the old man’s anxious eyes, he added, “I don’t think he’d anything to do with all this.”

  Scott sat back in his chair. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am. I felt very badly afterwards about having mentioned him, but at the time it seemed my civic duty.”

  As before, the detectives went from the Scotts’ house to the Barlows’. Though Webb had seen Mrs. Barlow and her daughter two days previously, he had not spoken to the men of the house since Carey’s death.

  Joe Barlow had just returned from his milk round and was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea. Webb was struck by his pallor; it seemed he hadn’t shaken off his virus after all. He looked up dully as his wife showed them into the room.

  “We’re checking to see if anyone noticed anything which could shed a light on Mr. Carey’s death,” Webb said lightly, hoping to put him at his ease.

  Barlow shook his head.

  “It’s really shaken Joe, has that,” Hazel volunteered. “He’s been off his food ever since he heard.”

  “He was a friend of yours?” Knowing the infrastructure of village life, it didn’t seem likely.

  “I hardly knew him,” Joe said expressionlessly. “Hazel sees a lot of his wife, though, what with the flowers and all.”

  “But if you hardly knew him,” Webb persisted gently, “why has his death upset you so much?”

  His wife answered for him. “Because he’s the second person in a week to be killed here! Isn’t that
enough to upset anyone?”

  “Mr. Barlow?”

  “Like the wife says. To think there’s someone going round who’d do a thing like that.” His hand shook suddenly and he put the mug down.

  “It must be a madman,” his wife said. “That’s the only explanation.”

  “Do you go to the Green Man, Mr. Barlow?”

  “What?” Barlow wrenched his attention back.

  “The pub. Do you often go there?”

  “Wednesdays and Saturdays, most weeks.”

  Webb felt Jackson’s heightened interest. “Was there anyone there last Wednesday you hadn’t seen before?”

  “Not as I recall.”

  “Would you have noticed if there had been?”

  “Yes, I reckon so. I was sitting at the bar all evening.”

  Another promising lead dried up. Webb turned to the woman. “You haven’t by any chance seen any strangers about? Hanging round outside Beckworth Lodge, for instance?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  Webb stifled a sigh. “Very well. Thank you.” He got to his feet. “We’d like to see Mr. Barlow senior before we go.”

  The front room was warm and stuffy but the old man had a rug over his knees. He was watching television, a disgruntled expression on his face.

  “You again!” he greeted them. “What is it this time? Not much good at stopping folk being murdered, are you?”

  “We’re doing our best,” Webb said mildly. “Did you know Mr. Carey?”

  “He sometimes stopped for a word when I was on the gate. Pleasant enough, for an incomer.”

  “Know anyone who had it in for him?”

  The old man shook his head. “Couldn’t be anyone local, ‘less it was that man whose wife was killed.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, one thing leads to another, doesn’t it?”

  Which enigmatic comment was the most he was prepared to offer.

  They lunched at the Green Man, where Webb repeated his question about strangers and received the same reply. If the car Scott saw was the one Mrs. Carey’d noticed, it seemed the driver’d sat alone in it for five hours or more. Unless, of course, he’d visited Carey at the Lodge without his wife’s knowledge. Or anyone else in Beckworth, come to that. Another round of questioning to be done.