In fact, he remembered as he went inside and stood blinking in the light, he’d been here more recently, on one ill-advised occasion with his ex-wife. Which, one way or another, had led to all sorts of trouble. He shook off the memories and surveyed the sea of faces turned towards him.
‘DCI Webb,’ he introduced himself as the landlord came round the bar to meet him, ‘and this is Sergeant Jackson. Now, sir, what can you tell me about all this?’
‘Absolutely nothing, Inspector.’ The man was small and round, with sparse hair draped carefully over the crown of his head. ‘First I knew was when Mr Caufield came running back to say someone had been hurt in the car park. We’ve had trouble before, so I told my barman to keep everyone inside, and hurried out to see what the form was. But—well, it was pretty obvious he was beyond help. I hope I did the right thing, detaining everyone?’ This with an apologetic glance at his restive clientele.
‘Indeed you did, Mr—?’
‘Green—Charlie Green.’
‘Mr Green; you’ve saved us a lot of chasing around. Now, have you a snug or lounge bar which we can use to take statements?’ He turned to the crowd of drinkers, avidly listening.
‘A team of officers will be here shortly—we won’t keep you any longer than necessary. In the meantime, perhaps I could start with the gentleman who found the body—Mr Caufield, was it?’
A man reluctantly detached himself from the throng. He was in his forties, of average height and—possibly because of his experience—very pale.
‘I’m Bob Caufield.’
Webb nodded and, with Jackson and Caufield in his wake, followed the landlord to more private surroundings. The investigation had begun.
*
It was another two hours before Webb and Jackson were able to drive back to Shillingham. Things had taken their allotted course: the pathologist had duly arrived, and, to Webb’s frustration if not his surprise, declined to commit himself as to whether or not death had occurred in situ or if the body’d been dumped later.
Extensive videos and still photographs had been taken, the outside of both cars dusted for prints, and finally the body, securely wrapped in its bag, had been transported to the mortuary.
An unforeseen complication was that they still did not know its identity; the pockets had been stripped clean, leaving not so much as a handkerchief. Furthermore, the owner of the Astra had come forward and denied all knowledge of the victim, seeming to confirm that he’d no connection with either of the cars between which he’d been found. And finally, when the bar customers were at last allowed to leave, no car remained unclaimed. A series of negatives, Webb reflected glumly.
‘Someone must have given him a lift,’ Jackson opined, staring down the beam of his headlights. ‘Stands to reason. There’s nothing within five miles of the place.’
‘So who was it? His murderer?’
‘Must have been. No one else seems even to have seen him.’
‘He wasn’t particularly memorable, though, was he? After an evening’s drinking in a crowded bar, would you remember a bloke of average height, mid forties, with fair hair and grey eyes? For a start, the description fits several of the men we’ve just seen.’ He sighed. ‘Still, once we get a photo circulated it might nudge someone’s memory. On the other hand, it might not, if our lad never made it inside.’
‘You think he was just driven there and promptly killed?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But why? If Chummie wanted to clobber him, there are more secluded spots to do it than a pub car park. Anyone could have come along.’
‘Suppose they were going for a drink, but had a row on the way there? Hang on, let’s work out the timing; the Astra driver says he arrived about eight-thirty, and the driver of the Cortina, Caufield, just before nine, taking the last space in the car park. He couldn’t have helped seeing the body if it had been there—in fact, he’d have stepped on it as he got out of the car.’
‘So if he took the last place, where did the killer park?’
‘Someone must have left in the meantime.’
‘Mind you,’ Jackson went on, ‘it mightn’t have been the bloke he came with who did for him. Suppose someone came weaving out of the pub, and our lad, who’d just arrived, told him he wasn’t fit to drive? Chummie, aggressively drunk, biffs him over the head and drives off and the victim’s pal, not wanting to be involved, also scarpers?’
‘Not a very friendly act, but surely he’d have made at least an anonymous call before now? And who went through the pockets? Still, I agree the thing’s wide open. We’ve got the names of several people who left during the crucial period—perhaps they’ll throw some light on it. Lord knows we could do with it; all we’ve got at the moment is victim—unknown, killer—unknown, motive—possibly robbery, but that could be a red herring. Time of death between nine and ten-thirty, and that’s about it.’
‘Never mind, Guv, most likely his wife will have reported him missing by the morning.’ Jackson glanced at Webb’s impassive face. ‘Think there could be a connection with the Feathers case? I heard DI Hodges mention it.’
‘There are similarities, certainly. I’ll get out the file on it tomorrow.’
Jackson drew up outside Webb’s gate and leaned across him to open the door.
‘Thanks, Ken. See you in the morning—or rather, later today.’ Wearily, Webb climbed out of the car and set off up the gravelled drive of what had once been a gracious old house, to the four-square block of flats which now stood there and which he regarded as home.
*
Hannah James opened her eyes and stretched luxuriously. School had broken up last Friday for the long summer holidays, and there was no hurry to get out of bed. Furthermore, it wasn’t only the term that had ended, but her year in charge while Gwen Rutherford, the headmistress, had been on sabbatical in Canada. For today, Gwen was coming home.
Hannah watched the curtains rise and fall in the breeze from the window. She’d be glad to see her again—of course she would. They were not only colleagues but friends of long-standing—since, in fact, they’d been schoolgirls themselves at Ashbourne—and their joint authority as head and deputy had worked very well. Nevertheless, and to her shame, Hannah was aware of a niggle of resentment that she would no longer be in charge, would have to abdicate her authority and revert to second-in-command.
Though obviously she’d said nothing, David, bless him, had seemed to understand. He’d asked her, last night, if she’d any reservations about Gwen’s return, but before she could answer he’d been called out to a suspicious death. Par for the course, she thought with a smile.
She tucked the pillow under her chin, and let her mind drift back over their relationship. They’d met seven years ago, when Gwen had called in the police over a spate of anonymous letters at school. At that time, David had been divorced for two years and was living in cramped lodgings the other side of Shillingham. During the course of the investigation, he’d mentioned that he was looking for somewhere of his own, and, after considerable thought, Hannah mentioned the vacant flat at the top of her own building.
It had been a calculated risk, since his proximity would necessarily mean they’d see more of each other. There was already an attraction between them, but her career was of paramount importance, and she could not afford gossip. Nor had she had any wish to become entangled in a situation that would make demands on her, and marriage had no place in her plans. It had been an enormous relief to discover that David felt the same. Once bitten, twice shy, she supposed, recalling her brief meeting with his ex-wife.
Their relationship had blossomed, with the added piquancy that not even their closest friends knew of it—a secret easy to maintain since they lived in the same building. They remained essentially free spirits—though there had been occasional flares of jealousy on both sides—and often met simply as friends. But on the occasions when they made love, they experienced a sense of fulfilment that neither had found elsewhere. Which, Hannah concluded humbl
y, made them both very lucky.
She glanced at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty, she saw, with a stab of guilt. Gwen, who was returning on the overnight flight, would probably already have left Heathrow, which meant she’d be home in less than two hours. Hannah had left a note offering to take round a cold supper, to save her friend having to dash out and shop as soon as she reached home. Gwen would, she knew, be anxious to hear about Ashbourne and how it had fared in her absence.
Hannah sighed. Then she swung her legs to the floor and padded through to the bathroom.
*
Gwen Rutherford was not the only Broadshire resident returning on the Toronto flight; Frederick Mace and his wife had spent a month in Canada promoting his book on criminality, and as the plane touched down, the knowledge that he would shortly be home filled him with relief. It had been an exhausting tour for a couple in their seventies, added to which the dreaded cloud of jet lag now hung over them.
He put his hand on Edwina’s. ‘All right, darling?’
She turned to smile at him. ‘All right, but I’ll be glad to be home.’
‘My sentiments exactly. Not long now; one of the girls will be waiting for us.’
It was Gillian, Edwina saw, as she emerged from the customs hall to scan the row of people meeting the flight. She smiled and waved as she hurried after Frederick and the luggage-laden trolley.
‘Darlings!’ Gillian embraced them enthusiastically. ‘Did you have a wonderful time? How many books did you sign, Pop?’
He smiled, his face crinkling into all the folds that made him so distinctively himself. ‘I lost count,’ he confessed.
‘He was a great success,’ Edwina said proudly. ‘And how are all of you?’
‘Fine, and steaming in this wonderful hot weather.’
‘And Alex?’
Gillian didn’t meet her eyes. ‘Fine,’ she said again, brightly. ‘The twins broke up last week, so her life has swung into holiday mode.’
They located the car and loaded cases, holdalls and carrier bags into the boot. Already the concrete building was uncomfortably hot.
‘You get in the front, dear, so you can tell Gilly about the trip,’ Edwina instructed her husband, opening the rear door. ‘I shall probably have a little nap on the way home.’
‘Was it as disruptive as you’d feared,’ Gillian asked, manoeuvring the car down the ramps, ‘having to break off in the middle of the new book to talk about the last one?’
‘I tried to keep it fresh in my mind—jotting down ideas, and so on. I’ll be glad to get back to it, though.’
‘Didn’t you say it’s about the motives behind crimes?’
‘That’s the general idea.’ Gillian smiled wryly, accepting that further questioning would be useless; her father would never discuss work in progress. ‘There was a murder near Shillingham last night,’ she remarked instead. ‘It was on local radio. And talking of the media, I hope you’ve not forgotten your TV interview in all the excitement?’
‘No, but I’m looking forward to a few good nights’ sleep before I have to face that. At the moment I’m having trouble in stringing two sentences together.’
Their voices, distorted by the noise of the engine, came and went against Edwina’s ears, making little sense. Gilly looked well, she thought fondly, her blonde hair streaked by the sun and her skin bronzed and glowing. She’d hardly changed in appearance since she was sixteen, and it was difficult to remember she had a sixteen-year-old daughter of her own. At least one of her children was happily married, Edwina thought, and the dormant anxiety about Alex reared itself again. She and Roy were going through a difficult time and there was no knowing how it would end.
And on the familiar worry her tired eyelids drooped and she slept.
*
Before attending the postmortem that morning, Webb had driven out to Force Headquarters at Stonebridge, where the files of uncleared cases were kept in the basement. He’d spent some time going through that relating to the Feathers case, making notes and learning additional details in the process.
Trevor Philpott, aged forty-four, had been killed by a blow to the back of the head on the ninth of November six years ago. His body was discovered between two parked cars behind the Feathers pub off the Erlesborough to Oxbury road, a location, as Dick Hodges had commented, very similar to last night’s. However, it had not in fact been the scene of the crime, traces of blood having been found in a field just beyond the car park.
Despite widespread investigations, no one had been apprehended, no motive discovered, and all inquiries had drawn a blank. Philpott had, to all appearances, been in the best of health, happily married, with a good job and no financial worries. Apparent end of story.
Several hours later, and with the postmortem behind him, Webb was sitting at his desk reading through his notes when the phone rang. He reached for it without looking up. ‘Webb.’
‘Morning, Dave. Harry Good, in Ashmartin.’
‘Hello, Harry. What can I do for you?’
‘Boot’s on the other foot, old lad. I think we can supply a name for your body.’
Webb straightened. ‘Oh? Someone reported missing?’
‘Yep, one Simon Judd, a social worker. I haven’t any details yet, but according to his wife he arranged to meet someone for a drink last night and never came home.’
‘Do we know who?’
‘Bloke called Jim Fairlie, for what it’s worth. Judd doesn’t seem to have known him—took him for a new client. Anyway, he rang Judd at work, and they arranged to meet outside the Jester on Dominion Street at nine o’clock.’
‘That’s a long way from the Nutmeg.’
‘That’s what she’s clinging to, poor woman, but the description ties in. He left home about ten to nine, and that was the last she saw of him.’
‘Did he take a car?’
‘No, they’re only ten minutes’ walk from the town centre.’
Webb said thoughtfully, ‘Remember the Feathers case, Harry?’
‘No, when was that?’
‘It’ll be six years now, come November.’
‘I was still with Gloucestershire then.’
‘Well, see how this grabs you. An estate agent, one Trevor Philpott, received a phone call from someone claiming to have a house to sell. The man offered to drive him out to value it, since the place was difficult to find. They met outside the Stag at Oxbury, and, some hours later, Philpott’s body was found between two cars behind another pub, the Feathers, off the Erlesborough road.’
‘Good God, that’s quite a coincidence.’
‘Or perhaps not; the murderer’s still on the loose.’
Good whistled softly. ‘The pub killer strikes again?’
‘Could be. There’s another point that tallies: I’m just back from the PM, and death did not occur in situ. He was dumped afterwards—and so was Trevor Philpott.’
‘Good God!’ Good said again, with even more emphasis.
‘Erlesborough handled the last case, but I’ve been through the file and there’s very little to go on. No evidence of any kind and no apparent motive.’
‘Doesn’t bode too well, does it? Anyway, to come back to this one, we’re about to bring Mrs Judd over to identify the body, if that’s OK?’
‘Yes, he’s been tidied up. I’ll be glad of a talk with her, if she’s up to it.’
‘She should be OK, her brother and sister-in-law will be with her. We should be there in about half an hour.’
‘Right, I’ll meet you at the mortuary.’
‘And perhaps, when the formalities are over, we can get together over a pint?’
‘You’re on. See you then.’
*
However, when, an hour or so later, Webb and Good settled down in the Brown Bear to pool their knowledge, they had little further to add. Mrs Judd, pale and trembling, had identified the body as that of her husband. Under Webb’s gentle questioning, she tearfully insisted that he’d no enemies, had not quarrelled with anyone, had no
t seemed under any kind of strain. It was the Philpott case all over again.
They finished their lunch in gloomy silence. ‘We’ve got two house-to-house inquiries under way,’ Good said eventually, finishing his beer. ‘One in the area around his home and one in the town centre, on the off chance that someone saw them meet. God knows what happened after that. Our lads will be in the Jester this evening to speak to the regulars, but two blokes talking in a pub wouldn’t have made that much of an impression.’
‘Perhaps,’ Webb suggested, ‘the Jester was only a rendezvous—you know, “on the corner at nine”. Then Chummie draws up in his car and says, “It’s a lovely evening—let’s drive out and find a country pub.”’
‘Bit hypothetical, isn’t it?’
‘Have you any better suggestion? Assuming the murder was premeditated, he’d have wanted to get Judd out of town to do the dirty deed, and he must have had a car to get to the Nutmeg. We know Judd hadn’t taken his.’
Good pushed back his plate. ‘OK, Dave, it’s your baby now. Anything I can do, you’ve only to say the word. I’ve arranged for half a dozen DCs and DSs to report to the Incident Room. They might be able to help.’
‘Thanks, Harry. I’ll be following you over shortly; the first priority is to interview Judd’s colleagues and see what they know about that phone call. I’m determined this case isn’t going to fizzle out like the Philpott one.’
‘That’s right, think positively,’ Good said with a grin. ‘With a bit of luck, you might finish by cracking both of them.’
*
Ashmartin lay to the east, near the Berkshire border. It was a charming old town which had expanded over the years to become the third largest in the county. In the process, however, it had had the wisdom—or good fortune—to retain its nucleus of attractive old buildings, the responsibility for which had, over the last thirty years, been in the hands of a vigilant preservation society.
To Webb’s mind, a large part of the town’s charm lay in its centre, for the parish church of St Giles, resplendent with towers and turrets, overlooked a large green complete with duck pond—another legacy from the past. Here, in the summer, office workers picnicked, children played, and older inhabitants sat in the shade under spreading trees.
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