Several private houses also overlooked the green, and in fact, as Good had indicated, most of the residential areas were within walking distance of the centre. Consequently, Ashmartin was spared the nightly migration of its population suffered by most town centres.
And as if these blessings were not enough, it was here that the Broadshire and Avon Canal began its winding journey westwards across the county, affording pleasant walks and interesting pubs along its banks.
‘This is where I’m coming when I retire,’ Jackson remarked. ‘You can keep your south coast—Ashmartin’s the place for me.’
‘You could do a lot worse, Ken. Look, there’s a space here. Pull in, and we can walk round the corner to Social Services.’
The heat of the afternoon hit them as soon as they left the car, beating up from the pavement and down from the molten blue sky, and they were thankful to turn into the shady side street, screened from the sun by its tall buildings.
The Social Services Department was halfway along, and Webb pushed open the door to find himself in a foyer not unlike a doctor’s surgery. To the right was a children’s play area, where much shrieking and banging was in progress, and a few dispirited women—presumably the children’s mothers—sat patiently round the room flicking through magazines.
He took out his warrant card and approached the desk, raising his voice to make himself heard. ‘DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, from Shillingham. We’d like to speak to someone about Mr Judd.’
The young woman bit her lip. ‘Yes, of course. We just can’t believe—’ She broke off. ‘Just a moment, I’ll see if the duty officer is free.’ She lifted the intercom and spoke quickly in a low voice, then turned back to them. ‘He’ll come straight down, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
One of the doors on the left opened to discharge a young couple, shepherded by an older man who stopped on the threshold and shook their hands. Interview rooms, Webb thought, much as they had at Carrington Street. He turned as footsteps sounded on the stairs and a dark, bearded man hurried towards them.
‘Chief Inspector—Steve Parker, one of Simon’s colleagues. As you can imagine, we’re all shattered. Would you care to come up to my office?’
Webb and Jackson followed him back up the linoleumed stairs and into a room shaded by venetian blinds, where an electric fan whirred officiously in a corner. There were two desks, one of them poignantly bare. Parker seated himself at the other and waved them to a couple of chairs.
He said in a strained voice, ‘I suppose there’s no chance of a mistake?’
‘I’m afraid not; his wife identified him this afternoon.’
‘God!’ Parker put his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. After a moment, he raised his head and met Webb’s eye. ‘He broke all the rules, you know, going off alone to meet someone.’
‘Then why did he do it?’
Parker shrugged. ‘I was here when the call came through; I—’
‘Just a moment, sir—about that call: was it for Mr Judd specifically, or did he just happen to be free?’
‘I checked with Diane downstairs; she said he was asked for by name.’
So it wasn’t a random killing—always supposing that the caller was the murderer. ‘It would be a help if you could remember what was said.’
‘I’ve been over and over it, but you see the phone was for ever ringing, and to begin with I didn’t pay much attention. The first thing I registered was Simon saying, “I’m sorry, I can’t place you. When was that?” But I really pricked up my ears when he said, “I think it would be much better if you came here. We can speak quite privately.”
‘The other bloke was obviously arguing, and I made signs to Simon asking what was up, but he just shook his head. He finished by saying, “Well, all right then, if you really think that’s best. Yes, I’ll be there. Nine o’clock outside the Jester.”
‘I said quickly, “Simon, you know you can’t—” but he’d already put down the phone.’
‘And the caller gave the name of Jim Fairlie?’
‘That’s right. It didn’t ring a bell with Simon, but the man said they’d met a few years ago. He rattled off names of supposedly mutual friends, though Si didn’t recognize any of them. Anyway, he’d got some problem, and suggested discussing it over a pint.’
‘Why wouldn’t he come here?’
‘Said his wife worked in an office across the street, and he didn’t want her to see him. I think Si finally gave in because of the alleged social connection.’
‘Even though he didn’t remember the man, or any of the names he’d mentioned?’
Parker gave a wry smile. ‘That was nothing unusual; old Simon was famous for his bad memory. It caused him endless embarrassment, and he’d pretend to remember people, even if he didn’t, to avoid hurting their feelings. Anyway, I did my best to stop him going, though I knew it was hopeless; you can’t let a client down once an appointment’s made, and he’d no way of contacting Fairlie. So I told him I’d go with him, but he laughed and said, “Stop fussing, Steve, it’ll be OK. Anyway, he might clam up if there are two of us, and I’m only going for a drink, for God’s sake.”’
Parker stopped speaking, and in the silence noises floated up from the street through the open window and the fan whirred relentlessly.
Webb said, ‘Did he make any comment about the man’s voice, how he sounded?’
‘He said he seemed on edge.’
It wasn’t much to go on. ‘Well, we’ll do our best to trace him.’ Privately, Webb feared Fairlie would prove as elusive as Philpott’s bogus house vendor. He went over to the window and separated two slats of the blind to peer across the street. ‘What offices are over there?’
‘Solicitors, patent agents, accountants—you name it.’
‘We’ll get a team on to it, see if there’s a Mrs Fairlie working in any of them. Not,’ he added heavily, ‘that I’ll be holding my breath.’
‘He might have given his own name,’ Parker said desperately, ‘if he hadn’t actually planned to kill Simon.’
‘Possibly.’ Webb nodded to Jackson, who put away his notebook and stood up. ‘You can’t think of any client Mr Judd had an altercation with? Anyone who might have harboured a grudge?’
‘No, he was a placid chap, dedicated to the job. He didn’t let anyone rile him; in fact, the rest of us used to call him in to calm things down if tempers got frayed.’
‘Well, thank you, Mr Parker. Get in touch if you think of anything else, however unimportant it seems.’
Parker saw them to his door and they went in silence down the stairs. Webb walked over to the reception desk.
‘Did anything strike you, miss, about the caller who phoned Mr Judd yesterday?’
She blinked back tears. ‘His voice was shaking—he sounded upset.’ She looked up at him. ‘That’s not unusual, though. We get all sorts ringing in.’
‘Was it a young voice, would you say?’
‘It was hard to tell, with the shaking. Not old, anyway.’
‘Accent?’
‘Local, I think.’
‘And he asked for Mr Judd by name; what were his exact words?’
‘“Is Mr Judd there? It’s very important that I speak to him.”’
‘That was all?’
‘Yes. So I—put him through.’
Webb nodded. ‘Thank you.’ He turned on his heel and, with Jackson beside him, strode through the noisy reception area out into the street.
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Table of Contents
Some of the Residents of Beckworth
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
Extract from The Ten Commandments by Anthea Fraser
David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door Page 20
