The Loophole

by Vera Morris

  ‘We understand,’ Laurel said. ‘I know it happened thirty years ago, but somehow, being so near to where Audrey and John were murdered, makes it seem closer in time.’

  Frank grimaced and shuffled in his seat. ‘It’s the thought that while Coltman was incarcerated by the Japanese he must have been glad his wife and child were safe in Orford, away from the bombing in London; that must have kept him going through years of hell. He imagined them waiting for him, if and when he got home. From what I’ve read about the lives of prisoners of war, deep ties at home sustained them through the darkest times. Imagine what he felt when he managed to survive, and then finds his wife and child have been murdered.’

  ‘Revie said old Mrs Coltman was also dead by the time he got back; his father died before the war started. All he had were their graves in St Bartholomew’s Church yard, and the terrible absence of John’s body. Was he a heap of bones in a fox’s den, or at the bottom of the sea?’ Dorothy took off her glasses and wiped tears from her cheeks.

  They sat in silence.

  ‘Did Revie say what happened to the murderer? There must have been more proof than just a sighting of him near to where Audrey was murdered,’ Frank asked.

  She shook herself and glanced once again at her notebook. ‘Yes, there was conclusive proof. The police searched the barracks and they found a pair of woman’s knickers, stained with blood in Hovell’s locker. The blood group was AB. Audrey’s blood group was also AB.’ She straightened her shoulders. Come on, pull yourself together, she thought, you’re part of a team of detectives. ‘Revie said the attack was brutal, she suffered deep injuries, and old Mrs Coltman identified the knickers as Audrey’s; she’d trimmed them with lace for her.’

  ‘So, no doubt of his guilt. What happened to him?’ Frank asked.

  ‘Hanged.’

  Laurel shuddered. ‘What he did was awful and he deserved to be punished, but I’m glad we’ve abolished the death penalty. There’s always the chance of a wrong verdict, although that can’t be true in this case.’

  A deep rage welled up in her chest. ‘I disagree, Laurel. I wish it was still in place. I’d have been pleased if Emily’s killer, that wretched man, Nicholson, had been hung by the neck. I fact I’d have offered to pull the lever myself.’

  Laurel looked shocked.

  Dorothy glared at her. ‘What about your sister? Didn’t you feel the same? If they’d found the man who killed her, wouldn’t you want him dead?’

  Laurel’s face drained of colour and she slumped back in her seat. Frank placed a hand over hers, and frowned at Dorothy.

  Oh no! What had she said? Laurel looked devastated. She shouldn’t have mentioned her sister -her murderer was never found. It must be dreadful to think he was still free, unpunished, and might kill again. ‘Laurel, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.’ She tried to stop tears flowing again.

  Laurel’s colour was coming back. She held out her hand. ‘I know, Dorothy. I’m not sure why I...’

  Dorothy moved to the settee and hugged Laurel. ‘I’m a silly old fool. I think I ought to pack this detecting in and get back to my typewriter.’

  Laurel shook her head. ‘We both got a bit worked up over poor Mr Coltman.’ She turned and looked at Frank. ‘What is it you usually say, Frank? Women, heh!’

  Frank got up and looked down at them. ‘I could think of something a bit stronger, but as I’m a gentleman I’ll restrain myself. Dorothy, back to your notes. Did Revie give you any more details about, what was his name, Hovell?’

  She scrambled back to her seat and picked up the notebook. ‘No. No details. But surely that couldn’t be relevant to this case, could it?’

  Frank grimaced. ‘No... I suppose not, but could you contact Stuart and ask him, if he’s got the time, to see if he can dig up any facts about Hovell’s family, where they live.’ He shook his head. ‘Tell him it isn’t a priority, it’s more important he finds out details of the missing women.’

  ‘Right.’ She jotted down some shorthand, then looked at Frank. ‘Anything else to discuss? Shall I make some tea?’

  ‘No thanks, Dorothy.’ He picked up the Daily Telegraph, lying on the table. ‘Oh, go on then.’ He jabbed at the paper. ‘There’s a Sutton’s advert for a new plant food. I’ll gen up on this, impress Hinney when I next see him.’ He looked at her. ‘No, second thoughts, I’ll skip the tea. I need to get back to the camp and then I’ll see if I can contact Lovell at the Jolly Sailor tonight.’

  Dorothy looked at Laurel, dreading her answer. She didn’t want her to leave without making sure she’d forgiven her for her crass remark about her sister.

  ‘Yes, I’d love a cup, and it’s best if I’m not seen leaving with Frank.’

  She uttered a sigh of relief. ‘Right, see you in a week, Frank. We’ll be going back to Greyfriars House next Saturday for a meeting, won’t we?’

  Frank nodded. ‘Hope Mabel will have a slap-up meal for us.’

  At seven o clock, when Frank arrived in the municipal carpark, the weather had turned wet and windy. He ran across the road to the Jolly Sailor, a low, red-brick building with large, many-paned windows, giving it a pleasing look. Even more pleasing was a sign for Adnam’s ale. How had he missed that when he passed it before? His observational skills were slipping.

  He sheltered under the tiled porch which protected two doors. He chose the door to the right, signed Tap Room. There were two old men having a game of dominoes, and three callow youths he was sure he’d seen mooching round the holiday camp. No one looked like a maintenance man. He nodded to them and retreated into the rain. The other door was signed Lounge Bar.

  This room smelt of polish, fresh flowers and best of all, hops. Sitting at one of the pine trestle tables were two men, a dog at the feet of the smaller man and behind the mahogany bar, with its gleaming taps and pumps was, he presumed, the landlady. She was leaning towards a middle-aged, fair-haired woman, on the other side of the bar, both obviously enjoying their conversation.

  He looked around in approval; the walls were rough un-plastered brick, and the tables, their white tops grooved by scrubbing, were surrounded by wheel-backed Windsor chairs. In the hearth of an inglenook fireplace was a blue-and-white jug filled with roses. It was a proper old-fashioned pub; he hoped the ale lived up to its surroundings.

  The landlady stopped chatting and moved towards him. ‘Yes, my dear, what can I get you?’

  ‘A pint of Adnam’s bitter would be great.’

  ‘Ordinary or best?’

  ‘Ordinary.’

  ‘Jug or straight?’

  ‘Straight, please.’

  ‘Not seen you before, my dear. Visiting us, are you?’ The ale swished into the glass as she bent a plump arm.

  He held the glass up to the light. ‘Clear as a bell.’ He swallowed -it was smooth and hoppy, with just the right hint of caramel. So smooth, you’d be half-way down your glass before you realised it. ‘Excellent. Congratulations. You keep a good cellar.’

  The landlady flushed, smiled and, turning to the other woman, pulled a knowing face.

  ‘To answer your question, I’ve just started work at the holiday camp, but I thought I’d sample the local beer.’

  Her face expressed surprise. ‘That’s a coincidence, Mr Lovell, over there,’ she pointed to the two men who were in a deep conversation at a table near the fireplace, ‘he works at the camp. Jim! ‘ The taller man looked up.

  ‘Jim, here’s someone who’s just started work at the camp.’ She turned to Frank. ‘What’s your name, my dear?’

  ‘Frank Diamond.’

  ‘Jim, meet Frank Diamond.’

  Jim got up, a friendly grin on a somewhat gormless face. ‘Nice to meet you, Frank. What do you do?’ he asked, his voice loud and penetrating.

  ‘I’m a gardener.’

  Jim hooted with laughter. ‘Have you met Gareth Hinney?’

  Frank took another pull at his pint. ‘Yes, we met yesterday.’

 
; ‘Say much, did he?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘It’s like talking to a brick-wall. But he’s a good gardener, worked in one of the parks in London before he came here. Never mind, you can always come and have a cuppa and a fag with me in my workshop, if you need a bit of company.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Jim. Cuppas would be welcome but I don’t smoke.’

  Jim raised his eyebrows, then nodded towards Frank’s glass. ‘See you like your beer, though.’

  Frank nodded, then swallowed another mouthful. This was working out well and Jim Lovell seemed a nice chap, certainly brighter than his features suggested, and a bit of a gossiper, which was helpful. Though he’d need earplugs if he worked with him.

  ‘I need to finish talking with Bert.’ He nodded to the chap with the dog and leant nearer to Frank. ‘He’s in a bit of a state, but I can’t make out what he’s worried about,’ he whispered. He turned to the fair-haired woman. ‘Joan, meet Frank, he’s working at the camp. Joan’s my missus.’

  She smiled and patted the stool next to hers. ‘Come and have a chat with us, Frank.’

  Jim went back to Bert and his dog.

  ‘That’s Albert Wiles talking to my husband,’ she hissed. ‘I wish Jim wouldn’t have anything to do with him, but Jim’s too nice, he’ll talk to anyone.’

  Even me, Frank thought. He moved closer to the two women. ‘What’s Bert been up to? Not smuggling, I hope?’

  The two women looked at each other. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,’ Joan said.

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ the landlady chipped in.

  ‘He’s a poacher,’ Joan hissed. ‘Got caught last year pinching oysters from Pinney’s oyster beds. Him and that Basil -‘

  ‘Basil?’ Frank interrupted.

  Joan sniggered. ‘His little terrier. Awful dog it is, as randy as its master. Basil wraps himself round yur leg, while Bert attacks other areas!’ The two women dissolved into peals of laughter.

  Joan wiped her eyes. ‘Nothing like a good laugh!’

  ‘Do you want me to rescue Jim?’ Frank asked. He wanted to talk to him, especially as he wasn’t above dishing the dirt on people.

  ‘Oh, would you, dear? I am grateful. Would you like another pint?’ She eyed his empty glass and the landlady ogled him.

  Frank smiled and nodded. He was glad Laurel wasn’t here; he’d get no end of teasing.

  As he got close to the men he heard Bert say: ‘Something’s wrong, Jim. I don’t like it. I blame myself.’ It was difficult to be sure he’d heard correctly as his Suffolk accent was as thick as treacle.

  ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Bert. Who’re you talking about?’

  Bert looked up and glared at Frank. He was slightly built with a craggy face, his forehead deeply lined and there were grooves on each side of his mouth.

  ‘Bert, this is Frank, he’s working at the camp.’

  Bert made a quick nod of his head, but ignored Frank’s offered hand and Basil acknowledged Frank’s presence by curling his top lip and snarling. Bert raised his glass and downed what was left of his drink. ‘Got to go. See you, Jim.’ He prodded Basil with his boot and the dog followed his master out of the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ Frank said, sitting down, ‘I seem to have interrupted something important.’

  Joan brought his refilled glass and her own drink to the table. ‘What was all that about, Jim? He’s in a worse mood than usual, and that’s saying something.’

  Jim shook his head. ‘As far as I can make out, he’s worried about someone, thinks something bad’s happened, thinks it’s his fault. Says he doesn’t want to go to gaol again.’

  Joan sipped her sherry. ‘Not like him to be worried about someone else. Always put himself first for as long as I can remember.’ The landlady joined them and the conversation flowed.

  ‘Does he just poach oysters? I’d have thought there was a limited number of customers for them,’ Frank asked.

  ‘No, he’ll take anything that’s not tied down. He’s got a boat and lobster and crab pots are one of his favourites to steal from,’ the landlady said.

  ‘He’ll drown one of these days; the waters sea-side of the Ness are dangerous, strong currents and deep waters,’ Joan said.

  Jim leant forward. ‘I heard he lands on the Ness, puts out traps for rabbits.’

  ‘If he does, he’s a fool. He’ll get blown to bits,’ the landlady said.

  Jim’s lower lip turned down. ‘He’s no fool, he must know which areas have been cleared. But I’ve never known him like this. He’s really worried, even scared, I’d say.’

  Frank bought the next round of drinks. Later he risked a few questions. ‘Perhaps you ought to find out what’s worrying Bert,’ he said to Jim. Joan pulled a face. ‘Sorry, Joan, but it might be important. Where does Bert live?’

  ‘Burnt Lane, not far from us; we live in Daphne Road. Do you know where that is?’

  He did. Dorothy had told him Belinda Tweedie lived in Daphne Road. And he’d noted the road sign as he’d walked to the quay on Friday morning. ‘Yes, seems a nice quiet place, I don’t suppose you get many visitors down there.’

  ‘Only walkers,’ Jim replied. ‘I’ll think about what you’ve said; I must admit I’ve never seen old Bert so agitated. Do you think he’s worried about someone I know? Someone at the camp? Is that why he tried to tell me?’

  He thought Jim might be right. ‘That’s a shrewd guess, Jim. Any idea who it might be?’

  Jim gazed into his beer. ‘Must be someone Bert knows.’

  ‘Belinda Tweedie lives near us in Daphne Road, do you think it could be her, Jim?’ Joan asked.

  Jim pursed his lips. ‘Not in a million years! She won’t speak to him. Bit of a snob is our Belinda.’

  The two women nodded in agreement.

  ‘What about Tommy Coltman? He’s always wandering round at night, so I’ve been told,’ the landlady said.

  ‘Who’s Tommy Coltman?’ Frank asked. He’d struck lucky tonight. Coltman was another suspect. He’d already put Jim Lovell at the bottom of his list; he couldn’t see Joan letting him off the leash to chase dark-haired girls.

  ‘He’s my assistant at the camp; I’m in charge of maintenance, Tommy’s part-time, mornings only. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, poor chap. He lives near us too, Doctor’s Lane, and he does know Bert, but I can’t see him being the reason Bert’s worried.’

  Joan tapped her finger on the table. ‘But supposing he saw Mr Coltman doing something wrong, something really bad, when he was out at night poaching? We know Mr Coltman goes out at night, people have seen him.’

  ‘He can’t sleep, Joan, he’s told me that. Poor bugger, he was tortured in a Jap camp during the war and came back to find his wife and baby murdered. He was a wreck, still is. Sam Salter took pity on him and gave him his job. Gives him something to live for, I suppose.’

  ‘Still, he’s weird, I wouldn’t like to meet him at night down a dark alley,’ the landlady said, shivering in mock horror.

  It was late when Frank got back to the camp. There was a light in Laurel’s chalet. He thought of visiting her, hoping they might mull over his findings with a glass or two of malt whisky. He shook his head. Too risky, someone might see him going in, and make the wrong assumptions. He didn’t want to ruin her reputation. Not just yet.

  Chapter 11

  Monday, June 21, 1971

  Laurel sat down on one of the chairs arranged round several tables grouped to form a rectangle in the staff canteen. The seat felt sticky against the tops of her legs and she wished she’d worn jeans instead of shorts. The weekly staff meeting was due to start at seven thirty; she glanced at her watch, ten minutes to go, she was early. Did she have time to go back to her chalet and change? She was afraid she’d stick to the seat and leave a strip of skin behind when the meeting ended.

  Too late! The door to the kitchen swung open and Nellie Minnikin, carrying a loaded tray, came in.

  ‘Laurel! You’re prompt. Could you gi
ve me a hand?’ ‘Morning, Nellie.’ She peeled her legs from the seat, wincing.

  Nellie laughed, put down the tray and threw her a towel from a pile on a counter. ‘Sit on that. We need new chairs, I must tell Sam, see if he’s prepared to shell out.’

  Laurel helped her to unload mugs, a large jug of coffee, a smaller one of milk and a plate heaped with buttered toast. As they were doing this, other members of staff drifted in, exchanging good mornings, hellos and nods of the head. Laurel sat down next to Nellie and Charlie Frost made a bee-line and sat on her other side. Frank came in, ignored her and sat down between two men. On Frank’s right was Gareth Hinney, and on his left a man she didn’t know, but she heard Frank call him Jim. He must be Jim Lovell, in charge of maintenance. Frank must have met up with him on Saturday night as Lovell was chattering away as though they were old mates. Hinney was staring in front of him, talking to no one.

  Jim lit up a cigarette.

  ‘No smoking in the canteen,’ Nellie said.

  ‘Soon I won’t be able to smoke anywhere, if everyone follows them Glasgow councillors’ lead,’ he replied.

  ‘What’s that?’ Charlie asked.

  ‘They’re talking about banning it on the underground, and buses and not giving away free cigarettes at council functions,’ Jim said, giving Nellie a withering look.

  ‘That’s the Jocks for you. We wouldn’t stand for that here,’ Charlie said.

  Belinda Tweedie, in a baby-blue dress, sailed in, carrying a wire-tray full of office paraphernalia, followed by Dorothy, looking as though she’d smelt something nasty.

  Belinda walked to the head of the table and pointed to the spaces in front of two chairs.

  ‘Set two places here, Miss Piff,’ Belinda commanded. She turned to Gareth Hinney. ‘Mr Hinney, could you ask Mr Lovell to move down two places. I need to sit next to Mr Salter, and Miss Piff must sit next to me.’ She gave him a winsome smile. He nodded, got up and they all shuffled down.

  ‘Someone should tell Belinda pastels don’t do anything for the fuller figure,’ Nellie whispered.