The Loophole

by Vera Morris

  ‘You know the staff car park?’ She nodded. ‘It’s behind there. You can’t see it because of the high fence.’

  ‘You sound impressed.’

  ‘There’s a large heated greenhouse, several cold frames, and besides bedding plants and the perennials he propagates, he also works a vegetable bed.’

  ‘Why? He lives on the camp. He can’t do any cooking.’ Frank did look grumpy.

  ‘Seems he gives them away to local staff. He’s got some unusual plants growing in the greenhouse and outside. Can’t see the use he has for some of them.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  Frank shook his head. ‘No. I didn’t want to reveal my erudition.’

  Laurel snorted. ‘Not like you.’

  ‘Tut, tut, Miss Bowman. I didn’t think spouting Latin names would fit into my role as second gardener.’

  ‘Touché. Frank, I think it’s time you—’ There was a scraping sound from outside, close to the door. She put a hand over her mouth. Frank sprang up and pinched out the flame of the night-light.

  Tap, tap, tap on the door.

  Laurel reached for Frank’s hand.

  The situation reminded him of the time when a teacher had found him and Janet Brooks in the stationery cupboard. If only he’d had another ten minutes he wouldn’t have had to wait eighteen months to lose his virginity.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Laurel’s shoulders were shaking. He squeezed her hand hard. The shaking increased.

  Tap, tap, tap. ‘Laurel, I know you’re in there. I heard you talking. Who’s in there with you?’ The voice was male -a drunken male.

  Laurel pressed her mouth close to his ear. ‘It’s Charlie Frost.’ Her lips were soft and warm. The ear was an erotic area, and memories of the stationery cupboard became sharper.

  ‘Laurel.’ His voice was getting louder; soon other members of staff would be woken up.

  Frank turned his head and whispered into her ear, deliberately pressing close, tempted for a moment to brush his tongue over her ear lobe. ‘You’ll have to get rid of him.’

  She shuddered and pulled away from him. He got up and moved into the bathroom, keeping the door ajar.

  Tap, tap tap. ‘Laurel, open the door. I want to talk to you. I need your help. I don’t know what to do.’

  Frank tensed.

  ‘Charlie, please be quiet. You’ll have everyone up soon,’ she hissed. ‘Go away. If you don’t I’ll scream and say you were trying to break the door down. I’ll report you to Mr Salter.’

  She’d give him detention soon.

  There was silence.

  ‘I thought you liked me. We get on so well together. Please let me in, Laurel,’ Charlie pleaded.

  There was an exhalation of impatient breath. ‘Sod off, Charlie. I’ll not tell you again. If you go now I promise to see you tomorrow morning and I’ll help you if I can. I need to get some sleep, even if you don’t.’

  After what seemed like an interminable time, there was the sound of shuffling footsteps slowly fading away, then silence.

  Frank came out of the bathroom. Laurel removed the material covering the glass in the door and peered out into the night. He moved next to her. ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘I’m not sure, he could be hiding round a corner, waiting to see if any one comes out. Wouldn’t put it past him.’

  ‘He sounded pretty drunk to me. More likely he’s fallen down in a stupor.’

  They bumped into each other. Laurel laughed. ‘I nearly exploded. I felt like a teenager caught snogging my boyfriend on the sofa.’

  He didn’t tell her what the situation reminded him of. ‘Any idea what he was going on about?’

  ‘No. Another one who doesn’t know what to do. Do you think it could be important?’

  He decided he needed to get out of the chalet: the darkness, the nearness of Laurel, the whisky roaring through his veins, it all spelt disaster if he didn’t get out soon. ‘I’m off, let’s hope Frost has hit the hay in his chalet. Which one is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I’ve not noticed him going in or out of any of them, and I certainly didn’t ask.’

  ‘You’ll try and see Bert tomorrow?’

  ‘I said I would.’ She hesitated. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea to meet like this, Frank. It’s too risky.’

  She was right there.

  ‘We need to have some way of communicating; a weekly meeting back at Greyfriars isn’t going to work. Perhaps we could arrange to meet regularly in Dorothy’s room. As long as we’re careful, make sure we arrive at different times. What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. We could try and meet tomorrow night, then I can tell you if I had any luck with Bert.’

  ‘Watch out for him: Jim Lovell’s wife said he was a randy old man.’

  ‘Not another!’

  He hoped she wasn’t referring to him. He opened the door, waited, then slipped back to his chalet.

  Chapter 12

  Tuesday, June 22, 1971

  Sam’s Jaguar pulled up in front of the camp’s office. Dorothy started to open the passenger door, but Sam placed a hand on her arm.

  ‘You wait there, Dorothy.’ He jumped out and opened her door.

  This was a change. Why the sudden concern for her? ‘Thank you, Sam.’

  ‘My pleasure, Dorothy.’

  As they walked towards the entrance, Belinda Tweedie, who was standing in the doorway, probably waiting to chastise her for being late, swivelled on her heels, and disappeared.

  ‘I’ve been very impressed by your grasp of what’s needed to make the camp’s administration run more smoothly,’ Sam said.

  The previous evening they’d watched the end of an exciting match at Wimbledon; she and Sam rooted for the veteran Gonzales, who beat the whipper-snapper Orantes, supported by Stephen, in five sets. After, over dinner, she’d enjoyed telling them the changes she’d thought would make improvements to the camp’s administration, and as they’d talked about various aspects, new ideas came to both Sam and Stephen. Stephen made notes and he and his father decided to try out one or two ideas immediately. They’d ended the evening with a few drinks. Even if she wasn’t discovering anything new about the disappearance of the two women, she was pleased they’d appreciated her organisational skills.

  Sam ushered her into the office. ‘Good morning, Sally. Any problems today?’

  ‘Not so far, Mr Salter.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear. Where’s Miss Tweedie?’

  ‘In your office, Mr Salter.’

  Dorothy moved towards her desk.

  Sam held up his hand. ‘Come with me, Dorothy. I need you to explain to Miss Tweedie your ideas for improving the booking system for the tennis courts, horse-riding and mini-golf course. I’m not sure I can remember all the details.’

  She moved closer to him. ‘Do you think that’s wise? Miss Tweedie might be upset if you started implementing my ideas. Perhaps I should have discussed them with her first. She might see it as me going behind her back.’

  Sam shrugged. ‘Diplomacy was never my strong point. My motto is get things done fast. If you see a better, more economical way of doing something, get on with it.’

  Butterflies fluttered in her chest. ‘Perhaps you could tell her it was your idea, not involve me. Remember why I’m here,’ she whispered.

  He shook his head, ignoring the hint. ‘You’re too modest, Dorothy.’ He opened his office door. ‘I can’t say that’s a quality you find in many women nowadays. But I like it! ‘ He beamed at her and placing his hand in the small of her back, gently pushed her into the room.

  Belinda was rearranging the telephone, blotter and other bits and pieces on Sam’s desk, a duster in one hand and a tin of furniture polish in the other.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Salter.’ She promptly finished her polishing and moved away from the desk, allowing Sam to sit down.

  ‘Good morning, Belinda.’

  She turned to Dorothy and tapped her watch. ‘You’re late, Miss Piff. There�
��s a pile of letters on your desk. Make sure replies are completed for the mid-day post.’

  Dorothy started to move towards the door.

  ‘That can wait, Miss Tweedie. Dorothy, please sit down.’ He pointed to the chair Belinda normally sat in when she was taking dictation or instructions from him. ‘You can sit down as well, Miss Tweedie and take notes. Dorothy will explain to you how we can improve the booking system for the tennis courts etc.’ He smiled at Dorothy. ‘Dorothy’s got lots of good ideas for improving many of the systems we use. I want this one put into operation as soon as possible.’

  Belinda flopped onto the chair, her face set in stone, a stone with a red flush.

  Dorothy’s butterflies turned into birds, birds batting their wings against her rib cage. She’d never ingratiate her way into Belinda’s good books now. There would never be a tête-à-tête, she would never discover any of Belinda’s secrets. Oh well, she might as well enjoy her little triumph. She’d have to concentrate on delving into Sam’s secrets, being as she was the flavour of the month. No, she’d have one last try to save the situation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Belinda. I think you run the office very efficiently. These ideas came up over dinner last night. I would have preferred to have discussed them with you, but Sam, Mr Salter, like all business moguls, is an impatient man.’

  Sam chuckled. He obviously liked being described as a mogul. ‘You do have a way with words, Dorothy. I like a sassy woman.’

  Belinda looked ready to burst into tears. ‘What about the letters, Mr Salter? If they don’t get typed we’ll miss the post.’

  ‘Get Sally to phone Cindy, see if she can come in straight away. You can give them a hand when we’ve finished here. I want Dorothy to get on with changing the system. I’m putting her in charge of it. She can drive it through.’ He pointed at the door. ‘See Sally now.’

  Belinda clutched her pad and pencil to her bosom, took a deep breath, her nostrils expanding, and opened the door. At the desk talking to Sally was Gareth Hinney with a bunch of long-stemmed red roses.

  ‘Hello, Gareth,’ Sam shouted. ‘Those flowers for me?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Salter.’

  Sam got up and went to him, bending over to smell the flowers. ‘Lovely, thanks, Gareth.’ He took one of the roses and gave the rest to Sally. ‘Put them in a vase and bring them straight in.’

  He walked back into his office and gave the rose to Dorothy. ‘A beautiful flower for a very clever lady.’

  He was enjoying upsetting Belinda Tweedie; he must know how she felt about him. She didn’t like being used in this way, but what could she do? ‘Thank you, Sam.’ She didn’t need to look at Belinda to know what her expression would be like. However, it was a new role for her: the other woman.

  Laurel, freshly showered after giving her swimming lesson and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, manoeuvred her car out of the staff car park and set off for Orford on her mission to try and contact Bert Wiles. As she drove through the camp gates a sense of relief came over her. The camp did seem like a prison at times. If she didn’t find Bert at home, and she was hoping he wouldn’t be there, she decided she’d drive to Woodbridge and explore the town, rather than go back to the camp straight away.

  She parked in the municipal car park near the quay and walked back to Bert’s house. It was such a pretty village, the gardens were well-tended, the passers-by friendly, nodding and smiling, everyone enjoying a pleasant summer’s day. Murder belonged in the harsh streets of cities, desolate moors, or by litter-filled canals. Not here. But murder could happen anywhere: the school on the sandy cliffs of Dunwich, the Edwardian house in Aldeburgh, the beach house on the shore at Thorpeness. She’d seen those dead bodies herself in the last two cases. So, why not here? She shuddered; it was as though someone had slid the point of a sharp knife down her backbone. She slowed down. Was Bert Wiles dangerous? Frank said he was a small man, she shouldn’t have any trouble dealing with him if he became violent, but did she want to deal with him if he got nasty? Was he responsible for the disappearance of the two girls? They’d decided to concentrate on members of the camp staff as the main suspects, but what if they were wrong and it was someone outside the camp who was responsible? Wasn’t it foolish to go to his house on her own? But she and Frank couldn’t go together; they mustn’t be seen to know each other. She gnawed at her top lip.

  She turned around and marched back to her car, opened the boot and removed a tennis racket from its metal press. Frank had delivered a fatal blow with a cricket bat, so why not a tennis racket as a weapon? She slammed down the boot lid, clenched her jaw and strode back towards Bert’s house. Thank goodness Frank couldn’t see her! But having something she could use as a weapon gave her confidence. She smiled. Perhaps if she saw Bert, she could say she was looking for her tennis ball. Tell him she hit it over his hedge when she was bouncing the ball in the lane.

  She turned right into Daphne Road, home of the dreaded Belinda, and then left into Burnt Street. It was a short, rough lane. At the end, on the right-hand side, was a derelict cottage, with one window only on both the lower and upper floors. The bedroom window was small, under a sharply angled roof. On the gate, half-hanging off its hinges, a wooden sign had Willow Cottage burnt into the wood. Bert’s house.

  It was hard to imagine the house was lived in: it looked neglected, its garden overgrown with weeds, the windows filthy and no sign of life. She pushed open the gate, lifting it so it didn’t completely lose its connection with the flaking brick wall. The hinges screeched and she left it open in case she needed to make a sudden retreat. The brick path, once possibly red, was slippery with mosses and liverworts. The beds on either side were lush with prize-winning nettles and docks, laced-over with a net of goosegrass and convolvulus.

  She hesitated before the front door. It looked as though it hadn’t been open for years; a sudden breeze flailed brambles against the peeling panels, and a spider’s web masked the keyhole. No good knocking. The path veered to the left under the downstairs window. Flattened weeds, bent and broken, showed it was in regular use. Clenching the tennis racket, she followed it, looked in at the window, but filthy panes and ragged lace curtains obscured her view.

  The path went down the side of the house, shrubs forming a tunnel; an acrid smell came from an elder bush as she brushed against it. She peered round the wall into the back garden. The weeds had recently been scythed down round a whirly line, its plastic ropes sagging under the weight of a few garments: a shirt, two tea-towels and a pair of underpants, all in different shades of grey. She walked over and felt them: they were stiff and dry, as though they’d been hanging there for days. Near the base of the whirly-line was a rubber ball and a plastic bone. Her heart softened: Basil’s toys; perhaps Bert wasn’t that bad if he played with his dog.

  Built onto the back of the house was a brick lean-to, the windows relatively clean. There was a window to the right of the lean-to; she glanced up, but there were no windows on the upper floor at the back. There was probably only one room upstairs with a solitary window looking out at the front. Still no sign of anyone and she was sure if Bert was at home, Basil would have started barking. Her shoulders unknotted. She could leave. Frank could make contact with him tonight at the Jolly Sailor.

  Should she look into the lean-to before leaving? It was surprisingly tidy; she wrinkled her nose as she saw stacked up against the walls the tools of Bert’s trade: traps, some looked illegal, but there were catch-them-alive traps, some large enough for rabbits or squirrels, as well as fishing rods, lines with bait-hooks, lobster and crab pots and several wicker baskets. Well-kept tools hung from the walls. The back door leading into the house was ajar. Was the lean-to door locked? She turned the brass handle and it swung open. Should she go in? What if Bert came back and found her? What excuse could she make? She thought she saw someone suspicious going into the house: a masked man with a bag over his shoulder marked swag? She heard a cry and thought someone was injured? That was better. Not much better, but if she
tried to find a stronger excuse for trespassing she’d be standing here for hours.

  The back door creaked as she pushed it wide open. She clapped a hand over her nose: the kitchen smelt of rotten food. A chipped butler’s sink contained a washing-up bowl piled with dirty dishes, there was a grey dishcloth draped over a tap, water dribbling down it onto the plates. Plop, plop, plop. She wrenched the tap handle, it continued to drip. Dead flies lined the window sill and she waved the tennis racquet at live ones buzzing round her head. There was a single ladder-backed chair at the wooden table, wall cupboards, and on the floor two bowls, one containing water, the other licked clean with a few flies crawling inside it.

  The door from the kitchen led to the front room. It didn’t look as if it was used much, although there was a television to the right of a tiled fireplace. Everywhere was coated with dust and even the spiders’ webs looked neglected. A sagging two-seater sofa and matching armchair were the only furniture. On the right narrow stairs must lead to the single bedroom. She hesitated. She’d seen enough. But had she? Had her disgust at the state of the house stopped her from looking at it from the perspective of a detective? A detective searching for any evidence that two women might have been held here? She should be searching for clues: hairclips, underwear, stockings. Sometimes trophies were taken from victims. She shuddered, remembering the locks of hair Philip Nicholson had cut from the victims he’d raped and murdered. She should be examining cupboards, drawers, looking for loose boards or locked boxes. Was she a detective, or wasn’t she?

  She tightened her jaw. God, she wished Frank was here, or Stuart Elderkin or Dorothy or even Mabel. She’d start in the bedroom and work her way down, that was the correct way to search a house, or so Frank said. She wished she had someone to watch her back and hoped Bert wasn’t light on his feet. Hopefully, if he came back while she was searching, Basil would bark and warn her.

  The staircase was steep, with narrow, uncarpeted steps, a pale centre between stained sides, showing there had once been a carpet runner. The banister was greasy and coated in grime. On the seventh step she stopped -grimacing, pinching her nose. A terrible smell was gravitating towards her. Bile rose in her throat. She gripped the banister with her right hand, put down the tennis racquet, and fumbled in her jeans pocket for a handkerchief, which she pressed over her nose. It was a ghastly smell: rotten flesh, dissolving fat, decaying faeces and stale urine. She spat bile into the handkerchief before she choked. She tried to calm her mind; she didn’t know there was a body up there, and even if there was, it might not be a human body. God knows what Wiles got up to. It might be some animal he’d caught. Get real, she told herself. Who slaughters an animal in a bedroom?