The Loophole

by Vera Morris

  Belinda returned with the glass of water. She stopped when she saw Dorothy’s empty wineglass. ‘You’ve drunk it all?’

  What was the woman playing at? First, she wanted her to drink the wine, now she seemed upset because she’d drunk it too quickly. ‘Yes, it was delicious. Very greedy of me.’

  Belinda handed her the water; looking relieved. ‘Oh, not at all. I’ll get you some more.’

  ‘Thank you, Belinda, but no more for me, I’m driving. I’ll sip the water; you sit down and relax, you haven’t finished your own wine.’

  Belinda flopped down and stared at her.

  Was there something wrong? Had she smeared lipstick all over her face? ‘Are you all right, Belinda?’

  She jumped at her words. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Are you all right?’

  Good Lord, what a silly conversation. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ She couldn’t stand this, she’d make her move in a few minutes, invent some excuse to get away. ‘That was dreadful, wasn’t it? The murder of that man. He lived near here, didn’t he? Aren’t you scared? I think I would be, if a murder had been committed so near to my home.’

  Belinda’s mouth opened, then shut. She looked like a landed fish.

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I’d forgotten how sensitive you are about things like that.’

  Belinda took a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and dabbed at her top lip. ‘Terrible, terrible.’ Her eyes were bulging and she looked terrified.

  She hoped Belinda wasn’t going to have one of her turns; then she’d never get away.

  ‘Make sure you lock and bolt your doors, back and front tonight, but I’m sure you’re safe, there are lots of police about at the moment.’

  This reassurance didn’t seem to work as Belinda became more agitated, her right hand clasping the base of her neck. ‘How are you?’ she asked, standing up and moving towards her. ‘Do you feel woozy?’

  What was the matter with the woman? Was she drunk?

  ‘Would you like to lie down?’ Belinda asked, her voice trembling, pleading.

  It was the last thing she wanted to do.

  There was a noise from somewhere in the house -like breaking glass. Was it from the kitchen?

  Belinda put a hand to her mouth.

  ‘What’s that? Is there someone else in the house?’

  ‘No. No. It’s that cat. It must have knocked something over.’

  There’d been no sign of a cat when she was last here. No food bowl and Belinda didn’t seem to like animals. She felt as though an earwig had wriggled its way under her clothes and was crawling down her spine. Panic bubbled up from her stomach. She knew she must get away from this house and from this woman. She didn’t know why.

  She sprang up, grabbed her handbag, and pushed past the startled Belinda. ‘Sorry, must go. Just remembered something I have to do.’ She ran down the hall and pulled at the front door handle.

  ‘No, you mustn’t go,’ Belinda was behind her, panting, grabbing her arm.

  She pushed her off, fumbling with the Yale lock.

  ‘You must stay. Please stay!’

  The woman was desperate, but so was she.

  The knob turned and she pulled the door open, knocking Belinda backwards. ‘Sorry, Belinda. See you in the morning. Thank you for the wine and nibbles.’

  Belinda followed her to the car, wringing her hands. ‘I didn’t mean it to go this far. Please help me.’

  For a moment she was tempted to stop and try to find out what Belinda was going on about, but that earwig was still crawling around and all she wanted was to get as far away from Belinda and her oppressive house as quickly as possible.

  Thank goodness she hadn’t locked her car; she jumped in, turned on the ignition, slammed into first gear, stamped on the accelerator and kangarooed away.

  She looked in her rear mirror. Belinda was standing on the pavement, looking not at her, but back, towards her house.

  Chapter 17

  Thursday, July 1, 1971

  Frank pushed the wheelbarrow containing his fork, handtools and a couple of buckets, towards the reception area. His morning’s instructions from Hinney were to work on the flower beds near the camp’s entrance, and those in the visitors’ car park. He was to weed, remove any dying plants and replace them with others from the nursery garden. Hinney was his usual dour self: uncommunicative and surly. It was a good job he had little contact with the campers.

  Frank liked the gardening, especially on what promised to be a lovely, sunny day. It was relaxing, as when he was concentrating on digging up weeds he forgot the frustrations of the investigation, and the regret they’d decided to go undercover. They weren’t making much progress and the murder of Bert Wiles had clouded the issue. A few hours of weeding might free his mind, let his subconscious take over the problem of the girls’ disappearance, and present him with a new line of investigation. What he needed was a session in his cottage, with paper and a biro, drawing spider diagrams, and trying to make connections. Plus, a good bottle of wine and a decent meal. The food at the camp was wholesome, plentiful, but boring. Perhaps next Saturday he’d spend some time with a frying pan, a Dover sole and a bottle of Muscadet. He sighed, that would be good. Mabel’s cooking was superb, but he needed the thinking time.

  As he pushed the barrow in front of the reception office, Dorothy came hurtling through the door, looking fraught. She waved and ran towards him.

  ‘Mr, er, Gardener, sorry I’ve forgotten your name.’ Excellent, Dorothy, ten out of ten. ‘Frank Diamond, madam. How can I help you?’

  ‘I need a man to come with me.’

  The others would like this one. Then he saw how agitated she was. What was the matter? Was Laurel in trouble? ‘Of course. Where to?’

  ‘It’s Miss Tweedie. She hasn’t come into work. She may have had one of her turns.’

  ‘Can someone in the office tell Mr Hinney where I’ve gone? I don’t want to get into trouble.’

  ‘Yes, you tell them, I’ll get my car.’

  Frank waited until they were clear of the camp. ‘What’s up, Dorothy? Why are you so worried? I thought you looked flustered when we saw you in the camp last night.’ She ground into fourth gear. ‘As you know I went there last night to have a drink with her.’ She explained everything she could remember. ‘I was going to tell you and Laurel tonight. She was so keen for me to drink the wine, but when she thought I’d had a glass she kept staring at me, as though she thought something was going to happen.’

  ‘You think it was drugged?’

  Dorothy nodded, turning the car into Daphne Road.

  ‘I was scared, Frank. There was something evil in that house. Not just her, but I think there was someone else there, hiding in the kitchen. Waiting for me to fall down in a stupor. I had to get out. She was terribly distressed herself. I think she was as frightened as I was, but for a different reason. I should have done something straight away, but I’d have felt a fool, as there wasn’t anything I could call the police about.’

  She pulled up in front of Belinda’s house.

  Her hands were gripping the steering wheel as though she didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to find out what had happened. He placed a hand over hers. ‘You did the right thing. We all trust your judgement. Hopefully, she’s not feeling too good -from what you’ve said she’d a skin full of wine.’

  Dorothy gulped. ‘Let’s hope that’s it.’

  The curtains at the windows of both up and downstairs rooms were drawn. He knocked on the front door. They waited. He knocked again, louder.

  ‘This looks bad, Frank.’

  ‘She could be in bed with a blinding headache and doesn’t want to see anyone.’

  Dorothy was getting more agitated by the second. ‘What shall we do?’

  ‘Do you think any of the neighbours would have a spare key?’

  She looked doubtful. ‘I could ask.’

  ‘Do that, I’ll go round the back. If needed, I’ll break in.’

  ‘Wai
t until I get back. I’ll try the houses on each side, but I think one is a holiday home, and no one’s there. I don’t think she’s the kind of person who doles out keys to her house.’

  ‘I’ll explore. There’s a side path to the right. Come down that, I’ll wait at the back. Let’s hope you can find a key. Wish I’d brought some tools with me. What have you got in the car?’

  She shook her head impatiently. ‘I’ll look if we need to break in.’ She raced off to the next-door house.

  There was a gate at the entrance to the back of the house. He tried to unlatch it, but it wouldn’t budge. Felt like a bolt. He puffed out his cheeks. Up and over. He wished he wasn’t wearing gardening boots, the steel toe-caps were fine for protecting tootsies from spades, and a wonder for firming in plants, but not flexible enough for scaling gates. He got a good grip on the top of the gate and pulled himself up. Leg over and a swing of the hips and he was safely down. All the recent physical activity was paying off. There was a single bolt near the top, it moved smoothly and he left the gate open for Dorothy, using a loose brick to keep it ajar.

  A narrow red brick path ran down the side of the house. The only window was on the second floor. At the rear of the house a stone step led to the back door. It was locked. He peered into a window to the right of it -the kitchen -net curtains partly obscured his view, but as far as he could see there was no one there. It seemed tidy, no chairs tipped over, or dishes on the floor.

  He turned and looked at the garden. It was neat with another brick path running down the centre, flower beds on either side, full of rose bushes, the blooms past their best, the edges of the petals browning. He walked down the path towards a shed on the right-hand side. He grimaced. Padlocked. Pity, it probably held some useful tools.

  The sound of running feet. ‘Frank?’ Dorothy came puffing round the corner of the house. ‘No luck. There was a neighbour in. She said she was sure no one had a key to the house, and Belinda isn’t close to anyone. So, I didn’t waste any more time looking for a key.’ She waved a tyre-lever at him. ‘Found this in the car. Any use?’

  He took it from her and smacked it against his palm. ‘Should do the job. I’ll break the back window and climb in. I had to climb the gate, that was bolted.’ He waited a second, expecting at least a nod of approval for his feat.

  ‘Well, get on with it,’ Dorothy said.

  He should have known better. He took of his t-shirt and wrapped it round his fist, and grasped the tyre-lever. ‘Step back, Dorothy.’ Putting his other arm up to shield his eyes, he smashed the glass near the handle.

  ‘Crikey!’ Dorothy said. ‘That’ll have the neighbours worried. I explained to the neighbour we were concerned about Miss Tweedie and we might have to beak in; she just shrugged.’

  He found a bucket, upturned it and placed it below the window. ‘Could you give me a bit of support, Dorothy, this bucket’s a bit wobbly.’

  She placed two hands on his back. ‘Naked flesh! Aren’t I a lucky old lady!’

  Frank snorted. ‘You might not think so in a minute.’

  ‘Too true. Sorry.’

  He knocked out jutting pieces of glass which fell inwards, splintering into the sink below. He gingerly put his hand through the hole and eased the handle of the window open; more glass tinkled. He took a deep breath. In the last case they’d had to break into two houses, first he and Laurel and then Laurel and Oliver; both times it hadn’t been good news. He had a feeling it was third time unlucky.

  ‘Give us a push up.’

  Dorothy’s hands moved to his bum, propelling him upwards through the open window. He grasped a tap over the sink. Luckily the sink was empty, and there were no dishes on the drainboard. His steel toe-caps clanked against the sink. Then he was on the tiled floor. The key was in the back door, he opened it.

  ‘Well done. Goodness, it smells of bleach in here.’ She looked around. ‘Perhaps she’s in bed. The kitchen’s tidy, she must have washed up the glasses and plates last night.’ She grimaced. ‘She’ll be furious if we find her with her hair in curlers.’

  He hoped that was what they would find. Better a furious woman than...

  They opened the kitchen door and moved into the hall. His nostrils dilated with disgust and he searched his pockets for a handkerchief. Dorothy clamped a hand over her nose and mouth. He put out an arm. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ She went back to the kitchen and came back with two tea-towels soaked in water. She handed him one and he placed it over his mouth and nose. She’d mixed washing-up liquid with the water; he was grateful for the lemony smell. ‘Good thinking,’ he muttered.

  ‘Picked that up from a crime novel.’

  It was pointless trying to hold her back. ‘Ready?’

  She nodded, grim but determined.

  Another tough woman.

  The door to the lounge was ajar and as he pushed it wide open the stench of death grew stronger, even though he had the towel pressed close to his face. He turned to her. ‘I need another tea-towel. Mustn’t smudge any finger prints.’

  She nodded, turned and came back and handed him a third tea-towel. He used it to turn on the light, holding out his other arm to prevent her from going past him.

  There was a sharp intake of breath behind him.

  Belinda Tweedie lay on her front across the shag-pile rug. She was wearing a cream dress, parts of it stained dark red. The back of her head was a misshapen mass of blood, splinters of white bone, and sodden hair. A few blonde patches showed between the blood-soaked brown. Belinda and the carpet were covered in jagged shards of glass, splinters of glass glinting in her hair and withered pink roses scattered over the body and rug. A funeral homage. There was a poker on the carpet, its end coated in black blood.

  He moved to the window and using the tea-towel, pulled back the curtains. Sunlight peeled into the room making the details vivid.

  ‘Don’t touch anything, Dorothy.’

  She was silent, eyes wide behind her spectacles.

  He went to the body. Pointless feeling for a pulse. No one can exist without a brain. He got hold of a shoulder and partly turned her over so he could look at her face. Christ, the murderer had smashed her face in as well. The whole head was just a bloody mass of torn muscle, smashed bone, scattered teeth.

  ‘Absolutely sickening,’ Dorothy fumed. ‘He’s a vicious beast.’

  ‘Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill her?’

  She was breathing heavily. With anger?

  ‘There was something going on last night. I’m sure someone else was in the house. That someone has to be the murderer. She was supposed to drug me, that’s what I think. Then perhaps when I’d conked out, he, the person in the kitchen, would have...’ She shivered.

  ‘Disposed of you?’ She nodded.

  ‘Let’s see if we can find what’s left of the wine in the kitchen. There are no bottles or glasses in here.’

  He was grateful to get away from the corpse and the coppery smell of blood, together with other disgusting smells: death had voided the body of Belinda Tweedie.

  In the kitchen, using the towel, he searched the fridge, and waste bin -there were no wine bottles, full or empty. In a cupboard was a row of sparkling glasses.

  ‘Damn. The murderer’s cleaned up. If we’d had a sample of the wine we could have asked Revie to have it analysed. The kind of drug, if there was one, might have given us a clue to the murderer.’

  Dorothy inhaled sharply, then grasped his arm. ‘We have got one.’ She explained about putting some in the aspirin bottle.

  ‘Excellent. We’d better get on to Revie straight away. Drive to the village hall, that’s where Revie is setting up a control centre. Will he be pleased to see you! Get him here as soon as possible and then get that aspirin bottle.’

  He heard her drive away. He took a deep breath and went back to have another look at the crime scene before the plod arrived.

  Frank decided to be diplomatic and keep quiet as he sat in the back
of the police car, next to a young PC he hadn’t met before. If he made any quips Revie was likely to change his mind and throw him out. Then, not only would he have to walk back to the camp, but he’d miss out on the search of Thomas Coltman’s house.

  On Revie’s arrival at Belinda Tweedie’s house, after viewing the body, setting up the forensic team and contacting the pathologist, Ansell, he told Frank he’d considered what Laurel had discovered at Coltman’s house: the scalpels and the resemblance of Coltman’s late wife to the missing girls and he’d obtained a search warrant. He was about to go there when Dorothy arrived with news of another murder. Frank had little difficulty in persuading him to let him join in the search.

  ‘He should be home by now,’ Revie said. He turned to the driver. ‘What time did he clock off, Cottam?’

  Detective Constable Johnny Cottam had previously been a member of Frank’s team when Frank had been a detective inspector on the Susan Nicholson case. Frank was pleased he’d been promoted to the plain clothes force as he not only liked the lad, but he was a good officer.

  ‘Finished at noon, sir.’

  Revie turned and stared at Frank. ‘You do realise this could blow your cover?’

  ‘It’ll last as long as you’ve got hold of Coltman. If I’m found out, Laurel and Dorothy can still operate as camp employees.’ He sighed. ‘Frankly, I’m not sure going undercover has worked out as well as I’d planned. I don’t think I’d do it again in a hurry.’

  Revie sniffed.

  They pulled up in front of Coltman’s cottage.

  ‘Mr Diamond,’ Revie grunted, ‘remember you’re not a copper any more. Keep quiet, but keep your eyes and ears open; you can tell me anything you think is important after we do the search. Everyone ready?’ There were nods from Cottam and the PC.

  ‘Right, let’s see what we can find. Some blood-stained clothing would be handy, or a diary noting down when and where he killed his victims. I could do with an early night.’

  He looked at the front door. ‘That’s not been open in a while. Round the back.’

  Coltman was in the back garden hanging out some washing on his whirly-line. He froze, a peg in his mouth, a shirt hanging by its sleeve from the line. He stepped back, his eyes wide.