The Loophole

by Vera Morris

Dorothy patted her stomach. ‘Wish I could say the same. I think your half-stone has settled round my middle.’

  ‘Anything else to report?’ Frank asked her.

  She scrunched her face. ‘Nothing really, except Charlie Frost has fallen from my favour yet again; he seems to have more hands than an octopus. I chatted with Nellie; Sam seems to be breaking up, according to her.’

  ‘I’ll agree with that,’ Dorothy said. ‘I think his reactions to the deaths of Bert and Belinda are highly suspicious. He could be involved in some way, although I can’t imagine how.’

  ‘What about you, Frank? Heard anything interesting?’ Laurel asked.

  ‘No, Hinney was in a foul mood, cross because a certain lady,’ he winked at Dorothy, ‘asked for my assistance, and took me away from my work. He’s a most objectionable man. I’ll certainly not miss him when all this is over.’

  ‘Has he got an alibi for Wednesday?’ Laurel asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I didn’t dare ask him. I think he may have rumbled my cover.’

  ‘Really? What did he say?’

  ‘Something about doing the police’s work for them and asking too many questions.’

  She pulled a face. ‘You could be right. Why would he react like that if he’s not involved?’

  ‘Because he’s a sour, miserable sod, who doesn’t like anyone, including himself.’

  Dorothy sipped her whisky. ‘I must say, this,’ she raised her glass, ‘is making me feel much better.’

  ‘Ditto,’ Laurel said.

  ‘I suppose the only good thing about Mr Hinney is he’s an excellent gardener; the flower beds are a treat,’ Dorothy said. ‘Came from one of the London parks, is that right?’

  Frank nodded. ‘Yes, and before today I couldn’t fault him.’

  Laurel tilted her head. ‘What happened to make you change your mind?’

  ‘He was potting up plants in the greenhouse this morning and I asked him what they were, he said they were streptocarpus.’

  ‘You’ve lost me, sounds like a deadly bacterium,’ Laurel said.

  ‘Is their common name Cape Primrose?’ Dorothy asked. ‘Don’t they come from South Africa?’

  ‘Dorothy, go to the top of the class. You,’ he pointed to Laurel, ‘must stay after school and write streptocarpus three thousand times.’

  ‘It wasn’t a streptocarpus?’ Dorothy asked.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. I’m not sure what they are, think I’ve seen them before, but not for years. My botany’s getting rusty.’

  ‘If you don’t use it, you lose it,’ Dorothy said, peering at him over her spectacles; she sighed. ‘I won’t be able to take the day off tomorrow and drive back to Greyfriars; I couldn’t leave the Salters and the office girls to cope by themselves.’

  Laurel nodded. ‘It’s a pity, but I think you’re right.’ She turned to Frank. ‘Do you think it would be better if we stayed here as well?’

  ‘Possibly, but we do need to meet and share information with Stuart and Mabel. Hopefully Stuart will have found out something about the missing girls; also, he may have discovered details of the family of the murderer of Mrs Coltman.’

  ‘I can’t see how that would help us,’ Dorothy said.

  ‘It might shed some light on Coltman’s possible motives for these murders if he’s guilty, or possibly give us a clue as to where the girls might be.’

  Laurel took a sip of her drink. ‘You mean where the bodies might be, don’t you? I can’t imagine they’re still alive, not after everything that’s happened in the past week.’

  Frank leant back against the settee and drained his glass. ‘No, I’m sure they’re dead. They bore a strong resemblance to Coltman’s wife, so suspicion falls on him, but unless Revie can find evidence in Coltman’s house linking him either to the missing girls, or to Tweedie’s and Wiles’ murders, he’ll have to let him go.’

  Dorothy got up, fetched a bottle of Glenlivet, and did refills. They half-heartedly chinked glasses; no one offered a toast. She looked at her wrist watch. ‘Anyone feel like watching Wimbledon? Find out who won the women’s final?’

  They both shook their heads.

  She sighed.

  ‘What about those boxes Coltman made, pictures of pretty dark-haired, blue-eyed girls imprisoned in boxes? And the scalpels? All this is seriously weird,’ Laurel said, hitching her cardigan more tightly round her shoulders.

  ‘Why did he make things like that?’ Dorothy asked.

  ‘What do we know about Coltman? About his life before he went to Java?’ Frank asked.

  Laurel went over the details Coltman had told her when she had tea with him, and the information from Stuart and Revie.

  Frank rubbed his chin. ‘Married a childhood sweetheart, thought she was safe with his mother away from London, had a promising career as an architect cut short by the war,’ he mused.

  ‘Captured by the Japs, interred and tortured,’ Dorothy chimed in.

  ‘Returns to find his wife and son murdered and the killer hanged,’ Frank repeated.

  ‘His son’s body never found,’ finished Dorothy.

  ‘And his life since?’ Frank asked.

  ‘A shattered man, he roams the fields at night, he has a boat and obviously, from all the shells used in the boxes, rows to beaches and collects shells and any other things he can use as decoration,’ Laurel said.

  ‘I wonder where he goes for the shells; I suppose any beach round here would do,’ he said.

  ‘Where is his boat kept?’ Dorothy asked.

  ‘I don’t know, but he’d have to row a fair distance, down the Ore, before he came to any beaches. I suppose Shingle Street is the nearest point, but the waters round there are treacherous,’ Laurel replied.

  ‘Unless he rows across the river to Orford Ness. If he did that he could walk to the beaches.’

  ‘But wouldn’t that be dangerous? All the unexploded bombs and armaments?’ Laurel asked.

  ‘Not if he knew which areas had been cleared. Perhaps he doesn’t care very much if he does blow himself up; he seems an unhappy man, with nothing to live for except to try and find the body of his dead son, and to make boxes to imprison paper girls.’

  Laurel straightened. ‘Perhaps he wasn’t trying to imprison them, perhaps he was trying to keep them safe, to put them behind the wire so no harm could come to them. He wasn’t able to protect his wife. Perhaps he feels guilty he wasn’t there to protect her.’

  Frank made a circle with his thumb and forefinger. ‘That’s what I call lateral thinking, and it ties in with what Coltman said: “I only want to make her safe.”‘

  Chapter 19

  Saturday, July 3, 1971

  Back in his cottage, with the sound of waves beating against the pebble beach below the sandy cliffs, the tension in Frank’s shoulders eased as he started to prepare lunch. He’d missed that sound.

  The previous evening as he and Laurel were leaving, Dorothy called them back. ‘Stuart’s on the phone.’

  ‘Sorry, Frank. I won’t make the meeting until after four. I’m following up a lead.’

  ‘Want to tell me about it?’

  ‘No, it may come to nothing. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘We can have the morning off,’ Laurel said. ‘I can meet Oliver.’

  ‘I’ll go to the cottage and have a think,’ he’d replied. ‘And a cook?’ she’d asked.

  He nodded.

  On his way back from the camp, he’d picked up a freshly cooked lobster in Aldeburgh from Mr Fryer, the fisherman, who’d broken the claws and split the body for him. Now, he put it on a wooden board, gave the goodsized claws a few more cracks and eased out the pink meat, then removed the white flesh from the tail and cut it into thick slices. Usually with a fresh lobster he’d settle for some mayonnaise and a green salad, but today he wanted to cook; he wanted to concentrate on something apart from murder. He’d chosen a fiddly recipe:Lobster a L’Americaine. He chopped up carrots, onions, a shallot and a clove of garlic, and sighed deeply as he breath
ed in the smell of the vegetables sweating in butter.

  Later, he wiped a piece of bread round the plate, soaking up the last of the rich sauce, and chewing it slowly, savouring the different flavours. He got a bottle from the fridge and poured the last of the Chablis into his wine glass. He carried it to the sitting room and settled back into the sagging settee, closing his eyes, appreciating the lingering taste in his mouth, but also the calm and quiet of the cottage.

  He wasn’t cut out for life in a holiday camp with the perpetual presence of too many people. Being undercover was not his bag, and he hated being bossed around by the grumpy and unpleasant Hinney. He opened his eyes, drank the last of the wine and decided it was time to put his brain into gear and try to work out who was responsible for the murders of Wiles and Tweedie, and, if possible, to find a link between these crimes and the missing girls. First coffee.

  Back in the kitchen, he put on the percolator and settled down at the table with an A4 pad of lined paper and a biro.

  Suspects

  Sam Salter

  Stephen Salter

  Charles Frost

  Nellie Minnikin

  Thomas Coltman

  Gareth Hinney

  Did any of these people fit the bill? Coltman looked the most likely, the most believable. If his face appeared in newspapers with details of his midnight wanderings and obsessive behaviour, people would nod their heads in agreement. It must be him, they’d think. He’s a weirdo.

  The rest? No one jumped out at him, although there were disturbing facts about all of them, apart from Stephen Salter. Hinney wasn’t a strong suspect either; he didn’t appear to like anyone, wasn’t interested in women, but those facts didn’t add up to making him a murderer.

  He decided to add another name to the list.

  Person unknown.

  He was looking for a sadist, a person who showed no humanity, had no feeling for anyone. A sadist who took pleasure in watching his victims suffer. He started to analyse the personalities of the list of suspects.

  Laurel opened the door of the Cross Keys pub and walked into the bar. Oliver was sitting by the fireplace with Billy under the table beside him. As she moved towards them, Billy pulled on his lead, shaking the table, making Oliver’s beer slop over the rim of the pint glass.

  Oliver laughed, pulling the dog back by his collar.

  She bent down and rubbed her face against Billy’s head. The smell of his fur was delicious, and his rough tongue curled round one of her ears, his hot breath engulfing her face.

  ‘I hope I’m going to get an equally warm welcome,’ Oliver said, pushing Billy back under the table.

  She wiped her face with the back of her hand, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Don’t think your tongue can match his,’ she whispered.

  He looked shocked.

  ‘Sorry, it’s the company I’ve been keeping.’

  When he was at the bar ordering her drink, she once more resumed her love affair with Billy. She bit her lip. How would Oliver feel if he knew when she came into the pub, it was the sight of the black Labrador that made her heart race and not him? This wasn’t a basis for a lasting relationship, was it? You couldn’t marry a man because he owned the most delicious dog in the world.

  She was being silly. It was the effect of being enclosed in that wretched campsite, discovering the body of Bert Wiles and hearing of the murder of Belinda Tweedie, no wonder her mind was in turmoil. She liked Oliver, he was good company, but did she fancy the pants off him? Did she lust after him as she’d once lusted after her fiancé, Simon? Did she want to take the final step, to commit herself to him, body and soul? If they married would she have to give up being part of The Anglian Detective Agency? If she did, what would she do? Just be a doctor’s wife? Looking after the office? Booking appointments? Become a stalwart of the Mothers’ Union? She could go back to teaching. Did she want to do that? No. She wanted to remain a detective. She wanted to keep the close relationships she had with Frank, Dorothy, Stuart and Mabel, but especially Frank. Would Oliver be happy with a different kind of relationship? They could be friends and lovers, with no serious commitment. God, she was starting to sound like Frank.

  She pushed Billy back under the table as Oliver returned with a half of Adnams. ‘Lovely, thank you.’ It tasted clean and hoppy.

  Oliver took a sip from his pint glass. He frowned at her. ‘I’ve been worried about you, Laurel. These murders in Orford, are they anything to do with the case you’re working on?’

  She spluttered, the beer going up her nose. She coughed, pulled out a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped her face. ‘I hope you’re not accusing me of murder?’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he said.

  ‘Really, Oliver, you know I can’t talk about cases we’re still working on.’

  ‘You’re at that campsite, aren’t you? And Diamond is with you, isn’t he? Also, Dorothy Piff s absence has been noted.’ He paused, his face flushing. ‘I think you owe me an explanation. When people ask me where you are, I don’t know what to say. You know what it’s like round here, everyone knows everyone else’s business.’

  Did she owe him that? Was everyone assuming they were a pair? Did they see her as the future doctor’s wife? Booking medical appointments, raising a family, becoming part of the town’s establishment and a regular churchgoer? Did she see herself in that role?

  She looked into her glass as though the future might reveal itself in the frothy beer. She looked up at him; his expression changing from angry to dismayed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Oliver, if you’re upset, but my first allegiance is to my partners and the client whose case we’re working on.’

  His nostrils dilated. ‘I see.’

  This was ridiculous, she only had a few hours before the meeting, she didn’t want to waste this precious time quarrelling. She wanted and needed some light-hearted banter, a good meal, and a walk with Billy. They could sort out their relationship when this case was over and she was back at Greyfriars House.

  ‘Please, Oliver, let’s not fall out. I haven’t much time left before I have to go back. I’m quite safe, honestly. We can talk about all this when things are back to normal.’

  The expression on his face didn’t change. ‘Normal? Your life hasn’t been normal since you came to this part of Suffolk, has it? As long as you’re a member of that detective agency you’ll always be in danger, and what with the crazy hours you work, and my doctor’s rota, we hardly see anything of each other.’

  Her throat tightened, and bubbles of anger started to fizz though her brain. Diplomacy wasn’t working. She’d been looking forward to seeing Oliver and Billy, casting off her Stripey blazer and not having to perpetually smile at the campers.

  ‘I refuse to discuss this anymore today. If you can’t forget it for a few hours so we can have a pleasant lunch, then I think it’s better if we go our own ways.’

  His jaw dropped and he grabbed her hand. ‘You’re not giving me the brush-off, are you? Please, Laurel. I’m sorry, but I’ve not been able to sleep properly since I heard about the first murder, and then when the news came about the camp secretary...’

  She inwardly sighed. Now she knew what it must be like for men who had truly dangerous jobs, like soldiers, fishermen, the lifeboat crew, and the police; how some of their wives couldn’t understand how much their jobs, however dangerous, meant to them, and how when they were asked to give those jobs up, the marriage sometimes fell apart, either because they refused to do that, or they gave in, and were unhappy and resentful afterwards. If Oliver did ask her to marry him, then before and if she said, yes, there would have to be a lot of negotiations.

  ‘No, I’m not, Oliver. I just meant for this afternoon. Look, let’s have some lunch. I’m starving. Can we eat here and then take Billy for a walk towards Thorpeness?’

  He looked relieved. ‘We could go back to my place, I can rustle up something.’

  And what would that lead to? Sex? More quarrelling? ‘Thank you, Oliver, perhaps n
ext time. I need to get back by four.’ Not strictly true, but she hoped she’d have time for a chat with Mabel before the meeting started; she’d missed her.

  ‘Oh, OK. I’ll get a menu. Like another drink?’

  She hadn’t drunk much of her half pint, but she needed an alcohol boost. Could she ask for a whisky? Better not, or Oliver would think she was a real toper. She smiled, imagining his face if she asked for a double Bell’s. ‘Another half would be lovely, Oliver.’

  Frank gave Mabel a tight hug. ‘God, I’ve missed you, Mabel.’

  She hugged him back. ‘You mean you’ve missed my cooking.’

  ‘That as well. But I have missed the gang. It’s so much better when we’re working together and able to constantly exchange information. I’ve missed everyone’s company; although Laurel and Dorothy are at the camp, and we manage to get together now and then, it hasn’t been the same.’

  Mabel opened a cake tin and took out a spectacular sponge cake. ‘We can have a slice of this and a cuppa while we’re waiting for Laurel and Stuart. I’m sorry Dorothy can’t make it; I do miss her.’

  ‘When will Stuart be back? What’s he been up to?’

  She switched on the kettle. ‘He said not before four. He’s following up on the family of the boy who was hanged. Seemed quite excited about it. Don’t know any more than that.’

  Stuart excited? ‘That sounds promising.’

  Mabel cocked her head. ‘Laurel’s here.’

  All three were round the kitchen table gossiping, when the noise of Stuart’s Humber Hawk silenced them. Frank looked at his watch. ‘Four thirty, bit late, but we’ll let him off.’

  Stuart marched into the kitchen, a big smile creasing his tired face. ‘Laurel!’ Followed by a bear hug. ‘Frank.’ Hearty hand-shakes. He turned to Mabel, nodding to what was left of the sponge cake. ‘See you’ve left me a few crumbs.’

  She shook her fist at him.

  ‘Glad to see you’re both still madly in love,’ Frank said

  Grinning, Stuart and Mabel hugged each other. ‘We have missed you, it hasn’t been the same,’ Stuart said.

  Stuart nodded. ‘Where’s Dorothy?’