Deadly Deceit

by Nancy Buckingham

  From behind them came the sound of a vehicle approaching, and they turned to see a landrover enter the yard and pull up. The man who got out, though wearing baggy tracksuit trousers and a well-worn sweater, had an air of authority which led Kate to deduce that this was Fred Blackwood himself. In his late forties, he was short and slight with rather bandy legs - the typical ex-jockey. The eyes were pale but keen, noticing everything, and his leathery skin was tautly stretched over knobbly cheekbones. Wisps of greying fair hair stuck out from beneath his check cap.

  He said chattily, ‘When I saw you drive in, I reckoned it must be someone wanting me. I was over at the gallop, checking the fences. Put up two years ago and they’re rotting already. Honestly, the timber you get these days.’

  Kate had primed Boulter to take the initiative. She preferred to keep a low profile. Chief inspectors didn’t come calling about trifles, and she wanted the visit to appear to be unimportant.

  ‘Mr Blackwood? Police. Detective Sergeant Boulter.’ He didn’t introduce Kate. ‘Wanted a word, sir, if it’s convenient.’

  ‘Sure. Come over to the office, if you like.’ Blackwood eyed Kate for a moment, winked at her, and returned his attention to the sergeant.

  ‘It all seems very quiet,’ Boulter commented, as they followed him across the yard. ‘I thought a racing stable would be a hive of activity.’

  Blackwood laughed. ‘I can tell you’re not one of us, laddie. You should see this place mornings and evenings. Just now it’s siesta time for the horses.’

  He was a shade too confident, Kate mused, cocky even. Anyone with a totally easy conscience is normally a bit thrown by the sudden arrival of the police. It usually heralds bad news of some kind - an accident, perhaps, or an unwitting involvement in something unlawful. But this man was very sure of himself, his rolling gait making him look slightly comic from behind.

  His office was quite small and functional, but it had a couple of directors’ canvas chairs and a well-stocked drinks cupboard (for visiting owners?). Blackwood waved them into the chairs.

  ‘Will you take a little something, sergeant?’

  Boulter declined, with obvious regret. ‘It’s one of these nuisance things we’ve come about, sir. We’ve been getting a few reports of a trade in stolen feeding stuffs . . . oats, corn and so on. We wondered if by chance you’ve been offered any? Not of course that I’m suggesting you’d be interested, in any case.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that. Always buy cheap when I can.’ Blackwood treated Kate to another leering wink, and she guessed he tossed these around all day to his female stable-lads. ‘Only joking, sergeant. That sort of game’s not worth the candle. You can land yourself in big trouble just for the sake of saving a few quid.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, sir. Have you heard any whispers, by any chance, that might give us a lead?’

  Blackwood shook his head. ‘But if I should do, of course, then I’ll. . .’

  ‘Tip us the wink? That would be much appreciated, sir. We’ve got to try and catch these villains, eh? They give the racing game a bad name.’

  Blackwood seconded that with every appearance of enthusiasm. He gave Kate another arch appraisal, to bolster his self-image.

  ‘What’s a good looking filly like you doing in the police, love?’

  It was funny, really, that ‘little’. She topped him by about four inches.

  ‘It’s a very fulfilling career, Mr Blackwood,’ she said demurely.

  ‘Fulfilling, love?’ He chuckled softly. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean it takes up too much of your time and energy? You ought to be making some man very happy, that’s what you ought to be doing. And you certainly could. Oh, yes. ’

  Spit in his eye, Kate! But just at that moment it wouldn’t pay to antagonise the man, so she just looked enigmatic. Boulter, to her surprise, was more irritated than Kate herself. Ostensibly in charge, he stood up ready to leave.

  ‘Business good, sir?’ he asked casually, as the three of them walked back to the car.

  ‘Pretty fair, yes.’

  ‘Only I heard it mentioned that some of the people in your line are feeling the pinch a bit, now that there’s not the money around for the luxury of owning racehorses. Someone told me that a lot of owners are pulling out and selling their horses for what they can get.’

  ‘True. But there’s still business enough left to keep the best trainers going.’ He clapped Boulter on the back. ‘And I’m one of the best, laddie.’

  ‘So you manage to keep the stable full, do you?’

  A very slight hesitation. ‘More or less. Oh, yes.’

  Back in the car, Boulter said, ‘It looks like your aunt was a bit off the mark about that Blackwood guy. She reckoned he wasn’t interested in women. But he was coming on to you pretty strong, wasn’t he? Nasty little creep.’

  Kate laughed. ‘No, Tim, Felix got it right. He’s the sort that gets his kicks from talking about sex. All talk, no action. Believe it.’

  ‘So what do you reckon to him otherwise? Is that Spanish woman right about him being on the fiddle?’

  ‘Put it this way, Tim, I no longer think it’s such a crazy idea to have a sniff around Blackwood and his goings-on. That man’s got a crooked nature. I’m not letting up on him.

  * * * *

  The following Wednesday, when Kate called to pick Richard up at the offices of the grandiosely titled weekly rag, The Marlingford Gazette, Chipping Bassett Courier, and South Cotswold Post and Times, she found him in the machine room. Thankfully, he was suitably dressed for their evening out in a smart grey suit. But he was hanging on with bated breath, as he did every week, for the clanking old Crabtree press to complete its run without breaking down. It churned out the final copy with a last-gasp sort of sigh, and the machine-room manager switched off.

  ‘She’s a gutsy old girl,’ he commented to Richard.

  Kate laughed. ‘I hope it’s not me you’re talking about, Des.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dare, love, or you’d run me in for insulting language.’

  ‘Nice story for the Gazette that would make,’ said Richard wryly. ‘Trouble is, we’d never manage to get it printed with Des in custody.’

  The church clock at St Agnes-in-the-Wold was striking eight as they turned between a pair of fancy wrought-iron gates into a paved courtyard. The red tulips in the flower beds on either side were perhaps a shade too regimented (Alec’s military mind?) but the house was a delight. The evening sun had turned the weathered Cotswold stonework to a glowing amber. Another car, a dark-blue Jaguar, was parked in front of the double garage. Kate drew up her bronze Renault beside it, and as she and Richard mounted the three steps leading to the front door, Heather came out to welcome them.

  ‘Kate . . . Richard. How sweet of you to come. I really do appreciate it.’

  She embraced them both warmly, making quite an emotional moment of it.

  Inside, there was a spacious hall. Dark old beams against ivory walls set off some choice antique pieces of furniture and several good landscape paintings. The parquet floor was lavishly spread with a huge hand-woven Oriental rug.

  Glazed double doors, standing open, gave a view of the drawing room where Heather’s son Vince was chatting with a fifty-something couple. The man was of medium height, fleshy but not fat. The woman was angular and thin, with sallow skin and lifeless sculpted hair. Her blue silk two-piece dress was no doubt expensive but did nothing for her. She was certainly no competition for Heather who wore a simple grey silk jersey dress with exquisite style. Vince had told them in Lisbon that his mother’s life had been hard before her marriage to Alec Bletchley. Now, as a wealthy widow, she could look forward to a life of ease and had the flair to take maximum advantage of the clothes and other good things that money could buy.

  Heather performed the introductions, explaining that Clive Murdoch had been Alec’s partner in their wine firm -which she’d already told Kate over the phone. Likewise, it must have been superfluous to explain to the Murdochs who Kate
and Richard were. Still, it got the conversation launched.

  ‘Dreadful business about Alec,’ Clive Murdoch said ponderously. ‘Quite dreadful.’ He smoothed his scant hair with the flat of his hand, screwing his florid face into a grimace. He was nervous, Kate realised, and wondered why. Men of his class didn’t normally get edgy in the presence of a police person. Was he concerned about what would happen to the business now Alec was dead? Not so, it was soon to emerge.

  While Vince attended to drinks, Heather remarked, ‘Clive’s being a real brick about my share of the firm. Alec’s share, I mean. He’s going to buy me out on extremely generous terms. Isn’t that good of him?’

  ‘Very,’ Kate murmured, in little doubt that Murdoch would make sure the deal was to his ultimate advantage.

  ‘Least I could do,’ he boomed. ‘Alec and I have been pals for years, you know. Right back to when I was First Secretary at the African Embassy and he was Military Attaché. I’ll miss the dear fellow like the devil, that’s a fact.’ A palm smoothed his hair again. ‘Couldn’t believe it when I heard he was dead. Just couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘Clive and Thelma were in Spain at the time,’ said Heather. ‘So the news didn’t reach them for several days.’

  ‘If only we’d known right away,’ he said. ‘We could have been in Lisbon in a matter of hours . . . helped poor dear Heather through the worst of the trauma. Given Vince a hand with all the formalities, and so on. Isn’t that right, Thelma? If only we’d known.’

  His wife’s response was distinctly less than enthusiastic. No love lost there. Thelma Murdoch and Heather Bletchley were penny plain and tuppence coloured. They were thrown together because of their husbands’ business partnership. But wasn’t it always hard for a woman without looks or style to have any real liking for a woman with more than her fair share of both? Especially a much younger woman.

  Kate caught the ironic amusement in Richard’s eye. He knew her too damn well, he could read her thoughts. She stuck out a mental tongue at him, and he read that too.

  ‘Heather, have you heard anything more from the Lisbon police since you’ve been home?’

  It was Vince who answered. ‘Not a thing, Kate. Seems to me they’re a pretty hopeless bunch out there. I very much doubt they’ll ever catch the chap who did Alec in.’

  ‘I don’t think you should underrate the Portuguese police, Vince. All the same, these opportunist, spur-of-the-moment criminals are very difficult to track down. There’s nothing much for the police to get to grips with.’

  ‘He must be a monster,’ Heather burst out. ‘A vile monster. To think poor Alec was killed just for the sake of his wallet and his watch and a signet ring. It’s past belief.’

  ‘It’s his watch and ring, of course, that will offer the police the best hope of finding the killer,’ Kate pointed out. ‘Because they’re identifiable, you see.’

  ‘You think there’s a chance we might get them back?’ Vince asked.

  Not quite the point she was making, Kate thought with wry amusement. Still, Vince had made no secret of the fact that he wasn’t personally mourning his stepfather’s death.

  They adjourned to the dining-room where the oval mahogany table was set with cut crystal and shining silverware. The meal was served to them by a large, stiff-lipped woman called Eileen, who cooked, Kate soon discovered, like a dream. The roast Scotch beef was meltingly tender, and the vegetables were done to perfection. A velvet-smooth Colares wine (of which Kate denied herself more than just a single glass) loosened up the atmosphere.

  Even Richard was getting quite chatty and charming. ‘A photo came into the Gazette office last week of a Jillian Murdoch who’d won an award for doing the longest distance in a sponsored swim for charity. Would she be any relation of yours, Thelma?’

  Her expression of disapproval softened at once. ‘She’s our daughter.’

  ‘Really? I congratulate you. She’s a lovely looking young woman.’

  Thelma positively beamed at him. ‘Isn’t she? And she’s clever, too. Jillian simply sailed through her exams at school. As for sport, she’s good at everything she’s tried. Especially tennis.’

  ‘You must both be very proud of her.’

  ‘Oh yes, we are.’ Thelma pursed her lips in a confidential smile. ‘I don’t mind admitting to you, Richard, that we had a few problems when Jillian was a teenager. She could be very willful sometimes - but aren’t they all, the younger generation? Thankfully, though, now that she’s reached twenty, those days seem to be behind us. Jillian has an excellent job as personal assistant to the Marlingford auctioneers - Clive was able to fix that up for her - and she’s recently become engaged to such a nice man.’

  Clive Murdoch chuckled. ‘Thelma’s already making plans for the wedding, even though they haven’t settled on a date yet, and she simply can’t wait to become a grandmother.’

  ‘Oh, really, Clive.’ Thelma was blushing. ‘But it’s true, I do love children. I hope Jillian and Sebastian have several. Not just the one like we did,’ she added in a tone of regret.

  ‘What does your daughter’s fiancé do?’ asked Kate, to keep the chat flowing.

  ‘He’s a solicitor,’ Thelma said, with obvious satisfaction. ‘The same as his father was. In fact, George Knox represented both Clive and Alec for many years, and they were all very good friends. Sadly he died last summer, and now Sebastian has taken over the practice.’

  ‘George took his son into partnership as soon as he was qualified,’ said Clive, ‘and now Sebastian is running the practice on his own. He’s got his head screwed on the right way, has Sebastian. Thelma and I couldn’t be happier about him and our Jilly.’

  Kate recalled the photograph in the Gazette that Richard had been referring to. It had registered with her because the previous week she’d seen that same outstandingly attractive girl in a cafe in Chipping Basset, when she and Boulter had dropped in for a quick coffee between interviews on a credit card fraud case. Jillian Murdoch had been sitting with a man who looked twice her age. Surely that couldn’t have been Sebastian? He was good-looking, with an easy charm, but she wouldn’t have thought him the type that either the girl or her parents would approve of. More like a smart-aleck salesman, Kate would have guessed. Jillian had not looked happy that day. She’d seemed to be pleading with the man . . . not exactly arguing, but trying to persuade him about something. Unsuccessfully, it seemed, because he just kept smiling and shaking his head.

  ‘What a really beautiful girl,’ Boulter had muttered between bites of hot Danish. ‘How the hell does a guy like him manage to win a stunner like her? He’s not that loaded, by the looks of him, and he’s far too old for her. So what has he got that I haven’t?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re misreading the situation,’ said Kate, amused by her sergeant’s pained tone. ‘He might be her uncle or something.’

  ‘Believe that and you’ll believe anything. Look, he’s stroking her thigh under the table.’

  Maybe there’s a halfway-innocent explanation, Kate. Otherwise, Thelma’s fond maternal pride is due for a fall.

  She took the chance to raise a matter that had been mildly exercising her mind these past few days.

  ‘Talking of photos, Heather, I saw one of you and Alec the other day.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Quite by chance. I was at my aunt’s . . . she’s a professional photographer, you know. Felicity Moore. She specialised in equine photography.’

  ‘I’m not sure that I recall the name,’ Heather said apologetically.

  ‘Not to worry. But she and I were sorting through some photos of hers and I happened to notice one of you. Taken this March at Cheltenham, on Gold Cup day, I believe she said. I remember thinking, “My word, what luxury, Heather owning two sable coats!’“

  There was a slightly embarrassed silence around the table. Heather said, ‘I . . . I don’t quite understand what you mean.’

  ‘Well, the one you were wearing at Alec’s funeral and the one in the picture weren’t
the same. I could tell by the markings. And the cut.’

  A blank look, then Heather quickly produced a bright smile. ‘How very observant of you, Kate. No wonder you’ve risen so high in your profession. Unfortunately, the sable that Alec gave me for my birthday last year was stolen. The one I have now is a replacement.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You reported it stolen to us, I imagine?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Immediately. But . . .’

  ‘We didn’t get it back for you? Black mark to us. I hope your insurance fully covered the replacement?’

  ‘Er . . . yes, it did.’

  Odd, that ripple of unease in Heather. Kate left it there and the talk passed on to the new proposals for a one-way traffic system in Marlingford. Soon, though, they got around to horse racing and the prospects for the Derby next month. It emerged that the Murdochs were as keen as the Bletchleys on horsey pursuits, and they normally linked up with mutual friends to make a big party for all the major events. Richard, though not a racing man, was a good journalist. He had an excellent memory for names, dates, and facts, and could keep his end up in any conversation. Kate was content just to listen.

  To her relief the evening broke up fairly early. Soon after ten-thirty, she and Richard were driving away.

  By unspoken agreement Kate headed the car for Ampney-on-the-Water where she had a flat in the converted stable block of a big old house. It had been found for her by Richard, who’d cashed in a favour on her behalf. Arriving home, Kate switched on lights while he drew curtains.

  ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, ‘but I’m gasping for a drink. Pour me a scotch, will you, while I make a phone call?’

  ‘A phone call, at this time of night?’ Richard objected.

  ‘I need to satisfy my curiosity about something.’

  Lifting the phone, she pressed the redial button for the Divisional HQ in Marlingford.