by Faith Martin
But as he lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to convince himself he didn’t feel afraid, he couldn’t help but worry – and finally start to face some hard, unpalatable facts.
This time, with the car, he’d been lucky. He hadn’t been travelling that fast and he’d managed to slow the car down – his lovely car, now a total write-off – enough to make a difference. But still, no two ways about it. He had been lucky. And following hard on the heels of that thought was the inevitable addendum – this time! And again, following on inevitably from that, one thought now filled his mind.
What about next time?
As Anthony lay on his bed in his father’s large country house, surrounded by his father’s acres, he couldn’t help but wonder – and not for the first time – just what his father had done. What unspeakable sin or act had he committed in the past to bring this vengeful madman to their door?
He sighed heavily then winced as pain lanced across his bruised ribs. With a second, carefully shallow sigh, he closed his eyes and told himself to go to sleep. Surely the police would get to the bottom of all this soon. The chap in charge, Jennings, seemed a competent sort of fellow. And Sergeant O’Grady, likewise, lent a reassuringly solid presence to the household.
But Anthony might not have been able to drift off into his nap quite so easily had he known what his father was doing that very moment, downstairs, in his study.
Sir Marcus Deering carefully watched Sergeant Mike O’Grady as the solid, sandy-haired policeman sat in the chair opposite his desk, rereading the latest letter. It had come in that morning’s post, leaving the businessman feeling almost suicidal with despair.
O’Grady, though, was being careful to keep his face expressionless.
‘I AM RUNNING OUT OF PATIENCE, AND YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME. DO THE RIGHT THING, SOON. NEXT TIME YOUR YOUNGEST SON WON’T BE SO LUCKY.’
Since the car accident, there had always been a PC on patrol outside the house, but that hardly seemed adequate, and now the older man asked testily, ‘Is there no progress being made at all?’
Mike O’Grady hesitated. He couldn’t, of course, reveal anything specific about their ongoing investigation, but the DI had told him to keep the businessman sweet.
‘We do have a prime suspect, sir,’ he said cautiously, then held out a hand to prevent Sir Marcus from bombarding him with questions. ‘And we’re keeping a very close eye on him.’
‘Did he have something to do with the fire?’ Sir Marcus demanded.
Again, O’Grady hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Sir Marcus slumped in his chair. In truth, he was rather surprised by that. ‘I still can’t understand it,’ he said helplessly. For the life of him, he just couldn’t see how anyone would blame him for that. It just didn’t feel right somehow. And Sir Marcus had always been a great believer in listening to his instincts. But if this wasn’t about the fire, what was it about? What?
For weeks now he’d been wracking his brains, but could think of nothing he’d done to deserve this plague that had fallen on his house. The frustration of not knowing what to do to bring it all to an end was almost killing him. Already, he’d had to go to the doctor’s with suspected ulcers.
With a huge mental effort, he forced himself to calm down. As his GP had said, stress could bring on a heart attack and that was the last thing he needed right now. At all costs, he had to stay strong and focused.
He waved a hand at the latest letter. ‘Well, it’s obvious my piece in the Oxford Mail and the charitable donation weren’t enough to satisfy him,’ he said heavily.
‘Apparently not, sir,’ O’Grady agreed cautiously.
‘You fellows will keep Anthony safe until all this is over, right?’
‘Yes, sir,’ O’Grady said. But he, like all policemen, knew it was almost impossible to guard a man day and night. Just ask the secret service detailed to keep the President of the United Sates alive. The simple fact was, if someone wanted you dead, and that person was reasonably intelligent, patient and determined, sooner or later… well…
If only they could be sure Clive Greaves was their man. Unfortunately, this latest letter to Sir Marcus had been posted before they’d started keeping a twenty-four-hour watch on him. Still, the Sergeant thought with some satisfaction, if Greaves was their man, and he made another attempt on Anthony Deering, this time they’d be ready for him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Glenda Gordon watched the young WPC coming up the garden path and felt a moment of near panic. When she’d returned from afternoon bingo that time and found Dickie talking to her, she’d sensed at once that something wasn’t right.
Dickie insisting she only wanted to pick his brains about one of his old cases simply didn’t ring true. Glenda had always known when her husband was lying, and was nobody’s fool. The daughter of a coalman, she’d grown up working class and savvy. It hadn’t taken her long, after marrying, to realise that her husband wasn’t always as straight and trustworthy as she’d – perhaps rather naively –expected policemen to be. And she herself was honest enough to acknowledge that, with a large family to feed and times being so hard, the little bits of extra cash or unexpected goods he provided on an irregular basis came in very handy.
Like the bags of unpaid-for coal her father always used to bring home, she’d come to accept them as perks of his job. In Dickie’s case it was the odd sofa that ‘fell off the back of a lorry’ that had badly been needed to replace their old broken one. The cash that helped pay the rent when the next pay cheque seemed a long way away. The boxes of small electrical goods that sometimes appeared and then disappeared from the garden shed.
Although she hadn’t liked it, none of it had ever made her feel her husband wasn’t a ‘good’ man at heart, or indeed not a ‘good’ husband. He provided for them, which was the main thing, and she’d always been able to keep them and the kids well fed and clothed.
But while that sort of thing was all very well, she’d always known that, just before he retired, something major had happened that had been out of the ordinary, and it had always worried her…
The knock on the door jerked her out of her reverie and she felt her heart pounding with trepidation as she walked through the hall to the front door.
Dickie was out on his allotment about ten minutes’ walk away, and she had the feeling this WPC knew that. Telling herself not to start getting paranoid, she forced a smile onto her face and opened the door.
‘Hello, Mrs Gordon. I don’t know if you remember me?’ the young girl said cheerfully.
Glenda looked at the pretty young girl and sighed. ‘Of course I do, love. Come on in.’
Trudy thanked her and stepped inside.
‘Come into the kitchen then, and I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Thank you,’ Trudy said, following her past a sunburst wooden clock hanging in the hall. Her mum had always wanted one of those! In the kitchen, a large new-model Bakelite radio was on, playing a repeat of a Tony Hancock comedy skit.
Quickly, Glenda turned it off.
‘This is a lovely home you have, Mrs Gordon,’ Trudy said, looking around admiringly.
Glenda, reaching over to switch on the kettle, felt herself tense.
She could still remember Dickie telling her, just before he put in his retirement papers, that they’d be moving from the council house to ‘somewhere decent’.
At the time, she’d thought he meant a smaller place now the kids had grown and left. She knew the local council liked to keep the big, three-bedroomed places for young families, and had built some nice little bungalows for older couples, not far from their old place.
She could still remember her surprise and delight when he’d brought her here. Proud as a peacock he’d been. And, in truth, she’d felt like she’d won the pools herself. It had only been later that she’d begun to wonder how they could ever have afforded it – especially when she realised she didn’t have to pay rent. Which meant Dickie had bought it outright. Which
was unheard of – nobody in her family had ever owned their own house, and she was sure Dickie’s family was the same.
But time passed and the sky didn’t fall in on them, and he’d got that part-time job as a night watchman with such good wages, and she’d allowed herself to relax…
Now, this pretty young girl in her police uniform was here, looking around and no doubt wondering how they’d been able to afford it.
Glenda swallowed hard. Just what was this all about? She should have known things had always been too good to be true.
Her hand shook slightly as she poured out the boiling water and added three good heaped teaspoonfuls of tea leaves into the pot and stirred it thoroughly.
‘I wanted to have a quiet word with you, Mrs Gordon, when your husband wasn’t here,’ Trudy began, surprising the older woman considerably by coming out with it so frankly. ‘Because there’s something important you need to be made aware of.’
Trudy could tell Glenda hadn’t expected her to get to the point so quickly. But Trudy had already decided that shock tactics were probably the best ones to use, and she only hoped she was right.
For, in Glenda Gordon, she thought she’d seen echoes of her own mother. Both had been raised by the same sorts of families, in the same city, and had grown up with the same values and down-to-earth view of life. And she was gambling that, just like her own mother, Glenda would have her own way of thinking and doing things. For all that men liked to think the ‘little woman’ was always compliant and reliant, Trudy was well aware just how resilient and clever women like her mother actually were. She was willing to gamble that Glenda, too, was far more aware of what went on, especially in her own household, than her husband liked to think. And could be persuaded to act, even behind her man’s back, if the occasion demanded it.
‘Oh? I thought you’d be wanting Dickie,’ Glenda said. ‘Police business, and all that.’
Trudy smiled, and eyed the now very wary woman sadly.
‘No. It’s you I wanted to see.’ Trudy took a long, slow breath. ‘Can I ask, what did your husband tell you about my previous visit? About what it was I wanted?’ she began cautiously.
Glenda sat down a shade heavily, and Trudy was aware she’d metaphorically pulled the rug out from under her. So she was right. Already the woman was suspicious. Which was good. It meant she already knew something was wrong, and might be persuaded that only she could fix it.
‘Oh, Dickie never did talk about his work much,’ Glenda said as casually as she could manage. ‘He just said you wanted to pick his brains about something.’ She took a sip of her tea, hardly aware it was still so hot that it almost burned her lips.
Glenda glanced at her visitor to see how that had gone down, and felt a wave of unease wash over her. She was so young and wet behind the ears. She hardly looked twenty! Whatever had brought her to the door, there was no reason to feel so scared, surely? After all, if it was something really serious her Dickie had got himself messed up in, they wouldn’t have sent a young whippersnapper like this to sort it out, would they?
‘Yes. It was about a young girl who died.’ Trudy answered her question simply.
Glenda nearly choked on her next sip of tea.
‘Died?’
‘Yes. Your husband was called in when her mother found her dead in bed. This would have been nearly five years ago now. The coroner ruled her death as misadventure.’
‘Oh…’ Glenda let out a small sigh of relief. ‘I think I remember that case. It was so sad. But here I was, thinking it was about something really bad. Not that a young girl dying isn’t bad…’ She tried to cover her slip hastily.
‘But it is about something really bad, Mrs Gordon,’ Trudy interrupted her firmly. ‘Murder is about as bad as it can get.’
This time Glenda almost dropped her teacup.
‘Murder?’ she managed faintly. Hadn’t she just said something about death by misadventure?
‘Yes. We’re currently investigating the murder of Jonathan McGillicuddy. You must have read about it in the papers?’ Trudy said.
Now Glenda felt more confused than ever. ‘Oh, yes. That poor gardener, you mean? Got hit over the head with his own spade, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what’s that got to do with Dickie? He’s long since retired.’
‘Like I said, five years ago he was the first on the scene when a young girl died. That girl was called Gisela Fleet-Wright.’
Glenda’s eyes widened. ‘But that’s the same name as…’ Abruptly, she shut the words off.
But Trudy was already nodding. ‘Yes, we know. It’s her father who owns the haulage yard where your husband now works part-time.’
Glenda blinked.
‘Your husband took a job there right after retiring, didn’t he?’
Glenda nodded, not trusting herself to speak now.
‘And I understand his wages are… very good.’
Again, Glenda nodded numbly.
‘And that you moved in here about five years ago. Not long, in fact, after Gisela Fleet-Wright died.’
Trudy could see her hostess was now as white as a sheet.
‘I don’t quite see what…’ Glenda began, trying to rally, but her thoughts were ricocheting around all over the place. What on earth was going on? What had Dickie got them all into?
‘Mrs Gordon,’ Trudy said firmly. ‘I really don’t care what happened all those years ago.’ She was lying like a trooper, hoping for once that she wasn’t blushing and giving herself away. ‘We know something did, and that your husband somehow profited from it.’ And before Glenda Gordon could protest, she swept on firmly, ‘But that’s not what’s at issue here. We’re trying to catch a killer, Mrs Gordon.’ Trudy held the older woman’s eye and refused to look away. ‘Someone, for some reason, cold-bloodedly bludgeoned a young man to death. He was a widower, you know, and left a little girl. And his mother is absolutely devastated. He was her only child.’
For a moment, the words hung heavily in the air and Trudy knew Glenda had to be thinking of her own children. Thinking of how things might have turned out for them if they’d lost both parents at a young age. And then, of course, how she’d feel in Mavis McGillicuddy’s place.
‘That’s awful,’ Glenda said, tears springing to her eyes. ‘But you can’t think my Dickie…’
‘No, Mrs Gordon, we don’t,’ Trudy said hastily. If this woman thought her man was in any real danger, she’d clam up hard and then wild horses wouldn’t get her to cooperate. ‘We don’t think he had anything to do with it. But we think he might know something about it.’
Glenda slumped back in her chair, struggling to process it all.
‘Before Gisela Fleet-Wright died,’ Trudy swept on, ‘Mr McGillicuddy had been stepping out with her. And there’s now some question over how and why she died, which is why the coroner is reinvestigating the case. And we’re sure your husband knew something about that. Something to his advantage, as they say.’
For a moment, she let that hang in the air.
Glenda, her tea now forgotten, stared at the pretty young girl helplessly. Because, of course, she knew it was true. How else had they been able to afford to come and live here? Why else could Dickie get such a good job for really quite ridiculously high wages? Because the Fleet-Wrights had paid him off about something, she acknowledged glumly. That was exactly the kind of backhander Dickie would have jumped at.
‘We think the two incidents may be linked,’ Trudy ploughed on. ‘That Gisela’s death and that of Jonathan McGillicuddy are somehow connected. What’s more, it’s possible that the killer of Mr McGillicuddy might not be finished yet.’
She didn’t believe for one minute that Glenda could be unaware there had to be something questionable surrounding her husband’s relationship with Reginald Fleet-Wright. But she certainly wouldn’t be willing to talk about it unless she was given a really compelling reason.
‘And it seems to us that anyone mixed up in these killings may be in d
anger themselves.’ Trudy added her final bombshell carefully.
And she saw the moment it detonated in the sudden widening of Glenda’s eyes. ‘You think… Dickie could be in danger?’ she gasped, her hand going to her throat in alarm.
Trudy sighed and spread her hands helplessly. ‘We don’t know, Mrs Gordon. But it’s possible. And if you know anything about any of this, you need to tell us. It needs to be cleared up, before anyone else gets hurt. I’m sure you can see that?’
For a moment, Glenda’s mind went to her husband’s locked sock drawer upstairs. Ever since they’d moved in, he’d kept it locked. She knew he didn’t keep socks in it. Of course, she’d pretended not to notice. And of course, she’d never once asked him about it; though, of course, she knew where he kept the key hidden.
But…
‘I need to think about all this,’ Glenda said faintly.
Trudy, knowing when it was time to back off, nodded. ‘All right. But please, Mrs Gordon, think quickly,’ she urged. Then she got up and left her untouched tea on the table. ‘After all, just think how you’d feel if someone else were killed and you might have prevented it from happening.’
Glenda paled even further, but said nothing.
Trudy, feeling suddenly small and shabby, left the stricken woman and quietly let herself out.
Having hopped onto the back of one of the city’s red buses with its distinctive thin green stripe, Trudy dug into her purse for the necessary pennies. Finding she didn’t have enough, she had to hand over a tanner instead, making the clippie sigh. Had her father been driving this route, he might have asked the bus conductor to let her off with the fare, as he’d done in the past. Which made her wonder. Was that police corruption? Or just her dad looking out for her?
She shook off the thought and, all the way back into town, tried to reassure herself she’d done the right thing in trying to get Glenda Gordon to come clean about what her husband was up to. It was her job, and her duty, after all.
