Murderer's Fen

by Andrew Garve

  “They certainly do,” Hunt said.

  “Mum’s the worst—she will go on at me all the time. We get on each other’s nerves like anything … I think we’d both be better off if I left home and got a job somewhere else, but she won’t hear of it. I will in the end, I’m sure, but it’ll take some doing … What I really want to do is go and look after children in the country.”

  “Sounds a jolly good idea,” Hunt said—though he couldn’t have cared less about her future. He was much more interested now in her present. It had dawned on him, while she’d been talking, that the fates had played straight into his hands and that he needn’t resist temptation any more. All the omens had suddenly become favourable. By a wonderful stroke of luck he’d been given a room adjacent to hers, both of them with balconies; the ideal set-up for a safe and secret intrigue, a Casanova’s dream. The girl was in a state of near-rebellion over her “lock up your daughter” parents, so she wasn’t at all likely to blab. She was venturesome, eager for a fling, thirsting for experience—and she liked him … The perfect frame of mind … And in less than a couple of days he was due to leave. It should be a cinch.

  He thought so even more a few minutes later, when it began to rain.

  “Blast!” he said. “Now we’ll have to go in … Just when we were getting to know each other.”

  Gwenda looked disappointed, too.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I really ought to write a letter.…” But he didn’t move.

  Neither did Gwenda. “I suppose you’re writing to your girl friend,” she said,

  He shook his head. “No such luck … To my mother.”

  “You mean you haven’t got a girl friend?”

  “Not so far … I guess I’m too choosy … Look, you’re getting awfully wet, you really ought to go in.”

  “I suppose so …”

  He half turned—then stopped, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to him. “Of course, I could step across to your balcony and we could go on talking inside … But perhaps you wouldn’t like that.” Gwenda looked at the gap—and at the ground, forty feet below. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Who wouldn’t?—I’d be over in a jiffy … Still, I’m sure your parents wouldn’t approve. I’d better write my letter.”

  Gwenda hesitated. “You really think it’s safe?”

  Hunt eyed the gap. It was well over four feet across—a long stride. But he’d never been averse from taking a calculated risk if the prize was tempting enough. “Piece of cake,” he said.

  “Well—all right … Just for a minute.”

  “Is your door locked?”

  “Yes.”

  Hunt glanced down, and to right and left. The rain had driven everyone indoors; there was no one in sight. “Here I come, then …” He swung a leg over the side of the balcony, then the other. For a moment he stood poised on the ledge, looking at Gwenda, smiling. Then, with a long, measured leap, he gained a foothold and grabbed the rail of Gwenda’s balcony at the same instant. She gave a gasp of relief as he climbed over. “Easy,” he said—though it hadn’t been. He followed her into her room. It was a replica of his own, except that everything was arranged the other way round

  He grinned at her. “I bet you’ve never done anything like this before,” he said.

  She shook her head. “I certainly haven’t And considering we only met to-day, it seems a bit crazy”

  “But that’s what makes it such fun, don’t you think? Anyway, one can live a lifetime in a day.” Hunt swivelled the soft chair round for her, and seated himself on the hard one. “How I wish you’d come here a week ago.”

  “Do you?”

  “It would have made all the difference to me, I can tell you … Of course, there’s been plenty to do—I won’t pretend it’s been dull … But having someone around that one likes is what really matters.”

  “I thought a lot of the girls here looked very attractive.”

  “H’m … Not by my standards—especially now I’ve met you. You’re terrific—do you know that …? But I’m not talking about looks, I’m talking about liking … Somehow, you’re different—I don’t know what it is. I thought so the moment you came off the boat. The way you walked, the way you hold your head—everything about you … It’s personality, I suppose.”

  “You’re not exactly short of personality yourself,” Gwenda said, the dimples appearing.

  “Well, I hope I’m not … Tell me, what are you planning to do to-morrow?”

  “I think we’re going on the round trip in the launch.”

  “Oh …” Hunt pretended to be disappointed—though it suited him very well. The less he saw of her publicly from now on, the better. “In that case,” he said, “I think I’ll fix up to do some fishing … But we’ll have some time together to-morrow evening, won’t we?”

  “We could …”

  “And perhaps we could see some more of each other when we get home? I move around quite a bit in my job—I could easily look in at Peterborough. If you’d like me to, that is.”

  “It would be rather nice.”

  “I’ll write my address down and give it to you before I go … Heavens, just listen to that rain!”

  “Oughtn’t you to go back before it gets worse?”

  “Yes, perhaps I’d better …” He’d prepared the ground now—there was no point in staying longer. If they went on talking, the girl would probably want to know more about him, which would mean a lot of tedious invention … He got up, stretching out his hands and drawing Gwenda up too. “You are so pretty,” he said. “Would it be taking advantage of you if I kissed you good night?”

  She smiled. “I don’t think so.”

  He took her in his arms and kissed her mouth. She kissed him back—tentatively at first, then with growing passion. His appetite for her sharpened—but prudence held him back. At this rate, to-morrow would arrive to-night!—and she wasn’t ready for the whole works yet. Besides, it would mean a day of danger before he left. He drew away, gazed for a moment into her eyes, tenderly touched her hair. Overcome, it seemed, by an emotion he found it hard to express. “You’re sweet,” he said. “Really sweet … Good night, darling. Sleep well.”

  “Be careful,” she whispered after him.

  He looked out cautiously. All was quiet, except for the downpour. The gap he had to cross was uninviting now, but he didn’t hesitate. If he broke his neck, he thought wryly, it would be in a good cause. He climbed the rail, measured the distance, braced himself—and in one long stride he was safely back. From his balcony, he blew a farewell kiss to Gwenda. Inside the bedroom, he grinned cheerfully to himself. Everything had gone according to his expectations. The girl, unnaturally deprived of male company and eager for love, had already fallen for him. He’d swept her off her feet—practically hypnotised her with his assurance and charm. And because he’d behaved well, she’d have no reason to distrust him to-morrow. It was going to be a cinch.

  He still had his letter to write. He sat down now at the table and quickly dashed it off. It ran:

  Dearest Susan,

  Only another two days and I’ll be on my way back to you! I can’t tell you how I’m counting the hours. I’ve missed you terribly, darling, every minute of the time. This hotel isn’t a bad place and the scenery is grand, but I find myself mooning about thinking of you and not really wanting to talk to anyone, which you’ll agree isn’t like me. I suppose it’s just a part of being in love—not being interested in anyone else. The truth is that nothing’s the same without you. I keep thinking what a wonderful time we could have had here together, swimming and boating and sunning ourselves and living the kind of active, outdoor life we both like so much. It seems a real shame that you couldn’t come, though I do see one can’t take a new job and then immediately ask for a holiday. But with luck this will be the last time we’ll be separated, darling. What a marvellous thought!

  I hope you got all my earlier letters. I picked your last one up at Stavanger and I laughed no end at your d
escription of the Rally. You really are a bit of a madcap. Yes, I remember old Carson. Isn’t he the chap who hit a tree while he was fastening his safety belt?

  I’ll ring you the moment I get back. What I’d really like to do is catch a plane—but I suppose that would be extravagant. I’m sure your father would think so. Please give him my warm regards, and your mother. I hope her sciatica is better.

  All my love, darling—and see you soon.

  Alan

  Before he turned in, Hunt went downstairs and posted the letter in the hotel box. One way and another, he thought, it had been a well-spent evening.

  The skies had cleared by morning. The fiord was blue again, the sun warm and bright. Hunt made a point of going down late to breakfast, to give time for the launch party to leave on their all-day trip before he showed himself.

  He spent the morning swmiming and sun-bathing with a gay group at the diving-board. In the afternoon he borrowed a rod and a boat and went fishing in the Sound. He was around when the launch party got back at five o’clock, and he gave Gwenda a little wave and a conspiratorial smile as she came ashore. At dinner he stopped for a moment by the Nichollses’ table and asked politely if they’d had a good day. After dinner he allowed himself one dance with Gwenda, holding her close to him, telling her how pretty she looked and how much he liked her dress, gazing meaningfully into her eyes, softening her up. He’d see her later, he whispered, as they separated—and her eager nod told him that she’d been thinking of little else all day. Afterwards he danced with several other girls, just to show that he wasn’t singling anyone out Then he retired to the bar to plan his final tactics. He’d never felt in a better mood. He was thoroughly enjoying the excitement of the chase and the challenge of the hazards.

  It was shortly before eleven when he crossed to Gwenda’s room. At once he took her into his arms. “It’s been such a long, long day,” he said. Gwenda sighed, and nestled against him. She didn’t seem at all nervous about having him there. Just happy.…

  She looked even happier when, a few minutes later, he produced a piece of paper with his address on it—Flat 5, Esmeralda House, Brighton. “Do write to me when you get home, won’t you?” he said. “And I’ll write to you. What’s your address?” He jotted it down on an old envelope—19 Everton Road, Peterborough. “Good … And I’ll get up there as soon as I can.”

  They sat on the bed then, and kissed, and talked. Hushed, delightful talk—but mostly kisses. Hunt saw how Gwenda’s eyes kept searching his, as though she couldn’t believe that this miracle was happening to her. Yes, she’d fallen for him, all right.

  Suddenly he said, “Why, I was almost forgetting—I brought something along to celebrate with …” He fished a small bottle out of his pocket. “Gin and Italian—I got them to mix it at the bar. I hope you like it.”

  “I don’t think I ever tried it,” Gwenda said. “I hardly ever drink … Dad would be furious.”

  “Well, he’s not here now, and you’re a big girl.… We’ll have to take turns with your tooth glass, I’m afraid.” He fetched the glass, and poured a drink for her.

  She tried it, cautiously. “It’s a bit strong,” she said. “It’s nice, though.”

  “I thought you’d like it. Leave me a drop, will you …” She laughed and handed him the glass, which he refilled.

  “You know,” he said, “it’s going to seem a very empty world to-morrow. Especially to-morrow night. I’ll be thinking of you, alone here …” Tenderly, he stroked her hair. “I do believe I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  “Alan, you can’t have … It’s absurd.”

  “Why—because we only met yesterday? People do, you know—love at first sight. It often happens—and I think it’s quite the most romantic way … What about you, Gwenda? You like me a bit, don’t you?”

  “You know I do … I wish you weren’t going.”

  “Let’s not think about that. Let’s think how wonderful it will be when we see each other again. Let’s think of the future.…” He poured more drink into the glass. “Here’s a toast—to our next meeting, and may it be soon!”

  They drank in turn, kissing between sips. When the drink was all gone they kissed again, clinging together in a long and passionate embrace.

  “You’re lovely,” Hunt said. He drew her down beside him. “So warm, so soft.… I’d like to stay like this with you. I’d like to be with you for ever …”

  He sought her mouth again. His hand strayed over her breasts. She shivered, clinging to him. The hand strayed further. “No,” she said, “no …”

  “But darling … I love you.”

  “No.… Oh, Alan, don’t …”

  “I’ll be careful—ever so careful. Gwenda, I love you—I really do … I want you …”

  For a moment, she fought him. Hunt’s hand was ready to move, to clamp down brutally on her mouth if necessary, stifling any scream. But it wasn’t necessary. The old magic worked. With a sigh that was half a sob, she relaxed.

  They said their private good-byes in the morning, across the gap of the balconies. Gwenda was subdued, a little shy, a little lost in a new world—but not unhappy. Hunt said the right things. He loved her deeply, he’d soon be writing to her, they’d soon be meeting. He could hardly wait for the day.… Then, as though with a great effort, he tore himself away.

  He packed quickly, and carried his bag to the quay. Gwenda was already there. He put the bag down with the luggage of the other passengers, and went into the office to pay his bill.

  When he returned, Gwenda had disappeared. The boatman was waiting to cast off the ropes. There were a dozen other passengers travelling, and the usual knot of guests to wave them good-bye. Hunt went aboard. He could see Gwenda’s father in the crowd, but there was still no sign of Gwenda. Perhaps, Hunt thought, she’d found the actual parting more of an ordeal than she could face. Anyway, it didn’t matter. It was all over now. She could write to Flat 5, Esmeralda House, till her arm dropped off, but the letters would never be delivered—since, as far as Hunt knew, there wasn’t such a place.

  It had been a good trip, after all. One more attractive virgin notched up—and a clean getaway.

  Chapter Two

  The one true thing Hunt had told Gwenda Nicholls was that he was a salesman—and the one sound judgment she’d made of him was that he was good at it. He’d been selling things on commission since he was eighteen, and as it was work for which his sharp wits, persuasiveness and charm equipped him well, he’d prospered without too much effort. Some of his talent might have been inherited—his father had sold advertising space for a weekly magazine with success and profit until his death a few years earlier. But whereas Hunt senior had been a diligent and conscientious man who had worked for the same firm for most of his life, his son had turned out a pleasure-loving drifter. Alan Hunt had long ago decided that there was no big money in salesmanship without much more application than he was prepared to give. So he’d looked around for a short cut to easy wealth—and recently he’d found it.

  His lack of principle and scruple, his ruthless unconcern about what he did to other people, his total inability to feel affection or tenderness for anyone, could not be explained or excused by any reference to his early background. He had not been brought up in a slum, he had not been a latch-key child, he had not been deprived of love or made to feel inferior. He had not come from a broken home—his parents had been devoted to each other. In childhood, he had been neither pampered nor neglected. He had been sent, at a normal age, to a sound if minor public school, where he had made friends in a normal way and appeared perfectly happy. He had done well at games, shown an aptitude for mathematics and particularly mathematical puzzles, and distinguished himself in amateur theatricals. The school, on his departure, had been warm in his praise. “A good all-rounder, whom we shall miss,” his last report had said. “Should do well in whatever career he chooses.”

  There was, in fact, no discernible reason why Hunt had turned out as he had except that by s
ome untraceable genetic mischance he’d been fated to mature that way. At thirty, he was a living disproof of the facile view that there is some good in everyone. Hunt was bad right through.

  For the past few months he had been in sole charge of a sales depot, near the village of Ocken in Cambridgeshire, for a company called Cosy Caravans which had its headquarters in Ipswich. His main job at Ocken was to receive potential customers attracted by display advertisements in the newspapers; show them over the available stock, and persuade them to buy. He also had to accept and dispatch vans according to instructions from head office, maintain various stores, and keep on top of the paper work. As a sideline, profitable to himself as well as to the company, he was required to keep an eye on a number of private motor cruisers moored along the left bank of the drain or “lode” that formed one boundary of the property.

  The job had proved moderately lucrative during the summer months, when commissions had been good. The firm had had to be generous about money, because of the difficulty of getting anyone suitable to take on the position at all. It was virtually a one-man post and, except when customers called, there was little companionship. The village itself was no more than a developed hamlet on a main road, and lacked communal life. The caravan site, lying back from the road and approached by its own drive, was lonely. The amenities were few. The only buildings were a small wooden office, with a table, chair, filing cabinet and telephone, and a larger shed for stores. Because the firm liked to have someone there all the time to keep watch on the thirty or forty caravans and the boats, Hunt had to live and look after himself in one of the vans.

  The view from the site was, in his opinion, exceptionally dreary. A nature reserve extended for hundreds of acres—a flat, windswept area of fen that in part had never been reclaimed and in part had remained uncultivated since ancient times. It consisted in the main of swampy reeds and sedge, black earth and peat, pools, dykes, drains and droves. Except for two wooden towers—an old, near-derelict hide for observing wild life and a new one built alongside it—it had no prominent features. Ocken Fen was famous among naturalists; and popular in summer with anglers and people who enjoyed strolling along quiet paths in an unspoilt setting. Lovers found it very handy, too. For Hunt it was an eyesore—useful for exercise, but depressing to look at. In fact, he loathed the place … All the same, he’d gladly taken the job, and he’d been very satisfied with it. It had served him well …