by Andrew Garve
Chapter Twelve
Dyson, at home in his mother’s small, terrace house, was getting no pleasure from his afternoon of unexpected freedom. In, different circumstances he’d have been well content to spend a sunny hour or two in the pocket-handkerchief garden at the back, having fun with his baby daughter in her play-pen, giving the lawn a final autumn cut, tidying the borders.… But to-day, all he could do was brood. About himself—and about the case.…
He felt a little as though he’d been packed off home like a schoolboy in disgrace. Nield, he knew, hadn’t meant it like that—Nield had simply felt he was overdue for some time off and had given it him at the first opportunity. But the fact remained that in the last stages of the case, the inspector had had no use for him—had found him, rather obviously, a bit of a trial. Nield had preferred to wind up the case on his own.…
Dyson found that humiliating. Rank was rank—but he knew his capacities. By now, if he hadn’t let things slide after Mary’s death, he might have been well on the way to being an inspector himself and handling his own cases. Of course, he’d no one but himself to blame—he wasn’t complaining about that. He knew he’d made it clear that he’d lost his ambition, that he didn’t really care.… But in this one case of Gwenda Nicholls, he’d have welcomed the chance to exercise a little authority.
In his view, Nield’s final conclusions had been hasty, and his actions precipitate. Nield had been rattled by Henry Ainger—and he’d allowed himself to be unduly affected by concern for Hunt. Dyson felt no such concern. For another man in similar circumstances—perhaps. But not for Hunt. “I do not like thee, Doctor Fell …” That, roughly, was the position.
It would have been pleasant, of course, to be able to believe that Nield was right, that Gwenda was alive … But Dyson distrusted the sudden, convenient accumulation of evidence that had faced them that day. There were aspects of the Peterborough identification—particularly the position of the parked car—that troubled him. And his doubts about the Cambridge find had grown rather than lessened. Several questions he hadn’t thought of putting to Nield at the time had occurred to him since. Why, for instance, would Gwenda have waited three or four days before getting rid of her going-away outfit and that hot suitcase? Why would she have gone to a railway station to change?—she must have had a room somewhere, and it would have been easier to do it there. Why would she have risked carrying the case about in a crowded spot?—she’d have done better to leave it in a street at night. Or she could have hidden it somewhere—some place where she’d have had a chance to recover it later. And surely she’d have scraped off that tell-tale hotel label before going out with it.…? The incident wasn’t right—it wasn’t convincing. It was untidy … For that matter, there were loose, untidy ends everywhere. Dyson still hadn’t got rid of his nagging feeling that he’d missed something important on his trip to Lingford.… A general dissatisfaction—that was what he felt about the case … But what use was a dissatisfaction that couldn’t be given a precise reason or a shape? He’d have to come up with something better than that.…
Well, at least he had a little leisure now to think.… He began systematically going over all the evidence again in his mind. The whole case, from the anonymous letter onwards. Taking the points item by item. Questioning them. Particularly the odder items.… The only effect was to reinforce his suspicion of Hunt without producing anything new. The evening wore on, and he was still on the treadmill. No flash of illumination came to him; no vital clue suddenly stood out. But, around nine o’clock, something did occur to him that he hadn’t thought of before. A small point of logic, it seemed at first—but the argument carried him on.… So much so that in the end he decided to risk a snub and phone Nield at his home.
“I’m sorry to bother you at this hour,” he said, “but there’s a point about the Hunt affair that I’d very much like to put to you—something we haven’t discussed before … Could I come round and see you?”
“You want to reopen the case, eh?”
“It’s never seemed closed to me, sir.”
“H’m … Well, if you’ve got a new angle, Sergeant, of course I’d like to hear it … I’m on my own to-night. Drop in any time.”
Dyson was there in less than ten minutes. Nield took him into the cosy back room he used as a private office. The inspector was wearing carpet slippers and an old cardigan, and smoking a curly, off-duty pipe. Two misted bottles of beer and two glasses stood on a tray. The omens looked good for friendly discussion.
“Well,” Nield said, after he’d waved Dyson to a chair and poured the beer, “what’s on your mind?”
“The anonymous letter,” Dyson said.
“Oh, yes? What about it?”
Dyson leaned forward earnestly. “It’s all a question of what we can reasonably accept, sir.… Now if that chap in the hide had seen Hunt in the fen with a girl, and heard a cry, and we’d followed the directions he gave and found a body—okay, the letter would be completely explained and there’d be no problem … But we found nothing—so we decided that that explanation was out.”
Nield nodded. “We decided the letter writer was mistaken.”
“Which would be perfectly all right,” Dyson said, “if the letter had referred to some other night, and we’d found nothing … But it didn’t—it referred to the night when Gwenda Nicholls disappeared.”
Nield began to look interested. “Go on, Sergeant.”
“So what we’re being asked to believe,” Dyson said, “is that some independent witness indicated Hunt as the possible murderer of a girl on a certain evening, mistakenly—but that on that very same evening Hunt had had a girl with him, a girl he had a strong motive for killing, who’s since disappeared … Isn’t that combination a bit too much of a coincidence to accept?”
Nield frowned. “Put like that, it sounds almost impossible … I can’t think why it didn’t strike me that way before.” He sat silent for a while, contemplating the glowing bowl of his pipe. Dyson waited.
“Well, suppose we assume it is impossible,” Nield said finally. “Where does it lead us?”
“If it’s impossible,” Dyson said, “one part of the combination must be wrong … Well, we know about Hunt and the girl—that’s all established … So it’s the independent witness we’ve got to look at again. If we can’t accept that he was making an honest mistake, we’ve got to accept that he was lying … Maybe he wasn’t so independent. Maybe he had a reason for writing what he did.”
“You mean he might have been someone who had a grudge against Hunt—someone, who wanted to get him into trouble?”
“No, I don’t think that,” Dyson said. “Anyone hoping to get him into serious trouble through that letter would have had to know a lot. He’d have had to know that Hunt and Gwenda had met each other before, that she was at the site that day, that she was pregnant, and that Hunt had ambitious marriage plans which gave him a motive … I don’t see how anyone could possibly have known so much—especially a local man who was also familiar with the fen … Except Hunt himself.”
Nield glanced sharply at the sergeant. “Are you suggesting that Hunt wrote the letter?”
“That’s what I wanted to put up to you,” Dyson said. “To me, it seems the logical conclusion.”
“It sounds pretty fantastic … Why would he have written it?”
“He could have been trying to mislead us,” Dyson said. “Sending us to a place where he hadn’t put the body—and mentioning the wrong time, a time when he was actually in Peterborough. Giving himself a sort of double alibi.”
“But why bring it up at all, Sergeant …? If it hadn’t been for the letter, there wouldn’t have been anything to mislead us about. Hunt could have killed the girl and got rid of her body and simply kept quiet … Her parents thought she was safely away on a job—they wouldn’t have worried for a bit. The Bakers were no longer expecting her, so they wouldn’t have said anything. It would have been quite a time before any inquiries started—and then the trail
wouldn’t have led to Hunt.”
“It would if Gwenda had told someone she was going to see him,” Dyson said.
“Well—we know she hadn’t told her parents, or her girl friend.”
“We know, sir—but did Hunt …? Of course, she may have said she hadn’t—but could Hunt have relied on that? He’d have known that girls in a jam usually confide in someone—and without necessarily admitting they’ve done so … That wouldn’t have been the only danger, either. Once the hue and cry had started, someone might have remembered seeing Gwenda in the village or even going into the site … Could Hunt have been sure the trail wouldn’t lead to him?”
“Not sure—no.”
“Well, if he wasn’t sure, mightn’t he have decided it would be better to have an immediate inquiry, with an alibi, rather than risk a delayed inquiry without one?”
“That might explain sending a letter,” Nield said, “but it wouldn’t explain drawing attention to himself in it. He could have got his inquiry and his alibi without that. All he had to do was mention a man and a girl in the fen, and a scream, and give the time of the happening. We’d have made inquiries around the village;—and if we’d learned that a girl had gone to the site that day and hadn’t been seen since, and we’d asked him about it, he could have told us his story about Gwenda and still have had his alibi for the time mentioned in the letter. If we hadn’t learned about the girl—which is much more likely—he’d have had nothing to worry about.”
Dyson gave a thoughtful nod.
“The fact is,” Nield said, “if he did write that letter indicating himself, he was provoking a murder investigation that otherwise might never have happened and positively courting the worst sort of trouble for himself … Why would any sane man do that?”
“I don’t know, sir—unless he was anxious to get the whole thing over. Not have it hanging over his head … It seems pretty unlikely, I agree, but if that was the idea it’s certainly worked. By provoking the inquiry, he’s now in the clear with nothing on his mind.”
“Sounds a bit like banging your head against the wall because it’s nice when you stop,” Nield said.
“Yes—it doesn’t make much sense.” Dyson was silent for a moment. “All the same, I can’t help going back to where we began. Logic does suggest he wrote the letter—whatever his reason may have been … And there are other things that point the same way … Remember how at that first interview he didn’t ask us how we got on to him? You said he wasn’t given much of a chance—but he managed to ask quite a few other questions. I still think it was an odd oversight, if he didn’t already know the answer … But if he’d sent us the letter that started everything, it was just the sort of slip he might have made.”
“H’m.…”
“It would explain the anonymity, too,” Dyson said. “I never did think much of the writer’s excuse for not giving his name—that business about the girl friend … As a matter of fact, that whole business of the hide seems phoney to me now. If the chap had a girl with him, what was he doing looking out of the tower so much? The place might have been all right for a quick romp, but I can’t see anyone just standing around there on a fine night.”
Nield nodded slowly. “They’re good points, Sergeant—I can see why you cling to your notion. But if we can’t find a convincing reason …” He reached for his untouched glass of beer. “That suggestion of yours that Hunt wanted to mislead us—it falls down in other ways, you know. For instance—sending us to the wrong place. The final effect of that wasn’t to mislead us—it was to make us doubt the letter’s relevance to the case. Just the opposite of what he’d have wanted.”
“True …”
“And if the intention was to mislead us about the time, Hunt would surely have covered himself better … It was pure chance that his visit to Peterborough was ever confirmed.”
“I don’t know about that,” Dyson said. “He parked right under a lamp and next to a phone box. If he’d hoped to be seen and remembered, he couldn’t have chosen a better place.”
Nield looked doubtful. “It would have been a pretty casual attitude for a guilty man with so much at stake. Establishing his presence there would have been very important for him—not just because of the alibi, but because of his story about taking the girl back …” Nield broke off. “And that’s another thing … Whatever Hunt’s reason for being in Peterborough, we know he was there … If his story wasn’t true, and he hadn’t taken the girl with him, where was she?”
“Dead and buried somewhere,” Dyson said.
“No, Sergeant, that won’t do … She telephoned the Bakers’ at half past seven—and Hunt must have left the site immediately after that or he wouldn’t have been parked in Peterborough by nine-forty. He couldn’t possibly have killed her, stowed her away safely, cleaned up the traces and himself—and still made it. He wouldn’t even have had time to tie her up and gag her—not securely.”
“I suppose not …”
“So he must have taken her with him … He’d hardly have left her alive and free at the site to be dealt with later.”
Dyson frowned. Alive and free at the site … The phrase held him. It chimed with something in his own mind.… Suddenly his train of thought exploded in a riot of colour.
“Sir—I’ve got it …! I knew I’d missed something … The chrysanthemums!”
Nield looked at him strangely. “Chrysanthemums?”
“That bunch Hunt had on his car seat. He said they were for Susan Ainger. He was lying. They couldn’t have been.”
“Why not?”
“Not chrysanthemums. You didn’t see the Aingers’ garden—there are huge beds of them there. Every colour—a wonderful show … He’d never have bought a bunch of chrysanthemums for her … They must have been for Gwenda.”
“For Gwenda …? But that was on Monday afternoon—two days after she’d disappeared.”
“If I’m right, about the flowers,” Dyson said, “she hadn’t disappeared—she must have been around … Alive and free, as you said.”
“But we were there, Sergeant—we went all over the place. There wasn’t a sign of her.”
“We didn’t search the place, sir. She could have tucked herself away somewhere—voluntarily. She must have been playing along with Hunt if he was giving her flowers.…”
“But this is absurd,” Nield said. “It would mean that Hunt told a lying story to explain a disappearance that hadn’t happened, and allowed himself to be suspected of a murder that hadn’t been committed. All with the girl still there …” His face suddenly tautened. “My God, you don’t suppose …?” He looked at Dyson with startled eyes.
Dyson gazed back at him, no less startled. “That could be it, sir,” he said. “That would explain everything. The letter to provoke an inquiry—Peterborough—all his behaviour—the suitcase still being around … And nothing else does.”
Nield had already reached for his shoes.
“He didn’t know he was in the clear until this afternoon, though,” Dyson added. “And he wouldn’t have done anything in daylight.”
“Daylight was two hours ago,” Nield said. “And once it was dark, why should he wait?” He grabbed his jacket. “Let’s go.…”
They tore out to Dyson’s car. Nield hurled himself into the passenger seat and slammed the door. “Give it all you’ve got, Sergeant.”
He sat back as the car roared away. There were three big questions in his mind. Could such a fantastic idea really be true? If it was, would they be in time …? And how the devil had Hunt managed it.…?
PART THREE
Chapter One
The evening of that Saturday that Gwenda had come to the caravan site had been an anxious and exhausting one for Hunt. He’d had to re-think and perfect a plan that would guarantee safety as well as success—and he’d had to begin to put it into execution.
Immediately after their meal was over, he’d referred again to the importance of Gwenda not being seen. “I’m still a bit worried in case som
ebody notices you,” he’d said. “Villagers are such dreadful gossips—and if the rumour gets around that I’ve got a girl living here with me, my boss is sure to hear about it.”
Momentarily, Gwenda had looked troubled again.
“It’s only that I don’t want to be given the sack before I’ve landed a new job,” Hunt had explained. “We’re obviously going to need all the money we can get hold of from now on, for setting up house, so we must avoid a gap in my earnings if we can. Also, I’ll need a reference from my present boss … It will pay us to take a little care.”
“I do understand, Alan,” Gwenda had said. “Tell me how I can help. You know I’ll do anything you want me to.”
“Well, the chief danger is that someone might come to the caravan and find you here … How would you feel about moving to one of the boats …? Me too, of course.”
Gwenda had brightened at once. “Could we?”
“Why not …? There’s a rather nice cruiser I’m supposed to be laying up for the winter—it’s owned by a chap who’s gone to America … It’s the last one in the row, and right out of the way. Just the job for us.”
“Wouldn’t the owner mind?”
“No—he said I could use it if I wanted to … Come and have a look.”
Hunt led the way to Flavia. Bushes at either end of the boat provided quite a bit of cover. “The ground’s rather soft,” he said. “Just a minute—I’ll put something down …” He fetched a plank from the shed and laid it over the mud. “There—you’ll be all right now, darling.” He smiled at her. “Got to look after you in your condition, eh?”
