‘Neither do I … what do you take me for? It represents a hell of a lot of unhappiness for at least two people, usually more.’
‘Then why joke about it?’
‘For the same reason the police make flip remarks when some poor sod tops himself, or gets mangled in a car accident,’ he replied, tugging the ring off the can and pouring the contents into the glass. He held it up to the light to appraise its colour before taking a good pull. ‘It’s not callousness, it’s a defence mechanism,’ he explained. ‘Helps us to cope with the grimness of it all … I thought you understood that, Mel.’
‘Of course I do. We’ve talked about it before.’ She was fiddling abstractedly with the ribbon on the chocolate box as she spoke, her face serious. ‘It’s just that when it comes to personal relationships, it seems different somehow.’
‘I know what you’re thinking.’ He set down the glass and reached for her hand. ‘You’re thinking it might happen to us, aren’t you? Is that why you’re so reluctant to commit yourself?’
‘There seems to be so much that could come between us. I’ve got used to doing my own thing, making my own decisions. I shut myself away for hours when I’m writing, I spend time away on research or at conferences, sometimes at short notice … and I hop over to New York to see Simon from time to time and I have to feel free to go on doing that—’
‘Have I ever suggested preventing you from doing any of these things?’
‘No, but when push comes to shove, you might.’
‘I promise you I won’t. And anyway, what about my job? It takes me here there and everywhere and I often keep irregular hours. It’s been like that ever since we met and it hasn’t caused any problems.’
‘That’s because neither of us has had any claim on the other.’
He was still holding her hand, gently turning between his fingers the plain gold ring that she had worn since before Simon was born. It was the one thing the parents of her student lover, tragically killed in a road accident without ever knowing that she was pregnant, had asked of her when they took her into their home after her own mother and father had rejected her. They had never uttered a word of blame, but were pathetically anxious that no one outside the family should know that their grandson was illegitimate. Ken knew her history; she had concealed nothing from him, nor had he from her.
He was silent for a few moments, then said quietly, ‘I don’t think of our relationship in terms of claim and counter-claim. I want us to build a life together that satisfies us both. I’d like that life to begin here, in a house made from this cottage where you’re obviously so happy and the one next door that has always seemed part of it. This is where we first met … it’s as if we have our roots here. Don’t you feel that?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And Iris can’t wait indefinitely for a decision about Elder Cottage, can she?’
‘No,’ she admitted. ‘As a matter of fact, we were talking about it yesterday. I promised to give her an answer within a week.’
As if sensing an advantage, he gave her hand a squeeze and drew her closer. ‘Will you make me the same promise?’ he asked softly.
It was far and away the most serious conversation they had ever had. From the very beginning of their affair she had resisted all his efforts to put the relationship on a permanent footing, taking an impish delight in turning his every effort to pin her down into a light-hearted sparring match. Only once – when still in shock after finding a neighbour dead in particularly gruesome circumstances – had she allowed him to stay in her cottage overnight. Today, somehow, he had slipped past her guard. There was a gleam in his eyes – on the small side for his rather lumpy features but clear and penetrating – that told her he knew it. ‘Well?’ he persisted as she continued to hesitate.
‘Okay,’ she said at last, but could not resist adding, ‘On one condition.’
‘And that is?’
‘That you promise not to raise the subject again in the meantime.’
He laughed and released her. ‘It’s a deal. Now, are we going to this concert or not?’
‘Of course. As a matter of fact I tried to get tickets, but it was a sell-out ages ago.’
Some hours later, as they drove back from the concert, Melissa remembered the telephone call from Bruce Ingram and said, ‘Ken, have you heard any more about that poor girl who was found in the freezer? Is she the girl missing from the hotel, and is the freezer the one the Fords had stolen?’
‘Yes, and yes. I was going to tell you, but it slipped my mind. Matt Waters rang me to say the Major’s prints were on the freezer, along with umpteen others. Apparently his wife had handled it as well – naturally – and so had the lads who helped manhandle it to the gate for the council people to collect. An officer was sent to get elims from all of them and the old girl got really uptight when he came knocking on the door. He had quite a job to convince her that she wasn’t a suspect.’
‘It’d serve her right if she was!’ said Melissa with a chuckle. ‘She’s always so proud of being a “sea-green Incorruptible” and all that. Maybe this’ll teach her to be a little less holier-than-thou … although I very much doubt it.’
‘Matt thought that would amuse you. That’s why he told me. He sends his regards, by the way.’
‘Thanks.’ Matt Waters was a detective sergeant, one of ex-DCI Kenneth Harris’s former colleagues with whom he kept in regular contact. Melissa knew him well.
‘The next task,’ Ken went on as he turned off the main road into the lane leading to Upper Benbury, ‘will be to find out who nicked the freezer – which shouldn’t be difficult. Then they have to establish how and when the body got into it … and of course, to formally identify the dead girl.’
‘I gathered from the report in today’s Gazette that there’s some doubt about who she really is.’
‘That’s right. It may take some time to find out her real name or where she came from. It seems she turned up at the hotel out of the blue looking for a job just when two domestics had walked out and left them short-staffed at the busiest time of the year. She was attractive to look at, seemed clean and respectable and all that, and the proprietor engaged her for a week’s trial. She proved satisfactory and he said she could stay until the end of the season. He thought she had probably run away from home, but says she appeared to be over sixteen so he didn’t think it was his business to enquire. And he conveniently overlooked the fact that she produced no ID or social security number.’
‘Of course not. It meant he could get away with paying her a pittance,’ said Melissa scornfully.
‘No doubt. And it didn’t seem to have bothered him at first that she should have stayed out all night – except for the inconvenience it caused him. “It’s the sort of thing these girls do,” he kept saying. I think Matt found his attitude a bit hard to take.’
‘It happens so often, doesn’t it?’ she sighed. ‘People say, “It’s none of my business”, or “I don’t want to get involved” – and the next thing, there’s a tragedy that could have been avoided.’
They had reached Hawthorn Cottage. He cut the engine and switched off the lights. In the darkness, he put an arm round her. ‘“It’s none of my business” is something I’ve never heard you say,’ he teased.
She jerked away, feigning indignation. ‘Are you implying that I poke my nose into things that don’t concern me?’ she demanded.
‘Not implying. Stating.’ With a hand cupping the back of her head he drew her face towards his. ‘You’re the interferingest woman I’ve ever met.’
She opened her mouth to deny it, but he silenced her with his.
Four
There was no Sunday edition of the Gazette and the national press had not found the death of an anonymous woman in a remote Gloucestershire village of sufficient importance to compete for space with yet another European crisis and the contents of a leaked document that threatened to cause serious embarrassment to the government. One or two of the tabloids gave the murder
limited coverage, indulging in a few flights of fancy concerning the identity of the victim, but since the disappearance of Hilda Rice had never been publicised outside the county it was considered of minor interest compared with the recent scandalous behaviour of certain members of the cast of a TV soap opera.
But if the case failed to shake the nation it was the number one topic of conversation in Upper Benbury village stores, as Melissa discovered when she called to collect her daily paper on Monday morning. There was a small knot of customers at the counter, all having apparently made their purchases but showing no inclination to leave. When Melissa entered, heads turned in her direction. Mrs Foster, the proprietor, immediately exclaimed, ‘Here’s Mrs Craig, she’ll know!’ and she found herself facing a ring of expectant faces.
‘Know what?’ she asked.
‘Whether it was Major Ford’s freezer that poor girl was found in,’ said Alice Hamley, the Rector’s wife.
‘What makes you think it might be?’ Melissa parried.
‘Well, we all know he had one stolen, don’t we?’ said Mrs Foster eagerly. ‘Trumpeted it all over the village he did, going on about police indifference and incompetence. Anyone’d think he’d lost a family heirloom instead of a piece of old junk.’ Her pale eyelashes fluttered and her plump cheeks flushed rosy red with excitement. ‘Still, the police were at his house late on Friday afternoon, weren’t they, so they’re taking an interest now all right.’
‘They have to check everything for elimination purposes. It doesn’t necessarily mean—’
‘I dare say,’ Mrs Foster interrupted. ‘But what I’d like to know is, why would anyone want to steal a rusty old thing like that, if it wasn’t to hide something in?’
‘It was probably worth a few quid to anyone who could strip it down for scrap.’ Melissa had no particular liking for the Fords, but she had some sympathy for their predicament and was reluctant to encourage further speculation.
‘Ah, then I expect it was those gipsies the Major was on about,’ said Miss Brightwell, who lived in a cottage behind the church. ‘They do that sort of thing, don’t they? Then they dump what they can’t use. I’ve just remembered,’ she went on, her pale face under its crown of wispy white hair becoming suddenly animated. ‘One of the women knocked on my door the other day, trying to sell things. If you ask me, it was just an excuse to have a good look round to see if there was anything worth stealing.’
‘I expect it’s the same one who called on me,’ said Mrs Yorke, who lived a short distance from the Fords’ cottage. ‘She was selling lace – hand-made, so she claimed. I didn’t really want any, but I bought some little mats to get rid of her. She was so pleased – she offered to read my hand for nothing, but I didn’t have time. Anyway, I don’t believe in that sort of nonsense.’
‘Quite right too!’ said Mrs Foster. ‘Those people are so artful – all smiles and telling you what a lucky face you have, and if you turn your back for a second, they’re sneaking in to pinch your silver.’
‘I don’t think that’s quite fair,’ said Alice gently. ‘It isn’t as if there’s been any other theft in the village – and she could hardly have put a freezer in her handbag, could she?’ she added with a smile.
‘She could have gone back and told her menfolk about it,’ retorted Mrs Foster with an offended sniff at the mild reproof that seemed to say, You might be the Rector’s wife, young lady, but you don’t know everything.
‘But according to the Major, the freezer wasn’t put out for collection until quite late on Monday evening, so she could hardly have known about it,’ Melissa pointed out.
‘That’s right, he got two of the Woodbridge brothers to do it,’ said Mrs Yorke. ‘I heard him discussing it with them as I walked past on my way to the shop – and later on I actually saw them doing it.’ She thought for a moment, then went on, ‘That must have been after nine o’clock as it was beginning to get dark. There was quite a bit of banging and shouting going on … I had the impression they’d had a few pints in the Woolpack beforehand and I don’t think Madeleine was amused at having that pantomime going on at her gate.’
‘And I suppose the Major was adding to the confusion by shouting orders,’ said Melissa with a chuckle.
‘I never saw him,’ said Mrs Yorke. ‘Doesn’t he go to some meeting or other on a Monday? Come to think of it, I haven’t seen him – or his wife – since.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Mrs Foster. Her voice fell to a shocked whisper as she added, ‘You don’t suppose they’ve been arrested, do you?’
This preposterous suggestion, apparently made in all seriousness, was received with indulgent smiles and covertly exchanged glances all round. Mrs Foster’s macabre imagination was well known and her verdict on any matter under discussion generally taken with a good pinch of salt. It was a signal for the gathering to break up and everyone to go their separate ways. Only Alice Hamley lingered outside the shop for a quiet word with Melissa.
‘I feel so sorry for the Fords,’ she said in her gentle, earnest manner. ‘It must be horrid for them to be mixed up in something like this. Surely, they can’t be under suspicion?’
‘No, of course not, but I’ll bet they’re terrified people will think they are,’ Melissa replied. ‘That’s probably why they’re keeping their heads down.’
‘I think I’ll ask John to call and reassure them.’
‘I’m not sure they’d appreciate that … you know how touchy they are. You’re such a charitable soul, Alice – don’t you think that if it had happened to someone else, Madeleine Ford would be the first to drop hints about there being no smoke without fire?’
‘I suppose so,’ Alice admitted with evident reluctance. There was a troubled expression in her blue eyes and she ran her fingers through her short blonde curls.
‘Well then. It won’t hurt them to know what it feels like to be under a little cloud for a day or two. It’ll soon blow over, once the police have cleared up the case.’
‘You think they’ll find out who did it?’
‘Sure to, once they know who the girl really was. They think she was using an assumed name, so she was probably hiding from someone, maybe someone she was afraid of. Find out who that was and you’ve almost certainly found the killer.’
Alice shuddered, evidently imagining all kinds of horrors. Then she looked down at the copy of The Times she was holding and her mind switched back to reality. ‘I must be getting back,’ she said. ‘John likes to glance through this before he starts the day’s work.’
When Melissa reached home she found a message on her answering machine. She pressed the ‘Play’ button and heard Bruce Ingram’s voice saying, ‘Any joy? Please call back asap.’
‘Cheek!’ she muttered as she reset the machine. ‘I’m not your dogsbody, young man. You can jolly well wait.’
Ten minutes later the telephone rang. Once again, Bruce was on the line. ‘Didn’t you get my message?’ he asked.
‘I did, and I’m ignoring it while I drink my coffee and do the crossword,’ she retorted. ‘What’s so urgent anyway?’
‘Now, don’t be awkward,’ he coaxed. ‘All I’m asking is, was it or wasn’t it?’
‘If it’s the Major’s freezer we’re talking about, it was. Now, will you go away and leave me in peace?’
‘Just as you like. I was going to invite you to join in the action … but have it your way.’
‘What action?’ Knowing Bruce of old, she was instantly suspicious. ‘What are you up to, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Like I told you, I’m ahead of the pack.’ He dropped his voice, evidently anxious not to be overheard. She recognised the tactic; he scented a scoop and had no intention of sharing it with any of his colleagues. ‘There’s a gipsy encampment in the area, right?’
‘Right.’
‘And gipsies deal in scrap metal, don’t they?’
‘Among other things … yes.’
‘So that’s where the police’ll be focusing their inquiries. And th
at’s where I plan to be in half an hour or so. Why not come along and see the fun? We might even witness an arrest.’
‘What makes you think … just a minute.’ Melissa’s brain was working at peak revs. ‘There’s something else behind this, isn’t there?’
‘Well … in a manner of speaking. Look, I can’t explain now. Meet me in the car park in Hucclecote in fifteen minutes and I’ll tell you on the way.’
‘If you think I’ve got nothing better to do—’ she began, but he cut her short.
‘If my suspicions are correct, it might even give you an idea for a plot,’ he urged. ‘Come on, it won’t take long.’
‘Oh, very well,’ she said resignedly. ‘It had better be good, that’s all.’
Iris, a lean, sunburned figure in a faded cotton skirt and T-shirt, was in her garden dead-heading roses as Melissa emerged from her cottage. At the sound of the garage door being opened she looked up and called out, ‘Hullo, where are you off to?’ On hearing about Bruce’s mysterious errand she gave a dismissive cackle and said, ‘Wasting his time … and yours. Probably long gone by now.’
‘Who – the gipsies?’
‘Who else? Why Hucclecote anyway? They were on the Cirencester road.’
‘That’s true.’ With her key in the garage door, Melissa hesitated. ‘Maybe he knows where they’ve gone.’
Iris shrugged. ‘Rather you than me,’ she said and returned to her roses.
As she swung the Golf into the car park where they had arranged to meet, Melissa spotted Bruce’s bright red Escort and pulled up alongside. ‘Where are we heading?’ she asked as she slipped into the passenger seat.
‘Upton.’ He started the engine and drove out into the road, heading back towards Gloucester. ‘They’re camped on farmland belonging to a friend of my Dad’s.’
‘Upton? But I thought—’
‘Thought what?’
‘Never mind. Aren’t you going to tell me the great secret?’
He took his eyes from the road for a moment to give her a sly grin. ‘I’m looking for a motor for an electric fan,’ he said.
Murder in Langley Woods Page 3
