by Jill McGown
‘The beauty spot where early this morning the body of thirty-five year old Julia Mitchell was found. “We know who we are looking for,” says Superintendent James Randall.
‘Good Evening.’ The newsreader smiled the serious smile that newsreaders keep for these occasions. ‘Police have issued a description of the man they wish to interview in connection with the murder of Julia Mitchell, widow of property developer Charles Mitchell. Mrs Mitchell’s body was found early this morning, near a boating lake in Stansfield, where she was visiting relatives. Mel Brown has this report.’
The camera moved round the closed café, showing close-ups of the windows and the door, for no good reason. The reporter walked up to the camera. ‘This is the café where it is believed that Julia Mitchell met her death. Mrs Mitchell owned this popular beauty spot, and was in Stansfield to negotiate its sale. She was staying . . .’ Here the camera swivelled round to show the curve of the road, and the houses at the far end. ‘. . . just down the road there, with her brother-in-law and his wife, Donald and Helen Mitchell. The Mitchells were not available for comment this morning.’ The camera moved back to the café, and the reporter. ‘Superintendent James Randall, who is leading the murder hunt, said in a statement this afternoon “We are looking for a particular man whom we know was with Mrs Mitchell yesterday evening, and who may be a vital witness. We are not at present releasing his name.” ’
Helen breathed a sigh of relief. Somehow, if his name wasn’t mentioned, it didn’t seem so bad.
The newsreader appeared again. ‘The police have, however, issued a description of the man, who is six feet tall, with dark straight hair and brown eyes. He was last seen wearing brown corduroy trousers, and a light brown shirt. Police appeal to anyone who may have seen him or Mrs Mitchell, who had shoulder-length blonde hair, and was wearing a denim skirt and jacket, to come forward. Thorpe Wood, and the boating lake itself, is a popular spot for courting couples, and the police emphasise that any information will be treated in the strictest confidence.’ Then the film of the police searching the woods again. ‘Teams of police are combing the area for clues, and it is thought that her attacker may be hiding out there. Tracker dogs may be used in the search.
‘And now for the rest of today’s news ...’
Helen didn’t listen to the rest of today’s news.
‘The bike wouldn’t start.’
Lloyd looked sideways at Judy, and she took over.
‘How long did it take to start? I mean – it did start eventually, didn’t it?’
He nodded.
‘How long?’
The evening sun slanted into the room, landing like a spotlight on Paul. ‘I don’t know. About ten minutes, I suppose.’
‘But you were there for half an hour,’ Judy said. ‘You should tell your mum to give you All-Bran – half an hour! That’s no fun, in amongst the nettles.’
‘Could I beg a cup of tea, Mrs Sklodowska?’ Lloyd asked. He did want one; the plastic sandwich seemed to be lodged half way down. And he wanted her to go, to see if that made Paul any more co-operative.
Alice Sklodowska went off to comply with his request, and Lloyd caught Paul’s father’s eye. He looked back steadily, his gentle features placid, secure in the knowledge that his son had done nothing wrong.
‘Paul,’ Judy said. ‘Whatever it is you’re not telling us isn’t worth it.’
Lloyd rubbed his eyes. They had been here over two hours, and they were no further forward. He decided to go on the attack again.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’d better come back with us – the Superintendent will want to see you.’
Paul looked alarmed, as he was meant to. ‘What for? I just reported it.’
‘No, you didn’t. I don’t think you’re a Peeping Tom – I think you went up there after you saw the car leave. You wondered about the girl, so you went up there, and you found her – on her own. What happened, Paul – did you lose your temper? Don’t worry, it’ll probably just be manslaughter – particularly if she led you on – did she lead you on?’
Paul stared at him, horrified, as his mother came in with the tea.
‘Look – my son, he reported—’ Sklodowski began, but he didn’t get a chance to finish the sentence.
‘Yes!’ Lloyd said sharply. ‘He reported it. He told us where to go and find a dead body, and we found one. Come on, son – get your coat.’
‘But he did not kill this girl – he’s just a boy!’
Lloyd looked over at Paul, who still sat, wide-eyed with fear. ‘No he’s not – look at him. He’s a big lad. Strong. She wasn’t very strong, was she, Paul? It would be easy to strangle her.’
Paul jumped to his feet. ‘I was never anywhere near her! It wasn’t me – it was the man in the car! I didn’t see anything – I’ve told you what I saw. Diane can tell you – she was there!’
Lloyd sat back. ‘Diane,’ he said. ‘Is that what this was all about? Diane?’ He picked up his tea, and took two deliberate sips before speaking again. ‘We,’ he said, in his deepest, threatening, but well-modulated tones, ‘we have just spent all afternoon here because of Diane? Because Sir Galahad here wanted to protect her reputation?’
‘No – it was – yes.’ Paul hung his head, and muttered, almost to himself. ‘She made me promise,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want me to tell anyone about it at all. Because her dad would find out where she’d been.’
Lloyd contented himself with looking contemptuously at him. ‘Right,’ he said briskly. ‘Her name and address, please.’
‘MacPherson,’ Sklodowski said quickly. ‘Diane MacPherson – she lives on the Queen’s Estate, but she’s a very nice girl. They lived next door to us when she and Paul were—’ he indicated very small children. His fractured English seemed to be mending nicely, Lloyd noticed, and then he realised what name Sklodowski had given.
‘MacPherson?’ he asked. ‘Not Matt MacPherson’s girl?’
‘Yes – you know Matt?’
‘Yes – I worked with him once,’ Lloyd said. ‘Diane’s seventeen, is she? I thought she was about nine.’ He laughed.
‘It is 39 Victoria Street,’ Sklodowski continued, glaring at his son. ‘No wonder Matt won’t let you see her!’ he shouted, aiming an ineffectual blow at Paul, and missing. ‘It’s flat 5,’ he added.
Lloyd and Judy made for the door.
‘Don’t get her into trouble,’ Paul pleaded.
‘You’re more likely to do that than I am,’ Lloyd said. ‘We’ll need a statement. I’ll let you know when.’
Out on the Spanish-style porch, he spoke to Paul’s father. ‘Don’t be too hard on him – we were all young once.’
‘Teenagers!’ Sklodowski said with as much disgust as he could muster. ‘When I was his age we were too busy trying to stay alive to get up to mischief in the woods!’
Despite the talk, Lloyd didn’t imagine that Sklodowski had ever been hard on Paul in his life, and he didn’t suppose he would start now. Diane MacPherson – well, well. He must be getting old.
It was getting dark, and Chris could venture further afield. He had had one or two furtive excursions outside his shelter when forced to by bodily need, but now it was too dark for them to be searching, and he could find something to eat.
The fresh, pine-scented breeze seemed like heaven after the foul-smelling cell, and he limped away towards the old wood where the wind would have brought down some apples. He tried to work out the last time he had eaten, but he kept forgetting which day was which. It must have been Saturday morning, because he didn’t have lunch. Had Elaine given him anything? No, because they’d eaten early. They were expecting Donald and Julia round to discuss the boating lake.
Why hadn’t he just dropped her there, like she’d asked? Oh no, he had to take her to the door. She’d left something up there, she said. Just drop her here, she could walk the rest of the way. She’d be all right, you could see the house from here. But she hadn’t left anything. She’d tricked him in there with a stu
pid lie, and he still couldn’t see why. God damn it, she hadn’t killed herself. Or had she? People did, after all. His mind toyed with that idea for a moment, but it was too fantastic. Why would she want—? For a moment, it did seem to be the answer. She hadn’t wanted him to run her back, because she intended doing away with herself. She got rid of him, and did it. Simple. Simple, except that the police were asking about him. Still – it might just be to see if he knew why she’d killed herself. Maybe she drowned herself in the boating lake. Maybe they weren’t really looking for him, not like that.
But as he dragged his way back to his hide-out, he knew that he was whistling in the dark. He’d seen all the police cars – even heard a couple of policemen who got too close for comfort. Helen had lied for him. And Julia couldn’t have been described as suicidal. When she had admitted that she hadn’t left anything at all, said she just wanted to be with him – he had wondered, briefly, what was in store for him. His wildest fantasy would not have included Julia’s being dead by morning and his being hunted like a wounded animal.
He crawled back in as darkness began to fall, and released his small load of hard, unappetising apples. He’d give himself up. Even if he couldn’t work it out, he’d give himself up soon. Tomorrow. Soon, anyway.
Queen’s Estate wasn’t far from Homewood, but it could have been a million miles away. The car was parked as inconspicuously as possible by garages, whose defaced and damaged doors no longer closed, and which rarely housed anything as valuable as a car. The six doors presented an opportunity to one paint-spray wielder to inscribe MANUTD upon them in red paint.
‘The theory is,’ Lloyd said as they walked past, ‘that Manchester United has a greater following than any other football club because the fans only need to remember six letters.’
‘You know this girl, do you?’ Judy asked.
‘I thought I did – but she’s grown up a bit since I saw her last.’
Judy laughed. ‘Peter must be about her age, isn’t he?’
‘Yes – he’ll be eighteen in January. I wonder if he’s getting up to mischief in the woods. I suppose he is – I don’t see that much of him now.’
‘Does Linda still come round?’
‘Sometimes. But she’s growing up too. I’m glad she doesn’t come so often – she must be getting over it.’
They negotiated some broken bricks which lay around for no good reason, and arrived at the surprisingly intact glass door of the flats. On the step, in the same neat, red lettering, was the greeting SHIT.
‘My mother was telling me that she came across two school-girls the other day – neat white stockings, blue skirts and blazers, satchels, hats – the lot, demurely writing “Mrs Masters is a shit” on the wall with a magic marker,’ Judy said, thinking that perhaps it was just that magic markers and paint spray hadn’t been invented when she was a demure schoolgirl.
Lloyd shrugged, and they climbed the stairs to the top flat.
‘He’s always lived here,’ he said. ‘He thinks there ought to be pockets of resistance.’
‘How come it got like this?’
‘Nobody really knows. Every now and then they try to brighten its image a bit, but it doesn’t really work. Though it isn’t as bad as it used to be – there are quite a lot of people who haven’t run away. I think it was a sort of vicious circle. One or two bad lots moved in, and we started keeping a special eye on the area. Because we were there, other people wouldn’t move in. Still,’ he said philosophically, ‘you name me a town that hasn’t got a seedy quarter. They just happen.’
The door was opened by a pale, thin woman of indeterminate age, with short, mousy hair and a smile of half recognition.
‘It’s Lloyd, isn’t it? It’s years since I’ve seen you! Matt! Matt – look who’s here!’
Everyone called him Lloyd. Judy lived in hopes of someone calling him Algernon or Dafydd, or whatever name his parents had landed him with, but no one ever did. And he wouldn’t even tell her when she admitted that her middle name was Cornelia.
‘Come in, please,’ Mrs MacPherson continued. ‘The place is a mess – you should have said you were coming.’ She stood aside, and Lloyd and Judy stepped in, to be greeted by Matt, whose Scottish accent had not been one whit diminished by living in the east of England for over twenty years.
‘How are you doing?’ Matt asked, pumping Lloyd’s hand, ‘And who’s this? You’ve been keeping her a secret.’
Judy felt uncomfortable, because they so obviously thought it was a social visit.
‘It’s been far too long,’ Mrs MacPherson said. She had an accentless voice that could have come from anywhere.
‘I’m afraid it’s business, Polly. We can’t stay. This is Detective Sergeant Hill, Matt – Polly.’
Matt gave Judy an appreciative look. ‘There were no detectives like you in my day,’ he said. ‘All I got were hairy beer drinkers like this one.’ He jerked a finger at Lloyd. ‘And Welsh, as if it wasn’t bad enough!’
‘Matt was on the force,’ Lloyd explained.
‘Aye, but I never had the brains – I couldn’t afford it,’ Matt said, and laughed.
‘Are you working now?’ Lloyd asked.
Matt shook his head. ‘There’s nothing. But there’s some sort of an electronics place supposed to be starting up soon – I’ll see if they’re looking for security men. “Sorry, but we’re bringing our staff with us.” That’s what I’ll get.’ He had put a high-pitched, mincing accent for the quote, and employed it again. ‘ “Just leave your name with us, Mr MacPherson – we’ll bear you in mind.” They’re all the same, these places. But I’ll take nightwatchman if it’s going – I don’t want to be idle – see these kids? Half of them are scared to work. But they can get them for nothing.’
By now the group had progressed into the living room, a quietly furnished, airy room, quite unlike its exterior surroundings. ‘Mind you, we’re all right for now – I’ve got my redundancy. And if Diane gets that job she’s after on the paper—’ He broke off. ‘Here, where’s that beer I brought back?’
‘On the sideboard,’ Mrs MacPherson’s voice came from the kitchen.
‘Oh here they are. Will you have a beer?’
‘Thanks, I will.’ Lloyd said.
‘Business, you said?’
‘Yes,’ Lloyd said, slightly hesitantly. ‘Is Diane in?’
‘She’s in her bedroom reading. She’s forever reading, that one – I think she must have read half the library by now.’ He paused. ‘Why? What’s she been up to?’
‘Nothing,’ Lloyd assured him. ‘It’s just that we were given her name as being a possible witness.’
‘What to?’ he asked, suspiciously.
‘Nothing, probably. You know what these things are like. It’s about this girl – young woman – who was found in Thorpe Wood. Do you know about it?’
Matt looked incredulous. ‘Of course I know about it. It’s been all over the news – what’s she got to do with it?’
‘Nothing at all. But we think she might have been around there last night.’ Lloyd paused for a moment. ‘If we could have a word with her,’ he said. ‘If she was there, she might have seen something.’
‘What would she be doing there?’ Matt’s dark brows almost met.
‘Probably just passing,’ Judy said lightly. ‘But she might remember something – a car, or whatever.’
‘It’s just that someone thought they saw her,’ Lloyd tried.
‘On her own?’ Matt opened one of the beer cans with a small explosion of froth.
‘Couldn’t tell you,’ Lloyd lied valiantly.
‘She’d better’ve been.’
‘Could I have a word with her?’ Judy asked, as though it didn’t really matter whether she did or not. She shook her head with a smile at the proffered can of beer.
‘Just go through,’ Matt said. ‘She’s used to the law tramping all over the house. That’s her door there.’ He indicated the door to the right of the kitchen.
‘Who was she with? A boy?’ Matt asked, as Judy left. ‘If she was with that Paul What’s-his-name, you’ll not be the only one having a word with her. I told her – I’m not having that.’
‘I’ve no idea, Matt. It was just her name we were given,’ Lloyd said, getting himself into deeper water than ever.
‘Do you know what her mother found in her bedroom?’
Judy by this time had heard ‘come in’ in a puzzled voice coming from the other side of the bedroom door, and had to guess the answer.
Diane was stretched out on the bed, reading, as her father had predicted, and looked up curiously when Judy walked in. Her mother’s face and her father’s colouring were an interesting combination; her brown eyes appraised Judy, a slight frown drawing her eyebrows together.
‘I’m Judy Hill. I’m sorry to barge in on you, but your dad said it would be all right. I’m a detective sergeant with Stansfield police.’
‘Oh. Did you work with my dad?’
‘No – but the inspector did. They’re having a beer now.’ Judy looked round the small, neat room. ‘May I sit down?’
Diane slid her legs off the bed to make room, and Judy sat. ‘It’s about last night,’ she said. ‘We’ve spoken to Paul.’
The girl stiffened slightly. ‘What about last night?’
‘Do you know that someone was found dead in Thorpe Wood last night? A woman?’
The girl clearly did not. ‘The woman we saw?’ she asked, in a whisper.
‘Yes,’ said Judy. ‘I hope that makes you feel a bit more like telling us what you saw?’
‘Of course it does! I wouldn’t have – I thought he was making a big thing of it.’ She shook her head. ‘If I’d thought for a moment that—’
‘Let’s have your version, then.’
Diane looked up sharply. ‘My version?’ she repeated. ‘What do you mean, my version?’
‘Your account, then. But it will be a version, whether you like it or not – no two people see exactly the same things, notice exactly the same things. We know what Paul saw, and now I want to hear what you saw.’
Diane pulled her legs up underneath her. ‘Does my dad know where I was?’ she asked.
