by Jill McGown
Lloyd stood up. ‘No, not much. That’s because she was dead, Mr Wade. But you seem not to have noticed that.’
‘She wasn’t! She wasn’t dead!’
‘Why was she naked?’ Judy asked suddenly.
Wade looked slowly from Lloyd to her. ‘Naked?’ he said. ‘She wasn’t. She wasn’t naked, and she wasn’t dead.’
‘She was mad at Donald Mitchell with whom she’d been having an affair,’ Lloyd said. ‘You gave her a lift, and she saw her chance to get her own back on Donald. She took you up there, led you on a bit – why was she naked? I had a theory – you remember?’ He turned to Judy, who wasn’t sure what her reaction should be. ‘I didn’t go into it at the time, but it could be right. It was hot – very hot. Right?’ he asked Wade.
Wade, bewildered, agreed.
‘And there was the boating lake – what was it? Let’s have a swim? And you chickened out? Or did you both strip off, and then things developed, and you couldn’t cope? You decided to call it a day – and she laughed at you? Was that when she made you angry? Was that when you killed her?’
Wade sat with his head in his hands, saying nothing. When he sat up, it was with a new kind of assurance.
‘She was fully clothed, and alive, when I left. She did say she was all right. The reason she said that was that I had asked her if she was.’
‘In the middle of a row?’
‘No. The row ended when I pushed her.’
‘Don’t tell me we’re getting to the truth at last,’ Lloyd said. ‘You pushed her. When?’
‘When she had gone too far. I pushed her away, then I apologised, and asked if she was all right. She shouted yes, and ran into the boatshed. I followed her in there, and I said I was sorry, because I could see I’d frightened her, and I didn’t mean to. But she was nearly hysterical. She had the phone in her hand, and she said she would call the police if I didn’t leave. So I left.’
‘How hard did you hit her?’
‘I didn’t hit her. I pushed her, that’s all, and she stumbled and ran away.’
‘Was her face cut?’ Judy asked.
Wade didn’t know. ‘It could have been – you could hardly see in there. We only had the torch. I don’t think it was.’
‘It was,’ Lloyd assured him. ‘Did she fall against the table? Was that when it got knocked over?’
‘No. I’ve told you about the table.’
Judy decided it was her turn to stretch her legs, and took a slow turn round the room as she formulated her next question. ‘You left her there,’ she said. ‘Alive?’
There was a small exasperated noise from Wade.
‘Holding the phone, you said.’ Judy looked out through the rain-flecked window to the town and its closed shops. The lit windows of Stansfield’s only hotel made her wish she was in there, sipping gin and tonic, relaxing. ‘Without leaving her fingerprints?’
Lloyd took over. ‘And then you went where?’
‘To the garage,’ Wade said wearily. ‘And I got drunk.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘That’s what I do best,’ he muttered.
‘And then you went to Helen Mitchell’s like you’d wanted to all along?’ Judy said.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you tell her what had happened?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t remember much about it.’
Lloyd stood up, scraping the chair back on the floor. ‘I think we should all sleep on it,’ he said, and the constable stood up.
Judy watched as Chris limped away, supported by the constable on one side, and his crutch on the other.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
Lloyd stretched. ‘I think we should go home.’ He smiled. ‘I didn’t have time to collect the car – what with the interview, and this –’ he lifted his hands helplessly.
They were both too pre-occupied to chat as they collected their things from the office, and drove home in near silence. Judy tried to cast Wade in the role of murderer, and couldn’t. He didn’t seem to know how she’d died, or he was very good at keeping his wits about him. She signalled, ready to pull into the garage area behind the flats.
‘You don’t have to,’ Lloyd said, as the car’s lights swept over the garage doors. ‘I could have—’
‘—nipped through the alley,’ Judy finished the sentence with him. ‘I know.’ She switched off the engine, and they were plunged in darkness as she flicked the light switch. ‘It might not solve anything,’ she said, kissing him lightly on the lips. ‘But it would cheer me up no end.’
Lloyd laughed. ‘The Superintendent won’t like it,’ he said, feeding her the line.
‘The Superintendent,’ Judy said obediently, ‘isn’t getting it.’
The rabbit saw the headlights, and stopped dead, staring at them. The car drew slowly to a halt, then moved right. The rabbit moved to his left, and the car stopped again.
The rabbit wasn’t going to run. He had tried that the other night, and he’d nearly got run over. He was just going to sit there until the car went away.
The car moved back to its left. The rabbit moved to his right, and the car stopped again.
Then the lights weren’t there, so the car must have gone. The rabbit raced to the other side of the road, on to the safe grass, away from the cars.
The young policeman put his lights on again, and moved off down the road, where the ‘police presence’ was being maintained. He didn’t know why they were making all this fuss. They’d got him.
He was caught, like the rabbit in the headlights.
Chapter Nine
Could he have killed her? Chris tossed around on the bunk, wishing he could sleep and forget the whole thing for a few hours. The more he tried to tell them his story, the more likely it seemed that he had killed her. Could there have been any time he didn’t remember? He went through everything again in his head. Driving her home, taking her up there, going in with her, picking up the table, sitting down, talking to her, arguing with her, losing his temper, pushing her, pushing her, not hitting her. Could she have hurt herself then? Was it possible for someone to run away, pick up a phone, speak – no, of course it wasn’t. But if she did hit her head – but he could swear she didn’t hurt herself at all. He left her standing there, holding the phone. He went back to the garage, got drunk – he even had hazy memories of talking to the milk-lady. Staggering off to Helen, and then – then, there was a memory gap. He didn’t know how long he was at the garage, how long he was with Helen – he didn’t know if he’d gone straight to Helen’s.
They said Donald had been having an affair with Julia. Since when? Donald couldn’t stand the sight of her as far as Chris knew, and anyway, he boasted about his women. Surely it was whatsher-name – Julia’s lady-in-waiting – that he was having the affair with. It had been going on a long time. Helen thought it was Julia – she told him that night, under the impression that Donald’s behaviour was news to him. He hadn’t corrected her – how could he? Oh, but she wouldn’t kill Julia, would she? Even if she thought . . . would she?
Judy had thought she might feel guilty, but she didn’t. Perhaps that came tomorrow – perhaps it didn’t come at all. She felt warm and happy, and glad she’d made her mind up. Lloyd had opened a decadent bottle of wine, and it was just beginning to go to her head as they sat up in bed to finish it off.
‘Thank you for having me,’ she whispered, then giggled at her own wit.
‘I was wrong,’ he said, reaching over her for her glass. ‘The Superintendent would like it.’
She laughed. ‘You forgot to talk like Richard Burton,’ she said. ‘Did you know? Or is the boy from the valleys just another character part?’
‘I don’t know.’ He poured more wine into her half-full glass. ‘It must be – I’m not from the valleys.’
‘Oh,’ she said sympathetically. ‘Do you mean you can’t go on about pit disasters and washing your father’s back in the bath in front of the kitchen fire?’
He grinned. ‘I can go on about anything. It’s
not very often true.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Somewhere even I can’t pronounce.’ He drank his wine down like water. ‘Fishing village – I’d have been a fisherman if we’d stayed.’
‘What age were you when you moved to Stansfield?’
‘Fourteen.’ He sighed. ‘Thirty years ago this week, near as makes no difference.’
‘What’s your first name?’
‘Ah, no – you don’t get me like that. You’ll have to get me drunk – and this stuff won’t do it.’
‘You told the television people it was David. It’s not David. Why would you mind people knowing that?’
She sipped her wine, since it was having rather more effect on her than it was on Lloyd. ‘Would you have liked being a fisherman?’
‘Not me. I’m too fond of my creature comforts.’ His lips touched her hair. ‘I’ll stick to being a fisher of men.’
‘My God, I’ll bet that is how you see yourself, isn’t it?’ Judy shook her head. ‘St Peter – that’s your name, is it?’
‘Different line, different bait – different catch.’
She groaned, and drained her wine glass though she hadn’t really meant to.
‘Have some more,’ he said, the bottle poised over her glass.
She covered it with her hand. ‘No thank you – I’ve got to sober up enough to drive home.’
‘You don’t have to drive home!’ But he put the bottle down, and lay back. ‘You want me to throw Wade back, don’t you?’
‘Hark who never discusses business when he’s finished work!’ She thought for a moment. ‘Is this a private metaphor, or can anyone join?’
‘Feel free.’ He put his arm round her and pulled her closer. ‘Let’s have your angle.’
She dug him in the ribs. ‘All right. We’ve got more than one fish in the net. We’ve only got Helen Mitchell’s word for it that she hung about at the station. She could have left sharp, and been at the boating lake before nine o’clock.’
Lloyd shifted round the better to look quizzically at her. ‘So what?’
‘She could have seen Wade’s car go up there. She could have seen it from the house, or on her way to the station. She could have got her friend on to the train and got back there. Gone up to see what was going on – and found that Julia had got her hooks into Chris as well as her husband. She wouldn’t be too happy, would she?’
Lloyd made a disbelieving noise, and she sat up, twisting out of his arms. ‘Why not?’
‘For one thing she was strangled. That takes strength.’
‘Helen Mitchell’s no weakling – and Julia wasn’t what you’d call robust, was she?’
Lloyd frowned. ‘But then what? Undressed her?’
‘To make it look like a man had done it. Or maybe she didn’t have to – maybe she interrupted them at just the wrong moment. Wade runs off – leaving his jacket – and Helen finishes Julia’s game for her.’
‘But how did she manage all that without leaving one shred of evidence? And why hide her clothes?’
Judy didn’t have an answer for that. But it fitted. Wade’s shirt was unbuttoned when the milkwoman saw him, which could have meant he’d had to dress hurriedly. His reluctance to bring Helen into it at all – the pathologist’s suggestion that he could have seen the murder. She lay back down again.
‘Any more theories?’ Lloyd asked.
‘Mitchell – he came into a lot of money.’
‘Mitchell was with Wade’s own sister, who would swear black was white if it got her brother off.’ He leant over. ‘And before you start talking about hit-men and the like, think about it.’
Judy pushed him away. ‘I had no intention of talking about hitmen.’
He looked suitably abashed. ‘I thought about it. But since only Julia knew she was going up there, she’d have had to cooperate. That seems unlikely. Unless the said hit-man was Wade, of course, in which case he could have forced her up there.’
‘And hypnotised her into leaving the Shorts’ house early,’ Judy said matter-of-factly. That’s the answer, of course. How clever of you.’
‘That’s what I meant. Even I entertained the idea until I realised it was nonsense.’
‘Even you! Well, that’s all right, then. I’m not such a silly little girl after all.’ She helped herself to the rest of the wine. What in the world was she doing? Had she really wished this on herself? ‘I must be mad,’ she said. ‘Even talking to you.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that – I – oh, to hell. I’m going to get a proper drink!’ He put on a dressing-gown that she would have remarked on, if she had been speaking to him.
He was gone a long time; long enough for her to have finished the wine, read an article in Punch, and missed him.
He reappeared, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs. ‘Coffee,’ he said. ‘Black and strong, so that you can sober up as requested.’ He handed her a mug, and got into bed.
‘Thank you,’ she said automatically, absently. She blew at the steam, and tested it carefully. ‘It’s too hot,’ she said, and watched with horror as he took a deep drink. ‘Your mouth must be asbestos,’ she said, putting her mug down to cool.
His mouth, still hot from the coffee, was on hers. ‘You taste nice,’ she said. ‘Like Gaelic coffee.’ She pulled away. ‘You haven’t put whisky in mine, have you?’
‘No.’ He held up three fingers. ‘Scout’s Honour.’
She tested it all the same, but it seemed to be innocent of alcohol.
‘It could have been two people,’ Lloyd said reflectively. ‘The underwear puzzles me. Why would you roll up her clothes and stash them in one place, and bundle up her underwear and hide it yards away in the opposite direction?’
‘But even if it was two people – I mean, let’s say it was Helen, and Wade saw her and helped her cover it up – why would one person take her outer clothing and the other her underclothing? If they were going to strip her, wouldn’t one person do it, and hide it?’ Judy picked up her coffee again. ‘Why take her clothes off at all?’
‘Why do people take their clothes off?’ Lloyd asked.
‘To have a bath,’ Judy said.
‘To swim?’ Lloyd laughed. ‘I think that’s a non-starter, really. No one in their right mind would swim in that boating lake.’
‘To discuss murder-cases,’ Judy suggested with a grin.
They put down the coffee mugs and lay back. Judy pulled pensively at the hairs on his chest until he yelped. ‘Sorry,’ she said, smoothing them down again. ‘Lloyd?’
‘Present.’
‘Were you ever unfaithful to Barbara?’ she asked, not sure of what reaction the question would get.
‘Yes,’ he said promptly. ‘Once. Brief and inglorious.’ He laughed. ‘She was a rank and file violinist, with the BBC Symphony Orchestra.’
‘Are you making that up?’
‘No. That’s what she was – I always imagine them being drilled. “Shoulder violins! Play, two three four.”’
Judy sat up, leaning on her elbow, looking down at him. ‘Did you feel guilty?’ she demanded.
‘A bit. Yes, I did. I think that’s why it didn’t last very long.’ He touched her cheek. ‘Why? Do you?’
Judy shook her head, and her hand went to his. ‘I should,’ she said, smiling suddenly. ‘So let’s try again and see if it makes me feel guilty this time.’
*
The gales of the night before dominated News at Ten, and Chris was relegated to a mention in the closing stages, before the sport. Donald watched it all without seeing a thing. Another hour passed before he decided not to wait for Helen, who had obviously decided that she was no longer under any obligation to keep him posted about her movements, and had got up and gone out after dinner without a word. She’d be at Elaine’s, of course. He knew that without checking up. They could both sit and worry about Chris, as though that did any good. A trouble shared was a trouble exacerbated, in Donald’s book.
He switched off th
e television, and went to bed. Busy day tomorrow – he’d have to start making arrangements to leave. They’d want as much notice as possible, to give them time to find a replacement. And he wanted to start looking through the properties currently on Mitchell Development’s books. He was in the market for good premises in a reasonably fashionable area.
‘I can’t stay,’ Judy said, pulling on her tights. ‘My car’s outside – people have very suspicious minds you know. They might think we were sleeping together.’
Lloyd laughed. ‘Who’s going to see it?’ He sat up and tried to catch her arm, but she pulled it away.
‘WPC Alexander, for one,’ she said. ‘She lives in the flats behind this block.’ She zipped up her skirt. ‘Where are my shoes?’ She looked round the room, and under the bed, and then went out into the living room.
Lloyd put on his dressing-gown, and followed her, shivering slightly as his bare feet hit the tiles in the hallway.
‘Mary?’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t say a word. Anyway – you could have been spending the night with her.’
She found her shoes. ‘These days that would cause even more talk,’ she said, laughing. ‘Got them.’ She held them up, and saw his dressing-gown.
‘You look stunning, my dear,’ she said, holding on to him as she put her shoes on. ‘Are you wearing that for a bet?’
Lloyd rather liked it, with its gold dragons on a maroon background. ‘It was a present,’ he lied, because he had bought it himself the year they went to Tenerife.
‘Was it? Don’t expect one like that from me, will you?’
‘I don’t expect a thing,’ he said, putting his arms round her.
She kissed him, her tongue gently seeking his. ‘I’ve got to go,’ she whispered.
‘Some more coffee,’ he said. ‘Make sure you’re sober. Maybe you’re not – you don’t want to be caught drunk in charge, do you?’
He could feel her giving in. ‘All right. One cup of coffee.’ She took out her cigarettes.
‘Oh good,’ Lloyd said, ‘I was afraid that this wasn’t an occasion.’
He made the coffee, humming to himself. She might stay, if he pointed out to her that it was almost midnight and WPC Alexander would have already suspected that she hadn’t come for a shilling for the meter. He found some biscuits that he didn’t know he had, and piled them on to a plate.
