A Trio of Murders: A Perfect Match, Redemption, Death of a Dancer

by Jill McGown

  ‘Perhaps more than that,’ Lloyd said. ‘She could have helped him escape prosecution – or tried to,’ he amended.

  Judy liked the ‘acquaintances’ bit. Just in case they were involved.

  ‘Right. Can you prove it?’

  ‘If she was involved, I should have proof shortly – there was a partial print found at the scene which may be Mrs Mitchell’s.’

  Lloyd explained how he had come by Mrs Mitchell’s prints, to the relief of the Superintendent.

  ‘Let me know what develops,’ he said. With that, he was gone.

  Lloyd made a face at his retreating back, and made no attempt to find him when something developed immediately. The phone rang, and Lloyd took the message, uttering terse and uninformative comments. He hung up, and looked at Judy with a mixture of disbelief and desperation.

  ‘They’re not Helen Mitchell’s prints,’ he said. ‘I was convinced.’

  ‘Why are you looking like that?’ Judy asked, though she couldn’t have put a name to the look.

  ‘Because Wade could be right.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘He asked me if I was sure it was Julia we found. Am I? Who identified her? Mitchell. Who comes into a fortune if she’s dead? Mitchell.’

  ‘Oh, Lloyd.’ Judy shook her head. ‘No one would try that. Where’s Julia then? And who did we find? It’s nonsense – you know it is.’

  ‘I don’t know it is. We made him think Julia was dead – I went to his house and told him she was dead. He sees visions of the good life, and then when he goes to identify her it isn’t her. But he says it is.’ He picked up the phone. ‘We have to confirm the identification,’ he said, defensively. ‘It’s a reasonable enough doubt.’

  But Judy remained unconvinced. It didn’t seem reasonable to her. Could they really have been barking up the wrong tree all this time? ‘Her father’s due back today,’ she said. ‘He could—’

  ‘No,’ Lloyd said. ‘We’ve got the name of her dentist – I assume he doesn’t figure in Charles Mitchell’s financial provisions.’

  But surely, Judy thought, whoever it was would have been missed? You couldn’t get away with – she thought hard. ‘The photograph,’ she said, at last thinking of some concrete rebuttal.

  ‘You look at it,’ Lloyd said, ‘and tell me that you could swear that that was the girl we found.’

  Judy knew she couldn’t. Old and blurred, her hair different, her face half turned. You couldn’t tell.

  ‘Guess who supplied the photograph?’ Lloyd said, as he got through to the pathologist.

  Some stopped and stared, pointed out to one another where she had been found, walked up to the barred door of the café, peered in the windows. There was nothing to see, but they did it all the same. They weren’t there deliberately – they just happened to be passing, walking in the mid-day sunshine.

  But mostly, people just went about their business. It had been news, it would be news again when the trial came up. For the moment it had been pushed to the backs of their minds along with Iran and Poland and the Vietnamese boat-people. They didn’t stop and stare, these people with their own problems. They flashed by in cars, or walked past busily, eyes fixed on the pavement ahead.

  They didn’t turn their heads. They didn’t see the ducks, because they weren’t looking. If ever they did look, they thought the ducks all looked the same. They didn’t, of course.

  But they did all answer the same description.

  Chapter Twelve

  Again and again, Chris retraced in his mind the steps he’d taken on Saturday. He was closing up for lunch when the girl came; she was pretty, and tired, and hot – he could see the perspiration on her blouse, as she waved at him, to stop him from closing. He had sold her the petrol, and chatted to her, the way you do. He had offered her a lift back to her car, and then they had gone their separate ways. He had no way of tracing her, of getting her to prove that she was in his car, and that she hadn’t touched anything in the boathouse because she wasn’t there. They were wrong about that. He didn’t care how reliable fingerprints were. They were wrong about that. He’d driven on then, when he’d got her back to her car – just an ordinary mini, like a million other minis – on, into the countryside. A drive through the villages that clustered round Stansfield, past the meadows and fields that still looked like a Constable landscape; a drive to clear his mind, to think about life in general and Helen in particular.

  He’d had no lunch, and spent the afternoon working, like he always did. He was on his own in the garage on Saturdays, a situation he kept meaning to remedy, and never had. Donald usually went to London at the weekend, and he would normally close up and go straight to Helen’s. But this Saturday Donald was home, and Chris was at a loose end. So, he’d gone to see Elaine and Martin, arriving just in time to be told that they had already eaten. They were expecting Donald and his sister-in-law round to discuss the boating lake, they said. His ears had pricked up at this – perhaps he could see Helen after all, and tell her what he’d been thinking on his countryside drive.

  He’d been thinking that she should stop tearing herself apart, and tell Donald the truth. That there was no point in trying to play his game, and that you could only keep promises if there was a point to them in the first place. Once he’d made up his mind, he had been hardly able to wait for Donald’s arrival. He was late – well, later than expected, and Chris had begun to think he might not come at all. But he had, complete with sister-in-law, and in the middle of a blazing row. They hadn’t even come in properly, but had stood in the doorway to the sitting room, arguing, with poor Martin trying to sound jovial. Elaine and he had exchanged glances; they could only wait and see who won. Elaine had gone to the door, to try to rescue Martin, and then Chris had joined them.

  It was then that she had said she was going, and Chris had realised that his chance might slip away. Donald might take her home, and by the time he could see Helen again, his resolve might have deserted him. And so, he had offered the lift.

  She had said she was walking, and he had offered again, until she couldn’t refuse. He remembered everything, like a slow motion film; she had tried to shake him off, several times, but he needed the excuse to see Helen. Donald might come home early if there was nothing to discuss; he had to have a reason for being there, for Helen’s sake. He hadn’t made himself objectionable, he was sure of that. He had simply said he’d help her look for her non-existent pen. Then the row had developed over Helen, and he had pushed her away as she came nearer to him, needling him. She had gone into the boathouse, and she had picked up the phone, screaming at him to go or she would call the police.

  And he had given in, and left. He hadn’t thought about where he was going; he had just turned away from Helen’s, and found himself at the garage.

  And there, the memories of the accident had claimed him, and the horror of his inadequacy to deal with anything. He had found the bottle of scotch where he’d stashed it months ago, and he had started drinking. He must have fallen asleep; he heard the milk-float clanking its ghostly way up to the pumps, and it seemed very important that he put out the empty bottle. He had some sort of a conversation with the woman, and then he was on his own again, and he didn’t want to be. And he was drunk, and Helen had made him promise that he wouldn’t drink, and now he’d let her down. And he had left Julia there, in the boathouse, almost frantic with fear.

  So he had gone over on foot to Helen’s, grimly determined to get there this time, to apologise to Julia, to tell Helen what he’d been thinking, to tell her he wouldn’t let her down again.

  He’d got there, eventually, and he may or may not have said any of the things he wanted to, because he had only vague memories of faces, and kindness, until his head had cleared and he was in the room on his own.

  If only. If only he hadn’t gone to see Elaine in the first place. If only he hadn’t been so determined to see Helen. If only he had just dropped her off – if only he hadn’t braked for the rabbit – maybe th
en he wouldn’t have got drunk, and made everything so much worse.

  He could see it now, darting out in front of him, and feel his foot going down on to the brake again – again, as if he hadn’t killed Carrie that way. And Julia had gone shooting forward, but he had been going slowly, this time. Slowly enough for her to be able to catch the dashboard and stop herself getting hurt.

  Julia, reaching out a hand to save herself. Catching the dashboard. ‘No harm done,’ she’d said, and she was holding the dashboard. She was holding the dashboard.

  ‘She was holding the dashboard!’ He leapt from the bed, and in one agonising leap was at the door. ‘I want to talk to someone!’

  The same stout, balding policeman opened the door wearily.

  ‘Keep your hair on,’ was his advice as he went in search of someone that Chris could speak to.

  Chris waited impatiently, his hand on the wall to support him as he stood on his good foot, wriggling with impatience, like a child. The girl who had been with Lloyd during one of the interminable interviews came in.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes – look, she did touch the car. When I braked – remember? I told you. She touched it then, because she had to stop herself falling forward. She put out her hand and held on to the dashboard.’ He stopped, breathless, but there was no reaction from her.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ he said. ‘Don’t you understand? Those are Julia’s fingerprints in the car. I said so to the inspector – it isn’t Julia Mitchell’s body!’

  ‘But it is,’ she said gently.

  ‘No! Check it, please. Check it again.’

  Her face was serious, almost sad. ‘We have,’ she said, quietly. ‘We found a dental card in her bag – everything that’s found at the scene goes to forensic. And they’re very thorough – they had already confirmed the identification. They told us about five minutes ago that there is no doubt whatsoever. It is Julia Mitchell’s body.’

  Chris had to be helped to sit down. This time he didn’t even hear the bang of the door as it closed behind her.

  There was something about the way Judy came back into the office that made Lloyd look up from his desk. She was pale, and upset.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ He went over to her. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said briskly, visibly pulling herself together. ‘Nothing, except that I just pulled the lifeline away from a drowning man.’ She looked up at him. ‘He wanted to tell me that she did touch the car,’ she said. ‘That when they nearly had the accident, she caught hold of the dashboard.’ There was a defiant tilt to her chin. ‘And I believe him.’

  Lloyd sat on her desk. ‘But they’re not her prints – and you can’t argue with dental identification. We must have been right all along. He knew her from somewhere, or he had a brainstorm.’

  Judy had set her chin in its defiant attitude. ‘Then whose prints are they?’ she asked.

  ‘They probably are this girl’s – the one he gave the lift to. The lab said they couldn’t swear in court that the ones on the phone were the same.’

  ‘They said they might not be good enough for the court,’ Judy said. ‘But they were good enough for them – and you know that that means they’re the same.’ She caught his hand, a thing she would never have done under normal circumstances. The efficient Sergeant Hill was letting her private life spill over into her working life. Lloyd wanted to smile, but he felt that he would get into trouble if he did.

  ‘You were quite willing to believe that there were two people involved a few minutes ago,’ she said.

  ‘But he won’t say who it is!’ Lloyd understood how she felt. Wade was convincing – he seemed to believe that he was telling the truth. But he couldn’t be.

  ‘Suppose he is telling the truth?’ Judy persisted. ‘Lloyd, you’ve seen enough liars in your time! If you had no evidence but his word – what would you think?’

  Lloyd blew out his cheeks. ‘I’d think he was telling the truth,’ he admitted.

  ‘Then suppose he is.’

  Lloyd supposed. If he was telling the truth, then the body was not Julia Mitchell’s. But the body was Julia Mitchell’s, therefore he was not telling the truth. Oh no – that was pathetic fallacy or something. Faulty syllogism. All cows are quadrupeds, therefore all quadrupeds are cows.

  ‘Wade has to be telling the truth,’ he said slowly. ‘Like a logic problem?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said firmly, removing her hand.

  Ah well, she’d gone back to being a policeman.

  ‘Wade is telling the truth,’ he said. ‘And the body is Julia Mitchell’s, therefore the person—’ he broke off as WPC Alexander appeared at the door with a youngish man who waved an envelope at him.

  ‘I’m from Mitchell Engineering,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought the printout, because I thought you’d be interested – a call was made after hours.’ He handed the envelope to Lloyd. ‘I’ve done copies,’ he said, helpfully, but no one was listening to him. ‘I’ve marked the call with a red cross,’ he added.

  ‘The call was made at four minutes to eight,’ Lloyd said, and knew that Judy’s face mirrored his own in its complete lack of comprehension. He turned to the young man. ‘Thank you very much for bringing it,’ he said. ‘It’s even more useful than I thought.’ He looked at it again. ‘Though I must confess I’m not sure how.’

  The young man smiled. ‘I can save you some time. The number rung was the Derbyshire Hotel’s number. It just happens to be a number I know,’ he said shyly, rather as though it was a brothel.

  ‘Lovely. Thanks very much – are you in a car, or can someone give you a lift back?’

  ‘I’ve got the car, thanks.’ He smiled uncertainly, and left.

  ‘Seven fifty-six,’ Lloyd said, uncomprehendingly. ‘But that’s when Mitchell was there.’

  Judy nodded slowly. ‘She could have phoned someone without Mitchell knowing, I suppose.’

  Lloyd wondered. Mitchell had given him the impression that he and Julia were together all the time. But they were having a row, after all; he could have gone out to cool off or something.

  ‘If she did make the phone-call,’ he said, ‘then she could have been meeting someone, like Wade said. And that’s why she wanted to get away from the Shorts, why she didn’t want a lift – let’s go,’ he said, standing up. ‘At least we might be able to find out who got the call at the Derbyshire.’

  Judy was leafing through her notebook, reluctantly getting to her feet. ‘Right,’ she said absently. ‘I just –’ She shook her head. ‘I just think he’s telling the truth,’ she said simply. ‘And if he is, then there must be a way that this lot makes sense.’

  ‘Maybe he’s just not telling the whole truth,’ Lloyd suggested. ‘Like who was in the car with him?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  The Derbyshire was just a short walk through the town centre.

  ‘Four minutes to eight on Saturday night?’ The manager, a small, fussy man summoned by a flustered receptionist, shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’ There was something triumphant about the statement, as though his inability to help were some sort of achievement. He pulled a hard-covered notebook towards him and flicked through the pages. ‘We log the calls out, of course. For the bills. But not in.’

  Lloyd groaned. ‘Were you busy on Saturday night? Full?’

  ‘No, not particularly. About half-full, I’d say.’

  ‘How about people who were just staying over Saturday night?’ he asked.

  ‘One moment.’ The manager smiled professionally, and opened the register. ‘Four,’ he announced. ‘Four rooms, that is. Five people. One double, three singles.’

  ‘Could I have a note of their names and addresses?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  ‘Did they all pay cash?’ Judy asked, as the manager wrote out the names and addresses.

  ‘I’ll have to check that,’ he said, with just a hint of a sigh. He folded the piece of paper and handed it to Lloyd. ‘Excuse me.’
/>   ‘Any point in checking weekenders, do you think?’ Lloyd asked Judy.

  She shook her head. ‘I doubt it. If someone was involved in this, they’d leave as soon as possible. If we draw a blank we can come back to them, can’t we?’

  Lloyd nodded, and glanced at the list. The couple that the manager had mentioned, two men and one woman.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Banks paid in cash,’ the manager said, returning suddenly and silently. ‘And Mrs Williams.’

  ‘Neither of the men?’

  ‘No,’ he said, by now clearly irritated. ‘Or I would have told you.’

  ‘Cheque – credit card?’ Judy asked.

  ‘Guests of local firms – we send accounts. I expect you want to know which firms, don’t you?’

  Lloyd smiled, and the manager went back into the office.

  ‘You couldn’t tell us what any of these people look like, could you?’ Judy asked the receptionist.

  ‘No, sorry. I was off sick on Saturday.’

  ‘Could you check the phone list again?’ Judy asked. ‘See if any of these people made calls out?’

  The girl, relieved to have something to do, took the list and busied herself with the log.

  ‘Here you are.’ The manager had dropped all professional pretence at bonhomie in favour of a slightly surly approach. ‘Mitchell Engineering and Plasticraft.’

  Lloyd’s eyebrows rose very slightly. ‘Thank you. Your receptionist is just checking something for us. By the way – would you be able to give a description of any of these people on the list?’

  ‘No, it was my day off.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘You would see them, Maureen – oh, no. You weren’t here, were you? Who was?’

  ‘Gina stayed on and did a double shift,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said to Lloyd, who had taken a breath. ‘You want her address.’