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

by Jill McGown

  Sam couldn’t concentrate; he walked back over to the staff block, frowning as he saw the light. He hadn’t left the light on. He never left lights on.

  Caroline and Newby sat on the sofa, with the fire going full blast.

  ‘I thought they’d banged you up,’ he said to Newby.

  ‘I’ve been released,’ he said.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Sam turned the fire down, and picked up a beer. ‘So we’ve still got a murderer at large,’ he said.

  ‘Could we drop that subject?’ Caroline asked.

  ‘A bit difficult,’ said Sam. ‘It isn’t every day even this place has a dead body in the middle of the playing-field.’

  The knock on the door was all too familiar. ‘Fat chance of the subject being changed,’ he said, opening the door to find the sergeant. ‘Good evening, Sergeant Hill,’ he said. ‘Do come in.’

  ‘No, thank you.’ She handed him his pen, and he signed a receipt with it.

  ‘Is that all?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ve got your pen back,’ she said.

  Sam smiled broadly. ‘Had your knuckles rapped, have you?’

  ‘I was told you had complained, and I was asked to give you your pen back.’ She took a breath. ‘But I suppose I—’ She stopped speaking as Chief Inspector Lloyd arrived.

  ‘Now what?’ said Sam.

  ‘Not you, Mr Waters,’ Lloyd said, his foot on the stair. Sam wanted to let him go upstairs, but he felt he had done enough already. ‘She’s in here,’ he said.

  Lloyd and the sergeant came in. Asking about the golf-club.

  ‘Perhaps you could confirm when it went missing from the Barn?’ Lloyd was asking Caroline. ‘Mr Treadwell wasn’t certain.’

  ‘December the fourteenth,’ she said.

  Lloyd smiled. ‘Very precise.’

  ‘It’s in my diary,’ she said. ‘Barry wanted to see if we could clear the Barn.’

  ‘What’s a golf-club got to do with it?’ asked Newby.

  ‘They think it murdered Diana,’ said Sam.

  Lloyd looked at him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We think someone murdered Mrs Hamlyn with it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sam. ‘It’s a pity you can’t arrest me for murdering the language, isn’t it?’

  The sergeant took Lloyd to one side, and spoke quietly to him.

  ‘It seems,’ Lloyd said, looking up, ‘that the golf-club was indeed the weapon used.’ He was watching their faces as he spoke; everyone’s, not just Sam’s. ‘And perhaps,’ he said, ‘since I have you all together, one of you might know who Mrs Hamlyn was likely to have been seeing recently?’

  Sam laughed.

  Lloyd raised an eyebrow. ‘All I know is that you have all told me – in your various ways – that she couldn’t keep her hands off men. Odd that, because every man I speak to was apparently as pure as the driven snow as far as she was concerned.’

  ‘You give me a guest-list,’ said Sam, ‘and I’ll show you half a dozen blokes that I know about, and another half-dozen that I suspect.’

  ‘Right,’ said Lloyd. ‘I’ll do that, Mr Waters. Any information would be most helpful.’

  Sam frowned. ‘I don’t see how,’ he said. ‘Everyone would be coming and going – getting drinks, going off and talking to other people, going to the gents’ – how can you sort out who nipped out for a quickie with Diana? It would be like looking for a needle in the proverbial.’

  ‘When it comes to a murder inquiry,’ Lloyd said, ‘we look for needles in haystacks and anything else they might be in, however unpleasant. And we very often find them.’ He opened the door. ‘Good night,’ he said to the assembled company. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Newby and Caroline, said good night; Sam let Lloyd almost close the door.

  ‘A word of advice, Chief Inspector,’ he said, catching the door-handle.

  ‘Yes, Mr Waters?’ Lloyd reluctantly turned to look at him.

  ‘Whoever murdered Mrs Hamlyn would have had a hell of a job doing it when she hadn’t just been screwing someone.’

  Lloyd paused for a tiny moment. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  Sam stood for a moment at the door, as Lloyd and the sergeant left.

  She had been going to say something when Lloyd arrived, he thought. He wished he hadn’t tried to needle her so much. She had more go about her than most women. He might almost have found her good company, if things had been different. Oh, damn it all. She shouldn’t have tried hanging on to Walter’s pen.

  Walter Smith, a year ahead of him in school, one of the half-dozen or so black pupils whose parents had somehow managed to get rich enough to send their sons there. Smith had looked after him; he’d kept him out of trouble. He’d interested him in art. And when they had finished university, and Sam had gone to art college, he’d had the pen engraved, with the ‘WS’ linked along the side, for Walter’s birthday. It was his first design. Walter Smith was the only other human being for whom Sam had ever had any time, and time was the one thing that had been denied to him. His wife had given Sam the pen back when Walter died from a heart-attack at the ludicrous age of thirty. It could just as well read ‘SW’, she had said. Sam already knew that.

  Sam closed the door, and swore.

  Newby sighed. ‘Is that aimed at someone in particular, or just the world in general?’ Sam swore at Newby.

  ‘Well, so long as we know where we are,’ said Newby amiably. ‘Did I hear Sergeant Hill saying you had complained about her?’

  ‘Storm in a teacup,’ said Sam. He paused. ‘What do you think of the good lady sergeant, Philip?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen any reason to complain about her.’

  ‘No, I want to know. I’ll bet you wouldn’t kick her out of bed, would you? She’s your type – like Caroline.’

  Newby blushed, not looking at Caroline.

  ‘I mean, you could mistake her for Caroline, at a distance, couldn’t you? You must have noticed. Does she get you going, too?’ Sam watched Newby’s discomfort with totally unconcealed pleasure.

  ‘All right,’ said Newby, looking up. ‘Yes, I’ve noticed a resemblance, and no, she doesn’t get me going. So whatever it is you’re trying to do, give up.’

  ‘Just as well she doesn’t,’ said Sam. ‘If you ask me, her boss is knocking her off.’

  ‘You would think that, wouldn’t you?’ said Newby.

  ‘I’ll bet I’m right,’ said Sam. ‘And I’ll bet that you and the lovely Mrs Knight here have become more than just good friends since I saw you last. Which surprises me, Newby. I didn’t think you had it in you.’

  ‘Come on, Philip,’ said Caroline, standing up.

  ‘Don’t leave on my account,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  Rather you than me, he thought, as he left Newby to Caroline’s devices, and went back to the art room, ready at last to start work. He knew he was right about them, and about Lloyd and his lady. And he hadn’t given Caroline the message from Cawston, because now he understood it, and understood that he had never been meant to pass it on.

  And he knew he was right about that, too. His work was surrealist, if it had to be given a name, but Sam painted people; not everyone realised that. He knew what made people tick.

  He just didn’t like them very much.

  Chapter Nine

  They were alone in Philip’s flat, having passed up the school breakfast in favour of toast and tea.

  ‘When all this is sorted out,’ Philip suddenly said, his voice firm, ‘we’re getting out of this place.’

  Caroline looked up quickly, making the tea she was pouring spill on to the table.

  ‘Oh,’ said Philip, flustered. ‘Unless – oh, hell, I’m taking too much for granted. Sorry.’

  ‘No,’ she said, mopping up the spilled tea with a tissue. ‘You’re not. I just didn’t know that you felt the same.’

  He smiled. ‘I told you I did.’

  She finished pouring the tea, and handed him his. ‘So you did,’ she said.
/>   ‘And we’ll leave here? As soon as we can?’

  ‘It might be difficult,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Philip. ‘We just get into our cars and go. To hell with this place – it won’t last the week anyway.’

  ‘I mean finding somewhere that we can work together,’ she said.

  Philip looked a touch uncomfortable. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t really thinking about our working together.’ He cleared his throat unnecessarily. ‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I’m not so sure that it’s a good idea, on the whole.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ She drank some tea.

  ‘But . . .’ Philip thought for a moment before carrying on. ‘But I think that that’s one reason why it was so difficult for you when Andrew died,’ he said.

  ‘I loved him,’ she said.

  ‘I know, I know.’ Philip put down his mug. ‘But if you had worked somewhere different – well, that part of your life would have carried on . . . I mean, it wouldn’t have altered. Whereas you were so close, so . . . involved with him that . . .’ He dropped his eyes from hers. ‘Well, you lost your bearings.’

  ‘I’ve found them again.’

  ‘Yes, but you should have a life of your own. You said so yourself.’

  ‘I’ve got you,’ she said, then wondered if all this was his way of backtracking on what he had said. ‘Or am I taking things for granted now?’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure why you want me. But I still think that you should have your own job, and your own friends. I’m not so sure that living in one another’s pockets is a good idea,’ he said again.

  ‘That’s what Andrew said.’ She smiled at him, at the kind, concerned eyes looking so earnestly into hers. ‘His exact words. I don’t think it is living in one another’s pockets. I think it’s perfectly possible to live and work together, and be a team. That’s not living in one another’s pockets.’ She drank some tea as she watched Philip prepare his argument. ‘Sam’s probably right about the chief inspector and Sergeant Hill,’ she said. ‘They manage.’

  Philip shook his head. ‘You don’t know that he’s right,’ he said. ‘And even if he is, you don’t know that they manage.’ He smiled. ‘And even if they do, they don’t live at the police station,’ he added.

  ‘We don’t have to live wherever it is,’ she said.

  ‘Is that what you told Andrew?’

  She laughed. ‘We didn’t have much choice,’ she said. ‘I talked him round.’

  Philip smiled, a little uncertainly. ‘Well,’ he said, getting up from the table. ‘Time enough to discuss that. We’d better get to work – if we have any pupils left.’

  ‘I’ve got a free period,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all right for some.’

  She went to the door with him, and discovered the thaw. The weather had finally made its mind up; water poured from the roof as the snow melted.

  Philip smiled. ‘Spring,’ he said. ‘Just right for new starts.’

  Caroline frowned as she saw the crowd of boys in the lane. She glanced apprehensively at Philip. ‘What’s happened now?’ she said, her heart sinking.

  They walked quickly towards the lane; Caroline wanted to run, but she kept to Philip’s pace.

  ‘Mrs Knight!’ someone called as they got closer. ‘Mr Waters won’t let us in!’

  She left Philip behind, pushing through the crowd of boys to the building. Through the window, she could see Sam, working on his painting, oblivious to everything but what he was doing. She let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she called to Philip, as he came through the crowd to her. ‘It’s just Sam being even worse than usual.’

  Philip banged on the window, on the door; if Sam could hear him, and he could hardly not hear him, he didn’t indicate it by so much as a twitch.

  ‘Bang goes my free period,’ Caroline said. ‘Right, boys. Single file. You’d better go to my form room.’

  The boys pushed and jostled into a wavy grey crocodile, and set off.

  Philip shook his head. ‘Trust Sam,’ he said.

  ‘What are we going to do about him?’ asked Caroline. ‘He can’t get away with this.’

  Philip glanced in. ‘Leave him,’ he said. ‘He’s being bloody-minded as usual. He’ll probably unlock the door as soon as we’ve gone.’

  ‘You’d better go to your class,’ she said. ‘I’ll find something for that lot to do.’

  ‘Right. See you at lunchtime.’

  ‘Mrs Knight!’

  Caroline sighed. It was obviously going to be one of those days, and she might as well accept it. She turned. ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Knight, Mr Treadwell said to ask you to go to his house, because the chairman of the governors would like to speak to you.’

  Caroline looked at Philip, at Sam, at the small crocodile on its way to the main building, and back at the youth who had given her the message. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Please tell Mr Treadwell that I’ll be along in a moment.’

  The boy ran off, and Caroline thought. ‘Philip,’ she said, ‘which group have you got?’

  ‘5C,’ he said.

  ‘So you’ll have a prefect, won’t you? Can you ask him to supervise the class while you go and keep an eye on the kids in my form room? I’ll be there as soon as I can get away.’

  ‘All this so as no one finds out what he’s up to?’ Philip asked, with a nod through the window at Sam.

  Caroline nodded. ‘I think it’s the least I can do,’ she said.

  Philip didn’t seem convinced of the necessity, but he sighed, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right,’ he said.

  She watched him go, walking quite quickly even on the cobbles, some confidence back in his step. He waved as he went round the bend in the lane, and she waved back, her heart light for the first time in months.

  He was so like Andrew.

  Sam worked quickly, with a thin brush and bright oil paints. Harsh colours, harsh subject. But every stroke was applied with infinite patience, total concentration. He had been with it all night; it had started as a mark on the canvas. Just one line, the dominant line, the angle from which everything else would follow. Building it up, piece by piece. And he wouldn’t stop until it was finished; he never did. By the time he first loaded the brush, the painting was there, in his head.

  It never quite looked like it did in his head. But sometimes it got close, and one day – maybe today – it would come exactly right. Red. Red, and white.

  He had heard the commotion outside the door, he had heard the banging on the window. But he had heard the birds start to sing before the sun rose; he had heard the school waking up. Heard cars arrive, and people walking along the lane outside. You could hear these things, but you didn’t have to listen.

  It had been so long since he had painted, so long since he had felt the release that it gave him. Sometimes, he wished he didn’t use it all up at once like he did; he wished he could cover it up and come back to it again and again. But he couldn’t let go, not once he’d got it. If he left it, it might not forgive him.

  So he worked on, and he heard more people pass, another group of boys congregate and disperse, another knocking at the door. People calling his name. Then it went quiet again.

  Sam could see that there was very little left to do; he didn’t want to let it go, and yet he longed to. He wanted to stand back and look at the image in his head. The image that had come to him, stealing up on him, covering his eyes so that he couldn’t see it. That was the worst time, when he couldn’t sit still, and he was hungry all the time. And this was the best time; the moments before he looked at it.

  He laid down his brush, not looking at the canvas. With his back to it, he cleaned up, put everything away. Washed his hands. Tidied up the room. Once he looked, it would be over.

  He looked, and it was there. The image in his head. It was there, on the canvas.

  He sat down, elated, exhausted, his head in his hands. Too soon, the moment was over. Alr
eady, he could see that the image hadn’t translated exactly. He hadn’t got enough power, enough energy into it. He had taken too much care. He should have slashed some of the colour on. He should have . . .

  But no matter. Another image would come. Because he was painting again. In a year, if he could survive it, he would have enough for another exhibition. Sam painted fast and furious when he was really working. Meticulous, but fast. Like a machine. Like a computer, programmed with the brushstrokes, with the image inside its brain in coded messages. Sometimes he felt that he could start in one corner and build the picture up from there, so little did he seem to have to do with its execution.

  And now he could look at it dispassionately. It was neither perfect nor disastrous. It was – what was it one of the papers had called him? – technically sound. He smiled. A put-down. But he was used to put-downs. Nobody liked what he did, but people like Newby appreciated it. Art critics didn’t. He recalled some of his reviews, knowing he would read them again if this one ever saw the light of a gallery. ‘. . . depicting the sort of obvious, crude, colourful violence that is exploited on the cinema screens every night’, according to one. ‘The substitution of machinery for women as a focus for the brutality is as subtle as it gets.’ He was right. Violence was obvious and crude. It wasn’t subtle; why should he be?

  Another knock. Not banging, like before. Just a knock. Slowly, like an old man, he got up, and unlocked the door.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Sergeant Hill.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘Come to evict me?’ She gave him a little smile. ‘No. I’ve come to thank you,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Not shopping me,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, that.’ He sat down again, wearily. ‘I deserved it,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But you could have got me into trouble, all the same.’ She looked at him. ‘Have you been here all night?’ she asked. ‘Mr Newby said you were painting.’

  He sighed, running a hand over his stubbled chin. ‘I’ve finished,’ he said, a little wistfully. He waved a hand at the canvas which stood facing the wall. ‘You can be the first to see it, if you want.’