Murder at the Altar

by Veronica Heley

  Unproductive, though.

  Trained to start reading at the top left-hand corner, she homed in on the picture top left, marked File. The F was underlined for some obscure reason. She tried Shift and F, as you might on an ordinary keyboard. Nothing happened. Oh well, you couldn’t win them all.

  Try the mouse again. Bingo. A cartouche containing a lot of names in alphabetical order. Presumably each one was a file. There seemed to be an awful lot of them, but she hadn’t a clue what was in them. She tried the one marked ‘Business’. Another list of names turned up. Experimentally, she clicked the mouse on a name she thought she recognized.

  The screen cleared and a letter to their local garage came up. Frank had been writing to complain about an incomplete service that had been done on the car.

  Daringly she explored the keyboard, and found that the Delete key got rid of some of the words on the screen. Wow! She held the Delete key down till she had got rid of several lines of type.

  She tried typing something … anything … on the screen, and as she typed, so more characters on Frank’s letter disappeared.

  What should she write? The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog? Those were the words they had used to try out a new typewriter in the old days, because they included all the letters of the alphabet. It worked! Well, sort of. The words were so tiny she could barely see them.

  She couldn’t write a letter yet, but she had put some words on the screen. She played about with it idly. Her name and age. The date of her birth. Frank’s …

  Then she found herself writing …

  I do not believe that Kate killed Ferdy!

  ** * She stared at the words, then got up to look out of the window. It was dark now, but the street lights showed her that Kate’s car was still there, and Armand’s wasn’t. Oh dear. Well, she’d make herself a cup of tea while she’d stopped. While the kettle boiled, she went to the kitchen window to draw down the blind. An old woman was plodding along the Green, head down, walking with the stolid gait of the refugee.

  The woman reached the alley, turned right and opened the gate into the garden next door. It was Kate.

  Ellie caught her breath. What had they done at the incident room, to turn Kate into an old woman?

  Ellie waved, but Kate didn’t look up as she let herself into her house. A cold, empty, dark house. Ellie hovered, indecisive. Should she interfere? Go round to Kate’s, offer food and comfort? A shoulder to cry on?

  She had a joint cooking in the oven. She could offer to share it with Kate.

  Yes, she would do that. But first she had to turn off the computer.

  The screen had gone blank. Why? How? Was it sulking because she’d left it unattended?

  She addressed some words of reproof to the screen. It failed to respond. She considered hitting it. That had always worked with her old wireless set, but it would probably upset this box of tricks for good.

  Frustrated, she joggled the mouse up and down. Slowly the screen lit up again. Ah, now to close. The manual said that to close she had to put the mouse on X. Up to the ‘X’. Yes. But what else was it she ought to be doing before she turned off the machinery? The screen had gone blank. Now she could turn it off. Couldn’t she?

  Her finger hesitated over the ‘off’ button. That was the way she’d turned it off before but for some reason the machine hadn’t thought that correct, and had sent her an impolite message about not having turned it off properly. There was nothing for it. She had to consult the manual again.

  Such a time-wasting operation. She wondered who had written the manual. An alien from outer space, or a man? No woman would have set it out like that. It must have been someone who ate and slept and dreamed of nothing but computers. A nerd.

  With incredulity she learned that to stop the machine, you had to activate the button marked START again. Surely it couldn’t mean what it said?

  Wondering if she were giving the signal to blow the whole caboodle up, she set the mouse on START, and jumped as the Jack-in-the-box file came up from the bottom again. Her eyes went to a line near the bottom. It said, Log Off Frank Quicke.

  That made her laugh, though it really wasn’t very funny. He’d logged off, all right.

  The bottom line of all said something about Shutting Down. Click that. Another message, this time in the middle of the screen, asking if she really meant it. She did. The screen went blank and then put up in enormous letters that even she could not miss,

  It’s now safe to turn off your computer. So she did. And the button on the works unit as well. Peace and quiet. She flopped back in the chair, quite worn out, then heard the pinger in

  the kitchen. The joint was ready. She must quickly cook some frozen

  peas, and eat. She was hungry.

  She couldn’t hear any sound from next door. She would just ask Kate

  if she’d like some food. She didn’t like to think of that poor girl alone after

  having been with the police so long.

  But there were no lights on downstairs next door and the curtains

  were still open. The upstairs curtains had been drawn, and there was a

  light on in the front bedroom. Evidently Kate had gone straight to bed. Probably the best place for her, if she were that tired.

  Ellie closed her front door on the night.

  The errand boy put his feet up on an old box he’d found in the scullery, and lit himself a cigarette, flicking ash onto the floor. His Walkman was pounding out some heavy metal, a Chinese takeaway tray lay discarded on the floor, and a six-pack of beer was now down to four. He whistled along to the music on the Walkman, thinking about gas, and pipes, and getting some passable ID to fool the target into letting him into the house. Tomorrow.

  Ellie slept better than she had done for days. She only woke when she heard Armand’s car drive off. She lay in bed, watching the digital display on the clock radio, tick-ticking the minutes off. She remembered that Frank had gone. She knew that there were a lot of problems to be solved, but she felt surprisingly calm.

  That’s what a good roast and two veg does for you, she thought. Calms the stomach. Helps you to cope.

  She dressed, put a load of dirty washing in the machine and had a good solid breakfast. ‘Go to work on an egg,’ she thought, while knowing that lots of people thought eggs were bad for you nowadays. Or was it that too many eggs were bad for you? If you listened to the pundits, everything seemed to be bad for you. Perhaps they all sat around a table and took it in turns. This week, the media can say that beef is bad for you. Next week it’s the turn of butter. Then eggs. Or red wine.

  Or was red wine always supposed to be good for you?

  She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t care less.

  She decided that from now on she was going to eat what she wanted, when she wanted, and not read any more scare-mongering articles about this or that being bad for you. If she wanted an egg for breakfast, then she would have it. So there!

  Kate’s car was still outside. Her bedroom curtains were still drawn. Ellie rang the doorbell and waited. No reply. Not even a twitch on the curtains. Ellie went through to her back garden and looked up at Kate’s house. The back bedroom curtains were drawn, too. Was Kate not sleeping in the same bedroom as Armand, then?

  As she watched, the curtains were drawn back and Kate was revealed, wearing a flimsy nightie.

  Ellie cried, ‘Kate!’ and waved.

  Kate saw Ellie – she could not have overlooked her – but she stepped back into the room. A moment later the curtains were closed again.

  The message was clear. Kate was at home, but didn’t want to talk. Oh, well.

  Wednesday was not one of the days Ellie put in at the charity shop. She could go in, if she wanted to. There were always plenty of black plastic bags to clear. She had to see her solicitor later on.

  She decided that she really didn’t want to go into the shop. Every time she thought of it, she remembered John’s suggestion that she take it over. She didn’t know how she
felt about it. Partly scared, and partly excited.

  More scared than excited, though.

  The postman dropped some letters through the letterbox. Letters of condolence, bills, pleas for subscriptions to this and that. A reminder from the dentist that Frank’s six-monthly check-up was due. A note from Aunt Drusilla on embossed, very thick paper. Ellie stared at it in awe. Did Aunt Drusilla use such expensive notepaper still? She was impressed.

  So what had the old dear to say?

  Ellie read it in increasing bewilderment.

  ‘ My dear Ellie … Needless to say, I am extremely disappointed … I had expected better of … after all I have done for … Naturally, I am consulting my solicitor … Yours truly.’

  Whatever did Aunt Drusilla want to consult her solicitor about? And why? She didn’t say. Ellie put Aunt Drusilla’s letter to one side. She would deal with that later when she felt stronger. Meanwhile, she really must get down to writing to thank some of the people who had written to her after Frank’s death and sent flowers to the funeral.

  A nasty job. But yesterday she had bought some pretty little cards with a ‘Thank you’ message on them. The beauty of these was that they were so small you didn’t have to write much on them, and the recipient would appreciate them enough to stick them on the mantelpiece for a while.

  She squared up to the task with resignation. Sitting at the bureau, she thought fleetingly of Frank’s missing pen and cufflinks.

  She wondered if Aunt Drusilla had taken them. Aunt Drusilla could convince herself that black was blue, if it were to her advantage. She could easily have convinced herself that Frank would have wished her to have them. Although what she would want with them …

  Well, if that was where they’d gone, Ellie was not going to do anything about getting them back. Warfare with the formidable Aunt Drusilla was not an option for pacifists.

  Surfacing at noon, Ellie remembered that the vicar had asked her to look in on Mrs Hanna, who hadn’t been to work yesterday. She would get some bread and fresh salad stuff in the Avenue and call in on Mrs Hanna on the way.

  The entrance to Mrs Hanna’s flat lay between the bakery and the launderette. Ellie rang the bell beside Mrs Hanna’s name. No reply.

  A woman popped her head out of the bakery. One of the shop assistants, the one with the thin, over-permed hair. ‘You wanting Mrs Hanna? We think something’s happened to her. Hasn’t been in all week. We’ve been up and knocked. No reply. The boss has phoned the police, reported her missing …’

  A police car drew up outside, and two policemen got out. Ellie didn’t recognize either of them.

  The shop assistant was joined by her boss, whose darker skin proclaimed an Asian background. He bustled to the doorway, brandishing a bunch of keys.

  ‘You come for Mrs Hanna, no? She rents the top flat from Mr Patel, who is owner of this bakery, too. Mrs Hanna reliable, very conscientious woman, always punctual. Very clean, you know. She hasn’t been in this week, all wrong, no message. I worry something is wrong, yes? With her son being killed, yes? Has something bad happened to her? Last night I rang Mr Patel and asked him what to do about Mrs Hanna. He has sent round the keys for me to investigate into her flat, but said I must wait for the police first. So, please … I lead the way?’

  Still talking, he unlocked the front door and let himself in. The police followed. As did Ellie, at a distance.

  Up the narrow stairs they went, hitting light switches on the way. On each landing there were two front doors, leading to flats above the shops. Up. And up again. A television set blared out the news from one of the flats, a local radio station announced a special offer at a mobile phone shop and a dog barked somewhere. On the top floor there were two doors, as before.

  The larger of the two policemen knocked. ‘Mrs Hanna?’

  No reply. He unlocked the front door. The air inside the flat smelt stale, not quite clean. Unstirred, as if it had been empty for some time.

  Ellie sniffed, thinking she recognized a particular odour. The manager of the shop stayed at the front door, looking worried. Ellie stepped past him with an excuse-me smile.

  The larger policeman walked along a short corridor and threw open the door at the end. His colleague followed. Ellie ducked to one side, trying to see into the sitting-room from where she stood in the hall. The first policeman called Mrs Hanna’s name. No reply. Ellie could see part of a three-piece suite, a television set, a cupboard with a glass front holding ornaments of the kind you could pick up at the charity shop.

  Ellie peered at the floor in the hallway, a carpet runner on lino. There was dust on the lino, and the carpet was rucked up where something heavy had been dragged along.

  The second policeman pushed open another door, into a bedroom. Ellie craned her neck to see. Another matching suite, probably secondhand. The bed was neatly made up, but clothes had been tossed on a chair and some drawers were half open. The wardrobe door was swinging wide. There was no sign of Mrs Hanna.

  An open door to the left led on to the kitchen. Ellie took a pace towards it and sniffed, trying to locate the origin of the odour that had intrigued her from the moment the front door was opened. The acid smell intensified.

  Inside the kitchen a chair had been knocked over on its side. A washed saucepan, some crockery and cutlery had been left to dry on the draining board. A couple of cloths were on the floor, tangled with an overturned vegetable basket and stand. A cupboard door stood open, pans and lids scattered on the floor.

  ‘Uh-oh!’ said the second policeman, pushing past Ellie. He got out his mobile. ‘Back-up needed. Looks like trouble.’ Turning to Ellie he said, ‘You – out!’ and pushed both Ellie and the bakery shop manager back to stand on the landing outside the flat.

  The manager had been watching television. ‘We must not touch, eh? Fingerprints, yes? Something terrible has happened to Mrs Hanna?’

  ‘We don’t know anything yet.’

  The manager was sweating.

  Why was he so uneasy, wondered Ellie. The thought popped into her head that he might be an illegal immigrant who didn’t want his papers looked at by the police. She dismissed this thought as soon as it took shape in her mind. She had known him for years. His wife often bought clothes for their three small children from the charity shop. No, that was not it.

  Ellie recollected that it was he who had instigated the search for Mrs Hanna and obtained the key. It was very close on the landing, and he was feeling it. That was all.

  As for that particular smell … it was fading fast. She peered round the edge of the door, and sniffed again.

  The policeman spoke into his mobile. ‘… no, no sign of her. Looks as if there’s been some kind of struggle in here. Bedroom and kitchen, both. In view of … yes, we’ll wait.’

  The policeman politely but firmly suggested that the manager wait downstairs. He looked at Ellie properly for the first time.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Ellie Quicke. The vicar asked me to call to see if Mrs Hanna were all right.’

  The policeman shrugged. ‘Please wait downstairs.’

  Ellie obediently went down the stairs, as did the manager.

  Of course, she thought, it does look as if Mrs Hanna has been abducted, perhaps even killed after a struggle in her kitchen. And that was a terrifying thought.

  But whatever that smell had been in the kitchen, it had not been stale food. Moreover, she could have sworn that the fridge was empty and the door ajar, with a tea towel folded over it to keep it from closing.

  Something was knocking at the back of her mind. Some sound. Something not quite right. Something someone had said? She was developing a headache. The air was indeed very close on the stairs.

  As she stood on the pavement outside the shops, a car drove up with Inspector Clay and another policeman in it whom she recognized. Ellie turned her back and walked away. She really did not want to face them again. They believed Kate had murdered her ex-boyfriend and Ellie didn’t. She hadn’t anything more to
say to them.

  Except that now the investigation into Ferdy’s murder was bound to take a different direction, with his mother going missing under suspicious circumstances. Ellie could see the line the police were going to take. They would think Mrs Hanna must have known something about her son’s murder and been killed because of it. They might even start dragging the river locally.

  Ellie could see the logic of this, but … oh well, it was no business of hers.

  She glanced at her watch and quickened her pace. She hated being late for appointments and she was due to see her solicitor … in five minutes’ time.

  The errand boy reported from his van, which he’d parked in the Avenue. ‘Looks like the old woman’s gone missing. You know anything about

  that? Yep, the Old Bill all over the place. The target? She’s set off at a

  cracking pace. Down the far end of the Avenue. Yep, I can still see her.

  Going into a shop. No, I can’t see inside. There’s no way I can park near

  here. I’ll have to park down a side street and hope to keep her in sight.’ The phone quacked at him.

  ‘Yep, got all the stuff to do the gas. Soon as she gets back, I’ll drop

  round to see to it. Tell her a gas leak has been reported and

  I have to check on her supply. Yep, I’ll set it for tonight. No probs.’ The phone quacked some more.

  The errand boy began to laugh. He had to put the phone down, he was

  laughing too much to talk and steer round the corner. He loved it! The fat

  man had got out of hospital only to find his car gone! And of course he

  didn’t dare ring the police!

  It made the errand boy’s day.

  He was lucky with the parking. He broke out another can of beer and

  sat there, waiting. Hoping she wouldn’t be too long.

  7

  Ellie came out of the solicitor’s office feeling dazed. She almost walked under a bus as she crossed the road. This would never do. She must sit down somewhere, have a cuppa. She realized she hadn’t had any lunch. No wonder she was feeling a little strange. Well, the unexpected news hadn’t helped, of course.