The Cruelty of Morning

by Hilary Bonner

  Jennifer gathered what was left of her failing courage, and, alone now in the street, knocked on the door. The family friend answered, face tight with hostility.

  ‘Can’t you leave them alone?’ she snapped.

  Jennifer swiftly explained that she was not a reporter seeking a story.

  She gave her name and, then, haltingly, added: ‘Tell them I married Mark Piddle.’

  Almost at once, Irene Nichols’s father came to the door. He was dark with anger.

  ‘You’ve got a bloody cheek comin’ yer,’ he said. ‘Wife of that murderin’ bastard.’

  Jennifer did not explain that she was his ex-wife.

  She homed in on the last chilling words.

  ‘Why do you say that, Mr Nichols?’ she asked mildly. She could see the hatred in his eyes.

  ‘Because ’e did for her, and I’ll never ’ear different,’ the man said.

  ‘The police are sure it was Bill Turpin.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Irene’s father. ‘It wouldn’t be Sir Marcus bloody butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-’is-mouth Piddell, MP, would it?’

  He looked at her through narrowed eyes. He hated her too. And he had the right.

  ‘I remember you, you little bitch. In ’is bed before my Irene was cold in ’er heathen grave.’

  His voice rose to a hysterical scream. ‘Get off my property,’ he shouted.

  Involuntarily she stepped backwards. He moved forwards and spat in her face. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before, not in all her years of professional intrusion into other people’s lives. She just stood there, unable to move.

  ‘Bugger off,’ he said. ‘And you tell ’im, that evil bastard, I hope he rots in hell.’

  The friend came through the door and hustled Mr Nichols away. Jennifer wiped the saliva from her face with the back of her hand. She deserved that, she thought. Guilty, by default, of the most extraordinary self-deception.

  Oh Marcus, Marcus. She stumbled back up the garden path to the Porsche parked in the road outside and climbed in. There was a box of paper hankies in the glove compartment. She gave her face a more careful clean-up, gunned the motor and drove back to her mother’s, severely shaken, but more determined than ever to get to the bottom of the whole dreadful business.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In London Marcus was anxiously keeping in touch with the news coming out of Pelham Bay. When he heard on late-night radio that a body had been found in Bill Turpin’s garden, he knew he needed help. Things could so easily get out of hand now.

  He reached for the telephone and dialled a number. After two rings he was connected to an answering machine. His message was the only one he ever left. Two words. ‘Call me.’ He knew that the machine was checked every hour, day and night. Now all he had to do was wait. He had once enlisted the help of a friend at British Telecom to get the number traced. Then it had turned out to be a bedsit in London’s Clapham – completely empty except for the answerphone. The room was rented and the telephone line listed in the name of a North London motor car tyre company. Their address turned out to be merely an accommodation address.

  Since then the contact number he was given, sent to him anonymously by post, had changed many times, usually around every six months. On one more occasion he had traced it back – this time to an empty room in Hammersmith listed in the name of a property company. Once again the company had only an accommodation address.

  Fortunately that night he had not long to wait for the return call. It came just twelve minutes after he had left his message. He picked up the receiver quickly and it was with relief that he recognised the familiar sound of the caller he was hoping for. The voice was high-pitched and metallic. Computerised. It came to him through a piece of equipment known as a ‘squawk box’, which distorted it and made it unidentifiable. He flicked a switch on the phone. There was no security problem. There would be no Marcus-gate tapes. His phone could be scrambled, and by state-of-the-art equipment, naturally. Desperately gathering the wits that had never yet let him down, he explained swiftly and concisely what had happened. The voice at the other end listened carefully and gave him the most difficult advice of all to follow. Do nothing. Let them come to you. Wait for developments.

  He replaced the receiver in its cradle, went to bed, and tried to sleep. It was a waste of time.

  In the morning he knew he must stick to his usual routine and do what he had been told – nothing. But he so badly wanted to find out exactly what was going on in North Devon. He considered getting in touch with his own local paper editors there, to ensure both that they passed on information concerning the body to him straight away, and that he could control the papers’ interpretation of the story.

  Several times he picked up a telephone to do just that. But Marcus’s brain continued to work smoothly even under the greatest stress. He knew that would only raise questions which at the moment did not exist and would be a mistake – certainly before the body was formally identified. He knew the advice he had been given was correct. All he could do was wait until that identification was made – and wait he must.

  It was the police who told him the body of Irene Nichols had been found – and they gave him the news before it was released to the press.

  ‘You’re not strictly family, of course, sir, but we thought you’d like to know,’ said a voice on the telephone. A London policeman. He was glad of that. He would rather deal with someone anonymous than people from the West Country who might know him.

  ‘Thank you, thank you,’ Marcus said haltingly. ‘I suppose I had suspected from the moment I knew there was a body … But it’s always a shock. Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘Yes sir, you can,’ came the reply. ‘We’ll need to take a full statement from you.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Marcus responded. He had expected that – none the less he did not relish the prospect. And he was quite relieved when he was asked if he would be available for interview straightaway – at least it would get the ordeal over with.

  When Jennifer reached 16 Seaview Road after her traumatic confrontation with Irene Nichols’s father, she went straight to the drinks cabinet in the front room and poured herself a stiff Scotch. Her mother heard the front door slam and followed her silently into the room.

  ‘I didn’t think you drank whisky,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t,’ replied Jennifer.

  Mrs Stone shrugged. ‘There’s Clovelly herrings for tea,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  Jennifer knew she was trembling. She tried hard to appear normal, but she certainly couldn’t face eating anything. Herrings were about the last thing she could force down. The very thought made her feel sick.

  ‘You’re always hungry,’ persisted her mother. ‘And you like herrings.’

  ‘I think I’ve got an upset tummy,’ she lied.

  Or maybe it wasn’t a lie any more. She wasn’t quite sure.

  ‘Well, put that bottle away then,’ said her mother unsympathetically, as Jennifer poured a second stiff measure into a tumbler.

  Jennifer switched on the television and watched the news. The talk with the grief-stricken Mr and Mrs Nichols made the local and the national bulletins. It was harrowing stuff. And there was a few seconds’ snatched footage of Johnny Cooke going into the Penny Parade. He looked neither to left nor right, ignoring the questions thrown at him by the gathered media.

  Mr and Mrs Nichols had said nothing publicly about their suspicions. Their views had been checked out by the police twenty-five years earlier and summarily dismissed. They were resigned to not being listened to properly – and they were just relieved now to have their daughter’s remains returned to them. Like Johnny Cooke they did not want to relive it all.

  There was no evidence involving Marcus. Irene Nichols had lived with him. So what? In the event of any murder, Jennifer knew, the police always looked first at those closest to the victim. But Marcus had emerged from the beginning smelling of roses and would continu
e to do so. Marcus was so convincing, and always had been, in his reasoned sorrow. All the evidence of responsibility for Irene’s murder now pointed to Bill Turpin. Nobody knew who had murdered Marjorie Benson.

  The only way Jennifer could find out if what she suspected was indeed the truth, was for her to make all the moves. Only she, with her special knowledge and memories, could point the finger at Marcus; only she could discover what was behind it all. She was certain of that, and she desperately needed to find the truth – although she was not very sure of what she would do with it when she ultimately had it.

  She switched off the television and plugged her laptop computer into the mains. It was her habit to write things down, to clarify her thoughts by arranging them in proper sentences. Her jottings were interrupted by the shrill tones of the telephone ringing in the hall.

  ‘Anna,’ she said to herself.

  She almost ran into the hallway. Her mother appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Don’t worry mum, I think it’s for me,’ she called.

  ‘And whoever else could it possibly be for when you’re in the house, my girl?’ muttered Mrs Stone as her daughter picked up the phone.

  Jennifer wasn’t disappointed. It was Anna.

  ‘Plug in the toy box, your dispatches await,’ said the voice she had been hoping to hear.

  ‘You’re wonderful, did I ever tell you that Anna?’ she asked.

  ‘Not nearly often enough,’ came the reply. ‘And by the way, your inquiries do not have anything to do with murder and mayhem and bodies in the garden of a certain North Devon cottage, do they?’

  Jennifer carried on as if she had not heard the question.

  ‘I’m going to hang up now and fetch the machine,’ she said.

  She carried the laptop from the living room into the hall and prepared to insert its jack into the telephone socket.

  ‘Anna, are you ready?’

  ‘Jen, I know something’s very wrong. Can’t you tell me?’

  ‘Not yet, I just can’t. And not on the phone. I’ll be back in town soon. OK?’

  ‘I suppose. Just take care.’

  ‘See you very soon. Honest. And thanks.’

  She plugged in her computer with its built-in fax modem. The newspaper cuttings would be sent down the phone line directly into the laptop’s hard drive and she would be able to study them at her leisure on the screen.

  Anna had done a good job. Late into the night Jennifer read and reread the information her friend had sent her. The often only half-expressed queries about Marcus’s business dealings were endless. The financial pundits variously praised and wondered at his knowledge of the money market. Eventually she switched off the computer, but she remained thoughtful and unable to sleep properly throughout the night.

  In the morning, Jennifer knew exactly what she must do. She was up early again and on the phone. Eventually she tracked down Marcus on his mobile. It was a Sunday morning. She could not try to contact him through his office, which was no great loss because they rarely knew where he was anyway, something of which she had an appreciation born of bitter experience. He was a maverick, Marcus, desperately difficult to work with. Thank God he still had the same personal mobile phone number.

  He sounded surprised and a little alarmed to hear her voice. The surprise was understandable; she had not contacted him except through solicitors since that dreadful night when she had interrupted his sordid pursuits in their own home. But why should he be alarmed? Nervous even? Rare indeed.

  She proceeded to give a performance worthy of an Oscar nomination.

  ‘I’ve quit the paper,’ she announced.

  ‘Have you indeed?’ he responded neutrally.

  ‘Look, the reason I’m calling has nothing to do with all the personal stuff between us – I’d still rather not think about that. I want your advice on the job. I want to talk to you – can we meet?’

  Marcus believed her at once. What she was saying made sense because he had always been something of a mentor to her, and he knew that. She’d seen Marcus operate at full steam, and was quite aware that in both the world of newspapers and later as a businessman and politician he was the most surefooted of careerists.

  ‘Professionally I have greater respect for you than for anybody else in our world,’ she heard herself say. She sounded honest, and indeed she was speaking the truth – as far as it went.

  She could feel him relax at the other end of the phone. She’d deliberately not mentioned that she was in Pelham Bay, nor the reopening of the murder inquiry and the discovery of the body in Bill Turpin’s garden.

  He did – as she had expected him to. He knew, of course, that she would have read of it in the papers.

  It would have been unthinkable that she hadn’t. The whole thing was now public knowledge, and the identity of the newly-discovered body had been reported in the national as well as the regional press.

  ‘Of course I’ll meet you, darling, delighted to give you any help I can,’ he almost gushed.

  How dare he call her darling like that, she thought angrily. But she said nothing. His self-assurance positively bristled down the phone line.

  Then, perhaps a little too casually, he broached the subject which was actually weighing heavily on both their minds.

  ‘Heard about Irene and the Bill Turpin business, have you?’ he asked.

  She replied, with what she hoped was equal casualness and without comment.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Thought you would have done. The police have been in touch with me already, you know, right after they identified the body.’

  He paused, waiting for her to say something. Once again she had no comment to make.

  ‘Poor little cow,’ he eventually remarked quite cheerily, and volunteered a brief account of his police interview.

  A London-based detective, unfamiliar with the case, had gone over much of the old ground and had apparently left quite satisfied that Marcus could help them no further.

  ‘You know, it’s all so long ago I can only just remember her really, and I told the police all I knew at the time,’ he said.

  By God, she thought, if her gravest suspicions were true, what a performer Marcus was. Any earlier hint of alarm had completely gone now – or had she in fact imagined it? He sounded so in control, so unconcerned; but then he always did.

  They arranged to meet that night.

  ‘Come to my place for a drink,’ said Marcus.

  He never lets up, she thought. But she had expected that too, indeed counted on it, and she agreed readily enough. He reminded her of his address in the luxurious Chelsea riverside block which she had never visited.

  ‘Your solicitor knows it well enough, but you probably don’t,’ he said. There was a smile in his voice.

  ‘Ha, ha,’ she responded lamely.

  She told her mother she had to return to London for a couple of days, and within an hour was back behind the wheel of the Porsche and on her way. She drove straight to Anna’s house. She wanted to see Dominic. She didn’t like him particularly, but she had a great deal of respect for his brilliance.

  It was early afternoon when she arrived, and Anna was out in the park with Pandora. For about the only time in her life, Jennifer was quite pleased that her friend was not there. Anna would ask too many questions and Jennifer remained both unable and unwilling to try to answer them. Dominic greeted her without great enthusiasm, as usual. She was never sure if he really did dislike her, or if it was all a game. To her it was a game; with him, who could tell? They were chalk and cheese. Rather grudgingly he made her tea, but he came to life when she showed him the copies of Bill Turpin’s notebook.

  ‘Definitely computer codes and sign-ins,’ he said. ‘Ways in to other people’s computer systems.’

  ‘Can you do anything with them?’ she asked.

  ‘Even you aren’t as ignorant as that, Jennifer,’ he replied. ‘Not without the relevant discs and programmes, of course I can’t.’

  �
�You wouldn’t have any way of knowing what computer systems they hack into.’

  He looked at her as if he thought she had an IQ of 12. Compared with him she supposed she did.

  ‘Not without the discs,’ he said.

  ‘And if I could get hold of the discs?’

  ‘Maybe. What’s all this about?’

  ‘Oh, just a story.’

  He gave a little sniff.

  ‘Whose life are you destroying this time?’ he asked.

  ‘What I like about you is that you always think the best of me,’ she replied.

  She took the sheets of paper from him and headed for the door.

  ‘Aren’t you waiting for Anna?’

  ‘Tell her I’ll see her tomorrow, not sure when, I’ll call,’ she said.

  She drove to her own house then. There was already a ‘For Sale’ board outside. Estate agents didn’t hang about nowadays, she thought. Once inside she had a bath, washed and dried her hair carefully, and dressed in tight faded blue Levi jeans and a heavy white cotton shirt open at the neck. She knew she looked good. She sprayed a little perfume around and applied make-up lightly. She looked just the way Marcus liked her best. As she was about to leave, the phone rang. She eavesdropped the caller via the speaker of her answering machine. It was Anna. She did not pick up the receiver because she really couldn’t talk to Anna yet.

  She had arranged to meet Marcus at six o’clock.

  She arrived early – very unusual for Jennifer – and waited in the car for several minutes. At five past six she locked up the Porsche, which she left on a single yellow line, and walked into the foyer of Marcus’s block of flats. It was all marbled opulence. It would be. She spoke to the uniformed porter, who called up to Marcus’s apartment. After a brief conversation with Marcus, the porter summoned the lift for her and pumped in the special code that would take her up to penthouse level. Without the code, the lift stopped at the floor below.