Her face cleared. ‘Is it concerning Mr Makepeace?’
‘That’s right.’
The hall was square and carpeted in Turkey red. Against one wall an old-fashioned stand was submerged beneath a mound of raincoats and scarves, and a businesslike black bag lay propped at its feet. They were ushered into the erstwhile waiting-room, long since reclaimed and turned into a pleasant study.
‘The doctor won’t be a moment.’
Jackson extracted his notebook from his attaché case while Webb, too restless to settle, walked over to the bookshelves and ran his eye along the spines. His name had elicited no response from Mrs Adams; he wondered if her husband had a better memory.
Behind him he heard the door open, and turned quickly. His memory of Frank Adams was of a small, dapper man with dark hair and a neat moustache, who always wore a flower in his lapel. At first glance the little doctor seemed uncannily unchanged — even to the buttonhole. However, a closer look revealed that although he still had a moustache and a full head of hair, both were now steel-grey.
He was advancing towards Webb, holding out his hand. ‘Chief Inspector — Webb?’ He smiled, losing his uncertainty. ‘Davy Webb? It is, isn’t it? Well, well! I heard you’d done well for yourself in the police force.’
‘Good afternoon, Doctor. It’s good to see you again, even in these circumstances. May I introduce my colleague, Sergeant Jackson?’
The doctor shook Jackson’s hand equally warmly. ‘I was about to have my after-lunch coffee. Can I offer you a cup?’
‘That would be kind.’
‘I’ll ask Vera — ah, here she is. You remember Vera, I suppose?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Webb smiled at the woman who, anticipating her husband’s request, had appeared with a tray.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, ‘I hadn’t connected the name. I remember you now.’
The coffee was poured and distributed and Vera Adams left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.
‘It’s about old Billy, no doubt,’ the doctor began, forestalling Webb’s opening remark. ‘A terrible shock, especially since I now hear it was no accident.’
‘You attended the scene, I believe?’ After a shaky start the interview had resolved itself into standard procedure, and Webb, back on familiar ground, felt more comfortable.
‘That’s right. Martin Allerdyce had his mobile phone with him, so no time was lost. He rang Silver Street and then me. PC Stebbins and I arrived within minutes of each other.’
Stebbins had been at the briefing, and his account tallied with the doctor’s.
‘You’d no reason to doubt that death was accidental?’
‘None whatever. I did notice slight bruising, but I supposed he’d acquired it as he fell — there are some thick roots lining the bank thereabouts. In fact, his walking-stick had lodged in them, which reinforced the impression of lost footing. To be honest, if asked for an opinion I’d have gone for coronary thrombosis brought on by shock and the sudden immersion. He had a bypass operation only eighteen months ago.’
‘So you assumed he’d tripped, fallen in the water, and had a heart attack before he could haul himself out again?’
‘Exactly.’
Webb sipped his coffee thoughtfully. ‘Were you aware that Mr Makepeace walked to and from the club along the towpath?’
The doctor smiled ruefully. ‘Not only aware of it, Chief Inspector—’ Thank God he’d dispensed with ‘Davy’, Jackson thought — ‘it was I who instigated it. I felt now he’d given up farm work he wasn’t getting enough exercise. He’d hop into that Land-Rover of his rather than walk two hundred yards. Mind you, it wasn’t the exercise angle that swung it, but the fact that he could enjoy his drinks without worrying about driving home.’
‘The routine was common knowledge, then?’
‘I’d say so, among those who knew him.’
‘When was the last time you saw him, Doctor?’
‘Professionally? About three months ago, when he came in for his last check-up. But we were both sidesmen at St Gabriel’s, so we met regularly on that basis.’
‘An awkward question now. I imagine you can guess what it is.’
‘Can I think of anyone who wanted him dead? The answer is an unqualified “no”. Old Billy was stubborn and frequently difficult, and he’d the devil of a temper when roused, but he was regarded as a character and much respected.’ The doctor hesitated, then added quietly, ‘I appreciate this can’t be one of your easiest cases, Mr Webb. However, I’m sure you’ll get nothing but cooperation from the family.’
He glanced at Jackson, who politically gazed out of the window. ‘I did hope, you know, that things might be patched up before the old men died, but neither would give way.’
Webb nodded and said awkwardly, ‘My sister told me how supportive you were during my father’s last illness, and my mother’s, too. I’m grateful.’
Dr Adams, embarrassed, glanced at the carriage clock above the fireplace. ‘Well, if there’s nothing else for now, I must get on with my rounds. Needless to say, if I can be of more help, you have only to ask.’
‘One last thing: was anything further ever heard of Dick Vernon?’
‘Not a word. He simply disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘His wife never heard any more?’
‘Not as far as I know. Incredibly, though, it’s not all that rare; one reads of similar instances in the press. But you’ll know better than I how many people disappear and are never heard of again.’
It had been a necessary but not very productive interview. They were shown out, and the doctor was not long after them. As they sat in the car deliberating on their next move, he came out of the gate and got into the blue Cavalier parked in front of them. Webb watched him drive away.
‘Do you reckon this other bloke might have showed up after all these years?’ Jackson asked, echoing Sheila’s query.
‘Not really, no, but there’s a remote possibility, and question-marks worry me.’
‘You said the men’s kids carried on the vendetta: how many were there, apart from you and your sister?’
‘Billy Makepeace had a daughter and Dick Vernon twin sons. He was a twin himself.’ Webb stirred and sighed. ‘Yes, you’re right, Ken — I can’t put it off any longer. We’ll go to Longacre, and while we’re there we’ll call on the farm manager and see what he has to say.’
*
For the second time that day Webb found himself driving along the Oxbury road. This time they passed The Old Farmhouse and Garden Centre on their left and continued for another half mile before, on their right, they came to Longacre Farm. As Sheila had said, it looked out over rough land, and there was a trodden-down footpath to one side which presumably led to the canal.
Jackson parked in front of the farm gates and, for the first time in his life, Webb went through them into what even now seemed enemy territory.
The yard was large and clean, with a row of outbuildings straight ahead and the farmhouse to the right. On the left the property was bounded by a beech hedge, in which a gate had been inserted giving access to the adjacent bungalow.
Figuratively gritting his teeth, Webb started towards the house, but before he reached it the door opened and Jenny Hawthorn stood there. Momentarily he paused; then, Jackson at his side, he continued his approach.
The daughter, Jackson surmised, and looked at her with interest. Tall and straight, she held herself proudly, even defensively, which, knowing the circumstances, he couldn’t wonder at. But she was a pretty woman, with soft brown hair and large eyes which were fixed on the Governor, clearly waiting for his lead. He gave it smoothly.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Hawthorn. I’m extremely sorry about your father.’
To Jackson’s keen eyes she seemed to relax a little. ‘Thank you — Chief Inspector, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ He introduced Jackson. ‘Is it possible to have a word with your mother?’
‘She’ll see you, of co
urse, but I hope you’ll make allowances. She’s very distressed and Dr Adams has given her a sedative.’
Webb had to duck his head to enter the house. The building was very old and the ceilings and door-frames low. There was a faint smell, not unpleasant, that Jackson associated with elderly people, but the furniture gleamed and there were fresh flowers on the table.
The old woman was almost lost in the depths of an armchair, her twisted fingers clasped in her lap. Seeing the tinted spectacles, Webb remembered Sheila saying she was losing her sight.
He bent solicitously over her, briefly putting his large hand over both her frail ones. ‘Mrs Makepeace, it’s David Webb. I’m so very sorry.’ He was aware of Jenny’s stillness behind him.
The old woman stirred and sighed. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure you are. It’s good of you to come.’
Webb glanced around for a straight-backed chair and, seeing one against the wall, took it over to her side. ‘Are you able to answer a few questions? I shan’t trouble you with anything that’s not important.’
She nodded.
‘Did you know your husband rang my sister the evening he died?’
He registered both Jenny’s gasp and Jackson’s surprise at a detail he’d neglected to pass on earlier. Mrs Makepeace was leaning forward, peering at him through her clouded eyes. ‘Billy rang Sheila Webb?’ she said incredulously, and Webb’s heart sank. He wouldn’t find the answer here.
‘He didn’t mention it?’
‘That he didn’t.’
‘My niece took the call; Sheila was out, but it would be useful to know why he phoned.’
Mrs Makepeace shook her head decidedly. ‘The girl’s mistaken. I’m convinced of it.’
‘Did he ring anyone that evening?’
‘Not that I recall.’
Webb turned to Jenny. ‘Sheila saw your father in a café that day. I believe you joined him later?’
‘That’s right, I did.’ Her voice was soft and low.
‘Which café was it, Mrs Hawthorn?’
‘La Brioche. I didn’t see your sister, though.’
‘Did your father mention she’d been there?’
‘No.’
‘Did he seem abstracted at all, as though his thoughts were elsewhere?’
She looked surprised. ‘Yes, actually, he did. I’d slipped out specially because he was anxious to see my photos of the County Show. But when I produced them, he barely glanced at them.’
‘He didn’t say what was worrying him?’
‘No.’
Webb turned back to the old woman. ‘Did your husband lunch at home on Monday, Mrs Makepeace?’
She nodded, her mind still on the mysterious phone-call.
‘Was he absent-minded then?’
‘Not at all. He was bothered about one of the lambs.’
‘Do you know what his plans were that afternoon?’
She thought for a moment. ‘He was going to see Jack Rogers about some fencing, then call in at the library. And, of course, he was meeting Jenny here for tea.’
‘He arrived at the Farmers’ Club later than usual; do you remember what time he left here?’
‘Same as always. You could set your clock by Billy; punctual to a fault, and expected everyone else to be.’
‘So he left here when?’
‘Ten to eight, same as always on club nights.’
Yet he had not reached the club till after nine. Allowing for twenty minutes’ brisk walking, that still left fifty unaccounted for. Where had Billy Makepeace gone that evening, and had it any bearing on his death a few hours later?
According to Charlton, he had not been reported missing till the next day. Webb looked reflectively at the old woman’s bent head. He said gently, ‘You must have been worried when he didn’t come home.’
‘I didn’t know till morning. I take sleeping pills, see; I’m always off by the time he gets back. But when I wakened he wasn’t there. I called all over the house.’ Her voice trembled, and with an effort she steadied it. ‘I tried ringing the club but there was no reply, so I got on to the police.’
And an hour or so later, his body was found.
Webb got to his feet and replaced his chair against the wall. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Makepeace. I hope it wasn’t too painful for you. Sheila asked me to pass on her condolences. If there’s anything she can do, just let her know.’
He nodded at Jackson and started towards the door, but the old woman’s voice stopped him.
‘David — Billy would have made it up long since, you know, if your dad had let him. He was right upset when John died. I mind him saying, “He shouldn’t have gone without us shaking hands.’”
Jackson tactfully went ahead into the hall. Webb said, ‘So much bitterness, and I never even knew the cause of it.’
He waited hopefully, but the old woman’s head had sunk on her chest and she’d retreated into a merciful doze. With a shrug Webb rejoined Jackson in the hall, and Jenny Hawthorn opened the front door for them.
‘There’s a farm manager, I believe,’ Webb said. ‘Where does he live?’
She nodded to the roof of the bungalow visible over the hedge. ‘Over there. There might not be anyone home, though, at this time.’
‘A Mr Croft and his wife?’
‘That’s right. They have three little girls.’
‘We’ll try our luck, while we’re here. Thanks for your help, Mrs Hawthorn.’
She inclined her head and waited at the door until they turned out of the gateway on to the main road.
*
In fact, their luck held. As they walked up the drive next door, they could see Jerry Croft seated at a desk in one of the windows. He looked up at the sound of their footsteps, pushed back his chair and came to let them in. He was a tall, thin man in his late thirties, with black hair, small, alert brown eyes and red cheeks.
Webb identified himself and Croft led them inside to the room where they’d seen him working. It was furnished as an office, complete with closed-circuit television aligned on cowsheds and stables. Several businesslike filing cabinets stood against one wall, and there were open ledgers on the desk.
‘How will this affect your job?’ Webb asked, seating himself at the man’s invitation.
A glance from the bright brown eyes showed Croft’s awareness of the implications. ‘I’ve not even thought about it, but provided Mrs Makepeace stays on, I imagine she’ll still need me.’
‘Did the old man take an active interest in the farm?’
‘Very active. He was over first thing every morning, and often did the rounds with me. If it hadn’t been for his heart, he’d never have given up the running of it.’
‘You last saw him when?’
‘Monday afternoon, from a distance. I was in the top field when he got back about five. I expected him to come up and join me but he didn’t.’
‘That was his usual practice?’
‘Yes, he liked to have a rundown of the day’s events, added to which there was a lamb we’d been concerned about. I was surprised he didn’t come to check on it.’
The sound of a car turning into the drive made them glance out of the window. A white Peugeot drew to a halt outside and three small girls tumbled out of the rear doors clutching satchels and tennis racquets. The woman who’d been driving opened the boot and began to unload supermarket bags. She wore a neat white jacket and multi-coloured skirt.
Webb resumed the interview. ‘Were you aware of any ill-feeling towards Mr Makepeace?’
Croft shrugged. ‘There are stories of a lifelong feud he’d waged with two local men, but I gather they’re both dead now. When we first came we were told not to go to the Garden Centre, which is run by the daughter of one of them, nor the dairy owned by the other man’s sons.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘In my opinion life’s too short for nonsense of that kind, but he was the boss and I abided by the rules.’
‘No more recent arguments or rows?’
‘Not that I know of. He could
be a cantankerous old devil, but basically he was a fair man, and people respected that. We’ll all miss him.’
A few more routine questions followed, then the policemen took their leave.
‘What we need to find out, Ken,’ Webb said as they reached the gate, ‘is when this absent-mindedness started — he seems to have been all right at lunch-time. Tell you what, you drive back and call on Jack Rogers — he’s a timber merchant at the top of the High Street. Check that Makepeace actually did call, and what mood he was in. And if they remember seeing him at the library, all to the good. I’m going to walk back along the canal, tracing Billy’s route. I want to refresh my memory of the surroundings and see if anything strikes me. I’ll meet you at Silver Street in good time for the briefing.’
Jackson merely nodded. It seemed these solitary excursions of the Governor’s were going to become a feature of this case. Resignedly he got into the car and started the engine.
Webb watched him drive away. Then he crossed the road to the dry scrubby grass and set off along the well-trodden footpath. On his left a hedge closed off the adjacent field, to his right poppies, daisies and dandelions speckled the coarse grass with colour. The path led up a slight rise and then dropped fairly steeply down to the water. As he followed it, the traffic on the road faded to a distant hum, like insects in the heavy air. Ahead, the canal lay waiting, serene and untroubled, its surface rippled only by the passage of a family of moorhens.
Webb drew a breath as past and present fused briefly in an uncomfortable time-warp. Then he stepped down on to the towpath and started walking back towards the town.
It was a different world down here, peaceful and unchanging. On the opposite bank a fisherman sat motionless, his line in the water, and memories stirred again. It was along this stretch that Webb had caught his first fish. He recalled bearing it triumphantly home; but when, as a surprise, his mother cooked it for him, he’d been unable to eat it. Staring at his plate, he could think only that the inert shape that lay there had that morning been full of life, swimming joyously in clear water. But for him, it would still have been, and to eat it would have choked him. He remembered his mother’s bewilderment and his father’s scorn.
David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals Page 4
