David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals

by Anthea Fraser

  Shaking himself free of the memory, Webb concentrated on the present, scanning the edges of the path for anything untoward. Everything looked so drowsy in the sunshine, so safe and timeless, that it was hard to remember a man had met his death here less than forty-eight hours ago.

  He was approaching one of several bridges that gave access to farmland, and on impulse walked up its faded wooden planks and looked about him. A barge was rounding a bend some hundred yards ahead, and behind him the fisherman still sat unmoving. From this vantage-point he could see over the steep bank on the far side to stretching fields dotted with squat wooden pig-huts. Beyond, sheep moved ponderously, heads to the ground.

  Eyes narrowed against the sun, Webb let his gaze move over the pastoral scene, and he felt the tightening in his chest before registering its cause. The old barn, where he and his friends had played as children, stood as it always had, its creosote faded, an odd plank missing, but for the most part unchanged, dark and brooding against the summer sky. There as small boys they had held gang meetings, picnicked on rainy days, hidden from authority. But though a refuge in early days, it became somewhere to avoid, a place of dread, of sinister secrets. He had not set foot in it for forty years, yet the sight of it still dried his mouth.

  Aware that he was gripping the hand-rail, he forced himself to release it and, keeping his eyes on his immediate surroundings, returned to the towpath and continued his walk. And as he rounded the next bend the railway bridge came into sight, near which the body had been found.

  Webb slowed his pace as he approached the scene of crime, aware of the painstaking searches which had taken place along this stretch. Though unlikely to find any fresh evidence, he was anxious none the less to form his own impressions. Firmly back in the present now, he moved from sunlight into the shadows of the bridge.

  It was quite spacious under here, and the dark corners where the sun never reached smelled dank and cold. Plenty of room for an attacker to wait hidden in the darkness. Then what had happened? A quick shove from behind to knock the old man into the water, an uncompromising hand on the back of his head, holding him under?

  Webb stood motionless for long moments, absorbing the feel of the place, imagining Makepeace, homeward bound and still preoccupied with whatever was troubling him, entering the deeper darkness and perhaps passing close by his killer. Did he see his face, and if so, would he have recognized it? More pertinently, did he, in those last agonized moments, know why he had to die?

  Quite suddenly, Webb had had enough of his own company. He strode briskly out into the benison of the sunshine and within minutes reached the steps leading up to Bridge Street. The library clock was chiming four. An hour still to the briefing, but if he could track Jackson down, they could swap information over a cup of tea.

  It was good to be back among the bustling life of the town, and now that he was on foot, Webb realized there had after all been changes. Basically, the old place had gone up-market. A rash of gift shops had sprung up, testifying to Broadshire’s increasing share of the tourist trade, and on the corner where he’d bought his Saturday sweets The Body Shop now stood, its strange, exotic scents alien to his nostrils.

  Little cobbled yards and alleys where, in his boyhood, tramps had scavenged among overflowing dustbins, were now freshly painted, and signposts invited passers-by to turn aside to visit tea-rooms, picture galleries or boutiques. No doubt about it, the place had been ‘quaintified’ but he supposed that, taken as a whole, it was an improvement.

  There was also a proliferation of eating places, which would please Jackson. Tea-rooms, coffee shops, wine bars and carveries appeared on every side, and even the old-established hotels sprouted ‘bistros’ offering cheap and cheerful bar food.

  And it was outside a café, wistfully regarding the cakes in the window, that he came across Jackson himself.

  ‘I might have known!’ he said, putting a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. ‘Come on, we’ll go in and sample the goods.’

  CHAPTER 4

  The journey back to Shillingham was effected in almost as deep a silence as the outward one had been, but at least Jackson now understood the Governor’s reticence. Clearly, this case was likely to touch on his own past, and he couldn’t be blamed for resenting it.

  Webb himself, gazing out of the window, was brooding over the general outcome of the day. He now knew there had been two unusual occurrences on Billy Makepeace’s last day of life: he had phoned Sheila and, though a stickler for punctuality, had arrived late at the Farmers’ Club. Somehow, the explanation for both these facts must be ascertained.

  In the meantime, Jackson’s visits to both the timber merchant and the library had established that Makepeace had been his usual self, bargaining with Rogers over a needed length of fence, chatting to the librarian as she collected audio cassettes for his wife. And the times both had given, though approximate, tallied closely enough to assume that Makepeace had gone directly from one to the other.

  Davis and Trent, detailed at the morning’s briefing to visit the café, reported that as far as the waitress recalled, he’d arrived there shortly after four. Which meant, Webb reflected, gnawing on his lip, that he’d had little time for another call. So what had he seen or heard in that brief interval which had had an effect on him sufficiently profound to last throughout the evening and cause comment among his friends?

  Webb sighed deeply and stirred, noting that they were approaching Shillingham. ‘Drop me at home, Ken,’ he remarked, ‘I’ve had enough for today. You can take the car and collect me in the morning.’

  ‘Right, Guv.’

  It was six-thirty and the last of the rush-hour still clogged Westgate. People queuing at the bus stop looked hot and tired; several men had removed their jackets, and a couple of children were crying. Ten to one, Webb reflected, the bus from the town centre would be full when it arrived. Poor sods.

  Jackson turned into Fenton Street and came up Hillcrest from the lower end. As he drew up outside Beechcroft Mansions Hannah was approaching on foot from the other direction. Webb’s spirits rose at the sight of her.

  He got out of the car, aware of the shirt sticking to his back. ‘Thanks, Ken. See you at eight-thirty.’

  Jackson, hiding a smile, nodded and drove off, watching in the mirror as Miss James reached Webb and they turned together into the gateway. If the Governor believed their relationship was secret, far be it from him to disillusion him.

  ‘You’re late back,’ Webb was remarking. ‘I thought you teachers finished about three-thirty.’

  ‘A common misapprehension,’ she returned calmly. In pale lemon, she looked as cool and unruffled as she must have done first thing that morning. ‘I presume you’ve spent the day in Erlesborough?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Any joy?’

  He grimaced. ‘That’s not a feeling I associate with Erlesborough. But as regards the investigation, no, it’s far too early.’

  ‘Did you have time to call on your sister?’

  ‘Yes.’ They had entered the hallway and were waiting for the lift.

  Hannah said with a smile, ‘As uncommunicative as ever!’

  ‘No third degree, please, it’s been the hell of a day. Look—’ he reached a quick decision — ‘are you free this evening? Will you come out for a drink — or a meal, if you prefer?’

  ‘A drink would be fine, David, but I’ve a couple of hours’ work to do first. Could you call for me about eight-thirty?’

  The lift stopped at her floor, she stepped out and Webb continued to the one above, grateful that he wouldn’t be faced with an evening’s solitary introspection.

  *

  The Vernon brothers sat side by side on bar-stools in the Crown Hotel. Though they were not identical, there was a strong resemblance between them, accentuated by unconsciously shared mannerisms. In their late forties, both were of medium height with receding hairlines, but Tom was a stone heavier than his twin and Larry wore glasses.

  ‘I hear Davy W
ebb’s in charge of the case,’ Tom said morosely. ‘That’s all we need.’

  ‘No doubt he’ll come nosing round the dairy,’ Larry agreed.

  ‘It’s Ma I’m chiefly concerned about. If he starts questioning her, and he probably will, it’ll start everything up again.’

  ‘If you ask me, it’s never far from her thoughts. I suspect some part of her’s still waiting for Dad to come back.’

  Tom swilled the beer in his glass. ‘I’d give a lot to know what really happened. From what I remember, he seemed fond enough of us all. Why should he suddenly up and hop it?’

  His brother shrugged. ‘You know the facts as well as I do: business worries, Aunt Joan’s illness and death. Stress can cause amnesia, and sometimes the memory never comes back. On the other hand, if he regained it later he might have decided he was better off where he was.’

  Tom finished his drink and put the glass on the bar. ‘Well, I must be getting along. Young Rich has a cricket match this evening and I promised to go and watch. See you.’ He slid off the stool and made his way out of the bar. Larry sighed and ordered himself another pint. He’d a feeling the next few days were not going to be easy.

  *

  Jenny Hawthorn sat staring unseeingly at the television. Her eyes were smarting from a storm of weeping and her head ached. Across the hearth her mother dozed fitfully, still under the effect of the sedatives, and Jenny envied her her oblivion.

  For the hundredth time her mind circled round the traumatic events of the last two days, returning again and again to a mental picture of herself and her father at La Brioche. Why hadn’t she persisted in asking what was on his mind? And had whatever it was anything to do with his death? She’d never forgive herself if, by a little more questioning, she could have prevented it.

  Painstakingly she went over their conversation once more, its banality endowed with significance as the last they had had together. But at the end of it, she admitted herself no wiser. He’d been so anxious to see her photos of his prize-winning ewe, that he’d asked her to slip out of the hotel to meet him. Yet when she produced them, he barely glanced at them.

  But the point she kept coming back to, and which she had most difficulty in accepting, was that he had phoned Sheila Fairchild: Sheila, who, with the rest of her family, was enough of a pariah for her Garden Centre to be out of bounds to them. What could have caused such a total volte-face?

  And from Sheila her thoughts went naturally to David, whose eyes, guarded, defensive, had been steadily on hers as he approached across the yard. Had he feared she’d refuse to see him?

  Across the hearth the old woman stirred suddenly. ‘Jenny?’

  ‘I’m here, Mum.’

  ‘Dad did make a phone call Monday evening — it’s just come back to me. Two, in fact — the phone pinged a couple of times.’

  Jenny shivered at this seeming confirmation of the impossible. ‘Were they long calls?’

  ‘No; I mind thinking both the folks he wanted must be out.’ She paused, peering across at the indistinct shape of her daughter. ‘You’d best let David Webb know.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I will.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ her mother urged, when she did not immediately move. ‘It might be important.’

  ‘I don’t know where he is, Mum.’

  ‘At the police station, where else?’

  ‘All right, I’ll try.’

  She went out into the hall, flooded now with the last rays of the sun, and looked up the number in the directory. But when she got through, David had gone.

  ‘Is it urgent?’ a voice asked hopefully, when she identified herself.

  ‘No, but it might be important. Could you ask him to contact me tomorrow?’

  And as she went back to join her mother, she was aware of a small crumb of comfort in the desolation of her world. At least she’d have a chance to speak to David again.

  *

  There were Vernon’s Dairies all over Broadshire, including at least two in Shillingham. Webb knew for a fact that Hannah shopped there for her special cheeses, but he had never himself been inside one. The idea that they were forbidden ground still lingered and the habit of avoiding them was ingrained in him. Today it was about to be broken.

  The dairy’s head office was in the building where the first shop had opened sixty years ago, in Erlesborough High Street, and it was there that Webb and Jackson went the next morning to interview the present directors. Webb was not looking forward to the meeting; the Makepeaces had been too distressed to show antagonism and he was, after all, trying to help them. With the Vernons, there would be nothing to breach the hostility of years.

  The shop window, he noticed with grudging admiration, was set out like a museum showcase. Old-fashioned wooden implements flanked gleaming milk churns and cheese presses and there was an attractive display of terracotta butter moulds, while in pride of place stood a china model of a cow. Broadshire porcelain, by the look of it, and doubtless worth a bomb.

  The interior, too, was impressive, more, thought Jackson, like a miniature food hall than somewhere one popped into for a pint of milk. There were glass counters holding every conceivable type of cheese, others with wide ranges of yogurts and cream desserts, and an American-style milk-bar along one wall. At the back of the shop stood a delicatessen counter and alongside it a cabinet labelled Home Made Dairy Ice-cream.

  Obviously the worries which had beset poor Dick before his disappearance had been more than overcome and his sons ran a very thriving business.

  ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’ The smart woman behind the cheese counter was smiling at them pleasantly.

  ‘Is either of the Mr Vernons in?’

  ‘I can check for you. Who shall I say?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Webb, Shillingham CID.’

  She showed no reaction, but two of the customers at the milk-bar turned and stared curiously. The assistant picked up a wall-phone and dialled a number. ‘Chief Inspector Webb to see you, Mr Larry.’

  Webb couldn’t catch the reply, but the woman replaced the phone and opened a door behind her giving on to a flight of stairs. ‘If you’d like to go up, sir.’

  Grimly, with Jackson behind him, Webb complied. It was presumably Larry Vernon who awaited them at the top of the stairs, though Webb wouldn’t have recognized him.

  ‘You didn’t waste much time,’ he said by way of greeting, and before Webb could reply, turned on his heel and marched down the thickly carpeted corridor to a gleaming mahogany door which stood half-open. Without waiting for his visitors, he walked inside, crossed to an enormous desk and seated himself behind it. It was only as Webb followed him into the room that he saw the other brother by the window. United we stand, he thought ironically.

  ‘You remember Tom, no doubt,’ Larry said. ‘Well, sit down and get it over. We’re busy men.’

  Jackson glanced at Webb, waiting for him to take control of the interview. He’d been slow to do so, but then these two were, as far as the Governor was concerned, The Enemy, and the feeling was obviously mutual.

  ‘I’ve one or two things to do myself,’ Webb said acidly. ‘I shan’t keep you longer than necessary.’ He looked at the two surly, middle-aged men, trying to see in them the small boys whose noses he had bloodied in the playground. And failed.

  ‘We’ll start with your addresses, if you’ll give them to my sergeant here.’ He waited while each man grudgingly complied. ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I’d like you to tell me, please, when you last saw Mr William Makepeace?’ And as Tom made a movement, he added, ‘Your brother first.’

  Larry said impatiently, ‘How do I know when I last saw him? It was always from a distance; as you know, we weren’t on speaking terms.’

  ‘Were you aware that he went to the Farmers’ Club on Monday evenings?’

  ‘No, I was not. I’d no idea what he did on Monday evenings, nor any other evening, for that matter. Furthermore, I didn’t care.’

  ‘Look, Mr Vernon, I appreciate this isn’t easy f
or any of us, but your attitude’s not helping.’

  ‘I saw him,’ Tom said unexpectedly. ‘In the Crown, Sunday lunch-time. It’s not his normal stamping ground, but he was with Gus Lang, the church organist.’

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘Yes. He turned his back, which saved my having to do so.’

  Over Tom’s shoulder, Webb could see the Crown Hotel immediately across the street. Presumably its clientele, along with the rest of Erlesborough, was aware of the longstanding feud.

  ‘Apart from yourselves and my family, had anyone any ill-feeling towards him?’

  ‘If so, they didn’t discuss it with us,’ Larry said drily.

  ‘You haven’t heard of any disagreements or resentments?’

  ‘No.’ Tom hesitated. ‘To be fair, he was respected in the town. On the Bench, and all that. Even a churchwarden, for Pete’s sake.’

  ‘Where were you on Monday evening, Mr Vernon?’

  Tom flushed darkly. ‘Not lurking along the towpath, if that’s what you’re insinuating.’

  ‘I’m not insinuating anything,’ Webb said mildly.

  ‘Then if you must know, I met some friends at the Crown.’

  ‘Time?’

  He shrugged. ‘From eight till about eleven.’

  Stapleton had not committed himself on the time of death, but it was likely to have been soon after Makepeace set off for home. Any time, in fact, between eleven and, say, eleven forty-five. Which did not clear Tom Vernon.

  ‘And you, sir?’ Webb turned to Larry.

  ‘I was at the Cricket Club.’

  ‘The whole evening?’

  ‘Till about eleven. After the match we repaired to the bar.’

  Some checking would be needed there, too.

  Stung, perhaps, by Webb’s impassivity, Larry burst out, ‘Look, you surely don’t think we’d anything to do with this? How would his death benefit us? We’re not likely to be mentioned in his will!’

  ‘It’s purely routine at this stage, sir.’ Webb paused, then asked casually, ‘How’s your mother keeping?’