David Webb 10 - Three, Three, the Rivals

by Anthea Fraser

  ‘At home.’ She added with a catch in her voice, ‘I haven’t got an alibi — I didn’t realize I’d need one.’

  ‘We have to check with everyone. Did you have any visitors or phone calls?’

  ‘No. I came off duty at seven, went home, and spent the evening, like most others, entirely by myself. I knew nothing until Mum phoned the next morning to say Dad was missing.’ She paused. ‘But of course I can’t prove it,’ she added in a hard voice, and he realized the empathy between them had been wiped away. He regretted it, but it was outside his control.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I must be getting back to the station; my sergeant will be wondering where I am. Thanks for meeting me, Jenny. It’s good to see you again.’ And, leaving her still sitting there, he strode back up the path towards the High Street.

  *

  After a late lunch, Webb and Jackson went to call on Janet Conway, who, it turned out, lived in an attractive house overlooking the golf course. Webb was pretty sure Sheila wouldn’t have mentioned their relationship, and had no intention of revealing it himself. Her account should be made to an investigating officer, not to the brother of a friend.

  She ushered them into a large, airy sitting-room with a view of the fourth fairway, and produced afternoon tea in china cups. While she bustled around, Webb took stock of her, weighing her up as a potential witness. Small and plump with fair, frizzy hair, she wore a pink blouse and a linen skirt which strained slightly over her hips. In short, she looked what she was, the contented wife of a successful businessman.

  Having seen to the needs of her guests, she settled herself in an armchair and looked across at him, meeting his gaze. It did not appear to disconcert her.

  ‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ she said, ‘how can I help you?’

  ‘As you’ll have gathered, Mrs Conway, we’re investigating the death of Mr William Makepeace. How did you hear of it, by the way?’ It was she, he remembered, who had told Sheila.

  ‘From Vera Adams, the doctor’s wife. She’d left a scarf in my car when I ran her home from WI, and I dropped it in on my way to the shops.’

  He nodded. ‘I believe you saw Mr Makepeace the day he died?’

  ‘My goodness, that does sound sinister! I suppose you mean in the café? Yes, he came in while we were there.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about him? Was he distracted or upset in any way?’

  She smiled. ‘All I noticed, Chief Inspector, was that he was most intrigued by our conversation. His eyes were positively on stalks!’

  Webb kept his voice casual. ‘And what were you talking about?’

  ‘Ghosts, actually. I’d been to the cinema the previous evening and seen a pretty hair-raising film, and I was telling my friends about it. Angela — Mrs Turner, that is — pooh-poohed the whole thing, and said it was stupid to be frightened by a ghost story when such things didn’t exist. And then my other friend, Mrs Fairchild, said that they did exist, and what was more she’d seen one!’

  There was total silence. Then, ‘Mrs Fairchild said she’d seen a ghost?’

  ‘That’s right. She told us the whole story — and I don’t wonder the old man was riveted, I was on the edge of my seat myself. You see, Sheila’s the most down-to-earth person imaginable — it was so unexpected.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I should have known better; the next day she confessed it had been a joke, to take Angela down a peg.’

  ‘But you believed her at the time?’

  ‘Totally. She was so convincing.’

  ‘And you think Mr Makepeace did too?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. But — well, you wouldn’t know, but there’s been bad feeling for years between Mrs Fairchild’s family and the Makepeaces, and as soon as she saw him staring at her, she picked up her handbag and left. She hadn’t even finished her tea.’

  ‘When was she supposed to have seen this ghost?’

  ‘Oh, years ago, when she was little. It gave her nightmares for years, she said. But I suppose that was also part of the leg-pull.’

  Nightmares. He’d forgotten all about them, but now the memory flooded back of those years when Sheila’s bad dreams had disrupted the whole family; when, overnight it seemed, she had changed from a carefree little girl into a timid, clinging child afraid to leave her mother’s side. At the time, it was suggested that —

  Webb’s thoughts skidded to a startled halt. Mrs Conway was staring at him and he hastily collected himself. She said with a half-laugh, ‘For a moment there, Chief Inspector, you looked as if you’d seen a ghost yourself!’

  He forced a smile. ‘And Mrs — Turner, was it? How did she react to the story?’

  ‘She says she knew Sheila was stringing us along, but I don’t believe her.’

  Webb tried to anchor his spinning thoughts. ‘Did Mr Makepeace repeat it to his daughter?’

  ‘I don’t think so. She seemed to do all the talking, he just sat there.’

  ‘So what was the story?’

  ‘It sounds too silly for words now. Something about a figure rising out of a grave. I should have realized it was a hoax.’

  Time enough to analyse that later. ‘Did anyone else speak to Mr Makepeace while he was in the café, either before or after his daughter joined him?’

  She shook her head positively. ‘No, I was facing the door and saw him arrive. He didn’t want to take that table — I suppose because it was so close to Sheila — but there was nowhere else.’

  So as far as could be deduced, Makepeace had arrived in good spirits direct from the library, listened to Sheila’s ghost story, and become so preoccupied that he’d shown no interest in Jenny’s photographs which were the reason for their meeting. On the face of it, it didn’t make sense. And yet...

  Sitting there in that pleasant room, a cup of tea in his hand, Webb admitted to himself that for the first time in his life he was involved in a case he did not want to solve. He finished his tea and put the cup down. ‘Thank you very much, Mrs Conway, you’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Have I?’ She sounded surprised, as well she might, and once in the car, Jackson echoed her doubt.

  ‘That sounded like a lot of baloney to me,’ he remarked. ‘You don’t really think the old boy was interested in a ghost story, do you, Guv?’

  ‘The point is, Ken, that whether she thought she saw a ghost or not, my sister certainly suffered from nightmares.’

  ‘Well, most kids do,’ Jackson said reasonably.

  ‘Occasionally, I dare say, but these changed her whole character. They started when she was five, and she was still having the odd one in her teens. The house was in a continual uproar, with her screaming and crying.’

  ‘When you asked her what they’d been talking about,’ Jackson said diffidently, ‘did she mention saying she’d seen a ghost?’

  ‘No, she did not.’

  The tone of Webb’s voice intimated it would be unwise to pursue the subject, but after a moment he added, ‘I’ll have to look into it, obviously, if only for elimination purposes.’ He reached for the phone and dialled The Old Farmhouse. It was his brother-in-law who answered.

  ‘Sorry, David, Sheila’s not here; she’s gone over to Heatherton for some supplies. Is it urgent?’

  ‘I would like to see her, to clear up a few points.’

  ‘She won’t be back till about six. Why not join us for supper? Stay the night, if you like.’

  ‘No, really, I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all. It would give us the chance for a good chat, and you could relax instead of having to dash back to Shillingham.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you check with Sheila first?’ Though she’d already issued a general invitation.

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Sheila’s husband roundly. ‘There’s plenty of food, and as you know, the guest-room’s always ready. I can provide a razor and pyjamas, so all you have to do is buy a toothbrush! Come whenever you like; we usually eat at seven.’

  ‘Right, Colin, thanks. I’ll se
e you then.’

  ‘So where now, Guv?’ Jackson asked, as Webb slid the phone back under the dashboard. ‘Do you want to check with that other woman, Mrs Turner?’

  ‘Not for the moment, we’ll wait and see what my sister has to say. In the meantime, we’ll look in at Silver Street and see if the action teams have come up with anything. We’ve an hour in hand before the briefing, so we can make use of it by getting our notes up to date.’

  *

  At the Garden Centre, Colin Fairchild went back to setting out furniture in the show conservatory. It was shaded from the sun by one of the buildings and the sliding door was wide open, but the atmosphere inside was stifling.

  As he moved the chintz-covered chairs about and arranged glossy magazines on a table, his thoughts were still on his brother-in-law. They’d known each other since primary school, but lost touch when he himself became a weekly boarder at Greystones instead of going to Shillingham Grammar like the rest of them.

  A nice enough chap, David, but hard to get to know, which was probably due to his background. Both he and Sheila had suffered lasting damage from the disaster that was their parents’ marriage. Colin was well aware that the reason his wife drove herself so hard was that she was determined to be as unlike her mother as possible. She had decided at an early age that her own marriage would be quite different — equal strengths, shared decisions and responsibilities. He worried that she did so much — working alongside himself and Stephen at the Centre, running the house, baking bread and cakes for sale in the coffee shop and cooking the lunches which were served there at weekends. But it was useless to suggest she slowed down.

  In addition, she dealt with the purchase and sales ledgers, made up the wage packets and carried out a number of local deliveries. And away from the Centre, he’d lost count of the number of committees she was on. Such ferocious efficiency did not make her easy to live with, and he often wondered how long it would take her to prove herself. It was indeed a heavy burden her parents had unwittingly laid on her.

  Colin paused to survey the layout, but his thoughts were on the old couple, on John, stern and unbending, given to explosions of unreasonable anger, and Lilian, weak, subservient, permanently discontented. It would be hard to have found a couple less suited to have children. John, while idolizing his little daughter, had been unfairly hard on his son, and Lilian too dispirited to show much interest in either of them. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, there’d been that ridiculous feud.

  Which brought him back to Makepeace’s death. He straightened, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead, It was an unpleasant business, and during the course of it a good many stones were likely to be turned over, revealing facts which would better have remained hidden. For the first time, he wondered uneasily just how good a policeman David was.

  ‘Dad—’ Stephen put his head through the open doorway. ‘Some people are interested in the round summerhouse. Could you come?’

  ‘Be right with you.’ And, locking the conservatory behind him, he also turned the key on the disquieting possibilities which had presented themselves. Time enough to worry about those if they materialized.

  *

  Sally Croft stood in her kitchen, trying to analyse her feelings. They were more complex than she could have wished, since she was happiest when everything, including emotions, could be neatly labelled and filed.

  Mr Makepeace’s death had been a shock, naturally, but her reactions even to that were ambivalent. Her immediate thought, somewhat to her shame, had been how it would affect them. Suppose the old girl sold up and moved in with her daughter? A new owner might not require a manager, even one as conscientious and hard-working as Jerry. Which would mean having to move, the very last thing she wanted to contemplate.

  In the two years they’d lived at Longacre, Sally had made a very pleasant little niche for herself, not least in her job at St Gay’s. Being in the same building as the children was convenient, as was the fact that her holidays coincided exactly with theirs. What was more, all three were making good progress, and Ruth would be starting at Shillingham Grammar in September. If they had to move now, there was no saying where Jerry’d find another job. It might not even be in Broadshire, and there’d be all the upheaval of finding new schools and trying to get a place for herself.

  As to the old man himself, she’d hardly known him. She had, however, resented on Jerry’s behalf the continual overseeing of everything he did. The point, surely, of employing a manager, was to take the burden off oneself. But old man Makepeace had been unable to let go the reins, and was forever following Jerry round, looking over his shoulder and even, on occasion, countermanding his orders to the men.

  Then there was the business of the loan. Sally had been strongly against Jerry’s asking for it, but since the bank wouldn’t help them, there’d been no alternative. Even with her salary, there was no way they could afford to keep Jerry’s mother in the only nursing home to have room for her. But the repayment, together with interest — for Makepeace had been a shrewd businessman — was a constant millstone which, though she hated herself for it, she resented.

  Suppose his widow was advised by her solicitor to call in the loan? Though she would certainly not be short of money, he might feel she could get a better return elsewhere. Or — another possibility and maybe a more likely one — perhaps the old lady wouldn’t long survive her husband. And if that were the case, there was no saying how Mrs Hawthorn would feel about the loan. In fact, Sally thought, there was no knowing how Mrs Hawthorn felt about anything.

  ‘Is tea ready, Mummy?’ Rebecca was swinging on the door handle, watching her curiously. Sally became aware that the basket of groceries was still on the table and she hadn’t even started to unpack it. Consciously she unclenched her hands and smiled at her daughter.

  ‘It won’t be long, darling. You can lay the table for me.’

  It wasn’t until she had served the children and was preparing supper for Jerry and herself that another thought struck Sally. Perhaps the fact about their employer’s death that should cause her most concern was that it had not been a natural one. Someone, somewhere, had wanted Mr Makepeace out of the way.

  CHAPTER 6

  It was half past six when Jackson dropped Webb off at The Old Farmhouse, with instructions to collect him first thing in the morning. The dog Jason came bounding up to meet him, his tail waving.

  ‘Hello, old boy.’ Webb stooped briefly to pat him, and when he straightened, saw Sheila in the open doorway. ‘I hope this is all right,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Colin insisted it would be.’

  ‘You’ve an open invitation — I told you. Supper won’t be long, but if you’d like a wash first, go straight up. Your room’s ready for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And if the cat’s on the bed, throw him off,’ she called after him as he started up the stairs.

  He pushed open the door of the room that was allotted to him each Christmas, noting that the cat was indeed curled up on the bed, but feeling its right to be there was greater than his. It was a room he’d occupied only in winter, and he was surprised at the change the season made. Now, filled with sunlight, the sprigged curtains looked fresh and summery and the window was open to a garden bright with flowers.

  Webb had always suspected that the Christmas invitations were issued more out of duty than over-riding affection. When he first left home and joined the police, he’d made a point of volunteering for Christmas duty as an excuse for not going home. Then came the eleven years of his marriage, during which he hardly saw his family. The present arrangement had begun four years ago when, after his father’s death, his mother moved to The Old Farmhouse, and it had evolved into a tradition neither he nor Sheila knew how to break. Perhaps, basically, they didn’t want to. Now, he found himself hoping that his questioning on the ghost story would not cause any new ripples between them. The trouble with this case, Webb told himself, not for the first time, was that it evoked altogether too much soul-search
ing.

  Resolutely pushing it aside, he had a quick wash at the basin, noting the fresh smell as he buried his face in the towel. Country air, he thought appreciatively; very different from the odourless, laundry-washed towels at home. Colin had been as good as his word; an electric razor stood on the shelf above the basin, and a quick look under the pillow revealed a pair of neatly folded pyjamas. He took out his new toothbrush, cleaned his teeth vigorously, and went downstairs to join his family.

  Of them all, he felt most comfortable with his nephew. The boy was pleasant, uncomplicated and friendly, and more than once it had crossed his mind that it would be good to have a son like Stephen. Not that it was any use going down that track.

  With Sheila, perhaps unfairly, he felt he was walking on eggshells, and Colin had always been at one remove. He remembered the defensive scoffing of himself and his pals when they learned that instead of accompanying them to grammar school, the solicitor’s son would be going to the rarified environs of Greystones College. Later, it was said openly that Sheila Webb had done well for herself in catching him, even though by that time, strongly against his father’s wishes, Colin had dropped out of university to open the Garden Centre.

  As for Lyn, Webb freely confessed he didn’t know how to treat young girls. Those he came regularly into contact with were of the criminal sorority, up for shoplifting or worse, their language, to his private distaste, as colourful as that of the lads. Girls like his niece were an unknown quantity, and to his annoyance he felt embarrassed in her presence.

  She was draped in an armchair now, a textbook open on her knee but her eyes on the television set. She looked up as Webb walked hesitantly into the room. ‘Hi,’ she said.

  ‘Hello.’ As he stood awkwardly, Stephen came in behind him, and he felt the boy’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Uncle! Good to see you — Christmas is early this year!’

  Webb turned with a smile. ‘Good to see you, too, Stephen. How are things?’

  ‘OK. Busy as usual. Are you having any luck on the Makepeace case?’