‘What did you do?’
‘I threw up again. I just stood there. I was shaking all over. I closed the boot of the car real quick. I was panicking. I would have legged it only it was pitch dark and I saw some blood on my sleeve and I thought the Old Bill won't believe this. So I got back in the car and drove off towards the M1.’
‘You said you threw up “again”.’
Nick gave me a puzzled look. ‘Well, I did puke a bit in the bushes by the college. I'd lost track of the pints I'd had. I'm not a two-pint bloke, you know. It was the blood the second time – I just kept retching.’
‘And then what did you do?’ I asked.
He looked sheepish. ‘I've told you. I sat in the car for a while. I felt terrible, what with the beer and the body and everything. I was quite near the M1 by then so I thought … I dunno what I thought. I just wanted to get rid.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
He shook his head miserably. Any bravado had now gone. ‘I don't want to go down for this one. I never touched her, honest I didn't.’ ‘You're sure she was dead?’
A soft groan came from his lips. ‘She was dead all right. She was … she was! I just drove then, I was in a panic. The next thing I know is the cops are after me. I was easily doing a ton and then I lost my bottle. They were gaining on me. So I came off the road, drove into a field and thought I'd set the car on fire and do a runner.’
‘And did you?’
Nick gulped. ‘I had to open the boot again but I wanted to set it on fire because it would give me more of a chance, more time – I mean they were right behind me. I moved her a bit – she … she sort of gasped as I moved her. I was desperate to find a petrol can and I could see the plastic top of it. I managed in the end to get it out by sliding my hand underneath her. I was in a right state I can tell you … shaking, feeling sick. I poured on some petrol, flung a match on to the front seat and I'd just got it going when the police car appeared – but luckily it stalled in a ruck in the field and I just ran off. I've never run so fast in my life. I got a lift in a lorry and managed to get to Birmingham. I told the driver I was a joyrider, he let me lie down in the back. I felt terrible, I did.’
‘You haven't told me the important bit yet, Nick. You said when you first opened the car boot she was trying to say something. What exactly did she say?’ I watched him carefully.
His expression changed, he seemed more nervous, more ill at ease. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I was in a real state. She only said one word and I could be wrong. There was blood in her mouth and it was sort of gurgly. But I thought she said – “Bollocks.”’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard.’
I stared at Nick. ‘You're not winding me up?’
He shook his head and then said emphatically: ‘That's what I heard and that's all I know.’
Did I believe him? Maybe. If she had said that, maybe it was because she was brain damaged. Not defiance but one demented utterance. One more thing worried me though about Nick's recall of the night's events and I couldn't not think about it. He had thought she gasped and although I knew this could happen after death, did Nick? Because he had after all still tried to set the car ablaze.
Chapter Seven
I should have seen what was coming but I didn't.
‘Can I stay?’ he asked with a slight whine in his voice. At 2 a.m. I was beginning to wish I had Doc Martens to thump him with. Then he added with a touch more whine to his voice, ‘I haven't got anywhere to go.’
‘Tough!’
‘Oh, go on. I wouldn't be any trouble.’
‘No, Nick. I'd be harbouring a criminal. I'm not held in high regard by the police, you know. Bag-ladies get more respect than I do. They wouldn't hesitate to prosecute me.’
He kept on and on. He was hungry, he was tired. Just a couple of nights.
‘You can make yourself a meal,’ I agreed eventually, ‘and stay for a couple of hours but that's all. And anyway you do have an alternative.’
‘What's that?’ he asked.
‘Simple. Give yourself up.’
He snorted. ‘You're an effing joke, you are. You're paid to be on my side.’
‘I'm just being realistic.’
He paced up and down for a while and then said, ‘Got any eggs and bacon?’
I nodded. He left the room and I heard him banging around in the kitchen for a while. I didn't trust him enough not to come back to my bedroom and I knew I'd never sleep if I thought he might appear in my doorway again so I dragged a chest of drawers in front of the door and stood by the door for a while just listening. Then there was silence, I got back into bed and after what seemed like hours I drifted off into a restless half sleep.
When I woke it was 9 a.m. At first I forgot about my visitor but when I did remember I rushed downstairs. The kitchen was a shambles and the smell of bacon and cooking fat lingered in the air. He'd cooked chips as well and the peelings were left on the draining-board. For someone with such a house-proud mother I wasn't surprised she let him roam free. It was as I was clearing up I noticed he'd also carved out a circle of glass from one of the square panes in my back door. At least that was neat, though. He was obviously more house-breaker trained than house trained. I just felt relieved he'd gone and hopefully would stay gone.
I had a bath then and tried to plan my day. I'd go to Dunsmore and talk to the caretaker; after that, I'd either pay a visit to the Dunsmore CID and see what I could find out or visit Jenny Martin's husband.
I dressed suitably soberly in a navy skirt that had seen better days and a loose shirt-type blouse in peach, tried on three pairs of earrings and then decided I looked better without. It was by now 10 a.m. My weeks of idleness seemed to have slowed me down but today I felt reasonably optimistic. I was going to find out who killed Jenny Martin and my future as an investigator would be assured.
I opened the front door, sniffed the fresh, warm summer air appreciatively and walked to the front gate. I stared ahead of me into the road – at the space where the car should have been – my Mini had gone – my borrowed Mini had been stolen!
‘The thieving little sod!’ I shouted as I kicked my front gate. One of my neighbours, Mrs Godbold, white haired, spritely and a leading light of the WI, came out to see what was going on.
‘Oh dear, oh dear. Fancy that,’ she said excitedly. ‘You'd better ring the police straight away.’
‘I will,’ I said miserably. I could feel tears pricking at my eyelids, partly with frustation, partly with anger at myself for allowing it to happen.
Inside the house I picked up the phone. I paused. It seemed natural to phone the police, but should I? Just imagine if Nick had been caught. They could assume I had given him permission. They might even believe I had been habouring him for days. I rang Hubert instead. I embellished the story somewhat saying I had been prevented from calling the police and I'd been in shock, etc., etc. Hubert was brick-like, even when I told him about the hole in my back door.
‘Now don't you worry, Kate. I'll get someone round to fix that and I'll tell Ted, as the owner, to report it stolen from outside his house. Fenny probably won't deny it when he's caught. You've had a lucky escape. Are you sure he didn't hurt you?’
‘No, Hubert, I would have noticed. But what I am going to do without a car?’
‘I'll come over for you. You can borrow one of mine.’
‘I can't drive round in a hearse.’
‘Stay there then, Kate. You'll just have to wait till your own car's fixed.’
‘You've won me over, Hubert,’ I said. ‘A hearse would be lovely.’
He grunted. ‘I've got a funeral soon but I'll come over straight after. Chin up!’
Do people say ‘chin up' with the idea that the tears won't then fall – they'll miraculously slip back into your eye sockets? Anyway I kept my chin up for a while but gave that up in favour of a large glass of very cheap sherry which tasted medicinal and worked.
By the time Hubert arrived I felt mor
e optimistic. Ted had been told his Mini was stolen but he didn't appear too concerned as it did, in fact, belong to his wife. Hubert patted my arm when he saw the empty wine glass. ‘That's not the answer,’ he said. I nearly made a smart Alec retort but I managed to say instead, ‘Thanks for coming.’
For all my meekness he insisted on driving me to Dunsmore. ‘I'll wait in the car,’ he said. I wasn't pleased, but my options were definitely not open. At least he hadn't brought the hearse, instead he'd come in his white car, which was so flash a pop star would have been pleased with it.
I sat back and quite enjoyed the drive. Hubert would have made a good chauffeur, he drove steadily and didn't talk too much except to say, ‘This makes a real break for me. You should try going to a funeral nearly every day of the week. It's no joke.’
‘It wouldn't be,’ I agreed and to get him off the subject of funerals gave him my itinerary for the day. ‘As long as I'm back by six,’ he said. ‘I'm going out tonight.’
I felt a little twinge of jealousy. He was twenty years older than me, in love and now having a reasonable social life. I seemed to have made no real effort to make friends. Not that Longborough offered much – flower arranging, and rambling where the members, male and female, wore beards and great hefty walking boots. There were various worthy organizations for those with problems. But not being sporty, anorexic, overweight (well, only a few pounds), depressed (only occasionally), a single parent or a smoker, there wasn't much on offer for me.
We arrived at the Dunsmore Adult Education Centre and made a slow and stately advance past the entrance sign which announced DUNSMORE TERTIARY COLLEGE and underneath in small print previously DUNSMORE ADULT EDUCATION CENTRE. I wasn't surprised it was still called by its old title. Who knows how to spell tertiary let alone knows what it means? At the portals of the establishment was the caretaker's bungalow. It faced directly towards the car park.
The college itself was a low-level modern building with Portacabins attached. The narrow roadway curved into the obligatory miniature roundabout with a flower-bed in the middle. Hubert drove round again and parked outside the bungalow.
Bill Stone, the caretaker, had by now emerged and was bending down and attending earnestly to his weeds. He straightened up as we advanced on him, ‘Hello, Hubert, my old doom merchant, how are you?’
Hubert nodded and smiled sheepishly and introduced me in such glowing terms that even Hercule Poirot would have blushed.
‘I'll get the missus to bring out some tea if you like,’ said Bill. I looked round for somewhere to sit but there wasn't anywhere except for a tiny patch of lawn. I shook my head but Hubert said, ‘Very nice, thanks.’
I gave Hubert a warning look that was meant to convey I didn't want to waste any time but Bill had already disappeared by then, so we both sat down on the patch of lawn and looked out towards the car park. In a few minutes Bill came back with mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits. He looked overly fond of biscuits. He was round all over with a cheerful pink face and hair so thick and silvery it looked like a wig.
‘Hubert tells me you saw the car that was stolen and you may even have seen the murderer,’ I said to Bill, who was staring at a weed he'd missed as if it were a primed hand-grenade. He sat down awkwardly by my side, lifted a biscuit to his mouth. ‘Mmm,’ he murmured, whether at the taste of the biscuit or the memory of that night I wasn't sure. Finally he said, ‘Classes finish about nine thirty. I lock up once everyone's gone home. There was a red Golf in the car park. And a black car, I don't know the make. I didn't take much notice I must admit. I came indoors and watched TV for a while and then about twelve I heard voices. I turned down the volume on the TV and listened. We do get yobs coming in and racing about from time to time. They use this place to do handbrake turns. I think we should lock the gates but it's not my decision, is it? Anyway I drew back the curtains and I saw a tall man and a woman talking by the car …’
‘The red Golf?’
‘Yes, the red car. They were standing beside it.’
‘How did they stand – were they close together, talking, kissing?’ He thought for a moment. ‘Quite close together, he was taller than her. She was blonde, well … fairish, hair to her shoulders, slight build – looked ever so young to me.’
‘And the man?’
‘As I said, tall, darkish hair … I think. I couldn't see his face but I did notice something. He was dressed in black.’
‘Trousers?’
‘All of him.’
‘But you didn't see his face?’
‘No. A bit later I thought I heard them drive away and I walked around for a time doing my final check like I always do. The black car, I think it was black, was still there then. People do sometimes leave their cars, the houses opposite don't all have garages and some of that road outside has yellow lines. Anyway, it's not unusual to have a car left overnight. I went to bed about quarter to one and in the morning both cars were gone.’
‘Your wife didn't hear anything?’
‘No.’
‘And someone had vomited in the bushes?’
‘Yes, that's right. It happens.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I cleared it up of course.’
‘When was that?’
‘Just after I'd finished looking around.’
‘What did you clean it up with?’
‘The usual – sawdust.’
‘Do you mind me asking if you noticed anything special about it?’
Hubert groaned, Bill looked puzzled. ‘I didn't look closely at it – I mean you don't, do you?’
‘No, but was it solid looking or mostly beer?’
‘Now I think about it,’ said Bill, staring into the middle distance, ‘it was quite solid … it …’
Hubert stood up then. ‘My stomach can't take any more of this, Kate. Let's be off. Thanks, Bill. I'm sure Kate will be able to deduce something from what's been said.’
‘Just one more question, Bill. Have you any idea when that vomit first appeared?’
‘No idea, my love. Sorry.’
Once in the car Hubert said, ‘Well, that was a waste of time.’
‘I don't know. I've learnt that a man in black was by the car around midnight and that the woman, if it was Jenny, was still alive at twelve, which means Nick Fenny probably didn't do it. I mean, it doesn't sound as if she was trying to stop him stealing the car, does it? I also think Bill isn't a very reliable witness …’
‘Why ever not? I've known him for years.’
‘How well, though?’
‘I know him slightly. Years ago he lived in Longborough.’
‘And his wife?’
‘I know she goes to bed early and they argue a lot.’ As he started the engine Hubert said, ‘Why don't you think Bill was a good witness?’
‘I'm not sure … I—’
‘Come off it, Kate, just because he's a friend of mine you doubt his word, but that yob Nick you believe.’
‘True,’ I agreed, ‘or at least I try to. But Bill says he heard voices, and he couldn't have from that distance – eight yards or so away – and yet he said they weren't shouting. And the vomit – the timing doesn't make sense. Why should Nick lie about that?’
Hubert switched off the engine. ‘You don't think Bill did it, surely?’
‘No, of course not. But it's all a bit convenient, isn't it? Almost as if he felt he had to see something.’
‘I believe him,’ said Hubert. ‘Salt of the earth, old Bill. You're getting warped, Kate. Just because you're being paid by Fenny's mother doesn't mean you can definitely eliminate her son.’
‘I know that, Hubert – be a dear and drive on.’
‘Where to, madam?’ asked Hubert. From the tone of his voice I guessed our trip wasn't as enthralling as he'd at first thought it might be.
The murder victim's home was our next stop. I didn't look forward to this but I had no idea what Jenny Martin was like and maybe the husband could throw some light on where she was in her
final hours – if in fact he could tell me when exactly they were.
The house itself was on the outskirts of Dunsmore, a fine semi-detached Edwardian edifice with stained glass at the front door and a general air of solid respectability. Hubert sat in the car and watched me walk up the front path. I signalled to him to drive on a little but he ignored me.
I raised the heavy brass knocker and knocked loudly. The sound seemed to echo through the house. I waited and waited. Eventually I heard footsteps. A tall middle-aged man, probably good looking when dressed and with his greying hair combed, answered the door. He wore a plaid dressing-gown that would have looked more comfortable on a horse. His eyes were reddened and he looked totally defeated. I'd expected a grieving husband, a confused man, but not this poor shambling wreck who actually wanted me to come inside and ask him questions.
‘Come in … come in.’ He said the words slowly, as if speaking was an effort. ‘I'm Geoffrey Martin – call me Geoff. If it will help to find who did it I'll talk to anyone – anyone.’ He led the way along the hall, walking slowly, his head down, shoulders hunched. He opened a door that led to a large back room, pointed to an armchair and I sat down.
The room was large and spacious, and would have been light and cheerful but the dark green curtains were half drawn and so the room was shadowy with only pinpoints of light. Where the sunlight did spike the mantelpiece it shimmered on to family photographs. Geoff Martin noticed where I was looking and took one framed photograph in his hand and stared at it. Then he sat on the arm of my armchair. ‘This was taken on holiday,’ he said. The photograph showed a laughing blonde young woman with a bucket and spade and beside her a small boy proudly showing off his sandcastle. ‘That was our son – Simon. He died. He was ten years old.’
‘I'm so sorry,’ I said. ‘Please don't feel you have to talk to me.’
‘No, no, as I said, I want to talk, I need to talk. I don't want to act as if they never existed. Jenny changed after Simon's death. She wasn't the same person. I suppose I wasn't the same either. We were on the verge of separation – did you know that? Of course I'm much older than her … Simon dying affected us both differently.’
Deadly Practice Page 6
