‘Hubert is my friend, associate and landlord. He knows everything.’
Geoff looked at Hubert with a nervous frown and they both stood eyeing each other like two apes about to begin a supremacy battle. Then after a few seconds of full concentration Geoff's face relaxed, Hubert lost his slightly inane grin and the level of tension dropped palpably. It seemed as if they had both claimed an inward supremacy, and that being so they didn't need to prove anything.
I turned round my office chair so that Geoff's view of Hubert remained and then put my hand out. ‘The diary, Geoff,’ I said firmly, ‘I know you have it.’
He smiled with satisfaction. ‘I did have it, Kate, but not any more. There is no way I would have let the police read her most personal thoughts. I would have chewed it and swallowed it first.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘It was bonfire time.’
Shrugging as if this was no great blow, I said, ‘Just tell me what was in it that you were so ashamed of, and I'll forget about the other matter.’
‘You are a bitch,’ he said coldly.
Hubert moved forward then, saying, ‘Watch it, mate!’
I flapped my hand at him so that he returned to his original position. ‘Jenny's dead,’ I said softly, ‘nothing can touch her now.’
Geoff sighed deeply and supported his head between his hands. ‘You're right, I suppose. What does anything matter now? It was about a year ago Jenny found out Helena was not only alive and well but having an affair with David Thruxton. That made her very bitter. Ros was her favourite amongst the doctors' wives and Jenny had always been friendly with Charles Amroth, she felt sorry for him. She knew the gossips said they were having an affair but it wasn't true. Jenny discreetly introduced Teresa to Charles and their romance bloomed, but very quietly. Chief Inspector Hook and his cronies as you know had long suspected Amroth of getting rid of his troublesome wife. Their affair was secretive and stayed a secret until … until the murderer found out.’
‘So what was in the diary, Geoff?’
‘Dates, times, arrangements … thoughts.’
‘What sort of thoughts?’
‘Killing thoughts. The adultery Jenny viewed as treachery and as confirmation that Helena was just the sort of person to be a hit-and-run driver. She became very bitter. She wanted Helena dead. Teresa did too. After all, with Helena really dead she would have been free to marry Charles.’
‘And what about you, Geoff? What did you want?’
‘I wanted the same as Jenny and Teresa. Helena killed our son, I was convinced of that.’
‘You wanted her dead?’
He nodded, raising his eyes and staring at me bleakly. ‘I wish to God she was dead. Jenny and Teresa might both be alive if she were.’
‘I'm puzzled. Why isn't she dead? What stopped you?’
Geoff laughed drily. ‘We were too long in the planning. Much too long. We found out all about her, where she worked, where she lived, what name she used. We followed her, occasionally together, sometimes separately. We got to know her movements, even what time she pulled her curtains. It was almost a hobby, we'd never been happier.’
‘Where does she live, Geoff?’
He smiled knowingly. ‘Not far away. She has a job, a rented cottage, a car, paid for no doubt by David Thruxton, and I'm sure he kept an eye on Neil for her. She had the ideal arrangement.’
‘Surely Ros guessed what was going on?’
He shrugged. ‘Who knows.’
I thought there was a strong possibility she might and indeed was now one of my top of the range suspects. I recapped aloud Geoff's admission and then bluntly asked, ‘How exactly did you plan to murder Helena? I take it you had planned the perfect murder?’
He stared at me for a moment, eyes glittering with a fervour I usually associated with religious maniacs. ‘You know everything now. I've got nothing to lose by telling you. We watched, we waited and we were patient. Too bloody patient. We intended to run her down just as she'd run Simon down. Not just one car, sometimes all three of us drove separately. We guessed that if we were caught a jury would have trouble convicting any one person of the actual death. Three cars or two cars mow someone down – who can tell whose were the fatal tyres? Somehow though it never seemed to be the right time and murder seems easy in theory but not so easy in practice. Perhaps we enjoyed the hunting too much, knowing where our prey was, being able to move in for the kill at any time. We left it too late.’
‘Did you tell anyone else of your intentions?’
‘Of course not. And I shall deny this conversation.’
‘Someone must have known, Geoff, or at the very least guessed.’
‘Possibly,’ he murmured. ‘I do hold myself responsible for Jenny and Teresa's deaths, you know. We should have killed the bitch while we had the chance. Still, it's not over yet, is it? It's not over.’
As he turned to go he saw Hubert, somewhat paler and leaning against the wall for support. ‘Ah, Dr Death. No doubt you think you ought to rush straight to the police. Remember, though, without the diary there's no evidence that we were planning anything at all.’
‘What about the night of the murders?’ I asked.
‘Jenny rang me to tell me the class had been cancelled and did I want to come with them because that night may have provided a good opportunity, but I had deadlines to meet.’ He broke off to laugh harshly. ‘Dead – lines, funny, ha ha ha. Anyway, I did fall asleep and when I woke at two a.m. and Jenny wasn't home I imagined she'd been caught. So I burnt the diary. Then I rang the police and waited for them to come. But they brought me news of quite a different kind.’
‘Tell me where Helena is now,’ I said softly.
He stared at me sullenly for a few moments. ‘Why should I make things easy for you. You're a private detective, do what you're paid to do – detect!’
There was nothing more to say to each other. He turned then and left the room.
When we heard the last of Geoff's footsteps on the stairs, Hubert almost staggered to the chair. ‘That's made me feel queasy,’ he said. Then he patted my hand. ‘You have a lot to put up with, Kate, in your job. Nasty character. I need a drink.’
‘I don't think he was always like that, Hubert. Him or Jenny. I think thoughts of revenge kept them sane.’
‘Sane! You've got some funny ideas, Kate. I think he's as mad as … a rabid dog.’
‘What are we going to do, Hubert?’
‘Have a drink.’
‘No, after that.’
‘Go to the police, of course.’
‘To say what?’
‘Just to tell them what we know. They can decide what to do about it.’
‘I'm not happy about that, Hubert, you know how slow they can be. After four years Hook still thinks Helena Amroth is under flower beds somewhere. What's he going to say to her – be careful crossing the road?’
‘He might want to bring her in on suspicion of murder.’
I frowned. ‘True, Hubert, he can only bring her in though if she hasn't been splattered on some lonely road.’
‘What are you trying to say, Kate?’
‘We should follow him, that's all. Find out where she lives and warn her.’
‘That's all! He's a maniac with nothing to lose!’
‘Yes, Hubert, but if you think he's mad, think on this – there's someone out there who is even madder and more dangerous. Someone who also thinks they have nothing to lose. Someone who doesn't just think about killing, but does it.’
Chapter Twenty
We had a drink – a large coffee. And I planned tactics. ‘All we have to do is follow Geoff, because he knows where Helena lives, and then we warn her.’
‘Sounds simple,’ said Hubert frowning. ‘Too simple. Anyway, he could have gone straight from here to … wherever she is.’
‘I think he'll wait for a while until he makes a move. He's left here in a determined state but give him time to think and he'll revert to his more cautious self.�
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Hubert grinned. ‘You think you're a real little Clement Freud, don't you?’
When I began to laugh and told him he was priceless, his expression became puzzled and slightly wounded. ‘What did I say?’ he asked.
‘Hubert,’ I said, ‘you keep me sane. I'm just thankful you're not one of those psychology-quoting pseudo-intellectuals.’
‘Are you trying to say I'm thick?’
‘No, Hubert. You're just the best sort of … partner there is.’
His face tinged up somewhat from mere pasty to mottled pink, and he smiled. I'd made his day. And although I wouldn't tell him, he'd made my year.
Late evening I drove to Dunsmore with Hubert beside me. He'd brought a picnic in a proper picnic basket, a copy of the Funeral Director and, for me, a copy of the Daily Telegraph.
‘I am impressed, Hubert,’ I said, ‘especially with the newspaper.’
‘It's good on crime and this case in particular. According to their reporter, Charles Amroth is still under suspicion. There's a suggestion that he was in some sort of sexual relationship with both women.’
‘A ménage à trios?’
‘That too,’ said Hubert. ‘And there're photos of all the women involved.’
In Dunsmore traffic was slight, most people having long since gone home. The tree-lined avenue where Geoff Martin lived was particularly quiet. I parked the car about three doors down from the Martin house and from there we had a good view of the front entrance. I presumed he couldn't see us, unless he was watching from upstairs with a pair of binoculars.
It was now nearly seven, clouds were gathering and the wind was whipping up slightly. ‘What time do we eat, Hubert?’ I asked. He raised his eyes to heaven as if I should be concentrating on more important things but nevertheless he leant over and began opening the basket. He'd handed me a curry pasty wrapped in foil and potato salad in a plastic tub, and I'd just acquired a plastic fork when Geoff Martin's car sped out of his drive. I practically threw the food over my shoulder, started the car and we were off as close behind him as I could manage.
He drove into Dunsmore's main road and I thought for a moment he was going to stop as he had been signalling left as he neared a parade of shops, but then he cancelled his indicator and drove on and out of town. At the next crossroads he turned right going towards Weston-Cumby, a village of film-set cosiness, where buying a barn cost a fortune and house sellers would rather not sell their house at all than sell to the wrong type of person. This was the village in which Charles Amroth lived.
I'd heard that Charles lived in a house overlooking the duck pond at Weston-Cumby and as Geoff slowed down, I stopped by the village pub and watched him drive towards the largest house in the village.
‘Some house,’ said Hubert appeciatively. ‘I bet it's listed. Georgian by the look of it.’
It was elegant. Stone pillars guarded the wrought-iron front gate, the surrounding low walls were covered in clumps of blue flowers and creeping ivy crept up the sides of the front door towards the windows.
We sat and watched as Geoff slowed to a halt and then he too just sat and stared at the house.
‘What the hell is he up to?’ I asked.
‘No idea. Have a curry pasty?’
I nodded but by now they were crushed and forlorn looking and Hubert's expression matched the state of his pasties. ‘They were a lot of trouble – now look at them – pathetic.’
‘He's on the move,’ I said excitedly as Geoff left his car and began walking towards the house. Moments later the front door opened and he went inside.
‘Come on, Hubert, we'll go round the back and have a look. I mean if he tells Charles about Helena there could be trouble.’
He grabbed my arm. ‘Better to wait, Kate – you don't want to blow your cover yet, do you?’
Although disappointed I knew he was right. Charles, after all, might not have been that surprised about his wife having an affair with his partner. He might have been more surprised to find out his practice nurse was a private investigator. It wasn't likely that it would end in fisticuffs anyway.
Back in the car we waited and waited. I read the Daily Telegraph, Hubert sat engrossed in the Funeral Director. I stared for some time at photos of Jenny, Teresa and Helena. Teresa, elfin faced, looked to be in her twenties; the photo of Jenny also was years out of date. Helena interested me most. She was tall, long faced but attractive with fair hair piled on to her head, wearing a navy polka-dot dress and carrying a trug full of flowers. The background to the photo was fuzzy but it appeared to have been taken in the front garden of the house in Weston-Cumby.
Eventually, as it began to grow dark, Geoff appeared, walking briskly towards his car. I left it till he was nearly out of sight before following him.
He drove straight back to Dunsmore, parked his car carefully in the garage and went indoors. Both Hubert and I felt really dejected, until I thought about what he'd just done. He hadn't gone to discuss the weather. He'd been a harbinger of bad news, but why? Charles would have found out soon enough once Holland told the police. Why tell him now?
I repeated my question aloud to Hubert who suggested being a woman I should know.
‘What's that got to do with anything?’
‘He's acting like a bitchy female, isn't he? Taking delight in telling him.’
‘Maybe, Hubert. But he could just be trying to implicate him so that when Helena is found dead suspicion is more than likely to fall on Charles.’
I stayed at home on Tuesday morning spending the time recolouring my hair in preparation for going out with Neil that evening. It did cross my mind that it might not be too cheerful a date, if his father had told him about Geoff's visit. I didn't mind listening if he wanted to talk although I certainly didn't want to play the substitute mum. I wanted to be more femme fatale.
The afternoon at the practice passed quickly. There seemed to be no new gossip but there was an atmosphere of expectancy as if I wasn't the only one to know what was going on. It was David Thruxton's afternoon off, Ian Holland kept himself firmly in his consulting room but I did wonder just how many people he'd sworn to secrecy after me. I supposed it was like that with most people, once you decide to tell one person a secret there's no point in not telling others.
I was just leaving the practice at five when the phone rang. It was for me. Ros wanted to see me as soon as possible – like this minute. She sounded distraught and had obviously been told.
‘I'm on my way, Ros,’ I said, ‘but wouldn't you rather Sara was there or Ian's wife?’
‘I want you. Those bitches would only crow and say I told you so.’
As I approached the house Ros opened the door. She'd been crying and drinking, her mascara had made two black rings underneath her eyes, her hair matched her distracted expression as though she had run her hands through it over and over again. I followed her into the hall and she stopped for a moment by one of her vases of flowers. It obviously irritated her for she swept it to oblivion with one almighty sweep of her hand, screaming ‘Bastard! Bastard!’ as she did so. Somehow I didn't think she was talking about the vase.
In the kitchen we sat at the long pine table. The cream-coloured Aga, fat and squat, dominated the kitchen and seemed to represent all that had been lost by being solid, reliable, strong and everpresent. Ros poured each of us a huge gin and tonic. I don't drink gin but in these circumstances I felt I could force one down.
‘I'm going to have my revenge,’ she said between clenched teeth. ‘You know of course what's been going on?’ I nodded. ‘I don't know what's hurt me more, my husband's treachery or hers … the bitch! What really devastates me is my own stupidity. I mean how can I have not known?’
‘Where did he say he was going when he went out?’
She stared at me, the anguish in her eyes making her look demented. ‘Golf, the masons, one or two medical seminars. You name it, he was there … or supposed to be. He'd ring me if he was away. I bet that viperous conniving … bitch was lying
there beside him even as he spoke to me.’
Ros began to cry then and I put my arm around her, feeling as ineffectual as if offering an aspirin to someone about to have their legs amputated. She cried for some time, mopping her tears with paper tissues from a box in front of her then, as they became sodden, aiming for a wastepaper bin in the corner of the kitchen and missing. Eventually her sobs gave way to sniffing and gulping, but her breathing was still ragged and uneven. She swigged down more gin and tonic and then said softly, ‘I'll kill them both.’
‘Are they worth going to prison for?’ I asked.
Ros didn't answer that question. ‘It's her … I can't believe she'd do that to me. We were best friends, for years. I'd told her the most intimate details of our lives … no wonder she was drinking heavily – cow … bitch …’ I could see she was struggling for more terms of abuse so I added whore, strumpet and Jezebel for good measure. She managed a wry smile, spread her hands in a gesture of helplessness and said, ‘What am I going to do, Kate?’
‘Divorce him, find yourself a lover, demand a huge settlement – bleed him dry financially.’
‘That's not enough,’ Ros answered calmly. I found her composure more unnerving than her tears. ‘How long had it been going on?’ That's what I want to know. For four years I half suspected she was dead or living abroad. I felt that had she been alive she would have contacted me by letter, postcard – some way.’
‘Charles must be very upset too. After all, he's been suspected of killing her.’
‘Pity he hadn't.’
‘Where exactly is David now?’ I asked.
Ros managed a dry laugh. ‘Well, he's not upstairs in a trunk, if that's what you think. He's gone, maybe he's gone to her, I don't know and I don't care.’
We sat in silence for a while. Ros drank steadily and didn't seem to notice that I'd stopped. Eventually she said, ‘How long? How bloody long?’
‘For what?’
‘How long before she left here had it being going on? I mean I was seeing her once a week at least. How many others knew, I bet Sara knew! She always had a knowing smile on her face. I can't bear it – not the thought of me being the last to know.’
Deadly Practice Page 18
