David Webb 7 - The April Rainers
Anthea Fraser
Doubleday (1990)
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Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, General
Fictionttt Mystery & Detectivettt Generalttt
Death by strangulation is not a pretty sight, but then Ted Baxter, who had driven his wife to suicide, was an ugly character.
His wastebasket bulges with hate mail.
One letter — inscribed in copperplate letters with striking green ink — stands out: You have been found guilty of crimes against humanity. The death sentence will be carried out in eight days. Signed: The April Rainers.
Chief Inspector Webb of the Shillingham CID soon discerns a pattern.
Baxter was not the April Rainers’ first victim.
The two other known victims were an extortionist and a hostile-takeover artist; both had so many enemies that another threat seemed insignificant — even one inscribed in copperplate letters.
What connects the victims?
Who are the April Rainers?
Why are they warning their victims beforehand?
In his most baffling case yet, Chief Inspector Webb must find out who this group is and why its members are taking the law into their own hands …
Praise for Anthea Fraser:
“A superbly crafted, riveting, page-turner of a read" - Booklist
“Ms Fraser is her dependable elegant, guileful self withholding the killer's identity till a dying fall" - Sunday Times
“A well-mannered, well-plotted and well-told story” - Birmingham Post
“Sympathetic, well-executed book, in which full attention is paid to human feelings and failings” - Yorkshire Post
Anthea Fraser has written all her life but did not begin to take it seriously until after marriage, when she found herself at home with two small daughters and embarked on a correspondence course with the London School of Journalism. She wrote short stories before turning to novels of the supernatural, and then to crime. Her novels include ‘The Seven Stars’, ‘The Ten Commandments’, ‘Death Speaks Softly’ and ‘Pretty Maids All in a Row’.
Endeavour Press is the UK's leading independent digital publisher. For more information on our titles please sign up to our newsletter at www.endeavourpress.com. Each week you will receive updates on free and discounted ebooks. Follow us on Twitter: @EndeavourPress and on Facebook via http://on.fb.me/1HweQV7. We are always interested in hearing from our readers. Endeavour Press believes that the future is now.
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The April Rainers
Anthea Fraser
© Anthea Fraser, 1989
Anthea Fraser has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1989 by Doubleday.
This published 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
GREEN GROW THE RUSHES-O
I’ll sing you one-o!
(Chorus) Green grow the rushes-o!
What is your one-o?
One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.
I’ll sing you two-o!
(Chorus) Green grow the rushes-o!
What are your two-o?
Two, two, the lily-white Boys, clothed all in green-o,
(Chorus) One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.
I’ll sing you three-o!
(Chorus) Green grow the rushes-o!
What are your three-o?
Three, three the Rivals,
(Chorus) Two, two, the lily-white Boys, clothed all in green-o,
One is one and all alone and evermore shall be so.
Four for the Gospel-makers.
Five for the Symbols at your door.
Six for the six proud Walkers.
Seven for the seven Stars in the sky.
Eight for the April Rainers.
Nine for the nine bright Shiners.
Ten for the ten Commandments.
Eleven for the Eleven that went up to heaven.
Twelve for the twelve Apostles.
Table of Contents
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14
1
THAT THURSDAY in early October did not start well for Webb. The telephone roused him just before six, and he dragged himself from the depths of sleep to hear the station sergeant’s voice in his ear.
“Sorry to wake you, sir. We’ve a suspicious death in Rankin Close. Number five.”
Webb rubbed his eyes with his free hand, squinted at the clock and sighed. “Any details, Andy?”
“The milkman found him outside his back door. Steve Dacre went over — he’s just phoned in. Says he’s contacted Docs Pringle and Stapleton.”
“Right.” Webb was already swinging his feet to the floor. “Get on to Sergeant Jackson and tell him I’ll pick him up in ten minutes. Then phone the SOCOs. Rankin Close, you said?”
“That’s right, sir. It’s that bungalow development off Rankin Road — only half a dozen houses.”
“I know the one. Thanks, Andy.” Webb dropped the phone and went through to the bathroom. A domestic murder by the sound of it, he reflected, sluicing his face with cold water. Unlikely to be a random attack in a backwater like that.
As he turned into Broadminster Road, he could see Jackson’s slight figure waiting under the street lamp outside his gate.
“Nice start to the day, guv!” he said cheerfully, pulling the car door shut behind him.
“Wonderful. Bloke outside his own back door. Dacre thinks we should see him.”
“Know who he is?”
“No, but the milkman will. He found him.”
They saw the milkfloat as they turned into the Close. It was in front of the last house on the left, with Dacre’s car behind it. A light was on in the house, defiantly illuminating the porch and a short stretch of path in the surrounding darkness. Around it, its neighbours slept on, unaware of the drama in their midst, and the only watcher was a ginger cat, who surveyed them without interest from a garage roof.
Webb and Jackson got out of the car into the cold early morning. A heavy dew dampened the pavement and beaded the grass on the verge. An hour or so, and the sun would dry it.
PC Dacre came to the gate to meet them, accompanied by a thin, apprehensive-looking young man.
“Morning, sir. This is Mr. Brodie, who found the deceased.”
The milkman, barely in his twenties, was shivering as much from shock as from the chill in the air.
“Can you tell us what happened, Mr. Brodie?”
“I just walked round the corner of the house, same as always, and there he was. Got the fright of my life, I can tell you. I thought he’d had a heart attack so I bent down, like, to see if I could do anything. But when I got a proper look at him —” He gagged, put a hand over his mouth. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“You’ll know who he is, since he’s one of your customers?”
“Yeah. The name’s Baxter.”
“You’re quite sure it’s him? You didn’t just assume it, because this is his house?”
“It’s him all right.”
“Did you knock on the door for help?”
“No point — he’s the only one here.”
“When you bent down, did you touch him in any way, to make sure he was dead?”
“I didn’t need to.” Brodie’s voice shook again. Webb glanced questioningly at the police constable, and he nodded confirmation.
“So you rang
us. Where from?”
“The phone box in Rankin Road. It’s only round the corner, but my legs were that wobbly I nearly didn’t make it.”
They turned as another car drew up at the gate, and Dr. Pringle unfolded his long body from behind the steering wheel.
Webb said, “Sergeant, take Mr. Brodie back to the station. I’m sure he could do with a cup of tea while he gives his statement.”
“But what about my round?” Brodie interrupted. “The boss won’t half give me stick if the deliveries aren’t done.”
“You can phone him from the police station. We won’t keep you any longer than necessary.” He turned to the police surgeon. “I’ll come and take a look with you, Alec; I’ve only just got here myself.”
The side-gate stood open and on the path immediately beyond it lay a pool of milk spiked with shards of broken glass. Stepping over it, the two men surveyed the scene. Behind the bungalow a narrow garden stretched some hundred feet, with boundary fences on three sides. A narrow concrete path led along the back of the house, and the inert form lay sprawled across it. Pringle had a torch ready, but the body was eerily spot-lit by light seeping through the thin window blind.
The dead man was heavily built and lay on his side with his head towards the house. His face was horribly distorted, with the tongue forced out, eyes open and staring, and blood-flecked froth staining nose and mouth. No wonder the milkman was upset; death by strangulation was a gruesome sight. Unusual, too, in such circumstances; a quick knife-thrust or the ubiquitous blunt instrument was more the norm.
Pringle moved forward, squatting by the prone figure. After a couple of minutes, Webb said tentatively, “You reckon he’s been here all night?”
“Aye, I’d say so. He’s stiff, and the ground’s dry beneath him.” He glanced up at the house. “Is anyone inside?”
“No; the milkman says he lived alone.”
The doctor pursed his lips. “Well, since he’s wearing an anorak, I’d say he was followed home. He’d probably left the lights on to make the house look occupied.”
“Or he might have been indoors, and slipped on the jacket to investigate a noise outside. In which case —” Webb wrapped a handkerchief round his hand and tried the door handle. It withstood his pressure. “End of that theory. But if he’d just come home, why not go to the front door?”
Pringle shrugged and straightened. “Some folk always use the back. Or perhaps he heard a noise round here as he was putting the car away. Pushed open the side-gate, disturbed a would-be burglar, and — wham.”
“There’s no sign of attempted break-in. Still, once the SOCOs have finished, we’ll get a look at his pockets. If he has car keys on him, you could be right.”
“Mr. Baxter?” An anxious voice reached them from the other side of the fence. “Is that you? Whatever’s happening?”
Webb walked across and, stepping on a convenient brick, looked over the fence. A small woman stood there in dressing-gown and slippers, a gauze scarf wound round her head. She gave a little gasp and took a step backwards and Webb said quickly, “Don’t be alarmed, ma’am — we’re the police. I’m afraid Mr. Baxter’s had an accident.”
“What is it?” she quavered, a hand going to her throat. “What’s happened to him?”
Webb hesitated. “Is anyone with you, ma’am?”
“My husband, yes.”
“All right if I come round and have a word with you both?”
“Now?” Her voice rose. “But it’s only half-past six — we’re not even dressed!”
“Don’t worry about that. Actually,” he added, reverting to the everyday to reassure her, “a cup of tea would be very welcome.”
“Well — all right then.”
Webb nodded his thanks. “I’ll be round in five minutes.”
When he returned to the front of the house, the pathologist had arrived, and, hard on his heels, the Scenes of Crime Officers. And now some of the fuss had penetrated the closed curtains of Rankin Close. One of them twitched as he glanced across the road, and a light or two had blossomed in previously dark windows. PC Dacre was still at the gate, preserving the scene.
“I’m going next door for a chat, Steve,” Webb told him as the other men moved down the drive. “If I get the chance, I’ll slip you a cuppa to keep you going.”
“Thanks, sir. None too warm, is it?”
“The sun’ll be up soon — that’ll help.”
Webb paused to study the small close. As Andy Fenton had said, it was a development of six bungalows, and beyond number five the road ended in a gravel turning-place. The killer, then, must have left the same way he’d come. In any case, if he’d arrived by car, he was more likely to have parked in Rankin Road than risk driving into a deadend. And had Baxter disturbed a burglar, or was he followed home? Suppose he’d been flashing money around in a pub? Again, a search of his pockets might provide the answer.
A light flicked on in the porch of the next-door house, and Webb, taking the hint, quickened his footsteps. The door opened as he reached it, and he found himself facing a middle-aged man with tousled hair and a less than welcoming expression. That he had dressed hurriedly and with bad grace was indicated by his wrongly buttoned shirt.
“Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you at this hour. Chief Inspector Webb, CID.”
“Grogan,” said the man sullenly. “I suppose you’d better come in, though why you need to see us, I can’t imagine.”
As Webb stepped into the hall, Mrs. Grogan appeared from the kitchen. She too had dressed, and a hasty touch of powder and lipstick had been applied. Unconventional though the hour may be, appearances must be kept up.
“In here, Chief Inspector.”
She ushered him into the living-room, which extended the full depth of the house. Yesterday’s paper lay on the floor, and the cushions were still dented from the previous evening. On a side table stood a couple of mugs and two plates with crumbs of cheese on them. Mrs. Grogan tutted, swept them up and carried them out to the kitchen.
“Now,” Grogan said impatiently, as she came bustling back with a tea-tray, “what the devil’s this all about?”
But first, Webb asked if he might take a mug to the man on the gate, a request Grogan allowed somewhat grudgingly. As he came back into the room, they both looked up at him expectantly. He took his own cup off the tray and settled in the chair indicated.
“Before I go into details, I’d be grateful if you’d tell me what you know about Mr. Baxter. Was he a friend of yours?”
The Grogans, exchanging glances, hadn’t noticed his use of the past tense. The man cleared his throat. “No offence, Chief Inspector, but we make it a rule not to discuss our neighbours’ affairs. We respect their privacy and expect them to respect ours.”
“Very worthy, sir,” said Webb drily. “However, these are special circumstances. Mr. Baxter is dead.”
“Dead?” They spoke in unison, staring at him unbelievingly. Mrs. Grogan put her cup down before her suddenly shaking hands could spill it. “Oh my goodness! That’s terrible! What happened?”
“Easy, Beth,” said her husband, as though to a bucking mare. She subsided against the cushions and he added to Webb, “Heart, was it?”
“No, Mr. Grogan,” Webb said deliberately. “It was murder.”
Mrs. Grogan gave a faint shriek and her husband moved to join her on the sofa, taking her hand. The shock had banished his grumpy sleepiness and he was fully alert.
“I think I’ve said enough for you to appreciate the gravity of the situation,” Webb continued, “so I’d be grateful for a few details. How long has Mr. Baxter lived next door?”
Grogan moistened his lips, still trying to absorb the news. “About three years, I suppose. Since soon after the bungalows were built.”
“And he lived alone, I hear.”
“Well, for the last six weeks, yes.”
Webb’s eyes narrowed. “And before that?”
“They were all there. His wife and the kids.”
“So what happened?”
Grogan’s eyes fell. “That’s why we’re careful what we say. Heaven knows, there’s been enough gossip. The fact is, Chief Inspector, he was a violent man; used to beat her up, and the kids, too, I shouldn’t wonder. Anyway, when the poor woman could take no more, she reported him and he was taken to court.” His voice hardened, became angry. “And because he’d got a fast-talking lawyer, those namby-pamby magistrates let him off with a fine. So what happens? When he turns up at the house again, his wife takes an overdose.”
That, Webb thought bitterly, was all he needed. The whole neighbourhood would be hostile to this man.
“What happened to the children?”
“Her sister took them, poor little devils.”
“Have you her name and address?”
“I’m afraid not. We didn’t know them well; only to pass the time of day.” A pity; had they been better neighbours, they might have averted a tragedy.
“So Mr. Baxter stayed on next door?” he said after a moment.
“That’s right, but he wasn’t often there. Went out first thing and came back late at night.”
“Where did he work, do you know?”
“Something to do with the post office, I believe.”
“Did anyone else ever go to the house? Friends, relatives?”
“Not that we noticed.”
“And when was the last time you saw him?”
Grogan thought for a moment. “Sunday. He was cutting his back lawn.”
“You didn’t see or hear anything last night or early this morning?”
They shook their heads. Then Grogan said suddenly, “Just a minute. Where, exactly, was he murdered?”
“In his back garden, sir.”
Mrs. Grogan stared at him with widening eyes. “Just the other side of our fence?”
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