“So what did you do, Mr. Fenshawe?”
“Made one or two late-night phone calls — the heavy breathing kind — advertised his car for sale, and had some manure delivered.”
“And wrote letters?”
Fenshawe flushed in his turn. “Yes. That’s why we decided to come. But I didn’t sign them ‘The April Rainers.’ I didn’t sign them at all.”
“What did the letters say?”
“That he was an arrogant, selfish bastard who didn’t care how he treated people. It was true, and although I’m not proud of what I did, I don’t take back a word of it.”
Those earlier letters Mrs. Jessel had mentioned.
“It was how he treated my wife that really got me,” Fenshawe burst out, when Webb remained silent. “And old Terry Denbigh, too. Jessel literally caused his death — the shock was too much for him. Gaby wouldn’t take him to a tribunal, but I didn’t see why he should get off scot-free.”
Webb transferred his gaze to her. “Did you know anything about this?”
“No,” she answered in a low voice. “Nothing.”
“Very well, Mr. Fenshawe. Since harassment is a civil, not a criminal, offence, it’ll be up to Mrs. Jessel to decide whether she wants to take you to court.”
Fenshawe’s high colour paled. In his haste to clear himself as a murder suspect, such a possibility hadn’t occurred to him.
“In the meantime,” Webb continued inexorably, “if you’ll accompany the sergeant to an interview room, we’ll get things sorted out.”
“I’m going to be interrogated?” Fenshawe looked wildly from Webb to Jackson and back again. “But why? I’ve told you everything now, I swear it!”
“That’s as may be, but you withheld evidence last time you were interviewed, so we want to make sure nothing else has slipped your mind.”
*
There was another interesting phone call that day, from DI Francis in London. “I’ve managed to trace that gang I was telling you about, sir. They are in your neck of the woods, camping on Chedbury Common. That anywhere near you?”
“Right on our doorstep. Thanks, Inspector, we’ll go straight over and have a word.”
Webb looked across at Crombie. “Let’s hope this is the break we’ve been waiting for.”
*
Chedbury Common lay on the far side of the village from Shillingham, stretching for several miles on either side of the road. Together with the woods that bordered it to the west, it was a favourite haunt of both courting couples and dog-walkers. They saw the caravans as soon as they came out of the village.
“The County Council’ll be after them,” Jackson remarked with satisfaction. “They’re always having to move gyppos from this site.”
He pulled off the main road, and the two men walked across the short, scrubby grass towards the camp. A small, surly group stood watching them approach. To Webb’s jaundiced eye, they looked like gypsies themselves. The men were bearded and dressed in ubiquitous jeans and sweaters. The women had long hair and long skirts, which blew around their ankles in the strong breeze. Two of them were holding babies, and a few children played some yards off, throwing a stick for a yapping black dog.
One man, apparently the spokesman, stepped forward. “Yes?” he said. “Can I help you?”
Surprisingly, his voice was cultured, the assured accent of the stockbroker belt.
“We’d be glad of a word, sir, if you could spare us a minute,” Webb said, instinctively broadening his own accent in the hope of being taken for a country copper. Which, come to think of it, he was.
“As long as you’re not going to move us on,” the man said with a grim smile, and the subtle condescension in the tone told Webb his bait had been taken.
“Are you planning to stay long, sir?”
“Until our work here is finished.”
“And what work would that be?”
“Much the same as yours, Constable. Righting wrongs and preventing wickedness. You might almost say we’re partners.” He paused. “I presume you are the police.”
“We are, yes, sir,” Webb agreed, meekly, even gladly, accepting his demotion. He was careful not to glance at Jackson.
“Then come inside and ask your questions,” said the man benevolently, and, as the group parted to let them through, he led them up the steps into the nearest caravan. It was clean and pleasantly furnished, night-time bunks having been converted into comfortable sofas. There was a table, chairs, even a bookcase, and a small cooker and sink were tucked away at one end. All mod cons, Jackson thought admiringly. He might hire something like this for their next holiday.
He and Webb took the seats indicated to them, while their host remained standing. A psychological advantage over the bumpkins, Webb thought.
“You might have heard,” he began, “that we’ve been having a spot of bother this last week. Two murders, in fact, within a few miles of each other.”
The man shook his head sadly. “It’s an evil world, Constable, despite all our efforts. But from what I read in the papers, we needn’t waste time mourning the victims.”
“Their families might not agree with you, sir.”
“True. Innocent people frequently suffer from the wrongdoing of others. What we need — and off-the-record you probably agree with me — is the reinstatement of capital punishment. An eye for an eye, as the Good Book says. When you come down to it, that’s the only real deterrent.”
Would a murderer advocate a return to the death penalty? Webb wondered with interest. “How do you set about your own work?” he asked, adroitly dodging the issue.
“We approach wrongdoers and try to make them see the light. Occasionally, if they refuse to listen to us, we have to punish them.”
“In what way?”
Caught up in his own oratory, the man had forgotten to whom he was speaking. But bumpkin or not, this policeman wouldn’t condone taking the law into one’s own hands.
“Nothing that need worry you,” he said dismissively.
“You write to them, like? Urge them to — to repent?” Webb hoped he wasn’t overdoing it. Beside him, Ken make an odd sound which he turned into a cough.
“That kind of thing, yes, but we also visit them when we can. A face-to-face discussion is much more productive.”
“Could I ask, sir, if you visited either Mr. Ted Baxter or Mr. James Jessel?”
“No, I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
He’d hardly have admitted it, anyway. But there was no sign of a blue car among those parked on the common.
“As it happens,” Webb continued, “Mr. Baxter was in Chedbury the night of his death. You might even have seen him in the Magpie.”
“We don’t hold with strong drink, Constable,” the man said reprovingly. “It’s over twenty years since I entered a public house.”
Which didn’t rule out his following Baxter home, though in fact the Magpie was at the other end of the village. “Those letters you write — do you sign them?”
“Of course.”
“What do you sign them?”
“Ah, I begin to understand — we’ve read the Sunday papers. You’re wondering if we’re the April Rainers? Strangely enough, it’s not the first time we’ve been asked that, and I give you the same answer I gave your colleagues. No, we’re not, but we applaud what they’re doing. This world needs cleaning up in every sense — morals, personal habits, surroundings.” His eyes began to sparkle with fervour as he launched into his spiel. “There’s dirt and litter everywhere, indicative of the moral decline of society dating from the permissive sixties. We must shake things up, make it a fit place for our children to grow up in.”
All of which was most enlightening, but time was getting on.
“I’m sure you’re right, sir. Now, perhaps you’d be good enough to give me your name, and your address, too, if you have one.”
The man frowned. “I can’t see why that’s necessary.”
“Just routine, sir,” Webb said soot
hingly.
“If you insist. I’m John Fletcher and when I’m not travelling I live in Surrey.” He gave an impressive address which Jackson took down.
“How long have you been camped here?”
“About ten days, though I can’t be certain. Time means little to us when we’re on a mission.”
“And how long will you be staying?”
The man shrugged, answering with a question. “Another ten?”
Not if I can help it, Webb thought. “And none of your — friends — know anything about the April Rainers?”
“Not a thing,” said Fletcher confidently.
It would be pointless to interview them at this stage — they’d all talk in the same clichés as their leader. But a spot of hard questioning at Carrington Street would not go amiss.
“Well, sir,” Webb said, getting to his feet, “we won’t detain you any longer. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“A pleasure, Constable. Always glad to help the law.”
Except when it moves you on, Jackson thought. The group outside had dispersed, and the two men walked in silence back to the car. Only as they closed the doors did Jackson say with a grin, “Ever thought of going on the stage, guy?”
“I hoped he might let something slip, Ken, but he was too sharp. All we got is that they go round haranguing people, and without a formal complaint — unlikely in the circumstances — we can’t touch them for it.”
“You think they’re in the clear regarding the murders?”
“We’ll have them in, but I’m very much afraid so.”
10
ON THE MONDAY MORNING, Webb received a phone call from Cynthia Jessel. Her voice was determinedly light, attempting, Webb suspected, to disguise stress.
“I gather from my son, Chief Inspector, that you felt he might know more than he told you about those letters and phone calls. However, we’ve now been over everything, and it’s clear he was mistaken, so you needn’t waste any more time on him.”
“I appreciate your calling, Mrs. Jessel,” Webb said drily, “but you’ll understand I must pursue inquiries as I think fit. I’d like to hear about your discussion, though; perhaps you’d both come in to see me.”
Her voice rose. “But it was precisely to avoid —”
“Yes, I realize that, but we need a statement from you anyway; I didn’t want to bother you on Saturday. I’ll be here all morning.”
There was a pause. Then, letting him know that she wasn’t doing him any favours, she said tightly, “All right. I’m coming in to Shillingham anyway, so I’ll call in. But my son, of course, is at school.”
“I can arrange to see him later,” Webb said blandly.
*
Now that her first grief was over and her poise regained, her attractiveness was more evident. The smart little suit snugly fitted her slim, taut body, and was the exact blue of her eyes. She settled herself in the chair by Webb’s desk, and Crombie, with a tactful murmur, left the room. Sally Pierce brought in two cups of coffee, and Webb noted that his visitor put hers on the edge of his desk. To conceal the shaking of her hands?
“Now,” he said easily, “exactly what was it I was supposed to have thought?”
She flushed. “Lance said you questioned him very closely about the letters and phone calls. You — seemed to think he knew who was responsible.”
“And did he?”
She shook her head. “That’s just it. He had an idea, but he was wrong.”
“Who did he think it was?”
Her cup rattled in its saucer and she hastily abandoned it. “Does it matter, since he was mistaken?”
“Yes, I think it does.”
A pause. Then, not looking at him, “He thought it might have been Robert Kent. He — Mr. Kent, that is, hadn’t a very high opinion of James.”
“Was he a business colleague?”
“No.”
“A social acquaintance, then?”
She bent her head, fiddling with the buttons of her jacket, and the soft grey wings of hair screened her face. “Actually they only met once.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Webb, employing his detective powers, “there was jealousy between them?”
Her head came up, her eyes, startled, met his and then dropped.
“Yes,” she acknowledged softly.
“Mrs. Jessel, I’ve no wish to pry, but in a murder case, personal matters one would prefer to keep private have to be brought into the open.” She nodded, still avoiding his eyes. “So will you tell me about Mr. Kent?”
“He’s fairly new to the district,” she said quietly. “We met at the tennis club.”
Webb nodded encouragingly. “You told me you played.”
“James was always busy, Chief Inspector. I told you that, too. It’s no excuse for what happened, but it is the cause.”
“You and Mr. Kent became lovers?”
She nodded. “Which is something I’ll regret for the rest of my life.”
“Why, Mrs. Jessel? Because of your husband’s death?”
“And because he found out.”
“Recently?”
“A week ago. He came home unexpectedly early.”
And found them in bed together, Webb thought. Surprise, surprise. “How did he react?”
“There was a row, of course. But once it was over, he never referred to it again.”
“But the row itself? What was his attitude towards Mr. Kent?”
“Utter contempt,” she said quietly. “And he was right, I know that now. Robert behaved despicably. He gave no thought to what I was going through; all he cared about was that his wife shouldn’t hear of it, in case he lost his job.”
“You haven’t seen him since?”
“No. And I hope I never do again.”
“You say Mr. Kent was concerned about his job.”
“His boss is a friend of his wife’s father.”
“Might he have taken steps to keep your husband quiet?”
“By murdering him, you mean?” She laughed suddenly, a shocking sound. “He wouldn’t have the guts,” she said.
“As a matter of interest, what kind of car does he drive?”
“A Vauxhall Cavalier, I think.”
“Colour?”
“Silver grey.”
Pity. The paint analysis had come through that morning: the car which had driven past Jessel’s body was identified as a 1988 Renault 9.
“How did your son learn about Mr. Kent?”
“He also came home earlier than expected. Robert had parked up the road, and Lance saw him running towards the car clutching his clothes — James hadn’t allowed him to finish dressing. It was obvious what had happened, and for some reason Lance leapt to the conclusion that it was Robert who’d been responsible for the phone calls and things.”
“Had Lance mentioned seeing him?”
“Not until yesterday. I knew he was worried about something, but for a long time he wouldn’t tell me what. It wasn’t easy for me, either,” she added frankly. “I thought at least I’d been spared the boys knowing about Robert.”
Webb tapped his pen reflectively on his desk. “You seem very certain Mr. Kent couldn’t have attacked your husband. But isn’t it possible he was deeply humiliated by his attitude, and by being forced to walk up the main road in his underclothes?” It was just possible, he thought, unwilling to dismiss a possible suspect, that the blue Renault was innocent.
“But what would killing James have achieved? To be sure of secrecy, he’d have had to kill me, too.”
“You weren’t likely to make your affair public. Nor, as you’ve just proved, would you suspect him. In any case, we’ll have to see Mr. Kent. Have you his address?”
“He lives in Lethbridge Drive, but I’ve never been to the house.”
“We’ll find it. Now you’ve had a chance to think, has anyone else occurred to you who might have wanted your husband dead?”
“Someone I know, you mean? But what about the April Rainers? Surely it
was them?”
“You might know them under another name.”
She looked startled. “Oh, I see. Well, like Lance, I thought at first it was Robert who’d made the phone calls, but when I mentioned it to him, he said not.”
“You can forget the phone calls, Mrs. Jessel. And the car advertisement and the manure. They weren’t connected with the murder.”
“You know who was responsible?”
“Yes.” He hesitated, but she had the right to know. “It was a man called Fenshawe, husband of the ex-editor of Broadshire Life.”
“Oh.” She let out her breath in a long sigh. “Gaby Fenshawe’s husband. Yes, that makes sense.”
Webb said diffidently, “If you want a summons issued —” but she was shaking her head.
“No, of course not. They were a nuisance, nothing more, and I can understand why he did it.”
“He also admits to sending the earlier letters, which just leaves the last one.”
She said softly, “‘Evil deeds which assault and hurt the soul.’ Oh, James! Why did you have to make so many enemies?” She reached blindly for a handkerchief.
“Drink your coffee,” Webb said gently, as though she were a child, and, like one, she obediently lifted her cup. Then she paused, looking at him over its rim.
“You won’t have to see Lance now, will you? He’s been through enough, and it has nothing to do with James’s death.”
“He’ll need to make a statement,” Webb said, “but we’ll go easy on him.”
When she had gone, Nina Petrie tapped at the door. “We’ve had another call that seems genuine,” she said. “From Chichester this time.”
“Ye gods! We’ll soon have covered the entire country. Would you ask Davis and Trent to take this one?”
“Yes, sir. Anything particular you want them to look for?”
“Yes,” Webb said slowly. “We need to know if the victim’s name had been in the papers shortly before he died, and though it’s difficult to ask the bereaved — whether the deceased had done anything at all reprehensible.” “Evil deeds,” he thought. For that matter, John Fletcher’s “wrongdoing.” He must arrange for him and his pals to be brought in for questioning.
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