David Webb 7 - The April Rainers
Page 16
“You’ve no other ideas?”
“I wouldn’t say that. There’s the odd bunch on Chedbury Common, for a start. Nothing’s come to light under interrogation, but they’re a weird lot and we’re keeping them under surveillance.”
“What about the murders in other parts of the country?”
“Our lads went to interview the local officers, but not much has come up. Still, tomorrow’s another day. On which note, I must drink up and let you get to your bed.”
“You’re not staying?”
“Daren’t risk it, love. A phone call might come through at any time, and I have to be available.”
“Sweet dreams, then, and let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”
13
THE OFFICERS who’d gone to check on the Chichester murder had now returned, and their report was on Webb’s desk.
“Any help?” Alan Crombie inquired, when at last he raised his head.
“Nope — same rundown as the others. The victim had had some unpleasant publicity, though nothing serious. He received a letter giving the eight-day deadline, and was asphyxiated on the appointed day, probably by a nylon stocking. And despite intensive investigations, West Sussex came up with damn-all, which is par for the course.”
Crombie sucked his teeth. “So what do we do now?”
“Feed the gen into the computer and see what it comes up with.”
Crombie checked his watch. “I’ll have to leave you to it. I’m due at court.”
Webb nodded absentmindedly. Picking up his pen, he jotted down the list of towns that the April Rainers had visited: London, Cardiff, Liverpool, Leeds, Chichester.
He and Hannah had spent a pleasant weekend in Chichester a couple of years back, he reflected; they’d gone — His thoughts skidded to a halt, and he went rapidly through the list again. Then he sat for several minutes staring into space. It was impossible, surely, but every avenue had to be explored.
With a relieved glance at Crombie’s deserted desk, he pulled the phone towards him and dialled Hannah’s number.
Lady Harwood rose as Webb and Jackson were shown into the drawing-room. “I confess I’m surprised to see you again, Chief Inspector. Now that the cause of the accident has been established —”
Webb glanced at the girl who sat silently by the fire, and Lady Harwood said quickly, “I’m sorry, I don’t believe you’ve met my daughter. Chief Inspector Webb, dear.”
Webb nodded. “Miss Harwood.” He turned back to her mother. “Yes, I apologize for troubling you again. But even though the crash was an accident, your sister-in-law had received a death threat.”
Lady Harwood looked startled. “I didn’t know that.”
“We’d suspected something like that might have caused her collapse, and Miss Matthews confirmed it.”
“You mean Felicity took it seriously?”
“I don’t know, Lady Harwood, but it must have given her a shock. It was signed by ‘The April Rainers.’”
The girl looked up. “The people who killed Mr. Jessel and that other man?”
“That’s right, miss. We’re hoping Miss Harwood might have said something that could give us a lead.”
Lady Harwood still looked bewildered. “But why should anyone want to kill Felicity?”
Webb shrugged. “She said herself that if you’re rich and famous, you make enemies.”
“People who are spiteful and jealous, perhaps. But to think of killing her — that’s entirely different.” She shuddered.
“I presume your husband’s out, ma’am?”
“Yes, he’s — making arrangements for the funeral.”
“And Miss Matthews — is she feeling any better?”
“She’s a little calmer, thank you; but if you want to see her again, I’d be grateful if you could wait a while longer. She was very distressed after the inspector’s visit.”
At this stage he didn’t feel justified in insisting. In any case, as Nina’d said, her mind was probably still clouded. But he needed to know exactly what Felicity Harwood had said about that note. He’d a nagging feeling it could be crucial.
“About the proposed biography,” he began instead, and noted the girl’s momentary tensing, “I believe Miss Harwood spent some time with this young man during the past week. Might she have confided in him, do you think?”
It was the girl who answered. “If you mean about the note, no, I’m sure she didn’t. Mark would have told me.”
“Unless,” Webb suggested, “your aunt asked him not to?”
“He’d have told me when she died.”
“Do you know of anyone, miss, who particularly disliked or resented her?”
“No.” She paused, then added hesitantly, “I loved my aunt, Chief Inspector, but I’m aware that not everyone did. She could be dictatorial, especially where her music was concerned, and even my father had stormy rehearsals with her. I remember his saying more than once that the lead violinist had walked off the stage.”
“Really, Camilla,” Lady Harwood murmured, “I don’t think we need go into that.”
“On the contrary, ma’am, that’s just the kind of thing we need, if we’re to get to the bottom of this.” Webb turned back to the girl. “So if she did have enemies, they were likely to be musicians?”
Camilla looked startled. “I didn’t mean that.”
“But they were the people she was most in contact with?”
“I suppose so, yes. But please don’t think she was always difficult; she could be very patient and understanding.”
“Did she receive a lot of mail, do you know?”
“I believe so. Hattie dealt with it.”
“I wondered if there’d been other anonymous letters.”
“Only Hattie could tell you that.” And he wasn’t able to ask her.
He thought for a moment, then tried another tack. “Was Miss Harwood ever married?”
“No.”
“Did she have any romantic involvements that could have led to resentment or hatred — a rejected lover, for instance?”
“There were several men interested in her when she was younger,” Lady Harwood replied, “but I hardly think any of them would have carried a torch this long.”
“Except that they haven’t been allowed to forget her, as would normally be the case. Her name was often in the news, and she appeared on television.”
“True, but from what I remember, there’d been no bitterness.”
Webb stood up. “I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you both for your help.”
As they drove out of the gateway, he said suddenly, “We’ll go back to my place, Ken. I want to play through those tapes again, and I’d like you to listen to them. You might pick up something I missed.”
They turned out of Hampton Rise, drove a few yards down the hill, and turned left into Hillcrest, where Webb’s block of flats stood.
There was a mid-morning atmosphere about the place which was alien to Webb. He felt an intruder, someone from a different time-zone. They went up in the lift in silence, and while he made two mugs of coffee, Jackson stood at the window, staring down the hill to the town at its foot.
“Gets everything into perspective, doesn’t it,” he commented, taking the mug offered; “seeing things at this distance.”
“Yes, I unwind at that window when I come home each evening. Now, Ken, I’m going to switch this thing on. Like me, you only met Miss Harwood briefly. I’d like to know what impression you form of her after listening to this.”
The two men settled themselves comfortably. Then Webb flicked the machine, and into the quiet room came Mark Templeton’s first, hesitant question: “Were you born in this house?”
Felicity’s voice was low and husky as he remembered, telling of her childhood, her mother’s encouragement of her music, her father’s impatience with it. Diaries were mentioned; Webb made a note to ask Mark Templeton for them, though she might not have kept one in recent years.
She had rec
orded one of the tapes alone, apparently talking into it in free moments, and without the discipline of the interviewer’s questions, the result was less structured. At one point, a knock sounded and a distant voice called. Felicity, close to the machine, replied, “Lord, is that the time? All right, Hattie, I’m coming.” And a click ended the session.
“This is the most interesting from our point of view,” Webb said, changing the cassette. The two men listened intently as Felicity recounted brushes she’d had with various people, and comments on the inefficiency or stupidity of others, wellknown names among them. “I’ve never pretended to be all sweetness and light,” she told her interviewer.
“And she wasn’t,” Jackson agreed as the tape ended. “I can imagine she got a lot of backs up, though it was all fairly petty. Certainly not worth murdering for.”
“Now there, Ken,” Webb said slowly, “you have put your finger on it. In all seven April Rainers killings, the only one with any kind of motive was Baxter’s, and even that’s debatable. OK, he beat up his wife and she killed herself, but surely that’s only motive for someone who was fond of her, and they’re all in the clear.
“Then there’s Jessel; he was a bastard, and that diarist bloke died after getting the sack, but it could be argued that was coincidence. It certainly didn’t warrant the death sentence. And it was the same with the other cases. The victims were mean, or shady, or downright unpleasant, from the reports I read, but in no single instance did something stand out that would make a good, old-fashioned motive for murder.”
“But that came over in the letters, didn’t it, guy? They were pretty vague too, going on about anguish and hardship and hurting the soul and that. I’m putting my money on those weirdos at Chedbury. It seems right up their street, and whatever they say, they were in the same area as Baxter just before he died.”
“You could be right. Well, we’ve spent enough time on this lot. We’ll have a pie and a pint at the Brown Bear and see what inspiration that gives us.”
*
At five o’clock, Hannah rang back with the information Webb had requested. He listened to it in silence, said simply, “Thanks. I’ll be in touch,” and hung up.
“What’s the matter?” Crombie asked. “Did all your rabbits die?”
Webb looked across at him. “Know anything about the laws of coincidence, Alan?”
“Not a lot,” confessed Crombie with a grin.
“Then I reckon you’d better start brushing up on them,” Webb said, and, rising abruptly, walked out of the room, leaving the Inspector staring after him.
He was striding through the foyer when the Desk Sergeant stopped him. “Excuse me, sir, we’re getting a message about a blue Renault.”
“Yes?”
“One’s been spotted in East Parade, driven by a young lady. Right year, Ted Finch says. He’s tailing it at a discreet distance and requests instructions.”
“Tell him not to intercept unless it leaves town. If we can trace it to an address, so much the better. Keep me informed.”
Oakacre, where Mark Templeton lived, was only five minutes’ walk from DHQ, and Webb set off on foot. Already the afternoon was dimming and street lamps flickered into life like Jaffa oranges. It was getting cooler, too. At the end of the week the clocks would go back, and winter would spring suddenly closer.
Webb passed County Court and turned into Fenton Road. He could remember when it lay on the edge of town, with the Library Gardens on its right and a rough common to the left. The gardens were still there, thank God, but the common where as a boy he’d played football had disappeared. Fronting Fenton Road were office blocks, estate agents’ windows, building societies; and now the rot was spreading backwards, gradually eating up what had been open land.
The latest encroachment was Oakacre. He’d read about the development, but had no interest in seeing what he regarded as further despoilment. Now, business was taking him there. Ostensibly he was returning the cassettes, but his main purpose was to learn more about Felicity Harwood, and whether she had said anything significant when the tape wasn’t running.
He reached the road sign and turned into the approach leading to the new estate. Parts of it were still little more than a building site, and on his right, what would eventually be a parade of shops was just beginning to take shape. Webb paused for a moment and stood with narrowed eyes, searching the muddy earth and heaps of builders’ rubble for anything that might remain of his childhood playground. Then, with a sigh, he made his way over a strategically placed plank to Mark Templeton’s front door.
His knock was answered after several minutes by a middle-aged woman in an apron. Faintly, he could hear the wavering, uncertain whining of a violin.
“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Templeton has private lessons Thursday evenings,” she said, when he stated his business.
“Until what time?”
“Well now, you’re in luck there. Normally they go on till seven, but the six o’clock lesson’s cancelled — sore throat or something. If you’d like to wait, he could see you in about twenty minutes.”
Webb hesitated, frustrated by the delay. But he had come to see Templeton and had no intention of leaving without doing so. If he had to wait, so be it.
“Would you like a cup of tea, sir?” the woman asked, showing him into a room looking over the back garden. “It shouldn’t be too noisy in here; the music room’s soundproofed, and I’ve finished my Hoovering. Just as well — Mr. T. says I should get a silencer!”
“A cup of tea would be welcome, thank you.”
Alone in the room, Webb looked first, as always, at the pictures on the walls. A couple of prints only, but good modern ones. The bookcase indicated a catholic taste, with some battered, well-read volumes among them, but it was the shelves beside the window that proved most interesting. In boxes, record sleeves, cassettes and compact discs were displayed what must surely be the complete works of Felicity Harwood.
A voice behind him interrupted his inspection. “If you’d like to put one on, sir, I’m sure Mr. Templeton wouldn’t mind.”
“You’re sure?”
“Oh yes, sir. Specially if you choose Miss Harwood’s music.” Her eyes filled with ready tears. “A tragedy that was, sir, and no mistake.”
“Yes indeed,” said Webb awkwardly. He selected a cassette at random, put it on the machine, and settled himself into one of the deep armchairs. There was no doubt about it, he thought, the music was superb. Having drunk his tea, he leant back, closing his eyes and giving himself up to the yearning, haunting sound of the violin. Yehudi Menuhin, it had said on the label — clear indication of the respect in which fellow musicians held the composer.
So immersed was he that he didn’t hear Mark Templeton come into the room. The sound of the closing door alerted him, and he got hastily to his feet. The man who stood there was tall and good-looking, the strong brows and small cleft in the chin reminding Webb of the young Laurence Olivier. He came forward and held out his hand.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Chief Inspector. I didn’t know you were here — Mrs. Bunwell has instructions not to interrupt the lessons.”
“I’ve been well entertained.”
“Yes.” Mark sobered. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“I’m grateful for the loan of your interview tapes.” He indicated the stack he had placed on the low table. “Unfortunately we didn’t get as much as we’d hoped from them.”
“Do sit down. What were you looking for, exactly?”
Webb glanced across at him. “Did you know Miss Harwood had received a note from the April Rainers?”
“Camilla — Miss Harwood’s niece, phoned at lunch-time. I could hardly believe it.”
“What did you think had caused her collapse?”
“I’d no idea. One moment she was smiling and bowing, the next her face froze, turned deathly pale, and down she went.”
“I was hoping she might have mentioned the note outside the recording session.”
“And what was his diagnosis?”
Mark shrugged. “A simple faint. And she made a remarkably quick recovery, according to the family.”
“I was interested in the mention of diaries on the tape. Have you had the chance to look at them?”
“Only one so far. Out of curiosity, I looked up the entry for the day her father died.”
“How old was she?”
“Fifteen.”
“What did he die of?”
“He was killed in a train crash. But though it sounds hard, it might have been just as well, because he wasn’t prepared to let her study music. It was only after his death that she was able to take it up seriously.”
“An ill wind, perhaps. How long did she continue keeping a diary?”
“Until about halfway through her time at the Paris Conservatoire.”
“They probably wouldn’t be much help then.”
“Not unless they revealed some lifelong enemy. But if it was the April Rainers, what connection could they have with her?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. And with Baxter and Jessel, for that matter. Presumably you’ve interviewed Miss Matthews?”
“Actually, I haven’t. There just hasn’t been time; every spare moment was spent with Felicity herself. And to tell you the truth —” he grinned, looking suddenly boyish “she rather frightens me!”
“Really? I’ve never met her.”
“Oh, she’s a formidable lady. The dragon at the gate.”
Not much of the dragon about the distraught woman Nina had described, Webb reflected. “What about the old music teacher? Miss Grundy, was it?”
Mark’s face sobered. “I’d forgotten about her, poor old thing. She idolized Felicity, and was looking forward to her calling round when she got back from Scotland.”