Ann Granger

by That Way Murder Lies

  Jess paused at this point to read through what she’d written. She needed urgently to talk to the Jenners again. That was, she needed to talk to Jeremy again and to Alison for the first time. Her last job the previous evening had been to drive to Overvale House and inform Jeremy Jenner his daughter had died from a stab wound. Jenner had at first been shocked in a buttoned-up sort of way, but Jess’s tentative request to see Mrs Jenner before Monday caused an eruption.

  ‘You know the doctor gave her a sedative. She’ll still be woozy tomorrow and as soon as she’s thinking clearly I’ll have to break the news of Fiona having been stabbed. She’ll need time to get over the shock. I’m also still trying to get in touch with my ex-wife, Fiona’s mother. That’s going to be a damn difficult business. What the dickens am I going to say to her? How can I explain it? You’ll have to come on Monday.’

  Smythe had been more visibly shaken at the news, repeating over and over again that he wished he’d joined Fiona on her early-morning run. He had been the last member of the household to see the dead girl. Smythe, thought Jess, was an interesting young man. She’d sensed that behind the casual appearance, disorganized manner and the grief, there was a sharp brain. Smythe wasn’t a fool. He was an FCO high-flyer. There was a possibility, which she’d have to investigate, of a romantic connection between him and the dead girl. The time he gave, ten minutes past eight, was important. It was a reasonable time for someone to go out jogging. It wasn’t a particularly reasonable time for that person to meet an intruder in the grounds. Burglars were all at home and in bed by then, thought Jess wryly. Or perhaps not? Perhaps Fiona had encountered someone using that early hour, when he could expect to be undisturbed, to case the property? Jess scribbled a note to herself about this. She must check and find out whether other large houses in the area had been burgled recently or disturbed intruders in their grounds.

  Fiona. She had to learn more about Fiona. But before Fiona, there was Alison, the recipient of the poison pen mail.

  ‘I’m losing the advantage,’ muttered Jess. ‘If this is murder, this is vital time and I’m sitting here writing out a report and kicking my heels waiting to interview the stepmother who was once on a murder charge and has now been getting abusive letters. Ginny’s wasting time chasing after a tyre tread that will probably turn out to be weeks old.’ Her frustration was well founded. After seventy-two hours the trail went cold. Every police officer knew that.

  There was, however, some new reading matter which had appeared on her desk in the form of two files. The top file, the slimmest, contained the brief details of the letter received by Alison with the negative forensic report. The second file was thicker. She picked it up curiously. The sheets it contained appeared to have been faxed from elsewhere. It dealt with an old trial, a murder trial. The accused: Alison Harris. The hairs prickled on Jess’s neck. She forgot her regret at not being with her family and having to work the holiday weekend, even the frustrations of the delays, and opened it. There was a note pinned to it and, to her surprise, she saw it was from the superintendent and addressed to her, brief and to the point.

  ‘Alison Harris is Alison Jenner. This is the material which the poison pen writer has got hold of and has used as material for his/ her letters. So far no one has made any suggestion how he/she linked Harris with Jenner.’

  Jess stared at the note thoughtfully. She was struck by Markby’s scrupulous use of he/she. No jumping to conclusions there!

  Jess began to read the file.

  An hour and a half later, having read the file twice and taken a break to fetch some more truly horrible coffee from a dispensing machine in the corridor, Jess switched on the computer and began to put her thoughts up on screen.

  ‘Certainly the circumstances of Fiona’s Jenner’s death recall those of Freda Kemp in 1978 and suggest the writer of the poison pen letters may have had a hand in Fiona’s death. I am worried by one aspect of Alison Harris’s defence. On the face of it, no one can argue with a timed, dated till receipt and a positive ID by the till cashier. But the young man only saw her that one time, very briefly. It could have been someone like her. Could she have had an accomplice? Another young woman, much the same age and wearing identical clothes, same haircut etc. Alison could have met the accomplice before leaving Cornwall and exchanged cars. She could then have driven back to Freda Kemp’s cottage and killed her aunt shortly after the one o’clock time given by the cyclists as the last known sighting of Miss Kemp alive. At the same time, the accomplice could have stopped at the petrol station, chatted to the cashier to make sure he remembered her, and obtained the till receipt. It would have needed careful timing but, working together, two people could have pulled it off. Incidentally, if this is what happened, then the arrival of the cyclists at Ms Kemp’s cottage at one o‘clock, rather than support Alison’s alibi, might well have ruined it. The killer must have arrived at the cottage very shortly afterwards and missed being seen by the cyclists possibly only by minutes. I admit there is no evidence of this. The question which arises from my theory is, where is the accomplice now? Why did she agree to be a party to murder? For money? Alison stood to inherit a small fortune from her aunt. As for where the accomplice is now, perhaps she is out there, writing poison pen letters, having spent the money she was paid twenty-five years ago and hoping to replenish her bank account with blackmail. Against this: the poison pen writer has made no demand for money. However, we’ve seen only one letter and have only Alison Jenner’s word for the content of the others.’

  Jess read through all she’d written and printed it out. When she’d done that, she folded the sheets carefully and put them in her bag. These were her thoughts, her ideas. She’d take them home and mull over them. This was her first case here in a new job. She was going to get it right.

  On her way out of the room she paused by the cactus. It still had that depressed look. It wasn’t a cactus with a future. It belonged to the past. She picked it up in its pot and dropped the whole lot into the waste-paper basket.

  Then she went home and ate the rest of the chocolate eggs.

  Chapter Six

  Jess Campbell’s view of Overvale House on Monday morning was obscured by a fine haze of rain. It was the sort which appears light but can soak you through in a few minutes, as she found out when she left her car. The gardeners would be glad of it, no doubt. By the time she was admitted to the house her hair felt unpleasantly damp and a quick glance in the hall mirror as she passed by revealed that her face glistened with moisture. She pulled out a handkerchief and rubbed it over her features hastily before going into the room to which Mrs Whittle had directed her.

  The housekeeper had welcomed her in a hushed voice as if it were illness, not death, which had visited the house. Grief, of course, might be termed an illness. It had symptoms. It laid the sufferer low. It took time to recover from it. It left scars. But for grief there was no medicine, no quick fix. Moreover, grief had a palpable presence. Jess felt it in the hallway. It didn’t need the muffled tones of Mrs Whittle or her reddened eyelids to show it was there. For this reason, she’d told the woman she’d announce herself. It was always bad enough facing a bereaved family without a lugubrious herald going before.

  Jess tapped at the door, called out her name and opened it. As she stepped inside her face tingled from the warmth of a log fire crackling in the hearth. Despite the fact that this was a household in mourning, in here the atmosphere seemed at first sight quite uplifting. It was the sort of room which bid you welcome. The contrast between this and her cheerless rented flat could not have been more marked. The furniture was good, but old and comfortable. There was a baby grand piano in one corner and Jess wondered who played.The old dog, Betsy, who had been stretched out before the heat of the flames, struggled to her feet and padded over to inspect the newcomer. Jess dropped her hand to fondle the animal’s ears. Betsy responded by wagging her tail. Pass, friend.

  ‘Pity about the weather,’ said Jeremy Jenner, following behind the dog. Either h
e had no gardening interests or this was a version of the standard British conversation opener. ‘Is Mrs Whittle there?’ He sounded slightly critical.

  ‘I said I’d announce myself.’ Jess wondered whether Jenner felt she was guilty of some social faux pas. Heck, she was a police officer, not some toothy county neighbour.

  But Jenner had walked past her out into the hall and his upraised voice could be heard calling, ‘Mrs Whittle! We’d like some coffee if you can manage that.’

  If I were Mrs Whittle, thought Jess, I’d be tempted to pour it over his head. But Jenner, in leaving, had left the floor to the other person present, someone who, when Jess had entered, had been hidden by his bulky frame.

  ‘I’m Alison,’ said the woman. Her tone was subdued and Jess had to strain her ears to hear. ‘Jeremy’s wife and Fiona’s stepmother. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to speak to you on Saturday or yesterday. I’ve been a bit of mess. I’m better today.’ She gave Jess a hesitant smile.

  So here at long last was Alison Jenner, previously Alison Harris, accused but cleared of murder. Jess saw one of those women of very English type with a fair skin and light brown hair, not exactly pretty but pleasant in appearance and looking much younger than her forty-eight years. She wore woollen slacks and a black silk polo neck sweater. The colour denoted bereavement, Jess supposed. It drained the residual colour from the wearer’s pale complexion. But in the circumstances, she could be expected to be pale. The fire in the hearth, perhaps not entirely necessary today even though it was raining, had probably been lit because Alison had felt cold. Shock did that. However, apart from the pallor and a touch of understandable nervousness, Jess thought she seemed composed.

  Alison spoke again. ‘It’s not a very nice day, as my husband said. Do sit by the fire.’

  Her voice was louder now and firmer; she felt herself on surer ground in performing the social niceties. She would be a good hostess, thought Jess. No matter how difficult the guest or tedious the occasion, Alison would preside over it with charm and grace. Somewhat to her surprise, Jess found herself filled with resentful admiration. She knew that she lacked the sort of skills Alison could call up automatically. But then, when had she the time or occasion to practise them? She had other abilities. She could stand by and watch an autopsy without throwing up. She could question witnesses and listen to tales of appalling brutality and degradation. She could deal with hardened criminals in the confines of the dingiest interview room. But she couldn’t have hosted a formal dinner party to save her life. But I don’t want to, she told herself. I didn’t choose that sort of life. I chose to be a police officer.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replied politely, taking the designated armchair.

  Jenner had returned and retook his seat. He cleared his throat. Jess had the impression of a meeting being called to order. ‘We want to help, of course we do. But my wife and I have discussed this sad event at length and we really can offer no explanation other than the one I thought of when my daughter’s body was found. Some maniac did this, the same one who has been writing odious letters to Alison. Find him and you’ll find my daughter’s killer.’ Jenner ended his speech on a flat, formal note and stared at Jess, challenging her to dispute his conclusions.

  ‘You know …’ Alison began in her quiet voice but then seemed to realize how difficult it was for Jess to hear her. She began again and said more loudly, ‘You know what the letters referred to? About my aunt’s death? Alan Markby told you?’

  ‘I’ve seen the file,’ Jess admitted.

  For a moment Alison Jenner looked as if she was going to be physically sick. The woman was under tremendous stress. Jess felt an instinctive burst of sympathy for her and, at the same time, a twinge of guilt because in her memo to Markby, she’d suggested Alison might have been guilty of Freda Kemp’s murder after all. But nice, kindly-faced women with all the social graces had killed before. This one, however, had been cleared of the murder. Jess was more than conscious that she had to be careful how she questioned Alison.

  As if he read her mind, Jenner said sharply, ‘There has been an attempt, a clear attempt, to drag up the sorry details of the death of my wife’s aunt. To arrange my daughter’s body in the same way—’ He broke off. ‘It’s disgusting,’ he said after a moment. ‘It’s sick. He is sick, whoever this is.’

  Jess said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and meant it. She turned to Alison and asked, ‘Mr Jenner has told you the result of the post-mortem?’

  ‘I know my stepdaughter was stabbed.’

  Alison’s voice was calm and there was even something close to relief in it.

  To Jenner, Jess asked, ‘Can you tell me about your daughter? Did she live here with you?’

  He had placed his hand over his eyes as his wife spoke. Now he took his hand away from his face. ‘Good Lord, no. No, she has – had a flat in London. Not much of a place, just a pied-à-terre. It’s what they call a studio flat these days, just one big room really with the usual offices and a balcony.’

  It sounded expensive to Jess, even though Jenner dismissed it. ‘Whereabouts in London?’ she asked.

  ‘In Docklands.’

  Jess made a note of that. ‘Did she work there?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, but she had a fancy for a new place and for living there. It’s very much an area for young people.’

  Wealthy young people. But Fiona had had a wealthy papa. ‘May I ask,’ Jess put the question cautiously. ‘if Fiona bought it with her own money?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said shortly.

  ‘What line of work was she in?’ Well-paid work, it would seem.

  ‘She worked in television for a while, nothing glamorous, just office work. I think she hoped it might lead to her being spotted and offered something in front of camera but it didn’t work out like that and she chucked the job in. These last few weeks she hasn’t – hadn’t – been working.’

  ‘But if she had a mortgage,’ Jess asked, ‘wasn’t that rash?’

  ‘She didn’t have a mortgage. She bought the flat outright. She was left a considerable amount by her grandfather and at eighteen gained control of it. She wanted to invest it and thought property the best option. She consulted me. I made enquiries about the flat and it did seem a good investment. I told her to go ahead.’

  Jess was momentarily bereft of speech and hoped her jaw hadn’t dropped. Rich people, she thought wryly, saw ordinary life and its daily necessities through a different pair of spectacles to the rest of us mortals. But a flat in Docklands, just like that. No skulking before estate agents’ windows, hoping one of the cheaper properties would turn out on viewing to be better than it looked. A hope usually vain since she’d already discovered that estate agents were skilled at finding a photogenic angle from which to snap the dreariest property. She’d learned an important fact, however, from Fiona’s very different experience. Fiona hadn’t lacked money and the price tag hadn’t been an obstacle.

  ‘I’d like to take a look at this flat,’ Jess said. ‘Do you have the keys?’

  Jenner stared at her very hard and breathed heavily down his nostrils like a suspicious horse. ‘Is that necessary?’

  ‘It’s routine,’ Jess told him.

  ‘It still seems an unnecessary intrusion. What do you hope to find there?’

  ‘That I can’t say. Possibly nothing at all. We have to take a look: Jess met his outraged glare and held it. She had the satisfaction of making him look away first.

  Alison reached out and touched his arm. ‘They’re trying to do their job, Jerry.’

  Jenner got to his feet and began to turn restlessly up and down the room. Eventually he fetched up by Jess’s chair and said sulkily, ‘The keys will be in her room, probably in her bag, upstairs.’

  ‘That’s another thing,’ Jess said. ‘Could I see her room?’ Alison jumped to her feet before her husband could protest at this further intrusion, and said quickly, ‘I’ll show you the way.’

  Jess’s spirits rose. She had been wondering how to detach Alison
from Jenner but now an opportunity was being given her. She wondered whether Alison realized that Jess would need to speak to her privately and had offered to escort her upstairs to create the necessary situation.

  Jess decided to waste no time. As she climbed the staircase behind Alison, she asked, ‘Did you see Fiona leave the house on Saturday morning?’

  Alison shook her head but didn’t turn it. ‘No. Toby saw her. He was the only one.’

  ‘You didn’t go outside yourself?’

  Now Alison stopped at the head of the stairs and turned to give her a surprisingly knowing look. ‘I didn’t, neither did Jeremy. We can vouch for one another. Before breakfast we were pretty well under one another’s eye all the time. You want to know about alibis, don’t you? Mrs Whittle saw me, too. I went down to the kitchen and asked if she’d scramble some eggs for Toby. My husband and I only eat toast. I didn’t have time to go down to the lake.’ She gave Alison a sad smile. ‘You see, Inspector, I’ve been through all this before. I know what you want to ask and why. Oh, and I didn’t kill Fiona.’

  ‘I hadn’t suggested you did, Mrs Jenner.’ Jess felt she was being wrong-footed here and didn’t like it. As a police officer, she ought to be past being shocked. But somehow Alison’s direct denial and the almost serene way in which it had been spoken were deeply shocking. But this serenity might be a result of the tranquillizers Alison had been taking since Saturday afternoon. Alison had been deeply affected by the event. She had required medical assistance.

  Alison gave her a wise smile. Perhaps Jess’s face had betrayed her. ‘But that’s what some people might think.’