Aloud he said carefully, ‘There are alternative scenarios. Was she waylaid at the woods by someone who had driven down the track to that point and waited for her, knowing perhaps that she ran in the morning? Or was it a pre-arranged rendezvous? She knew her attacker and had agreed to meet him or her at a spot familiar to both of them. Does that mean they’d met there before? This time there was some kind of quarrel. Whoever it was stabbed her, put her body in his vehicle, drove back along to the track to where it joined the main drive, up the main drive a short way and then across the grass to the lake. Unfortunately for us, only when he got to the lake was the ground soft enough to take an impression of his tyres. There’s been so little rain lately that everywhere else is rock hard. Even more unfortunately, Stebbings and his son pretty well obliterated the impression in chasing after Spike. The search team isn’t only looking for the mobile in the woods; they’re looking for a possible murder weapon.’ Markby ended with some emotion, ‘I just hope Stebbings hasn’t found and zealously removed that!’
‘Stebbings might not be a criminal, as you say,’ Meredith observed. ‘But he seems to have been a thorough nuisance and got rid of quite a bit of evidence, accidentally or on purpose, including his son’s photos of Fiona.’
‘There are people like Stebbings in every walk of life,’ Markby returned gloomily. ‘As if things aren’t complicated enough, they seem to go out of their way to make them worse. Incidentally, your chum Toby is perilously near being in that category, too!’
Meredith sighed. ‘He didn’t mean any harm. All right, all right! He shouldn’t have gone to Fiona’s flat. It was so stupid of Jeremy Jenner not to have told Inspector Campbell that he suspected his daughter had a partner living at the flat. It was inexcusable not to tell Toby and to persuade poor Toby to go up there. I don’t know what Toby was meant to do. Just look around and come back and confirm Jeremy’s suspicions, or not, as the case might be. If Toby didn’t find anything, Jeremy would have kept quiet about his guess that Fiona had a partner. What a mess. It’s a good job your Inspector Campbell found him pretty quick before he turned everything upside down and was caught red-handed by Tara Seale! At least Campbell could wave her ID at Ms Seale and give Toby a chance to get out of there.’
‘It was a good job he was caught by Campbell for his own sake and ours, never mind Tara Seale. It’s only because Jess turned up before he started turning out cupboards and drawers that he’s not facing a charge of obstructing our inquiries! Campbell wants to talk to you tomorrow morning by the way,’ Markby added, as if by an afterthought. ‘She’d like your impression of Fiona. She’s interested that you think Fiona might have written the poison pen letters. You’re still taking the rest of the week off?’
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘Obviously Toby’s not safe left unsupervised. Perhaps I can keep an eye on him.’
‘Hey, you are not his keeper! He’s a grown man. A grown man with very little common sense, but still old enough not to have to keep hold of nurse!’ Markby couldn’t help sounding annoyed.
‘I’m not nursemaiding him,’ she retorted defensively, just a little too defensively, he thought. ‘I just want to be around so he can come and talk things over with me. He’s been knocked sideways by all this. He’d never have agreed to oblige Jeremy by going up to the flat in London, if he’d been thinking straight. Poor Toby, he must be feeling really low.’
After a moment, Markby said, ‘You feel you need to watch out for Toby. I’m watching out for Jeremy Jenner who, like Smythe, seems to have left common sense behind somewhere. What a family. It must be genetic.’
‘I suppose,’ Meredith defended the Jenners, ‘that at a time like this, they can’t be expected to think reasonably.’ She reached up and touched his face. ‘Like you, I had hoped we’d get some time together over the Easter break and the way things have turned out we’ve hardly had any. That’s partly my fault. I agreed to talk you to about Toby’s cousin’s wife and her problem and let us in for going to lunch there.’
‘It’s just sod’s law,’ said Markby, catching her fingers and kissing them. ‘What did you do this morning?’
‘I went to the vicarage and found poor James Holland up to his eyes in packing cases and newspaper. He’s decided to start clearing out ahead of his removal. The new vicarage is ready and he can move in. That means we can start early on renovating the present vicarage. I long to get my hands on that kitchen. It will all have to be torn out and everything done new. There’s loads of space. There’s also a Victorian kitchen range. At least Mrs Harmer didn’t use that, but she did use the gas cooker which is a sixties model and I doubt that it’s now safe. Honestly, Alan, you never saw so much junk. He’s got to get rid of it all. I advised him to just put it all in a special jumble sale.’
‘Be careful. Sometimes quite valuable items get thrown away in the rush to clear out!’
‘Not this time,’ said Meredith firmly. ‘I know junk when I see it. James will never be able to put it all in the new vicarage. I stayed for an hour and helped him wrap up some of it and put it in boxes. I went outside and walked round the garden. It’s a bit of jungle but it could be made really nice. I’ve been thinking again about that garden furniture those two guys make. I thought, while I’m home, I’ll go down and ask them to make some for us, like Alison’s only a little simpler.’
At this point Markby’s stomach gave an aggressive rumble announcing it felt it had been empty long enough. Meredith sat up with a start.
‘Oh, poor Alan! Haven’t you eaten? Why didn’t you say? I could at least have made you a sandwich! Let me make you one now.’
‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother. My fault entirely. I should have picked up something on my way over here.’
‘Don’t be noble, please,’ she pleaded. ‘This doesn’t say much for my domestic skills, does it?’ Her expression of dismay was quite comical.
Markby grinned at her. ‘Funnily enough, I’m not marrying you for your domestic skills. If I wanted a cook-housekeeper, I’d find someone like Mrs Harman.’
‘You wouldn’t want a Mrs Harman. I don’t know how poor James survived all that time under her regime. She boiled all the green vegetables for fifteen minutes by the clock and made him a milk pudding every day.’
‘I survived for seven years at boarding school on a diet like that,’ he reminisced. ‘Look, I know what we’ll do. We’ll walk up to the Crown. They do an all-day breakfast. I’ll have that and you can have a cup of tea or whatever you fancy.’
‘The Crown?’ Meredith asked. ‘It’s grim.’
‘Isn’t it under new management? I don’t care if it’s grim. It can fry up bacon and eggs. I know it’s not the sort of place I’d normally invite you to join me at, but we’re midway between lunch and dinner now and everywhere decent isn’t serving.’
The Crown was an old hotel in the town’s centre. The occasional tourist strayed into it but mostly it catered for travelling reps and people who found themselves unexpectedly stranded in the town overnight. They didn’t ask questions at the Crown. They signed in whoever turned up and then pretty well left guests to their own devices. The bar was usually busy in the evenings with trade which came in off the street. The restaurant had always been a dark, half-deserted room presided over by an elderly waitress. Diners settled the bill at reception on the way out, if they weren’t staying there, or on leaving, if they were.
Markby had more than a passing acquaintance with the Crown because it was here that the police had from time to time lodged witnesses or temporary staff. He was therefore greeted as an old friend by the receptionist, a chirpy young woman in a tight black sweater.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You again, then, Superintendent?’ She treated Meredith to a rapid up-and-down assessment. ‘You want us to put this lady up?’
‘Er, no,’ he said. ‘We just dropped in for something to eat. The restaurant’s open?’
‘It’s always open,’ she said cheerfully. ‘But it depends what you want. Three-course meal i
s from six o’clock. Chef’s got some haddock.’
‘Nothing like that. Just a snack.’
‘That’s all right, then,’ she said, waving them through to the dining room with a flash of her gold-painted nails.
‘Hey,’ said Meredith, as they took their seats in an otherwise untenanted restaurant.‘How many women do you lodge in here?’
‘You’d be surprised! Hello, Florrie.’
‘Nice to see you, Mr Markby,’ said Florrie, who had come plodding across the room to their table, notebook in hand. ‘You want the all-day breakfast again?’
‘I don’t,’ said Meredith hastily. ‘I’ll just have a cup of tea.’
Florrie dismissed her with a glance and concentrated on Markby. ‘Bacon, two eggs, black pudding and fried bread?’
‘Alan,’ said Meredith when Florrie had taken her bunions off to the kitchen with the order. ‘You come in here regularly!’
‘Quite often,’ he admitted.
‘And you always eat that fry-up? It’s a heart attack on a plate, you do realize that?’
‘I don’t care,’ he said mutinously. ‘I like it. Anyway, I only eat it here.’ And in the police canteen, but there was no need to tell Meredith that.
‘By the way,’ Meredith said. ‘Being in here reminds me of the Feathers and that reminds me of something I meant to mention to you. Dolores Forbes, you remember her?’
‘How could I forget her? Once seen, never forgotten, our Dolores!’
‘She told Toby and me that Fiona had been in the pub one evening.’
He looked startled. ‘Fiona? In the Feathers? What was she doing, slumming?’
‘Both Toby and I were taken aback. It couldn’t have been her sort of place. Dolores thought she must have been with someone but didn’t notice any one person who seemed to be her companion. But the place was full.’
‘How often is the Feathers full?’ Markby asked drily. ‘When was this? Recently?’
‘I didn’t ask. But it was the night of a darts match so it ought to be possible to find out the exact date from Dolores.’
The tea arrived in a large brown earthenware pot accompanied by milk in a chipped jug and two cups with mismatched saucers.
‘If they want any more crockery like this, James has got stacks of it,’ Meredith observed waspishly. Also on the tray was another object which Florrie set down on the table before departing.
Meredith picked it up and gazed at it in wonder. ‘Do you realise this must be the last place in the country to serve ketchup in a red plastic tomato? I never thought I’d say it but the Crown makes the Feathers look almost normal. I thought you said this place was under new management?’
‘So I was told. I hope they don’t do away with the all-day breakfast.’
The meal in question arrived at that point and was set before Markby with a flourish. He picked up the plastic tomato.
‘Alan,’ said Meredith in a strangled voice, ‘if you’re going to squeeze that all over your plate, I’m going to the ladies.’
‘Don’t forget your tea,’ he said cheerfully.
The ladies’ room at the Crown was clean but the hand-dryer was broken and, of the two cubicles, only one could be locked. When Meredith re-emerged into the reception area, she found it was occupied by a new arrival. She was engaged in a spirited exchange with the receptionist.
At first glance, a casual passer-by would have thought a young girl was checking in. The female figure was out-proportioned by her large suitcase. But then, perhaps aware of Meredith’s scrutiny, she turned her head and revealed herself to be a woman in her forties.
She was the sort of person one couldn’t ignore. Despite possessing the dimensions of a thirteen-year-old, she had an air of a woman of the world, a disconcerting combination. She wore baggy pants and a figure-hugging top but her most striking feature was her hair, or rather her lack of it. It was clipped short in a crew-cut, almost shaven, the resultant fair bristles covering her well-shaped skull. She was, however, carefully made up and wore large hooped earrings. The overall effect was a blend of artistic and chic and was carried off with formidable poise.
The woman assessed Meredith briefly and dismissed her as of no interest. She turned away to address the receptionist in a slightly irritated tone. ‘I am Madame Plassy. Madame Chantal Plassy. I telephoned you to reserve a room.’ Her accent was faint but unmistakable, even so.
‘That’s right, Mrs Plassy!’ said the receptionist, unhooking a large key. ‘Number seven, top of the stairs. It’s got an en suite shower.’
‘I asked for a bath,’ Chantal protested.
In vain. ‘We don’t do baths en suite,’ said the receptionist. ‘There’s a bathroom on the landing, though.’
‘There is at least someone who can take my case upstairs?’
‘I’ll get Mickey out of the bar. You just leave it there,’ she was told.
Chantal turned aside and Meredith stepped in front of her. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to accost you like this, but you’re not Fiona Jenner’s mother, by any chance?’
This gained her a sharp look and another, this time much closer, assessment. ‘Yes, and so? Who are you?’
‘My name is Meredith Mitchell. I’m just having a cup of tea here with my fiance, Alan Markby. He’s the superintendent in charge of investigating your daughter’s – um – unfortunate death.’
Finely plucked eyebrows twitched. ‘I was not aware my daughter had had an unfortunate death. I understand she was murdered. I think that’s rather worse than just bad luck, don’t you?’ Without giving Meredith a chance to recover, she went on, ‘Where is this Markby? Take me to him!’
Markby had fortunately just about finished his all-day breakfast when Meredith reappeared with Chantal. Introductions and explanations were made and Chantal joined them at their table. Meredith was already wondering whether she’d acted wisely in intercepting Fiona’s mother. Closer observation showed the lines of stress beneath the make-up and, together with some expensive perfume, there emanated from Chantal an aggressive electricity fuelled by suppressed rage. She was bereaved, she was shocked, and, above all, vengeful. She wanted someone’s scalp. It was like being in the company of an unexploded bomb.
Florrie made her majestic way to them and removed Markby’s plate. ‘Can I get you something, madam?’
Chantal pointed a beautifully manicured index finger at her. ‘The coffee, is it from a jar?’
‘We can do it from a jar if you want it from a jar,’ said Florrie helpfully.
‘Of course I do not want it from a jar! You don’t have real, proper coffee?’
‘We’ve got a machine does it, if that’s what you mean,’ said Florrie.
‘Then I would like black coffee.’
‘I’m very sorry about the death of your daughter,’ Markby said to her when Florrie had gone. ‘Meredith and I did meet her, just the once, at lunch.’
Chantal assessed him coolly, taking her time. ‘You have established the cause of death?’
‘Yes. She was stabbed.’
Chantal’s neat fingernails rapped a tattoo on the table as if the pent-up energy in her must find some outlet. ‘Jeremy didn’t tell me this. He phoned me to tell me she had been killed, murdered in the grounds of the house while jogging. He said her head was injured and she had been thrown into a lake. That is typical of Jeremy. Instead of giving bad news all in one piece, he chops it up and delivers it bit by bit, as if that could make it any better!’ Bitterness filled her voice and perhaps the memories of past occasions and old disputes. She leaned back in her chair to think over the new information. Her eyes glowed as if it had fed new power to her inner rage.
Impulsively, Meredith asked, ‘Does Jeremy know you’re here?’
‘I saw him this morning,’ Markby added. ‘He didn’t mention he expected you in Bamford.’ But then, Jeremy being Jeremy, he probably wouldn’t.
‘He knew I was coming, of course!’ she retorted sharply. ‘I told him at once I would come. He
invited me to stay at Overvale House, but I refused. It’s not, I think, bon ton, to stay under the same roof with your successor, one husband and two wives, like a harem. Besides, Fiona told me his present wife is very dull.’
‘You’ve resumed your maiden name?’ Markby asked her.
The fine eyebrows twitched again. ‘No, I am remarried. My husband couldn’t come with me to England. He has business matters in Switzerland where we live. Besides,’ (an elegant shrug) ‘he didn’t know Fiona.’
Florrie brought the coffee. Chantal eyed it dubiously.
‘When were you last in touch with your daughter?’ Meredith fancied she heard a certain sharpness in Markby’s voice.
‘I saw her in London in January. I came over for the sales. I didn’t buy anything. The London sales are not what they were. I spoke with her on the phone two or three times after that.’ Her tone and manner indicated that her relationship with her daughter was not Markby’s business.
‘Then you perhaps met Tara Seale?’ Markby asked.
Chantal gave a dismissive nod. ‘Yes, I met her. I liked her. She was intelligent and chic. You obviously know about their relationship and you are going to ask me how I felt about it. It didn’t worry me, if that is what you want to know. Au contraire, I was pleased Fiona had found someone. At that time she hadn’t told her father about Tara. I advised her to do so. It wouldn’t be easy because Jeremy is so stuffy. But he had to be told. She said she would. I don’t know if she did.’
‘But you haven’t mentioned the existence of Ms Seale to Jeremy at any time since then?’
Chantal’s eyes widened. ‘Why should I? It was not my job to tell him. It was Fiona’s. Anyway, I am not normally in touch with my ex-husband. When he phoned me to tell me Fiona had died it was the first time we’d spoken in two years.’
Ann Granger Page 17
