Fate Worse Than Death

by Sheila Radley

  ‘That’s how the Hooray Henries would see it, though,’ said Tait. ‘They’re mindlessly arrogant when it comes to other people’s property. That’s why I suggested Mrs Yardley’s friends. They probably took the gnome for a laugh, drove it about until they got tired of it, and then pitched it out of the car window.’

  ‘Yes …’ agreed Hilary. ‘But there’s something you don’t know, Martin. The ransom note didn’t appear until two days after the gnome went missing. The gnome disappeared during the night of Friday 20th July, and the note was found stuck conspicuously on a rose bush by the Websdells’garden gate on the morning of Sunday 22nd. How do you account for that?’

  ‘He’s not required to account for it.’ Chief Inspector Quantrill slapped crossly at some midges that were scudding over his face on their maddeningly tickly microfeet. ‘You’d better send the gnome and the note to the lab, Hilary. As for you, Martin – all right, you’ve offered a suggestion that needs following up. You’re on visiting terms with Mrs Yardley, so you might as well make yourself useful by asking her whether any of her guests ever mentioned the gnome.’

  Tait hesitated. Alison’s father knew nothing about the subject of his conversation with Hilary Lloyd the previous evening, then. Good for Hilary; he’d always thought well of her, and he felt a momentary embarrassment for having sworn at her, a twinge of guilt because he hadn’t since apologized. Fortunately she was behaving today as though nothing had happened.

  The fact that she hadn’t blabbed to the old man did create a problem, though. It was going to be impossible, Tait realized, for him to get out of going to see Annabel Yardley again. The DCI had been very decent in offering him this chance to stay with the investigation, and he could see no way of turning down the invitation to question Annabel without telling Alison’s father more than he wanted him to know.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tait confidently. ‘I’ll be glad to help.’

  Quantrill simmered down. ‘Mrs Yardley’s already suggested that we might take a look at the regulars of the Flintknappers Arms,’ he said. ‘Do you use the pub at all, Martin?’

  ‘I was there on Tuesday evening. Twice. It was where I met Annabel Yardley, as it happens. I know the men she means, by sight anyway. They were all in the bar when I went there the second time – they’re a noisy, unsavoury-looking bunch.’ Tait paused, thinking. ‘Now that’s interesting. Tuesday evening … That was when Sandra Websdell died. The pathologist says that her death would have occurred somewhere between six and eight o’clock. I was at the Flintknappers on my first visit from – oh, about six-forty to seven-thirty. And in all that time there wasn’t a soul in the pub apart from myself and Mrs Yardley and the landlady behind the bar. Not a regular in sight.’

  ‘There wasn’t?’ Quantrill brightened visibly. ‘We could be on to something, then. Did you hear that, Chips?’ he asked the perspiring collator. ‘How many alibis does that demolish?’

  PC Carpenter extracted a list from one of his files. ‘Four, sir. According to their statements, four men spent the whole of Tuesday evening in the Flintknappers Arms: Howard Braithwaite, Charles Horrocks, Stanley Bolderow and Reginald Osler.’

  ‘Five men,’ said Quantrill. ‘The landlord as well.’

  ‘Oh, right – Philip Goodwin. He said that he opened the pub at the usual time, six o’clock. The other four said that they all arrived between six and six-fifteen. Each one of them said that the others were there, and that they all stayed in the bar until closing time.’

  ‘Five men, sir?’ protested Hilary. ‘Surely you’re not suggesting that they were all involved in Sandra’s death?’

  ‘Possibly not,’ said Quantrill. ‘But they wouldn’t have lied to us if they weren’t up to something at the time she died, and I intend to find out what it was.’

  ‘No, Martin. Sorry, but that’s definite. You’ve been extremely helpful, and I’m obliged to you, but I’m not going to have this case taken over unofficially by the regional crime squad. Yes, I’ll be glad if you’ll still have a word about the gnome with Mrs Yardley – you’re certainly the best man for that job. But apart from that, all the investigating will be done by members of Breckham CID. To which you no longer belong. Damn it, man, you’re on leave – go away and fly your aeroplane.’

  Tait pointed out that visibility was too hazy for flying.

  ‘Then go and entertain your aged aunt. Take her out to lunch – no, not at the Flintknappers Arms. Treat her to a day out, right away from Fodderstone. Alison told me how fond of the old lady you are, but I’ve seen precious little evidence of it.’

  ‘I’ve already offered to take my aunt out, but she doesn’t want to go,’ said Tait. ‘She doesn’t feel like coming for a flight, either – she’s not at all well, I’m afraid. And Alison’s quite right, I am fond of Aunt Con. I may not mention her very often, but I think about her a great deal.’

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Quantrill,’ interrupted the heavily moustached sergeant in charge of the caravan. He had just received a radio message from the crew of the police Land Rover that had been searching for Sandra Websdell’s car. ‘The girl’s Fiesta’s been found in the forest, about a couple of miles north-east of Fodderstone Green. It looks as though the car’s been there for some time – probably ever since she was abducted.’

  The sergeant went to the map displayed on the wall and pointed out the approximate location, in a Forestry Commission plantation that lay to the north of, and parallel with, the Horkey road. Whoever had abducted the girl could have driven her car into the forest along an unmetalled track that led across the fields from the road, not far from the cottage for which she had set out on the morning she disappeared.

  The fact that the car had been abandoned so comparatively close to the village suggested that Sandra might have been held captive somewhere in the same area. The map showed that there was another track leading to – and from – the plantation where the car had been hidden. This track ran west from the plantation, going by a roundabout route to Fodderstone Green. And the roundabout route went past Stoneyhill wood, which Tait had already advised the Chief Inspector to search.

  ‘Looks as though I might as well take the rest of the week as leave,’ grumbled Quantrill to Sergeant Lloyd, ‘and hand this whole case over to the Flying Detective …’

  ‘Ready when you are, sir,’ said Inspector Tait.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Thursday lunch at the Flintknappers Arms was cold meat and salad again.

  Lois Goodwin was too worried about her husband to bother with cooking, or with the customers. Yesterday she had heard Phil deliberately lying to the police about where he had been on the evening of Sandra Websdell’s death. Surely he hadn’t –? Surely he couldn’t have –?

  No. Definitely not. For all his faults, not Phil.

  But why had he lied? Where had he really been on Tuesday? She hadn’t seen him from 11 a. m., when he’d rushed off saying that he had an appointment in Breckham Market, until just before eight in the evening when he’d rushed back, noisy with excuses. She hadn’t believed his complicated story about being kept waiting between business appointments because she’d heard similar stories from him before; she knew that shifty-eyed look behind those tinted spectacles. She minded about his attempted deception, but she’d comforted herself with the thought that the affair he must be having wouldn’t last. They never did.

  But that was before she knew that Sandra had been found dead. Before she’d heard her husband telling a completely different story about Tuesday evening to the police. She had longed to challenge him about it last night, but she realized that if he knew anything about Sandra’s death – not that he would have, could have, been personally involved, but if he knew anything – he wouldn’t tell her. She wasn’t even sure that she wanted to know.

  Phil had certainly been edgy when a customer had looked into the pub just as they were closing after lunch yesterday to tell them that the police were working their way through the village making enquiries.

  ‘
Nothing to worry about, love!’ her husband had exclaimed as soon as they were alone, although his habit of fingering his catfish moustache into shape when he was agitated was a complete giveaway. ‘No need for you to be pestered by the fuzz, though. You go and put your feet up, and leave the talking to me.’

  So she’d left him to it; but she’d listened from behind the lobby door. And of course Phil was good at talking. The fuzz had turned out to be a ridiculously young-looking detective, no match for a former Fitted-Kitchen-Salesman-of-the-Year, and he’d happily written down the lies Phil told him. Her husband had often said that all policemen were as thick as two short planks, and Lois hoped that he was right.

  But the boy detective had sharp eyes. He’d spotted the gnome that Lois had cleaned up and left ready to be returned to Beryl Websdell, and he’d asked when and where it was found, and by whom. Her husband hadn’t known. Lois, forgetting that Phil didn’t know that she’d been listening, had immediately gone to his assistance. While the detective was writing down her answers, Phil had given her a peculiar look – at once annoyed, guilty and anxious for her support. But he ought to realize by now, after fourteen years of marriage, that however much she disapproved of his lies, however alarmed she was by them, she would never let him down.

  Lois hoped, of course, that the police would not come back. When they did, just on closing time at two-thirty on Thursday afternoon, her stomach tightened with anxiety. Phil had been serving behind the bar again that lunch-time, but when the detectives arrived he happened to be down in the cellar disconnecting an empty beer cask and connecting a full one. Lois was glad he was out of earshot. She intended to confirm the statement he had made, but she thought she might find it easier to lie for him if he wasn’t there to hear her.

  This time it was not the boy detective who came, but the dark-haired woman sergeant with the scar on her forehead who had made enquiries when Sandra first went missing. With the sergeant was a middle-aged chief inspector, a big man with a slow Suffolk voice and a patient manner, but unnervingly watchful green eyes.

  The sergeant gave Lois a pleasant enough greeting, and explained that they were puzzled about some facts that didn’t seem to match. ‘For instance, our information is that you yourself, Mrs Goodwin, were alone behind the bar from at least six-thirty to seven-thirty on Tuesday evening. And during the whole of that time you had only two casual customers. Is that right?’

  Oh God. So they knew that Phil had lied.

  Lois swallowed nervously. The air in the bar room was unbearably stuffy now that the front door was closed. Her forehead and upper lip felt damp, but she thought it unwise to be seen to mop her face. ‘Yes!’ she said, trying to sound brightly co-operative. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And where was your husband at the time?’

  Lois gripped the edge of the counter to hold herself steady. ‘He was here,’ she said. ‘At home, in our private quarters.’

  The chief inspector stared at her. ‘Our information,’ he said, ‘is that you told a customer that your husband was out.’

  Oh God. So it was the fair-haired young man who’d given them the information. He’d come to the Flintknappers for brandy for his aunt, Mrs Schultz. And now she came to think of it, Lois could remember having heard Beryl Websdell mention that Mrs Schultz‘s nephew was a detective …

  ‘Yes – yes, I did say that,’ Lois babbled, stretching her lips in what she hoped would look like a smile. ‘I thought my husband was out because he’d had to go to Breckham Market to see his accountant, and I had no idea that he’d already returned. But in fact he’d slipped indoors without my knowledge. In the late afternoon. About five o’clock, I believe. And when I happened to go upstairs about half-past seven I found him fast asleep on the bed.’

  It sounded feeble, but it was the best she could do. The detectives said nothing, but looked at her as though they didn’t believe a word of it.

  ‘Apparently he’d had a drink in Breckham Market,’ she plunged on. ‘Rather more than one, I expect. And then with all this hot weather …’

  ‘I don’t mind admitting that I didn’t feel too good! So I sneaked in, as my wife’s just told you, and tried to sleep it off without her knowledge. Some hope!’ Phil, who must have heard what she was saying, took the cellar steps at a run and came to join Lois behind the counter. Out of sight of the detectives, his arm slipped round her waist. She would have been glad of that simple act of support, but he chose to supplement it by squeezing her bottom; she pushed his arm away, hating herself for lying and hating her husband for handling her so conspiratorially.

  ‘Quite honestly,’ Phil added to the detectives, moving verbally into top-salesman gear, ‘I’d better tell you that I’d fibbed to my wife about having to see my accountant –’ He proceeded to explain that he found Fodderstone a dreary hole, the customers primitive, and that he sometimes felt the need to spend a few hours in civilization. ‘Just walking on pavements, looking in shops, having a drink here and there. And now I’ve confessed to that, I’m in the dog-house as far as Lois is concerned. Aren’t I, love?’

  He gave his wife another squeeze. Lois moved out of his reach and busied herself by putting clean glasses on the shelf, turning her back on the detectives to avoid their sceptical eyes.

  ‘Nothing wrong with taking a few hours off,’ said the chief inspector, ‘though Mrs Goodwin may well feel aggrieved that you lied to her. But why did you lie to the detective constable who took your statement yesterday? What was your reason for telling him that you were here behind the bar, if you were really upstairs in your pit?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ exclaimed Phil with a smile. ‘I may not like this place, but it’s my only source of income and I don’t want to lose my licence. Your young detective was writing down everything I said. I wasn’t going to have him putting it on record that I was too drunk to serve my customers at opening time! Have a heart, sir and madam …’

  Phil was laughing now, inviting the straight-faced detectives to laugh with him, trying to jolly them along. Lois glanced at them, and knew that her husband was doing the wrong thing. She sidled up to Phil and tried to nudge him surreptitiously into silence.

  ‘Your licence to sell alcohol is of no interest to us, Mr Goodwin,’ said the chief inspector sternly. ‘And the death of a young woman is no laughing matter.’

  ‘Of course not!’ Sobering immediately, Phil expressed sorrow over Sandra Websdell’s death and assured the detectives that he knew nothing whatever about it. But the trouble was, thought Lois as she listened to his fluency, that once people had taken a dislike to Phil they disbelieved everything he said. She could see that the detectives assumed that he was lying again.

  For herself, though, she felt a lightening of her heart. As he spoke of his sorrow, Phil had taken off his tinted spectacles in an unconscious gesture that she recognized as a sign of sincerity. She was right about him, then, thank God. And for a moment she was so relieved that she forgot that his absence on Tuesday evening was still unexplained.

  But the chief inspector pursued her husband with questions. Why had he alleged that four of his customers were in the bar with him on Tuesday from opening time onwards?

  Phil put on his spectacles again. ‘Because they’re regulars. I naturally assumed they’d have been here.’

  ‘But they weren’t. Do you know where they were?’

  ‘Do I know? Of course not! I went out to get away from them.’

  ‘Ah yes: you don’t like them, and you have nothing in common – you’ve already told us that. But each one of them stated, when he was interviewed, that he came here just after six o’clock and that you were serving behind the bar. They all tried to provide you with an alibi, Mr Goodwin, just as you tried to provide alibis for them. So it seems to me that you do have something in common after all. What is it? Where were the five of you on Tuesday evening?’

  For once in his life Phil was wordless. Lois could sense that he had sagged, body and spirit. Heaven knew what
kind of a mess her husband had got himself into … but she knew that there were limits to his follies. She gripped his hand and appealed to the sergeant; a woman detective – particularly one who wore a diamond eternity ring on her wedding finger and therefore had an emotional attachment of her own – would surely understand.

  ‘You must believe my husband when he says he knows nothing about Sandra! He would never have harmed the girl – he isn’t that kind of man. Please believe me. Please,’

  The sergeant shook her dark head reproachfully. ‘How can you expect us to believe you, Mrs Goodwin, when you haven’t been honest with us? Your story about your husband being asleep upstairs wasn’t true, was it? You lied to us to protect him. But if he knows nothing about Sandra’s death he doesn’t need any protection. Does he?’

  Anguished, Lois bit her lower lip. She tried to think what to say next, but the only words that came into her head were, Oh God what are we going to do?

  Beside her, Phil kept licking the second finger of his right hand and nervously pressing down each alignment of his moustache, as though it was a false one that might drop off at any moment. He still said nothing; but he returned his wife’s grip.

  The chief inspector gave each of them a hard green look. ‘We’ll leave you to think it over,’ he said. ‘Next time we come, we shall want the truth from both of you.’

  As the detectives reached the door, the sergeant glanced over her shoulder and gave Lois a smile of sympathy and understanding. It was so completely unexpected that Lois felt unnerved. For a moment she longed to call the sergeant back, sit down with her over a cup of tea and tell her everything she knew – except of course that she knew nothing …