Fate Worse Than Death

by Sheila Radley

  Phil, having locked and bolted the door behind their visitors, was coming back to her with a look of gratitude and triumph on his face. He praised her and thanked her. ‘If we both stick to our story,’ he insisted, ‘everything will be all right. And everything will be all right – things are going to be better for us in the future, I promise. Trust me!’

  Lois wished that she could. But at least he had taken off his tinted spectacles again, and that token of sincerity was a small comfort.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Before going to interview the Goodwins at the Flintknappers Arms, Chief Inspector Quantrill had directed all the police officers at his disposal to make a thorough search of Stoneyhill wood.

  The searchers – some uniformed, some in civilian clothes, all shirt-sleeved and sweating in the humid air – worked their way through the wood looking for huts or shelters where Sandra Websdell might have been held captive. They made slow progress. Stoneyhill wood had been neglected for years and was rank with undergrowth and booby-trapped by fallen boughs too rotten to bear a man’s weight. The police officers were clawed at by brambles and stung by nettles, and each one was accompanied by a living, buzzing, biting halo of flies.

  Eventually they converged on an open area in the centre of which were the ruins of a small house, probably once a keeper’s cottage. The house was plainly built of grey brick, and the reason for its ruined state was immediately obvious: the walls were partly blackened, partly scorched pink by some long-ago fire. Most of the roof had been destroyed, and elder trees growing inside the ruins had forced their way towards the light until they sprouted out at the top.

  What must once have been the garden, all round the house, was now elbow-high with vicious vegetation. The police had armed themselves with sticks, and after their struggle through the trees it would have been a comparatively straightforward job for them to hack their way through the nettles and giant thistles to reach the house. But instead of moving forward they lingered at the edge of the open area, panting and sweating and smarting and swearing, and surveyed the greenery with disgust.

  There was no need for them to go any further. No one could have made use of the ruined house without beating a path through the vegetation, and they could all see that it was pathless. Frustrated, they sat down at the edge of the clearing – the non-smokers edging near the smokers in the hope that newly lighted cigarettes would drive away the flies – and awarded themselves a ten-minute break to lick their wounds and grumble.

  The loudest grumbler was Detective Constable Ian Wigby. Having to his annoyance been recalled from London, he was further disgruntled to hear that in his absence the job of checking Desmond Flood’s alibi had been passed over to the Saintsbury division. To add injury to the insult, he had been sent out with the search team as soon as he reported back, and had ripped his trousers on a bramble in Stoneyhill wood. And all for nothing.

  No, not for nothing. That was what really made Wigby feel riled. He’d been required to search the wood for the benefit of Detective-bloody-Inspector Tait who, it seemed, had flown over in his aeroplane – his own bloody aeroplane – and had thought from on high that this looked a likely place. So Wigby had damaged his clothes, been scratched, stung, and eaten alive by flies, just to satisfy Mr Martin Tait … The beefy detective constable smoked and scowled and tried to think of a suitable way of getting even.

  DC Bedford was the only policeman who didn’t sit down and complain. He insisted on thrusting through the thistles and goose-grass so that he could search the derelict house, and his colleagues let him get on with it. When he returned and made the expected report that there was no sign that the ruins had been in recent use, he was given a slow handclap.

  Undeterred, James Bedford reminded his lounging colleagues that there was still the old boathouse to be searched. They seemed to have no heart for it and so he set off on his own, to the accompaniment of ironic cries of ‘Well done, Jim-lad,’ and ‘We’re right behind you, boy.’ Bedford blushed, but kept going.

  The detective constable found that the northern edge of the wood was skirted by a little-used dirt lane. He remembered that according to the map the lane led eastwards to the Forestry Commission plantation where Sandra Websdell’s car had been found; to the west it led the mile and a bit to Fodderstone Green.

  On the other side of the lane was what had once been an ornamental lake, now surrounded by a strip of rough grass. Beyond the lake, where Fodderstone Hall had once stood in parkland, were harvested fields.

  Like Stoneyhill wood, the lake was neglected: choked with matted reeds at the edges, weedy in the middle. Beside it drooped a few round-shouldered old willow trees. At the western end, where the lane passed close to the water, was the boathouse that Bedford had come to investigate.

  He observed it from the shelter of the trees. At first sight the wooden building looked unused and unusable. Holes gaped in the plank walls, the roof of the boat dock had fallen in, the staging that led out across mud and reeds to the open water was broken. Nothing had been painted in years.

  But a Rover 2600 was parked in the shadow of the willow clump. The back door of the boathouse looked comparatively new, and had a large hasp and a padlock. And mounted on the gable end of the building was a radio aerial.

  DC Bedford’s message reached Chief Inspector Quantrill over his car radio as he and Sergeant Lloyd were driving away from the Flintknappers Arms. Quantrill had intended to interview Charley Horrocks next, but now he drove out of Fodderstone, through Fodderstone Green, and along the bumpy lane that led to the old boathouse. What drew him was the information that the owner of the Rover 2600 was another of the pub regulars who had lied about his whereabouts on the evening of Sandra Websdell‘s death: Howard Braithwaite.

  As Quantrill and Hilary approached the boathouse they could hear the sound of a radio. There was a great deal of background noise coming over the air, and an excited voice giving what they realized, as they stood at the door, was a racing commentary. Quantrill waited until the race finished, then knocked loudly. No one answered or came to the door, and so he opened it and walked in.

  The room they entered, a man-sized dog kennel construction inside the shell of the dilapidated boathouse, was neat and businesslike. To the detectives coming from out-of-doors the room seemed gloomy, though the roof at the far end, above the window, was patterned by shifts of reflected light. The open window looked north, over the lake, and through it drifted the sweetly rotten smell of warm mud and decaying reed, and the sound of water slopping about in the boat dock.

  Howard Braithwaite, grey and cross-looking, sat at a desk with his back to the window. The radio was now off, and he was in the act of making a call on the cordless telephone he held in his hand. The nature of his occupation was obvious: his pile of racing reference-books, his battery-operated radio and calculator, his spread copy of the Sporting Life, all made it clear that he was a dedicated off-course punter.

  He glared at the intruders over his half-moon spectacles. ‘Who the hell are you? What do you want?’

  Quantrill told him. Braithwaite looked even more furious. He slapped his telephone on to the desk, pushed aside the Sporting Life, and denied, in short sharp barks, that he knew Sandra Websdell. Yes, her parents lived two doors away from him, or so he understood from his wife; he took no notice of his neighbours, hardly knew what any of them looked like.

  As for where he had been on Tuesday evening, he had already given a statement about that. Quantrill pointed out that his statement was at variance with other information. Braithwaite immediately defended himself by launching a verbal attack.

  ‘Your constable was officious and insolent. I intend to make a formal complaint about him. I wasn’t able to be accurate about the timing of my movements, and I declined to make guesses. He tried to insist. If he added any specific times to the information I gave him, that’s his responsibility. Not mine.’

  The Chief Inspector asked the man to repeat his account of his movements on Tuesday afternoo
n and evening. Braithwaite said crossly that he had spent the afternoon there, in the boathouse, working. Yes, of course alone. That was why he’d rented the place and had it made habitable, so that he could have somewhere to work without interruption. After the results of the last race – the 4.40 from Newmarket – were broadcast, he had, as usual, done some fishing. It helped him to relax. Yes, for pike; no, he’d caught nothing; no, he had no idea how long he went on fishing. He’d packed up his rod some time in the early evening, and gone straight to the Flintknappers Arms.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought the Flintknappers was the right pub for a man of your background,’ commented the Chief Inspector.

  ‘It isn’t. But I find it convenient. I go there every lunch time to collect my copy of the Sporting Life.’

  ‘Why not have the paper delivered to your home?’ asked Hilary.

  Braithwaite glared at her. He seemed not to like women; certainly not those who asked him questions. ‘Domestic reasons,’ he barked.

  Quantrill required no further explanation. There were domestic reasons for some of his own practices … working later than he sometimes needed to, for one. ‘Even so,’ he said, ‘I find it difficult to believe that you can enjoy spending whole evenings in the Flintknappers Arms. Every evening?’

  ‘No. Occasionally.’

  ‘And why that particular evening?’

  ‘Why not? It was hot, I was thirsty.’

  ‘And presumably you enjoy the company of the other regulars. But I really wouldn’t have thought you had much in common with them.’

  ‘Racing. We talk about racing.’

  The Chief Inspector picked up the books on Braithwaite’s desk, one by one: Horses in Training by Raceform, Timeform Computer Timefigures, Ladbroke’s Racing Year, Timeform Horses to Follow, The Sporting Life Racehorse Ratings, Timeform Black Book, Raceform Up-to-Date Form Book … The man would need to be an extremely serious punter to recoup what he spent on books every year, let alone make a profit.

  ‘But you don’t actually go racing, Mr Braithwaite? Or watch on television?’

  ‘I make no claim to like horses. Or horsey people. I bet because I enjoy backing my own judgement.’

  ‘And pitting your wits against the bookmakers – you have a credit account with one or more of them, I expect?’

  ‘What the devil has that got to do with the police?’

  ‘It has nothing to do with our reason for being here,’ Quantrill agreed. ‘What we’ve come for is to ask your permission to search this building. We’re looking for the place where Sandra Websdell was held captive.’

  Braithwaite jumped to his feet, barking furiously. ‘Good God, you needn’t imagine she was here! I had no connection with her. None at all.’

  ‘Then you won’t object if our men make a thorough search?’

  ‘I do object! I object most strongly!’

  Sergeant Lloyd picked the man’s outspread copy of the Sporting Life off the desk and folded it up. The two detectives looked pointedly at the telephone that Braithwaite had tried to conceal as soon as he knew who they were.

  ‘Very useful things, cordless telephones,’ said Quantrill. ‘You couldn’t place bets from an isolated office like this without one, could you?’

  Braithwaite growled unintelligibly.

  ‘The only problem with them,’ Quantrill went on, ‘is that the models approved for use with British Telecom equipment have a very modest range – not much over 700 feet from the base telephone, I believe. But this boathouse is over a mile from your home on Fodderstone Green. An approved cordless telephone would be no use to you, so you bought a far more powerful set – even though you knew that its use was illegal.’

  ‘I know nothing of the kind. The set was on open sale in a reputable shop in Saintsbury.’

  ‘It’s not illegal to supply the sets,’ explained Hilary. ‘But no reputable shop would have sold you this one without warning you that it’s illegal to use it.’

  ‘That’s utterly stupid. It’s the most stupidly illogical thing I’ve heard in my life!’

  ‘It’s the law,’ said Quantrill impassively. ‘By using this set, you’re committing an offence by transmitting on a waveband reserved for other users. I shall have to charge you to appear before the magistrates, and your equipment will automatically be confiscated.’

  Braithwaite’s aggressive bark changed to a worried yap. His spectacles had slid to the end of his nose and he peered over them anxiously. ‘A court appearance? Oh no … My God, I’ll never hear the last of this from my wife …’ His facial muscles creaked as he forced the corners of his mouth apart in an unaccustomed smile. ‘Look, er – Chief Inspector – supposing I allow you – invite you – to search this place. Will that help?’

  ‘No, sir. But thank you for the invitation.’

  The old boathouse was searched minutely; but nothing was found to indicate that Sandra Websdell had been held captive there.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  ‘That’s not a bad set-up, for any retired man,’ said Quantrill as he drove away from the boathouse. He spoke thoughtfully, almost enviously. ‘Somewhere snug and private, where he can follow an indoor hobby without interruption or interference, and do a bit of fishing whenever he feels like it.’

  ‘Nice for the retired man’s wife, too,’ pointed out Hilary. ‘I don’t suppose she wants him hanging about the house all day.’

  Quantrill hadn’t thought of it like that. For a moment he felt miffed; he’d expected his sergeant to be on his side.

  ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it clears up one thing that’s puzzled me ever since I read the report of the initial interview with Braithwaite. He didn’t sound the type to spend the whole of his time fishing. A man who’d been used to managing his own industrial firm would need a hobby that challenged him and kept him mentally alert. Serious gambling would certainly do that for him. I still can’t believe that he enjoys the company of the other regulars at the Flintknappers Arms, though. He’s obviously not a gregarious man. I suppose they may share an interest in betting on racing, but that’s hardly a strong enough bond to induce the five of them to give each other alibis for the time of Sandra Websdell’s death. Unless they were all in some way involved.’

  ‘We’ve no reason to suppose that more than one man was involved,’ said Hilary. ‘Where’s the motive? Gang rapes happen, of course, but Sandra hadn’t been raped by one man, let alone five. No violence was used against her until moments before her death, and afterwards her body was handled with remorse. I still think we’re looking for one man who loved her.’

  ‘You may be right,’ said Quantrill. Sergeant Lloyd often was; but not always. ‘Supposing the group used a front man, though, to keep her captive while he tried to persuade her to go along with whatever they wanted.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Possibly nothing more than a bit of sport. Something they were betting on, perhaps. Did you see that very old book Braithwaite had on his desk among this year’s form books? It was an illustrated volume called Sporting Life in Old England. There was a chapter on racing, but it seemed to deal chiefly with various kinds of hunting and shooting that are still legal, and things like bird-trapping and badger-baiting that aren’t.’

  ‘All hunting should be made illegal,’ said Hilary. ‘It’s uncivilized to gallop after a pack of hounds in pursuit of one defenceless wild animal.’

  ‘I don’t mind about foxes,’ said Quantrill. ‘Foxes are killers themselves – they’re cunning too, and good runners. They have a reasonable chance. But this isn’t fox or foxhound country. Near Breckham Market there’s a pack of harriers – they‘re a bit smaller than foxhounds, but fast – and what they hunt is the hare.’

  ‘That’s barbaric.’

  ‘I didn’t think so, when I was a boy. When the local harriers held a meet near our village, a gang of us would play hookey from school to follow them. We’d run about with sticks, hoping to flush a hare out of cover. Not that we ever did, but we thought it was great sport. W
e were so excited that if we’d managed to catch a living thing – anything that couldn’t defend itself, a rabbit, a mouse, a frog – we’d have egged each other on to beat it to death.’

  ‘Little brutes,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Yes, we were. But that’s how I found out how exciting it is to gang up in mindless pursuit of something – or someone – completely inoffensive. In that situation, people behave entirely out of character. They’ll do things that they’d never dream of doing as individuals.’

  ‘And you think that might apply to the regulars of the Flintknappers Arms, and Sandra Websdell?’

  ‘I’m wondering about it. Braithwaite’s book made me remember hare-hunting, you see. As I said, I loved the thrill of it when I was a boy, though I never got near a hare. But my grandfather did, when he was young, and he liked to tell a story about it.

  ‘He had to start work on a farm when he was twelve, so there wasn’t much opportunity for him to follow the harriers. But one frosty winter day he heard the hounds approaching the turnip field where he was working. They were in full cry. Then they stopped, a field away, and began casting round for the scent. They’d temporarily lost the hare.

  ‘That was when my grandfather saw it. The hare was moving up a frozen ditch towards him with a kind of zig-zagging crawl, and its long ears were drooping over its head. It had been chased to exhaustion.

  ‘It tried to find some cover, but there wasn’t any. The ditch was wide and open, and came to a dead end not far from where my grandfather was standing. The hare crawled to the end and tried to spring out, but its hind feet kept skidding on the ice and it fell back. The hounds began baying again in the next field, and Grandad could see that the hare had given up hope of escape. He used to tell us how he watched it give up. It crouched where it was, trembling, ears down, and hid its face in its paws. And he could hear it making a thin, despairing, wailing noise, like a terrified child.’