Wings over the Watcher

by Priscilla Masters

  “I’m not sparky and exciting. I’m just an ordinary man. I’ve little get up and go and not a lot of imagination – as I expect you’ve guessed. But I am steady and reliable. And that’s worth a lot in these troubled days. Beatrice was quite happy with that until recently.” He sounded aggrieved.

  Joanna nodded. Pennington had a point but…

  She thanked him, put the phone down, sat and thought.

  She pictured Beatrice Pennington puffing her way up the hill, determination toughening her up.

  There was something obviously wrong here somewhere. Beatrice Pennington had known Marilyn and Eartha or Jewel since she was a child. Pennington had to be mistaken. It hadn’t been them. At least – not primarily. They might have encouraged it but the seeds had been sown elsewhere. By someone else. The “X” beloved of detective novels.

  She was relieved when Korpanski kicked the door open and walked in carrying a sheaf of papers in both hands. “I’ve managed to make contact with everyone except two of the Readers’ Group,” he said. “Angela Bold and Christopher Snelgrove. Angela is a social worker from Rushton Spencer. I asked Hesketh-Brown to pop over there. A neighbour says she’s away on a course until tomorrow. And Christopher Snelgrove is a retired bus driver who, again according to a neighbour, takes frequent trips to Spain. Otherwise all present and correct.” He grinned and looked pleased with himself.

  “Have either of these two been particularly linked to Beatrice Pennington?”

  “Phil Scott interviewed one of the librarians – Lisa – and she said both Angela and Christopher had had a drink together with Beatrice once or twice but always as part of the crowd, with others of the class. And they’d enjoyed a giggle. Nothing special, I suspect.”

  Joanna swivelled her chair away from her computer screen. “How do you feel about Arthur Pennington?”

  “He has to be in the running, doesn’t he?”

  Joanna nodded. “He certainly does.”

  She yawned. Staring into the computer screen was making her eyes tired.

  “What have we got from forensics?”

  “It’s early days yet, Jo.”

  “Sit on their shoulders,” she urged. “Bully them a bit. I’d really like this case wrapped up quickly. It isn’t complicated.”

  Korpanski picked up the phone.

  Maybe that was her mistake – had been from the beginning – to underestimate the complexities of both woman and crime.

  She pushed her sleeve up her arm to peep at her watch. 11 a.m. At what time would Matthew read the letter? Not yet. Not in the middle of an American night. More importantly what would be his response?

  It was as though her brain was split in two, like a walnut. One half was working through Beatrice Pennington’s life and death, the other on hold, hardly daring to wonder when she would hear from him. At work Matthew was a fading face, a ghost-smile, a pale and insubstantial memory. At home she could feel him all around her, see him, smell him, taste him. All but touch him.

  She sighed.

  Back to her case.

  One never really knew whether it was worth putting a board up to appeal for witnesses. Statistically it rarely produced results. But if there was even the slimmest of chances that someone had seen something it could save police time. And as Colclough was always reminding them, time was money.

  In the end Joanna decided to produce two, one for outside the library and the other for the spot on the moorland road where they had found Beatrice’s body. This one she volunteered to drive across the moors herself.

  She took the flat Ashbourne road for a few miles before turning left at Winkhill and rising in the direction of Butterton, passing the millstone which marks the entrance to the Peak Park. Just before Butterton she turned right towards Grindon Moor, pulling up when she reached the parked cars of the SOCOs and the white tent protecting the area where Beatrice’s body had been found.

  Word had got out. Bunches of flowers had been laid against the grey, dry-stone wall, almost filling the narrow grassy verge. The public have soft hearts.

  In bygone years the SOCOs were serving police officers. Her favourite had been “Barra”, Sergeant Barraclough, an experienced officer who had combed almost as many crime scenes as he had his own sparse hair. But a few years ago it had been decided that civilians could do the job cheaper and just as well. And so the work was put out to tender. But Joanna had never quite trusted these civilians to the same degree as her old SOCO colleagues. And she missed Sergeant Barraclough who had been moved to the Potteries Motoring Division.

  It was a waste.

  But such is progress.

  Mr Mark Fask was in charge today, a good-looking Potteries native with dark brown hair and very pale skin. A trifle paunchy round the middle maybe. The obligatory white paper suit wasn’t flattering to his figure. As he walked towards her he reminded Joanna of a pregnant penguin. But he was a pleasant guy who had worked with her a few times before. He was already walking towards her when she opened the car door.

  “So what have you got for me?”

  “Plenty,” he said. “It’s a rich crime scene. Bit of a treat, really.”

  She glanced at the hedge and saw fresh wounds where the branches had been lopped away. “I thought it would be.”

  “Hawthorn. Nice and prickly, see.” He touched the thorns with an experimental forefinger.

  She nodded.

  “Anything interesting?”

  He jerked his thumb behind him. Bags of evidence were stacked neatly.. Maybe she had done him an injustice. Even “Barra” couldn’t have gleaned more evidence than this from such a small crime scene.

  After all – by a process of deduction Beatrice’s body had almost certainly only been dumped here. She hadn’t been wearing shoes when her body had been discovered. One had been found at the crime scene but her feet had not been muddy. Ergo it was unlikely that she had been killed here.

  “Fibres, hair. We got a cigarette stub with a bit of lipstick on.”

  “DNA?”

  “It’s always a possibility, Inspector.” He waved his hand vaguely behind him. Some paper, what looks like a till receipt…”

  She smiled. A till receipt. As good as a signed cheque.

  “… the wrapping from some chewing gum. We got footprints and tyre prints.”

  Joanna nodded. “We’ve decided to put up a board, just in case a motorist or someone else saw anything.”

  Fask nodded slowly. “Seems like a good idea.”

  “The tyre prints,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ve any idea what car they could have come from?”

  “Not so far. Looks to me like an ordinary saloon car but we’ll take the pictures in to the garages and get them identified.”

  “What about the soil samples?”

  “Promising,” he said. “But you know what the soil’s like round here. Clay, clay and more clay. Difficult to pinpoint as specifically as some other locations.”

  “How much longer will you be?”

  “An hour – two hours. Then we’ll get this lot to the labs and seal off the scene.” Fask looked around at the landscape, the tiny fields bordered by dry-stone walls, the isolated cottages, the animals grazing quietly. “It just doesn’t seem right, does it?”

  The worst thing was that she knew exactly what he meant.

  It was too pretty round here for the ugliness of murder. It was an affront. Worse – as sacrilegious as peeing in a church. It was an outrage to bring urban murder out here.

  This was the desecration of traditional England.

  But traditional England is an illusion. Like personal happiness or safety. You can only ever know you had it. Never that you have it. Do not take it for granted because it is transitory.

  She stopped scanning the landscape and turned, reluctantly, back to her car.

  She had a briefing in half an hour.

  What did she have to tell them?

  She had ten officers at her disposal. It was up to her to make good use of them.


  Fingertip searches, house-to-house enquiries. These are the expected ways to solve major crime.

  But this was not a major case. In her heart she still believed this would turn out to be a “domestic”.

  The difficulty was sustaining the morale of the officers who, she knew, probably shared the same view as herself.

  The only real breakthrough was from Bridget Anderton who had been detailed outside the library with the second board to ask anyone if they had spotted Beatrice locking up her bike. Surely in the flowered dress she would have been conspicuous.

  “A woman called Sue Radnor was taking her children to school late because they’d had a dentist’s appointment. She saw Beatrice Pennington locking her bike to the railings.” Anderton was reading from her notes but she looked up then. “She specifically remembered the dress because she’d seen it in Monsoon and had liked it herself.”

  Joanna nodded. “I don’t suppose she noticed the time?”

  “Nine thirty on her car clock which is always showing the right time according to the radio.”

  Joanna felt almost hopeful. “Anything else? Did she notice anyone approach Mrs Pennington?”

  Anderton shook her head regretfully. “Unfortunately not.”

  “Anyone else get a sighting?”

  Phil Scott produced details of a few sightings of her wobbling her way to work. The times all tied in with her journey ranging from nine fifteen to nine twenty.

  Scott was laughing. “We got some descriptions,” he said, “of that big skirt billowing out behind her like the sail on a windsurf.”

  “With an hour or two left to live.” Joanna spoke more sharply than she’d meant to but the room quietened. She cursed herself. She should know as well as anyone that levity was often a good way to cope with the nastier side of life.

  Korpanski touched her elbow. So lightly it could almost have been an accidental gesture but she knew it wasn’t. He was both checking she was OK as well as reminding her that these were junior officers who needed encouragement – not criticism. She resented both reminders and turned to scowl at him. But he was grinning blandly and she found her mouth twisting into an answering smile.

  If it hadn’t been for Korpanski she would have found the last couple of months even more tough.

  She owed him one.

  The briefing broke up soon after with officers detailed to watch Arthur Pennington and chase up the two people not yet interviewed from the Readers’ Group.

  “You go home, Mike,” she said, when the room was again empty.

  “And you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve got a couple of leads I wouldn’t mind following up.”

  “Anything I can help with?”

  She shook her head again. “I don’t think so. Don’t worry. I’ll keep you up to date.”

  She had her own plans.

  Was there any real point in speaking to either Jewel or Marilyn again? They had both denied that they knew the identity of Beatrice’s secret lover. But in some ways Joanna agreed with Arthur Pennington. They were a key. They must know something more. Maybe the fact that Beatrice had been murdered would loosen their tongues.

  Besides – they were the only leads she had. The family, son, daughter, sister and parents had never really known the person Beatrice Pennington was. Certainly they had never known the Beatrice Pennington, passionate woman, who wore Ann Summers underwear and had fallen so desperately in love she had decided to change her entire life for it. The safe, comfortable habits of the woman had been shed, like the cracked, dry skin of a chameleon. And from underneath had stepped a different person. One the old family had not known and now never would, maybe because none of them had really cared. But the bright, shining person had just begun to exist – as Joanna herself had almost witnessed. The only other people who might have had some insight into the metamorphosis would have been her two old cronies. She hoped they might be a bit more co-operative now.

  It was half past five. Jewel would be locking her shop up. Time to walk up Derby Street.

  Joanna was right and satisfyingly perfect in her timing. Jewel was just turning the key as Joanna touched her on the shoulder.

  She let out a shriek. “Oh my goodness,” she said, when she saw it was Joanna. “You gave me a shock!”

  It had been deliberate. She had wanted to test for a reaction. And she had got one.

  “Sorry.” It seemed polite to apologise before diving in. “I take it you’ve heard about your friend?”

  “Oh yes.” There was real fear there. But then we should fear a killer. Kill once and the second time around is easier. All serial killers say this. But fear didn’t make Jewel talk. Rather the converse. She was pressing her lips together to stop herself from speaking carelessly.

  Which annoyed Joanna. “Give me a break, Jewel – or Eartha,” she said cruelly. “I don’t care what I call you but your friend was strangled and her body dumped on the moors and I think you know a bit more about it than you’re saying.”

  Jewel put a hand in front of her face. “Don’t. Please don’t.” Her fingernails were long and squared, painted blood-red. Probably false.

  “Just give me a clue,” Joanna appealed. “He probably did it. By keeping silent you’re protecting him. You said she was sometimes deluded. Maybe this time she simply went too far.” She appealed again. “Who is he?”

  Jewel gave a bitter smile which wrinkled her face up and made her look suddenly older. “Look – I don’t know who it is. Beattie never said and I didn’t pry. I thought she deserved a bit of excitement in her life.” She paused. “I just never thought it would lead to this.” Her face twisted into raw grief. “It shouldn’t be hard to find this person. Beattie didn’t exactly have a huge circle of friends or much opportunity of meeting new people. And you should be able to eliminate most people she knew from your enquiries quite quickly.”

  She was telling her something. Goodness knows what but those heavy-lidded eyes were hiding a secret.

  Joanna had the bit between her teeth now. She walked back to the station, picked up her car and drove straight round to Marilyn Saunders’ house.

  It was a different evening from the last time. The sky was sick and heavy with the threat of a thunderstorm. The air was full of biting flies. Not a night for a barbeque or sunbathing but an evening to watch the dusk arrive too early and peer through the window for the relief of the storm. Impending doom is always worse than the manifestation.

  She was in for a disappointment. A Vauxhall Astra was in the drive. Marilyn’s car was missing.

  She rang the doorbell anyway.

  And wasn’t surprised when Guy opened the door, smoothly dressed in cream-coloured jeans and a navy polo shirt. He gave her a cool, appraising stare. “Well hello,” he said. “If it isn’t the Inspector. If it’s Marilyn you want I’m afraid she isn’t in right now.”

  “Then maybe I can talk to you.”

  He hung on to the door. “What about?”

  “The hunt for a murdered woman, Mr Priestley.”

  He snorted. “I don’t see how I can help. I hardly knew…”

  “Really?”

  “You’re surely not suspecting me of…”

  “Of what, Mr Priestley?”

  “You don’t think I was.”

  In fact it hadn’t even occurred to her. But if the cap fits, Priestley. After all – one older woman, another one. Once you’ve tasted the mature delicacy. What is the difference?

  “All I know is that I would like to find her killer. She had done nothing wrong. She was an innocent.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I beg you pardon.” Joanna had that tingling feeling – as though she had walked, unconsciously, right into an electric fence. “What do you mean?”

  “How do you know she was an innocent?”

  “Excuse me.” She narrowed her eyes.

  “Why don’t you come in?”

  She followed Guy into a small sitting room with cream walls, one large abstrac
t painting which she would have titled Turmoil the sole adornment. It was black and swirling reds, guaranteed to disturb.

  Apart from Turmoil there was a linen-covered three-piece suite and a huge TV set in the corner. Glancing round the room she could see speakers and a woofer. At a guess Marilyn and Guy’s favourite hobby was watching movies.

  He motioned her to sit down.

  “How well did you know Beattie?” He asked the question in a mocking way, a wide smile showing perfect teeth.

  “Hardly at all. I met her a couple of times when she came out cycling with us. Apart from that not at all.”

  “Quite.”

  “Say what you want to say, Mr Priestley.”

  “What did you see?”

  “A middle-aged woman who felt that life was passing her by and wanted to do something about it. I admired her,” she finished.

  “Really?” His eyebrows pointed upwards in the middle. “And do you know what I saw?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said curiously. “But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  As I am also sure that it will be unkind.

  “I saw a jealous, envious woman who watched others’ lives from the sidelines and dreamed. More dangerously she was deluded. In her own eyes she was a femme fatale. An irresistible woman, a siren. She believed she could lure any man onto the rocks.”

  “Are you trying to tell me she tried to…”

  “In the most clumsy, inept way, Inspector. Are you beginning to understand now?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Look – she tried it on with me and I just fended her off. But what if she tried it on with someone who wasn’t so – tolerant?”

  “And then he –”

  “He gets mad and the next thing is he’s killed her. Understand?”

  She needed to take stock. She was seeing Guy Priestley in a different light. Not as a cliché, toyboy lover to a woman more than twenty years older than himself but as a man.

  Why do we do this when we see a disparate relationship? Focus on the sex instead of the person?

  Guy was a perceptive and intelligent man. Oh yes, he was vain and conceited and arrogant too but he had put forward a theory which fitted this death like a glove.