Wings over the Watcher

by Priscilla Masters

  Korpanski. “Were you a member of the Readers’ Group?”

  Marilyn laughed merrily. “Not my cup of tea,” she said. Her eyes fixed boldly on Korpanski. “You could say,” she said, shaking the chocolate-striped hair self-consciously, “that I have other fish to fry.”

  Right on cue they heard a skid outside. A car door slamming. Someone humming. The metallic chink of a key being inserted in the door. The door slamming.

  They listened silently.

  “Hi, tiger.”

  “In here, darling.”

  Guy Priestley sauntered in, throwing his keys carelessly across the polished occasional table. Spiky hair, jaunty and grinning broadly. Very over-confident. “Oh, hello you,” he said to them both. “I wondered whose the car was.”

  There was neither welcome nor hostility in his tone. He crossed the room, bent over Marilyn and gave her a noisy, smacking kiss then a suggestive pat on the breast.

  Joanna rolled her eyes towards Mike. This overt sexuality was just a bit too obvious, too public and too demonstrative. In fact it didn’t wash. She decided that she didn’t like Guy Priestley. Neither did she trust him.

  At last the lovers drew apart and Guy took up his seat next to his partner though it wouldn’t have surprised Joanna if Marilyn had perched on his lap. Priestley shot her one of his super-confident looks and performed a theatrical stretch. Hairy armpits.

  Her mistrust for Priestley was growing by the minute.

  What was his game?

  She observed him with an impassive face and waited for him to speak.

  He did.

  “And where are you up to with your investigations, Inspector? Ready to put a hand on a collar and say the magic words, ‘you’re nicked, my boy’?”

  Joanna met his eyes for no more than a split second but it was long enough for her to read mockery and contempt clearly etched. What she hadn’t realised was that Priestley wasn’t over-fond of her either. In fact… She toyed with the idea before fitting it together. He despised women. All women. He was giving his ‘beloved Marilyn’ much the same look. She leaned forward on the sofa. This was interesting. She buried the knowledge deep. She always took pains to hide her personal instinct from suspects. It bore sweeter fruit if she affected sugariness.

  So… “Guy,” she said with a honeyed smile, “I can’t remember whether we’ve asked you this.” (Korpanski was eyeing her with complete surprise. He knew she wouldn’t have forgotten what she’d asked Priestley – or his answer.) “Where were you on the morning of Wednesday, June the 23rd?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  His surprise sounded genuine.

  Time for Miss Tough to emerge. “You heard.” Mentally she added, Lover Boy.

  “I was probably at work.”

  “We need to know.”

  Marilyn looked affronted. “Why? You can’t think Guy had anything to do with Beattie’s death.”

  For answer Joanna looked pointedly at the young man and had the reward of seeing him flustered.

  “Where do you work, Guy?”

  Again Marilyn intervened. “He’s a machine operator at McNaughton’s Engineering. They make disc brakes for cars.”

  “At what time does your shift work?”

  Yet again Marilyn spoke for him. “Six till two or two till ten.”

  “And what shift were you working on that day?”

  Interestingly Guy began to bluster. “I hardly knew the woman.”

  At her side Korpanski shifted slightly. Without even looking at him Joanna knew he would be suppressing a smile. He was right. Even with her imagination she couldn’t quite see Guy and Beatrice Pennington getting it together. She agreed with Mike. It was bordering on ridiculous.

  Except that Beatrice Pennington was dead and her killer still at large. And they had not one sure lead; not one concrete fact; not a single piece of evidence to lead them to him – or her. “Mr Priestley,” she prompted coldly.

  “It was my two-till-ten week,” he said sulkily.

  “So what did you do in the morning?” She was really having to tease this out of him.

  The first sign of tension between the couple bubbled to the surface. They exchanged glances. Again it was Marilyn who spoke. “He was probably sleeping off a hangover,” she said icily. “He will have climbed out of bed at about twelve o’clock, had a bath and eaten the meal I had cooked for him.”

  “Is this what happened on that particular Wednesday?”

  He shrugged.

  Joanna turned her attention to the nurse. “Did you work on the night of Tuesday the 22nd?”

  “As it happens no,” she said. “I was on a night off – away for a day or two, on a course in Brighton.”

  “So you can’t vouch for Guy.” It was a statement of fact; not a question.

  Joanna rose to go, again feeling she had gained the upper hand in this interview, inched forward towards a solution. She would get there – eventually. Of that she was sure.

  In the drive they passed a car. A gleaming red Audi A4 convertible which Korpanski’s eyes stroked longingly. Priestley had a new car. A reward for being a good boy? Or had he worried his Astra had contained evidence?

  “For a small engineering firm they must pay very well, Joanna observed drily.

  “Well – he probably lives with her for nothing, hardly pays expenses. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if that nursey friend of his foots the bills while he squanders his money on this.”

  “You’re just jealous, Korpanski,” Joanna laughed. “Just be glad you didn’t have the bill for this when your wife left the handbrake off.”

  Korpanski sighed. “True…true. But…” His head was still turned as they unlocked the squad car. Joanna could read the naked lust a man feels for a beautiful car. It is a different, purer emotion than that which is stirred by a beautiful woman.

  “We’d better track down that old car of his.”

  The briefing was set for 6 p.m. They spent an intensive few hours combing through statement and faxes, reading reports and making notes. By the end of the afternoon Joanna still felt they were missing some very big facts which would bear down on the case.

  She fetched two cups of coffee, closed the door and faced Korpanski. “Let’s go through this piece by piece, Mike,” she said. “What do we know about Beatrice Pennington?”

  He sighed, leaned right back in his chair, put his arms behind his head. “She was brought up by a farming family,” he began. “Married young. Two children. Husband local too. Couple of good female friends. Librarian, ran a Readers’ Group. She was plain, not particularly attractive.”

  Joanna leaned forward. “And then unaccountably she starts trying to change her life. Gets fit, takes real trouble with her appearance.”

  “Mid-life crisis,” Mike suggested helpfully.

  “But what was the trigger factor?”

  “Does there have to be one? I thought it was just something that kind of hit you in your middle forties.”

  “I think usually something triggers it off. Some life event.”

  Korpanski’s dark eyes regarded her with interest. “Go on,” he prompted.

  “Murders are not the story of one person but two, combined with a set of circumstances.”

  “Such as?”

  She tried one of her ideas on him. “What if it was the other way round? What if it was Guy Priestley who made a pass at her?”

  He stared at her. “I can’t see it, somehow.”

  “Look at the person he is. Swaggering, self-assured, loves to think he can turn women on and off. What if he did it just for amusement?”

  “What’s your point, Jo?”

  She smiled at him and wagged her finger. “Patience, Mike.”

  “But we’ve just had the theory put forward that this secret lover was a woman,” he objected.

  “Beatrice started all this get-fit thing back at Christmastime. It wasn’t until a couple of months ago that she started suggesting it was a woman who was interesting to her.”


  Korpanski chewed his lip, unimpressed.

  “What I find interesting is her rejection of men. She was comparing them and finding women infinitely preferable.”

  Korpanski continued to look unconvinced.

  She tried again. “Open your mind, Korpanski. Try this for size. What if Guy made a pass at her and because she was fairly naïve she took it seriously, not realising that he’s just a toe-rag and was playing with her. She thinks he really fancies her instead of, just for once, her friend. But he’s just playing around. What happens next? She takes him seriously so he then has to let her down. And knowing the little I do about Guy Priestley I would imagine he wouldn’t do it very gently. She’s disillusioned and turns to female company. Making a fatal mistake.”

  “It’s a bit of a jump, Jo. I’m not too sure.”

  She stood up. “If you think about it logically it fits with all that we know about the dead woman. It is a succession of events. Break one link and the chain is broken. Had she had a less sheltered and more sympathetic upbringing, had her husband been a different character, had she been paid some attention by children and friends, not had her head buried in romances and mysteries, had she not been so gullible and lonely. Had her friend not changed her name from Eartha to the romantic Jewel, or her other friend not had a torrid affair with a much younger man. If she had had someone apart from this wrong person, Beatrice Pennington would still be alive.”

  She left the room before Korpanski replied. Something in the previous sentences had sparked an idea off which unsettled her. The Femina Club of Leek. Beatrice had joined in late May. Had she, perhaps, either already known someone in the Club or got to know them after she had joined? Joanna cast her mind back to that chilly May morning when she had first watched Beatrice Pennington push her bike bumpily over the cobbles towards them. Had she recognised anyone?

  Joanna didn’t think so.

  Korpanski caught up with her.

  “Let’s bring Priestley in for questioning after the briefing We can find out if my theory holds water.”

  But halfway down the corridor she wavered “Do you see Priestley as a killer, Mike?”

  He was nodding. “Potentially, yes.”

  She didn’t offer her own opinion. “Mmm. The problem is, why would he? There isn’t a shred of a motive.”

  Briefings are important from a number of viewpoints. For her, as the Senior Investigating Officer, it was a chance to collate her thoughts, gather in the bright ideas her junior officers might have. For them it was a chance to recap all they knew, pool their own knowledge with their colleagues. And last but not least it was a morale booster.

  And they needed it. She took in the rim of faces, took in the fact that they were flopped in their chairs, perched casually on the edges of the table, drinking coffee and looking tired – as though they simply wanted a night off in front of the television with a couple of beers. She read the unmistakable signs of boredom, the lagging eyelids, the fidgeting and the glancing around the room – different from the alert stares at the beginning of the investigation.

  So she gave an extra-bright smile and started off with a few words of encouragement which took even Korpanski (who knew her methods only too well) by surprise.

  Sometimes it is important to act the part of success with a wide smile and a look of confidence.

  “First of all, I want to thank you all and reassure you. I’m so pleased with the progress the investigation is making.”

  She ignored Korpanski growling in her ear, “Progress?”

  “We’re piecing together the last months of Beatrice Pennington’s life and it is bringing us close to her killer. Before we start I would like to say that Beatrice’s two friends are both of the opinion that her secret lover was a woman.” There was a surprised reaction around the room but it was muted. She continued. “Sergeant Korpanski and I have our own opinions on this but as it really is pure conjecture it’s pretty pointless even putting it in front of you, but suffice it to say that we have the intention of bringing in Guy Priestley to…” She couldn’t resist a smile,” help us with our enquiries.”

  She took in the smiles of pleasure that rippled round the room. “For once it means what it says,” she said. “We’re nowhere near making an arrest. He isn’t really a suspect but we do think he may have information which he has, so far, suppressed.”

  Her eyes alighted on the copper hair of PC Ruthin.

  “Paul,” she said. “You were detailed to look into her family. What have you got to report?”

  Paul Ruthin stood up, puzzlement making his shortsighted eyes flicker. “You asked me to interview the family again. I spoke to Graham and Fiona, both by phone.” He frowned. “To be honest, Inspector, they weren’t much use at all. They hardly ever see their mother. And when they do,” his frown deepened, “they couldn’t remember anything specific their mother had said. I asked them who her friends were.” He looked around the room. “She’s had the same two pals since school and neither of them could even remember their names.”

  Joanna smiled. “That’s helpful.”

  Ruthin sat down. “I don’t see how,” he muttered.

  But it bore out Joanna’s picture of Beatrice Pennington’s life. It was building up the same picture that she saw in her own mind.

  “It’s like they didn’t know her,” Ruthin added and Joanna nodded in agreement.

  Phil Scott stood up next. “You were right about the dress, Ma’am. She didn’t usually turn up on her bike like that. She generally wore trousers and trainers and if she was doing anything special she’d get changed.”

  She’d thought so. Cycling in a skirt is next to impossible. Even as short a distance as from Beatrice’s home into her work – a distance of less than three miles. Skirts get tangled up in the spokes. They fly up, giving anyone and everyone a view of your underwear. And compared to lycra cycling shorts, padded in the right places, they are positively uncomfortable. So Beatrice had dressed up specially, chained her bike to the railings outside work. And then what?

  She’d been meeting someone.

  Slowly she shared her reasoning with the assembled work force.

  The questions were, who had Beatrice been meeting, had she been intending going to work at all or had this been the moment her fantasy had been about to become reality?

  “Any luck with the Readers’ Group?”

  The net was wider now. They had previously looked at men. Now they needed to look at the women.

  PC Scott went through every name in the group, men and women. “Teams of us interviewed everyone from the group. We didn’t come up with anything. I mean – everyone seemed above board. They expressed their shock at Mrs Pennington’s murder and that was that, really. No one had picked up on anything that seemed suspicious or odd. They couldn’t shed any light on it. Mrs Pennington’s name hadn’t been linked to anyone specific in the group either male or female. A couple of them went to The Quiet Woman for a drink afterwards sometimes but it was always in a group and Mrs Pennington would talk to any of them.”

  “What were they like, in general?” Joanna asked curiously.

  “Mainly retired people, a couple of young housewives who had children of school age and there was one guy who wanted to be a writer but most of them were very ordinary.”

  And this, Joanna thought, was the nub of the case. It was the story of everyday folk. Its very ordinariness was what made it so very frustrating but somewhere, amongst the people who had been interviewed, sat a killer.

  The phrase wouldn’t budge.

  An ordinary killer.

  And now another direction to take the case had occurred to Joanna. Now the net had widened to include women surely they should be speaking to the two female librarians, Beatrice’s colleagues?

  She waited until PC Scott had finished speaking before speaking to Mike. He agreed with her.

  They’d earned themselves another trip to the library.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tuesday, 6th Jul
y, 7 a.m.

  For Joanna there was one way to clarify her mind, think clearly and shed some light on this case. On a bright morning, early, when the cows are just being led in for milking, the world is still asleep, or drinking coffee and fresh orange juice, when everyone else is listening to breakfast-radio or watching TV a.m. To wake, shower, pack your smart clothes into a pannier and cycle into work. Joanna felt her brain start to put everything in order as she pulled up the hill towards Leek.

  Today they must interview Guy Priestley before doing anything else. It would do him no harm to know he was under suspicion. He’d struck her as a cowardly sort who would babble under pressure and he was wise enough to know he would be under suspicion; he’d had the opportunity. The fright might well loosen his tongue. She sighed. But then they would have to release him and search for evidence to support her theory. And then, lastly, there was a task that Joanna didn’t want to do. She knew she must speak, informally, to her two cycling buddies, Pagan Harries and Lynn Oakamoor. It was possible that during their cycle rides one of them might have picked up on something which she had missed. Cycling in a group is like that. You ride alongside someone then one of you peels off and you speak to someone else. Everyone is concentrating on their own conversation. People rarely eavesdrop. They are too busy simply keeping up.

  A lorry was close behind her and she needed to turn right.

  Joanna put her hand out and took a wary glance behind her. She had had one bad encounter with a vehicle, which had left her with a broken wrist, and she was not anxious to repeat the experience. Cyclists run the gauntlet, almost unprotected, of motorists’ bad humour or poor driving. They are terribly vulnerable. When riding her bike Joanna regarded a car-driver as a combatant: she the unarmed gladiator, they wearing a full suit of armour. She negotiated the right turn safely and the lorry roared on.

  Luckily the traffic was light and there weren’t too many encounters. It was too early for schoolchildren and well ahead of the rush hour. The journey was almost too short and it was with a sense of regret that she turned into the police station. But at least now she had a clear idea of the day ahead.