He put his paper plate down on the red formica table and took a long swig of beer. Just as he had expected. Tasteless. He should have stuck to bottled.
“Well,” he said. “What about you? How did you get on?”
“Nothing,” said Lineham with a grimace. The Davieses had watched television all evening apparently, and had heard nothing, seen nothing, outside the walls of their living room, Lineham had been unable to rouse anyone at number three. “If Gamble was there, he must sleep like the dead,” he said sourly.
“I believe they do. Nightworkers, I mean. The seasoned ones, anyway. They just switch off. What about the old girl next door on the other side?”
“Mmmm?” Lineham’s eyes were on the electric clock behind the bar and it seemed an effort for him to re-focus on Thanet. “Oh, Miss Cox. Nothing there, either.” Lineham’s eyes wandered back to the clock. It was twenty past one.
“Mike,” said Thanet, “do you think you could keep your mind on the job, if it’s not too much effort?”
Lineham started, flushed. “Sorry, sir. Look, would you mind if I just slipped out and made a quick phone call? There’s a phone box outside, I noticed as we came in.”
“Go on,” said Thanet with resignation. “But be quick about it.” Perhaps then he would have Lineham’s full attention. He refrained from saying so with difficulty, watched the younger man as he half ran towards the door. Then he smiled, indulgently. Lineham probably wanted to give Louise a ring. Thanet well remembered how vital it had once seemed, when they were courting, to hear Joan’s voice just for a few seconds, how the need would obsess him to the exclusion of all else. The thought of her, however, reminded him of his present dilemma and he frowned, took another swig of the flat beer. He would have to let her go, of course, but he didn’t like the idea one little bit.
“All right?” he asked when Lineham came back, transformed.
“Yes, thanks. It’s mother,” Lineham went on, clearly feeling that some sort of explanation was necessary. “She wasn’t feeling too well this morning and I just wanted to catch her before she goes up for her rest at half past one, to see how she is.”
So his guess had been wrong. Nevertheless, Thanet could sympathise. With the wedding on Saturday and two fiascos already clocked up, Lineham must be watching his mother as if she were a time-bomb about to explode.
“You were saying, about Miss Cox,” Thanet said.
This time Lineham gave his mind to the matter. “Ah yes. Funny old bird. Pathetic, really. She was in a real state when she opened the door. Shaking, all over.”
“Perhaps she thought you’d come to arrest her,” said Thanet jokingly.
“No,” said Lineham, apparently taking him seriously. “I think she was just upset about Miss Birch and alarmed by all the activity. And I expect she’s worried about how she’s going to manage—she’s got one leg in plaster and I gather that Miss Birch had been doing her shopping for her.”
“If I know Marion Pitman,” Thanet said, “she’ll be making arrangements for someone to take that job over. Do you want another of those?” He nodded at Lineham’s glass.
“No thanks. Do you?”
“Not on your life,” said Thanet. “Let’s go, shall we? No,” he went on as they left the pub and began to walk back through the village, “I expect Miss Cox is just scared stiff, poor old thing. If you live alone and you’ve got one leg in plaster and the woman next door gets murdered, you’re bound to wonder if you’re going to be next, I should think. Anyway, she couldn’t tell you anything useful?”
“Not a thing. She was in all evening, but she was listening to the radio—wireless, she called it. Would you believe, she hasn’t got a television? And she had her machine going last night too, she said.”
“Machine?”
“Sewing machine. That’s how she makes her living, I gather. Making loose covers for Barret’s.”
Barret’s was the largest department store in Sturrenden.
“Surely someone, at some point, must have seen or heard something,” said Thanet in exasperation.
“I don’t know. It’s not like a town out here. I get the impression everything closes down when it gets dark.”
“Except the pubs, of course.” Thanet stopped dead. “That’s an idea. It’s just possible that someone going either to or from the pub might have seen something. Send someone back down to the Plough and Harrow this afternoon to find out if any of last night’s customers came from this end of the village. The landlord’d be sure to know the locals by name. What do you think, Mike, d’you think our man—or woman, of course—is a local?”
“Oh, definitely,” said Lineham at once.
“You sound very sure about it.”
“Only a local would have known about that disused toilet,” said Lineham with conviction.
“But if he was a local, why bother to hide the body at all? He must have known that Carrie would be missed by her mother within a very short time, and have realised that any sort of search would find her.”
Lineham frowned. “A need to get her out of sight, fast, for some reason? Or panic, perhaps, because if he’d left her where she was the place would have given away his identity.”
“Not so much cherchez la femme as cherchez l’endroit,” said Thanet, who rather prided himself on his French.
“Er … yes,” said Lineham, who had abandoned French after O level with a sigh of relief. “You mean, if we could find out where, we’d find out who …?”
“Precisely.”
“Of course, it could have been a straightforward mugging.”
“But in that case, why hide the body at all? Besides, if it had been muggers, they might have hit her on the head but I can’t see why they would have bothered to finish her off afterwards, as Doc Mallard thinks likely.”
“Unless she had recognised them. Which she probably would have done, in a small place like this, if they’d been locals.”
Thanet shook his head. “I can’t see it. It just doesn’t feel right, somehow. Though I suppose we’ll have to keep it in mind. You’d better get some of the men to check up on the whereabouts of the local talent last night.”
“Right.”
“She looked such an inoffensive little thing,” mused Thanet. “And yet, there was all that money … I think we’ll go and take a look at the other people she worked for, the Selbys. Though I imagine he’ll be out at work at the moment. He’s a local big-wig. He’s standing in the County Council elections next month. Now he’d be a good subject for blackmail. He’d have a lot to lose—prestige, position …”
“What about the Pitmans, sir?”
“Most unlikely blackmail victims, I would have thought. Though I did feel that they were both holding something back, as I told you. Perhaps Marion Pitman had her fingers into Church funds … we’ll just have to keep an open mind at present.”
They were passing the Pitmans’ bungalow now and Thanet raised his hand.
“Who’re you waving at?” said Lineham, puzzled. No one was visible at any of the windows.
“Old Mr Pitman.” Thanet explained about the mirror. “He’s as sharp as a needle, doesn’t miss a thing. I’ve a feeling he may be very useful to us, when I’ve a better idea of where we’re going. Ah, here we are. Let’s hope someone’s in.”
Neatly tacked up on a wooden notice board beside the front gate of the Old Vicarage was a blue-and-white Conservative election poster exhorting the population of Nettleton to vote for Henry Selby. Thanet and Lineham paused to study it. Selby had thinning hair, a toothbrush moustache and gimlet eyes. Only the eyebrows defied discipline, sprouting luxuriantly forward as if to compensate for the lack of hair on the top of the head and giving Selby the air of an aggressive Jack Russell.
Lineham voiced Thanet’s thought. “He looks an awkward customer.”
Was this the face of his adversary? Thanet wondered as they moved on.
Well screened from the road by densely planted trees and shrubs, the house stood at the end
of a short but immaculately kept gravel drive which curved away around the side of the house, presumably in the direction of the garage. It was typical of the many vicarages which have been abandoned by England’s clergy in favour of smaller, more convenient dwellings—big, rambling, not particularly attractive and no doubt very expensive to heat. Not, by the look of it, that the latter consideration would much concern the Selbys, Thanet thought. The place had the unmistakable aura of money: well-manicured lawns, weedless flower beds, shining windows, gleaming paintwork and a general air of well-fed smugness.
Thanet rang the bell and the succeeding silence was broken by the crunching sound of wheels on gravel. After a few moments around the corner of the house came a man pushing a loaded wheelbarrow. He was small and bent and had what Thanet felt was a distinctly appropriate resemblance to one of the gnomes beloved of suburban gardeners.
“You’ll have to go round the back,” he said, jerking his thumb and peering up at the two men from beneath the rim of a cap which looked as though it had been bought third-hand at a jumble sale many years ago. “Bell’s out of order and She won’t have heard you.”
Interesting, thought Thanet, how he had managed to invest the pronoun with a capital letter.
Thanet thanked him and they made their way around the corner of the house to a door at the far end of the side wall. Thanet knocked once, twice and then, when there was still no response, put his head into the kitchen and called, “Mrs Selby?”
Here again there was evidence of money: streamlined units built of solid wood, ceramic hob, battery of electrical gadgets, ceramic tiles on walls and floor. The place, however, was in a mess, littered with dirty saucepans and unwashed dishes.
Thanet took a step inside and called again.
This time there was a response and a few moments later footsteps could be heard. A woman came into the kitchen, frowning.
“Mrs Selby?”, Thanet said quickly. “Detective Inspector Thanet, Sturrenden CID.”
“Oh,” she said. “I thought I heard someone.”
Thanet studied her as he introduced Lineham. She was small and fair, with a face in which middle age was definitely winning the battle against youth. The skin beneath the eyes was slack and puffy and the frown which Thanet had thought directed at himself and Lineham was a permanent feature, deep vertical creases scored between her eyebrows. And yet, he thought, she must once have been a pretty woman and she certainly hadn’t given up on her appearance; her hair had clearly been freshly set and her clothes, a well-cut tweed skirt and matching cashmere sweater, were casually elegant. He shook the surprisingly large, strong hand she proffered and followed her along a wide corridor, through a spacious drawing room dominated by a grand piano and into a glass conservatory which had been built along one side of the house.
“Do sit down, Inspector.” She waved a hand at the cane armchairs and began to transfer coffee cups and glasses from the low bamboo table on to a wicker tray. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just get rid of these. I shan’t be a moment.”
She disappeared through the door by which they had entered and the two men examined their surroundings. Joan would love this room, Thanet thought. It was all light and air and growing things. Against the house wall was a wide, raised flower bed edged with brick and overflowing with plants. Above them was trained an exotic climbing plant with variegated foliage and apricot-coloured, bell-shaped flowers.
“What a delightful room, Mrs Selby,” he said, when she returned.
“Yes, isn’t it? It’s my favourite room in all the house. My husband says he thinks I would be quite happy to live in it all the time.” She seated herself opposite him. “Now, what can I do for you, Inspector?”
Now that he had a chance to study her closely, Thanet could detect signs of tension. The knuckles of the hands clasped in her lap were white and there was a tiny, uncontrollable tic in her left eyelid. As he spoke she put up her hand as if to brush it away.
“We are investigating the murder of Miss Birch, of course,” he said. “And naturally we are asking everybody in the neighbourhood if they noticed anything suspicious last night.”
“You mean lurking strangers, that sort of thing,” she said, with an attempt at a smile.
“Anything at all unusual,” Thanet said.
She was shaking her head, a curiously regular, clockwork motion. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you, Inspector. I didn’t go out last night and as you will have seen when you came in, we are well screened from the road.”
“Miss Pitman had to go to a PCC meeting last night and she arranged for Miss Birch to look in on Mr Pitman during the evening. Some of your upstairs windows overlook the Pitmans’ garden and there is a street lamp outside their house. Did you by any chance see her arrive or leave?”
“I’m afraid not. I was in here, watching television.” She nodded at a small portable colour set which stood on a low table in one corner.
“Alone?”
“Yes. My husband arrived home just after ten—he’d been away on a business trip since last Thursday—and my daughter a few minutes before that.” The eyelid twitched. “She spent the evening with a friend, in Sturrenden.”
“And neither of them mentioned having seen anything out of the ordinary?”
“No. Certainly not.”
“Is your husband at home now, by any chance?” Thanet was remembering the coffee cups.
“No. Though you’ve only just missed him, as a matter of fact. He came home for lunch, today.”
“I should like to have a word with him, just in case he did notice anything unusual last night,” Thanet said. “Will he be at home this evening, do you know?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Good. Now, about Miss Birch. She worked for you two afternoons a week, I believe?”
“That’s right. She should have come today, as a matter of fact. Hence the mess you will no doubt have noticed in the kitchen. Usually she sees to that.”
“What was she like?” asked Thanet softly.
“Like?” Something moved in the depths of the blue eyes and was quenched. Mrs Selby made a vague gesture. “Oh, mousy. Insignificant. A good enough worker. She was a bit heavy-handed, but with a place this size one’s grateful for any help one can get.”
“Did you like her?”
She shrugged. “Well enough, I suppose. I can’t say I ever gave much thought to the subject.”
“You had no reservations about her, then?”
“Reservations? Well no, of course not. Why should I?”
But like Marion Pitman, Mrs Selby was lying, Thanet was certain of it.
“Oh, no reason,” he said. “No reason at all. I’ll call again this evening, if I may, to see your husband. Say, nine o’clock?” He rose and Lineham followed suit.
“By all means.” Her air of relief was unmistakable and she stood up with alacrity. “I’ll see you out.”
“Well, what did you think of that?” said Thanet as he and Lineham walked away down the drive.
“Like a cat on hot bricks, wasn’t she? Couldn’t wait to get rid of us.”
“I wonder why,” said Thanet thoughtfully.
People on the whole do not enjoy being caught up in a murder investigation, and a certain degree of tension is understandable. Nevertheless, he thought …
“You think the Selbys are involved, sir?”
Thanet shrugged. “Too early to tell, yet. What puzzles me is that I have this feeling that they’re all holding back about Carrie Birch, for some reason. And I just can’t get a clear picture of her. She’s like a negative that’s too thin for printing.” He made up his mind. “Look, I think I’ll just nip down to Sturrenden General and have a word with the mother. You stay here. Send someone down to the pub, as I suggested, and get some enquiries organised about the local yobs, just in case it’s a simple case of mugging after all. Try the Gambles again and then see if anyone’s at home there.” He nodded at the large modern house between the Pitmans’ bungalow and the church. “I shan
’t be long, an hour at the most, I should think.”
Perhaps, he thought as he drove towards Sturrenden, Mrs Birch might be able to enlighten him about Carrie. Or perhaps he was looking for something that simply wasn’t there. Perhaps Carrie really had been as uncomplicated as people seemed to want him to think. He shook his head, a fierce, involuntary movement. No—muggers apart, simple uncomplicated people just didn’t get themselves knocked on the head and then suffocated.
And then, there was the money.…
No, there was something about her that they were all covering up, he was sure of it. And he was going to find out what it was if it was the last thing he did.
5
“I’m afraid she’s a bit disorientated,” said the nurse as she led Thanet into the ward.
“What, exactly, is the matter with her? Medically, I mean?” he asked.
“A combination of things. Weak heart, diabetes … She had to have a foot amputated a few years ago. She really is not capable of looking after herself. As soon as there’s a place at The Willows, she’ll go there.”
This was the first time Thanet had ever been in a geriatric ward. His father had died a mercifully swift death from a heart attack and his mother, at the age of sixty-five, was as sprightly as ever. He had seen much of the stuff of human tragedy in his work, but this place shocked him. These old people were sick, of course, any natural liveliness they might possess quenched by illness, but even those who were sitting out in armchairs beside their beds looked but half alive. Only their eyes moved, following Thanet and the nurse as they walked down the ward, and he felt that even this degree of interest arose only from the fact that they were moving objects in an otherwise stationary world.
It was unnerving, and he was relieved to reach his destination. Mrs Birch was seated in a wheelchair with a rug over her knees and Thanet’s first reaction as he looked at her was one of astonishment. He had seen her before, of course, from a distance, when she had been wheeled out to the ambulance, but it had not been obvious then just how monstrously fat she was. Little piggy eyes sunk in deep folds of flesh peered out venomously at him as the nurse introduced him, and although he could feel pity for the woman’s physical state it nevertheless aroused an unexpected revulsion in him; he could not help remembering Carrie’s thin, bird-like body and he suppressed with difficulty the macabre thought that in some way Mrs Birch’s bloated flesh had fed upon the dessicated body of her daughter, draining it of life and vitality. Certainly, unlike the other old women in the ward, Mrs Birch was very much alive.
Six Feet Under Page 4
