As he had reached the gate of the Pitmans’ bungalow, the MGB had turned into the driveway of Latchetts, the modern house next door, and he had followed it up the drive. If the woman had been out, Lineham might well have missed her when he called earlier.
“Detective Inspector Thanet, Sturrenden CID,” he said. “Did my sergeant call to see you, this afternoon?”
“Joy Ingram,” she responded, the smile a shade more positive now. “I’m afraid I’ve been out since mid-morning.”
Now that he was closer he could see that her beauty was marred by the frown lines on her forehead and that she was considerably older than he had originally thought: in her late thirties, probably, he decided.
“You will have heard about the murder?” he said.
“Yes,” she said, and the frown lines deepened. “Poor Miss Birch. What a terrible thing. Who on earth could have wanted to kill an inoffensive little creature like that?”
“Naturally we are asking everybody in the area if they saw her at all last evening.”
She shook her head, slowly. “I’m afraid not.”
“She must have passed your house, you see, twice. Once at about nine, on her way to the Pitmans’ next door, and again when she left there, at nine-thirty. You’re sure …?”
“No.” Her voice was firmer now. “We didn’t see her, I’m sure of that.”
“Your husband was at home?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Why do you ask?” It was as if her concentration had suddenly sharpened by several degrees.
“You said, ‘We’.”
“Oh … oh, I see. Yes.” She turned, stooped to reach for her handbag which lay on the passenger seat. Then she slammed the car door with an air of finality. “Well, if that’s all, Inspector …”
“What about your husband?” he persisted.
“What about him?”
“Could he have seen anything?”
“I’m sure he didn’t.” She slung the bag over her shoulder, half turned, as if to walk towards the house.
“You’re certain he didn’t look out? Either then or later?”
“Inspector.” She swung back to face him squarely. “My husband and I were in all evening. Together. The curtains were drawn and after dinner we watched television. Then we went to bed. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination. Now, if you’ll excuse me.…” And without waiting for an answer she marched towards the front door, did not look back as she took the key from her handbag, let herself in.
After the door had closed Thanet stood gazing thoughtfully after her for a moment or two before crossing the road to Church Cottages. Her reaction at the mention of her husband had been distinctly interesting. He was content to let the matter rest for the moment, but he thought that a visit to the Ingrams this evening might perhaps be fruitful. He had to come out to Nettleton anyway, to see Major Selby; he could kill two birds with one stone—no, three, he corrected himself. If the Gambles were out all day, he would probably have to see them this evening too.
He walked up the front path to number five with a certain degree of anticipation. Matty Cox was an eccentric and he enjoyed eccentrics. Obviously she couldn’t care less about appearances. All the other gardens of Church Cottages were trim and well kept but this one had long been neglected. The bricks in the path were green with algae and many were broken, clumps of grass thrusting their way up through crumbling mortar. A few sad daffodils almost obscured by long grass still struggled vainly to brighten the sour little plot but otherwise nothing flourished but grass and weeds.
Nor did Miss Cox bother with the exterior of the house; the paintwork couldn’t have been washed in years and the windowpanes were thick with the winter’s grime.
There was no immediate response to his knock and he waited several minutes before knocking again. Matty Cox, after all, had a leg in plaster and he must allow her time to get to the door. There was still no sound within, however, and this time his knock was more peremptory. Come on, my beauty, he thought, I know you’re in there.
With a roar the red tractor turned into the lane from the main road and rattled past on its way back to the farm, the driver lifting a friendly hand. Thanet waved back, then turned to knock again, only to find that the noise made by the tractor had drowned the sound of the door opening.
Miss Cox did not fit his image of her. He had expected someone small, plump, motherly; a shy, retiring little woman with a disillusioned, embittered face. But this woman was tall, almost as tall as he. And very unfeminine. Her face was square, her jaw heavy and her coarse grey hair was short and straight, held back on one side by a hairgrip. She probably cut it herself, he decided, noting its uneven length, rather than expose herself to the cheerful chattiness of a hairdressing salon. She wore no make-up and her clothes heightened the masculine effect—baggy brown corduroy trousers and checked shirt. Only the heavy, drooping breasts straining against the buttons of the shapeless cardigan betrayed her sex.
“Miss Cox?”
The woman did not reply, merely waited, leaning heavily on a walking stick held in her left hand. Her right gripped the edge of the door, effectively barring any move he might have made to enter the house. Intentional or not? he wondered, his curiosity whetted. To think that no one had entered this house for almost thirty years …
“Detective Inspector Thanet, Sturrenden CID,” he said. “I believe my sergeant came to see you this morning.”
She nodded, opened her mouth. Thanet waited but still she did not speak and after a moment he said, “I’m sorry to trouble you again, but there is one small thing … I went to see Mrs Birch at the hospital this afternoon, and she tells me that she heard you calling your cat last night. She thought the sound came from outside the house … Were you outside last night, looking for him?”
Her hand on the door slipped an inch or two and the stick wobbled as she shifted her position slightly. She cleared her throat.
“It was the wind,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. From disuse, he wondered?
“The wind?” he repeated blankly.
“It blew the door to, shut Tiger in the shed.”
As if on cue a large tabby cat emerged from the house, sat down at Miss Cox’s feet and fixed Thanet with an unwinking stare.
It was almost, thought Thanet fancifully, as if it had decided that its mistress needed some moral support.
“I see,” he said. “What time was this?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“It was ten o’clock when you put him out?”
A little, impatient shake of the head. She seemed to be more at ease now. “Ten o’clock when I missed him. I always puts him out at five to ten, see. He’s out five minutes, then I opens the door and he comes back in. Last night he didn’t.” For her, it was a long speech.
“So what did you do?”
“I calls for another minute or two, then I puts on me coat and goes to look for him.”
“And you found him in the shed?”
“S’right.”
“Where is this shed?”
“Bottom of the garden.”
“You managed all right, with your leg?”
“I got me stick. I managed.”
“And it would have taken you how long, to go down the garden, find him and get back to the house?”
The effort of standing was clearly beginning to tell upon her. The knuckles of the hand gripping the stick were white with strain. She frowned. “Dunno.”
“Try to think, please. It could be very important.”
She looked at him sharply, then down at the cat. Tiger appeared to have lost interest in the proceedings. He was now washing himself, one leg stuck up in the air in a position which looked anatomically impossible. “Ten minutes?” she said, at last.
“Now,” he said, “I want you to think very carefully indeed. While you were out in the garden, did you hear anything? Anything at all, I mean?”
It was a long shot, of course. Carrie had been killed between half past nine, when she had left
the Pitmans’ house, and eleven—give or take a little. It was too much to hope for, that the murder should have taken place during the only few minutes when someone in the neighbourhood was actually outside the house, not glued to the television set. Still … he awaited her answer eagerly.
“What sort of thing?”
“Anything. Anything at all.”
She frowned. “It was too windy. I told you, it was blowing hard.”
Damn that wind, he thought, remembering how blustery it had been last night.
“You’re sure?”
She nodded, clearly hoping that the interview was at an end. Thanet sighed inwardly. Another blank. “Well, thank you very much, Miss Cox. If you do remember anything you might have heard, though, please let me know. My men’ll be about all day and would be glad to take a message.”
Already Tiger had whisked inside and the door was closing. Thanet turned away. So even that slender hope was now gone. He really seemed to be getting absolutely nowhere. It was all vague suspicions, feelings.… What he needed was some satisfyingly positive lead, something he could really get his teeth into.
He scowled, looking about him for a focus for his irritation. Where were all those men he had mentioned to Miss Cox, anyway? There wasn’t a policeman in sight. Thanet set off down the lane, at a brisk pace. At the corner he almost collided with Lineham.
“Where the devil have you been?” he snapped. “And where are all the others?”
“Sorry, sir,” said Lineham defensively. “But we’ve only been carrying out your instructions. Bentley and Carson are checking up on the local yobs and the others are split between doing a house to house and searching the back gardens of Church Cottages.”
“No sign of the weapon yet?”
“None, sir, so far. Nor of the handbag. I’ve been up to Church Farm to see Mr Martin—you wanted to know if he owned the Cottages.”
“And does he?”
“Yes, sir. But it looks as though he’s in the clear for last night. He was at a charity dinner in Sturrenden and we can easily check on that.”
“Ah well,” Thanet said. “It was a very long shot anyway. I can’t really see a prosperous farmer bumping off the daughter of a crippled tenant just to gain vacant possession, can you? Look, let’s go and sit in the car for a few minutes.”
They waited while a laden articulated lorry went grinding past them.
“Ridiculous allowing monsters like that on roads like these,” said Thanet. “The truth is, Mike,” he went on as they crossed the road towards the church, “I just don’t feel we’re getting anywhere. It’s all bits and bobs of useless information.” Quickly, he gave Lineham a summary of what he had learned from Mrs Birch and old Robert Pitman.
“Miss Cox didn’t say anything to me about going out last night to look for her cat,” Lineham said, when Thanet had finished.
“I suppose she didn’t think it sufficiently important. Anyway, she swears she didn’t see or hear anything unusual while she was in the garden and I really can’t see that there’s any reason to disbelieve her. Did you go down to the pub, by the way?”
“Yes. The landlord says that the only person he remembers coming in from this end of the village was Mr Ingram. He …”
“Ingram?”
“Yes.” Lineham raised his eyebrows at the surprise in Thanet’s voice. “He lives in that …”
“Yes, yes, I know where he lives. It’s just that I saw his wife just now—I gather she was out when you called earlier—and she swears that they were both in all evening.”
“Does she, now?”
“The landlord’s sure of this?”
“Certain. Apparently the pub was fairly empty last night—the weather wasn’t good, if you remember. It was very windy. He says Ingram came in at around ten—he couldn’t be more precise—and stayed for about half an hour. He was in a pretty grim mood apparently. Had four double whiskies and was very unsociable.”
“More and more interesting,” mused Thanet. “I think I’ll pay Mr Ingram a little call this evening.”
“Will you need me, sir?”
“I should think I could just about manage without you holding my hand,” Thanet said with a grin. “Why?”
“Well I had promised Louise to give her a hand with a bit of decorating we wanted to finish off before Saturday, but of course if you want me …”
“So long as I know where to find you,” said Thanet. “You go ahead with your plans. You only get married once.” If you manage to get married at all, he added silently. “How are the others getting on with checking the whereabouts of the local talent last night?”
“They’re waiting for them to get home from school,” Lineham said. “There are four possibles, apparently, and they all go to Littlestone Comprehensive and come home on the school bus. It gets to Nettleton about four, so Carson and Bentley should be finished some time in the next hour.”
“Good. Well I think I’ll go back and get started on reports. There’s not much more I can do here at the moment. You hang on until you’ve heard what they’ve got to report. If there’s anything interesting, I’ll come back out. If not, you can get off home.”
“Right,” said Lineham, getting out of the car. “Thank you, sir.”
Thanet was still hard at work on his reports when Lineham rang an hour later to say that it looked as though all four youths were in the clear. They had, they claimed, been to a disco in the next village where they were all well known. Their story would be checked, of course, but it didn’t look too hopeful.
The news didn’t surprise him, thought Thanet as he put the phone down. For local youngsters, Carrie Birch would scarcely have seemed a fruitful target. Unless there had been any rumours about money in the house? But no attempt had been made to break in. No, Carrie’s death had been no random killing, he was sure of it, and sooner or later the real reason for her murder would become clear.
He hoped.
7
Bridget and Ben were already in bed but the sound of Thanet’s key in the front door brought them both thundering down the stairs with demands for a story and in the resulting confusion any constraint between Thanet and Joan passed unnoticed.
“Go back up to bed this minute!” said Joan, emerging flushed from the kitchen.
“Up you go,” said Thanet, with a playful slap on each small bottom. “I’ll be up in a minute.” He gave Joan a kiss. “Hullo, love.”
“Better go straight away,” said Joan, disappearing into the kitchen. “Supper’s nearly ready.”
After an instalment of Paddington for Bridget and one of Mister Clumsy for Ben, Thanet returned downstairs.
Supper, as usual, was first-rate: chicken fricassee with savoury rice and french beans, followed by home-made blackberry ice-cream. How long would it be, Thanet wondered gloomily, before such delights were a thing of the past?
They talked, as usual, about their day’s activities. Thanet had always been careful not to exclude Joan from his work. His theory was that the resentment and bitterness felt by many police wives over the demands of their husbands’ work could be avoided if they felt that they were not being excluded from it. For Joan and himself this approach had always seemed to work but now he found himself questioning its value. Clearly, it left her unsatisfied. She listened as eagerly as ever to his account of the day’s progress, asked pertinent questions, as usual, but underneath Thanet was aware of new reservations in her. Or were they in himself? He wasn’t sure. The fact was, they were there.
“What about you?” he said at last. “What have you been up to?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Her mouth tugged down at the corners. “Ironing, cleaning. Took Ben to the playgroup this morning, fetched him home again.” She shrugged. “Just the usual.”
Not a very inspiring list of activities, he thought guiltily, assessing them in the light of Joan’s projected foray into the world of work. Especially when one considered that they were repeated over and over again, day after day, week after week, yea
r after year. Many of them, naturally, were centred around the children, especially Ben, and for the first time he really thought about how it would be for her when Ben went to school.
Boring, he decided guiltily. Condemned to such an existence himself he would have gone quietly mad.
“Look, love,” he said. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last night …”
The eagerness in her face as she looked up heightened his guilt.
“Yes?” she said.
“I meant it, you know. You go ahead, sound out the position. Make enquiries, find out the sort of thing you’d enjoy.” But the false heartiness in his tone did not deceive her and she bit her lip, glanced away from him.
She shook her head. “It’s no good, Luke. I can see you don’t like the idea.”
He could not bring himself to lie again, knowing that in any case he could not do it with conviction. “Look,” he said, leaning across the table to take her hand, “all right, it’s true, I can’t say I’m keen. At the same time I know it’s unreasonable to expect you to stay cooped up in the house for the rest of your life. So I mean it. You go ahead.”
But her hand beneath his lay lifeless, unresponsive and again she shook her head. “What’s the point, if you’re so much against it?”
“But I’m not so much against it, as you put it,” he said, withdrawing his hand in exasperation. “I just like things the way they are, that’s all. Is that so wrong of me?”
“No of course not,” she said quickly, “but—oh, darling, don’t you see? I just don’t want to do it if you’re not wholeheartedly behind me.”
“So what do you want me to say?” he cried. “You want me to lie, is that it? To say, Yes, go ahead, marvellous, I’d love to have a working wife, to come home to an empty house and have latch-key children. Is that what you want? Well, I can’t and that’s that. Go ahead if you wish, and I’ll back you to the hilt, you know that. But don’t expect my approval because in all honesty I can’t give it.”
Six Feet Under Page 6
