A Fatal Affair

by Faith Martin

  ‘I’ll be glad when we get the village back to ourselves,’ the red-faced man said, casting the gaggle of noisy reporters a jaundiced glance as he did so. ‘Muck-rakers the lot of ’em,’ he added under his breath.

  The older man swallowed a morsel of Red Leicester and nodded. ‘It’ll die down once the coppers pull their fingers out and close the case, you’ll see,’ he remarked.

  ‘Do you think that’s likely to be soon?’ his companion wondered aloud.

  Trudy and Clement, both ear-wigging without a qualm, kept very quiet as they listened to the talk behind them.

  The older man sighed. ‘Hope so. I think they’ll decide that that boy Finch did it, and close the case. Stands to reason, don’t it? Who else would have killed Iris?’

  His friend was silent for a moment, then said slowly, ‘Not sure that I agree with you there, Charles.’

  ‘When pretty girls end up strangled, mark my words, it’s usually the man in their lives that did it,’ came back the response. His voice was somewhat world-weary, and he gave a heavy sigh. ‘Least ways, that’s how it often pans out.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ his younger companion said, ‘but that’s just what I’m not sure about, see? Iris was a lovely young girl, wasn’t she? And everybody knows that that boy she was gadding about wasn’t the only fish she had on her hook.’

  By now, Trudy hardly dared swallow any of her drink for fear of missing a stray word.

  ‘Oh, she was a flirt, I’ll give you that,’ came the response. ‘Especially when it came to men old enough to be her father! Little minx, I think she liked to tease them and get them all aflutter. But that doesn’t necessarily mean anything, no matter what the women in this place want to believe. And why shouldn’t a young beauty like Iris flirt, hmm?’ the older man said, his voice now having more of a smile in it. ‘Nothing wrong with a pretty girl flirting. It’s only natural. Besides, it peps everyone up, and no harm done.’

  ‘That’s all very well if that’s all it was,’ the red-faced man muttered, his voice lowering. Although she couldn’t see him (since, no matter what the Sarge said, she couldn’t develop eyes in the back of her head!) Trudy could imagine him casting a quick, anxious look at the reporters at the bar. ‘I keep hearing it was more than that.’

  ‘Who from?’ the older man snorted, making Clement wonder if the dead May Queen hadn’t done a bit of flirting with the man now doing the talking. ‘The women around here were all jealous of her, you know that. She was young and pretty and going places, and they were all eaten up with jealousy, the old biddies. Just because she had her sights set on getting out of the village and getting on in life.’

  Clement smiled into his beer. Oh yes, definitely, the old boy had to have been one of Iris’s conquests.

  ‘Oh, I know all that,’ the red-faced man said, maybe a shade impatiently. ‘But you can’t deny she was always causing trouble. I have it on good authority that the Finch boy had a big falling out with his best friend over her not long before they found her at the maypole.’

  ‘Best friend? Oh you mean Ronnie Dewbury?

  ‘Ssshhhh,’ the younger of the men hissed. ‘Don’t want big ears overhearing us.’

  Trudy had a nasty moment at that, thinking that she and Dr Ryder had been caught out. Then she wilted in relief as the villager carried on smoothly, ‘Those bloody reporters will twist whatever you say, and before you know it, you’ll be seeing your name appearing in tomorrow’s papers as some sort of “source”. Bloody vultures, the lot of ’em.’

  At this Dr Ryder grinned openly. He knew – of course – that most members of Trudy’s profession referred to himself as ‘the old vulture’ so it was nice to know he had company! Although, come to think of it, being grouped with members of the press was probably a worse insult.

  ‘Oh, they’re all too busy drinking and boasting of past sexual conquests to hear us,’ the older man said disgustedly, but not before lowering his tone a little – luckily, not so low that Trudy and Clement still couldn’t hear him.

  ‘I suppose so,’ his friend conceded grudgingly. ‘But still, it pays to be careful. Anyway, let’s talk about something more cheerful.’ And then, maddeningly, he started to talk about his companion’s success with the fly rod, and Trudy had to listen to a boring treatise on the merits of a ledger over a float when it came to catching chub.

  By tacit consent, she and Clement finished their lunch without more ado, and left about twenty minutes later, again sticking to the shadows and keeping their faces averted from the men at the bar.

  ‘Do you think it’s true?’ Trudy asked, once they were outside. ‘About David Finch having a fallout with his friend Ronnie? Over Iris?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Clement said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about it at the station?’

  ‘Not really, the DI and the Sarge are careful to keep things under wraps. There’s a lot of interest in the May Queen murder, and they don’t want anything leaking out to the newspapers,’ she said regretfully.

  They were both too intent on talking to notice the man in the car park. He’d just pulled into the pub grounds and had been about to climb out of his car when he spotted the familiar figures of WPC Trudy Loveday and the city coroner emerging from under the hanging baskets.

  Hastily he hunkered back down a little behind the steering wheel, his handsome face slowly creasing into a smile.

  So, Trudy and that bloody interfering coroner were sniffing around were they? Now that was interesting, Duncan Gillingham thought, his smile turning into a wolfish grin. Very interesting indeed – for where this particular duo showed their faces, news had a habit of following.

  He watched them walk off down the village street, wondering where they were going and, for a moment, wondered wistfully if he could follow them without being spotted. He rather thought that he couldn’t though, which was a pity.

  He waited until they had disappeared around a bend in the lane and then climbed out of his car. He’d always wanted to have another chance at seducing the lovely Trudy Loveday, once the dust had had time to settle after their last encounter – and if he could pick up any scoops on the May Queen murder, all the better.

  Perhaps now was a good time to test the waters …

  Chapter 10

  The Finch family lived in a large, square house on the junction of two lanes. Set in a large garden, it looked solid and respectable – just the sort of place you might expect a solid and respectable police officer and his family to live.

  ‘Did your DI ask Superintendent Finch about any expensive jewellery his son might have bought Iris?’ Clement asked as they paused at the garden gate to admire the house.

  ‘If he did, he hasn’t told me,’ Trudy said morosely. ‘But then, I spent most of this morning doing really important things like filing and making tea for the Sergeant and the likes of PC Rodney Broadbent,’ she added with a flash of spirit. ‘It’s not as if any of them think of me as someone who should be kept in the loop.’

  Clement grunted. ‘More fool them, then, hmmm?’ he said absently, but the compliment cheered her.

  ‘Anyway,’ Trudy said, ‘it’s far more likely that his mother would know about things like that,’ she said. ‘Mothers are more aware of what their children get up to than fathers, in my opinion,’ she added with a smile, thinking of her own mother, who, at certain times during her childhood, seemed to be positively clairvoyant, not to mention omnipresent.

  ‘So, let’s go and talk to her then,’ Clement said soberly. ‘If anybody can give us an insight into David Finch’s state of mind shortly before he died, it’s probably her.’

  Trudy felt herself tensing up. Talking to the bereaved was always an ordeal, even if a necessary one. She only hoped that one day, even if she never got used to it, she would at least feel less incompetent at it.

  She took a deep breath and pushed open the garden gate. It creaked loudly as it did so, and made her smile, helping to lighten her mood a little. A proper copper’s trick, that creaki
ng gate – it meant that nobody in the house would ever be taken by surprise by a visitor coming in through the front way. And she would have bet her last shilling that any side or rear entrances to the property were firmly locked or barred.

  Betty Finch was a short, slightly plump woman, with dark curling hair and large hazel eyes which had, at the moment, blue smudges beneath them. She was pale but composed when she answered the door, and somewhat to Trudy’s surprise, seemed to recognise them immediately.

  ‘Oh, Dr Ryder, hello. And you must be WPC Loveday? Thank you for dropping in. Won’t you come in?’ As they passed her into a small, neat hallway, she added, ‘My husband told me about you and what you’re doing for us. I can’t tell you how grateful we are.’

  So they had been expected to call in at some point, Trudy thought, silently agreeing as they followed Mrs Finch into the front room. It made sense that her husband had kept her informed about all that was happening in their son’s case.

  The room was obviously seldom used, but had recently been dusted and the scent of furniture polish hung in the air. A vase of daffodils, probably picked that morning from the garden, rested on a sideboard, catching the sun’s rays. The room had a stuffy feel, however, and as if reading her mind, their hostess went quickly to a window and opened it to let in the warm but fresh spring air.

  ‘Would you like tea?’ she asked. She was dressed in a simple black dress and wore ballet-like black pumps. Although neither of them wanted tea after their drink at the pub, they both nodded, knowing that it would give her something to do and help settle her for the interview that lay ahead. She couldn’t have been married to a police officer for all these years without having some inkling of why they had come and what they needed from her.

  As they waited, Clement glanced around the small but pleasant room, decorated in shades of apple-green and cream, and shifted slightly in his chair. He’d popped a breath mint into his mouth as they’d walked up the path, careful not to let Trudy see it. One of the symptoms of his illness could include bad breath, and now he was careful to always have a supply of strong mints on hand any time he expected to talk to people.

  ‘Here we are – I hope you like shortbread. I baked some this morning. They’re my daughter Delia’s favourite. I like to keep busy.’ Mrs Finch said the words in a rush, running the sentences together and then she sat down the tray abruptly onto the table, rattling the cups and saucers a little. She sat down equally abruptly in the chair facing the sofa, where Clement and Trudy had elected to sit. She looked, to Trudy’s eye, as if she’d suddenly run out of energy.

  ‘I’ll pour, shall I?’ Trudy said kindly, and set about adding sugar lumps and pouring milk. She noticed Mrs Finch, after accepting her cup, immediately set it down again, without taking so much as a sip.

  ‘So, you’ve come to talk about David,’ Betty Finch said firmly, straightening her shoulders a little and looking determined to do her best, even though she was almost coming apart at the seams. It made Trudy’s heart ache for her.

  ‘I know that he didn’t kill Iris, and I know that he didn’t kill himself either,’ Betty said, but her eyes were staring at a point somewhere between the two of them. ‘And yes, I know that all mothers probably say the same things, in situations like these.’ She shrugged and looked down at her hands, which were now twisting together in her lap. ‘And I know there’s no way I can convince you that I’m right. I mean, how can I? You never knew David. But I did. And I know I’m right.’

  She smiled bitterly at this and then, with an effort, forced herself to look directly at them – firstly at Clement, and then at Trudy. ‘My husband told me that I wasn’t to be fooled by your youth, my dear,’ she said, making Trudy’s eyes widen in surprise. ‘He says that you and Dr Ryder have an uncanny way of getting at the truth, and that’s why he insisted you investigate everything discreetly. And I trust my husband’s judgement,’ she added. ‘Besides, I think DI Jennings and his team are under pressure to close Iris’s case as quickly as possible, which given the media attention is understandable. And the temptation for them to simply blame David and close the case must be enormous. So I’ll do anything I can to help you. What do you want to know?’

  Trudy swallowed hard and felt a momentary sense of panic. Until now, the problem had felt, not academic exactly, but not altogether quite ‘real’ either. But now, facing this grieving mother who was placing so much trust in her, brought it home to her just how much responsibility there was resting on her shoulders. Especially when she wasn’t sure herself whether or not David Finch had first committed murder and then suicide.

  ‘Well, there are one or two things we’d like to ask you about,’ she said, knowing that she had to start somewhere, or she might start to feel paralysed by her own sudden lack of confidence. ‘Before she died, Iris was seen wearing an expensive necklace. Do you know if David bought it for her?’

  ‘Oh no, I’m sure he didn’t,’ Betty said at once. ‘He was a student, with a part-time job during the holidays. He had no spare money. And his father and I only gave him a small allowance – enough to cover the basic necessities. He didn’t have the wherewithal to buy Iris all the things that she was always wanting and angling for.’

  The last sentence was said bitterly, and Trudy followed up on it quickly. ‘Yes, we’re picking up things about Iris. I take it she was the sort who liked the good things in life?’ she said mildly.

  ‘Oh my, yes, that was Iris,’ Betty Finch said coldly, but then her face suddenly crumpled. ‘Oh no, I shouldn’t have said that. I keep forgetting that the poor girl’s dead. And the way they did it! How could anyone do that to her? Make a mockery of her like that, tying her to the maypole with those ribbons? It was like someone really hated her. Her poor parents.’

  Clement reached forward and put a hand over her own. ‘Easy, Mrs Finch. We won’t keep you much longer,’ he said quietly.

  Betty nodded, gulped, took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders again. ‘Sorry. I’m all right now, really I am. What else can I tell you?’

  ‘Do you know anything about an argument that David might have had with Ronnie Dewberry, Mrs Finch? We’ve been hearing rumours that they had a falling out?’ Trudy tried next.

  ‘Really? Well, I know that David hadn’t been very happy with Ronnie for some time, but I don’t know that it meant much – nothing serious, anyway. They’d been friends for so long, and they always made up any differences they might have had. David never said anything to me about it.’

  ‘Why hadn’t he been happy with Ronnie?’ Clement slipped in his first question, and Betty waved a hand vaguely in the air.

  ‘Oh, I think that was because Ronnie was always warning him against Iris. For some reason, Ronnie never thought much of Iris, and wasn’t afraid of saying as much to David. Of course, they’ve been best friends for simply ages, ever since they were knee-high to grasshoppers, and so I suppose Ronnie expected David to listen to him and follow his advice to jilt her. But of course …’ Here, the dead boy’s mother shrugged. ‘When a boy’s smitten, properly smitten I mean, especially for the first time … well, even long-time friendship doesn’t count for much, does it?’

  Betty smiled sadly again and looked from one to the other questioningly.

  ‘So David carried on seeing her. Hmmm, I’m surprised Ronnie was set against Iris,’ Clement mused. ‘She really was a stunningly lovely girl, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Oh yes, you had to give her that,’ Betty said promptly. ‘But I’m afraid it went to her head a bit. She had all sorts of fancy ideas – becoming a model, or a film star, or something, so they say. Silly really. She was so desperate to get out of the village and make this grand life for herself …’

  She abruptly clamped her lips together as she evidently realised she was in danger of speaking ill of the dead yet again. Instead, she sighed and shrugged. ‘It was all so pointless! I knew David was just a passing fancy for her, you see. It was obvious. Oh, he was a good-looking lad, my David, and our family is we
ll respected in the village. So …’ She trailed off, clearly struggling to find a way of saying that they were a step above the girl’s working-class roots without sounding snobbish.

  ‘The Carmodys would have thought of your son as a good catch,’ Trudy helped her out with a gentle smile.

  ‘Exactly,’ Betty said gratefully. ‘Not that Iris saw things the same way. To her, I think David was, well, just a bit of a plaything, really. Or worse – camouflage.’

  ‘Could you expand a bit on that for us, Mrs Finch?’ Trudy asked gently. ‘I know it’s hard, not wanting to say anything against someone who can’t defend themselves, but I promise you, anything you tell us won’t be repeated.’

  Betty sighed heavily. ‘It’s just that … Well, although David thought the world of her, I could tell that Iris didn’t feel the same way. Not that he brought her home to tea, or anything, but I’d still see them out and about, and I could just tell. A mother can, can’t she? He wasn’t what she was after, you see – which, to be frank, was somebody who could do her some proper good. Someone with money, say, or power to help her achieve her silly dreams. I wondered, to be honest, why she was wasting her time on him at all. He was still a lad at university after all, with hardly two pennies to rub together. Oh, he would have got a good job once he’d got his degree – been able to afford a nice home and all that. But Iris was a girl in a hurry – she wanted nice things now. I just had the feeling she had other fish to fry, do you know what I mean? And going out with our David was just a way to keep her parents happy and thinking that she wasn’t up to anything they wouldn’t approve of and … well … make it all look respectable.’

  ‘You think she was going out with other boys behind his back?’ Trudy said, and when the other woman nodded, said, ‘Do you think that’s what Ronnie tried to warn David about? Is that why they argued?’