by Faith Martin
So he had been serious about trying to find Iris’s killer, Trudy thought.
‘And were you able to enlighten him?’ she heard Clement enquire drolly.
‘Not really,’ Mortimer said languidly. ‘Like I said, the girl was something of a pest, even though I could sympathise with her desperation to get out of this place and make a life for herself. Just not to the extent that I was interested in her comings and goings.’
Clement nodded and glanced at Trudy to see if she had anything else to ask. Seeing by her quick glance that she didn’t, he made to rise. ‘Well, thank you for your help, Mr Crowley,’ he said dryly.
The other man airily waved a hand in the air. ‘Oh, think nothing of it,’ he said, equally dryly. ‘Shall I show you out?’
‘Oh, I think we can find our own way,’ Clement demurred.
The moment they left the room, however, Mortimer Crowley’s smile faded and he got to his feet and cautiously approached the window. He watched as, a short while later, their figures emerged from the house and walked down the path towards the front gate.
He swore softly – and with some originality – under his breath.
So far, he’d only had to deal with the local flatfoots and that by-the-book ninny, Jennings. Which had left him feeling relatively sanguine and inclined to relax. But Dr Clement Ryder was a far different proposition. He was no know-nothing country bumpkin but a sophisticated man with a sharp mind and sharp eyes. The sort who wasn’t so easily fooled.
As he turned away from the window, he contemplated a quick return to London. Or would that look like he was running away? The last thing he needed now was to throw suspicion on himself.
He collapsed moodily into a chair, resentful about the sense of unease that now bothered him. Damn that girl, he thought savagely. Trust a beautiful, grasping bloody woman to ruin everyone’s fun.
He brooded, contemplating exactly what he should do next. He would have to be careful, obviously, and do nothing too rash or silly. As far as he knew, the police hadn’t found out anything damaging about him, and he wanted to keep it that way.
If only he knew what that damned coroner was thinking!
‘So what are you thinking?’ Trudy asked as they walked back to the Rover.
‘I think we need to find out more about this journal or notebook or whatever it is that he claims David had on him. This is the first we’ve heard of it, and I trust that … that … insect, about as far as I could throw him! I wouldn’t put it past him to make up a lie about it to put us off track, just to amuse himself. On the other hand, he strikes me as someone too intent on taking care of his own skin to do anything that might bring himself to our attention needlessly. I take it no diary was found on the body?’
‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Trudy said. If David had kept a journal, it would have been meat and drink to her DI.
Clement nodded. ‘I agree it can’t have been. It would have been listed amongst his personal possessions for a start, and noted in my files. Do you know if any of the other witnesses questioned about Iris mentioned David keeping a diary?’
‘I don’t think so. But I can’t be sure,’ Trudy was forced to admit. ‘DI Jennings, like I said, would hardly be likely to confide in me.’
Clement grunted. ‘Well, we’ll just have to ask around for ourselves then, won’t we? We need to call on his parents again at some point anyway – and if anyone would know, they probably would. And Ronnie, the best friend too, should be able to clear it up one way or another. Even if they weren’t too close right at the end, if David was the kind to keep a diary Ronnie would still have known about it.’
‘Maybe Janet Baines would know too,’ Trudy offered. ‘If David did keep a regular diary, you can be sure that Iris would have known all about it. Girlfriends ferret out all sorts of information about the men that they’re seeing, and she’d almost certainly have mentioned it to her best friend. But what if it’s a more recent thing?’ she pointed out. ‘You know, something he took up only after Iris was killed?’
Clement glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s marching on. I’ve got to get back to my office. What say we pick this up again tomorrow, first thing?’
‘Suits me,’ Trudy said happily. ‘Is it wishful thinking, or do you think we might be getting somewhere at last?’
Clement smiled. ‘Let’s hope so.’ But she was right. He too, felt as if the case was finally beginning to take some sort of a shape. And it was starting to look more and more as if they had a double-murder on their hands.
Chapter 21
Duncan Gillingham had planned his move carefully. He knew it was no use trying to catch Trudy on her own in the village of Middle Fenton, since from what he had seen so far, she and the city coroner were always together. And there was no way he was going to risk Dr Clement Ryder’s cynical gaze as he tried to cajole her to let him take her out somewhere.
Likewise, he could hardly call around at her home – even though he’d gone to the trouble of finding out where she lived. Again, he didn’t fancy running the risk of being introduced to the parents or have her daddy’s gimlet eye fall upon him! And he didn’t think she would be happy if he showed his face at the police station, asking for her. No doubt the news would quickly reach her superior officers and she’d be hauled over the coals, wondering if she’d been leaking information to the press. Which was hardly going to help endear him to her after their last, disastrous dealings.
So his only option was to catch her before she got into the station. So it was that he found himself in position, lounging beside a pillar box late in the afternoon, when he recognised Clement’s Rover P4 pull to a halt in a parking space about fifty yards from the entrance to the police station. Perfect!
He’d guessed she would have to return to the station sometime, and although he’d been prepared to wait for hours if need be, as luck would have it, he’d only had to lounge around for twenty minutes or so.
He saw her climb out of the passenger door, bend down to say something to the driver, then close the door after herself. He sprinted across the road, hoping the coroner hadn’t spotted him, and sidled along the edge of the pavement closest to the buildings lining the street. He was moving fast, since he needed to catch up with Trudy before she got to the entrance to the station, but that didn’t stop him from keeping a careful eye on the Rover as it pulled out into traffic and swept past him.
Once he was sure the eagle-eyed Ryder was safely out of sight, he sprinted openly up the street.
Behind her, Trudy heard the sound of someone running, and stopped automatically, turning around, feeling slightly tense. Since walking a beat, she’d become wary of hearing footsteps behind her – especially running ones! Because she wasn’t in uniform she didn’t even have her truncheon with her, and so didn’t know whether to feel relieved or annoyed to see Duncan Gillingham bearing down on her.
At least he wasn’t someone she’d once arrested, taking the chance to verbally abuse or annoy her, she supposed.
She made sure she kept her face calm and neutral as he panted to a stop beside her. He was dressed in a smart navy-blue suit and his red tie was rakishly askew. His dark, somewhat floppy near-black hair needed cutting, she noticed, and his green eyes were crinkled attractively at the corners as he smiled at her.
It was really annoying that he was so good-looking.
‘I thought it was you!’ Duncan said with a grin. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you for ages.’
Trudy smiled cynically. ‘Oh? And the fact that you’re after a story about Iris Carmody has nothing to do with your sudden interest in me again?’ she asked caustically.
‘Actually it doesn’t,’ Duncan lied, sounding a little hurt. ‘Did you get my flowers?’ He changed the subject quickly.
‘My mum loved them,’ Trudy said flatly.
He spluttered with sudden laughter. ‘Well, that wasn’t five bob spent in total vain then.’
Trudy felt her lips twitch in the beginnings of a spontaneous smile, and ruthle
ssly stopped the movement.
‘What do you want, Duncan?’ she said, sighing exaggeratedly.
When they’d first met, this man had been determined to make a name for himself by using his newspaper position to all but accuse the police of condoning a cover-up in a murder case. And he hadn’t been above feigning an interest in her in the hopes of gleaning information about the on-going investigation. So she was about as likely to trust him now as she would trust a cat to keep watch over a goldfish bowl.
‘I can’t help you, if that’s what you might be thinking,’ she warned him, before he had a chance to answer. ‘I’m not on the Iris Carmody case, I’m just a lowly WPC remember?’ she taunted.
Duncan nodded. In which case, he wondered cynically, why was she in civvies, snooping around the village of Middle Fenton with the likes of Dr Clement Ryder. ‘Yes, I thought that must be the case,’ he said smoothly. ‘So that proves it, doesn’t it? I’m not here in my official capacity. Pax?’ he asked, crossing both sets of his forefingers and holding them up in front of her.
‘So if you’re not here as a reporter, why are you here?’
Duncan smiled winsomely. ‘I feel bad about the way we left things,’ he said, realising as he spoke that he actually meant it. Well, mostly. ‘I didn’t want you to think that … well, I mean, I just wanted to say that I really liked you. I still do like you,’ he added. ‘I admire you too. The job you do. You’ve got spunk. I just didn’t want you to think it was all a con. You know, that it wasn’t real.’
‘Real?’ she repeated tensely. ‘What was real?’
Duncan shifted a little on his feet. ‘You know … that spark between us.’
‘Spark?’ she repeated again, not giving an inch.
Duncan gave a rueful smile, genuinely not knowing whether to curse her for making this so hard, or admire her for not giving in to his bullshit. She was unlike any other young woman he’d ever met, and he was damned if he knew, really, how to handle her, or what she might say next. She certainly had the ability to keep him on his toes, which was, in many ways, rather exciting.
But he wasn’t about to let her get the better of him. Apart from anything else, he really wanted to get to know her better.
‘Did I really get it so wrong then?’ he asked, letting his eyes flicker uncertainly, in a way he’d learned before hitting his sixteenth birthday. It was remarkable, he’d realised, what a show of vulnerability could do to the feminine heart. ‘I thought we … well, connected in some way. Was I wrong?’
Trudy looked him steadily in the eye. ‘Are you still engaged?’ she asked simply.
Duncan sighed. ‘That situation really is complicated, I told you before.’
Trudy nodded. ‘Oh yes, I remember. You’re engaged to the boss’s daughter, poor you.’
Duncan stiffened, feeling a flush of genuine anger creep over his face. ‘Actually, it’s not that funny. I don’t want to hurt her feelings, because she’s a great girl, and how can I break it off without feeling like a right heel? On the other hand, I’m just not sure we’re suited.’
‘So why don’t you just tell her that?’ Trudy asked, intrigued to see what lie he would come up with.
But Duncan was too canny to spin out any of the usual trite excuses. Instead, he just shook his head. ‘It’s not that easy. As I told you before, apart from anything else, she is the boss’s daughter. Do you think I’d still have a job tomorrow if I just up and ditched her? Come on, I grew up in the same circumstances as you did. I can’t afford to lose my job.’
Which was actually true. And because it was true, he suspected this had far more of a chance of making its way through her defences than anything. Of course, he didn’t intend to work for an Oxford paper forever. He had his eyes set on Fleet Street. But for now, he needed to get a few good years in and break some big stories if he was going to catch the eye of one of the big editors in the capital.
Trudy shifted a little uneasily on the pavement. She supposed, in all fairness, he was in a bit of a cleft stick. She knew how much working-class people such as themselves needed to keep a good job. ‘Well, I’m sorry, I hope you manage to sort it all out. But speaking of work …’ She indicated the police station entrance a few yards away. ‘I have to go.’
‘At least have a cup of coffee with me some time,’ Duncan asked. ‘Just to show there are no hard feelings. I really didn’t make a fool of you last time, you know, but I have a horrible feeling that you might think I did. Or that I pretended to feel … Oh look, we can’t discuss it here on the pavement.’ He made a show of glancing around at the curious shoppers moving past them. ‘Can’t we just have a cup of coffee somewhere and talk about it rationally? We are two adults, after all! Being childish is just silly.’
Trudy’s lips twisted slightly. Who was the one being childish? ‘Oh, all right,’ she sighed. It would probably just be easier to let him talk and have the chance to soothe his ego – and then she could be rid of him once and for all.
‘Great. I’ll call you,’ he promised. ‘Soon.’
Can’t wait, Trudy thought cynically. But as she walked away from him, she couldn’t help but feel a little bit pleased. After all, it always made a girl feel good to have a good-looking young man acting so anxious to please her.
Her heart beating a little bit faster than before, she stepped inside and girded her loins to report back that day’s findings to her inspector. Not that she expected him to be that impressed.
Chapter 22
The next morning started with a rain shower that had, luckily, all but played itself out by the time Trudy and Clement returned to the village of Middle Fenton. This time, they swept down the main street to the end, and then followed the smaller lane that led off to the Dewberrys’ Farm.
The sun came out, quickly warming the rain-dampened air, and lifted the scent of spring flowers and blossom so that it was a delight just to breathe in. Through the open window of the car, Trudy smiled gratefully.
When they pulled up in the now slightly steaming farmyard, Ray Dewberry was already climbing into the seat of an old tractor but he paused at the sound of the engine and turned to look at them warily.
Trudy climbed out and called over to him. ‘Is your son at home, Mr Dewberry?’
The farmer indicated the house and as they walked to the kitchen door, the sound of the rumbling engine filled the courtyard, echoing slightly off the cobbled yard.
Ronnie was at the sink washing the breakfast dishes when they passed the window, and they saw him startle slightly as their shadows cut across the windowsill, then indicate that he would meet them at the door.
‘Hello again,’ he said a moment or two later, looking from one to the other. He looked unhappy to see them again, and Trudy supposed that was only natural. Like a lot of people in the village he was probably hoping that things would blow over sooner rather than later, and that they could all be allowed to get back on with their lives in peace. Life in farming villages changed little from one year to the next, and the vast majority of people who chose to live here must prefer it that way.
But until her DI arrested someone for Iris Carmody’s murder, and she and Dr Ryder had found out what had really happened to David Finch, she was afraid Ronnie Dewberry and the rest of the village were just going to have put up with the upheaval.
‘Did you want to come in? I can put the kettle on,’ he offered diffidently.
‘Tea would be nice,’ Clement said, noting the way the young man’s shoulders first slumped slightly, then braced, at his cheerful acceptance of a beverage.
‘Don’t mind Bess,’ he said, indicating a black and white sheepdog that was both barking at them and also backing away from them as they stepped across the threshold. The dog waited its moment, then slipped quickly past them and dashed out into the courtyard.
Ronnie set about filling the kettle, watching as his father, on the tractor, drove through an open gate and into the field beyond. He looked, Clement thought, as if he wished he was with him.
/> ‘We just have a few follow-up questions about David,’ Clement said when, tea steaming away in mugs in front of them, they were all seated around the scrubbed kitchen table.
‘Huh-huh,’ Ronnie said, bobbing his head and taking a sip of the hot tea. He winced slightly as it burned his tongue.
‘We understand he kept a diary,’ Trudy put in abruptly, presenting it as a fact rather than a question and watching him closely for his reaction.
He tensed visibly then frowned. ‘A diary? David?’ Ronnie said slowly. ‘That’s news to me.’
‘Are you saying he didn’t keep a journal?’ Clement asked, something just a little sharp and formal in his voice causing the younger man to look anxious. He opened his mouth, thought better of giving a spontaneous reply, and chose instead to take another sip of too-hot tea.
He made a show of wincing again, then blew on the top of the mug’s surface. Finally, he shrugged. ‘I’m not saying he didn’t have a diary. Just that I never knew about it. It’s not the sort of thing you share, really, is it? Not with a mate. Anyway, David was always more at home with books and learning and all that stuff than I was. I liked to read adventure stories and what-not, but I wouldn’t have ever thought about writing stuff down.’
He made a show of shrugging and looking around at the not-particularly-clean farmhouse kitchen. ‘I mean, what would I write? Six a.m., milked the cows. Seven a.m. mended some barbed wire fencing …’ He laughed. ‘But I suppose David might have had more interesting stuff to write about – leaving the village, going to university …’ He hesitated visibly, then said, ‘And about Iris, and stuff like that. But if he did write it down, I never saw him do it.’
‘And he never mentioned keeping a journal?’ Clement pressed.
‘Not to me,’ Ronnie said adamantly.
