He stepped round the body and carefully lifted the cushion. Even though the features were discoloured and twisted he had no difficulty in recognising Judy Clayton’s landlady. The manner of death was apparent. Christine Bodley had been strangled and about her neck was still knotted the instrument of murder. It was the green, red and white silk scarf which he had last seen on Sue.
Chapter Three
As Martin covered the dead face of Christine Bodley he heard a faint swishing noise behind him. He straightened up quickly. The curtains at the French windows were moving. As they hung right to the floor it would have been impossible to see the feet of anyone standing there.
“Whoever you are you’d better come out.”
For answer the curtains ballooned and a draught of air passed through the room. He strode across and with a quick movement pulled the curtains aside. Glass lay on the floor below the pane; it had been smashed in so that the intruder could reach the key which was still on the inside of the door. He had brought out his handkerchief and was about to remove it when he raised his head, listening. A car was coming along the lane towards the cottage.
Martin pulled the curtains back and went quickly into the hall. He stood a little back from the window which looked out onto the front garden. The car was braking to a stop in front of the gate. As it came into his field of vision he saw the blue light flashing on its roof He went to the door and had it open as Kennedy, followed by two uniformed officers, came briskly through the gate.
Kennedy stopped short when he saw the Inspector and blinked with surprise.
“Martin! What the hell is going on?”
“Mrs. Bodley. She’s been murdered. She’s in there.”
The two constables, acting on a nod from Martin, moved past and disappeared into the house.
“Mrs. Bodley?” Kennedy echoed. “But she came to the station. She wanted to see you.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, a couple of hours ago.”
“Did you tell her I was here?”
“I’m afraid I did. She said it was very important and she refused to talk to . . .”
Martin had been staring towards the police car. He’d seen the woman sitting in the back seat but could not be sure till she turned her head.
“What’s Sue doing there?”
“That’s why we’re here. Sue telephoned us.” He lowered his voice, like one who is about to break bad news. “Someone tried to kill her.”
“When was this?”
“About an hour ago. She changed her mind about not meeting you here and . . .Wait a minute!” Kennedy put out a hand to grasp Martin’s arm as he started towards the car. “She’s had a hell of a shock. Now take it easy, Martin.”
Martin nodded and steadied himself. As he went through the gate, Sue had opened the door and was getting out. She was pale and shaken, obviously still in a state of shock. She did not even seem surprised to see Martin there.
“Martin, what’s happened?”
“Sue, are you all right?” Martin moved quickly and put out a hand to help her.
“Yes. I changed my mind about not meeting you. I thought if we could only . . .” Her lips trembled and her eyes widened as fear returned. “Someone tried to kill me.”
“Who was it, Sue?” he asked very gently.
“I don’t know! He was in the cottage, waiting for me. As soon as I came through the door he grabbed hold of my scarf and . . .” She broke off and put a hand over her eyes. She had begun to tremble uncontrollably. He found his arm going round her shoulder, drawing her protectively towards him.
“Don’t try to talk now. You can tell me about it later.”
He steered her towards his own car, and opened the passenger door. “Stay here, Sue. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She was about to duck into the car when she straightened and looked in bewilderment towards the open door of the cottage. “Martin, what’s happened?”
“Judy Clayton’s landlady wanted to see me. She called at the station and Kennedy told her I was here. Unfortunately I was held up and didn’t get out here till about nine . . .” He stopped, wondering whether she was really listening to him, but she said impatiently: “Go on.”
“Someone must have been following her. Whoever it was suddenly realised where she was going and broke into the cottage. It wasn’t you he was waiting for, Sue. It was Mrs. Bodley.”
Martin was glad to leave Kennedy to handle the situation at the cottage. It would be some time before the photographers, police doctor and forensic experts could be rounded up and he was worried about Sue, sitting out there in his car, still obviously suffering from the shock and her terrifying encounter with the murderer.
“I’m going to take you back home,” he told her, as he slid into the driving seat.
“Where’s home?”
“Well — Would you rather go back to my place or shall I take you to yours?”
“I think I’d rather get back to the flat — my own, I mean. I really do feel a bit weak at the knees.”
“Okay,” Martin said, turning the car in the narrow lane. “You’ll have to show me exactly where it is.”
He had never seen where Sue was living now and had deliberately refrained from seeming to pry into her affairs. All he knew was that she had found a flatlet at the back of a Victorian house not far from Cavalier Toys.
“Do you feel up to telling me what happened?” he asked her as the little car moved off down the lane.
“I’ll try. It’s all so confused in my mind.”
He listened without interrupting until they were amongst the houses of Guildfleet. Then she had to break off to direct him to Somerville Avenue where her flat was. At her direction he stopped in front of a three-storey brick house, characterised by the ornamental woodwork favoured by the late Victorians.
“Sue, I’m afraid I have quite a few questions to ask you.” “You mean — now?”
“Well, I could take you up to your flat,” he pointed out quietly. “Your landlord can hardly object to a visit from your husband.”
She thought about that for a moment, then gave him a wary look. “All right. But I warn you, it’s not very palatial and I’m not even sure I have anything to drink.”
He followed as she led him round the side of the house to a section which had been built on at a later date.
“This used to be what is called a granny flat,” she explained as she put a key in the lock. “The man who owns the house built it for his mother. When she died they decided to let it.”
It was a strange feeling to be ushered into the place where your own wife lived. Martin was silent, looking about him as she switched on the lights. ‘Flat’ was a flattering term for the quarters Sue now occupied. It really consisted of a tiny hall, off which opened the kitchen, bathroom and a not very large bed-sitter.
He sensed that she was self-conscious and embarrassed as he went in. She hurried past him to put away a few odd articles of clothing which she had left lying around. But even though the furniture was the landlord’s Sue had put her own stamp on it, giving the room a few feminine touches which made it quite charming. He could not help comparing its neat orderliness with the chaos of his own flat. The flowers on the centre table were unmistakably fresh.
She was rummaging in a cupboard and now produced a bottle and two glasses.
“I’ve got some brandy. Will that do?”
“That’s fine. But you’re the one who needs it.”
He remained standing while she poured out the drinks. The neck of the bottle rattled on the glasses. Either she too was embarrassed or the shock had not worn off. She handed him the glass, but did not ask him to sit down.
He watched her drink half her glass of brandy, then said: “I’m sorry, Sue, but I want you to go over your story again —”
“But, Martin, I’ve told you. It’s nearly ten o’clock and I’m desperately tired.”
“I can’t help that. There’s been a murder, the third in a couple of wee
ks. You understand what that means for me. You know how I work. I like to go through every detail. Not once, but half a dozen times.”
“But I’ve told you everything that happened,” she said with exasperation.
“Tell me again, Sue.”
She heaved a sigh. “From the beginning?”
“Please,” he insisted quietly. “Right from the beginning.”
“Very well, then.” Sue seemed to have resigned herself to giving a more coherent account of what had happened. As she talked she moved restlessly about the room as if reluctant to seat herself under the scrutiny of Martin’s searching eyes. “After I telephoned you I changed my mind about not meeting you at the cottage. I don’t know why, Martin. I think perhaps I had a guilty conscience because I’d been rude to you on the ‘phone.”
“You weren’t rude, Sue.”
“Anyway, I caught the bus out to Stansfield and then walked up to the cottage. I was about half-way up the path when I suddenly realised that the front door was open . . .”
“Wide open?”
“No, but just wide enough to see into the hall. Naturally I jumped to the conclusion that you were in the cottage.” She took another sip from her glass and put it on one of the small tables.
“Go on, Sue.”
“As I walked through the front door I had a curious feeling that it wasn’t you in the cottage after all. I was just about to call ‘Where are you, Martin?’ when a man jumped from behind the door and grabbed me by the throat. I struggled and was actually on the verge of passing out when the man suddenly pushed me on one side and rushed into the living-room.”
Martin nodded. “He’d realised by then that you weren’t Mrs. Bodley.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, I rushed out of the cottage and ran all the way to the call-box. About twenty minutes later Sergeant Kennedy picked me up.”
“Thank you, Sue.” The brief account had been more comprehensible than the disconnected snippets of information she’d given him in the car. “Now tell me again exactly what happened when the man suddenly . . .”
“Martin, it’s no use!” She was facing him angrily across the settee. “I’ve told you. I didn’t see him. I didn’t even catch a glimpse of him.”
“But he got hold of you,” he insisted. “You must have felt his hands, his coat, his face. There must be something about him you remember.”
“Martin, I’m sorry. I know this is important and I’d like to help. But it’s no use my just making things up . . .”
“That’s the last thing I want you to do.” He tried hard to control his impatience. “But there must be something you remember about him. It doesn’t matter how trivial — how unimportant. For instance, how tall was he?”
“I don’t know.” She shook her head and he noted the obstinate set of her face. She was probably trying to block a horrifying memory out of her mind.
“As tall as me?”
“I just don’t know.”
“What sort of clothes was he wearing?” he asked, trying another tack.
“Martin, I’ve told you, I can’t remember a single thing — about the man —”
She was staring unseeingly at the vase of fresh flowers, whose perfume was faintly discernible. The two vertical lines between her eyebrows had deepened, a sure sign that she was making an effort to remember something.
“What is it?”
“It’s nothing. It was just that . . .”
He was sure that she was on the point of recalling some important detail. He moved round the settee and took hold of her arms, his hands under her elbows.
“Sue.”
“I think . . .” She was searching his face with extraordinary intensity.
“Go on.”
“I think perhaps he — uses the same after-shave lotion —” “After-shave? Do you mean — the same as me?”
“Yes. But I’m not sure, I’m not sure at all. It’s a long time since . . .”
Her face was very close to his, closer than at any time since they had separated. The hostility and remoteness had gone. Her eyes were hurt and frightened, her mouth had fallen into its natural shape, rather like when she was asleep. Suddenly his arms had gone round her and his lips were pressed against hers. She relaxed against him, her mouth soft and yielding. Then she seemed to realise what was happening, raised her arms and pushed him away. He released her and stood back.
“Well?” His voice was tense. “Is it the same?”
“You shouldn’t have done that!” she said angrily.
“Answer me!” He seized her arms again and gave her a shake. “Is it the same after-shave?”
Sue’s anger had been brief She turned her head away, avoiding the challenge of his eyes. She seemed to give the question careful consideration before she looked up directly into his face.
“Yes,” she said slowly. “Yes, I think it is.”
He released her, not wanting to push things any further at this stage. “Thank you, Sue,” he said and picked up his hat from the chair.
She stood watching him thoughtfully as he went to the door and, with a final parting nod, disappeared into the hall. A moment later the bang of the front door told her that she was alone again.
At eleven o’clock in the morning the High Street in Guildfleet was bustling with activity. The FULL sign had gone up outside the most central car park and the traffic wardens were having a field day with the cars of impatient owners who had parked on the yellow line. A huge articulated lorry was standing outside the supermarket. Four men in white coats with trolleys were unloading the cardboard cartons and trundling them in through the goods entrance. Opposite the bank a Securicor van was pulled up, its open rear door guarded by a tough-looking man wearing a protective helmet. The placards propped against the newsvendor’s stand proclaimed ‘New Guildfleet Murder’, ‘Local Woman Found Strangled’.
A couple of pavement photographers were working their way up the street, snapping likely buyers and thrusting their little cards at them. Most people ignored the offer but a few unwisely stopped and let themselves be talked into ordering copies of the photographs. The photographers did not get much change from the couple who emerged from the supermarket. They were laden with parcels and enjoying some private joke. The woman was the youngish, buxom type and the man at her side was tall and bespectacled. He wore a worn tweed jacket and baggy trousers which contrasted sharply with the flashy appearance of his companion. He shook his head emphatically as the photographer clicked his camera and thrust a card at him. The laugh froze on his face as he saw the traffic warden peering at the number-plate of a shiny Ford Capri parked opposite. Defying the traffic, he ran across the road to try and talk her out of writing the ticket.
Martin Denson had walked from the nearest car park with available space. As he emerged from the alley which connected it to the High Street one of the photographers raised his camera and took his picture. Martin waved the proffered card aside with a frown of annoyance. He turned left and was just passing the local branch of W.H. Smith & Sons when a man came out. He had unfolded the newspaper he had just bought and was so intent on the headlines that he almost cannoned into the Inspector.
“I beg your —” He had begun the apology before he saw who it was. When he realised it was Martin he switched on an affable smile. “Oh hello, Inspector.”
“Good morning, Mr. Norton. This is a surprise! I was trying to get you on the ‘phone about twenty minutes ago.”
“I do take time off — occasionally, Inspector.”
“I imagine you do, sir. And I can’t say I blame you. I just can’t think of anything worse than teaching people how to drive!”
“Your job isn’t exactly a sinecure, by the look of things.” Roy tapped the paper with the back of his hand.
“You mean — Mrs. Bodley?”
“Yes. What happened, Inspector?”
“It’s in the paper, sir.”
As Martin moved away along the footpath, Roy fell into step beside him.
“Y
es, I know, but — it says here that she was strangled.” “That’s right.”
“In your cottage?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, it’s none of my business, of course, but — do you think this had got anything to do with — what happened to Judy Clayton?”
“Yes. Yes, I do, sir.”
Martin’s neutral tone had given the inquisitive Roy little encouragement to persist with his questions. He now deliberately changed the subject.
“Mr. Norton, I’ll tell you why I tried to get in touch with you. I’m a shade puzzled about what happened the other night, the night you had dinner with Mrs. Walker.”
“What is it you’re puzzled about?” Roy asked in his most plausible and helpful voice.
“I understand you suddenly decided to make a ‘phone call.” Martin had stopped at a zebra crossing and was waiting for the traffic to give him precedence. “From your office.”
“That’s right.”
“Why from your office, sir? Why not ‘phone from the hotel?”
An approaching car stopped and the two men crossed the street. Roy was smiling wryly as they gained the footpath on the other side. His manner suggested that he was really very glad to have the chance to explain himself.
“I’ve had a feeling you’d get round to that telephone call sooner or later, Inspector. The fact of the matter is, a client of mine — Lady Talbot — was taking her test the next morning and I suddenly remembered a piece of advice I wanted to give her. I couldn’t remember her number — she’s ex-directory — so I had no alternative. I had to go back to the office.”
“I see,” Martin said non-commitally. “I take it Lady Talbot was an important client?”
“Very. And she still is.” Roy laughed. “She failed — for the fourth time.”
Martin had stopped outside the tobacconist’s he habitually patronised. He favoured Roy with his most impassive look.
“It’s perhaps a pity you telephoned her, sir.”
Roy’s brow furrowed as he tried to decide whether this was a friendly joke or a warning with more sinister undertones. Martin turned his back and went into the shop.
Arthur Eastwood heard the front door of Gameswood House close behind him as he went down the steps. He relieved his pent-up frustration and anger a little by muttering an oath which consigned all women to a very unpleasant place. Gripping the briefcase tightly, he stumped towards his car, which was parked in the drive about twenty yards away. He had opened the door and thrown the briefcase onto the passenger’s seat when he heard another car turn in at the gates. Feeling sure that it must be Roy Norton he did not get into the car but stood there waiting. He felt in the mood to have it out with the fellow right here and now.
The Passenger Page 11
