CHAPTER 10
It was ten o’clock on the Wednesday morning, and the daily briefing was in progress. Webb looked at the circle of expectant faces. ‘OK, what have we got? You first, Alan.’
Inspector Crombie studied the sheet in front of him. ‘Dick confirmed that yours and the victim’s were the only prints on the diary. It and the address book have gone to Hampstead and they’re following them up. It’ll take time but there’s no joy so far.’
‘Nothing on Dean yet, I suppose?’
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ Crombie promised drily. Webb grunted and turned to Sergeant Partridge. ‘Don?’
‘Nearly all the guests at the party have been seen, Guv. You asked us to leave you the Fraynes and Bartletts.’
‘Yes, I’ll get along to them today. What of the others?’
‘Not much help. The youngsters — friends of the son and daughter — didn’t take any notice of the older guests except when Dr Frayne passed out. After them, we tried the Pipers. They live in the big farm at the foot of the hill.’
‘Has she got dark hair?’ Webb interrupted.
Partridge looked surprised. ‘Yes, Guv. Going grey, as you might say. Pleasant lady, but she couldn’t help. Didn’t see or hear anything suspicious.’
‘Right.’ Webb turned to Dawson, who sat pulling at his lip. A tall, laconic man, the only time he’d been known to show emotion was at football matches.
‘Bob? You and young Cummings have any luck?’
‘Not with the Cudlips. They weren’t pleased we knew about Dr Frayne blotting his copybook. Played it down all they could and didn’t volunteer much else. But we did better with the Grants; he was one of the gentlemen that took the doctor home.’ Dawson regarded Webb from under thick eyebrows. ‘He was looking for Mrs Frayne, and guess where he found her? In the kitchen, with Mr Pendrick.’
Webb pursed his lips. ‘Now, that is interesting.’
‘He didn’t think anything of it, so I didn’t press it. No point in stirring things up.’
‘So for a while at least they were alone, which certainly wasn’t the impression Pendrick gave.’
‘Could have wanted shot of his wife after all.’
‘Then he’ll have to go after the doctor next! No,’ Webb shook his head. ‘If Pendrick’s the one, the motive won’t be that simple. She’d probably have given him a divorce, if he’d asked her. I’m beginning to think she died because of what she was.’
‘And what was she?’
‘As always, different things to different people. Honest, efficient, bossy, independent. Since they’re not incompatible, they could all be true. Which of those qualities could have led to her death? If we could only find out why she came back!’
‘To speak to Dean?’ hazarded Jackson.
‘But what about, Ken? And why not wait till the weekend?’
Marshbanks leant forward eagerly. ‘We know she phoned him, sir, but he could have rung her earlier. Or written, asking her to contact him.’
‘If he’d intended killing her,’ Partridge objected, ‘he wouldn’t have arranged to meet her at his digs, with the landlady there and all.’
‘But perhaps he didn’t intend to kill her. Perhaps everything went wrong.’
‘Go on, lad,’ Webb instructed.
‘Well, sir, I was just thinking that if he had wanted to kill her, surely he’d have gone to London, rather than bring her back here. I mean, it would be much harder to pin it on him there, wouldn’t it?’
‘It’s not so bloody easy here!’ Dawson muttered under his breath. But the Governor was eyeing young Simon approvingly. A bit of initiative went a long way with Spiderman.
‘That’s an interesting theory, lad. She told them at the catering firm something important had come up. Presumably it concerned Dean. He could have been in trouble again, and wanted her help.’
‘If so, he didn’t get it,’ Jackson commented. ‘Mrs Tallow heard them yelling at each other.’
‘Like the Constable said, perhaps things didn’t go according to plan.’
‘Turning round Simon’s idea,’ Crombie suggested, ‘suppose the killer was someone she knew in London? He could have followed her here to make it seem a local killing.’
‘Meaning it had nothing to do with Dean? Then why did he scarper?’
Partridge shook his head. ‘My money’s on him. Ex-husbands are a dodgy lot when it comes to murder.’
‘So are present husbands,’ Webb reminded him, ‘and this one’s mighty secretive about his doings at the time. However, after what Bob’s just told us, I reckon he was probably whooping it up with his old flame, rather than strangling his wife.’
He stood up and stretched. ‘OK, that’s all for now. Keep plugging away, lads. Ken, you and I’ll go back to Frecklemarsh. I want a look at the doctor’s wife.’
*
Heather Frayne said steadily, ‘There’s very little I can tell you. That was the only time I met Mrs Pendrick.’
‘But you knew her husband, I think?’
She bent her head and loops of dark hair hid her face. ‘A long time ago, yes.’
‘There’d been no contact between you in the meantime?’
‘None at all.’
‘And you were quite happy to come and live in the same village?’
She hesitated, then said candidly, ‘Not happy exactly, no. I was rather apprehensive, but my husband wanted to be near his mother. This post was advertised, so naturally he applied.’
‘Have you any children, Mrs Frayne?’
‘One daughter, yes.’
‘Does she know the young Pendricks?’
‘No. None of us had met till that weekend.’
‘And she wasn’t asked to the party?’
‘She was spending the New Year in Ripon.’
‘Where were you, last Wednesday afternoon?’
Her head reared and her startled eyes met Webb’s. ‘Here. At home.’
‘Was your daughter with you?’
‘No, she didn’t come back till Thursday.’
‘And your husband?’
‘He had hospital visiting, then evening surgery.’
‘So you were alone from when?’
She moistened her lips. ‘From lunchtime till about seven.’
‘And you remained here the whole time?’
Her hands were twisting in her lap. ‘I did go out to post a letter.’
‘Did you meet anyone?’
She shook her head, not looking at him. She’s hiding something, Jackson thought. Don’t say she went to Shillingham, too!
‘Will your husband still be at the surgery, Mrs Frayne?’
She glanced at the clock. ‘No, he’ll be on his rounds now.’
‘When do you expect him home?’
‘About twelve-thirty, for lunch.’
‘We’ll call back then, if we may, to have a word. Won’t hold you up more than we have to.’
Heather watched them walk down the path, the lanky Chief Inspector and the smaller, slighter Sergeant. It was so unfair! she thought hotly. All hope of keeping her connection with Oliver private had been thrown to the winds, just because —
She closed her eyes, checking the thought. Just because Nancy was murdered. How selfish could she get? Poor Nancy, lying in some horrible place unable even to be buried, and she complained about answering a few questions. She was ashamed — and for more reasons than one.
She turned swiftly from the window and with shaking hands resumed her interrupted housework.
*
Patty Bartlett greeted them pleasantly. She was a tall, attractive woman — dark-haired, certainly, and with large brown eyes that surveyed them with quiet concern. ‘Would you like a coffee, Chief Inspector? It must be cold work, trailing round asking questions.’
‘That’s very kind of you, ma’am. Thank you.’
It was an interesting house, but not the sort that appealed to Jackson, very modern, with lots of huge plate-glass windows. Like living in a ruddy
goldfish bowl. Still, he supposed it was what you’d expect if you married an architect.
‘You’re old friends of the Pendricks, I believe,’ Webb began, stirring his coffee.
‘Of Oliver, yes. And, of course, poor Avis.’
‘Did you think his second marriage was happy?’
‘No,’ she answered quietly, ‘though he never hinted as much. But Nancy wasn’t right for him. For a start, she was never here.’
‘You expected them for dinner last Friday?’
‘That’s right; Oliver came alone. He said Nancy’d phoned her apologies and would try to come later.’ She paused. ‘Obviously that wasn’t true.’
‘Why do you think he said it?’
‘Because he felt let down and didn’t want to admit he hadn’t heard from her. Though as it turned out, it wasn’t her fault, poor girl.’
‘Did you like her as a person?’
‘Oh, she was pleasant enough, but I couldn’t relax with her. She’d far too much energy; you could feel it pent up inside her, as though it was an effort for her to sit still.’
‘Did you notice any kind of tension at the party?’
‘Not really. There was the usual false bonhomie you get at New Year, everyone being excessively friendly. A kind of insurance, I always feel. But tension — no, I wouldn’t say so.’
‘And on Friday, here. How did Mr Pendrick seem then?’
‘Unhappy. He was making an effort, but we know him too well to be deceived.’
‘I hear it was you who told him about Mrs Frayne.’ She nodded. ‘How did he react?’
She smiled reflectively. ‘He said, “My God, as if I haven’t enough on my plate!”’
‘What do you suppose he meant?’
‘Oh, Rose was being difficult, and there’d been some trouble at the hotel. A barman caught pilfering.’
‘Would you say he was worried at the prospect of meeting Mrs Frayne?’
‘Not particularly. He could have done without it, that’s all.’
‘He didn’t give any sign of still being fond of her?’
Patty Bartlett opened her big brown eyes. ‘After twenty-five years and two marriages? Good heavens no!’
‘And when they met at the party, was there any awkwardness between them?’
‘No, they carried it off very well.’
‘Did it occur to you that Dr Frayne’s drinking might have something to do with his wife?’
‘No, it certainly didn’t.’ She plainly found the question distasteful, and her easy cooperation dissolved. Webb sighed. Still, he’d had to ask. And she’d given him all she could.
‘Is your husband home, Mrs Bartlett?’ There’d been two cars in the drive.
‘Yes, he’s working in the studio. Would you like to speak to him?’
‘If we may.’
She went into the hall, calling up the open stairway, ‘Jeff? Could you come down a minute?’
But Jeff Bartlett, casual in sweater and jeans, could add nothing to his wife’s account. It seemed to Webb that, though shocked by Nancy’s murder, the Bartletts didn’t mourn her personally.
Nor was the return visit to the Fraynes any more helpful. His wife stayed in the kitchen while the doctor answered Webb’s questions in a series of monosyllables. He was a loosely-knit man with thick wavy hair and a discontented mouth. Unable to keep still, he was continually crossing and uncrossing his legs, feeling in his pockets, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair.
‘Did you have any reservations, Doctor, about moving so near to your wife’s ex-fiancé?’
‘Why the hell should I?’
‘You knew she was reluctant to come here.’
‘You can’t spend your life avoiding people.’
‘And you’ve had no reason to regret your decision?’
Peter Frayne uncrossed his legs and frowned. ‘What are you getting at?’
Webb said smoothly, ‘Just that the murder must be a strain on her.’
‘I don’t see why. I mean, we’re sorry, and all that, but it’s not as though Mrs Pendrick was a friend.’
Webb looked at him thoughtfully. Had he consciously closed his mind to Pendrick’s sudden availability, or had it simply not occurred to him?
Frayne glanced impatiently at his watch. ‘At the risk of seeming rude, I’ve a limited lunch-hour. There are a lot of calls still to make, so if that’s all — ?’
‘Yes, Dr Frayne,’ Webb said heavily, ‘that’s all.’
‘So there we are,’ he commented, as Jackson drove up the hill out of Frecklemarsh. ‘Any ideas you’d like to kick around?’
‘Only that I wouldn’t let Frayne treat my tortoise!’
‘My feelings exactly. I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s hitting the bottle fairly regularly. OK, Ken, back to Carrington Street to write up this lot, then we’ve the reconstruction at four-fifteen.’
*
As always, it gave Webb an eerie feeling to see the woman police officer dressed in the victim’s clothes. With her red hair bundled under a curly brown wig, Sally Pierce bore an uncanny resemblance to Nancy Pendrick.
Preceded by television cameras, she turned out of Mrs Tallow’s path and made her way to Station Road. Sharon had refused to repeat her actions of the previous week, and another child took her place. Acting on instructions, she duly fell over and was helped up by Sally who, after a brief conversation, continued in the direction of Gloucester Circus. When she reached the corner, the exercise was abandoned. No one knew where Nancy had gone from there, nor how she’d been transported from the busy thoroughfare to the loneliness of Chedbury Woods.
A crowd had gathered to watch the re-enactment. Webb could only hope someone’s memory had been jogged.
And someone’s had. An hour later, as he was clearing his desk for the night, there was a knock on the door and Constable Jones looked in. He was a pasty-faced man in his fifties, whose sparse hair was plastered against his head.
‘Pussy Barlow’s downstairs, Guv. He’d like a word.’ The man referred to, an ex-cat burglar, was Jones’s regular informer.
‘OK, Alf, I’ll be right down.’ Webb glanced at Crombie and grimaced. ‘Don’t happen to have a nosegay on you, or a pomander or some such?’
‘Not even a can of air freshener. Sorry.’
‘Oh well, all in the line of duty. You go if you’re ready, Alan. I’ll fill you in in the morning.’
Pussy was in an interview room, and his peculiar aroma reached Webb as he opened the door. He was a small man, bald as a billiard ball, and with a nutbrown wrinkled face. There wasn’t a spare ounce of flesh on him, and his hands and feet were small and nimble. Looked in good trim, Webb thought sourly. Probably still in business.
‘Hello, Pussy. What can we do for you?’
The man’s shifty little eyes slid away from his. ‘Well, Mr Webb, the boot’s on the other foot, as you might say. Think I might have something to interest you, if the price is right.’ Webb kept his voice level, but he felt a jerk of excitement. They were due for a break. ‘The price, Pussy, as you well know, depends on the information. We’ll decide what it’s worth when we’ve heard it.’
The man gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘You’re a hard nut, Mr Webb. All right, I’ll trust you. I saw that bird last week. The one that got the chop.’
‘When did you see her, Pussy?’
‘She was walking down Station Road, like. It was the kid brought it back. I was on the other side, waiting to cross over, when she come running out of an alley and cannons straight into this bird in the fur jacket. The woman bent down to talk to her, but after a minute the kid shook her off and went running on up the road.’
‘And what did the woman do?’
‘Ah-hah!’ Pussy tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘That’s where you got it wrong, see. She didn’t go on to the Circus, like the woman cop did. She turned into the jigger the kid had come out of.’ He stuck his hands in his pockets and waited expectantly.
‘And then what happened?’
Pussy looked offended. ‘Well, I don’t know, do I? Didn’t hang around all bleeding day.’
‘So you didn’t see her come out again?’
‘Nah.’
‘Was there a man anywhere near her?’
‘No, boss. Not a blooming soul.’
‘Which alley was this, Pussy?’
‘Down the side of the Indian takeaway. Leads through to Carlton Road.’
‘You saw all this while you were waiting to cross the road?’
‘Yup. It happened very quick.’
‘And when you’d crossed, did you look down the alley?’
‘Nah. Wasn’t interested, was I? Thought no more about it till I saw the charade you put on just now. Well, was it any help or wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, Pussy, I think it was, and we’re grateful to you for coming. Constable Jones will see you’re suitably rewarded.’ Webb nodded at both men, then, leaving the interview room, took the stairs two at a time. In his office, he went to the street map on the wall and located the alleyway. As Pussy’d said, it was a short cut to Carlton Road, cutting out Gloucester Circus. But no one going to Duke Street car park would have turned down it. Had Nancy always intended to go down there, or was it because of something Sharon had said? It was clear the child had lied, or at least edited her statement. If she’d only gone to the Co-op, she wouldn’t have been near the alley. So what was she doing there? Meeting a boyfriend her mother didn’t know about? He’d have to see her again, and preferably without Mrs Robinson in attendance.
In the meantime, it was nearly six and he’d had enough for one day. Sergeant Partridge was still in the general office, and Webb paused briefly. ‘Don, get on to Stonebridge, will you. I’d like the wheels put in motion for some info from British Telecom: did anyone from the hotel or Gables Lodge put a call through to Belsize Gardens on the third or fourth of January?’
‘Right, Guv. Will do.’
The rain had started again, and the wind was getting up, winding the flaps of Webb’s raincoat round his legs as he opened the car door. Impossible to judge the value of Pussy’s information, but at very least it opened a new direction for Nancy’s doings. What did she want in Carlton Road? With East Parade, it contained the better-class shops and one or two cafes and restaurants. Perhaps she’d decided on tea before starting back to London? If so, it was the obvious place to head for.
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