The Saint Valentine’s Day Murders

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

  ‘And how did he react?’

  ‘As you’d expect. Undying gratitude. It’ll never happen again. He doesn’t know what came over him. And I believe him. If he wasn’t the kind of chap he is but one of the thugs, he’d resent me deeply for even criticizing him, let alone hesitating about lying on his behalf. He knows he did wrong.’

  ‘What will happen if the allegation comes to court?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it won’t. My wet reputation is a help. No one believes the story. But anyway, I’ve told Pike that if it does, I’ll perjure myself. Now you really do look shocked.’

  ‘I don’t know what to think, Jim.’

  Ann began to interrupt him. He got in first. ‘No, I can’t see it in your absolutist terms, Ann. I can’t honestly say what I’d have done in Jim’s position. Not everything is an issue of principle. I tend to be influenced by compassion towards the individual, and if Pike is as Jim says, personal loyalty would count a lot.’

  ‘To the point of perjury?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Christ, I don’t know. Is perjury worse than lying to colleagues? Anyway, this doesn’t change my opinion of Jim. He was a pretty remarkable copper when I met him and he still is.’

  ‘Thank you, Robert.’

  Ann look unhappily at Amiss. ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ve been married to Jim for fourteen years and I shouldn’t start doubting his integrity now. And maybe your reaction to the story is another proof that I’ve been living in an ivory tower for several years and it’s time I got a real job.’

  ‘When you find one, will you make room for me? Jim’s dilemma has been salutary for me too. I’ve been telling lies in defence of policies I didn’t believe in for years. Maybe it’s time I called a halt before my moral sense is eroded yet further. Tell you what, Ann: if they try to take paper purchasing away from PD2, I’ll resign rather than fight on the issue.’

  Chapter Eight

  None of Amiss’s colleagues had given him more than a passing thought that evening. Tiny Short was celebrating a 17–16 derby win over a neighbouring rugby team and was in better spirits than for weeks. He was sure that the captain would now have no excuse for acting on recent hints that it was time the over-35s made way for younger men. Tiny felt that the way he had converted his own try was sufficient proof that experience still counted for something. He was on his seventh pint when closing-time arrived, and was feeling beerily amorous.

  By the time he had covered the mile between pub and home, with one stopover behind a hedge, he was feeling full of sexual confidence. Fran had been a bit caustic about his recent failures, but she wouldn’t have anything to complain of tonight. Standing on the doorstep, fumbling for his latch key, he took a step back to examine the contents of his pocket in the light of the street lamp. There was a resounding crash as his right foot connected with a milk bottle. Cursing, Tiny picked up a few of the bigger pieces of glass and hurled them into a flower bed. He hoped she hadn’t heard the noise: she’d accuse him of being drunk.

  As silently as his heavy body would allow, he opened the door and crept quietly up to the bedroom. Fran was sitting up reading a magazine. Not even the sight of her glistening face and sensible pyjamas could put him off tonight. Launching into a description of his afternoon’s triumph he began to undress hurriedly.

  ‘I gathered you’d won,’ she said icily. ‘You’d have crawled home earlier otherwise.’

  Tiny looked across at her pleadingly. ‘Oh, come on, love. You know how it is. The lads all wanted to stand me one because of that try. It was one of my best ever.’

  He propped himself against the dressing table as he removed his socks, thus guarding against the risk of staggering. Stripped to his underpants, he went over and sat down on the side of the bed. He couldn’t tell from her expression what mood she was in. At least that meant she couldn’t have heard the breaking glass. Leaning over, he kissed her rather clumsily, pushed her gently back on the pillows and began to murmur endearments. There were indications that, if not enthusiastic, she was at least being co-operative. As he shifted slightly to get himself into a more comfortable position, his elbow hit the glass of water on her bedside table and knocked it on to the bed. ‘You stupid oaf!’ she screamed, pushing him off her furiously. ‘You just can’t do anything without making a mess of it, can you?’

  Without a word, Tiny left her to mop up the water unaided. He crept into his own bed, a recent innovation of Fran’s to spare her contact with his night-time sweating. During the moments before beer and exhaustion claimed him for sleep, it flashed into his slightly fuddled brain that it would be days before she let him try again.

  ***

  As soon as the children had gone to bed Tony Farson went to his den and addressed himself to the double glazing issue. Gloria had been nagging him about it ever since next door had had it done. It took a long time to translate all the pros and cons into figures: estimated savings in heating costs and increase in the value of the house had to be balanced against the reduction in his capital and investment income. He heaved a sigh of relief when the final calculation came out in favour of going ahead. That should shut her up for a while. The woman was possessions-mad. When he thought of the way she had persuaded him into buying that music centre, he went hot and cold all over. The capital outlay had been bad enough, but now she was frittering money on tapes and records.

  He filed his papers away and let his mind stray back to his constant worry: Gloria just wouldn’t give up on that insane idea of having another baby. Tony cursed the fashion for third children. He had worked out the costs of a child over a twenty-year period and had almost fainted when he found what the total was. He had estimated what her lost income would be. He had even read up on the dangers of late pregnancies and warned darkly of the likelihood of having a mongol. No argument had any effect. He was determined not to give in this time, but he had an uneasy feeling she might be taking the law into her own hands. There was no way he could check on whether she was still taking the pill. He didn’t know what to do about that.

  ***

  As Tony was morosely descending the stairs, Charlie Collins, fifty miles away, was smooching with Dawn to a Barry Manilow record. She was slightly high on rum and coke and giggled appreciatively as he murmured at her lasciviously. Their host had dimmed the lights and many of the couples moving slowly on the mock-parquet floor were discreetly feeling each other up. Charlie applied his tongue gently to Dawn’s right ear: from her reaction he guessed he had located an erogenous zone. He move his head back a little and caught a glimpse of his wife draped around the newcomer from No. 42. Great. That should keep her out of the way for the evening, leaving him clear to concentrate on this superior piece of crumpet. He whispered a suggestion and Dawn indicated agreement. ‘Only half an hour, though,’ she said prudently, ‘or someone might miss us.’

  They were moving towards the door of the living room when the music abruptly changed to an aggressive track from Saturday Night Fever. The exit became blocked by a crush of erstwhile dancers who had yielded the floor to the extrovert minority—just one couple. Charlie and Dawn sighed resignedly. Flight would have to be postponed for a while.

  Then Charlie saw that the woman strutting uninhibitedly up and down the room was Jill, led by No. 42 in ever more extravagant and space-consuming manoeuvres. Charlie waited for her breath to give out, but he had neither realized how much vodka she’d put back nor bargained for how No. 42’s enthusiasm might augment her euphoric delusions. As the tempo grew more frantic, she seized a coffee table from against the wall and leaped on it unsteadily.

  ‘That’s it, petal,’ called out No. 42. ‘Give it to us, baby.’ To Charlie’s embarrassment, she began to undo the buttons of her blouse. Only his desperate lust for Dawn stopped him from intervening. Jill flung her blouse across the room to loud cheers. When her skirt followed it, the stretch marks on her belly and the spreading thighs were visible to all. Not till she began to grapple with the fastenings of her bra did Charlie accept that the part
y was over. Woodgrove might be a pretty permissive estate, but husbands couldn’t abnegate all responsibility. It was his job—yet again—to stop the fun and take her home.

  ***

  Graham Illingworth was at that moment happily putting the finishing touches to the bedroom of the doll’s house he was making as a Christmas present for Gail. He fixed the handle to the door of the tiny wardrobe and placed it in the left-hand corner. Now it was complete. He could find no flaws anywhere. Even the matching bedspread and curtains that Val had grudgingly made were exactly right, and toned in prettily with the sample he had cut down into a perfectly fitting carpet.

  He wondered if he had time to begin work on the fitments for the kitchen. Looking at his watch he was startled to find it was already 11:30. Val was late again: there must have been a lot of customers tonight. He picked up the doll’s house and locked it in a cupboard. As he pocketed the key he heard a little voice crying ‘Daddy’. He took the stairs in twos: as he entered the room, his arms were outstretched, ready to cuddle his little daughter.

  ***

  Horace and Rita Underhill had watched television for the entire evening. They both felt a sneaking gratitude that neither of the children had stayed in. It was so cosy to be able to watch what they liked without anyone complaining. They looked at each other affectionately from time to time. Rita thought how distinguished Horace looked in the new sports coat she’d bought for his birthday. She wished he would stop using the Grecian 2000 and let his hair go grey, but he seemed certain that a youthful appearance was important for his promotion chances. Anyway, that new diet seemed to be doing his ulcer good. Horace noticed how pretty Rita looked in that blue jumper that matched her eyes. He’d buy her a whole new wardrobe as soon as Shipton retired. It couldn’t be long now.

  ***

  Bill Thomas had finished the ironing before nine o’clock and sat for a moment in a glow of achievement. The house was spotless and tomorrow was now clear for digging the left-hand flower bed and switching the position of the bird-table. They’d prefer it in the centre of the garden, now that next door was infested by cats. What a delight it was to be free to live his life the way he wanted, and no mother to contend with.

  He went up to his room, took some seedsmen’s lists from the bedside locker, and carried them downstairs to his favourite chair. He read for a couple of hours, occasionally writing notes on the appropriate reference cards in his indexed box. When he had replaced the card that listed varieties of brussels sprouts, he riffled absently through half a dozen other sections. His eye caught the section on leeks and he remembered something odd Melissa had said about phallic symbols. Frowning, he pushed the box away and reached for another catalogue.

  ***

  Most of Henry Crump’s evening had been peaceful. Having refused to accompany his wife on a visit to their married daughter, he had been able to eat his tea alone in the kitchen. When he pushed away his sweet-plate he rose, searched in a leisurely manner for a pencil and paper, wrote a note—‘CUSTARD LUMPY’—and dropped it on one of the dirty plates.

  He found a can of beer and settled himself comfortably in front of the gas fire. He lit his pipe noisily, picked up his paperback and sighed with contentment. Two hours later, leaving Jackie Collins’s heroine in another post-coital trauma, he turned on the television. He was hoping for something rewarding from the French film. The paper had said that this one had been considered very shocking in 1969.

  By eleven o’clock he was feeling disappointed. There were more sub-titles than action. It wasn’t a patch on last week’s, all about a housewife who worked in a brothel in the afternoons. You could never predict what you’d get in a frog film. They had funny ideas about art. He was meditating on whether to give up and return to his book when the door opened and his wife came in. He looked up at her with his usual sense of revulsion. Tonight she was wearing a dingy old red raincoat and a bright blue woollen headscarf to depressing effect. Her feet were encased in sensible short fur boots, out of which rose thick legs, gnarled with varicose veins. She glanced over at the television as she began to peel off her outer garments. ‘You’re watching that filthy foreign muck again,’ she observed. ‘I don’t know why you can’t be your age.’ Henry turned sharply and saw a closing shot of two naked bodies entwined. Bloody hell! The high-spot of the film and he had missed it looking at her. He turned off the set grumpily and steeled himself to listen to fifteen minutes of complaints about buses, weather and the uselessness of the doctor who was treating his grandson’s cough.

  By midnight Edna was in bed. Henry was sitting on the side of the bath gazing at a treasured picture which usually resided in his wallet. It showed two young women lying on a tiger-skin caressing each other. One of them had curly hair like Melissa’s. From above looked on a lissom youth eager to join in. Henry was lost in a little world of his own. He was playing with himself.

  ***

  Henry might have been surprised had he known that as he was working up towards his orgasm Melissa Taylor was living out at least a part of his fantasy. She was stretched beside her lover stroking her breasts. But in this room there was no man looking on.

  ***

  Donald Shipton was asleep.

  Chapter Nine

  26 November

  Dearest Rachel,

  Many thanks for the marvellous long letter. Loved the story about Jeremy and the Rastas. He seems to have the same grasp of what’s going on as your average high court judge. I only wish there was someone here I could tell it to.

  I’m looking forward achingly to the weekend after this. It’s only the thought of pleasures to come that’s going to get me through the next few days. We’re all off to the Twillerton conference centre at three this afternoon. No one wants to go except Horace. He’s planning to write a report on the seminar for circulation to Authority so as to make same aware that under his leadership things are buzzing in PD. Of course he’s secretly pleased that Shipton has gone sick. It’s unbelievable what that layabout gets away with.

  Not a lot has been happening. There’s a general air of gloom and tension overlying all, which must, I suppose, mainly be Melissa’s fault. Or maybe it’s the thought of this weekend that is giving the lads a strained look. At least I’m getting on with them better now I’m no longer Public Enemy No. 1. Would you believe I haven’t had a single practical joke played on me since she arrived? She has suffered at least one. I emerged the other day at about ten past five and saw her back view as she left the office. Stuck to her coat was the simple legend ‘I am a dyke’. Regrettably, I am so coarsened by now that instead of pursuing her to point it out I gave Tiny a silent cheer. Or am I wrong and is this a new way of coming out? I thought they went in for lapel buttons.

  Melissa’s awfulness has made the awfulness of all the others pale into insignificance. I’m concocting a training plan for her that will send her touring regional offices and other parts of HQ to find out how they operate. I don’t see why we should be the only ones to suffer. Did I tell you she’s a proselytizing vegan? Last week she took it upon herself at lunchtime to tell Tiny he was eating cow sandwiches and Bill that his hardboiled egg was a chicken foetus. Tiny responded by saying that at least his cow was tastier than she was, but poor old Bill looked quite sick and pushed his egg away. He’s apparently got rather a soft spot for birds. I heard him yesterday rather touchingly explaining to Tony how to attract robins to a garden—as if Tony would have food wasted on our feathered friends.

  Anyway, I had some small revenge the following day. Cathy, our clerical assistant, complained that Melissa was giving her dirty magazines. It turned out to be a consciousness-raising attempt, with Melissa proffering Spare Rib as an alternative to Woman and Home. I summoned Melissa to my office and told her solemnly that if Cathy believed her vocation to lie in being a wife and mother, she, Melissa, should respect a Woman’s Right to Choose. She couldn’t decide if I was being serious or flippant so didn’t have the heart to argue.

  Horace is driving me to T
willerton, thus giving us the opportunity yet again to discuss how to make the party go with a swing. The others are all going in separate cars so they can collar the mileage allowance. Melissa is…guess! Yes—riding her motor bike. I hope it pisses down.

  Enough for now. I’ll continue this when I get a chance during the weekend. And may God have mercy on us all!

  Sunday

  Just when I really need you, your bloody phone goes out of order.

  I needed to babble incoherently, and now I have to write it down instead. Where shall I begin? Yes, yes. I hear your trained mind calling on me to take it from the beginning. Here goes.

  Friday

  3:00–5:00 Unspeakable journey with Horace. I wish I’d known he hates driving in London. I could have ridden on Melissa’s pillion. He is of the ‘if-you-grip-the-steering-wheel-until-your-knuckles-turn-white-and-hunch-over-it-till-your-back-hurts-you-will-be-able-to-better-control-events’ school of motoring. (Sorry about the split infinitive. I am not the purist I used to be.) Horace’s eyesight is appalling. I had to yell warnings several times. Is the silly sod too vain to wear glasses? It wasn’t until we got on to the motorway that he relaxed, but by then my nerves were in tatters and I could hardly make sense of his maunderings about creative confrontation, kicking ideas around to see where they led or alternatively throwing them into the air to see where they landed etc, etc. I gather some idiot sent him on a management psychology course three years ago and ever since he’s been chewing over what he learned on it.

  5:00–5:30 Unpacking and abluting. Layout of centre is roughly upon motel principle. (Mark this well. Its significance will become apparent.) Thus everything is at ground level: bedrooms come in square blocks of sixteen, built round a central courtyard, with a bathroom and exit in the middle of each side.