‘We shall just have to make allowances,’ Molly had said defensively next morning. Quantrill was snatching a quick breakfast before returning to Wyveling, and his wife and teenage son had joined him in the kitchen for a low-voiced discussion before Phyllis put in an appearance. ‘She’s bound to be upset by the move. After all, she’s eighty-four …’
‘Eighty-four’s nothing,’ said Peter, a note of malicious glee in his voice. He was still hobbling painfully on crutches, five months after an accident on a forbidden motor cycle had nearly killed him, and he had already signalled his intention of milking sympathy and supplementary pocket money from his grandmother. ‘She’ll probably live to be a hundred.’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it, she won’t,’ Quantrill had pronounced. In reality, of course, he had seen too much of the devastating domestic repercussions of murder ever to contemplate committing it himself. But even so, he couldn’t help indulging in a moment’s fantasy before setting off to investigate the death of Enid Long.
As a matter of policy, and with the approval of his Superintendent, Chief Inspector Quantrill had postponed the start of the investigation until the morning after the murder. Certain routines – calling in the police surgeon, the photographer, the pathologist, cursorily checking all the rooms, ascertaining the point of entry – had to be gone through as soon as possible, but Quantrill saw no point in having the entire murder squad fumbling about the house and grounds by artificial light. Much better to put the place under guard during the hours of darkness and postpone the detailed investigation until they could see what they were doing.
There was of course no question of the murdered woman’s daughter and son-in-law returning to the house, even had they wanted to do so, until the police had finished with it.
Temporary accommodation had been offered them by the neighbour who had witnessed the evidence of burglary, but Mrs Cartwright had begged to go to a particular local friend instead: a fellow cancer-sufferer, her husband had explained, Mrs Sylvia Collins of Church Hill. Having caught a glimpse of her mother’s body Mrs Cartwright was understandably distraught, and the police surgeon had given her a sedative.
Quantrill had assigned a policewoman, Val Thornton, to the Cartwrights, to remain with them night and day for as long as was necessary. It always helped a murder victim’s family to have one particular officer with them, not only to provide practical support and keep away unwelcome visitors but to encourage them to talk through their shock. This also helped the detectives, because very often some vital scrap of information would emerge from one of these rambling, unpressured conversations.
In this case, though, when it was the victim’s son-in-law who had discovered her body, a formal witness statement from him was going to be necessary. Quantrill had already spoken to Derek Cartwright during his initial visit to the scene; now he wanted a longer informal discussion before the witness made his statement.
‘We’ll go and talk to Cartwright first, then do the major briefing,’ Quantrill told Sergeant Lloyd as they drove out to Wyveling. Then he added, in a lamentable lapse of professionalism, ‘Pity that man’s got an alibi, or I’d have had him down as the natural suspect.’
Hilary Lloyd glanced at her chief inspector with half-mocking affection. ‘Oh dear … Trouble with your mother-in-law already?’
‘I told you, it’s inevitable. I could cheerfully have wrung the woman’s neck when she bawled me out at one o’clock this morning. I wish to heaven we’d stayed in Benidorm Avenue – she couldn’t have lived with us there because of the stairs.’
‘Come off it, Douglas, you know you don’t really wish you were still there. Think how much pleasure you get out of having your own half-acre of land in Bramley Road.’
It was perfectly true. Although Quantrill had bought the established, individual bungalow – on an alarmingly large mortgage – principally to atone for an accumulation of guilt, he regretted nothing about it except its suitability for his mother-in-law.
He had instigated the move, after Peter’s accident, to demonstrate to Molly his willingness to make a fresh start: to think in future of his family instead of hankering after his unattainable sergeant. The move had certainly made Molly happy because Bramley Road was one of Breckham Market’s most sought-after areas, secluded and yet within walking distance of the town centre. And the bungalow was easier than a house for Peter to hop about in, not just because he was temporarily on crutches, but because his legs had been so badly splintered that despite a restructuring with metal plates and bolts, one of them would always be shorter than the other.
Quantrill had assumed that, in looking for a property to suit Molly and Peter, he would necessarily have to sacrifice his own interests. But he had always been uncomfortable in the cramped modern semi-detached house in Benidorm Avenue, and the generously proportioned bungalow was much more to his liking.
For the first time in his married life he found it a real pleasure to be at home. He liked the privacy of the large garden, with its old apple trees and the vegetable patch he intended to restore to productivity as soon as he could get round to it. He liked the various sheds where – once he got started – he could leave half-finished projects without being accused of making a mess. He liked the sizeable living-room with its open fire on which, next winter, he could throw logs he had sawn himself. It was almost, he felt, like the country life he had been brought up to, though thankfully without the ancient inconveniences of genuine rural living.
He still felt guilty, of course. True, he had put things right both with Molly and with Hilary, in the sense that he was no longer trying to be unfaithful to the one, nor persistently embarrassing the other. His working relationship with his sergeant was now stabilized – enhanced, in fact, by their acknowledged friendship and the support she had given him after Peter’s accident.
Quantrill had never been able to admit to Molly that he held himself responsible for the boy’s crash. If only he hadn’t been so furious when he saw Peter, on a borrowed machine, out with his mates; if only he hadn’t distracted the boy by shouting and trying to stop him. Time and again, when he closed his eyes, it was to see his son being flung from the skidding machine, and sliding across the muddy road under a sugar-beet trailer that bumped as it ran over his legs.
Hilary had seen it too. That was why she understood his feelings of guilt. It was also why he couldn’t confess them to Molly, because he would never have seen Peter’s trial run and attempted to stop it if he hadn’t parked his car at the roadside, while on duty, specifically for the purpose of propositioning his sergeant.
If only he hadn’t.
But he had. And however deeply he regretted his part in causing the accident, he had at last come to the conclusion that there was no point in wallowing in self-reproach. As far as he could see, circumstantial guilt was an inescapable part of the human condition. If it wasn’t about one thing, it was about another. He could understand Molly’s attempt to insure herself against it by taking charge of her mother, but he wondered how long it would be before she felt even more guilty because she’d uprooted the old lady, or else because she’d lost patience and treated her unkindly.
As he drove through the gateway of the Brickyard at Wyveling he thought of that other old lady, Enid Long. Someone was guilty of her murder, and that guilt was of a very different kind. Recalling the scene in Mrs Long’s bedroom in the early hours of the morning, Quantrill felt properly ashamed of his fantasy about doing away with his mother-in-law. Ordinary everyday guilt was bad enough, God knew. But how anyone who wasn’t a psychopath could live with himself after committing murder, Quantrill really couldn’t imagine.
Chapter Sixteen
Derek Cartwright was outraged. If he had known where to find that evil bastard Packer, he would have slaughtered him.
The man was a pervert. Who else would sexually assault an old woman? It was appalling, obscene. No wonder poor Christine was nearly out of her mind with the horror of it.
If only Packer
had stuck to the plan and used a pillow, Christine would have been able to cope. In those last few moments in the car Derek had hurriedly thought of a way to minimize the shock for her. He had imagined himself, once he’d established that Enid was dead, leading Christine compassionately into the room; he had assumed that her mother would be lying so peacefully under the covers that it would look almost as though she had died of natural causes.
He could then have gently explained to his wife that Enid had in fact been suffocated. Christine would still have found it distressing, of course, but the atmosphere of dignity would have made the ordeal bearable for her. Instead, while he had stood staring, stunned, she had burst into the room behind him and seen, poor girl, exactly what he saw.
What had happened after that was now a confusion in his mind. Les Harding had been very helpful, though; thank God he was there to do the telephoning, because Derek himself – what with his injured hand, and the shock – had been temporarily incapable of doing anything other than supporting his wife.
And then the police had arrived.
The police were potentially a problem, of course. In prospect, he had been apprehensive about coming into contact with them. He had expected to feel nervous in their presence. He was convinced that they would sense his guilt. But in the event he was so disgusted by what Packer had done that he felt completely distanced from it: what had happened wasn’t his fault.
Besides, there was no reason why the police should imagine that he had any knowledge of his mother-in-law’s murder. They would expect him to be upset, after what he had witnessed. And his alibi was unarguable.
Even so, he had braced himself for some intensive contact with the police. He had assumed that he would be required to make a detailed list of the items that had been stolen from the Brickyard. He had imagined that he would have to spend most of the night taking the detectives on a tour of the property, explaining in full how his mother-in-law had come to be left alone and where, in his opinion, the burglar must have broken in.
But the police seemed not to need him. They had their own way of doing things, and tactfully removing the bereaved from the scene was apparently a priority. Christine was immediately taken care of by a chunky, sympathetic policewoman, who told them to call her Val. Derek was asked a few straightforward questions by the detectives, and advised to make a list of missing items as soon as possible the following morning; that was all. Within a very short time he and Christine were being escorted by Val to the thatched house on Church Hill, where his wife’s new friend was apparently expecting all three of them.
Sylvia Collins was in her late middle age, grey-haired but lively and full of chat even at two o’clock in the morning, and quite unabashed to be on view in a mangy old dressing-gown. Its limpness on one side gave away the fact that she, like Christine, had had a mastectomy.
‘You poor dear,’ she said, giving her stricken friend a hug. ‘Hello, Derek, nice to meet you – though not on such a terrible occasion, of course. No, don’t even think of apologizing, I’m only too glad to be of whatever help I can. Now, where would you like to sleep? The spare room has twin beds, but I’ve stripped my double bed – I can make it up for you in a couple of shakes, if you’d prefer that?’
‘Thank you,’ said Derek, grateful for her considerateness. He knew that on this particular night Christine would more than ever need the comfort of his arms.
But his wife, calmer now, spoke for herself. Her face, numbed by shock, was a pale shiny mask. She seemed to have some difficulty in forcing words through her set lips, and he thought for a moment that he must have misheard here. Then she repeated it: ‘No, thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer us your bed, Sylvia, but I’d prefer the spare room.’
Long after Christine had been knocked out by a sedative, Derek thrashed about in his narrow bed on the other side of the room. He couldn’t rest, in body or in mind. The low, heavily raftered ceiling oppressed him.
He would have liked to get up and go downstairs – wander about for a bit, find the kitchen, make yet another pot of tea. But Val, who had come equipped with a sleeping-bag, had bedded down in the sitting-room and left the door open, and he was afraid of waking her. The last thing he wanted was a private chat over the teacups with a policewoman, however sympathetic.
His hand hurt like hell. ‘You all right?’ the police surgeon had said after attending to Christine, and Derek had been too proud to ask for a painkiller. He contemplated getting up and raiding Mrs Collins’s bathroom cabinet for aspirin or something, but the bathroom was downstairs and he would have to pass the sitting-room to get to it.
He turned over and thumped his pillow with his good hand. God, what a hideous thing Packer had done. So much for all his talk of being a professional! Derek hated him for abusing poor old Enid, and for causing Christine such extraneous grief. He’d give anything to see him locked away for life. Anything except his own freedom, of course.
Though he dissociated himself completely from Packer’s actions, he knew that he could do nothing to dissociate himself from the man. The two of them were interdependent. The only way he could conceal his own foreknowledge of Enid’s death was by taking good care to shield Packer from the police.
He would have minded less about doing this if only everything had been right between himself and Christine. After all, the whole purpose of the operation had been to regain the privacy they valued as a happily married couple. But their former loving relationship seemed to be going wrong already.
Despite their earlier quarrel over his loss of the dog (and that fretted him, now he remembered it: was Sam all right, out there alone in the forest?), Christine had been entirely sympathetic about his cut hand. But almost from the moment when she saw her mother’s body, her affection for him had seemed to cool.
He had immediately taken her in his arms, of course. He’d held her close for most of the time from then until she was sedated. But come to think of it, Christine hadn’t once turned voluntarily to him. Far from responding to his loving care she had on occasion fought impotently against it, shouting at him to leave her alone.
Derek had put it down to shock. She needed him, he knew that; she would be only too glad to cling to him when they were at last alone. But he’d been wrong, and the fact that she had rejected the offer of a double bed, when they had never before not slept in one, had hurt him deeply.
Perhaps the sight of the terrible things that a man had done to her mother had temporarily alienated her from men. That could make sense … except that he wasn’t just any man, he was the considerate husband she’d known and loved for over twenty years. Why in God’s name should she turn against him now?
Did she suspect him? Did she hold him in any way responsible for her mother’s death?
There wasn’t any reason for her to do so; or was there? Well, he’d made it clear enough that he wanted to get rid of Enid … and Christine had certainly been suspicious about the way he had taken the dog to the forest in the rain.
Even in the middle of her distress over her mother, Christine hadn’t forgotten Sam. ‘He would have kept away any burglar,’ she had sobbed to Sylvia. ‘Oh, why did Derek have to go and lose him, today of all days –’
Naturally he had lamented with her, reproaching himself aloud for his carelessness. Not that Christine had been in a fit state to take in what he was saying, but he wanted to make the point for the benefit of Sylvia Collins and Val. They had both been quick to tell him that he mustn’t blame himself. It was just one of those terrible coincidences, they’d said, speaking with such sincerity that he’s almost believed them.
But Christine, with her wifely intuition, was less likely to dismiss the episode. That was why her withdrawal filled him with such anxiety. He didn’t for one minute think that she would give him away, whatever her suspicions; but that was not the point. Derek didn’t want a bitter loyalty from his wife, he wanted – needed – her love and trust. Without that he had nothing.
Sick with worry, he looked longing
ly across the room towards the dark shape of the other bed. What with his guilt, and his fears, and the hurt of his hand, he wanted to lie close to Christine as much for his own sake as for hers.
Eventually Derek slept. And dreamed. And what he dreamed was the old nightmare of strangling his mother-in-law.
But now the details were different, more specific. The throat that his fingers grasped was not inert, but warm and trembling. The flesh was flabby, but there was an underlying resistance to his pressing thumbs, a resistance that he knew he could crush if only he squeezed hard enough.
The throat was Enid’s, indubitably. As he began to work on it he could see her familiar, admirably cared-for features; at first smiling, then looking at him with perplexed enquiry, then starting to bulge under the pressure he was applying to her windpipe. He was horrified, appalled by what he was doing. But try as he might he couldn’t stop until, on an instant, he woke.
He shot up in bed, dry-mouthed yet covered in cold sweat. It was all so vivid, and he was afraid. When he realized that he had only been dreaming again and that he hadn’t really murdered Enid, he could have wept with relief.
He turned to Christine for comfort, expecting to find her beside him in their double bed. And then he remembered.
Chapter Seventeen
At least the police didn’t suspect him.
It had been unnerving, when he returned to the Brickyard on the morning after the murder, to see the police in possession. Worse, he was admitted to his house only under escort. But all of them were friendly and considerate, and as he went round deciding what items were missing he kept reminding himself that the very young constable was with him merely to ensure he didn’t get in the way of the men with the lights and the cameras and the tweezers and the plastic bags, the dusting-powder and the tapes.
This Way Out Page 13
