by Ann Granger
Meredith’s face flamed and her mouth opened.
Green forestalled her, leaning across the little table and holding her gaze with his. ‘If you try and use your knowledge to embarrass me in any way, Miss Mitchell, you’ll regret it. And I’m sure you’re far too intelligent to think of blackmail.’
‘Harriet was my friend!’ Meredith said tightly.
‘And to me a mistress,’ Green said calmly. ‘Nothing more. Just that. A mistress.’
You rat, thought Meredith. You miserable wretch. May you rot in your miserable little grave.
‘Is that how she saw your arrangement?’ she flung at him.
‘Of course. Please don’t act the affronted romantic, Miss Mitchell. Harriet was nothing if not exceedingly dear-headed. She knew that if she had attempted to change the rules, our affair would have come to an immediate end.’
‘How convenient for you!’ she snapped. ‘I wish I could believe it was so nicely cut and dried!’
Green’s lips twisted in a brief, mirthless grimace. ‘All lovers quarrel occasionally, Miss Mitchell. It adds a certain spice to a relationship. It does not necessarily alter the nature of it. But if you need further advice I suggest you write to a lonely hearts column. I can’t say it’s been a pleasure . . .’ He made a movement to rise from the table.
‘I believe,’ Meredith said mildly, ‘an elderly relative of mine is a friend of your father-in-law’s. Your father-in-law is Mr Ballantyne, isn’t he? Living near Newbury?’
It’s not much, Harriet, she thought. It was a small revenge but it was the best she could do.
Green froze poised halfway between sitting and standing. His florid face drained of colour and became ashen. ‘You should have informed me of this at the outset! This conversation has been conducted on an entirely false premise! I assumed you knew almost as little about me as I about you! How much do you really know about my affairs?’
‘Mr Green,’ Meredith said rising to her feet with dignity. ‘I really have no interest in your affairs, of any nature. My interest is solely to discover where Harriet obtained the tranquillisers. But there is one question you could answer, if you would.’
‘Yes?’ he said hoarsely.
‘Did you breakfast with Harriet on Boxing Day morning?’
‘No!’ Green snapped angrily. ‘I left around midnight on Christmas night!’
‘And you didn’t come back?’
‘No! Why should I? It was the morning of the meet. I had to get ready. I would be seeing her at the meet in any case.’
‘Fine. Well, thank you, Mr Green. And thank you for the coffee.’ She smiled glacially on him and walked out leaving him silent, furious and, she was pretty sure, scared out of his wits.
But as she drove back to Pook’s Common, a pall of discouragement settled over Meredith. It had nothing to do with discovering how Harriet died, but much to do with Harriet herself. What price your independence, really, Harriet? Meredith wondered bleakly. She had been so keen not to let anyone get the better of her. She, who had kept Tom Fearon so firmly in his place. Yet along that wretch Green had come and she fell for whatever his charms had to offer. And now all he wanted to do was pretend he never knew her. It had been him she’d cooked her cordon bleu meal for on Christmas Day. Now he said she was a mistress, nothing more. In time he would have traded her in for a newer model, just as one day he’d trade in that Granada car. How could Harriet have fallen for such a type? Or had she known? Had she known and not cared? She wished she knew. Oh Harriet, she wished she knew.
But supposing . . . Meredith changed gears with a crunch and slowed at the turning off to Pook’s Common by Fenniwick’s garage. There was a man in the forecourt and it appeared to be open for business again. Supposing Harriet had minded? Supposing she had expected Green to divorce Felicity and marry her? Or even suppose she had just become fed up with playing such a cloak-and-dagger role in his life. ‘Don’t act as though you’re ashamed of me! Take me out and introduce me to your friends!’ she might have demanded. Green couldn’t and wouldn’t have done that. He would have refused. She might have been angry, realising how little she meant to him really. She might have made threats. That would have given him a powerful motive to shut her up – for good.
Markby had made his way to the medical centre after leaving The Crossed Keys. Such a stupid thing – to be caught holding Fran’s hand like that. Meredith surely wouldn’t think . . . would she?
‘I’d like a private word with Dr Pringle,’ he told the receptionist. ‘What time does he see his last patient this morning?’
She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Dr Pringle’s surgery is fully booked this morning. He can’t see anyone else. You’ll have to make an appointment for the five o’clock surgery.’
‘I don’t want to consult him. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Markby,’ he produced his card. ‘It’s a word about a case.’
‘Oh,’ she thawed. ‘Well, he has just one more person to see this morning before lunch. If you like, I’ll just call him – ’
She put out a hand for the phone but he stopped her. ‘No, I’ll wait outside his surgery door.’
He walked down the corridor which smelled of disinfectant and sat down outside the door marked ‘Dr J. Pringle’. The medical centre had only been open two years. All its paintwork was nice and fresh, its carpets unstained. But its plastic chairs were already showing signs of wear. Markby shifted unhappily in his and it creaked. Above his head the fluorescent lighting strip made a soft, singing noise and flickered occasionally.
From behind the closed door of Pringle’s room he could hear voices, Pringle’s and a woman patient’s. After a while there was a movement and the door opened. A woman of depressed and depressing appearance came out and scurried away down the corridor. Pringle, his bluff form filling the doorway, saw Markby and exclaimed in surprise, ‘Hullo, Alan! Gone sick?’
‘No – I’ve just dropped in for a word, if you’ve a moment.’
‘Come in. I’m on my lunch hour. Then it’s home visits, a quick cuppa and back here for five o’clock surgery. Who’d be a GP?’ He indicated a chair and sank back in the one he had just quitted. ‘Is it about the inquest tomorrow?’
‘Yes – you’re going to give medical evidence, I understand.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Jack – ’ Markby hesitated. ‘I don’t mean to pry but I know that you and Harriet were pretty friendly at one time, a couple of years ago.’
‘I suppose you could call it that.’ Pringle’s geniality had gone. ‘It won’t stop me giving an objective medical opinion.’
‘I wasn’t going to suggest it would. There’s no way I can ask this except bluntly, Jack. Did you visit her at Pook’s Common on Christmas Day – in the evening?’
‘No.’ Pringle stared hard at him. ‘As it happens, I was called out on an emergency on Christmas Day. You can check.’
‘And Boxing Day morning, before I saw you in the square. You hadn’t been out and breakfasted with her?’
‘No!’ There was a pause and then Pringle asked in a quiet voice, ‘But someone had, hadn’t he? You don’t know who and you’d like to. She had a man friend there on Christmas Day – and in the morning on Boxing Day.’
‘I’m sorry. Jack,’ Markby said contritely. ‘I don’t like having to bring it up if it’s painful.’
‘It’s not your fault. You have to do your job. No, I wasn’t there, on either occasion. Whoever he was, he wasn’t me. I don’t mind telling you that I wish it had been.’
‘Sure, Jack, I understand.’
‘And you’re right, it is painful. It’s two years ago now since Harriet and I were friendly, as you put it. But it never stops hurting, Alan.’
‘You didn’t decide to do something about it, did you, Jack?’ Markby found himself praying that Jack wouldn’t reply in the affirmative.
‘No. I didn’t go down there and feed her tranquillisers. I have access to the things – ’ Pringle waved a hand at the shelves around him. �
��But I didn’t. And I don’t much like the thought that anyone else did.’ He paused. ‘She was like the personification of life itself. I would have done nothing to snuff that out.’
Women, women, women . . . thought Markby as he made his way back to the station. Well, they all seemed to be in a mess in that respect. Now there was the coroner’s inquest. He supposed he could ask for an adjournment on the grounds that criminal proceedings were to be taken – meaning against Pardy for criminal recklessness. But those damn pills . . . any good defence counsel would tear the case against Pardy apart if it came to court. Harriet Needham had certainly caused a lot of trouble.
There was a certain awkwardness between herself and Alan Markby now, thought Meredith, and she couldn’t help but admit it was entirely of her making. Finding him tenderly holding Fran’s hand hadn’t helped, but the basic situation was one she had created. Which made it difficult to pick up the telephone at Rose Cottage and ring him, but she had to.
‘Meredith?’
She heard the eagerness in his voice and cut in quickly before he could say anything more. ‘I wanted to tell you, I’ve found out the identity of Harriet’s guest on Christmas Day. It was Rupert Green. I’ve spoken to him and he admits it.’
‘Does he, indeed?’ she heard him give a low whistle.
‘He says he left late – at the time I heard the car drive away – and he didn’t come back. He knows nothing, or so he claims, about pills. He says Harriet didn’t mention any or claim to be depressed and he wants to be kept out of it. If his wife finds out she’ll divorce him and his father-in-law will discontinue his financial backing. All in all, he’s very nervous is Mr Green.’
‘I’d better have a word with him.’
‘Be careful. He’ll threaten you with his lawyers.’
‘Is that what he did with you?’
‘More or less.’
‘You watch yourself!’ he said censoriously. ‘He could prove a tricky customer.’
‘He blusters. He puts up the big bold image. In my experience that kind is hiding something and is looking for a way out.’
‘So long as all he’s hiding are his extra-marital affairs. Thanks for finding out – but couldn’t you have brought your information to me and let me sound him out?’
Meredith stiffened. ‘I didn’t have it to bring until this afternoon. I just saw his car and then him in the High Street and I’m afraid I got a gut feeling about it. I gambled, if you like, and I was right. Anyway, you couldn’t have seen what I saw. Your aunt doesn’t live next door to Rupert’s father-in-law.’
‘You’ve lost me,’ Markby said.
There was an embarrassing pause as the double meaning sank in for both of them.
He began again hurriedly, ‘I mean I don’t – ’
‘It’s all right, Alan. I know what you mean.’ Meredith put the phone down.
Markby, at the other end of the line, replaced his own receiver as the familiar burr of a cut line sounded in his ear. Clearly Meredith did think he was romantically entwined with Frances Needham-Burrell. Oh, what the hell! he thought angrily, grabbing a pile of papers from his In-tray. He couldn’t help what she thought. He wasn’t going to run round to Rose Cottage to explain himself. She didn’t want a closer relationship, fine. She wasn’t getting one.
‘You go on home!’ he said sourly to Pearce who ventured to put his head round the door. ‘I’m working late!’
‘Old man’s in a bad temper!’ warned Pearce downstairs, on his way out.
The ‘old man’ – whose temper would not have been improved by the description – had set himself to work and work he did, solidly with a couple of brief breaks for coffee until late. Which was how he came to be in the building when the 999 call came in.
Simon Pardy was also having problems with being rejected. He was used to it, mind you, but it still made life just that little more difficult than it already was. The facts of the situation simply were that he was barred from nearly every public house in Bamford. Simon was not sociable by nature but even he was surprised at the inconvenience caused to him by the new restrictions on his already limited social life.
The first to bar him had been The Bunch of Grapes, following the affray on New Year’s Eve there. This Simon found completely unfair because after all, he was the one who had been attacked by that prat from the stables, and so it wasn’t his fault, was it? All he’d done was defend himself. Colin Deanes agreed with him. He was all right, was Colin. But barred from The Bunch of Grapes Simon remained. Micky, Tracy and Cheryl, on the other hand, had let him know in no uncertain terms that they were not barred from The Bunch of Grapes, and had every intention of continuing to drink there. Their disloyalty did not surprise Simon – he had been mildly surprised when the girls came to his aid when Fearon attacked him, though he realised that was a matter of principle with them as he was a member of their party at the time. But their attitude now did make him bitter. They ought to continue to stand by a mate, shouldn’t they? Someone who shared a house with them? Had their situations been reversed, Simon would not have dreamed of standing by them, but this thought did not trouble him.
However the unjust discrimination against him had begun earlier; it had begun the day after Boxing Day. It seemed that since that business in the Market Square when that silly bitch fell off her horse and cracked her head open, the mark of Cain was on him. No one wanted him around. Others felt they could not drink in comfort knowing he was there, ill-omened, accursed. In addition, Harriet Needham had had a surprising number of friends and admirers and he had been getting some threatening looks and words. It wasn’t just that fellow from the stables he had to worry about. Yes, the word had gone out. A rotten, decadent society had closed its ranks against him, the reformer. He was out.
As a result, Simon found himself reduced to drinking alone in Bamford’s least popular tavern. It was run by an elderly curmudgeon who could expect to see half a dozen in his public bar on a good night and treated these few hardy souls with fierce disdain. He didn’t mind Simon drinking there. He didn’t care who drank there. He didn’t care if no one drank there. His was not a tied house, he was answerable to no brewery and he could and did do as he liked.
That Thursday evening, a week to the day since the accident, found Simon sitting on his own in the gloomy corner of the above pub which he had made his own. Not that there was anyone to challenge his right to it. The misanthropic publican leaned on the bar and read the paper. Two old men in caps drank in the far corner and by the door sat a bleached blonde who had been banned, like Simon, from a good few bars in her time but whose luck had turned tonight. She had succeeded in picking up a lonely, bored businessman on a sales trip, and was downing Cinzano and lemonade as fast as she could while her new friend was paying.
The pall of gloom and bitterness thickened about Simon, helped by the unpleasant, bitter-tasting, weak-tea-coloured brew – claimed by the landlord to be lager-which he was drinking. The misanthrope seldom washed out the pumps. Tomorrow was Friday and there would be the inquest to get through. He’d be asked to give evidence, explain his actions. The coroner would keep on at him, asking what was in his mind. Trying to make him say things to trap himself. Trying to trick him into saying he meant to injure her. He’d tell them nothing. Colin had warned him, just stick to the basic facts. Remember they saw the accident so you can’t deny your actions, but you can deny you meant any harm. Speak up clearly, be frank and look straight at them. Don’t say anything controversial. Include an apology. That last would stick in the throat but Colin insisted. Say how sorry you are. You hadn’t realised she would fall off.
A wave of self-pity swept over Simon. You’d think, seeing that he had all that to get through tomorrow, Micky at least would have come out tonight and had a drink with him. Even the girls’ company would have been something. They’d let him down. Not that he expected anything better of them. They wanted to be rid of him. He set down his half-finished lager with a grimace and got to his feet. He’d had enoug
h. He’d go back to Jubilee Road where he’d have the place to himself. The others would have gone out by now. A picture of them enjoying themselves at The Bunch of Grapes flashed through his head and sourness tightened his stomach, encouraged by the drink. At that moment, he hated everyone. And he had work to do at home. He lurched across the floor and rudely pushed by the couple sitting by the door as he went out.
‘Look at that!’ said the blonde indignantly, brushing contact with Simon from her sleeve. ‘No manners and he looked like something the cat brought in!’
‘I’ve got two at home like that . . .’ said the businessman gloomily. ‘Cost me a fortune in fees for private education, piano lessons, trips abroad – now neither of them can hold a job down or speak a civil word. Loaf round the house all day . . . never do a hand’s turn to help their mother. I don’t know why.’
‘Don’t tell me, dear!’ said the blonde, patting his hand. A real sympathy glowed in her mascara-caked eyes replacing the purely professional concern with which she had earlier been listening to his woes. ‘I know! I’ve got a daughter – nineteen, she is. Gone off up to London and never writes or picks up a phone! Went off with a feller, of course. He was no good, I warned her, but she wouldn’t listen. Now I don’t know where she is or what she’s doing. And yet when she was a little girl, she lacked for nothing! I bought that kid everything she wanted. I had to go without myself to pay for her dancing lessons and the tights and tutus and shoes and whathaveyous. Look . . .’
She fumbled in her plastic handbag and dragged out a folder. Photographs tumbled out of it on to the greasy, beer-stained table. ‘That’s my Cindy when she was six. I kept her looking like a little princess.’
