‘He does his own shopping and what he needs in the way of odd jobs he does for himself. He’s always been very proud and independent.’
‘Mel this is getting us nowhere—’
‘You’re just shrugging off everything I say to you,’ said Melissa angrily and then, before she could stop herself, she blurted out, ‘Are you still holding Graham Shipley?’
‘So that’s what this is all about.’ It was Matt’s turn to sound irritable. ‘You’ve got this bee in your bonnet about Shipley being an innocent victim.’
‘But he is, I’m sure he is. And he’s in a very fragile emotional state. I’m terrified to think what your interrogation is doing to him.’
‘I don’t care for the word ‘interrogation’. I assure you our interviews have been conducted on perfectly correct lines and he is having legal advice. Now, if that’s all you have to say to me—’
‘No, wait,’ she pleaded. ‘There is something else—’
‘All right, but make it quick. Hang on a minute,’ he added as another phone buzzed in the background. She heard him barking a series of staccato monosyllables before he returned to her, saying, ‘Look Mel, I’ve been called away on something urgent. Whatever you want to say will have to keep.’
‘All right, but please make it soon. It really is important.’
He heaved a sigh. ‘Okay then, be in the Grey Goose at one o’clock. I’ll try and join you there, but I can’t promise.’
Melissa’s stomach gave a faint lurch. Her first date with Ken Harris had been in the Grey Goose and despite the fact that the affair was over—and that she had been the one to end it—to meet anyone else there, even on business, seemed oddly like a betrayal. ‘Does it have to be the Grey Goose?’ she objected.
‘It’s the most convenient place for me. Is there a problem?’
There was none that she was prepared to divulge. ‘No, not really,’ she said lamely. ‘One o’clock, you said? I’ll be there.’
‘And whatever it is make it short, there’s a love. We’re snowed under with work here.’
‘I’ll do my best—and thanks, Matt.’ She hung up and glanced at the clock; it was a little after twelve. It wouldn’t take long to change out of her working clothes and into something more presentable and the drive to Stowbridge would take no more than fifteen or twenty minutes. That left plenty of time to call on Tommy Judd and find out if he was all right.
Tommy’s front door was locked, as Melissa discovered when, having hammered several times without success on its peeling paintwork, she turned the rusty handle and tried to open it. She went to the back door, but that too was firmly closed. In some concern, recalling the state she had left him in the previous day, she walked round the cottage and peered through the grimy ground-floor windows. There was no sign of him. Perhaps, she reflected, Gideon Lane had been right after all when he indicated that Tommy’s injuries were less serious than she feared. He might have gone out to do some shopping, in which case he could be back at any time. Remembering his angry insistence that he was not in need of help, it occurred to her that her presence would be unwelcome, to say the least. She returned to her car and drove into Stowbridge to keep her appointment with Matt Waters.
Everything in the saloon bar of the Grey Goose was exactly as she remembered, from the polished mahogany bar fittings and the ceramic pump handles to the frosted glass on the windows, etched with the name of a long-defunct Victorian brewery. It was, as she expected, crowded; among the throng she spotted one or two familiar faces of personnel from the police station a hundred yards down the street, but there was no sign of Matt. As she looked around in search of him she met the eye of a young man standing at the bar with a pint tankard in his hand. He said something to a companion and came over to her.
‘Mrs Craig?’ She nodded. ‘DC Danville. DS Waters asked me to give you this.’ He took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to her.
‘Thanks.’ Conscious of the young detective’s eye on her, she went over to an unoccupied table, put down her handbag and opened the envelope. It contained a single sheet torn from a police notebook, and read: Mel, sorry I can’t make it. You can leave a message with Bob Danville if you like, or get in touch later. Matt.
The main reason for wanting to talk to DS Waters had been to let him know about the attack on Tommy Judd, even though it was fairly certain that the old man would refuse to co-operate with any police enquiry. Now that he was apparently recovering from his injuries, the matter had suddenly ceased to be urgent. Melissa stuffed the note into her pocket, signalled ‘No reply’ to DC Danville and went back to her car. It crossed her mind to wonder whether Matt’s reason for being unable to keep their appointment had been genuine, then told herself that he was not the kind of man to make phoney excuses. She would say what she had to say at the first opportunity, although there was no guarantee that he would take it seriously. She considered what her next step should be, came to a decision and drove home.
There was still no sign of life in Elder Cottage. Knowing Graham’s habit of standing at the window she scanned every one, but he was not visible at any of them. That meant he was probably still in custody, although there was always the slim outside chance that he was at home, but deliberately keeping out of sight. Once indoors, to satisfy herself that the cottage was genuinely empty, she dialled his number and allowed his phone to ring over twenty times before giving up. Next, she called the office of the Gloucester Gazette and asked for Bruce Ingram.
Eighteen
‘I find this amusing,’ Bruce remarked as he put a glass of white wine and a pint of beer on a corner table in the bar of the Lamb and Shearling and sat down opposite Melissa.
‘Why?’ she asked with the wine halfway to her mouth.
‘Don’t you remember, last Sunday, saying to me something like “You aren’t going to drag me into one of your off-the-record investigations”?’ Bruce’s blue eyes twinkled at her over his tankard. ‘And here you are, enlisting my help in some sleuthing of your own.’
‘All right, I did say that and I meant it at the time. Things have changed since then and if I’m on the right track there could be a scoop in it for you.’
‘I take it this has something to do with your dodgy neighbour? The police have asked for an extra twenty-four hours to question him, by the way.’
‘I was afraid of that. Poor Graham, he must be in a terrible state by now.’
‘No worse than the girl’s mother,’ Bruce commented drily.
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Melissa admitted, ‘but I’m more and more convinced that he had nothing to do with Cissie’s death. Only the police seem so certain he did that they don’t want to listen to anything that might suggest otherwise.’
‘And you believe in “otherwise”?’
‘I do. It all seems to hinge on the fact that he denies having pulled her body from the water and that they don’t believe him.’
‘And you do?’
‘Yes. So far as I know, there’s still no firm evidence that she was actually murdered, but whoever found her first must have something to hide, otherwise why keep quiet?’
‘And you want my help in tracking down that person?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘The problem is,’ said Bruce, ‘I’m not half so sure as you are that such a person exists.’ He took a pull from his beer before adding, ‘Convince me.’
‘I admit I haven’t found any definite proof that he does—that’s why Matt Waters gave me the brush-off—but there are some things that don’t seem to me to add up.’
‘Okay, I’m listening. What’s your theory?’
‘At the moment it’s hardly a theory, more of a hypothesis. First of all, I’d better bring you up to date. There’s been a rather nasty attack on old Tommy Judd which I have a feeling is in some way connected with Cissie’s death.’
Bruce’s slightly bantering manner vanished and he lifted his head in a sharp movement that made her think of a guard dog listening to an unfamil
iar sound. ‘Tell me,’ he said.
She gave him a brief account of her discovery of the old man lying injured in his cottage, of his refusal to accept help of any kind and her conviction that, despite his denials, he had been robbed of something of value which had been concealed under the floorboards.
‘I’ve been trying to figure out why he should be so secretive about it,’ she said. ‘It could have been money that he’d either stolen or earned without declaring it for tax, but I find it hard to believe he’s a thief and I’d say that tax fiddles are way out of his league.’
‘What about drugs?’ Bruce suggested.
‘He’s never shown any sign of being a junkie, so far as I know.’
‘He could be dealing.’
‘Yes, I suppose he could.’ Melissa wondered why that explanation had not occurred to her before. ‘It seems unlikely, though,’ she added on reflection. ‘If there had been suspicious comings and goings to his cottage, someone’s bound to have noticed. You can’t keep that sort of thing quiet in a village.’
‘So what makes you think the attack’s got anything to do with the girl’s death?’
‘That’s where I start hypothesising. Let’s assume for a moment that Cissie was murdered. Perhaps Tommy knows something, or the killer believes that he knows something?’
Bruce considered his half-empty glass with pursed lips. ‘If that’s the case, and your killer was feeling seriously threatened, surely he’d have gone the whole way and made sure the old boy was silenced for good. But if he’s already well enough to go out …’ He shook his head and downed a long swallow of his drink before adding, ‘No, it sounds like a straightforward case of aggravated burglary to me.’
‘Then why refuse help? He must feel pretty strongly about it, because Gideon Lane got the same message when he called on him shortly after I did.’
‘Who’s Gideon Lane?’
‘He’s a recently-retired church organist from Somerset who’s come to live with his two elderly sisters at Benbury Manor. Supposed to be early retirement on health grounds, but he looks as fit as a flea to me.’
‘So does my auntie, and she’s diabetic. One of her favourite sayings is, “My looks never pity me”. Anyway, tell me about Mr Lane.’
Melissa recounted her meeting with Gideon and his subsequent call on her. ‘That’s something else I find puzzling,’ she finished. ‘He’s what you’d call a gentleman of the old school, very polished manners, cultured accent and all that, whereas Tommy Judd’s a decent enough old boy, but a bit of a rough diamond who to my knowledge hasn’t set foot inside the church for years. It’s hard to see what they can possibly have in common.’
‘A mutual interest in wild flowers or collecting matchbox labels?’ Bruce suggested with a grin. ‘Two old boys can usually find something to rabbit about. Look, if this is all you have to go on, Mel, I can’t see—’
‘I haven’t told you everything yet. I overheard some teenage kids talking at our village barbecue last Friday. I didn’t pay much attention at the time and it had slipped my mind, but last night I remembered one or two things they said that set me thinking.’ As accurately as she could, Melissa repeated the snatch of conversation she had overheard on the night of the barbecue. ‘I spoke to DS Waters this morning, but he didn’t seem all that interested.’
‘Did you tell him about the attack on Tommy Judd?’
‘No. I told him there was something else that might interest him, but it was off the record. He was called away so we made an arrangement to meet in a pub near the police station, but he sent a message to say he couldn’t make it. That’s when I decided to call you.’
‘Hmm.’ Bruce made some notes and considered them for a few moments. ‘I take it you aren’t suggesting that it was the kids —or one of them—who attacked Tommy?’
‘No, but it occurred to me that they might somehow have stumbled on his secret—whatever it is—and perhaps persuaded him to part with a little hush-money. That could account for their being able to afford tickets to the barbecue when they were skint a couple of days earlier. I’m sure young Becky suspected them of being up to something and her brother turned quite nasty when she hinted as much.’
‘Have you any idea when this attack on Tommy Judd took place?’
‘Not really. It could have been several hours before I found him, I suppose. The blood on his face had dried, but the light was poor and anyway I’m not an expert—’
‘No?’ Bruce treated Melissa to a mischievous smirk. ‘With all your crime writer’s experience of blood and guts?’ His smile faded as he went on, ‘The Bill picked up Shipley while we were on the phone yesterday—about eleven o’clock, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose so. Yes, Gloria was about to make the coffee.’
‘And you found Judd a couple of hours later?’
‘A bit more than that. Say two and a half. What are you driving at?’
Bruce fiddled with the handle of his beer tankard for a few moments before looking Melissa full in the eye and saying, ‘You aren’t going to like this, Mel, but it seems to me quite possible that it was Shipley who carried out the attack.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘I keep telling you, he’s not the violent sort—’
‘Don’t give me that. He took a swipe at young Blake, don’t forget. It could have injured the lad quite seriously if he’d connected.’
‘He’d had a few drinks and he was under provocation,’ Melissa protested, but without conviction. She put down her empty wineglass and covered her eyes with her hands, suddenly sickened and bewildered by the whole nasty business. ‘How come I got myself involved in all this?’ she groaned.
‘It’s your insatiable curiosity,’ Bruce chuckled. ‘If you take my advice, you’ll go home and forget all about Shipley and his troubles. They’re not your concern.’
‘That’s what everyone tells me.’
‘There you are then.’ Bruce picked up his empty glass and reached for hers. ‘How about a refill?’
‘No thanks, not for me. Bruce, I can’t give up now. I know there’s something important that hasn’t come to light.’
Melissa felt her voice tremble slightly with the intensity of her conviction and she saw Bruce’s expression become serious again. For a few moments he sat turning the glass between his hands, apparently deep in thought. Then he said, ‘This Gideon bloke, you reckon he’s been in the habit of visiting Tommy Judd?’
‘I can’t be sure, but I do have that impression. I only saw him there once, just after I’d found Tommy injured, but he could well have been before … yes, on reflection, I’m sure he had.’
‘I wonder if he went there the day Cissie died?’
‘I’ve never heard anything to suggest that he did.’ Melissa felt a twinge of excitement as the significance of the question sank in. It died down again as she heard herself saying, ‘Still, I imagine he and his sisters were interviewed in the course of the house-to-house enquiries. If he had seen anything relevant it would have come out then.’
‘Yes, probably. Just a thought.’ Bruce glanced at his wrist-watch. ‘Look Mel, I really should be getting back to work. Someone’s been peddling porno magazines to kids from Stowbridge Comprehensive and my editor wants me to get the story.’
‘Oh well, I suppose that’s more important than helping an innocent man with a murder charge hanging over him,’ said Melissa sarcastically.
‘Only doing my job. Mel, if you manage to turn up one concrete piece of evidence—’
‘I’ll give it to the police. Bruce, there have been times in the past when we’ve acted on your hunches and they’ve paid off. I’ve got a very strong hunch, but I can’t get you to help me.’ With a resigned sigh, she got to her feet. ‘All right, go and look for dirty books. I’m not giving up.’
‘Knowing you, I wouldn’t expect anything else.’
They were about to go their separate ways when Bruce said, ‘By the way, whereabouts in Somerset was old Lane choirmaster?’<
br />
‘I’ve no idea. Why?’
‘Just curiosity. My auntie—the one I told you about—lives near Clevedon, on the Somerset coast.’ He raised a hand in farewell. ‘So long, keep in touch.’
Melissa was in low spirits as she drove home. She longed to be able to detach herself from the situation, give her whole mind to completing her novel, hand it over to Joe and then arrange the trip to New York that Simon had proposed. Yet all the time her brain persisted in reviewing all the impressions and odd scraps of information she had gathered and the questions they gave rise to, arranging them this way and that in an attempt to detect some new pattern, pinpoint some new indicator that would lead her to the truth.
The most promising source of such an indicator—if promising was the right word to describe something so elusive—would seem to be Gideon Lane. Her way back into Upper Benbury took her past the end of the road leading to the Manor; on impulse, she turned into it and found herself a couple of minutes later approaching the entrance to the gravelled, tree-lined drive. The wrought-iron gates mounted on tall pillars of Cotswold stone stood wide open and after a brief moment of hesitation she drove up to the house, parked outside the studded oak front door and pressed the huge brass bell-push. The sound echoed from somewhere deep within and several seconds passed before she heard movement. At last there was a rattling sound, the door opened a few inches and the somewhat forbidding countenance of Esther Lane appeared in the narrow opening. Her expression registered recognition but was far from welcoming as she released the chain.
‘Mrs Craig,’ she said as—with some reluctance, Melissa felt—she held the door open, mutely inviting the unexpected visitor inside. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I was wondering if I could possibly have a word with your brother?’
Esther raised an eyebrow as if she disapproved of the request, but all she said was, ‘I suppose so. We’re in the kitchen—this way.’
Feeling rather like the second Mrs de Winter trailing nervously in the wake of Mrs Danvers, Melissa followed Esther’s stiffly upright figure along a passage leading to a large, well-appointed kitchen where Judith Waghorne and Gideon Lane were seated at a pine-topped table laid for afternoon tea. The minute he spotted Melissa, Gideon leapt to his feet with a beaming smile and pulled out a fourth chair.
Murder at Benbury Brook: An absolutely gripping English cozy mystery (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 9) Page 14
