Miss Pink Investigates- Part Four

Home > Other > Miss Pink Investigates- Part Four > Page 37
Miss Pink Investigates- Part Four Page 37

by Gwen Moffat


  She stopped at a T-junction. Rick couldn’t be incriminated if he were innocent. Oh yes, he could, said the voice of reason, someone else could lay false evidence. And even honest policemen made mistakes.

  She looked left. Turn left, first house on the right, Dave had said. She found the place: the type that is termed ‘luxury home’ by builders, with nothing to distinguish it except size and a pool — the front where it would be noticed by callers. The door of the double garage was up and only one car inside, a Mondeo. So Jonty was home but evidently not his wife. Sunday morning: she’d gone for the papers?

  Garden furniture and a barbecue stood at one end of the bright blue pool and a heavy fellow in floral trunks emerged from a slatted shelter roofed with plastic palm fronds.

  She regarded him with interest. He had the vanity of the fat man who thinks himself attractive, but in the wet trunks the focal point of that appeal was over-shadowed by a pendulous abdomen. At sight of a woman, however old, he expanded his chest and blinked behind his Armani frames — which had evidently replaced the Ray Bans. He was trying to place her. Surely not Authority — on a Sunday morning?

  She introduced herself as smoothly as if they were at a party. Somewhat disconcerted, he made a dive for a white robe on a chair. He liked white; it showed off his tan.

  Miss Pink followed him to the chairs. She sat down and surveyed the roofs of the town beyond and below the pool. ‘What a delightful situation,’ she said, and meant it.

  He seated himself gingerly. ‘May one ask why — Should I know you?’

  ‘We haven’t met,’ she said pleasantly. ‘I’m a private investigator.’

  His jaw dropped. ‘Who’re you working for?’

  ‘The lost children.’ She liked that; it had emerged spontaneously. Old age had many compensations — and people expected you to be barmy. ‘I found the body,’ she said.

  Jonty clutched his robe to him like a shy adolescent. ‘Whose body?’ he whispered.

  She was thinking fast. He was confused and she was playing it off the cuff. Having answered his questions truthfully — well, to some extent, anyone can call herself an investigator — she had side-tracked herself, but in doing so had put him at a disadvantage. She said chattily, her mind racing, ‘It’s tragic for accused men when the fault lies with the girls — children really: minors. Particularly when they take the initiative — what is a man to do?’ Her brain kicked in. ‘And to be robbed rubs salt in the wound. They took your fingerprints, of course?’ It was a question disguised as an afterthought.

  ‘Why should they do that?’ His fear outweighed hostility.

  ‘You followed her to Whelp Yard.’

  He leaped up and took a few paces, then turned with a lurch. ‘That blood was old Isaac’s! He did it, he killed her. Fingerprints? I had nothing to do with it. Why would I have to give my prints? And no, they didn’t ask for them. There — is — absolutely — no reason why they should.’ He did a double-take. ‘Who says I followed her to Whelp? I saw her in the churchyard and she ran off. I never saw her again!’

  ‘Sit down, Mr Robson.’ She was calm but firm, trying not to hurry, thinking that the wife could be back at any moment, and if she had any sense at all, the woman would immediately bring this conversation to an end.

  ‘Isaac killed Perry?’ she repeated. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘You said she’d been murdered. You said you’d found the body.’

  ‘Bless you, dear man! I meant little Joan Gardner — who was killed before you were born! I found her body in the peat.’

  ‘Oh Christ, that! Yes, the dog brought the bloody bone down. That collie: I had it in the back of my car. That was before he picked up the bone of course, or they’d have said I had something to do with that, wouldn’t they? Before I was born!’ He gave a furious snort.

  ‘It was a little girl’s leg bone,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Yes, well, she probably asked for it too.’ He was staring at the water and missed her sudden tension. ‘You rattled me,’ he muttered. ‘I got the two girls mixed up.’

  You were meant to, my man. Aloud she said, ‘Isaac overheard your confrontation with the girl.’

  He glowered. ‘Not with her. It was the fellow — Harlow — who threatened me, told me he was from The Sun when all he is is some wannabe little wimp. Isaac overheard that; I noticed him when Harlow said there were witnesses. I was going to thump Harlow because there she was, getting away with my Ray Bans and my twenty quid, and here he’s telling me she’s fifteen — and how was I to know? She said she was eighteen. And he bundles her into his old heap, and the dog — and that’s when he threw the bone out — and off he goes.’

  ‘The bone?’ murmured Miss Pink.

  ‘Isaac picked it up.’ He was morose, still bemoaning his losses. A Fiesta turned in at the gate and came up the drive, passing Miss Pink’s Renault.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Jonty asked quickly. ‘Have you got all you wanted now you know I don’t go around killing people? And you won’t find my fingerprints in Whelp Yard,’ he added viciously.

  Miss Pink believed him. She stood up, clutching her bag to her bosom as a thin woman advanced towards the pool. ‘You’ve been a great help, Mr Robson,’ she said, trotting out the formula glibly. She beamed at the woman and, not waiting for an introduction, continued gaily, ‘I’m Melinda Pink. I’m writing a guidebook to the Border country. What a glorious place you have here. I’ll leave you to enjoy your Sunday in peace.’

  The only way to have stopped her retreat would have been by force, and her size and air of confidence would not permit of that. Christine turned blazing eyes on her husband.

  Behind her Miss Pink heard the furious questions start. She reversed into the road, thankful that neither of them knew where she was staying.

  On her way down the hill she recalled that her purpose in approaching Jonty had been to discover a connection between him and Isaac, but what connection there was had nothing to do with a motive for the old man’s murder. Their paths had crossed however, even if they hadn’t spoken to each other. Isaac had been interested in the confrontation between Rick and Jonty, and then there was the incident of the bone. At this point she back-tracked. Jonty would have been known to Isaac, the VAT man was a local figure, but did that have any special significance?

  She didn’t go back to the flat but drove to Orrdale House. A ride might clear her brain; it was still early enough for the woods to be cool, and repellent would take care of the flies.

  She found Deborah finishing her morning chores in the stables. She caught a large black gelding for Miss Pink and saddled up, grumbling all the time, claiming she was exploited because she had to act as a guide in the house until lunch time. She was a responsible child however, and sent the visitor round the yard a few times before she’d allow her out on her own.

  ‘You’ve got a choice of routes,’ she said, holding the pony’s rein and regarding Miss Pink fixedly. ‘There are nice rides both sides of the reservoir. Go up the one beside the road while it’s still fairly quiet and come back down the other side.’

  Miss Pink’s eyes strayed to the trees behind the house. ‘Don’t go in the woods,’ Deborah said quickly, ‘you’ll disturb the pheasants. And there are man-traps.’ Miss Pink looked grave. ‘That’s a joke,’ Deborah said. ‘Tell you what: I’ll get off early and come and meet you: I’ll circle the reservoir the other way round, then we can go up the Corpse Road. So I’ll see you about noon somewhere near the old village.’ Her eyes searched the other’s face; the child was in deadly earnest.

  ‘A neat arrangement,’ Miss Pink said, and pushed the pony out of the yard on to the track that led along the back of the walled gardens.

  The big house stood at the foot of a gentle slope that was clothed with hardwoods. Oaks, with a sprinkling of ash and sycamore, stretched north and east. This was private land and intersected by a number of tracks: dotted lines on the map that indicated rides deliberately laid out for pleasant exercise.
/>   Near the end of the high wall, where an open door marked the back entrance to a potting shed, a wide grassy path forked right. A notice said ‘PRIVATE’ and there were old horse tracks in dry mud. Miss Pink needed to apply only the slightest pressure and the gelding bore right, accepting the diversion as if it were an accustomed route.

  After half a mile of gradual rise she came to an intersection and turned right again, ambling on through the greenwood with never a sign of pheasants. Occasionally she consulted the map to make sure she wasn’t missing any part of the woods. It was very quiet; she passed a pond with yellow water lilies and a family of coot, rabbits lolloped ahead of the pony and faded like shadows into the tall bracken. There was a smell of old garlic leaves and fungi. There was no breeze. Once movement on the periphery of her vision made her stiffen in the saddle. The gelding flicked an ear but paid her no further notice. She focused and saw a young deer framed in pink willow herb.

  She must have been quartering the woods for an hour before she came to the building. It was a curious wooden structure, large and gabled with a stone chimney breast and wide windows. It was on the fringe of the trees and faced the fells, and it looked like something out of an old movie of the thirties: a pavilion on a village green or a squire’s summer-house. It had the air of abandonment peculiar to large objects intended for human occupation (cars, churches) but the impression was fleeting; there was a lot of fresh dung at the end of the verandah where a horse had been tied.

  She dismounted and fastened the gelding to the rail. She stood for a moment listening to the hum of insects in the tree canopy, wondering how they achieved such uniformity: singing on one note and that only a fraction above silence.

  Inside the summer-house a door closed.

  She licked her lips and mounted the two steps to the verandah. The planks were sun-bleached and dusty with drifts of leaves and twigs in the corners. She looked through a window, shading her eyes.

  She saw old cane furniture: high-backed chairs, chaises-longues, brass Benares tables, an oil lamp on a nondescript sideboard.

  There was a door opening on to the verandah. It was locked. She went round to the back, passing more windows, but these set too high to look through. She came to a back door with a thumb latch. It opened into a small dim room with a table and cupboards. On the table there were the remains of a quiche topped with bacon and anchovies, and a plastic bag containing oranges and bananas and a ripe mango. There was a whole baguette and the heel of another, an opened pack of butter and a cheap table knife, a wedge of Wensleydale and two two-litre bottles of Coca Cola, one almost empty.

  She opened the door into the main room. Now she saw that there was a book on one of the chaises-longues, face-down. It was The Kraken Wakes.

  There were two other rooms. One held an old camp bed and no mattress; the other, a foam mat and a sleeping-bag. There was a torch beside the bag and a rucksack. Thin, stone-washed jeans were draped over the rucksack.

  A footfall sounded close by. She gasped and held her breath. Floorboards creaked under a heavy body. This was unexpected. The gelding was tied outside so her presence was obvious. She exhaled, swallowed, and stepped back to the big room.

  Clive Thornthwaite regarded her sombrely. He was wearing Levis and a navy T-shirt, and a cotton sun hat that made him look no more ridiculous than an armed robber in a clown’s mask.

  ‘What is this place?’ Miss Pink asked pleasantly. ‘A summer-house?’ A mistake: in her effort to appear casual she had forgotten to greet him. Too late now.

  ‘Exactly.’ His lips stretched. ‘What have you discovered?’ His eyes slid to the doorway behind her.

  ‘Perry,’ she said.

  ‘And what do you propose to do about it?’

  She held his eye and said, almost truthfully, ‘I’m sure she didn’t fire the second shot at Isaac, so I’m on her side.’

  ‘She didn’t fire the first.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ He had to now, either that or silence her. She had few options herself. If he proved hostile she had to talk herself out of the situation.

  ‘Shall we get some air?’ He moved to the front door and, turning the key which was in the lock, stood aside. She stepped out on the verandah and saw a second horse beside the gelding: a large animal, topping hers by inches.

  ‘I didn’t know you rode,’ she said, surprised.

  He emerged, carrying two of the cane chairs. ‘I don’t.’ He placed the chairs facing the view. ‘I climb on and trust that my weight will keep the beast down.’

  She didn’t believe him. He went back and returned with cushions. ‘Isn’t this nice?’ he announced as he settled and regarded the hazy fells. ‘We all love this place.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘They. They all love it: the Fawcetts. I’m an adopted Fawcett.’

  After a moment she said, ‘That’s your quiche in the back. I didn’t think it came from the supermarket or even the deli.’

  ‘Perceptive lady. I baked it specially for her. She needs feeding up.’

  ‘Deborah told you I’d come this way?’

  ‘You guessed.’

  ‘Not quite, but when she was so insistent that I should ride in the opposite direction, and to suggest I’d disturb the pheasants — in July! — the hints were too crude. Besides, I never thought Perry would go far, although I was looking for a tent. This place isn’t even marked on the map.’

  ‘The woods are private; we don’t want to attract squatters. We have one now, but by invitation. Did you speak to her?’

  ‘No. She was here when I rode up but evidently she doesn’t trust me. She went out the back way. I heard the door close.’ He was silent. After a moment she asked, ‘Why is she frightened of me?’

  ‘What? When she came back to the Hoggarth’s that night and found the door open and all that blood in the kitchen? She had no idea who’d bought it but she knew she’d be the suspect. She’s the kind who thinks the cops would always pick on her first.’

  ‘She has no idea who was responsible?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Nor why Isaac should have gone to Whelp Yard?’

  ‘She thinks like everyone else: he found out where she was holed up and went along to try his luck.’

  ‘And the gun?’

  He shrugged. ‘If he took that he wouldn’t have to pay.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Clive jerked back in his chair. He stared at her, nonplussed. ‘It’s not — not logical,’ she protested. ‘No, no way. Isaac’s type don’t go to prostitutes, not at his age anyway.’ she pondered, then, doubtfully, ‘Do they?’

  He shook his head. ‘What other explanation can there be? Jonty Robson tried it on.’

  ‘Different age groups.’ She was dismissive. She changed tack. ‘How does Perry come to be here?’ she asked. ‘Did Rick bring her?’

  ‘Lord, no! What happened was that when she bolted from the Hoggarths’ place she didn’t quite panic. She had enough presence of mind to grab her rucksack and stuff, then she made for the woods. Harald had told her about the big house and she knew there was a café. Deb found her at the back of the stables next morning, going through the trash cans for something to eat. Deb was fascinated. Believe me, those two got on like a house on fire. Perry told her the whole story, as far as I can make out, and Deb brought her up here. We’ve been looking after her ever since.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  ‘Only me. I’m old Uncle Clive. We’re pals, Deb and me. Rick doesn’t know any of this. He’d give the game away: insist on coming up here to make sure she’s all right, and you can bet your life the cops would be watching him — that’s if he’s out on bail. Deb and I are discreet — and we’re not being watched.’

  ‘You’re going to be in trouble when Rick finds out.’

  ‘I’m not bothered. Perry’s safe; that’s all that matters.’

  She said slowly, wondering if he might know more than was apparent, ‘I had an odd phone call from Rick yesterday —’

  ‘My mother told
me.’ He regarded her shrewdly. ‘So — you tumbled to the blackmail angles. A couple of rogues, weren’t they? But Mum didn’t kill Isaac, you know; nor me.’ He smiled. ‘Nor Harald. Mum says Rick reckons Edith knows something — which was why he sent you to Plumtree.’

  ‘Rick’s main concern is Perry. Could he think that Edith knows something about her — that might help?’ She remembered the woman’s savage denunciation of the girl. ‘On the other hand it could be something dangerous.’

  ‘Perry’s said nothing about Edith.’

  ‘Where was she when that shot was fired in the Hoggarths’ kitchen?’

  ‘You’re not going to believe this. She was in the churchyard waiting for Rick to walk Bags but evidently the dog wouldn’t come out. He’s terrified of thunder.’

  ‘Did she hear the shot?’

  ‘No. Because of the thunder presumably. What are you thinking? Look, even if the first shot had been an accident and she was involved, no way can you believe she fired the second: the wound in the head.’

  ‘Of course she didn’t. No, what intrigues me is the reason Isaac went to Whelp in the first place. There has to be a link other than the obvious one. I wonder if there’s something that she’s unaware of. If I could talk to her...’ She looked hopefully towards the trees.

  ‘I’ll mention it to her but she won’t talk about it to me. That kitchen was a slaughter house. She told Deb — of all people — but then Deb’s seen some ghastly sights herself: accidents and such to animals. So she told Deb and Deb told me.’

  ‘Where’s Perry now?’

  ‘She won’t be far away. I’ll hang around to reassure her about you and see if she’ll agree to meet you. I think you’d better go now. No need to hurry. Deb won’t be at the village.’

  ‘Yes, we arranged to meet there. How did she know — how did you know...’

  ‘That you’d come up here? She nipped through the gardens and watched you take the fork opposite the potting shed. Then she phoned me. Now, what are we going to do about Perry?’

 

‹ Prev