by Gwen Moffat
‘No.’ She returned his gaze steadily, thinking that this was indeed reality and no matter what had happened it was herself he loved. If that woman had seduced him she would have killed her – her smile deepened and she closed her eyes to hide that treacherous thought – but here and now – she opened them again, she knew that Isa was nothing. Never had been.
He inhaled deeply; they were both wrapped in their separate worlds of security, both tacitly triumphant. ‘Sit down.’ He motioned to the garden seat. ‘I’ll bring the bottle. Supper can wait a while.’
She obeyed, reflecting as he went indoors that, far from Isa’s breaking up the marriage, she had brought them together, more together, she corrected herself. Tonight she had everything: an adoring husband, a comfortable house, albeit her father’s, a flourishing garden, and this evening: warm sun, wine, and this man whom she’d allow one glass and then take him to bed. Supper could indeed wait. She could even spare a modicum of pity for Isa. It had been a terrible way to die.
Chapter Thirteen
‘It isn’t “who” that’s important,’ Miss Pink said, ‘but “why”.’
‘You can find that out. Eleanor said you’d done this kind of thing before. The cops are no good, they’re fixated on Walter – or rather they would be except that I know he never left the house.’
Absently Miss Pink poured more coffee. That Gemma should have come calling at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning was indication enough that she had a problem, nor was it difficult to identify it. She was too young to sustain a suspect alibi indefinitely. And Miss Pink knew, and was well aware that the police knew, that Gemma as Walter’s alibi reeked of suspicion.
‘It could have been anyone,’ the girl persisted, adding quickly, ‘You’re saying that if you knew the reason why she was murdered, then you’d know who did it. That’s obvious: it was a sex murder. One of her lovers did it.’
‘All the same, one of them had a special reason for killing her.’
‘Such as? What could be so special?’
‘You’re not using your brain.’ It was tart because Miss Pink was faced with a dilemma: how to penetrate the posturing and innuendoes without reference to Gemma’s having had a suspect relationship with Dwayne Paxton. Any mention of that and she would close up like a clam. ‘Blackmail,’ Miss Pink went on, ‘is one motive for murder: the victim kills the blackmailer.’
To her surprise Gemma looked thoughtful. ‘There’s that,’ she admitted.
‘Greed?’ Miss Pink warmed to the theme. ‘I don’t think so. No one benefits financially from her death – unless there was an insurance policy, but the police would know about –’
‘There wasn’t,’ Gemma said quickly.
‘Lust? Desire?’ The girl blinked. ‘No.’ Miss Pink was imperturbable. ‘According to you she was free with her favours.’ Gemma looked wary but she neither denied nor confirmed the quaint observation. ‘I don’t see how sex comes into it.’ Miss Pink appeared to be nonplussed.
‘You’re saying it could have been a woman?’
The glasses flashed as wide eyes were turned on her. There was a pause then: ‘Is that what you think?’
‘God, no! But if it wasn’t sexual it had to be – like a jealous wife?’
‘Jealousy,’ murmured Miss Pink. ‘We’re back to basics. That was the police theory concerning Walter but’ – quickly, seeing Gemma start to react to this – ‘he’s ruled out. So who is it that might be jealous?’
‘A guy wouldn’t be unless he was possessive. If someone else wants it you let it go. Let her go.’
‘You’re saying a jealous lover would want to keep his lady but he’d kill the rival. But it was Isa who was killed. Wrong person. So jealousy’s out. What else?’
‘You’re the expert.’
‘Eleanor’s been embroidering facts.’ And you, my girl, came here to tell me something, not to pick my brains. ‘However,’ Miss Pink went on, ‘there is elimination, and fear: the need to silence someone. Hence – blackmail.’
‘Walter gave her plenty of money but I don’t think she cared for money that much. She bought cheap clothes.’ Gemma seemed puzzled. ‘She adored the house because she’d never lived in one like ours – and the car, she liked that even better, but I can’t see her blackmailing for small sums. Besides, she wasn’t clever enough.’
Miss Pink had been listening to this with only half an ear. ‘She could have got in the way,’ she murmured. ‘An obstacle to some project? A scam? So she had to be eliminated.’ She gave an odd smile, frowning simultaneously.
Gemma pounced. ‘What?’
‘My mind was leapfrogging. I was thinking of the scams operating in Borascal and their being difficult to relate to Isa who, so far as I’ve gathered, seemed uninterested in other people’s business. Unlike Phoebe who was the opposite: a human ferret. Now if it had been Phoebe –’ She stopped.
‘Phoebe drowned. It was an accident.’
Miss Pink was silent, picking up her mug and drinking absently. Gemma followed suit.
‘Yuk! This is stone-cold!’ Miss Pink was staring at her mug. ‘Shall I make some more?’ Gemma asked loudly.
Miss Pink surfaced. ‘How well did Isa know Martin?’
It was the girl’s turn to be silent but she was less adept at concealing her thoughts than wily old ladies. She knew it and stood up, taking the mugs to the sink.
‘Even if they were lovers,’ Miss Pink said to her back, raising her voice, ‘it doesn’t rule out Walter. But you alibi him. Was Isa blackmailing Martin?’
Gemma turned. ‘We agreed she wouldn’t blackmail. But I do know she was terrified of him. The afternoon before she died he was at our place and giving her hell.’
‘He was hitting her?’
‘No, shouting – they were both shouting. He said he was trying to stop her driving without a licence.’
‘What did she have to say?’
‘Nothing. I walked out. I never saw her again.’
‘You left them together?’
Gemma nodded, her eyes searching Miss Pink’s face.
‘So they knew each other well.’
‘Jean says they didn’t. She’s blind. It’s all round the village, and I told her so. I thought she’d kill me but then you turned up and put a stop to it.’
***
‘Why would Martin Blamire kill Isa?’
‘What!’ Eleanor swung round from the fridge, slopping milk over the floor. Her eyes went to the passage.
‘There’s no one in the tearoom,’ Miss Pink said. ‘I asked why would he, not why did he.’
‘What started this?’
‘You didn’t know they were having an affair?’
‘Certainly not. Who told you they were?’
‘Gemma.’
‘Oh, Gemma.’ Eleanor’s knees cracked as she went down to wipe the floor. She pulled herself upright by gripping the edge of the counter. ‘Suppose they were having an affair,’ she resumed. ‘Why kill her?’
‘That’s what I asked you. Why did she have to be killed? Of course’ – Miss Pink’s thoughts diverged – ‘it could have been an accident.’
‘Strangling? And putting the car in the river?’
‘Yes. They could have been quarrelling and he put his hands on her throat to quieten her’ – Miss Pink looked embarrassed – ‘well, something like that. And pushing the car over the crag was a clumsy attempt to simulate a road accident.’ She grimaced. ‘The argument against that is he must have knocked the wall down beforehand, or at least have weakened it. No, no accident, it was premeditated.’
‘ “He”?’
‘Blamire?’
‘I meant it could have been a woman. Isa was drunk, she couldn’t have put up any resistance.’
‘I know why she was drunk!’ Miss Pink breathed, amazed at herself. ‘Gemma walked in on them in the middle of a row. Blamire said it was about her driving without a licence. It must have been after that scene that Isa started to drink. I don’t believe the quarrel was ab
out her driving.’
Eleanor said slowly, ‘She could be a very demanding person; if they were having an affair … suppose she’d wanted him to go away … oh no, that’s nonsense! Martin would never leave Jean, they’re happily married, besides there’s their scheme for turning Sleylands into an outdoor centre … I suppose it’s just possible that Martin – er – slipped up, only the once? And Isa took it seriously? She was rather neurotic. Things could have been awkward for Martin.’
‘And she drank because he’d rejected her, perhaps unkindly.’
Eleanor snorted. ‘Martin wouldn’t mince his words. He has a nasty temper.’
There was a subdued bustle of people entering the tearoom. Eleanor swore mildly. ‘Where’s Sherrel? Look at me –’
‘I’ll go.’ Miss Pink went out to settle the customers and take their order. ‘Jollybeard sandwiches?’ she queried on her return. ‘For the whole party: six adults.’
‘My version of the American BLT. If you’d toast the bread for me …’
They busied themselves with salad and rashers. ‘Sunday speciality,’ Eleanor explained. ‘It’s too rich for weekdays but people allow themselves a treat at the weekend.’
‘It’s not that rich except for the cream.’
‘Where?’
‘In the mayonnaise.’
‘Melinda, who brought you up? You don’t put cream in mayonnaise. It’s the eggs that thicken it.’
‘Eggs.’ Miss Pink stopped slicing tomatoes. ‘Raw eggs?’
Eleanor turned from the grill, frowning. ‘Free range, from Mabel Swinburn. Why, you bought them yourself.’
‘The salmonella!’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ Eleanor dived for the open door and, about to slam it, caught herself and closed it quietly. ‘Are you suggesting those eggs are contaminated?’ She was hissing, flushed with indignation.
‘It never crossed my mind. Free range eggs are perfectly safe’ – maybe, maybe not, but at this moment Miss Pink wasn’t bothered if the mayonnaise was crawling with bacteria. ‘I was remembering the hoax, and the fact that it had to involve someone with access to a computer.’
‘Let’s save the post-mortems till we’ve served the customers, can we?’ Eleanor was back at the grill. ‘Anyway, we’ve been over all that, obviously someone had to own a computer –’
‘Or had access to one. What about Isa?’
‘Melinda! Do you mind? Look’ – sweetly acid – ‘if you want to go away and investigate, leave all this to me. I’ll do the tomatoes as soon as I’ve grilled this bacon.’
Miss Pink continued slicing but she didn’t stop talking. ‘She could have visited Walter’s office, used a computer – or Walter could have done it himself – had you thought of that? And Isa knew about it and had to be silenced.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’ It was a harsh whisper. ‘No one would kill just to avoid being exposed as a practical joker.’
‘You’re right.’ Miss Pink was chastened. ‘That applies to Blamire as well – the only other chap with a computer – even though he’d make a better candidate than Walter.’
‘As a murderer?’
‘I was thinking of the hoaxer.’
‘But we’re on good terms!’
‘You think. He could be deranged. You said –’
‘Can we finish this order?’ It was a fierce demand and had the effect of subduing Miss Pink. She continued to assemble sandwiches but automatically, her brain searching for connections between the salmonella hoax and Isa’s murder – until she saw that a yawning gap might be bridged, in time and the mind, by Phoebe’s death, which had occurred between the salmonella incident and Isa’s murder.
Dwayne slept late on Sundays but by ten o’clock he was climbing into his jeans when he heard the latch click on the garden gate. Innately cautious, he didn’t go to the window but faded back into the room hoping that they wouldn’t see him, a futile gesture when his Land Rover was parked beside the cottage. It was hidden from the garden but these visitors would have looked first. Two men were coming up the path, one was Sewell, the detective sergeant, the other a stranger. Holgate, the DC, and the woman were walking round the back. Dwayne rubbed his chin, carefully suppressing a forerunner of panic, reminding himself of what he’d told them already but knowing it was hopeless to try to anticipate what new development had brought them to him again – and four of them. Who was the stranger? He swallowed and pulled a clean T-shirt on as they knocked at the front door.
They wouldn’t let him wash; not that they refused, his request was ignored. He knew that, stale and smelling of bed, they thought they had him at a disadvantage.
They crowded his kitchen; there weren’t enough chairs to go round and Holgate stood, moving about, looking at things. Rosie was in plain clothes so Dwayne guessed she was in line for CID. The stranger was a detective inspector: Gibson by name.
They opened with Isa and he relaxed, still safe. Wearily he denied that he’d ever had anything to do with her, that she’d ever been to Blind Keld or anywhere else with him.
Sewell, sitting across the table from him, said, holding his eye, ‘Isa came to Blind Keld.’
He shook his head. ‘Never. I never touched her –’
‘She was seen there,’ Sewell said, without a change in tone.
Dwayne raised his eyebrows and Rosie thought he had just the kind of supercilious looks to charm youngsters, perhaps older women too. ‘If she were there,’ he said, ‘it were at a time I was somewhere else.’
‘You were seen there too.’
‘Not at the same time.’ He considered. ‘If you’re saying as we was there together, and that that means I were’ – he glanced at Rosie – ‘having a relationship with her, and that means I killed her, shouldn’t you caution me?’ He addressed the DI, all innocence.
Gibson had the appearance of an Italian footballer with looks. He was young and powerful, prematurely grey hair cropped close as a pelt, and eyes so dark they appeared black. He spoke quietly and Dwayne was frightened despite the words.
‘Sleeping with a married woman isn’t a crime,’ the man said.
Dwayne looked down at the table, then back. ‘So what are you doing here?’ He heard the bluster in his own voice and tried to tone it down. ‘Four of you?’
‘We’re looking at all her boyfriends.’
Dwayne’s teeth snapped. ‘What makes you think I’m one of ’em?’
‘You were seen –’
‘Look, we’ve had that –’ He jumped as, behind him, Holgate moved noisily.
‘Her car was seen,’ the DI said giving no indication that he was making a correction.
‘Her car.’ Dwayne stared fixedly at the man, playing for time.
‘A red MG,’ Gibson said kindly. ‘Unmistakable. At Blind Keld.’
‘And your Land Rover,’ Sewell said.
‘No!’ It was abrupt. ‘Hers maybe, not mine.’
Rosie coughed and Gibson turned his deep eyes on her. She reddened. ‘Not your Land Rover,’ she told Dwayne. ‘You had a van that evening, an old van –’ She stopped and Dwayne knew that she was on to it.
‘It weren’t mine.’
‘You’re saying that someone else was inside Blind Keld with Isa?’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘You hired the place out. How much did they pay?’
‘No money changed hands,’ Dwayne said tightly. He collected himself and they watched him attempt to relax. ‘ ’Fact I didn’t know what were going on. Mind you, I guessed. There was – stuff were disturbed like. I could tell. They musta got in through a window.’
‘Who was it with her?’ Sewell asked.
‘I couldna say.’ He was airy, in command now. ‘Coulda been anyone – different ones.’
Gibson looked at Rosie and stood up. Chairs scraped on the flags and they trooped out. Sighing, Dwayne filled the kettle and plugged it in. He was standing by it, lost in thought when Rosie Winder came back.
‘Coffee!’ she announced brightly. ‘Brilliant. Now we’ve got them out of
the way we can have a proper crack.’
How obvious could they get: sending the woman back to pump him? He stared insolently. ‘I’ll wash first. You can make the coffee.’
He stripped off his shirt and sluiced himself at the sink. He took his time with the towel, watching for her reaction. Rosie made the coffee and they sat opposite each other. He hadn’t put his shirt on again and she took time to consider his body: young, hard and beautiful. She smiled, approving it. He smiled, knowing she did.
‘Gemma talked,’ she said.
His smile faded, leaving him expressionless.
‘You were with her on Wednesday night.’
He started to laugh and, furious, she took refuge in a stock observation: ‘There’s something going on here,’ and had the satisfaction of seeing that her mistake was remedied, at least partially. He was no longer amused.
‘So?’ He was deliberately rude.
‘You and Gemma. She’s fifteen.’
‘There’s nothing between me and Gemma, not like that. We’re just good friends. If she says anything different it’s what she wants, not what she does.’
‘Her prints will be at Blind Keld.’
‘Why not? I’ve shown her over. It’s a nice house. Folk want to see how rich people do up these old places.’
‘And Isa’s prints will be there.’
‘No, not Isa. She were never inside. I told the others I had nowt to do with her.’
‘OK. What was her car doing outside?’
‘Ah.’ It was an exclamation that he tried too late to turn into a weary sigh. He blinked rapidly. ‘Maybe she met someone there.’
‘Where did they go?’
He hesitated. ‘That’s not my business.’
‘Dwayne’ – heavily: this was Rosie in the role of primary school teacher – ‘her boyfriend came in a van and left it there along with her MG. What did they drive away in?’
‘They’ – he gestured vaguely – ‘they just went out in the fields like.’
Her expression was a caricature of disbelief and he was lost.
‘I don’t know!’
