by Faith Martin
‘Right away, sir. And if it turns out that she did have a membership at one of his gyms? Does it really follow that she was blackmailing him as well?’ Jim sounded doubtful.
It all sounded very tenuous to him. He hated to think it, but perhaps his boss was starting to clutch at straws? After all, they were now well past that magic milestone, the first forty-eight hours, and as every copper well knew, if a case wasn’t solved by then, the chances of it getting solved at all slowly diminished.
‘I really don’t know,’ Jason sighed. ‘It’s worth consideration, I suppose. And while you’re at it, find Phillips and ask him if he can find any connection between the man who died, this Orland character, and Margaret Franklyn.’
‘Sir.’
Jason went through the report again. Apart from Waring’s one very tenuous brush with the law, the man’s life had been perfectly straightforward. After a pretty standard education, he’d got into weightlifting, and from that sport went on to win a few minor bodybuilding trophies in his early twenties. He’d then travelled about the world a bit before finally settling down to set up his first gym here in the Cotswolds. That had been founded on the strength of his trophies and his ability to convince a bank manager that the market would continue to grow. And so it had. And from there he’d never looked back. The financial boys had had time to go through his complicated books now, and had discovered nothing more incriminating than the fact that he was a little on the optimistic side when it came to predicting profit margins. That, and the fact that he was about to sell off one of his less-profitable gyms.
The only other piece of information the painstaking constable had been able to uncover was that Paul had a certain reputation as a ‘star-maker’ in the bodybuilding world. No doubt putting his own knowledge of competitions to use, he’d produced several ‘champions’ over the years. His gym in Stroud in particular had sponsored one or two competitors in last year’s ‘Mr England’ competition. Moreover, one of his customers had won a male body-modelling contract with one of the big London agencies not so long ago.
‘Well, yip-de-doo,’ Jason said disgustedly, throwing down the file and rubbing a tired hand across his forehead. He was getting nowhere, and he knew it. Despite all the leads, and the promise of Maurice Keating, who was still their prime suspect, he still felt as if he was just spinning his wheels. House-to-house interviews were finished now, and as expected had been a bit of a bust. Whereas usually they could rely on somebody, somewhere, having seen something, nearly all the residents of Heyford Bassett had been at that bloody fair.
His eyes narrowed as he thought about that. The timing was just too good to be a coincidence, wasn’t it? It made sense that the killer had chosen his time well. He’d know that the village would be practically deserted. So did that suggest an outsider had done this, after all? Someone had come in from outside, killed Margaret and left, confident in the knowledge that nobody would be around in the deserted village to notice his passing through?
Perhaps in Jason concentrating his efforts so close to home, so to speak, he was making a mistake? But then, constantly second-guessing himself was pointless. He was covering every angle that he could think of. What more could he do? Besides, there was the issue of the clothes in the stairwell again.
Wearily, he leaned back in his chair, and as he did so, found his eye resting on a photograph of Margaret. It was a picture of her on her wedding day, and she looked young and fresh, and not so distressingly thin as she’d become in later years. As he met her smiling celluloid eyes, he shook his head.
‘Margaret, Margaret,’ he said softly. ‘Just who did you go to see that afternoon? And why? And how come someone as smart as you didn’t see that shotgun coming?’
* * *
In one of the flats in the attractive vicarage, a killer paced the floor, thinking furiously. It had all been going so well. The execution had been flawless, the timing perfect. There should have been no mistakes, but a mistake must have been made somewhere, for now there was danger.
And so the mistake must be rectified, and the danger nullified.
Quickly.
CHAPTER 15
Jason stood on the bank of the river, watching the progress of a silvery stream of bubbles that were rising steadily from a police diver’s breathing apparatus.
He’d been ready to call it a day, when the news came through that the diver had signalled that at last he’d found something in the river.
‘Here he comes,’ Jim said unnecessarily, as a dark figure began to emerge from underneath the carpet of water crowfoot and held aloft his trophy.
A double-barrelled shotgun.
‘Right, bag and tag it,’ Jason said crisply. ‘And then get Clem Jarvis in to identify it. Then send it straight back to HQ for testing, although just how much use it’ll be to us is debatable. Being in the water will have severely compromised the fingerprints, even if the killer had been dumb enough not to wear gloves. And you can’t get a ballistics match on a shotgun shell.’ He turned to Jim. ‘Still no luck in tracing that “mystery friend” of Maurice that Paul Waring saw?’ he asked, but the sergeant shook his head.
‘Not so far, guv. Everybody and their granny was at that bloody fair. Not even the lady running the shop saw him.’
The Oxford don had flatly denied knowing anything about him when asked his identity, saying that Paul Waring must have been mistaken. But the old man had gone very pale, and had started to sweat profusely when Jason and his sergeant had questioned him, and both policemen had been sure he was lying. So although they only had Paul Waring’s word for it that the unknown man had been hanging around at all, Jason was very much inclined to believe him. Which opened the field to an awful lot of speculation. Had the Oxford don, and not Sean Franklyn, been the one to hire a hitman to kill Margaret Franklyn? It certainly made a lot of sense. He was the one being blackmailed, after all. And it enabled him to stay at the party and keep his hands clean of the actual dirty work, which was something that would undoubtedly appeal to a fastidious man like Maurice. But without knowing the identity of the man the police were helpless — and there was the question of those damned clothes in the stairwell again. So Maurice Keating was sitting pretty, and he knew it. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut and hope for the best. Unless something else had been going on that they didn’t know about.
‘You know, Jim, I can’t help but get the feeling that someone in this house is leading us down the garden path somehow,’ he said softly.
Jim nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right, sir,’ he agreed uneasily. ‘You can’t help but get the feeling that someone’s been dead clever, can you?’
Jason grunted and together, in morose silence, they headed back to the small, equipment-filled room that was beginning to feel like home. And there they found a very eager constable waiting for them.
‘PC Bennington, sir,’ he said smartly.
‘Detailed to check into the erring husband,’ Jim added in a helpful aside to Jason.
‘Sir, I finally managed to speak to one of Mr Sean Franklyn’s closest friends. He admitted that just recently Mr Franklyn had been boasting about how he’d got himself a real young looker. But he was in a bit of a lather about it, on account of it being so dangerous.’
‘Dangerous? How?’ Jason asked quickly.
‘That’s what I asked him, sir. He was a bit reluctant at first, but then he said that this latest bird of Sean’s was literally right on his doorstep. And that Maggie — that’s Mrs Franklyn, sir — knew all about it, and didn’t like it one little bit, and was cutting up something awful about it, threatening divorce and all sorts.’ The young PC paused to take a much-needed breath. ‘Sean Franklyn also told his friend that it wasn’t worth the hassle anymore, what with what’s happened and everything, and that he’d have to give this bird the old heave-ho.’ The constable flushed a little over his notes, and cleared his throat. ‘That’s verbatim, sir,’ he added nervously. He wouldn’t like his superior officer to think that was all his own
language.
Jason gave a long, slow whistle.
‘Thank you, Constable,’ he said at last, and nodded a dismissal. And Bennington, his moment of fame over for the day, shuffled off dejectedly.
‘It has to be Julie Dix, doesn’t it, sir?’ Jim asked quietly after a short, thoughtful pause.
‘She’s the only one that fits the description,’ Jason agreed. ‘Pauline Weeks is too old, and Monica Noble may be younger than him, but only by a few years, I’d say. Carol-Ann is far too young, and if it was her we’d have a different kind of issue on our hands. No, unless it was someone from his workplace then it has to be Julie Dix. It explains why her mother is so anxious and protective too.’
‘Do you think Franklyn had already told her she had to go?’ Jim asked ominously. ‘Maybe it was clear that he was getting tired of her, and had been for some time?’
‘He might have done. And yes, she might have sensed that he was getting tired of her,’ Jason agreed, meeting his eye.
‘And she might not have liked it,’ Jim went on.
‘She’s young and the young can be very passionate about things,’ Jason agreed. ‘They get things out of proportion, and do silly things they later regret.’
‘And she might have seen Margaret as the one standing in her way of happiness and the path of true love,’ Jim followed the argument on to its inexorable conclusion.
‘And aside from Carol-Ann, of all of those who weren’t present when the shot was heard, she’s the youngest and quickest,’ Jason mused. ‘So she might have had time to do it. Just. But did she have the brains for it? And remember, that shotgun was stolen a week ago. So this murder has been planned for some time. You think she’s that cold-blooded?’
‘Well, perhaps she’s been working herself up to it, sir,’ Jim said, playing devil’s advocate. ‘Perhaps it wasn’t cold-blooded at all, but a crime of passion.’
But he didn’t sound all that convinced either.
‘Perhaps,’ Jason said. ‘Anyway, I think it’s time we had a longer, closer word with Miss Julie Dix.’
* * *
In her flat, Vera slowly put down the phone and bit her lip. Although Pauline had been very roundabout during their little talk just now, Vera knew when she was being pumped for information. And Vera was too wily not to know what Pauline had been getting at. Oh, she’d talked a little bit about anything and everything, but it was obvious, to Vera at least, what it was that she’d really wanted to pick her brains about.
Clothes. And what everyone had been wearing on the afternoon that Margaret had been killed.
Vera sighed heavily. ‘Damn,’ she said softly. Then, more forcefully, ‘Damn!’
Picking up the receiver again, she dialled a familiar number.
* * *
Joan glanced up from her book as the doorbell rang, rose without hurrying, and walked through to the front door. She did not look particularly surprised to see Jason Dury and his sergeant on the other side, but her backbone stiffened instinctively. She’d known this moment could come at any time, and she was determined to rise to the challenge.
‘Chief Inspector,’ she said with a small, tight smile. ‘Please, do come in.’
‘Thank you. We’d like to have a word with your daughter, please, Mrs Dix,’ Jason said, following her into a pleasant room, decorated predominantly in cream and lilac.
‘What on earth for? She’s already given you a statement, hasn’t she?’ Joan played for time.
‘Is she in her room?’ Jason asked abruptly, in no mood to be messed about.
‘No,’ Joan said shortly. If this very capable young man thought he could bully her, he was in for a nasty surprise!
‘Can you tell me when she’ll be in?’
‘No.’
Jim glanced uneasily at his superior, sensing trouble. Jason’s eyes narrowed.
‘Mrs Dix, just where is your daughter?’ he demanded softly.
Joan smiled. ‘She’s on holiday, Chief Inspector. Why shouldn’t she be?’ Joan stuck her chin out defiantly.
‘People don’t usually take holidays in the middle of a murder investigation, Mrs Dix,’ Jason pointed out softly. ‘And I consider it a very suspicious circumstance that your daughter has absented herself without telling me first.’
‘The last time I looked, this wasn’t a police state,’ Joan flared.
‘Mrs Dix,’ Jason said quietly, ‘are you going to tell me where your daughter is, or do I have to find her myself?’
Joan shrugged. ‘I don’t see why I should tell you anything, Chief Inspector. The murder of that awful woman has nothing to do with us. Why should I let it spoil our life?’ She returned to the sofa and held her book in readiness on her lap. Obviously she was trying to indicate that this interview was now over.
Jason nodded. ‘You’re very protective of your daughter, aren’t you, Mrs Dix?’ he asked softly.
Joan’s face hardened. ‘I’m all she has,’ she said flatly, but Jason understood at once that she’d got that backwards. Julie was all that she had. ‘Her father was no damned use to her, or to me,’ Joan snapped, feeling suddenly afraid.
There was something determined and quietly hard about this handsome blonde policeman that scared her.
‘And you saw to it that she had everything she ever wanted,’ he mused out loud, his voice gentle now.
‘Well, naturally.’
‘And her education,’ Jason continued softly. ‘You made sure she had the best. Am I right?’
‘Of course,’ Joan said. ‘My Julie’s got a bright future ahead of her. She’s a clever girl.’
‘Yes. But not clever enough to avoid falling for a married man,’ he landed the bombshell softly. ‘We know that Sean Franklyn was having an affair with your daughter, Mrs Dix.’
Still Joan said nothing, but her hands clenched into fists on her lap, and her knuckles showed white.
‘We have it on good authority that Mrs Franklyn didn’t like it, and had demanded that her husband break the affair off.’
Joan could finally stand no more, and sprang to her feet. ‘She demanded it?’ she shrieked. ‘Who was she to demand anything? She was a viper! She was a parasite who deserved exactly what she got!’
Suddenly, Joan fell silent, her lips held in a thin, grim line.
‘Parasite, Mrs Dix?’ Jason pounced. ‘In what way?’
Joan gave a shocking half-laugh, half-snarl. ‘Oh go to hell,’ she said bitterly, and Jason wondered if this twisted, hate-filled visage was the last thing that Margaret Franklyn had ever seen in this world.
Then he remembered that Joan had an alibi. She’d been in full sight of the rest of the garden party when the shotgun had been fired.
‘Where is she, Mrs Dix?’ Jason demanded. ‘Where’s your daughter?’
Joan smiled grimly. ‘You’re the detective,’ she jeered softly. ‘You find her.’
Jason shook his head. ‘Do you really want us to go on the telly and flash a great big picture of your daughter, Mrs Dix? Asking the public if they’ve seen her? Because then everyone will know—’
‘Sir!’ Jim yelled in warning, but Jason, who’d been watching Joan closely, was ready for her.
As Joan sprang at him, snarling and half-sobbing, he caught her raised fist easily. Nevertheless she fought him like someone demented, managing to land one or two painful kicks to his shin, her fingers curled into talons as they sought out his eyes.
As a display of rage it was chilling.
But when the storm was over, and Joan was once more sat on the sofa, weeping uncontrollably, Jason offered her a big white square handkerchief.
‘Now, where is she, Mrs Dix?’ he asked insistently. He could, of course, charge her with assaulting a police officer, but he knew it would be pointless. She was far beyond caring about any personal threat to her liberty. ‘You know we have to speak to her. We won’t bully her, I promise.’
Joan heaved a shuddering sigh. ‘She’s in Combe Martin,’ she admitted at last, realizing that it was ho
peless to hold out on this. She’d have to start thinking in terms of solicitors and barristers and things like that instead. The fight hadn’t totally left her yet. ‘She’s staying with a friend.’ Reluctantly, she cited the address. ‘But she had nothing to do with the death of that woman. Nothing,’ Joan insisted, turning her tear-ravaged, desperate face towards the policemen.
Jason nodded, realizing that this woman was absolutely terrified that her daughter had had something to do with it. No wonder she was so fraught.
‘Then she has nothing to worry about,’ he said quietly. But Julie Dix did have something to worry about, of course.
As did Sean Franklyn, who was roused from his flat and taken in to Gloucester police station for further questioning.
* * *
In their kitchen, with Graham washing up and Monica wiping, it was a scene of domestic bliss in the Noble household. They’d heard the latest from Pauline Weeks of course, and wondered how long the police would keep Sean and Julie in for questioning. It seemed as if Maurice’s prediction that someone else would soon be put through the wringer was proving all too true. And now most of those living at the vicarage were wondering if they’d be next.
Except for Graham, whose conscience was blissfully clear. In his mind, he was running over the christening of baby Venus.
Monica, however, was distinctly agitated. As someone who’d been right there on the scene, she should have some ideas of who’d killed Margaret by now, surely, she told herself grimly. She’d heard things from the others, and her subconscious mind had been processing all the information for days now. And there was no denying that something was niggling at her more and more. She felt as if she should know who had killed Margaret. She felt, in fact, as if she was being awfully dim.
It was a horrible feeling, and one she would have given anything not to have. She retired to the bedroom where she could find some peace and quiet and think without interruption. And for the next few hours she replayed everything in her mind.
