Harris looked up sharply. ‘No, I didn’t. Are you sure of this?’
‘Almost certain. That’s what I wanted to tell you when I tried to phone you this morning.’
He took a deep breath and appeared to consider before saying, ‘You may as well give me the details – ah, there you are, Waters.’ He looked round as his sergeant re-entered. ‘Take this down, will you?’ He turned back to Melissa. ‘Go on.’
‘Ben seemed to have no doubt that Martin – that is, Maurice Dunmow – must have killed Haughan. In fact, I had the impression that he wanted to believe it. Then I got to thinking that maybe he wanted me to believe it. He started going on about what a bastard Haughan was and how he got what he deserved … it was obvious that he hated the man’s guts, although he never said why. Later on, while I was talking to Verity, she told me …’ Melissa continued with her story, trying to explain the reasoning – now so tragically proved fallacious – that had led her to delve into newspaper reports of nine years ago in the belief that they might throw light on Haughan’s death. For the most part, the two policemen listened in silence. At the end, after a few questions on points of detail, Harris ordered Waters to get her statement typed in the incident room set up in one of the lecture rooms of the big, rambling old house.
Melissa, feeling utterly defeated, put her head in her hands and began to weep – not the violent, passionate sobs that had earlier overwhelmed her, but quiet tears of desolation. She longed for some word or gesture of comfort from Harris, but none came. She groped for a handkerchief and dried her eyes. ‘Is that all?’ she asked without looking at him.
‘For the moment, yes, but I’d like you to stay here for the time being. I may want to question you again.’
‘Ken, I’m so sorry,’ she said humbly.
‘I could charge you with obstruction, you know.’
Was he being serious, or did she detect a hint of teasing in his voice? Had he forgiven her? After all, she hadn’t been the only one who knew about Martin Morris’s true identity. Ben could have reported it himself, she’d believed he was going to … no, that was nothing but a paltry excuse, a craven attempt at self-justification.
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ she repeated. How futile it sounded. A man was dead, she was partly responsible and all she could find to say was ‘I’m sorry’. Harris was writing in his notebook and made no response. She plucked up courage to ask, ‘What will happen to Verity?’
He did not look up. ‘We’ll have to wait and see,’ he said. Without another word she left the room. She put her head round the kitchen door, but there was no one there. In the hope that Verity had not been arrested, that she was perhaps in the office, talking to the staff, she made her way along the passage leading from the private wing to the main part of the building. The reception and office area was deserted apart from Sadie, who was standing beside an open drawer of a filing cabinet, absorbed in the contents of a folder.
‘Hullo, where is everyone?’ asked Melissa. Her soft-soled shoes had made no sound on the stone floor and the girl almost jumped out of her skin on hearing a voice. She looked flustered as she shoved the folder back in the drawer and slammed it shut.
‘Sorry if I startled you,’ said Melissa.
‘I didn’t hear you coming,’ explained Sadie as she came over to the counter. ‘I’m the only one here at the moment. It’s George’s day off – he only does three days a week. Pam’s popped into the village to do some shopping and Peggy’s gone to Stowbridge to pick up her tickets from the travel agent.’
‘Is she going on holiday?’
‘Next week, to the Canaries. She needs it too – I’ve never seen her look so awful, and no wonder with all this upset.’ Sadie had regained some of her poise, but her pert, pretty face was blotchy with crying. ‘Oh, Mrs Craig, it’s so dreadful!’ she burst out. ‘They’ve taken Mrs Haughan away. Do the police think she did it?’
‘I’m sure they don’t, they just want to ask her some more questions,’ said Melissa, trying to sound more confident than she felt.
‘And poor Mr Strickland … I could be the last one who saw him alive.’ Tears welled from Sadie’s wide blue eyes and dripped down her nose. She fumbled for a tissue and scrubbed her face with it, sniffing.
Melissa stared at her in astonishment. ‘Sadie, what are you saying? Was it you Mr Strickland was meeting last night?’
‘That’s right,’ Sadie gulped. ‘He took me for a drink at the Fleece.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In Uphanger village.’
‘Have you told the police?’
‘Course I have,’ said the girl, adding, with a show of indignation, ‘Nosey lot, wanted to know why he invited me. “Why shouldn’t he?” I said. “Nothing unusual about a man inviting a girl for a drink and a chat, is there?” I said.’
‘It depends what he wants to chat about,’ said Melissa with a faint smile. Inwardly, she was seething. Harris already knew who Strickland had arranged to meet and had kept it from her.
‘He wasn’t after sex, if that’s what you mean,’ Sadie assured her.
‘Was he after anything else?’
The girl hesitated for a moment, affecting to scrutinise with particular care an unopened letter she had taken from a pile on the counter. ‘Like what?’ she said off-handedly.
‘I don’t know. Did he ask you any questions?’
‘He asked me how I liked the job, and about Youth Opportunities and how it felt to be unemployed. I thought maybe he was going to write something about it in his paper.’
‘Did he ask you anything about what goes on here at Uphanger? About Martin Morris, for example?’
‘Martin? He never mentioned him. The police think it was him that topped old Huffin’-’n-Puffin’, don’t they?’ For a split second, something like malicious satisfaction lit up Sadie’s tear-stained features. ‘No one’ll miss him, bad-tempered old sod.’ Her expression altered again as she said sadly, ‘I s’pose Martin did for Mr Strickland as well.’
‘It looks like it.’
‘But why?’
‘The police think he knew him and was afraid he’d recognise him and tell them his real name.’
‘You mean, he isn’t really Martin Morris?’
‘No, his name’s Maurice Dunmow. His sister used to work here.’
‘Mr Strickland never said anything about that last night. Did he know Martin’s real name?’
‘Yes.’
‘He should’ve told the fuzz. Then maybe he’d still be here,’ said Sadie with unexpected shrewdness.
‘You’re absolutely right. He said he was going to, but he left it too late.’ Once again, Melissa felt the weight of her own guilt in the matter. She was about to turn away and go back to her room when something made her ask, ‘Sadie, are you quite certain Mr Strickland didn’t talk about anything else? Or anyone else? Or ask you to do something for him?’ she added, with a flash of inspiration.
At the final question, Sadie’s mobile face registered consternation. It passed in an instant, but it had been there. It was plain the girl was hiding something. Melissa glanced round; there was still no one in sight. ‘What did he ask you to do?’ she whispered.
Sadie licked her lips, from which most of the pink lipstick had been rubbed away along with the tears. ‘He thought he was on to something,’ she faltered, after a long hesitation.
‘What sort of something?’
‘Some fiddle that the boss was up to.’
‘What was that?’
‘Something about phoney … no, he called them phantom students. Foreign students, who put their names down for courses but never turned up.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘So’s they could come over here and get jobs, he said.’
‘Yes, of course!’ It could be a lucrative sideline for a man as greedy and unscrupulous as Haughan. No doubt, in addition to the normal fee, there would be a substantial payment that never went through the books. ‘Is that what you were doing jus
t now, looking for names of people who registered but never came to the classes?’
‘That’s right. I know it doesn’t make any difference now Mr Strickland’s dead … I mean, he won’t be writing his article or whatever he was planning … but I just thought it’d be interesting to know … you won’t say anything, will you? If Mrs Haughan or Peggy found out I’d been nosing around, I’d be in dead trouble.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I did find several …’ Sadie’s expression became conspiratorial, but she broke off as the telephone began to ring. ‘Excuse me.’ She picked up the instrument and, in an artificially refined tone, announced, ‘Uphanger Learning Centre, how may I help you? Sorry, what was that? I don’t understand … just a moment, hold on.’ She clapped a hand over the mouthpiece and spoke to Melissa in her normal voice, ‘Mrs Craig, do you understand foreign?’
‘What sort of foreign?’ replied Melissa. ‘I know French and German.’
‘I think it’s German. Will you talk to her?’ Sadie held out the receiver, her expression appealing. A little reluctantly, Melissa took it.
‘Hullo?’ she said cautiously.
‘Guten Tag. Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’ asked a female voice.
‘Jawohl. Kann ich Ihnen helfen?’ There followed a request for some explanation of the Centre’s programme of courses in business English.
‘Moment, bitte.’ Melissa translated, but Sadie looked blank.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she said. ‘She’ll have to talk to Peggy. Ask her to call again later.’
‘When will Peggy be back?’
‘Soon, I hope. I’m ready for my lunch.’ Sadie gave a pout. ‘Say about half an hour, to be on the safe side.’
Melissa passed on the relevant information, there was a brief exchange of pleasantries and the woman rang off.
‘Did you tell her about the boss being topped?’ Sadie asked.
‘No.’ Melissa looked at her in surprise. ‘What gave you that idea?’
‘You mentioned Mr Haughan and I thought …’
‘I never said anything about … oh, I see! When the woman asked what time Peggy would be back, I said ‘In about half an hour, “wir hoffen” – that’s German for “we hope”.’
‘Oh, I see. Funny, how it sounds exactly the same.’
‘Yes, you get quite a few words like that.’
‘I wonder why Peggy never said. Perhaps she didn’t want us making fun of her beloved boss’s name. I wish I was clever and knew languages,’ Sadie went on, a trifle wistfully. ‘Course, it’s easy for her, she was born in Germany.’
‘Oh? How was that?’
‘Her Dad was in the army out there, so Pam told me. Oh, and speaking of her Dad, you’ll never guess what I found out this morning! I took a peek …’ Sadie broke off in confusion as Peggy, who had entered silently through the house, appeared at Melissa’s side.
As Sadie had suggested, she did not seem at all well; her features were pallid and drawn, and there were shadows under her eyes. From her expression, it was plain she had overheard Sadie’s final remarks. Sensing that a telling-off was about to be administered, Melissa withdrew.
At least, she now knew what had brought Ben Strickland to Uphanger, and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the murder. In fact, she reflected wryly, had Stewart Haughan known that Ben was planning to expose his racket, he might have been the one to commit murder. She wondered whether Ben’s investigation had been directed solely against Uphanger, or whether it was part of a probe into the covert activities of a number of private educational establishments. In either case, he had obviously intended to pursue it, despite the death of the proprietor.
She was so absorbed in this line of thought that it was several seconds before the significance of Sadie’s other remarks struck her. She stopped dead in her tracks as a further question sprang into her head. Sadie had been about to confide something she had recently learned that was in some way connected with Peggy’s father. She had been interrupted by the appearance of Peggy herself; thinking back, it seemed to Melissa that the look on the latter’s face had been more than mere annoyance at learning that someone had been tittle-tattling about her private affairs. She had appeared disturbed, almost alarmed.
Did she fear that the incorrigibly inquisitive Sadie had stumbled on something she wanted to remain hidden? Was there perhaps a possibility that the secret, if divulged, would hold a clue to the identity of the murderer?
Twenty
‘Keep calm,’ Melissa muttered to herself. ‘Think it through before sticking your neck out again. Are you sure you aren’t snatching at a straw, desperately trying to find something to show you’ve been right all along?’
She sat at the desk in her room, trying to make shape and order from the jumble of ideas swirling around in her brain. She grabbed a notebook and wrote furiously for several minutes, then sat back chewing her pen, her mind see-sawing between confidence and misgiving.
Was it too far-fetched to be credible? If she put her theory to Ken Harris, would he laugh it out of court? Or rather, shoot it down in flames before she got half-way through, see it as nothing but a pathetic attempt to boost her shattered self-esteem?
But why should he? The more she thought about it, the more feasible it seemed. She should at least put it forward for consideration. She had already been castigated for not immediately passing on vital information – ah, but that had been information in line with Harris’s own thinking. Was she likely to receive a pat on the back by casting doubt on his judgment? Hardly. And yet, he wasn’t so small-minded as to refuse to consider … perhaps it might be better to try and dig out a few more facts before …
No! She wasn’t going to lay herself open a second time to accusations of withholding what she knew. Relevant or not, Harris was going to hear about this. Resolutely clutching her notebook, she went back to the house, where she was intercepted by a harassed-looking Mrs Lucas.
‘I was just wondering – will you be wanting lunch?’ she said. ‘I don’t know whether I’m coming or going this morning, what with poor Mr Strickland dead and Martin disappearing, and now Mrs Haughan’s been arrested, of all things! I’m sure I can’t imagine what that great hulk of a policeman’s thinking of – he wants his head examined!’
‘He’s only doing his job.’ Despite her recent treatment at his hands, Melissa sprang to DCI Harris’s defence.
‘You mean you believe she killed her husband?’ Outrage and astonishment jostled for pride of place on the woman’s features.
‘I don’t believe anything of the kind, and I don’t think the police do either,’ Melissa assured her hastily. ‘But they do think she might know more than she’s told them about the murder.’
‘To protect that young man, I suppose.’ Mrs Lucas nodded, her lips pursed. ‘Well, I never saw a sign of anything improper between those two, but I can’t say as I’d blame her, poor love, being married to that pig. I just hope they won’t be too hard on her, that’s all.’
‘I hope not,’ Melissa sighed.
‘So, will you have something to eat now? Soup, or an omelette?’
‘Whatever is the least trouble. I just want a quick word with someone first. I’ll be with you in a few minutes, if that’s all right.’ I’d better not let on it’s DCI Harris I’m going to talk to, Melissa thought to herself as she hurried upstairs, or she might put soap in my soup.
In what had been the incident room, two uniformed constables were busy dismantling equipment and packing it into cardboard boxes.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘You can have this room back now,’ one of them explained, evidently taking her for a member of the staff. ‘The enquiry is being conducted from headquarters from now on.’
In other words, they’ve got their man, thought Melissa. Her spirits plummeted. She had a sudden vision of Maurice Dunmow, lying low at home, unaware that his cover had been blown, confident that Verity would not betray him, daring to hope that he might resume his own i
dentity. Soon, if it had not already happened, the nightmare would begin: the knock on the door, the shock of arrest, the caution, the handcuffs, the ignominious walk to the police car under the inquisitive eyes of neighbours and bystanders, the bleak cell and the endless questions …
‘Is there something you want, Madam?’ The younger of the two officers was looking at her curiously and she realised that she must have been waiting there with a vacant look on her face for several seconds.
‘Yes, actually, I wanted a word with Chief Inspector Harris,’ she said.
‘Sorry, he’s not here. Can I give him a message?’
‘Is Sergeant Waters anywhere around?’
‘No, they’ve both gone back to headquarters. Excuse me.’ He broke off as a telephone in one corner of the room began to ring. He picked up the receiver, listened a moment and then said, ‘Yes, sir. About half an hour.’ He glanced across at Melissa, still standing dejectedly in the doorway, and beckoned. ‘There’s a lady here would like a word with you, sir.’ He handed over the instrument. ‘The Chief Inspector’s on the line,’ he said, and went back to his task.
‘Ken, it’s Melissa. I’ve just found out … no, please, listen,’ she said in an urgent whisper, sensing rather than hearing his sigh of exasperation. ‘Do you remember how the last two or three messages Haughan received made a lot of references to hope, and the death of hope?’
‘So what?’ he said impatiently.
‘It’s only just dawned on me. Haughan and the German word for hope, they’re homophones.’
‘So the killer knew some basic German and was having a little fun with words. Is that all you want to tell me?’
‘No, there’s more. Peggy Drage speaks German.’
‘So do a lot of people. You, for example.’
‘Peggy was born in Germany because her father was stationed there while he was in the army.’ The dramatic stress she placed on the final words had no noticeable effect. All Harris said, with a hint of irony in his voice, was, ‘And you reckon Peggy Drage got her father to teach her a few commando tricks so’s she could bump off her ex-lover?’
Murder in the Orchard: A totally gripping cozy mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 6) Page 13
