by Carrie Marsh
“I heard. Poor boy.”
“Yes,” Marcie replied.
She studied Harry while they ate, noting the worry and distress etched on his features. She was tired, but she was nowhere near as tired as he looked. She knew sometimes that walking was all that made him feel relaxed.” Why don’t we go over the Lytchwood Common for a walk tonight after dinner?” she asked.
And besides, she thought privately, I have my own ideas about this case and I need to find out. This walk could help me confirm something Dennis told me.
“Gosh, girl,” Harry replied mildly, “I'm quite tired. You must be even more tired?” He smiled at his lovely wife, and Marcie patted his hand fondly. Though both in the autumn of their lives, they had an undying love for each other and showed it in small ways every day including their respect and sensitivity for each other.
“I'm okay, dear,” Marcie said, stifling a yawn with her handkerchief. “I think a walk would be good for us both. And besides, I want to find something.”
“What sort of thing?” Harry asked curiously. “If it's about the case – and I know you well enough to know that's it – then I don't think we'll see much there. That SUV that killed these two is long gone by now, I’m sure ...”
Marcie disagreed. “Whether it is or not, dear, there is still something to find out. I haven’t heard anyone telling me why anyone would kill the young couple so brutally. I mean, Janet was no angel, but she never did anything worse than being too young when she married Richard. At least not to my mind. Nothing anyone would kill her for.”
Harry frowned at her. “You think not? I mean, what I know of Janet is that many men in this place wanted her. Many of them would have killed for her.”
Marcie raised a brow. “I believe it,” she said archly. “But who killed Grant, then? I think he was one of those young activists – you know the ones that sit in front of bulldozers – that kind of thing. There's nothing worse than that to pin on him.”
Harry puts his fork down. “Okay, I see what you mean. Someone didn't have any reason to kill both of them. Or, no one beside...”
“Besides Richard, you mean?” Marcie nodded slowly. “The simplest motive would be jealousy on Richard’s part. I agree. But I don’t think that young man has got it in him to kill anyone. If you look at the way he cares for Tamsyn...” she sighed. “I just can't see it being him.”
“What about Mr. Gerald?” Harry suggested as he resumed eating his chicken pot pie. “He owned Lytchwood Common, remember.”
Marcie frowned. “Why would you think of him?”
“I don't know,” Harry said carefully. “Besides the fact that he has a big SUV...” he trailed off as Marcie stared at him.
“Well, blow me down, Harry. You're right! And...” her eyes sparkled as she warmed to the idea, “...we know that Grant was involved in the last summer’s protest against Gerald building a resort at the edge of the pond…” Marcie stopped, got up from the table and went to her desk. She came back carrying a slim Apple laptop. “I wonder what the protest was really about,” Marcie went on as she searched for “Gerald’s Property – Croxley” on the internet.
“I’ve got it,” she exclaimed, showing the screen to Harry. Harry nodded.
“Heaven above, girl, you're a sharp lass.” He grinned at her and Marcie blushed.
“Come on, you,” she said, chidingly. “That's enough of that. Let's finish our dinner and head down to the pond.” She grinned, though, showing that she was far from offended.
Harry nodded and they finished their supper in silence and then headed upstairs to fetch coats. Marcie could feel her heart thumping, and when she looked at Harry she could see a new sense of purpose and interest on his face.
Perhaps we should ask Inspector Gilding if we can be investigators, she thought, and chuckled to herself. For the first time in several days she felt excited.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A WALK ON THE FIELD
A WALK ON THE FIELD
The wind whispered secrets in the treetops. Cold and damp, it tugged at the headscarf Marcie had wrapped around her hair to keep herself warm, and made her shiver. She looked across at Harry, who tried to look reassuring, though in fact he looked as tense as she felt.
“Shall we go down?” she asked.
Harry nodded. “We should.” Lytchwood Common was deserted at this time of the evening and trees standing by the pond were shadowy and moss-green against the mist, half-seen forms that loomed out before them. Heading down to the pond, Marcie tried not to shiver. Two people died here recently, she thought. The idea made her feel nervous.
Beside her, Harry was silent. She knew he was feeling the same way she was, though neither of them wanted to show it – ignoring it was that much easier if you believed you were the only one with any sort of misgivings, she realized.
When they reached the cliff’s edge, the sun was setting, casting red flame over the still, oil-slick waters of the pond. Marcie shivered again and looked down at the mud, where tire tracks ran ahead across the common, just visible at night.
Harry seemed to catch her thought, because he knelt stiffly to look at them. Marcie watched.
“These are pretty new,” he said, standing up after a moment.
Marcie nodded. “I know. They look like a truck, though, or a van. Do you think it's Mr. Gerald's van?”
Harry nodded firmly. “I'm sure it is,” he confirmed. “Look at the way the tracks curve round. His driveway is just around at the edge of the field. Only he would have been driving here now.”
“And do you know if Mr. Gerald’s van has a “bull-bar” on the front?” Marcie asked quietly.
“I can’t readily remember, Dearie,” Harry replied quietly. “But I think so, yes.” He paused. “What are you thinking...?”
Marcie walked a few paces along the tire tracks then turned back to him. “Look up at the road there, Harry,” she said quietly. “What do you see?”
“It's pretty steep, the inclination where it goes up past the pond,” Harry said. “The bit where Janet...” he trailed off. “Is that what you mean?”
“Mm,” Marcie nodded. She squinted at the road herself. “I don't think it would be easy to push a car off that roadway and over the edge without a good deal of forward planning. At the very least, whoever did would also make a mess of their own transport. Don't you think?”
Harry stared at her. “Yes. My dear, you amaze me.”
Marcie blushed. “Flattery, as you know, is the root of all evil.”
Harry laughed at her mixed metaphor. She could see he was as interested as she was in the case, and she felt her own heart thump as she warmed to the theme.
“So,” he said thoughtfully, “you think that whoever did this would need to know the area very well, and would have had to lie in wait around here?”
“Yes, dear,” Marcie nodded. “That is precisely what I am thinking.” She was also thinking that Mr. Gerald's SUV fit the description that Dennis had supplied her with so perfectly that it almost had to be the murder weapon.
“So, you mean that, because Len Gerald lives over there, that he...” Harry trailed off.
“He was ideally placed to plan something, yes,” Marcie shrugged. “And I have reason to believe it was an SUV with a bull-bar, and that is, as you say, what he has.”
Harry nodded. “You're right. But,” he hesitated, “there's loads of the things in the country. It could have been anyone. Though, I admit that to plan something exactly here, you would need to know the village pretty well. So, it must have been someone in this village. And he's almost the only one with a car like that,” he said thoughtfully.
“True,” Marcie nodded. “But we can safely assume that whoever killed the two young people knew Janet and Grant. I don't see why else they would have killed just them. And so they probably are villagers, as you suggested. And so we need a villager who had the right kind of car and knew the deceased.”
“Yes,” Harry agreed quietly. “I see what you mean. But e
veryone in the village knew Janet and Grant.”
The wind rose, ruffling black water and making Marcie shiver. Harry drew his coat tighter and stepped aside so she could pass. They walked slowly up the slope to where Harry had left his own car, a rare but compact Audi.
“True,” Marcie mused. “Everyone knew them both. I remember Janet when she was a girl. She’s always been a pretty girl and every boy longed for a kiss or even just a wink from her when she was at school.”
Harry laughed. “Really? I didn't know that. You knew her at school?”
“I didn't,” Marcie said shortly. “But I remember one day when I was at the school's annual sports day. I gave a speech and handed out the prizes.” She smiled fondly at the memory. “I asked the girls who had won the prizes that day a question. If they had the choice of wishes, what would they wish for? I remember it so clearly now.”
Harry smiled and took Marcie’s hand. “And what did Janet choose?” he asked.
Marcie swallowed hard. The answer came back clearly, haunting her. “Her wish was to be granted total freedom.”
Harry stared at her and Marcie reached for a handkerchief. “Sorry, Harry,” she said, sobbing suddenly.
She hadn't realized how deeply the death of the young woman affected her but it all came forth now, and she found herself holding onto Harry as she cried. “It's just too...too much, to remember that now that she's gone.”
“I know,” Harry said, holding her and stroking her hair, talking in gentle words as she cried on his shoulder.
“She had such a hard life, it seems this is her freedom.” She blew her nose. “But she did have Richard. He freed her from her awful home, at least. At least she had those years.” She drew in a shuddering breath and slowly stopped crying.
“You think Richard was her wish then?” Harry asked. He frowned. “I'm not sure about it...She seemed unhappy to me, even with him.”
Marcie inclined her head. “I don’t think he was her wish, Harry, no. I don't think he was even her beloved. I believe there was another boy she loved…”
Harry raised a brow and they continued walking, going back up the incline.
“Who was it?” Harry finally asked as he got into the front seat.
“Dr. Marlborough.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
FINDING SOME DIFFICULTY
FINDING SOME DIFFICULTY
Gilding swore loudly.
Ginsberg, who was in the hallway outside the office, put his head in round the door. “Sorry, sir?”
Gilding sighed. “Nothing, Ginsberg. Just too much to think about.”
His sergeant peered worriedly at him and then went out again.
Gilding looked down at the papers on his desk. They showed a report on Mrs. Fleet's wallet. It was empty when it was found – no cash, no cards. Just a handwritten note and a crumpled bus ticket to Norwich.
None of this fits together, he thought.
The crumpled note lay beside everything else on his desk, carefully sealed in a plastic envelope. It held a single statement: “Only ten days”.
Ten days until what? Her escape, presumably. But when did she write it? Knowing that would be important.
The bus ticket was bothersome, too. It would have been exciting if it had been the ticket for wherever she was going. But she was heading out of the village by car – or she would not be dead now – and also, the date was for a fortnight before.
“She has friends in Norwich, probably. Her brother is in Norwich. She might have visited him.”
Gilding sighed.
He had three distinct pieces of information. First, the car, a white SUV. Second, the fact that both suspects were killed by the same person. Then, he had the empty wallet.
The last piece of information pointed to Janet's brother. Of all the suspects, only he would have had any reason to steal from her. Always assuming the killer and the thief were the same person, that was.
The second piece of information pointed to Janet's husband, the only person so far who had any real motive for both deaths.
The first – the car – pointed to any one of a dozen people, none of which were his two suspects. Richard Fleet had a nondescript Honda, and Joshua did not have a car.
Gilding held his head in his hands, feeling a migraine growing behind his eyelids.
He had too much information. And too much that didn't fit together. He had three or four pieces of very distinct information with no common thread. He had a loose idea of a motive: jealousy.
Okay, he thought. Most likely suspect is still Fleet himself. We still don't know where he was the night she or Hiddingh died, though he claims to have been home. Gilding sighed. Then, the second possibility is simply that there were two hit-and-run accidents with similar cars. He shook his head. Of all the possibilities, that one was the least likely. And then there was the stolen wallet.
He looked at the note, its silence mocked him, a failure to give the woman who wrote it the justice he should have been able to give her. If only he was not so blind. It was exactly how he had felt when his wife died, and that did not help his logic at all.
She is almost the age Laine was, he thought. He closed his eyes. Her hair was dark, too, like Laine's had been. And seeing her on the slab was just like...
He felt his lip tremble and roughly pushed the envelope away. He closed his eyes, wishing he could shut out the memories of Laine. Her dark eyes, warm with a smile. Her light laughter. The perfume she wore, scenting her soft, soft hair. He had failed Laine. Perhaps if he had moved faster, taken her to the doctor months before when she had first started feeling tired and nauseous...he shook his head.
He had never forgiven himself, never shut out the doubting voices in his mind that told him that it was his fault. Leukemia had taken her, an assailant he could not fight, but should have recognized, he thought, if only he had listened better. And now Laine, or someone very like her, was back and just like last time, he could not help.
He reached for his phone. “Hargreaves?”
“Yes, Inspector?” the Cambridge drawl on the other side reassured him hugely.
Gilding blew out his cheeks. “Any results?”
He was waiting to hear from the lab about the note. He had sent a sample of the ink, carefully cut from the letter, just in case it was possible for them to figure out when it was written.
Hargreaves paused. “Nothing yet, old boy. Stop stressing. I'll call you the moment Darnley calls me.”
Gilding sighed. Darnley was the scientist at the lab. He was a notoriously erratic worker and if he didn't send results immediately, it meant he had forgotten about it.
“Well, if he hasn't got back to you this evening, I'm calling him.”
Eustace laughed. “Do that. But why are you so anxious?”
He had to figure out when it had been written. If they could put a date on when she had started planning, perhaps they could look for tickets, bookings...find out where she was going. Knowing that would give them fresh information.
“I need to know where she was going, Eustace,” he said quietly. “If I know that, it narrows it down.”
“Keep looking, old boy,” Eustace said genially. “I'm in Stowe now – just got in. I'll drive up to the morgue and have a look at our young companions again, if you think it's useful..? And yes, I know I'm driving. I have a hands-free set, remember?”
Gilding sighed. “Don't worry about it, Eustace. You enjoy your dinner. I don't need any other clues to baffle me right now.”
He heard Eustace chuckle. “Okay. In that case I can save it for tomorrow, then.”
“Save what?” Gilding felt his heart stop.
“The news that the tire treads have a match.”
Gilding dropped the phone. When he retrieved it, Eustace was, blessedly, still there.
“You what?”
“The tire treads,” he said tranquilly. “We figured out the profile and looked it up. Apparently they are quite particular – Michelin tires. LTX. We asked the mechanic, an
d he said that he had only seen one car in the village like that.”
“Really?” Gilding sounded hoarse.
“Yes. They belong to Len Gerald.”
Gilding did put the phone down, then. He sat looking out of the window. The sun had been shining earlier, but now the clouds had rolled in, as if on cue. He ran a hand down his face.
“What on earth would Len Gerald be killing people for?”
It simply did not make sense.
Of all the people in the village least likely to have a motive to kill Janet, Len Gerald would be at the top of the list. A wealthy reclusive man, too snobbish to play much of a part in village life, Len was one of the few villagers who wouldn't even have known Janet existed, much less been involved enough to kill her.
And if he had no motive to kill Janet, what would have been his motive for killing Grant? As far as Gilding knew, the second murder followed on directly from the first. Everyone in the village knew Grant Hiddingh and Janet were having an affair. Whoever killed her had killed him – the cars were a match. And if they killed them both, it had to be a crime of passion.
Gilding sighed. There was only one thing for it. He would have to go and interview Len Gerald. If the man had even the slimmest likelihood of having been there on the right day, or a trace of motive, he was fully prepared to dump the whole mess on him. It would make his job so much easier if this turned out to be the right lead.
“I'd better go and do that, then. If Ginsberg's around, or Hannah, they can come with me.”
He reached for his briefcase, checked his watch and headed to the staff room.
The rain was falling more strongly now, washing down the windows and making a soft ticking noise on the metal roof of the station. Gilding leaned back and looked up at the weeping clouds and, not for the first time, wished he could join them and weep.
