A Fatal Night

by Faith Martin

  Trudy knew he was protesting too much. But why should this pampered prince care about Terry Parker’s driving arrangements?

  ‘Our witness seems sure that they saw someone with light or bright hair sitting beside Mr Parker when he drove away,’ she said firmly, stretching the truth just a bit. Luckily, Jasper wasn’t to know that their witness had been vague and unsure, at best.

  At this, Jasper merely shrugged and refused to be drawn. ‘Really?’ he said, in his best bored voice and then yawned. There was something slightly overdone in his insouciance that made her wonder if he was trying too hard. Was he desperate not to give something away? ‘Sorry, late night,’ he added, with a brief smile.

  ‘I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, er …?’ Millie, arriving in lounging pyjamas and a wrap-around housecoat, looked even more flustered when it became apparent that she couldn’t recall either of their names.

  ‘WPC Loveday, Mrs Vander, and this is Dr Ryder,’ Trudy said obligingly, as they both rose politely to their feet. ‘We just have one or two more questions about Mr Parker and your party.’

  ‘Really! Surely you don’t need to keep pestering Mumsy with this stuff.’ It was Juliet who spoke as she entered and came to stand at her mother’s side.

  ‘We’ve learned one or two more things since speaking to you last that need clearing up,’ Trudy said firmly, not about to be bested by someone who called their parent ‘Mumsy’.

  ‘Why don’t you go and make me some tea and toast, darling,’ Millie said, sensing perhaps that a potentially embarrassing scene needed to be nipped in the bud. ‘You too, Jasper. Go and help your sister with breakfast,’ she ordered.

  Both Trudy and Clement were surprised by the hint of steel behind the pleasant tones, and they shot each other a quick, questioning glance.

  Jasper sighed elaborately, but moved from the fireplace. Juliet looked about to object to being ejected from the action, but then her twin shot her a grim warning look, and Juliet clearly thought twice about it. ‘Oh, all right,’ she muttered gracelessly.

  Once they were gone, and the door shut behind them, Millie sighed wearily. ‘Please, sit down,’ she said, slipping automatically into hostess mode. She chose for herself a comfortable-looking armchair set at a ninety-degree angle to the sofa. It was, Trudy mused, an astute way to prevent them from being able to watch her face full-on, as they talked.

  ‘So, how can I help you?’ Millie asked politely.

  ‘Is it true that you and Mr Parker had … Shall we say, an understanding?’ Trudy began gently.

  ‘An understanding?’ Millicent repeated questioningly. She opened her big green eyes very wide, and seemed to become somehow even more petite and fragile before their very eyes.

  It was, Clement thought, a very neat trick, which he presumed this pocket Venus had often used in the past – probably to good effect. It was certainly designed to bring out the protective instincts in the male heart. Pity his own pump was far too cynical to be fooled.

  ‘Yes,’ Trudy said firmly. ‘Several people have intimated that they expected an announcement to be made shortly.’

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, but I’m still all at sea, Constable,’ Millicent said, cocking her head slightly to one side and allowing a small frown to appear between her brows. ‘What sort of announcement do you mean?’

  ‘An engagement,’ Trudy ploughed determinedly on, getting annoyed with the other woman’s fencing. ‘Isn’t it true that you and Mr Parker were a couple?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Millie said, sounding and looking genuinely shocked. It was only then that Trudy realised what a truly wonderful actress she was. ‘Mr Parker is – was, I mean – a friend of mine, nothing more,’ she insisted, sounding wounded to the core that anybody could possibly think anything else.

  So that was how she was going to play it, Trudy thought. She couldn’t help but admire the older woman, really. After all, how could anyone prove anything different now? With Terry Parker dead, nobody could gainsay her, could they?

  ‘You really shouldn’t listen to prurient gossip, Constable,’ Millie continued, managing a small, forgiving smile. ‘I’m afraid, as you grow older, you’ll realise that so-called friends can really be rather spiteful. People do so love to imagine scandals where none exist, don’t you find, Dr Ryder?’ Millicent turned to give him a gracious smile.

  ‘Oh, I’m afraid so,’ Clement agreed mildly, for there was no point in antagonising the woman by insisting that she was a bare-faced liar.

  ‘I think they get bored,’ she turned back to Trudy, and shrugged.

  ‘Mr Parker hadn’t proposed to you?’ Like a terrier with a bone, Trudy was not prepared to let it go.

  For a moment, it seemed to her that the older woman’s eyes flickered in what she would have sworn was genuine pain, and the younger girl began to feel guilty for being so brusque.

  ‘No, he had not,’ Millicent said, and for once her voice had the ring of stark truth.

  ‘Had you any reason to suppose he might?’ Trudy tried again, her voice gentler now, as she sensed that, beneath the theatrics being played out in front of her, she might have touched on a real vulnerability in her witness. After all, this woman had lost a man she loved, and Trudy knew that she mustn’t lose sight of that.

  Millicent Vander managed to smile. ‘I certainly expected no such thing,’ she said firmly.

  ‘What can you tell us about the woman who was at your party that nobody seemed to know?’ Trudy went on to describe Phyllis Raynor, but here again, Millicent wouldn’t be drawn.

  ‘I have no idea who she was,’ the older woman said with a sophisticated smile. ‘But you don’t like to make a fuss, do you? She didn’t stay long. I did wonder if she had the wrong address. Or perhaps one of my naughty male friends had brought her as his plus-one and didn’t like to own up to it. Men can be so silly sometimes, can’t they?’ she said, opening those big green eyes of hers innocently.

  And with that, Trudy and Clement had to be content.

  *

  They left the house, if not with a flea in their ear, then certainly feeling a little chagrined and put out. ‘She made me feel like I was being a right brute,’ Trudy said ruefully. ‘And a boor. And naïve and who knows what else.’

  ‘Yes, she is rather good at that, isn’t she?’ Clement agreed mildly. ‘Playing the misunderstood, mistreated poor little woman.’

  ‘She was head over heels in love with our victim though, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘I agree,’ Clement concurred. ‘But she’ll never admit it in a month of Sundays.’

  ‘It gives her a motive though, doesn’t it? The woman scorned, and all that,’ Trudy mused out loud. ‘If she found out that he’d been having an affair with Phyllis Raynor, the lovely gate-crasher?’

  ‘Yes. And it also occurs to me that she’s got to be our number-one suspect when it comes to being the one most likely to have delivered the sleeping dose to our victim if it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.’ He paused by the entrance to the gate as Trudy looked questioningly at him. ‘Think about it,’ he encouraged. ‘If our killer acted on impulse, then she’s really the only one who’d have access to the murder weapon, isn’t she? Who takes their sleeping pills to a party? No one, that’s who. But a hostess in her own home …’

  ‘Of course!’ Trudy said, wanting to kick herself for not thinking of this herself. ‘She can simply go upstairs to the bathroom or her bedroom or whatever, and hey presto! She had a murder weapon right there at her disposal.’

  Liking this scenario more and more, Trudy stopped walking down the pavement towards the car and turned to face him, her breath pluming out like gusts of steam between them in the frigid air. ‘Say she sees or hears something compromising going on between the love of her life and the mystery woman, and in a fit of sudden rage or despair or what-have-you, she wants revenge. She’s hardly the type to go and get a kitchen knife, is she? But she’s only got to think things through for a bit and she’s bound to think of her sleeping pills.’
>
  ‘If she takes them,’ Clement said. ‘Don’t lose sight of the fact that, as of now, this is speculation of the wildest kind. For all we know, she might sleep like a baby quite naturally, and there’s nothing more compromising in her medicine cabinet than aspirin and corn plasters.’

  Trudy giggled at the thought of the elegant Mrs Vander with corns on her tiny toes. Then she sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. Still … It does make you wonder, doesn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, it does indeed,’ Clement agreed dryly.

  Chapter 22

  Geoffrey Thorpe stood just inside Terrence Parker’s small garden shed and glanced nervously around. He’d known that his business partner kept a spare key to his house hidden inside a galvanised tin watering can, ever since Terry had had to use it last summer. Circumstances had dictated that they needed to hold an impromptu meeting at the dead man’s house and Terry had discovered that he’d left his main keys back in the office. Geoffrey remembered chiding him about leaving a spare key so accessible, but was glad now that his business partner had been so lackadaisical.

  He breathed a sigh of relief to see that the watering can was still there. He looked around again, reassured by the blank windows and still curtains on either side of his late partner’s house. Even so, he felt hideously exposed, and – not for the first time since his death – cursed Terry Parker long and hard for being such a damned nuisance. He quickly retrieved the key and ploughed somewhat awkwardly across the lawn, with its thick layer of virgin snow, towards the back kitchen door. There he used the key and very gingerly pushed the door open.

  Since he hadn’t spotted any police presence in the front of the house, or now at the back, he felt reasonably sure that it was safe to proceed.

  He began his search in the most obvious place – the small, book-lined snug-cum-study at the front of the house, that Terry had always liked to refer to as his library. In the walnut writing bureau he certainly found a lot of papers – bills, bank statements, even Terry’s passport. But not what he was looking for.

  Trying to quell a sense of mounting panic, he went through the bookcases, but found nothing hidden either between or behind the books.

  Next he went upstairs, where he found the second, spare bedroom empty of everything except a bed and a wardrobe. He commenced searching the main bedroom. In the bedside cabinet, however, he only found an old Edgar Wallace paperback that Terry had been reading, along with an electric torch and a bottle of aspirin. On top of the cabinet there was only a small portable alarm clock – the kind that folded away into a small, hard, square leather-bound case when not in use, or when you needed it if you were travelling away from home.

  In the bathroom cabinet there was nothing but the usual toothpaste, toothbrush and shaving gear.

  He searched under the mattress. He lifted the Axminster rug at all four corners and peered underneath. He went to the wardrobe and searched through the pockets of any garment that happened to possess them.

  With a growing sense of panic he went to the kitchen – a last resort – but found nothing but tins of this and that in the cupboards, a half-empty box of cornflakes standing beside the draining board, and only the usual array of cutlery in the cutlery drawer.

  Of the piece of paper he was looking for, there was not one sign.

  For a moment he leaned despairingly over the sink, his hands shaking a little as he tried to think. It wasn’t at his office, for he’d already searched it from top to bottom, and now it didn’t seem to be in Terry’s home. Where else hadn’t he looked?

  He could only hope the police hadn’t already found it. But would they have any reason to search the belongings of the victim of a motor car smash? He hoped not. Because if they had found it, he’d be …

  Motor crash! Of course! Geoffrey Thorpe let out a breath of relief. Terry’s car! He could have kept it there. Not that Terry owned a car as such, choosing instead to drive around for weeks at a time in one or other of their sports cars. But he had his favourites.

  He drove to the car showroom, cursing every weather-related delay, even though he was glad (for once) that the atrocious weather had kept the salesrooms closed. He certainly didn’t want curious staff watching what he was doing. He made his way to the large, freezing and deserted showroom and searched all the cars that Terry favoured. But their glove compartments and side-door pockets were bare.

  That only left the car Terry had died in. He used the more commonplace car often, when he didn’t need to impress anyone. Had he left it in the Riley somewhere?

  And once again, Geoffrey Thorpe began to despair. He just had to get that damning, incriminating piece of paper back and destroy it.

  What the hell was he going to do?

  *

  Duncan Gillingham couldn’t believe his luck when he passed the Port Meadow café not far from Trudy’s police station, and saw her sitting inside. Why it was called Port Meadow when it was nowhere near that famous open vista, he had no idea, nor did he care. He was only pleased to see that it was open for business, and there, sitting at one of the tables near the window, was Trudy Loveday herself.

  He felt his heart thump, as it always seemed to, whenever he caught sight of her. He was never quite sure why it persisted in doing so. Perhaps it was the uniform! Or perhaps it was because she was so spiky, she challenged him as few women in his life ever had.

  He pushed into the café, happy to breathe warm air for a change. All the sub-zero air just lately was making him cough.

  *

  Trudy, sensing a male presence looming down on her, looked up, expecting to see Vincent. They had arranged that morning at Dr Ryder’s house that they’d meet, so that he could either confirm or blow a hole in Geoffrey Thorpe’s alibi.

  Clement had had to leave her for the day to go to his office in order to catch up on anything urgent and make sure nothing had come in that required his attention. He’d been reluctant to go but Trudy had promised to fill him in on anything. And since tomorrow was Saturday, and not a working day for him, they could only hope they’d have one last full day before the axe fell, and Inspector Jennings assigned the case elsewhere.

  A smile was already forming on her face before she realised that it wasn’t Vincent slipping into the seat opposite her after all. She blinked at Duncan, the smile dropping off her face, and then she scowled instead.

  Her cap was lying beside her place setting at the table, and she raised a hand automatically to check that the pins holding her bun in place were all secure. She had a lot of thick brown, curling hair, which she could sometimes be a bit vain about, but it could also be a nuisance and hard to control at times. Just like the man opposite her now! Relieved to feel that her mop of hair was suitably tidy, she felt reassured.

  ‘And to what do I owe this dubious honour?’ she asked glumly.

  Duncan smiled at her winningly. ‘Now is that any way to greet a man who tried to help you out?’ he admonished. ‘Did you or did you not get lots of helpful calls from the public after my piece asking for anyone with information on your dead driver to come forward?’ he asked, opening his green eyes innocently.

  It gave her an uncomfortable flash of déjà vu, for hadn’t Millie Vander done just the same thing not so long ago?

  ‘You should have given out the station’s front desk number,’ she said snappily.

  She saw Duncan’s smile widen even further and held on to her temper with difficulty. She knew that he liked to get under her skin, so why oh why did she let him?

  ‘So, what’s good here?’ he asked, loudly enough to catch the attention of the waitress who moved forward to stand beside him, little notebook and pen poised patiently. She was a pleasant-faced, plump, middle-aged woman who looked as if she’d been doing the job for so long that her feet now forgot to feel tired.

  Realising that it was pointless crossing swords with him, Trudy sighed over her own cup of tea. She’d decided to wait until Vincent arrived to order any food, and now she was glad that she had. With any luck
he’d be late, and this annoying snoop would have already left her in peace.

  Selecting the Welsh Rarebit, Duncan asked the waitress (with a wink) to renew Trudy’s teapot, and Trudy sighed again.

  ‘So, anything new for me on our dead motorist?’ he asked blandly when the waitress had moved off.

  ‘Isn’t that old news by now?’ Trudy shot back. ‘Surely you’ve got more interesting stories to write?’ So far, the press had got not one whiff that the fatality had been caused by anything out of the ordinary, and she wasn’t going to reveal, by so much as a flicker of an eyelash, that that wasn’t in fact the case.

  She only hoped she could make sure that Vincent didn’t let the cat out of the bag if he arrived on time.

  ‘Everything’s about the weather,’ Duncan complained morosely. ‘It’s all over the television, the radio, the front pages. We’re all getting sick of it. Come on, haven’t you got anything interesting for me at all?’ he wheedled.

  Trudy ignored the appeal. ‘With this bug going around, I’m being run off my feet doing the work of at least three,’ she said, not totally exaggerating. When not working on the Parker case, the inspector had her working overtime every day. ‘Why not run a piece praising our heroic public service workers in the face of illness and snow?’

  Duncan blew her a raspberry. ‘I can just see my editor going for that.’ He laughed.

  ‘Well, don’t you normally make stuff up when there’s no real news?’ she taunted him. ‘Go find a half-frozen cat up a tree and call out the fire brigade or some …’ This time, when the door opened, she saw that it was actually Vincent. So much for her hope that he’d be delayed.

  He drew off his knitted hat as he stepped inside, and the interior café lights shone on his head, bringing out the fairer highlights in his hair. He looked around, spotted her, then glanced, puzzled, at her companion.