A Choice of Victims (13 page)

‘Laywoman? Is that what I am?’ Recognizing the double entendre, she added quickly, ‘Don’t answer that!’

‘I don’t think my answer would have embarrassed you,’ he said.

She was very beautiful, he thought, and eminently desirable. Slim and elegant, with long shapely legs and small breasts and almost as tall as himself. Her light summer frock was patterned in pastel shades of blue and green, in subtle contrast to the rich auburn of her hair. He wondered how his father had reacted to her. The old boy had a keen eye for female beauty.

‘What are Doyle’s interests?’ he asked. ‘Any idea?’

‘Himself, first and foremost. Otherwise—well, perhaps “sybarite” describes him best. He’s not interested in sport, although he plays tennis occasionally. He could have been a useful player if he’d ever taken it seriously. So could Andrew. He hits the ball tremendously hard. But all Andrew thinks about is cars, the faster the better.’

‘Do you like him?’

‘Andrew?’ She shrugged. ‘He’s all right, I suppose. Not my type, though. Too morose. But Patricia adores him. She even persuaded the parents to invite him on holiday with them in Greece. Andrew turned it down.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ She twisted on the settee to face him. ‘I hope you didn’t invite me here just to pump me about the Doyles. I don’t like being used. Not like that, anyway.’

‘Ah!’ He took her hand. ‘In what way, then?’

‘Well, for a start, you might try kissing me.’

‘I had it in mind,’ he said.

He put his arms round her and drew her close. Under the light material her body was warm and pliant, seeming to mould itself against him. Her lips too were warm; warm and soft and eager. As they parted from the kiss she looked at him and smiled, then dropped her head to his shoulder and snuggled close.

‘How did that grab you?’ he asked.

‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Better than talking shop.’

‘Is that all? No violins? No waves breaking on the shore?’

‘Not that I noticed.’

‘Really? Well, let’s see if we can’t do better.’

The kiss was longer and more passionate than before. Her arms crept around his neck, her body moved sinuously against him. Excitement filled him. But when his hand moved to her breast and sought to explore further she drew away.

‘No?’ he queried, his voice thick.

‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘But what you obviously have in mind is more suited to the bedroom. You do have a bedroom, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ he said, unable to believe what the question seemed to promise.

‘Good.’ She stood up. ‘Then let’s go use it, darling, shall we?’

*

As he bathed and shaved the next morning his mind roamed back over the night. Neither of them was a virgin, and their combined expertise in sexual activity had made it a memorable experience. Both had uttered words of love in their more passionate moments, but in the prosaic light of morning he wondered how much love had been involved. More on his part, he suspected, than on hers. He found that slightly disturbing.

Wearing his dressing gown over her nudity, she was making coffee when he joined her in the kitchen. He looked at her admiringly. ‘Incredible!’ he said, and kissed her. ‘You look as beautiful this morning as you did last night. I wouldn’t have thought that possible.’

‘Compliments!’ she scoffed.

‘You don’t like compliments?’

‘Of course I like them. I don’t believe them, that’s all. What’s for breakfast?’

Both were hungry. They ate bacon and sausages and fried eggs, with toast and marmalade to follow. He would be busy during the day, Driver said, but why did they not get together again that evening? She had a date, she said, she would be returning to London as soon as she had collected the things she needed from home. He did not enquire about the date. Nor did he feel jealous. Just disappointment, tempered by the knowledge that he could not have arranged another such dinner in the time available.

*

‘What, again?’ Frances smiled a welcome as she opened the front door. ‘You’re ruining my reputation, Mr Hasted. People will start to talk.’

Hasted laughed. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Holden. It’s just that—well, like it or not, you seem to have quite a few of the answers I need. Or I hope you have.’

‘It’s likely to become a habit, then, is it?’ Frances led the way into the sitting room. ‘In that case I suggest we drop the Mr and Mrs and stick to Christian names. All right?’

‘It’s fine by me,’ he said.

‘Good. Now, what is it this time?’

‘I need to talk to the children.’ Through the open window he could see Natalie and Victor playing with the dogs on the lawn. Andrew was there too, and Blondie. Victor was throwing a ball for the dogs to fetch, but the cairns’ short little legs were no match for the longer ones of the retriever, and although they chased after it hell for leather, giving tongue as they went, it was always Blondie who reached it first. ‘They were out walking, weren’t they, on the day Mrs Doyle was killed? What time did they get back?’

‘About ten past one. And soaked to the skin.’

‘Do you happen to know where they went?’

‘West Deering way, I think. Through the woods.’ Frances leaned out through the window. ‘Victor! Natalie! Come in a minute, will you?’

They came in, leaving the dogs with Andrew, who threw the ball for them once and then flopped onto his back, pushing them away as they tried to lick his face. Yes, Victor said, they had gone and returned through the woods, using the main ride that ran from the Falcon to near Plummer’s garage. What time would they have entered the ride on the way back? Hasted asked. Neither could give a certain answer to that. Well, how long would it take to walk from one end of the ride to the other? About fifteen minutes, they thought, after consultation with Frances. ‘Allow five minutes to get back here from the Falcon,’ Hasted said, ‘and if you were home at ten past one, as your mother says you were, then you must have entered the north end of the ride at around ten to. Would that be about right?’

‘If you say so, Mr Hasted,’ Victor said. ‘Actually, I’ve no idea. Once the rain started we weren’t bothering about the time. All we wanted was to get home as fast as we could.’

‘So you might have made it quicker than usual, eh?’

‘Not really,’ Natalie said. ‘The dogs kept wandering off and we had to wait for them. Eventually we had to put them on the lead.’

‘Not that that helped much,’ Victor added. ‘They kept stopping to sniff at something. And you’d be surprised how hard it is to shift them if they don’t want to be shifted. They may be small, but they’re solid.’

‘They look it,’ Hasted said, smiling. ‘Anyway, with you in a hurry but hampered by the dogs it would work out about par for the course, eh?’

‘Probably.’

‘Did you meet anyone in the ride?’

‘We didn’t actually meet anyone,’ Natalie said. ‘When we were nearing this end we saw a man coming towards us, but he turned off to the left before we reached him.’

‘Your left or his left?’

‘Our left.’

‘That would be on the track towards Mr Philipson’s cottage, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any idea who he was? Andrew, for instance. He came back through the woods.’

Both shook their heads. ‘If definitely wasn’t Andrew,’ Victor said.

Hasted pressed without success for a description of the man or his clothing. The man had been too far away, Natalie said, and with the rain driving into their faces he had been little more than a distant blur. Hasted wondered how, under those conditions, they could be sure it was not Andrew. But to them, of course, Andrew would be a familiar figure, recognizable at a distance. Apparently that did not apply to the man they had seen.

With Smudge on her lap, purring loudly as she stroked him, Frances had listened to the interrogation with growing bewilderment. Now, putting down the cat, she said, ‘I don’t get it, George. What’s all this about?’

He was envious of the ease, the lack of hesitation, with which she spoke his name. He wished he could speak hers as naturally. But he knew he could not, and he was not going to try in front of the children. He had seen the look of surprise on their faces when she called him George.

‘Could I have a word with you in private?’ he said. He smiled at the children. ‘Sorry about this. But I’m supposed to keep my confidantes to a minimum.’

‘Well?’ Frances demanded when the children had left. ‘What is it?’

‘I’m interested in the Marstons,’ he said. ‘They live just down the road from here, don’t they?’

‘Yes. In Lowfield Cottages. But why them, George? Oh, I see! Because of Bob Marston’s feud with Elizabeth.’ She grimaced. ‘Not a very potent motive for murder, surely.’

‘There’s another reason.’ He explained his theory that Elizabeth Doyle might have been killed in mistake for Cheryl Mason and why, if that were so, Marston could certainly be said to have a motive. ‘I’m probably chasing a red herring, of course,’ he said. ‘I know that. It’s an occupational hazard. All the same, I’d like to hear what you can tell me about them.’

Most of what she told him he had already heard from Sybil, but the little extra was interesting. Some six years previously, Frances said, Marston had been arrested in Limpsted on a charge of common assault and had been bound over to keep the peace. ‘So far as I know he’s not normally violent,’ she said. ‘It’s just that he tends to go over the top when he’s had too much to drink. Or that’s what they say.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Well, it’s generally reckoned they’re pretty hard up. I suppose that’s because he spends so much time in the pub.’

Natalie was back in the garden. She sat close to Andrew, one hand fondling the cairns, the other covering Andrew’s hand where it rested on the grass. Had Patricia Scott a rival? Hasted wondered. Was Natalie Holden also keen on the young man?

Victor was on the telephone when they went into the hall. Outside the porch Frances said, ‘Am I to expect you tomorrow?’

He laughed. ‘It’s not on the schedule, but you never can tell.’ After a momentary pause he added, ‘Goodbye—er—Frances.’

She smiled. ‘Goodbye, George.’

‘That was Dad on the phone,’ Victor said, when she joined him. ‘He’s spoken to the electricity people. They’re delivering the new fridge on Monday.’

‘So we go the weekend without one, do we?’ She took his arm and squeezed it. ‘Well, I daresay we’ll manage.’

As they went out to the garden Victor said. ‘You’re getting pretty matey with Mr Hasted, aren’t you, Mum?’

‘What if I am?’ Frances said. ‘He’s a nice person. I like him.’ Andrew stood up as they joined him and Natalie, and she smiled acknowledgment. ‘What are you all doing this morning?’

‘We thought we’d go swimming,’ Natalie said. ‘At the Scotts’. Victor and I were going on our bikes, but Andrew says he’ll drive us over. He’s got the car. And that way we can take the dogs.’

‘That’s kind of you, Andrew,’ Frances said. ‘You’ll stay for lunch when you get back, won’t you? Or will your father be expecting you?’

‘He’s away for the weekend, Mrs Holden.’

‘So you’ll be on your own tomorrow too?’ Frances shook her head. ‘Dear me, we can’t allow that! Come to lunch with us. No—’ as Andrew started to protest—‘I insist. Shall we pick you up after church, or would you rather drive over?’

‘Would there be room for Blondie if I come with you?’ Andrew asked. ‘Then I could walk her back. She needs the exercise.’

‘Of course.’ Frances picked up the ball and threw it—very inaccurately, so that it landed in a flower bed. ‘Damn!’ she exclaimed, as the three dogs scampered after it. ‘Well, off you go. Enjoy yourselves.’

*

Driver did not go directly to headquarters. He rang for a police car and drove to the garage where his Rover was being repaired. Monday, the manager told him, she should be ready Monday. Tuesday at the latest. It was close on ten o’clock when he finally reached his office, to be told that a Miss Scott had telephoned earlier and had left a message, asking him to call her. Puzzled, Driver obeyed. ‘What is it, Felicity?’ he asked. ‘Missing me already, are you?’

‘You can cut the funny stuff, James,’ she said crisply. ‘We’ve been burgled.’

‘Good Lord! Really?’

‘Yes, really. What are you going to do about it?’

‘I’ll be right over,’ he told her.

Normally he would have handed such an investigation to a subordinate, but this was Felicity and he went himself, along with a Detective Sergeant Elphick and the necessary back-up team. Entry had been obtained by forcing a window in the large sitting room, and this provided the only sign of damage. There was none of the mess or the wanton destruction or spoliation so often associated with modern burglaries.

‘We’ve got a right tidy one here, sir,’ Elphick said. ‘Makes a nice change, doesn’t it?’

Driver turned away from examining the window. ‘Any idea what’s been taken?’ he asked Felicity.

‘Some of the silver, for a start,’ she said. ‘Not the really valuable stuff. That’ll be in the safe. And they’ve emptied mother’s and Patricia’s jewel boxes. I don’t know what was in them, but I imagine it would be mostly costume jewellery. That sort of thing. Nothing of real value.’