A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (17 page)

‘Kate?’ The crisp, confident voice of her mother-in-law. ‘My dear, I’ve heard the news on the radio and I’m coming straight down to collect you and Josh. I can’t imagine what Michael’s thinking of, leaving you down there with all those murders going on.’

Kate said weakly, ‘But my job—’

‘They’ll give you a few days off. They must realize you need it. I’ll be with you by lunchtime, so have your case packed.’

As she turned from the phone Kate felt a tremendous sense of relief. She didn’t know what Michael had told his parents about their problems and at the moment she didn’t care. It would be wonderful to have all decisions taken out of her hands, to allow herself to be looked after — most of all, actually to feel safe.

When she reached the shop the atmosphere was fraught. Richard and Martin were monosyllabic, Lana red-eyed and edgy.

Guiltily Kate told them of her mother-in-law’s call.

‘An excellent idea,’ Martin said at once. ‘You’re in need of a break.’

Kate looked anxiously at Richard and he nodded. ‘Don’t worry, we can cope. Do you good to get away from Delilah country for a few days.’

Lana sneezed and reached for a handkerchief. ‘How’s Josh taken the news?’

‘He’s not been told the full story but he senses something’s very wrong. He wanted Michael — Oh God! Michael’s coming at four o’clock and we shan’t be here. His mother won’t have been able to contact him, either.’

‘I’ll tell him where you are.’ Richard smiled grimly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly civil. Now, if you’re ready we’d better go down to the station and sign those statements.’

***

‘Right, so what reports have we got in so far?’

Jackson opened the file in front of him. ‘The hearth rug was sent to the lab. They’ll give us the result as soon as they can. Scenes-of-crime had no joy with wet footprints. Only Mowbray’s and Mrs Romilly’s showed. What time did the rain start last night, do you remember?’

‘I wasn’t here. Find out, will you Ken?’

Jackson nodded. ‘All hospitals in the area have been checked. No reports of anyone coming in with blood-stained clothing. Mowbray’s and Mrs Romilly’s fingerprints were taken for elimination, with the expected results. His didn’t show, hers came up on the bell and both door handles. Also on the dead woman’s hand and in the kitchen. House-to-house inquiries have covered the immediate area and are extending further afield. House and grounds were searched for the weapon, and guess what? No trace. The husband’s under sedation but he seems in the clear. There’s no doubt he was bedded in at the school from seven o’clock till Flint sought him out to break the news at nine forty-four. Oh, and Collins came up with the dead woman’s diary. It was in a locked drawer in her dressing table.’

‘Anything of interest?’

‘Pretty cryptic. Lots of entries but only initials given. The two latest, both of which appeared at least three times in the last days, were P.N. and R.P. Rumour has it she was having it off with someone from the school, so that’s a likely place to start looking.’

‘Great. Now we add the entire staff to our list of suspects, and possibly the senior boys too.’ He paused. ‘You know what’s bugging me, Ken?’

‘Yep. She’s the first victim that hasn’t been divorced.’

‘Precisely. And that opens up a whole new can of worms. Funny how people clam up, isn’t it, when someone dies? I bet they talked their heads off about her while she was alive, but as soon as she’s dead they’re afflicted with amnesia. Lady Romilly knows more than she’s saying, for a start. Might touch on her husband, perhaps, or even the worthy Mowbray. He’s the better bet, for my money. I know Mike Romilly and I can’t see him taking up with the likes of Sylvia Dane.’

‘You reckon Mowbray was the reason they split?’

‘We don’t know they have. Let’s go through Mowbray’s movements again and see how the times fit.’

Jackson flicked the papers in front of him. ‘In Heatherton till seven-thirty, so was late for his Broadminster appointment, arriving about eight. Old couple in Bridgend Road confirm that in general, but they’re not too precise on timing. They did say he stayed for coffee. Mowbray says it was just on nine when he left them. Raining heavily by then and his car wouldn’t start. Leads wet, presumably. Tried to tinker with it for some time. Didn’t like to go back to phone because the bedroom light had gone out and he didn’t want to disturb the old folk. So eventually he abandons the car and was cutting through Monks’ Walk to the taxi rank in Gloucester Street.’

‘Um. Doesn’t rule him out, does it?’

‘Except that he wouldn’t be hanging about waiting for the body to be discovered.’

‘Unless it was a double bluff. Say he killed her before reaching Bridgend Road “about eight,” and then hung around later to be on hand when the body was found. If he’d known Mrs Dane was alone, he also knew her husband was at the school and would be home soon after nine-thirty. He could have done his Samaritan act just as easily with him.’

‘Motive?’ asked Jackson laconically.

‘What motive does this killer ever have, other than a general revenge for deserted husbands? Mowbray fits that category himself. Old Dane was cuckolded all the time and didn’t know it. Even Michael Romilly’s solo at the moment. Technically all their wives could be at risk. Mrs Dane’s bought it. Where’s Mowbray’s wife, do we know?’

Jackson shrugged. ‘Probably safely out of the county.’ He paused. ‘But Mrs Romilly isn’t.’ The two men looked at each other. ‘You think she might be on the list?’

Webb rubbed a hand over his face. ‘She’s getting dangerously close.’

The phone sounded and Jackson lifted it. ‘OK, Sarge, thanks.’ He looked at Webb.

‘Speak of the devil. Mowbray and Mrs R are downstairs waiting to sign statements.’

They went down the wide linoleumed steps together. Kate and Richard, sitting uneasily in reception, rose to their feet.

‘Car start all right this morning, Mr Mowbray?’ Webb asked pleasantly.

Richard met his eyes. ‘Yes, thanks. It had dried out by the time I went back for it.’

When the formalities were completed, Kate mentioned her mother-in-law’s proposal. ‘There wouldn’t be any objection, would there, to my being away for a few days?’

‘None at all, Mrs Romilly, as long as you can be contacted. How long would it be for?’

‘Till Tuesday evening. School starts again on Wednesday.’

‘Fine. The inquest’s fixed for today week, the fifth of November.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t worry, though, there won’t be any fireworks. It’s just a question of identification at this stage.’

They walked out to the reception hall and Webb turned to Richard. ‘One more question, Mr Mowbray, before you go. Have you sold any knives at all over the last few weeks?’

‘Not that I recall. Why?’

‘As you know, we haven’t found the murder weapon, but it seems custom-built for the purpose. A kitchen knife, for instance, would have bent on contact with muscle. What we’re looking for is a shortish, sharp and rigid blade. You’ve no ideas that could be helpful?’

‘Not really. We’ve a couple of daggers at the shop, but they’ve not been sold. At least, I don’t think so. I’ll check when I go back and give you a ring.’

‘I’d be most grateful.’

The desk sergeant came across. ‘Excuse me, sir, Forensic on the line.’

‘Thanks, Barton.’ He nodded at Richard and Kate, who thankfully took their leave, and went to the desk. Jackson watched him as he nodded a couple of times and made some brief comment down the phone. Old Spiderman was looking tired. Couldn’t be much of a life, returning to an empty flat at all hours and having to set to and cook for yourself. Jackson thought briefly of Mrs W., who’d left the Governor for a bloke who worked nine to five and could plan his holidays in advance. Thank heaven for his own cuddly Millie, who always had a cuppa ready no matter what time he got home.

He straightened as Webb put down the phone and came towards him, some of his tiredness dropping away. ‘Looks like we’ve the beginnings of a lead at last. As you know, they took the rug for analysis and they’ve come up with a few pinpricks of blood. Mixed with traces of soil, they say — reckon it came from a cat’s claws. Our furry friend of last night, no doubt. The good news is that the blood group isn’t the same as the dead woman’s.’

‘Not a usefully rare one like AB, by any chance?’

‘That’s the bad news. Group O, I’m afraid.’

‘Well, it narrows the suspects to about twenty thousand.’

‘No pine needles this time, but I suppose we can’t have everything. So now we embark on checking blood groups, hoping to eliminate a fair number. Get a group of lads organized, will you, Ken. I’ll phone Stonebridge with the latest developments. Then I think we’ve earned ourselves a pie and a pint in the nearest pub. All in the course of duty, mind. You never know what you might learn in a pub!’ And with a tired grin, he turned once more to the phone.

CHAPTER 18

Michael arrived at his parents’ home on the Saturday evening. Kate, advised of his coming, kept out of the way while he spent some time with Josh. She felt drained, disorientated, knowing this respite was temporary and she’d have to return to the terrors and suspicions of Broadminster.

Her parents-in-law had been gentle and considerate. With surprising forbearance, they’d asked no questions either about the murder or the state of her marriage. Possibly they knew both answers from their son.

When Josh was in bed, Michael came and tapped on her door. ‘Hello, Kate. How are you feeling?’

‘Exhausted. And frightened.’

He came into the room and closed the door. ‘About what? You surely don’t think you’re in danger?’ She shrugged, too weary to explain, but he persisted. ‘Tell me.’

Kate sat on the bed staring at clasped hands. After a moment, as Michael stood waiting, she said unwillingly, ‘It’s getting more and more personal, this Delilah business. Remember how you said at the beginning I was taking more interest in it than usual? Even then, though I couldn’t define it, I felt threatened.’

‘Threatened?’ Michael’s voice sharpened. ‘Why should you?’

She shrugged again, shoulders moving under the silk of her blouse. ‘For one thing, I’ve had some kind of link with three of the victims. You knew the first one, Martin the third, all of us the fifth. It seems to be — closing in.’

‘How well did Martin know the third victim?’

‘He’d been to see her on business the week she was killed. In fact he’d gone back on the actual day, but changed his mind.’

‘Or so he says.’

‘I think I believe him. And, oh Michael, I’m so worried about Paul!’

He stared at her. ‘Why on earth?’

‘Because I — I think he was having an affair with Sylvia. The police are bound to find out, and perhaps Madge will.’

‘
Paul
? Having an affair? I don’t believe it.’

‘He called round twice when she was alone.’

Under Michael’s questioning, Kate related the occasions and Paul’s behaviour on the night of the dinner party.

‘You didn’t tell the police?’

‘How could I? I don’t think he
killed
her, for heaven’s sake.’ She looked up quickly. ‘You won’t say anything, will you? To Chief Inspector Webb?’

Michael looked at her strangely. ‘I know you’ve a poor opinion of me, Kate, but I don’t shop my friends.’

She bit her lip and he stared down at her, the drooping dark head above the creamy silk of her blouse.

‘We’d better go down,’ he said brusquely. ‘I came to tell you there’s sherry waiting.’ Mrs Romilly was a slim and elegant sixty, well dressed, well coiffured, well content with her role in life. She liked things to run on predictable lines in an orderly fashion and did her best to make them conform. She played bridge and golf, delivered meals on wheels, and was on the committee of the Women’s Conservative Club. She would have preferred her son to go into law like her barrister husband, but she was proud enough of his achievements, fond of her daughter-in-law, and devoted to her grandson. Exactly what this nonsense was about Michael and Kate living apart she was not sure, but it was time they pulled themselves together, for their own sakes as well as Josh’s. All three of them looked pale and unhappy.

The talk during dinner was superficial, a rule of the house. Mrs Romilly believed weighty topics overshadowed her cuisine and led to indigestion. But round the drawing room fire with coffee, as Kate well knew, the subjects close to her heart and her curiosity were sure to be raised.

‘You’re not looking well, Kate,’ she began purposefully, refilling her cup. ‘It’s really most unfortunate that you’re in the thick of these murders.’

‘They’re pretty spread out, Mother,’ Michael said politically. ‘The first was in Shillingham, remember.’

‘I’m surprised, dear, that your policeman friend hasn’t found the killer before this. I thought he was a good man.’

‘He is, but he’s only human. They’re turning the country upside down, but if they’ve come up with anything concrete, they’re playing it close to their chests.’

‘It took five years to catch the Yorkshire Ripper,’ Bruce Romilly commented.

‘Those murders were at longer intervals,’ his wife pointed out. ‘There have been five in Broadshire in only two months, the last three in
three
weeks
, for heaven’s sake!’

‘Nevertheless,’ Michael said stoutly, ‘I’ve a high opinion of Webb. He’s a complex character and not easy to get to know, but he’s first-class at his job.’

‘How complex?’

‘For a start he’s a brilliant cartoonist. He could have made a career of it, but he regards it as a hobby.’

‘A satirical policeman?’ Mrs Romilly said lightly. ‘Well, well!’

‘You need the same approach for both jobs, a discerning eye and the knack of probing beneath the surface. What’s more surprising is that he also has a flair for watercolours.’

‘Does he sell them commercially?’ Mr Romilly asked.

‘The paintings? He’s never tried. I have to twist his arm to get the cartoons.’

‘You publish them, Michael?’

‘All I can lay my hands on. There’ll be nothing for months, but when I badger him a bulky envelope arrives with a dozen or more.’

‘I must look out for them. How does he sign himself?’

‘An S in a circle, meaning a spider in a “Webb”.’ Michael finished his coffee. ‘He told me once he used them to solve his cases.’

‘A form of relaxation, I suppose, to clear the mind.’

‘I think it’s more that the caricatures are so recognizable they could pinpoint a trait he’d only noticed subconsciously.’

‘It doesn’t sound very scientific,’ Mrs Romilly objected.

‘Nor are hunches, but they’re often right. Of course that’s only the starting point, but the initial spark can come from anywhere.’

Kate leaned back and closed her eyes. The firelight was warm on her face, flickering redly against her closed lids. If only it were over, she thought tiredly, not just the murders but their own personal problems. What was Jill doing while Michael was away? She felt the nearness of tears and bent to put down her cup.

‘Would you mind if I go to bed? I’m very tired.’

She had started up the stairs when the drawing-room door opened and closed again and she turned to see Michael looking up at her.

‘I presume you’re not expecting me to join you?’ She stared at him numbly and after a moment he went on, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll sleep in my old room.’

Without a word she turned and went on up the stairs.

***

The pathologist’s report had been waiting for Webb when he returned to Headquarters on the Friday evening. It contained no surprises. He glanced through it, extracting the points that interested him. Thorax entered traumatically by instrument 1.8 centimetres wide through third and fourth intercostal space... Downward tract of incision consistent with thrust from assailant standing opposite seated victim. Death timed at shortly after 20.00, which, Webb reflected, made verification of Mowbray’s movements of paramount importance.

Contents of the stomach revealed partially digested meal of curried beef and rice eaten some two hours before death. No mystery about that; the leftovers were in the fridge in Monks’ Walk. For the rest, there was an appendix scar but no other distinguishing marks. And no defence wounds, indicating that Sylvia Dane, like her predecessors, had been taken by surprise.

Webb put the report on one side and pulled towards him a sheaf of statements resulting from the ever-widening inquiries. The top ones related to the Larksworth case and his interest quickened as he saw the word ‘moped’ underlined. A stallholder remembered seeing one in the vicinity — and there’d been a similar report after the Shillingham murder.

Webb made reference to this at the briefing half an hour later and detailed Standing and Ridley to check known owners of such vehicles. Afterwards, when the others had dispersed, Fleming approached him.

‘I’d like to see some of these people myself now, Dave, put faces to names. I suggest we go and root them out on Sunday — they should be home then and you prefer to see them on their own ground, don’t you?’

‘I do, sir, but if you’d rather—’

‘No, no, I’m happy to go along with that. Be glad to get out of this damned room. And people are less careful what they say at home. We’ll start with the staff at the shop. They’re always cropping up, what with Bailey’s visit to Otterford and the others finding the body. And have we checked on antique knockers? The hint of a fortune in the attic will overcome any woman’s caution.’

‘We put out feelers, yes sir, but there’s no report of knockers in the area lately.’

‘Bear it in mind, anyway. Now, where do all these people live? Spread round the bloody county, I suppose.’

‘Pretty well, yes. Bailey down in Broadminster, and Mrs Romilly, though she’s away for a few days. Miss Truscott, if you’re including her, is at Littlemarsh, and Mowbray’s up in Chipping Claydon.’

‘Ye gods! We’d better make an early start, then.’

Since he was not to be his own agent over the weekend, Webb had a quick word with Jackson. ‘I’ve told Standing and Ridley to get onto you if they’ve any luck with mopeds. In the meantime, go through Mowbray’s statement with a fine-tooth comb. His movements and the time of Mrs Dane’s death are crucial. Oh, and Ken’ —Jackson, on his way to the door, turned back — ‘I want a note of every bloody pine tree in the country!’

In fact, nothing spectacular emerged over the weekend. Bailey and his girlfriend had gone to London for two days, so that interview, like Kate Romilly’s, had to be postponed. Nor was the one with Lana Truscott too successful. She was unwilling even to let them in the house.

‘I seem to have caught another cold,’ she told them nasally. ‘I don’t want to pass it on, and there’s nothing I can tell you anyway.’

‘Don’t worry about the cold, Miss Truscott.’ Fleming said firmly, and stood his ground until, sneezing protestingly, she admitted them. Sitting on the chintzy sofa, they put their questions to her one by one. No, she’d not seen strangers in the neigh-bourhood. Yes, she was sure no weapons had been sold lately. Her only spark of animation came when Fleming said smoothly, ‘You know, of course, that Mrs Romilly met Mr Mowbray when she ran for help. Were you aware that he was in the neighbourhood that evening?’

Surprisingly, her face flamed and she rubbed agitatedly at her arm. ‘Mr Mowbray works irregular hours,’ she said stiffly. ‘I keep a note of some of his appointments, but often one leads directly to another.’

‘But did you know where he was that evening?’

‘No.’

‘All of you at the shop knew Mrs Dane, I believe?’ Webb tactfully veered off at a tangent.

‘Slightly, yes. She was one of our main exhibitors.’

‘Had you ever met her socially?’

‘Never.’ Lana set her lips tightly.

‘Not even at the private view?’

‘I wasn’t at the view, Chief Inspector, but if I had been, it would have been a business engagement, not a social one.’

‘I see. Of course.’

‘So if there’s nothing else I can tell you—’

She rose to her feet and the two men perforce rose with her.

‘One final request,’ Webb said unexpectedly. ‘Would it be possible to see your father?’

‘My father?’ She stared at him blankly.

‘Just a courtesy call, as I’m in the house.’

‘He’s probably asleep. I don’t think—’

‘We wouldn’t stay long.’ He’d been impressed by the old man during their association over the son’s death and didn’t want to leave without passing the time of day. Smiling pleasantly, he waited until Lana Truscott reluctantly showed them upstairs. The two policemen stood looking out of the window while the invalid was propped up and his pillows arranged.

‘He’s ready now,’ Lana said shortly. ‘I’ll go and make some tea.’

Webb turned and smiled at the old man. He had gone downhill in the six months since he’d seen him. The flesh of his face had fallen away so that nose and eyebrows jutted forward, giving him, with his feathery white hair, the appearance of an old eagle.

‘I hope you’ll forgive us disturbing you, Mr Truscott.’

‘Delighted to see you, Chief Inspector. I don’t have many visitors. I suppose you’re here about the unpleasant business in Broadminster. Lana will help you all she can, but for myself I only know what she tells me. I’m ashamed to say, I spend most of my time asleep these days.’

‘The days must drag when your daughter’s at work,’ Fleming said sympathetically. ‘You should have a pet to keep you company.’

The old man sighed. ‘Lana says dogs are messy creatures and she’s enough to do without cleaning up after them. And she’s allergic to cats, so they’re out too. I might just be allowed a budgie, provided,’ he added with a mischievous smile, ‘it didn’t spill its seed!’ He shook his head in gentle reproof. ‘I shouldn’t speak like that. Lana’s the most devoted daughter. She does all she can to make my life bearable.’