A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (2 page)

Wearily, drained by the pressures of the day, she went upstairs. The narrow room was stuffy, the day’s sunshine stored beneath its sloping ceiling. Kate pushed up the sash window. From this height the Minster was still visible against its background of trees, but the parapet which edged the building shut off everything below. An ivory tower, she thought.

She had made up the bed earlier with linen from the spare room in Shillingham, and the bedspread looked oddly familiar in its alien setting. The floorboards were polished and a sheepskin rug lay beside the bed. Adequate, as she’d assured Madge and Paul.

She crossed to the dressing table and, leaning forward, studied her reflection. Her short dark hair fell as usual in soft curls over her forehead, and the large eyes Michael had laughingly described as navy-blue stared solemnly back at her. The traumatic day had left surprisingly little mark.

With a sigh she straightened and started to undress.

CHAPTER 3

Detective Chief Inspector Webb switched on the ignition and the car moved slowly forward. It was a hell of a way to start a week. In the last twenty-four hours he had attained his forty-sixth birthday, upset Hannah, and received news of another murder. And, for good measure, it was pouring with rain.

Another murder, for God’s sake. Down in Broadminster this time, but the M.O. tied in with the Meadowes case, which landed it neatly in his lap. And they hadn’t got anywhere with the first one yet. Nearly two weeks of searching, interviewing, house-to-house inquiries, and they were no nearer murderer or motive than when they’d started.

The traffic lights at the foot of the hill turned red as he approached and he swore briefly, reaching up to adjust the rear-view mirror. Starkly the glass gave back his reflection: plentiful brown hair, hard mouth, bleak grey eyes.

So what had they got so far? Not a lot, he thought with grim humour, and what they had was mostly negative. No break-in, no robbery, no murder weapon. The victim had been in her own armchair, stabbed once through the heart. Nothing out of place —except for the scrawled word ‘Delilah’ in lipstick on the mirror. A bizarre touch, that, almost as shocking in the neat little room as the corpse herself, seated comfortably in her chair.

Webb frowned and, as the lights changed, inched the car forward. No clue there, either. The tube of lipstick, discarded on the hearthrug, had proved to be the dead woman’s, and hers were the only prints on it.

Weaving his way in and out of the early traffic, he mentally reviewed the suspects. First the cohabitant Robert Preston, who had a cast-iron alibi in the shape of a factory full of workmates. No way he could have slipped out to stab his lady-friend, even if he’d wanted to. Then the two she’d been in court with the week before her death. Nix again. Blake was a commercial traveller, in Cardiff at the crucial time. And Kittle, a bus driver, had been on duty. The ex-husband Don Meadowes, while there were certain ambiguities in his statement, had no motive that Webb could see. He seemed glad to be rid of Linda and planning to make an honest woman of the girl he was now shacked up with.

The Chief Inspector sighed and turned into the broad, rain-washed thoroughfare of Carrington Street. Halfway along it, set back from the road, was Shillingham Police Station, a modern building fronted by a circle of lawn in the centre of which was a large pond. On less fraught occasions, Webb sometimes paused by it on his way to lunch, the artist in him marvelling at the waxy perfection of the lilies that floated there, rose-pink and golden and white, among the shiny green mat of their leaves. But this morning he had no time for floral appreciation. As he circled the grass he was watching out for Jackson, who came hurrying down the steps as he drew up, shoulders hunched against the rain.

‘Morning, Governor. You want to drive?’

‘Yes, I’ll carry on.’

Jackson settled himself in the passenger seat, smoothing his hands over his thinning sandy hair to remove the rain. Under their jutting brows his china-blue eyes were alive with anticipation.

‘Looks like we’re off again.’

‘Seems so. You’ve got the directions?’

‘Yes, the report was waiting.’

‘Let’s have it, then.’ Webb glanced over his shoulder, edged out again into the mainstream of traffic.

‘Firstly, Stonebridge want you to report in once you’ve sized everything up.’

Webb grunted. He’d guessed Headquarters would come in on this. ‘What’s the form?’

The Sergeant fumbled inside his raincoat and extracted a sheet of paper. ‘Court Lane phoned through at o-eight-o-five. Body of a woman aged about forty discovered by her sister just after seven-thirty.’

‘Was the sister living with her?’

‘No, they were due to go on holiday today. She arrived as arranged and found the door on the latch. Thought her sister’d left it ready for her and went in all unsuspecting.’

‘And they think our chap’s responsible?’

‘It’s the writing on the mirror. “Delilah,” same as last time.’

‘Bloody hell.’

They said little more during the drive, each busy with his own thoughts. The countryside was obscured by a haze of drizzle, misty in the distance, opaque and glistening nearer at hand. Cows stood dejectedly in the fields and cyclists battled along with heads down, their yellow capes billowing out behind them.

Only as they approached the outskirts of Broadminster and the first set of traffic lights halted their progress did Webb rouse himself. ‘Where are we heading?’

‘Larchwood Lane. We’ll have to go through the town; it’s off Lower Broad Street,’ Fenton said. ‘I’ve brought the street map.’ He unfolded it, tracing the route. ‘Yes, here we are. Down past the hospital, first exit at the roundabout, and it’s the second turning on the right.’

Larchwood Lane was a fairly recent development of some two dozen houses built to a chalet design. Already the wooden boardings were beginning to fade but the deep eaves and white paintwork still looked attractive. As implied, the
cul
-
de
-
sac
ended in a small wood.

This Monday morning, the quiet backwater was a hive of excitement. An ambulance was parked at the gate of No. 15 awaiting clearance to remove the body. In front and behind it, a motley collection of cars and vans had drawn up, and the uniformed constable on guard at the gate was surrounded by a group of journalists and photographers.

Webb drew in behind the end car and got out. The rain had stopped and there was a pungent smell of wet leaves. On the opposite pavement a small crowd had gathered, women with shopping baskets, young mothers with prams, a couple of men self-consciously on the fringe, hands in pockets. Embarrassed, somehow ashamed of their curiosity, they looked away as he glanced in their direction.

The waiting newsmen had no such inhibitions. ‘
Broadshire
News
, sir. Can you give us any details?’

With the ease born of long practice, Webb shouldered his way past. ‘I haven’t any myself yet, gentlemen. You’ll have a statement in due course.’

‘But can you confirm that this murder is linked with—?’

Nodding to the constable on the gate, Webb strode up the path, Jackson at his heels. They made an odd pair, the Chief Inspector tall and lanky, the Sergeant by contrast short and slight. Some wit at Headquarters had dubbed them Dignity and Impudence, but the sobriquets did not concern them. They respected each other, knew the workings of each other’s mind, and together presented a formidable combination, as many a villain had found to his cost.

‘Morning, Dave. Nice little present we’ve got for you.’

The man who came to meet them was tall and broad-shouldered, with a hooked nose and shaggy dark hair. Not for the first time, Jackson reflected that Chief D.I. Horn looked more like a con man than a detective.

‘Hello, Foggy. What’s the score?’

‘Not much to go on so far. I was first on the scene — live just round the corner. Had a quick look to confirm death, otherwise no one’s been in except Doc Roscoe and the scenes-of-crime boys. They’ve moved out to let the pathologist do his stuff — he’s in there now. It’s Stapleton, from Broadshire General. He’s got a string of PMs lined up for this morning and wasn’t prepared to hang around. Time of death provisionally estimated as yesterday afternoon, and the M.O. seems the same as your Shillingham bloke. Think he’s spreading his wings?’

‘Sounds like it, unless we’re in for a spate of copycat crimes. I’ll have a quick look myself before the boys move back.’

He ducked his head as he went through the low doorway. A square hall lay ahead, with an open kitchen door at the end. Already there was a faintly unpleasant smell in the house. It had been a warm night. The door on the left was ajar and Webb eased it open with his foot, surveying the scene inside. A stone fireplace took up most of one wall, the empty grate screened with leaves and grasses. On a low table lay some knitting and one of the popular Sunday papers, open at the television programmes. Dr Stapleton was standing in the middle of the room thoughtfully studying the limp body in an easy chair. Briefly Webb’s eyes went beyond him to the red letters scrawled across the mirror. They looked depressingly familiar.

He introduced himself and the pathologist nodded. He was a small man with a dried-out air about him. His hands and feet were small and neat as a woman’s and he wore rimless spectacles.

‘From a purely visual examination, Chief Inspector, death appears to have been caused by circulatory shock due to a stab wound. What interests me is the cadaveric spasm.’ He nodded towards the hands, convulsively gripping the arms of the chair. ‘No attempt at self-defence, it seems. She must have died extremely quickly.’

Webb stood looking down at the dead woman. She was fair-haired, might even have been pretty, but a latent insipidness had been cruelly emphasized by the vacuity of death. Through her open sandals he could see that the toenails were painted bright pink — ready, no doubt, for the beaches of Benidorm or wherever. Webb sighed. That small vanity made the woman suddenly more real, the fact of her death more depressing. A tube of lipstick lay at her feet, presumably removed after death from the open handbag. If it followed the Meadowes case, there’d be no prints on it but the dead woman’s.

Dr Stapleton cleared his throat. ‘Well, I’ve finished here, Chief Inspector. Can’t say any more till I get her on the slab. I’ll let you have a report as soon as I can.’

While Webb was inspecting the scene, Jackson waited outside the front door. Over by the hedge, a couple of men were methodically pulling aside the heavy bushes in their search for the murder weapon, swearing as the tangled branches drenched their sleeves. Across the road he could see a detective talking to a woman at her door. A thrush was chirruping on the low eave above his head. Little did it know there would be no more bacon rinds from this address.

The constable at the gate turned and, seeing Jackson standing there, ambled up the path. He jerked his head towards the house. ‘That the one they call “Spiderman”?’

Jackson grinned. ‘That’s him.’

‘Why’s that, then?’

‘His name, I suppose. Webb, Spider. One of the old lags started it and it spread. “Will you come into my parlour,” and all that.’

‘Going to take over, is he? From Chief D.I. Horn?’

Jackson shrugged. ‘If you ask me, Stonebridge will come in now. They’re waiting for the Governor to report back.’

The sound of approaching voices sent the constable quickly back to his post. He’d just reached it when the pathologist appeared, followed by Webb. Stapleton nodded to Horn, who was chatting to the scenes-of-crime officers, walked briskly down the path and got into his car.

Horn joined Webb at the front door. ‘OK if the boys carry on?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Webb stood to one side while the two men moved back inside. ‘What’s her name, by the way?’

‘Patricia Burke. Mrs.’

‘Husband in evidence?’

‘No, her divorce was finalized last week. That’s why she and her sister were going away, to give her a break.’

‘You saw the sister, didn’t you. How did she seem?’

‘Incoherent. All I could get out of her was that she had two tickets for the ferry. Kept asking how she could cancel them. Odd, the things the mind fastens on in times of shock.’

‘She’s at Court Lane?’

‘Yes, a WDC collected her. The doctor will have seen her by now, but I doubt if she’s fit to be interviewed.’

‘Wonder how close they were, whether she knew her sister’s friends, and so on. If we could establish a connection between this woman and Linda Meadowes, we could be onto something. Even though they lived twenty miles apart, they seem to have had at least one friend in common — if you could call him that.’

‘We might learn something from the neighbours. The support group are doing a house-to-house now and as you can see we’ve started searching the grounds. No point getting the dogs in, though. The scent’ll be cold by now and the rain won’t have helped either. Likewise, roadblocks are a waste of time. Our man could be halfway round the world by now. Think how many flights have left Heathrow in the last eighteen hours.’

‘All the same, Foggy, it’s my bet he’s sitting pretty not too far away, watching with interest to see what we’ll do.’

One of the support group turned in at the gate and Horn went down to talk to him. The garden was bright with the recent rain, the soil rich and dark, the grass silver-bladed as a watery sun struggled from behind the clouds. Webb looked round for Jackson. He was standing at the front window, watching the men at work inside. Webb joined him. The pleasant room, with a television in the corner and the knitting on the table, was an unlikely setting for murder, an uncannily accurate repeat of the Meadowes case. Perhaps because of his jaundiced mood today, the whole affair disturbed him. He had the feeling they were in for trouble with Mr Delilah.

‘I don’t like it, Ken,’ he commented. ‘All right, so we can accept that a man can be let down so badly that he wants to kill —
does
kill, in fact, and labels the woman “Delilah” to make his point. Fair enough. But
another
woman? The same man? It makes nonsense of the motives — dilutes the whole thing. He couldn’t have been involved enough with two women at the same time, both of whom let him down badly enough to get themselves killed.’