A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (20 page)

Webb sucked his teeth reflectively. ‘We’re overlooking something, Ken. Something that’s staring us in the face. We’ve enough facts now to nail him, if we can just fit them together.’

Jackson grinned. ‘Time to go walkabout, Guy?’

‘I think it is. There’s the inquest tomorrow but I’ll take Saturday off and see if I can come up with something. Let’s hope for a fine day.’

***

Mary Lucas’s presence at breakfast took Josh by surprise, which, after she received a message on her radio, gave way to a sense of importance. He bet none of the other boys had the police staying with them and sending messages and things.

‘We don’t want anyone to know, though, Josh,’ Mary told him earnestly. ‘Do you think you can keep it a secret?’

‘Of course I can.’ He hesitated, then added frankly, ‘Though I’d
like
everyone to know.’

‘Tell you what, then. If you keep quiet, we’ll let you tell them later, and I’ll arrange for you to have a ride in a police car. Would you like that?’

‘It’d be great! Could Tim come too?’

‘I should think so, but only if you don’t say a word till we tell you.’

‘Isn’t Mummy going to tell anyone either?’

‘Not a soul.’

‘Not even Daddy?’

Mary hesitated, but Kate said steadily, ‘Not even Daddy for the moment, but we will later.’

Josh considered this. ‘OK,’ he said then, and reached for the cornflakes. Over his head, Kate and Mary exchanged a look of relief.

It was half-day closing again — how quickly Thursdays came round — and Kate wondered apprehensively if she’d feel restricted with the policewoman constantly on hand.

But Mary Lucas said cheerfully, ‘Just carry on as usual. What do you normally do on Thursday afternoons?’

Kate pulled a face. ‘Have a cleaning blitz, if I’m at home.’

‘I’ll give you a hand if you like.’

So while Mary set about dusting the living room, Kate humped the vacuum cleaner upstairs and pushed open Josh’s door. The sun was shining through the skylight and the small room was warm and cheerful. Methodically she started to fold the jerseys which were thrown over the chair and put them neatly in a drawer. Her son had certainly stamped his character on the room, Kate thought with amusement. A large poster of a racing car was fastened with blue tack above his bed and on the notice board he’d pinned a selection of drawings. One had slipped to the floor, and Kate bent to retrieve it. The side uppermost was a printed form headed Broadcasting Research Listening Panel, with a list of questions below. Where had Josh found that? She flipped it over and recognized the drawing of an improbably long-legged calf which he’d brought back from his day at the Truscotts’. She pinned it back on the board, biting her lip as she saw the illustration alongside, labelled, in case of doubt, ‘Auntie Jill making a cake’. She wished passionately that she was herself baking a cake in her

kitchen at Shillingham, not cooped up here under police protection.

Her wave of misery was interrupted by Mary’s cheerful voice from below, and, brushing self-pity aside, Kate went down to join her.

Kate had been dreading the inquest, but in fact it lasted only minutes, then was adjourned for a month while the police completed their investigations. She and Richard gave evidence of finding the body and the pathologist stated the cause of death. Chief Inspector Webb was on hand as well as a neat, grey-haired man she hadn’t seen before, who seemed to be his superior. Webb introduced him afterwards as Chief Superintendent Fleming and they exchanged a few words.

‘He and Webb came to see me last Sunday,’ Richard told her as they went down the steps of the court. ‘A much more congenial man than the Chief Inspector. Doesn’t treat you as though you ought to be behind bars.’

‘You think Webb does?’

‘Very definitely.’

‘I rather like him. He can look forbidding, but when he smiles he’s quite different.’

‘He’s never smiled at me,’ Richard said. ‘Come on, we’ll treat ourselves to lunch before we go back.’

Kate was surprised when Richard drew up not outside one of the pubs but in the forecourt of the Consort Hotel. Seeing the small Ford follow them in, she hoped with a touch of amusement that her shadow could claim expenses.

For the Consort was one of Broadminster’s newest and most luxurious hotels. The cocktail lounge was all glass and chrome, with olive-green seating and enormous plants. It was rather, Kate thought, like being in a fish tank. But the seats were comfortable and she leant back and allowed her eyes to close. The clink of a glass on the table brought them open again. Richard sat down opposite her and raised his own.

‘Confusion to our enemies!’

‘Have we any?’ Kate smiled.

‘Certainly. Everyone has.’

‘What a philosophy!’ But she was thinking of the dead pigeon and the things that had gone before. Chillingly, Richard was right; she herself certainly had enemies. Possibly he included the Chief Inspector among his. During all the years that Michael had spoken of Webb, Kate never imagined she would meet him, least of all in connection with a murder case. But she’d liked him, and was surprised by Richard’s antipathy.
Did
the Chief Inspector think he should be ‘behind bars’? The possibility of Richard’s being on his list of suspects revived her own doubts about him. What had he been doing at Sylvia’s gate? He’d offered no explanation and she hadn’t liked to ask.

Lunchtime drinkers now crowded the bar, calling to each other, laughing, enjoying an amicable if fleeting camaraderie. After a while Richard ordered smoked salmon sandwiches. They were cold — out of a fridge? — and the bread felt slightly damp. Kate wasn’t hungry but she ate two of the triangles and Richard finished them. She was aware of a feeling of claustrophobia. Loud voices hemmed them in on all sides, the heat from the pipes behind her made her head ache, and the massed vegetation seemed vaguely threatening. She was glad when it was time to go. After the green stretches of the cocktail lounge, Pennyfarthings seemed small and safe and familiar.

Kate was alone in the shop when Michael arrived the next morning. His eyes as they met hers were hard and cold.

‘Enjoy your lunch yesterday?’ And, as she stared at him, he added, ‘I was driving past as you came out.’

‘I didn’t see you.’

‘Obviously. You were too interested in your companion.’

Kate drew a steadying breath. ‘We’d been to the inquest. I thought you might have been there.’

‘I can’t be everywhere, Kate. John Darby was covering it.’

‘But you knew I’d have to attend.’

‘So?’

She raised her head. ‘I thought you might come to offer moral support.’

‘Three’s a crowd. I knew Mowbray’d be holding your hand.’

‘As Jill holds yours.’

His mouth tightened. ‘We’re quits, then.’

‘Does she — has she moved in with you?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Has she, Michael?’

‘It’s none of your business. I don’t inquire how often your boyfriend creeps upstairs to visit you.’

Kate gasped, her resentment fuelled by the fact that she’d refused Richard out of loyalty to Michael. ‘You’re vile!’ she choked her voice rising. ‘If that’s your opinion of me, you can go to hell. I never want to see you again!’

His eyes slid past her and she spun round. Framed in the office doorway were Lana, Richard, and Josh, all pale-faced and staring at them. How much had they heard?

Josh said in a high, quavering little voice, ‘Daddy?’ And as Kate made a convulsive movement towards him, Michael, face blazing, bent down and held out his arms. The child rushed into them. Michael scooped him up, turned on his heel, and strode out of the shop. The door rocked to behind him. Kate stood unmoving, her hands over her face, feeling the tears drip through her fingers. Richard’s arms came round her, pulling her gently towards him.

‘All right, it’s over now. He’s gone.’

If the words were meant to soothe her, they had the opposite effect. Leaning helplessly against him, Kate abandoned herself to a storm of weeping.

CHAPTER 21

Webb was not able, as he’d intended, to take the day off that Saturday. Fleming had called a special briefing and, arising from it, a stack of extra work needed his attention. The Sunday brought some unexpected news: Victor Truscott had died suddenly of a heart attack. Webb felt a passing sadness, though no great surprise. It was obvious on his last visit that the old man had lost his will to live. Webb’s sympathy was more with the unapproachable daughter. She would be very much alone.

Dr Stapleton phoned the next day. ‘Thought you’d like to know I’ve done an autopsy on Truscott. No question that it was natural causes — a massive coronary. However, there’s one point of interest. On a routine examination of the gastric contents we came across some undigested tablets. Since he was supposedly on no medication at the time of death, we investigated further and found a fairly high blood level of barbiturate. Not toxic, mind you, well within the therapeutic range, but a bit of a puzzle nonetheless. According to the local GP, Miss Truscott had a regular prescription for night sedation, so most probably the old boy suffered from insomnia and she gave him some of hers. It happens all the time, but I thought it worth mentioning.’

Webb was thoughtful as he replaced the receiver. He was remembering the self-reproach in the old man’s voice as he admitted spending most of his time asleep. Perhaps even such a devoted daughter as Lana took liberties to gain some extra free-dom.

It wasn’t till Wednesday evening that Webb’s desk was clear enough to be left for a day with an easy conscience.

‘Right, Ken,’ he said wearily, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm, ‘that’s it. Tomorrow I’m incommunicado except in emergency. What have you got laid on?’

‘I’m going back to Larksworth with Standing to check on a few loose ends.’

‘Fine. I’ll be in touch if I need you.’

His flat had the neglected look of somewhere that hadn’t been lived in for a while. On the draining board stood an array of plates and glasses which, before falling into bed each night, he’d rinsed through. Now he stacked them together and put them away. He had just poured a neat whisky when the phone went. God, what now?

But it was Hannah’s voice that reached him. ‘I saw you garaging the car and thought you might welcome a hot meal. How does chilli sound?’

‘Hot, certainly! Bless you, Hannah, that would be perfect. Give me half an hour. I need a soak to get rid of the aches.’

‘Ready when you are, Guy!’

He nearly fell asleep in the bath, lying back while the hot water reddened his skin and lapped over his body in small, gentle caresses. His mind still circled round the murders, but it was an unprofitable circle, a cat chasing its own tail. Cat? His eyes flickered as he struggled after a thread of association which eluded him. Let it go. He was opting out tonight. Tomorrow, he told himself ironically, all would be revealed. God willing.

Hannah opened the door and he stood there simply holding her, his face in her hair, letting the calm of her soak into his mind. He knew that he owed her more than he was prepared to give, in consideration, in commitment. It was his good fortune that she dismissed the debt. She was content to accept him on his own terms and he acknowledged that he was luckier than he’d any right to be.

‘You’re exhausted, aren’t you?’ she said softly. ‘Let’s eat on trays by the fire.’

The chilli scorched his tongue, the accompanying lager cooled it. The warmth of the fire stole over him, the television made no demands. He was aware of Hannah gently removing his tray, and knew no more till he realized she was standing in front of him.

‘Chief Inspector, sir, are you fit to return home or will you doss down here?’

‘I doubt if I’d make the stairs,’ he confessed shamefacedly.

He was soundly asleep when she came to bed. Later, in the night, he reached for her and, waking, she moved without question into his arms. Their brief, frenzied coming together was part of the restorative, and almost at once he slept again.

He woke finally to sunlight flooding in and the smell of frying bacon. Catching up his clothes, he padded naked to the bathroom. His mind was alive again, probing, sifting, already at work on the final deductions. For preference he’d have set out at once, without the distractions of social discourse, but he owed it to Hannah to eat the breakfast she’d prepared.

When he reached the kitchen she was crisping the frill round the fried eggs. ‘Lucky I haven’t a class till ten,’ she remarked as he lifted her heavy hair and kissed the back of her neck.

‘I’m almost there, Hannah. It’s about to fall into shape.’

‘Glad to hear it. They’ve been particularly nasty, these murders, like lightning out of a clear sky. No warning, no escape.’

It was a clear sky today, but condensation coated the window and, moving forward, Webb could see rime on the grass, the trees encrusted in frosting.

‘I’ve filled a Thermos of soup for you,’ Hannah told him, putting his plate on the table. ‘And there’s a couple of homemade rolls. Don’t forget the inner man while you’re cogitating, certainly when it’s as cold as this.’ She bent to kiss his cheek. ‘I must go, love. Don’t bother clearing away, I can see you’re raring to be off. Happy hunting!’

The door of the flat closed behind her. For a few minutes longer Webb sat there, finishing his toast and draining the coffeepot. Then, taking her at her word, he rose from the table, leaving the empty dishes as they were, and let himself out of the flat.

The sun was strengthening as he drove down into Shillingham, and the rooftops glistened. The cold weather didn’t bother him. He was warmly dressed and he welcomed its icy clarity. The whole white and blue day stretched ahead of him, his to do with as he willed. It didn’t matter which direction he took. Shillingham’s suburbs did not stretch far and it was surrounded by hills and woods where, without fear of disturbance, he could set up his easel and work out his puzzle. All the facts were there. He had only to juggle them into the right pattern.

Half an hour later he’d left the car and was starting out across the fields. He had trimmed his needs on these occasions to the bare essentials — a folding stool, collapsible easel, the minimum of equipment. He walked for some time, falling naturally into a steady stride, feeling the strengthening sun on his head, the crunch of the grass under his feet. Though his ears were stinging with the cold, he scarcely noticed it.

Eventually he stopped and looked back. The field he had come up dropped away behind him, bordered by its spiky hedges and the gate through which he had come. A small outcrop of rock above him provided a windbreak. This would do admirably. He set up chair and easel, pinned on the paper, selected his charcoal, knowing from experience it was no use starting cold on his denouement. He’d begin by sketching the scene before him, letting his mind roam free till he was ready to commit it to paper. The time this preparation took varied from case to case. Sometimes he sketched for hours before facts and figures fell into place. Sometimes he’d barely started the first out-lines before he had to whip off the paper and start on a fresh sheet.

The facts, then, he thought, shading in the sweep of grass ahead of him. Five victims, all female, all taken unawares. Four divorcees, one unfaithful wife. No fingerprints. Only clue the pine needles and the minute pinpricks of blood. Jackson had checked the groups of everyone connected with the case. They were roughly one-third Group A, like Sylvia Dane, and two thirds 0, like her killer. And for those few enigmatic drops they were indebted to the small, terrified cat which had seen its mistress die. The cat.

Almost unconsciously, Webb stripped away the paper and fitted a new one, excitement building inside him. As was his custom, he first set the scene, drawing in everything connected in his mind with the various crimes. He’d been amused to read recently of a system known as ‘Mind Maps’ which was taught to businessmen. Basically, it was what he’d done for years, using a visual layout to coagulate his ideas.

He began with Linda Meadowes. The first appearance of the word Delilah and the discarded tube of lipstick. Alongside it he drew a moped and a pine tree, source of the

few dried needles which had been trodden into the carpet. And the murder weapon, so far undiscovered; a rigid, short-bladed knife, designed to kill.

The first Broadminster death, that of Mrs Burke, he symbolized with a suitcase for the ill-fated holiday. There was a wood at the end of her road, but it was larches, not pines.

Now Jane Forbes: a loaf of bread and some teacups. Webb pictured the assailant at the table, watching as she filled the kettle, took the cups from the dresser; perhaps secretly fingering the blade of his weapon. Sick, evil. Yet he hadn’t raped her. Why? Did he feel that would compound her infidelity, break faith with the wronged husband he avenged? Or was there another reason Webb had overlooked? Jackson had drawn a blank on homosexuals.

For a few minutes Webb let his mind circle the possibilities. Then, temporarily abandoning them, he progressed to Rose Percival in Otterford. For her he drew the candlestick that Bailey went to value. He
could
have returned on the Thursday, despite what he’d said. And he had the right blood group. As, Webb conceded, had two thirds of the population of Broadshire. More pine needles, and this time he could fit a rider to the moped, narrow-shouldered as Mrs Parker described.

So to Sylvia Dane. Webb sketched a rectangle for the painting commissioned by Paul Netherby. Then the cat, with arched back and glaring eyes. There was something about the cat, something he was overlooking. Frowningly he devoted some minutes to it, elaborating its outline with claws and whiskers. But without enlightenment. No pine needles here, and no moped. It seemed they went together.

Minutes ticked into hours as Webb doodled, mentally and physically. The paper was filling up. There were two market stalls for Otterford and Larksworth, three mopeds, only one of which had a rider, and no less than five daggers. Would they ever find that weapon? They couldn’t search every house in the county.

Mowbray’s sitting room came to mind, the portrait on the wall, the daggers by the fire. Any one of them would have fitted the bill. Left-handed, Mowbray said they were — a gratuitous piece of information. Or was it to throw them off the scent, since he himself was right-handed? For if Mowbray
were
the killer, what was to prevent his selecting a weapon from his own wall, using it to his purpose, and then replacing it? Webb remembered the tenseness, the silent challenge in the man when he showed an interest in the collection.

Experimentally he cast Mowbray as murderer and surveyed the possibilities. Like Bailey, he had the right blood group — and there were plenty of pine trees up the lane to his house! Momentarily Webb’s grip tightened on the charcoal, then relaxed. Even if they found a moped on his premises, he could never be described as narrow-shouldered. Or were they placing too much importance on Mrs Parker’s memory?

Motive? Well, his wife had left him. He could have been brooding for years, building up a paranoid hatred of faithless wives. Webb felt certain the victims were chosen as representatives of their kind, not from personal animosity. Their deaths were executions rather than crimes of passion. Mowbray was capable of that detached callousness, and he’d been in the area when Mrs Dane died. In that instance, at least, he’d had motive, means, and opportunity.

Almost with reluctance, Webb sketched in the items sent to Kate Romilly. Yet if he dismissed her skinhead theory — and to them, one frightened woman would be of only passing interest — the most likely sender was the murderer. But why the change of operation? Up to now, he had struck without warning.

Thoughtfully he retraced the latest outlines, embroidering the moth’s thorax with its sinister and disregarded skull. What was the motive behind it? Escalating terror, ending in death, or an escape clause? Suppose the killer knew Kate, was reluctant to carry out what he felt to be his duty. Might he not try by this harassment to frighten her back to her husband and consequent safety?

Webb reached for Hannah’s basket. The soup sent warmth coursing through him, though he’d been unaware of cold, and the rolls satisfied a hunger he hadn’t recognized. He ate quickly, his eyes moving over the drawings, and, brushing the crumbs from his trousers, returned to work. The background was as complete as he could make it. Now the actors must be brought on stage.

A few deft strokes caught the traits which identified each figure. Mowbray, exaggeratedly squat, with thick hair and vacant eyes; Kate’s dark, frightened gaze and Bailey’s unconvincing charm. Then Lana Truscott’s gaunt face and home-knitted sweater, and Henry Dane, peering through spectacles at his changed world. The figures multiplied: Netherby, Mrs Parker, the pathologist — all who, suspects or not, had walked briefly onto the murder stage must take their places in the finale.

The canvas was complete, and hidden in it, he knew, lay the solution to the case. Somehow, by a narrowing of concentration on each symbol in turn, he must hope for a slight shift in focus which would give a new slant. And already something was stirring. That Sunday he’d spent with Fleming: he’d felt at the time he’d missed something.

His eyes moved systematically across the sheet as his mind reached backwards, both locking at the same instant on the drawing of a pine tree. Where had he recently looked out of a window and—?