A Species of Revenge (8 page)

‘You're too used to plodding along with old Ted,' Kite said, picking up her thoughts. ‘When's he due back? Another week? God, it'd bore me stiff, sitting around the poolside with the ma-in-law for company.'

‘Don't suppose Ted's too happy. He'd swap the Costa Brava any day for what we've got on. Hang on, we're nearly there.'

Another turning, and they'd reached their destination, a smart house on one of the new estates that were spreading out and stretching ever nearer towards Stratford-upon-Avon.

Judith Ensor was a woman in her late twenties, slim, small, with a gorgeous figure and a cloud of dark hair, a heart-shaped face, big grey eyes fringed with thick lashes, which she was inclined to flutter. She had a very slight, but attractive, lisp. She was ready for work, her clothes and make-up immaculate. Had Abigail been asked to hazard a guess as to what that work was, she'd have plumped unhesitatingly for beauty counsellor, hairdresser, fashion consultant or some allied occupation, but she would have been wrong. Mrs Ensor worked at a car-component factory as an industrial nurse. She might well constitute an industrial hazard herself, if she walked through the factory looking like that.

She sat very still when she was told the news. Under the pearly make-up it was impossible to see whether she had paled, but her eyes looked slightly unfocused and her lips were stiff when she spoke.

‘I knew something would happen one day.'

‘Would you care to elaborate on that, Mrs Ensor?'

‘What?' She blinked several times in rapid succession. The big grey eyes were lustrous with what might have been tears. ‘Oh, oh just – his car, you know – he drove it so
fast.
'

‘I don't think you can have understood. It wasn't a car accident. I'm afraid.'

Shock took people differently. It was possible she hadn't taken it in when Abigail had told her how her husband had died. But Abigail didn't have the impression she'd been thinking of a car accident when she made that initial response. A quick recovery, though, if it had been a slip of the tongue. Judith Ensor began to interest her.

‘Is there a relative or anyone you'd like us to contact, to be with you?' Abigail asked. ‘Your children?'

‘We have no children.' It was stated matter-of-factly, but with enough neutrality to show that it might seriously matter, and Abigail again shifted her perspective of the woman. Clumsy of me, she chided herself, you could never tell, and I should've noticed this isn't a family home. The room they were sitting in was as immaculate as its owner's person, furnished like a colour supplement, with all the material possessions of a successful, childless couple. There were holiday souvenirs from abroad. A conservatory out of
House & Garden
added to the back. Mrs Ensor's own smart car was in the drive, this year's model. Yet there was something wrong, something empty about the set-up, and it wasn't only the lack of children.

‘When did you last see your husband?' she asked. Judith Ensor sat back and crossed her pretty legs, shown off by the close-fitting short skirt she was wearing. Her expression hardened. Abigail, looking more closely, upwardly readjusted her assessment of her age by something like ten years.

‘I saw him last a fortnight ago,' she said. ‘He was supposed to be in Cologne, on business. I wasn't expecting him back until after the weekend.'

Philip Ensor, it turned out, had been the senior sales representative for a freight-forwarding firm based in Bletchley, a job which had necessitated him travelling all over the world on occasions, though his journeys were mainly restricted to Europe.

‘It may have been business, then, that took him to Lavenstock last Saturday night?' Abigail asked, adding the name of the firm to her careful, methodical notes.

‘Lavenstock?' It might have been on another planet and not simply a town in the next county. ‘I don't know. What makes you think
I'd
have been told, anyway? As far as I was concerned, he was supposed to have been in
Cologne,
wasn't he?' The pretty hand with the immaculately lacquered nails was taut on the chair arm.

‘Might he have been visiting someone there he knew?' Abigail suggested.

‘Look, he didn't know anyone
here!
He wasn't the sort to socialize. We've lived here nearly a year and he scarcely knew the neighbours either side, he was away so much.' There was a bitterness in her voice she didn't trouble to hide now. ‘That's why we moved here from Bletchley. With him away so much, at least here I'd be near Lew and Avis – that's my brother and his wife.'

Abigail's next question seemed by now unnecessary, but the answer couldn't be taken for granted. ‘Forgive me, but were relations between you and your husband friendly?'

She laughed shortly. ‘Is it that obvious?'

‘So it's possible he went to Lavenstock to see another woman?'

‘No.'

‘You're sure?' She'd sounded absolutely dead certain, but Abigail pressed on. ‘All the indications were that he'd been involved in a fight, just before his death. If he's been seeing someone else, Mrs Ensor, it could have been with a jealous husband.'

‘He didn't go there to see another woman,' she repeated flatly.

‘That sounds pretty categoric.'

‘So it should; I haven't been married to Phil for fourteen years without knowing him that well. And another thing – he'd never get involved in a fight. Never.' Her mouth twisted, marring the symmetry of the perfect oval face. ‘Running away was more his style.'

If so, this time Ensor hadn't run far enough, poor devil. His wife may have been shaken, but her life didn't appear to have fallen to pieces on receiving the appalling news. She wondered what sort of life they'd led together, that Judith Ensor accepted the manner of his death so unquestioningly. But she'd said all she was going to say. Her lips were firmly pressed together, with the look of a woman who wouldn't be persuaded into saying what she'd determined not to.

‘I'm afraid,' said Kite, ‘there's the question of identification. We shall need someone to do it – you say your brother lives near. Would he be prepared to do the necessary?'

Her grey eyes turned a curiously assessing look on him, but she shook her head and spoke decisively. ‘No. I don't want him bothered. I'm quite capable of doing it myself.'

The photographs displayed around the home were enough to leave no doubt that Philip Ensor was indeed the man last seen lying on the mortuary slab at his autopsy. But formal identification was a necessity in any sudden, unexplained death, when anyone had been unlawfully killed, one of the more harrowing experiences which had to be gone through. Not, however, one which most wives willingly undertook.

‘It might be an idea to have a word with your brother, all the same. He may know something about your husband's –'

‘If Phil didn't confide in me, he certainly wouldn't in Lew! I might as well tell you they didn't exactly get on. But last Saturday, in case you're getting the wrong idea,' she added ironically, ‘we – my brother and sister-in-law and myself – were at a family wedding over at Sutton Coldfield, and the celebrations went on until well after midnight. You'd be wasting your time.'

‘Let's have his address, all the same,' Kite said.

She shrugged and gave it.

‘When are we likely to find him in?'

‘Most of the time. He's unemployed.'

Abigail considered briefly. ‘Sergeant Kite will drive you over to Lavenstock and bring you back while I see your brother.' If Kite was surprised at this, he said nothing. ‘In the meantime, would you mind if we took a look at your husband's belongings? It might give us some ideas where to start, help us to get a better picture.'

She readily gave permission. ‘Go ahead, what there is. He wasn't a man for keeping things.'

Which proved to be absolutely true. Philip Ensor might have been a man living in a hotel, for all the personal possessions he'd left behind him. Some clothing, good but unexceptional. A few expensive but unused toiletries, the varying brands suggesting they might have been given to him as presents. An innocuous choice of books and C D discs, revealing nothing but a mediocre taste. The personal papers in the shared desk were only insurances, tax papers, documents relating to the house. He'd had a mortgage he could well afford, contributed to a pension fund that would leave his wife in comfortable circumstances – though not suspiciously so. His bills were paid. He'd evidently lived a life so blinding in its ordinariness that it was in fact quite extraordinary.

Lew Walker hadn't done anything like as well for himself in life as had his sister.

Not only was he unemployed, he lived in an undistinguished terraced house in a narrow, shabby street leading off the main Birmingham road, about as far a cry from Yorkfield Avenue as you were likely to get. He'd missed out on his share of the family good looks, too, though what he had would undoubtedly have been improved by a shave and a haircut, and less of a scowl. Sullen and uncommunicative, he reeked of cigarette smoke and left the television horse-racing blaring in the spotlessly unimaginative living room, while waiting for Abigail to state her business. In the background his wife hovered, a tired-looking, colourless woman, with bulging, thyroid eyes, dowdy and depressed. Abigail would have felt the same, married to Walker.

‘Do you mind?' She had no compunction in going to the set and turning down the sound. The man stared at her, but said nothing. The woman's eyes flickered.

It took Abigail about two minutes to realize Judith Ensor had been right. She was wasting her time here. The shocking news she had to pass on seemed to have no more impact than if the victim had been some unknown politician who'd been assassinated at the other side of the world, rather than their brother-in-law. No expressions of sorrow or surprise escaped their lips. Not even a dear me.

She pressed on, feeling frustrated. The decision to spend time here she could ill afford, while Kite ferried Mrs Ensor to and from Lavenstock, had been prompted by a hunch that Judith Ensor didn't want her brother to talk to the police. She'd evidently boobed, and was now going to have to hang around at the pub where she'd arranged to meet Kite. Neither of the Walkers had anything relevant to contribute to the sum of her knowledge about Philip Ensor, much less the mystery of his death. Mrs Walker opened her mouth to speak only once, and looked at her husband for permission before she did. Abigail had posed all the questions she could think of, and was about to leave, when the woman surprised her by speaking directly to her, and for the first time meeting and holding her eyes.

‘You'll have to excuse me, I have to go to work. Down the road at the Shangri-la café on the corner. They don't like us to be late.' She left the room, a moment later the front door banged, and after a few more unproductive words with her husband, Abigail, leaving him to light yet another cigarette, followed suit.

The Shangri-la lived up to its name only in that it was clean, bright and reasonably comfortable.

‘You've something you wanted to tell me, Mrs Walker?' Abigail asked of the woman behind the counter, as steaming water spat into the pot of tea she'd ordered.

She nodded. ‘Table over there, in the corner – I'll join you in a minute.'

Abigail poured herself a cup of the strong brew, helped herself to a ginger biscuit from the cellophane-wrapped pack of two she'd bought. Avis Walker dispensed microwaved faggots and mushy peas to an elderly couple at a table by the window before coming across to lower herself on to the chair opposite, carrying a cup of tea for herself.

‘Can't spare long, they'll all be coming in wanting lunches and sandwiches any time now.' She nodded in the direction of a builders' yard on the other side of the road. She was wearing a red plastic apron that matched the table coverings and its reflective glow added a little colour and animation to her pale face. Released from the presence of her husband, it seemed she was prepared to talk. ‘You want to know about Phil, then? Well, I can't tell you much, but never mind what
he
says, there'd been something wrong between him and my precious sister-in-law, some big row or other recently. I don't know what about.'
He
evidently referred to her husband.

‘Not a female, according to Mrs Ensor.'

She considered this, measuring sugar from a dispenser into her tea. ‘No, I'll give Phil his due, I don't think he went after women, though who'd blame him? That Jude!'

‘I thought you were friends? Didn't they move here to be near you?'

‘To be near us? That's what she told you?' The humour of the remark struck her, and the sudden smile made her tired, drawn face nearly pretty. ‘That's a laugh! First time I'd seen her for months, that wedding last week. Only went there to show off her new car and her fancy clothes.'

‘So why do you think they did come to live here?'

‘I've wondered about that. It was very sudden. He was still working at Bletchley, there seemed no reason.' She sipped her tea, then said suddenly, ‘I'm sorry what's happened to him, he was a nice chap, you know, Phil. Not somebody you'd ever get close to, mind, you never knew what he was thinking. Deep, you know, and quiet. But very generous. He's lent Lew a fair old whack one way and another, and not got it back, either – and was Lew ever grateful? He was not! That's often the case, isn't it? Folks don't like to feel beholden – you noticed?'

‘I know what you mean.' When you had no choice but to accept favours and had to remain under an obligation, gratitude could turn itself inside out. ‘What did your husband do, when he was in work?'

Avis Walker shrugged. ‘You name it, he's tried it. But nothing's worked out for him. He's got past bothering now.' She finished her tea and pushed her chair back as the elderly couple left and a group of displaced-looking teenagers wandered in. ‘Sorry, but that's all I can tell you; I'll have to go now.'