A Talent For Destruction (7 page)

‘I see. Was he on his own?'

‘He travelled alone, as far as I know.'

‘And how did he travel?'

‘Hitching lifts, I imagine. Or possibly he went to London by train. I really don't know, Mr Quantrill. As I said, we saw very little of him.'

‘You've said we, Mr Ainger. So presumably your wife met him too?'

‘Yes – yes, he called at the Rectory when he first came to the town, and we gave him a meal. But he was never more than a casual acquaintance, and we had no idea how he spent his time. As you know, we can't see the meadow from the Rectory, so we knew nothing of his comings and goings.'

‘You're being extremely helpful,' Quantrill encouraged him. ‘What we want now is to talk to someone who knew him well. Did he tell you who the student friend in Yarchester was?'

‘Another Australian, I believe. All the people he knew seemed to be transients, like himself.'

‘Very probably. Now, can you possibly pin down for me the last date on which you saw him?'

Ainger laced his fingers together and addressed them slowly. ‘I went away for a few days'break last August, from the first to the 6th. I definitely didn't see Garrity after I returned. My wife was at home, but she is sure that she didn't see him during that time. We've discussed it carefully, and we think that we both saw him for the last time about two days before I went away – say the 29th of July.'

‘And what was he doing when you saw him?'

There was a long pause. Then Ainger said, ‘He was in St Botolph's, heading for the gate into Parson's Close. He was drunk. And not for the first time.'

‘Ah.' Quantrill grinned. ‘I got the impression, Mr Ainger, that you didn't much like the man. That was why, was it?'

The Rector struggled with his evident disinclination to speak ill of the dead. ‘We certainly didn't find him a desirable guest. He was – well, frankly, uncouth. Gillian and I avoided him whenever we could, and we were not at all sorry when we didn't see him again.'

‘Understandably. And it's very useful for us to know about his drinking. It may help to account for his death.'

‘You don't yet know how he died?'

‘Not so far. The coroner opens his inquest on Monday, and no doubt he'll adjourn it until the Australian authorities have had time to confirm the identification. By then the forensic science people should be able to tell us their findings. In the meantime I'll follow up your information so that we can give the coroner as complete a picture as possible. Now, is there anything else that you can tell me, Mr Ainger? Anything at all that you think might help us to find out more about the man, and how he came to die?'

And that was when the Reverend Robin Ainger had looked at the Chief Inspector with pale, blank eyes, and had said, ‘No.'

The Rector was lying, Quantrill decided as he finished his steak and mushroom pie. Not necessarily lying in any of the details he had given, but certainly omitting to tell the facts in full; and, yes, lying when he had said there was nothing else he could tell the police.

What about the car with the
Australia
sticker that had been seen parked along St Botolph's Street last summer? What about the Australian girl who had been a frequent visitor to the Rectory, even living there during July? There had to be some connection between the girl and the car and the dead man. The girl was the obvious person to help the police with their enquiries, and Ainger must know her name. So why had he deliberately withheld that information? Was it because he knew more about the corpse in Parson's Close than he cared to admit?

Quantrill pushed aside his plate and lifted his mug. He glanced out of the window. The mourners were coming out of St Botolph's after the funeral service, and the traffic warden was organizing the departure of the hearse and the accompanying cars. The Rector had presumably gone ahead so as to reach the cemetery first. Quantrill couldn't see him; instead, he saw the Rector's wife.

Gillian Ainger was just outside the Coney, buying from a vegetable stall, a preoccupied frown on her face and a laden shopping-bag in her hand. Quantrill thought rapidly. He had really wanted to challenge Robin Ainger about the Australian girl; he wanted to hear not only what Ainger said about her, but the way he said it. However, the girl had been Mrs Ainger's friend, according to the verger, and so it was possibly more appropriate to make the initial approach to her. He could always tackle her husband later.

He seized his hat and overcoat, and caught up with her outside Boots the chemist. ‘Good morning, Mrs Ainger. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes of your time?' It would have been civil to invite her to join him for a drink, but she looked too harassed to want to linger.

‘Oh – Mr Quantrill …' She was evidently taken aback, and not in any way glad to see him. ‘I'm afraid … I really must ask you to excuse me. This is my day for helping at the community centre on the new estate. I slipped away to do some shopping and make Dad's lunch, but I have to get back as soon as possible.'

‘I won't delay you, I promise. Perhaps I could walk back to the Rectory with you, if you've finished your shopping? Here, let me carry that.'

He insisted on taking from her hand the bulging shopping-bag with its leafy protrusion of cabbage and celery. She seemed inordinately embarrassed, whether by his company or by the fact that he was carrying her shopping he wasn't sure.

His stride, which he had shortened to Mrs Ainger's, checked as he caught sight of his own wife disappearing into the butcher's. He hated helping her with the shopping, and always tried to make his irregular working hours an excuse for not doing so. He'd never live it down if she were to see him now, carrying another woman's shopping-bag …

He jammed his hat over his eyes and rounded the corner into St Botolph's Street in a hurry. Gillian Ainger had to trot to keep up with him, doing a skip and a jump to avoid wading through the dirty slush in the gutter.

‘Have you – did my husband come to see you this morning?' she asked a little breathlessly.

He slowed his pace. ‘Yes, he told me about the Australian who camped in Parson's Close last summer. It's a very useful lead. What I'd really like to do now is to talk to someone who knew him better than your husband and yourself. Is there anyone you can suggest?'

After a moment's hesitation she said, ‘No, I'm afraid not.'

He turned his head to look at her. Vanity-free, she had bundled up her fair hair under a woollen hat, but fine tendrils of it had escaped untidily over her ears and at the nape of her neck. If she had put on any make-up that morning, it had worn off. She was pale, apart from the tip of her nose which was pink with cold. Her knee-length boots were shabby and she walked with her chin tucked into the yellowed fleece of a long-service sheepskin coat.

Then, conscious of his gaze, she raised her head and looked at him. Her cheeks coloured suddenly, redder than her nose, but she said nothing more.

‘Whose was the car, Mrs Ainger?' he asked her gently. ‘We've been making enquiries, you see, and I know that a red Datsun car with an
Australia
sticker in the rear window was often parked in St Botolph's Street last summer. But when your husband and I were talking about Athol Garrity's comings and goings, he didn't mention it.'

She lifted her chin. ‘There was no reason why he should. The car wasn't Athol's. It belonged to another Australian, a friend of mine, Janey Rolph. She didn't like Athol, and as far as I know she never even gave him a ride. If my husband didn't mention the car, that was why. It didn't seem relevant.'

‘I'd have been glad if he'd told me about the girl, though. As I said, we need to talk to someone who knew Garrity.'

‘But Janey's no longer in this country. That would be why Robin didn't tell you about her. She was doing a post-graduate course at the university, at Yarchester. She'd finished her thesis, and she left the country at the end of July.'

‘That doesn't prevent us from having her questioned, if we need to. We can get her home address from the university.'

Gillian Ainger gave him a startled look, as though that possibility had never occurred to her. Then she said, ‘But Janey wasn't going back to Australia. She was moving on to the United States.'

‘Do you know where she is now?'

‘No. No, I haven't heard from her since she left.'

Her chin was tucked into the collar of her coat again, but Quantrill could see a tightening of the muscles at the side of her jaw.

‘What was Janey Rolph's relationship with Garrity?' he asked.

‘They originated from the same small town, somewhere near Brisbane. Athol looked her up, in Yarchester, when he came to this country, and scrounged a bed space in her room.'

‘Were they lovers?'

‘Good heavens no! I told you, Janey didn't like him. She felt a kind of home-town obligation to him, that's all.'

‘Tell me about her?' Quantrill suggested.

She was obviously reluctant to do so. ‘There's not a great deal to tell. We met by chance last spring, and I invited her to visit us. She came quite often after that. She was twenty-two, and homesick, and I enjoyed her company.' She looked as though she was about to add something, then decided against it.

‘I heard that she stayed with you for most of July.'

Gillian's head came round with a jerk. She reddened again, but her voice stayed level. ‘Yes, she did. I imagine that was why Athol came here. He said that he was interested in brass-rubbing, but I think that he'd lost the roof over his head when Janey moved out of her room, and he was really looking for somewhere to pitch his tent.'

‘And did they spend much time together while they were both in Breckham?'

‘Virtually none. Janey avoided him whenever she could. She spent her time with us, finishing her thesis. Goodness knows what Athol did – he came and went as he pleased, and we rarely saw him or knew whether he was still in Breckham. Or cared, quite frankly. He was probably out drinking most of the time.'

Their slow walk through the remains of the snow had carried them along the length of the old churchyard, and the walled Rectory garden. They had reached the gate to the drive and Gillian Ainger stood fidgeting with the latch, obviously anxious to go indoors and get on with her busy life.

‘You say that Janey Rolph left the country at the end of July. When, exactly?'

‘She drove down to London on the 30th, as far as I can remember.'

‘And you last saw Athol Garrity on the 29th. Hasn't it struck you as odd, Mrs Ainger, that her departure should coincide with his death?'

Gillian Ainger stood back and looked him straight in the eye. ‘The date of Janey's departure had been fixed for months. She was in England on a student's permit that expired at the end of July. But Athol's movements were unpredictable, as I've already told you.'

‘It's still an interesting coincidence.'

‘What coincidence are you talking about, Mr Quantrill?' Her voice began to shake with indignant reproach. ‘I think you're trying to take advantage of me – to push me into some kind of premature speculation. Have you been able to establish the date of death of the body you've found? Have you established whether it really is Athol Garrity's? Because if you haven't …'

She stopped, aware that she was becoming shrill; she drew a deep breath, and spoke with firm resolution. ‘The Rector and I have tried to help you as much as possible, Mr Quantrill. We've given you as much information as we can and I really think – don't you? – that it would be as well if you established your facts before questioning either of us any further.'

The strength of her reply took the Chief Inspector by surprise.

He stood discomfited, recalling that his son was currently suspected of taking part in a particularly senseless act of vandalism on church property, and that the Rector's wife knew all about it. He remembered too that the detective sergeant from Yarchester who was dealing with the enquiry was coming that evening to interview Peter at home in front of his parents.

Quantrill found that he had nothing more to say. He handed over the shopping-bag, lifted his hat, and skulked off.

‘Kids …' thought Douglas Quantrill sourly, twenty-four hours later. Had he been king that day, he would have banished from Breckham Market everyone under the age of eighteen. Boys especially. His own, to start with.

It was not only Peter's behaviour – half childishly defensive, half truculent – in front of Sergeant Tuckswood the previous evening that irked him. Quantrill had earlier, during the course of the afternoon, gone with DC Wigby to talk to the two boys who had found the skeleton, and their righteous evasions had left him suspicious and frustrated.

Justin Muttock and Adrian Orris were having an unforgettable half-term holiday. Their discovery had initially terrified them, but as soon as they had unloaded the responsibility of it on to the nearest adult they began to recover. Before long, they thought themselves heroes: taken home in a police car, listened to respectfully by a note-taking constable, cosseted first by Justin's grandmother and then by their parents, talked to matily by the Rector, and finally visited by a reporter and a photographer from the
East Anglian Daily Press
.

Their photographs had appeared on the front page of the newspaper on the day of Quantrill's visit. Justin's Gran, who was a school dinner-lady and therefore available during the holidays to mind the two boys while their mothers worked at the egg-packing depot, had immediately rushed out to have her hair done, in the hope that a television reporter would soon be on his way to her terraced house in Victoria Road.

Mrs Muttock senior was in her early fifties, a short, round, perkily youthful grandmother; her hair had required only a little assistance to restore its natural darkness, and when Quantrill and Wigby arrived she was wearing a skittish skirt and rather a lot of eye-shadow and lipstick. She had been wearing it all day, to the sardonic amusement of her neighbours, and had still not given up hope that an Anglia Television van might at any moment come into view. Two plain-clothes policemen were an unsatisfactory substitute; but her neighbours were not to know that unless she revealed it by her demeanour on the doorstep, and so she greeted the men with considerably more enthusiasm than they were accustomed to.