Pretty Maids All In A Row (12 page)

'Only that the milk and papers hadn't been cancelled. There were two pints on the step, and two
Daily Mails,
one on the hall floor and one in the letter-box. I called at the post office, and the woman said she'd speak to the milkman. No point in advertising that the place was empty.'

'Did she seem surprised Mrs Cowley hadn't notified her?'

'Quite the contrary. She laughed and said something like, "That's Mrs Cowley all over."'

Had the killer banked on that reaction? Webb wondered. If so, it implied he knew his victim. But he could hardly have cancelled them himself.

'Is it unusual, sir, to receive keys through the post like that?'

'Unusual, yes, but it didn't strike us as sinister.'

'If we could have a word with your son, then.'

Though Webb had met Julian Bayliss before, neither betrayed the fact and the older man noticed nothing. Nor had the boy anything useful to impart. Taking the typewritten letter with them, Webb and Jackson returned to Shillingham. There'd been a typewriter at the cottage. Ten to one, it would prove to be the one used. And for the rhyme in the dead woman's pocket.

His phone was ringing as Webb reached his office and he stretched across the desk to answer it. Pips bleeped briefly in his ear, followed by the sound of a coin falling. Then a woman's tentative voice: 'Chief Inspector Webb?'

'Speaking.' He hitched himself on to the corner of the desk.

'Good afternoon. I saw your advertisement in the paper.'

The anonymous letter-writer! Webb caught Crombie's curious eye and gave him a thumbs-up. 'Yes, madam. Thank you for phoning. Is it possible for us to meet?'

'I'm afraid not.' It wasn't a young voice, and Webb guessed the stress even this call was causing her. 'In any case, I can't think it would help. But I'll try to answer your questions.'

'Thank you. First, then, exactly when and where did this incident take place?'

'Three years ago last June, in Ashmartin Park.'

He said gently, 'Could you tell me what happened?'

'I was on my way home from Mothers' Union. It was about nine-thirty, but still quite light. I remember wondering what time they locked the park for the night. He—he stepped out of some bushes just behind me, and put a knife to the back of my neck.' Webb closed his eyes briefly as his last, wild hope that this could be a different attacker faded away. 'Then he pulled a woollen helmet over my head. Some kind of Balaclava, I think, but back to front so that I couldn't see anything. And he—dragged me back into the bushes.'

As her voice faltered, a rapid bleeping sounded in his ear, indicating that the money was used up. Webb swore softly, praying she wouldn't let the connection go. To his relief, another coin rattled home.

'You mentioned nursery rhymes,' he prompted.

'That's right. He wouldn't allow me to stop. They seemed
to—to goad him, somehow.' Her voice warmed with anger.
'Can you imagine, Mr Webb, what I go through, when my
grandchildren request them now? It's ruined their babyhood
for me.'

'There's no way you'd recognize this man, if you saw him?'

'None at all. He tied my hands, and I could scarcely breathe in the helmet, let alone see anything.' 'His voice?'

'A whisper only. I'd no idea it could sound so sinister.'

'You haven't heard reports of similar incidents?'

'Not until now. I'm not surprised, though. Not many women would come forward, after an experience like that.'

Webb sighed and stood up. 'I'm sorry to have distressed you by going through it again, but I assure you it was most helpful. Thank you very much for contacting me.' He put the phone down and looked at it thoughtfully. 'By tomorrow, the papers will have connected the murder with the rape. Thank God I spoke to her before she realized she'd been with a murderer. Right, Alan.' He straightened, and his voice became brisker. 'Arrange a briefing, will you, in an hour's time. The first priority is blood tests for all males in and near the village, if we can twist their arms sufficiently. Given the secretion factor, that could rule out ninety-nine per cent of them. At the same time, check if any of them has any connection with Ashmartin. You can make a start on the names Carrie Speight gave us. No word on the ex-husband yet?'

'Nothing's come through here.'

Webb sat down at his desk. 'I had another session with PC Frost, but he can't come up with a motive other than possible blackmail.'

'Was there anyone who'd a lot to lose if his association with her got out?'

'That, my lad, is what we'll have to discover.'

His phone rang again. It was the editor of the
Broadshire News.
'Hi, Dave. This murder business. Any crumbs you can drop an old pal before the big boys scoop the lot?'

Webb smiled. 'Don't say I never do anything for you! Two things, both of which will be public property tomorrow. One: the murdered woman had a typed nursery rhyme in her pocket.' He heard Romilly's low whistle. 'And two, the couple who've taken her cottage are apparently celebrities, Matthew Selby and Jessica Randal. No doubt their names mean more to you than they did to me.'

'Bless you, Dave! We'll pull out all the stops. Cheers.'

At his desk across the town, Michael Romilly reached for the internal phone. This was front page stuff all right. Just occasionally it paid, being local.

'Jill? My office, please, at the double.' He dropped the receiver and frowned momentarily, resenting the forced note in his voice. He was still uneasy in her presence, and the fact annoyed him. A year ago, when his marriage was going through a bad patch, they'd had a brief affair, though he acknowledged it had been more than that to Jill. Pity, she was a nice girl. When it ended and Kate came back, he'd expected her to hand in her notice. She hadn't, and he could scarcely ask her to go. In any case, she was a damn good reporter.

He looked up as, after a brief tap on the door, she came

in.

'Yes, boss?' She hadn't used his name since they broke up.

'This murder the nationals have got their teeth into.' He kept his gaze on the paper on his desk, preferring to meet the dead woman's eyes rather than Jill's. 'Seems to be linked with the nursery rhyme rape in Westridge. What's more, the victim's cottage has been taken by the biographer Matthew Selby, who won some literary prize a year or two ago, and his actress wife Jessica Randal. I want this in tonight's edition, so high-tail it out there, will you, and phone in a report? The photos will have to wait till tomorrow, unless we can dig some out of the library.'

Jill hesitated. 'I won't be treading on Bill's toes?"

Another cause for embarrassment. They both knew she was wasting her time on the Woman's Page; she was as capable as Bill Hardy of being chief reporter. Michael hadn't admitted, even to himself, that by restricting her scope, he hoped to needle her into leaving.

'You want the woman's angle, I suppose,' she added, her voice without inflection.

'You'll make the front page with this—what more do you want? But only if you get a move on—we're pushing it as it is.'

Jill's calm brown eyes rested briefly on his bent head. Then she nodded and left the room. Fool! she chided herself, as she got quickly into her Mini and fastened the seat-belt. You won't get any change out of him, so don't expect it. And no promotion, either, she reflected, threading her way through the traffic with practised ease. She was ambitious, but for the moment she was tied to Broadshire. Her married sister had been paralysed in a road accident and Jill, pleased to be needed, had moved in with her indefinitely, to run the house and feed the family. Fleet Street would have to wait, but she'd get there one day, and by her own efforts, with no thanks to Michael Romilly.

The familiar pain rose in her and she fought it down. It was over. Had been for almost a year. The fact that she still loved him was her bad luck, and she'd have to live with it.

With an effort, she changed her line of thought. She'd never been to Westridge. It wasn't a village you passed through on the way to anywhere else. Turning off the Heatherton road, she pushed her personal problems aside and concentrated on the task ahead.

'I told you there was publicity value in this!' Matthew shut the door behind the last reporter. 'That girl yesterday opened the floodgates.'

Jessica leant back against the sofa and closed her eyes. 'I've a feeling they're more interested in the house than in us, since it might be the scene of the crime.'

'The police took the typewriter, by the way. Lucky I brought my own after all.'

'That was the one which—?'

'No doubt that's what they're ascertaining. Carrie's a bit subdued this morning, isn't she?'

'I'm subdued myself,' Jessica retorted with a touch of asperity. 'And don't forget she was fond of Mrs Cowley. It must be a terrible shock.' She looked up at him. 'What was she like?'

'Attractive, in a rather brittle way. Suspiciously blonde hair, well made up but rather a lot of it. Talked quickly, in short sentences.'

'It's hard to reconcile the
femme fatale
image with Carrie's sainted benefactor. Did it occur to you she might be? A siren, I mean?'

'Not really. She wasn't that obvious. I shouldn't think she hired herself out, for instance. But free with her favours —yes, I can accept that.' He studied his wife's pensive face. 'But she did
not
offer them to me, and for my part, nothing was further from my mind. Does that answer your unspoken question?'

She smiled and flushed. 'Sorry, darling. I wasn't really thinking that.'

'If you weren't, you must be the only one.' 'What do you mean?'

'Our friend the Chief Inspector reckons I'm a good candidate.' He turned away, feeling for his cigarettes. 'Well, that's enough disruption for one day. I must get down to work. See you at lunch.'

Jessica nodded and picked up the
Daily Telegraph.
It, too, reported on the murder. Tomorrow, no doubt, it would carry the interview they'd just given.

The doorbell again. She looked helplessly about for her crutches, but Carrie came running down the stairs and, with a strained smile at her, went to open it. Leo Sandon stood on the step.

'Good day, good day!' he boomed. 'Is the lady of the house at home?'

The lady of the house, thought Jessica, was lying on a mortuary slab somewhere. But she called out, 'I'm here, Leo. Please come in.'

He bent his head to go through the doorway, his luminous dark eyes on hers. He was wearing a purple shirt, black cord jeans and open sandals, and a leather shoulder-bag of the type affected by continental males hung from his shoulder. His toes, Jessica noted in one all-embracing glance, were as long and thin as the rest of him.

'Madame!' He took her hand and raised it to his lips. Over his stooping shoulder, Jessica saw Carrie's pale surprise.

She said weakly, 'I thought you were another reporter.'

He smiled benignly down on her, restored to his full height. 'You've entertained the gentlemen of the press? How diligent of them, to sniff you out so soon.'

'It was only because of the murder—'

'Murder?' he interrupted, frowning. 'What murder?'

Jessica stared at him. It had filled her mind to the exclusion of all else for the last twenty-four hours, and she found it impossible to accept that there was anyone, at least locally, who hadn't heard of it.

'Mrs Cowley's murder. The lady whose house this is.'

'But how unfortunate,' he said, as if a cricket match had been rained off. 'Poor woman. Still, it hardly concerns you, does it?'

'There are those,'
Jessica said drily, 'who might not agree with you.'

'Really? You surprise me.' He paused. 'You haven't forgotten your little promise, I hope?'

She made an effort to meet him on his own terms. At least it would offer temporary distraction. 'To read your poems? Of course not. I've—been looking forward to it.'

His face lit up. 'Splendid—so have I.'

Above their heads, the wail of a vacuum cleaner started up, and he frowned. Jessica said quickly, 'We could go in the garden if you like, but I'll have to ask for your assistance.'

'My dear lady! With the greatest pleasure!'

He reminded her, Jessica thought, fighting down hysterical laughter, of one of the great actors of the past. Beerbohm Tree, perhaps, or Henry Irving. His voice was resonant and beautifully cultured. It was just that he seemed a century out of date.