David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone Page 19

  It also explained the time-lapse in his death; his killer must have seen him pick it up, and run back to retrieve it. He hadn’t bothered to rob Neil; all he’d wanted was the incriminating ring.

  So now they had a motive for Neil’s murder, if not Malcolm’s. The killings were connected, as they’d always thought, but only because Neil had stumbled on the ring; he’d not been an intended victim. The question now was why a petty criminal who stole from shops should have gone so far out of his league as to murder a policeman.

  But that would have to wait till morning. The central heating had gone off and he was starting to shiver, as much from tiredness as the cold. His mind buzzing with new possibilities, Webb went to bed.

  At Carrington Street the next morning, he lost no time in bringing the team up to date. As he’d supposed, shops and offices in the area had been questioned, but nothing positive had emerged. The occupants had been at their desks or behind their counters, and hadn’t noticed what was happening outside in the street. An appeal to the general public would go out after the regional news that evening.

  Having briefed his action teams, Webb collected Jackson. ‘I want to go back to Lethbridge, Ken, and see how they’re faring on Kevin Baker. It looks as though he’s the one we’re after. He’s had a couple of convictions for burglary, but when I spoke to Jeff we didn’t know he was implicated in the DCI’s death. I want to know if Mr Bennett had any personal dealings with him.’

  ‘We’ve not got anywhere, sir,’ Carter reported, frustration in his voice. ‘He’s disappeared off the face of the earth, and Gary Higgs with him. I’ve got all the snouts out looking, but no result so far.’

  ‘It was his knife that killed Crawford, Jeff, that much has been established. And though I can’t prove it yet, I’m pretty sure he was killed because Baker dropped Mr Bennett’s ring. You see where that leaves us.’

  Carter stared at him. ‘You mean Kevin Baker murdered the governor? But he’s only a petty crook, sir. He’s never done anything remotely like that before.’

  ‘That’s what I wanted to speak to you about. Those convictions of his; did the DCI deal with them personally?’

  ‘No, it was DI Stratton both times. And he only went down for a few months; it was no big deal.’

  ‘Then could Mr Bennett have seen more than he realized at the Lethbridge off-licence? Something that could have linked Baker with it?’

  ‘Even if he did, it wouldn’t have been worth killing him. OK, so the stabbing was more serious than what Baker’s done before, but the girl recovered.’

  ‘Well, whatever his motive, it looks as though he’s scarpered now, and Higgs with him. If we’re having no luck round here, we’ll have to spread our nets. Circulate their descriptions to all police stations. Any leads on the other two in the gang?’

  ‘Not so far. The barman at the Oliver Cromwell was very cagey; afraid of frightening off his clientele by hobnobbing with the police. All we can hope—’

  There was a knock on the door and Polsom, one of the older detective constables, put his head round it.

  ‘Could I have a word, Guv?’

  ‘Of course, come in.’

  ‘Well, it’s like this: Mr Bennett’s desk has been cleared, and there were one or two personal items in it. The DI asked me to take them round to his home.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, sir, the cleaner opened the door, and you could have knocked me down with a feather. Know who it was?’

  He waited expectantly and Webb said testily, ‘We’re not here to play guessing games, Polsom.’

  ‘No, sir, sorry, sir. Well, it was Rita Jones, Lennie’s widow. How about that?’

  ‘Lennie—?’ The name seemed faintly familiar.

  ‘The bloke who topped himself in jail,’ Carter said, his voice beginning to rise with excitement. ‘That’s a bit rum, wouldn’t you say, sir?’

  A widow with a son on the dole, repeated Una’s voice in his head. Webb pushed back his chair. ‘Where’s the file on this Lennie Jones?’

  ‘Here, Guv; I thought you’d want a gander at it.’ Polsom, looking pleased with himself, placed the bulky package he’d been holding on the desk in front of Webb, who rapidly rifled through the pages.

  It appeared that although Jones had over the years come under suspicion on several counts, such as receiving stolen goods, burglary and conspiring to defraud, he’d always managed to escape with at most a fine. Until the last time, when his misdemeanours had finally caught up with him. Bennett had been the arresting officer, and a hand-written postscript was stapled to the final sheet: Jones claustrophobic; special arrangements necessary if custodial sentence. MB.

  Malcolm had done his best for him, Webb reflected bitterly, and, so Barbara Wood had told him, been upset at his suicide. Nevertheless, it was beginning to look as though he’d paid for it with his own life.

  Webb looked up. ‘But I don’t understand. Surely if this woman was planning to kill Mr Bennett, she wouldn’t have turned up at his house, as bold as brass? If Polsom recognized her, why the hell didn’t he — or you, Jeff, for that matter, when you interviewed her?’

  ‘Me and the governor never met her,’ Carter told him. ‘She was in hospital when we were dealing with Lennie. Women’s trouble, he said.’

  ‘It’s some time since I saw her myself, sir,’ Polsom put in.

  ‘Going on a couple of years now. She was there when DI Stratton and me collared him. Suspicion of burglary, but he wriggled out of it as per usual.’

  ‘Even so, for her to turn up afterwards, when the SOCOs were there — it was the hell of a risk.’

  ‘I reckon Dick here and the DI were the only two who knew her. She probably reckoned she was safe enough. And I dare say,’ Carter added shrewdly, ‘it gave her a buzz, tempting fate like that. A bit of excitement, like her old man’s escapades gave him.’

  ‘Good God,’ Webb said numbly. ‘And what about the son? Suppose he’s been looking for a buzz, too?’

  They all looked blank, and a quick check established that the younger Jones had no criminal record.

  ‘Would he have known Baker and Higgs?’ Webb asked Carter, who gave a low whistle.

  ‘Highly likely, I’d say; they’re all local lads. Probably at school together.’

  Webb turned to Polsom. ‘Did you let Mrs Jones see you recognized her?’

  The man looked startled. ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Did you, man?’

  From being complacent at the stir he’d caused, Polsom now looked abashed. ‘Well, it was a surprise to see her there, Guv. It was only later—’

  ‘So what did you say?’

  ‘Just, “Hello, Rita, what are you doing here?”’

  ‘And how did she react?’

  ‘She looked taken aback, like. Muttered something about helping out, and I handed over Mr Bennett’s things.’

  ‘That was all?’

  ‘Yessir.’

  ‘How long ago was that?’

  The constable looked at his watch. ‘Half an hour or so.’

  ‘Right, we’ll get over there on the double.’

  ‘Beg pardon, sir’ — Polsom again — ‘she won’t be there now. She was on her way out when I got there — I reckon she works nine to eleven.’

  It was eleven-thirty-five. Webb glanced frustratedly at the open file. ‘Then we’ll call at her house. Fifty-two, Dickens Close. And we’d better make it fast — she might have taken fright.’

  ‘What about Kevin Baker, sir?’ Carter asked as they piled in the car. ‘It was his knife, after all.’

  ‘He might still be the one, Jeff. This is a new lead, that’s all.’ But it was more than that; he could feel it in his bones.

  Dickens Close was on a small council estate to the south of the town. As the car drew up outside number 52, Webb caught a glimpse of a frightened face at an upstairs window before it darted back out of sight.

  They started up the path, and Jackson suddenly shouted, ‘Look out — someone’s just cleared th
e back fence!’

  He and DC Frear went hurtling round the side of the house, joined by men from the second police car which had drawn up with a screeching of brakes. Carter hammered on the front door. There was no reply. Webb lifted the flap of the letterbox and bent down to it.

  ‘Open the door, Mrs Jones. It’s the police, and we’re not going away.’

  After a couple of minutes there was the sound of a key turning and a bolt being drawn back and the door slowly opened to reveal a small, pointed-faced woman with frizzy hair and glasses.

  He held up his warrant card. ‘Rita Jones?’

  She nodded, her mouth working nervously.

  ‘May we come inside?’ Webb moved into the house without waiting for an answer, Carter at his heels. Mrs Jones asserted herself.

  ‘I don’t know what you think you’re doing!’ she declared, folding her arms belligerently. ‘Ought to be ashamed of yourselves, hassling me like this! First you kill my old man, then you come bursting in—’

  ‘Your old man killed himself,’ Webb said, glancing round the shabby room in which he found himself. ‘Despite Mr Bennett’s efforts on his behalf.’

  Fear came and went behind the glasses. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that. It was Mr Bennett that done for him.’

  ‘As you very well know, Mrs Jones, he made arrangements for Lennie to be housed in the hospital area rather than a normal cell.’

  ‘Still locked up, though, wasn’t he? Did his nut, but would they listen? No, they wouldn’t!’

  ‘So you planned revenge. You and your son.’

  ‘Dean?’ She looked alarmed. ‘Nothing to do with Dean.’

  On cue, some heavy knocks sounded again on the front door. At a nod from Webb, Carter went to answer it and there was the sound of voices in the hall. Then Jackson, Frear and Polsom appeared with a youth between them. His jacket was muddy, his cheek bruised and he was limping.

  His mother said shrilly, ‘What you done to him?’

  ‘He fell when he was legging it down the road, Guv.’ It was to Webb that Jackson spoke.

  Webb regarded the surly but frightened face in front of him. There was no saying if he’d have the ring on him, but —

  ‘Would you turn out your pockets, please?’ he said, noting the surprise of his fellow officers; this was usually left until arrival at the cells, but, watching Jones, he saw the sick resignation in his eyes.

  The boy hesitated for a moment. Then he slid a hand into the inner pocket of his jacket, withdrew a gold ring with a speckled green stone, and dropped it on the table. A bloodstone indeed, Webb thought sombrely; snatched from Malcolm’s body and the direct cause of Crawford’s death.

  ‘What you got there?’ Rita Jones exclaimed, her eyes uncomprehendingly on the ring. Webb ignored her.

  ‘Dean Jones, I’m arresting you in connection with the murders of DCI Malcolm Bennett and Neil Crawford. You don’t have to—’

  ‘Neil who?’ Rita again, her voice shrill. ‘What you talking about? Dean don’t know nothing about that — let him go!’

  Webb said expressionlessly, ‘I’m also arresting you, Mrs Jones, for conspiracy to murder. That’ll do to be going on with.’ And as she spluttered denials and Frear led her from the room, he bent to pick up Malcolm’s ring.

  *

  ‘So that’s how it was,’ Webb finished flatly, glancing at Una Bennett’s impassive face. ‘Rita Jones had built up a virulent hatred against Malcolm, blaming him for Lennie’s death because she had to blame someone. The boy is weak, completely dominated by her, and seemed quite happy to fall in with her plans. He was also, of course, involved in the shop raids. I grant you they’re an unlikely pair of villains, but none the less lethal for that.

  ‘In fact, it was the boy, Dean, who heard you wanted a cleaner. It must have seemed like fate; Rita’d been wondering how to get her own back, now she was handed the opportunity. She says she considered using another name when she went to you, but decided it might get too complicated. In any case, “Jones” afforded her sufficient anonymity, and she was banking on the fact that Malcolm had never met her.

  ‘Anyway, you took her on, she had a duplicate key made for the back door, and settled down to bide her time. Then fate gave her another nudge. Because she was early that Friday, she heard you both talking in the kitchen, and realized he’d be alone in the house the next day. It was almost too easy. Dean went along, let himself in and lay in wait. You were right — there was someone in the house when you came back for your blouse.’

  She gave a small shiver but made no comment. After a glance at her face, Webb moved from the facts leading to her husband’s murder to those surrounding Neil’s.

  ‘When Jones saw him pick up the ring,’ he finished, ‘he grabbed the knife from one of the other raiders — who, incidentally, fled up north when he realized what it had been used for; the Blackpool police are holding him. Jones swears it was only for intimidation, but I doubt if Neil even saw it; if he had, he wouldn’t have turned his back.’

  There was a short silence. Realizing he’d come to the end, Una looked up.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Webb. I’m grateful to you for explaining everything.’

  ‘Has the family been round?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Would you like me—?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘But you shouldn’t be here alone, it can’t—’

  ‘I shan’t be, much longer; there are a couple of properties I’m interested in, and I shall be moving shortly. As soon as probate comes through, this house will go on the market.’

  ‘I see. Well, if there’s anything I can do—’

  She rose with him. ‘Thank you, but I can manage. I always have done.’

  She stood at the window, watching as he got into the car and drove away. It was Saturday morning. This time last week, she had been at the hairdresser’s, realizing that she’d forgotten to collect her blouse from the airing-cupboard. Seven long days ago.

  If she hadn’t gone to the concert, if she hadn’t engaged the poisonous Mrs Jones, would anything have been different? Or would they still have got Malcolm in the end?

  Only one thing was certain; she couldn’t allow that nebulous guilt to destroy her. She mourned Malcolm — part of her always would — but to be rational about it, she hadn’t been particularly happy in her marriage. She’d felt constrained by his constant presence, by the hostility of the rest of the family, by having to remember to tell him if she’d be late home, and consequent reproachful silences.

  Perhaps she’d lived alone too long to be able to adapt; the truth was that she was happiest being her own mistress, able to please herself without having to consider other people. Soon, she would move out of this house with its painful memories, and revert to using her maiden name. She would make a new start in the flat, or perhaps a ‘restart’, since everything would be as it was before.

  One is one and all alone, and evermore shall be so.

  Very well, she, ‘Una-ique’, would accept that role in life. She would, she felt confident, not only survive, but prosper.

  Lifting her head and straightening her shoulders, she turned from the window. There was much to do.

  If you enjoyed One is One and All Alone you might be interested in The Seven Stars by Anthea Fraser, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from The Seven Stars by Anthea Fraser

  1

  For the rest of her life, Helen was to wonder whether, if she had turned left instead of right out of the university gates, events would have turned out differently. Had she herself been the catalyst, or was the course already set and her own part in it negligible?

  At the time, however, she had no premonition of the far-reaching consequences of her inattention. In the rear-view mirror, Penelope’s figure grew smaller, disappearing completely as a bend in the drive hid her from sight. That was it, then. The Christmas respite was over, both children had returned to college, and this evening she and Andrew would have the
house to themselves.

  Not that Christmas had been plain sailing, with the strain of trying to behave naturally. She’d read there was a sharp increase in family break-ups following the festive season. Too much enforced goodwill, no doubt.

  She waited at the gates as an endless stream of cars swooshed past her. She was later than she’d intended and the murky afternoon was thickening into fog, a hazard she’d not anticipated.

  A sudden toot jolted her out of her musings. A motorist was flashing his lights, inviting her to emerge, and she started forward quickly, in her haste turning right towards the town, as they’d done at lunch-time. The motorway lay in the opposite direction.

  She could imagine what Andrew’s comments would have been, Helen thought grimly as she crawled in line over the viaduct into town. It was a stupid mistake, due entirely to lack of attention, but on reflection no real harm was done.

  If she turned right again into the High Street, she should be able to work her way back to the main road.

  Then, as she took the turn, she saw the sign for Shillingham. Surely it would be quicker, instead of doubling back, to carry on and join the M4 a couple of junctions nearer London.

  She inched her way along the High Street, thronged now as home-going shoppers clogged the road or queued patiently at the bus stops. They’d be glad to get home on such a night. Would she? Home to Andrew’s moody silences and outbursts of temper? To Pen and Thomas’s empty bedrooms, and the depressing task of stripping their beds?

  At the far side of town, a more detailed sign informed her that Shillingham was twenty-seven miles away. Farther than she’d expected, Helen thought, hoping the fog would clear.

  Instead, with the lights of the town behind her, visibility worsened. Fog drifted in from the fields on either side, smudging the headlamps of approaching cars, and she realised with dismay that far from correcting her error, she had compounded it.

  The road was winding in a leisurely fashion through the countryside, adding miles to the already lengthy drive ahead of her. She should have turned back when she had the chance. If she could find a suitable place, she would do so now.