The Seven Stars Read online

  In the centre of the room was a table bearing a selection of fruit, yoghurts, cereals and juices. Helen poured a glass of orange juice and seated herself in what would have been the bay window, had the rest of the walls had not also been of glass.

  Stella Cain appeared, teapot in one hand, coffeepot in the other. ‘Good morning, Mrs Campbell. Would you like a full English breakfast or the continental?’

  Helen opted for the continental, and indicated the coffee-pot. As Mrs Cain moved away, she looked interestedly out of the window for her first daylight view of her surroundings.

  To her left was a patio area surrounded by a two-foot stone wall and covered by a pergola, which in summer would no doubt be entwined with flowers. Alongside it was the door through which the man and girl had come running last night.

  Immediately opposite, across the gravelled courtyard, lay the group of outbuildings. They were of the same stone as the house, with small-paned windows and steeply pitched tile roof — probably the original mews, Helen thought, coachmen’s quarters above, stables below, but they’d been extensively renovated. Perhaps that was where her hosts slept; there weren’t enough doors along the landing to accommodate them, nor had she noticed a staircase to an upper floor.

  The figure of Terry Pike crossed her line of vision, and she watched as he unlocked the car next to her own and drove out of the area.

  Her attention was brought back to the table by the arrival of hot croissants. ‘And I thought you might like a paper,’ Stella said, laying a copy of the Daily Telegraph beside her plate.

  Helen thanked her and glanced at the front page. The main story was the latest in what the press had dubbed the ‘Stately Home Burglaries’, though Andrew, who worked for a firm of loss adjusters, referred to them more accurately as country houses, since not all of them warranted the grander title.

  The robberies had been taking place at irregular intervals for a couple of years now and were spread over a wide area. Every few months a manor house somewhere in the country was robbed, and in each case only one specific item was taken: a priceless miniature, a ruby necklace, a set of vinaigrettes.

  Such exploits had already cost the insurance companies over a million pounds, but an intriguing sidelight was that occasionally the stolen object, though unusual or attractive, was worth less than a hundred pounds and of only sentimental value. But none of the items had been recovered, nor did the police seem any nearer to identifying the culprits.

  The latest theft was at Plaistead Manor in Gloucestershire, but as the loss had only just been noticed and there was no sign of a break-in, the police wouldn’t confirm it was the same operator. The stolen object was a signed miniature of Queen Victoria in a silver frame studded with tiny diamonds. It had been presented to a previous Lady Plaistead, a favourite lady-in-waiting.

  Intent on the story, Helen had not heard Terry Pike return, and jumped as his voice said from the doorway, ‘The blasted road’s closed. I thought you’d like to know.’

  Michael Saxton exclaimed with annoyance. ‘Closed where?’

  ‘A few hundred yards along, towards Marlton. Presumably traffic between there and SB has been diverted. God knows how far I’ll have to backtrack before I can weave round again, and I’ve an appointment at nine-thirty.’

  ‘Thanks for letting us know.’

  Helen said anxiously, ‘Does that mean I can’t get through to Shillingham? I was going to join the M4 there.’

  ‘You’ll be able to loop round, no doubt,’ Saxton replied, as the other man hurried out. ‘Though your best bet, since you’ll have to double back towards Steeple Bayliss anyway, would be to join it there.’

  As, Helen reflected ruefully, she should have done in the first place.

  Twenty minutes later she had paid her modest bill and was on her way. The fog still lingered in the distance and moisture drenched the hedgerows and hung from the branches of trees, but at least she could see where she was going.

  She came to the diversion sign a few miles short of Steeple Bayliss and, having driven past, stopped to look back at it. It directed traffic down a narrow country lane surprisingly signposted: Melbray Court 2, M4 16. So she needn’t go into Steeple Bayliss after all. If she’d spotted that signpost last night, she reflected, she would doubtless have turned off there.

  It seemed an unlikely route to the motorway, this narrow, high-hedged lane; probably it was used mainly by local people wanting to bypass Steeple Bayliss. After a couple of miles a right-hand fork led to Melbray Court. Helen frowned, wondering why the name seemed familiar, then remembered the advertisement she’d cut out. It was a wonder anyone found the place, she thought.

  After a few miles she emerged from the tunnel-like lane to join what she recognised as the main road from Steeple Bayliss to the motorway, and, turning thankfully on to it, she settled down for the long drive home.

  *

  Having checked that there was nothing urgent in Shillingham to claim his attention, Webb decided to stay on in SB for the post-mortem, scheduled for ten o’clock that morning. As he enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with his hosts, he was struck again by their seeming mismatch.

  It was frequently remarked — though never in his hearing — that Chris Ledbetter looked more like a male model than a policeman, with his thick blond hair and gentian-blue eyes; whereas Janet, his wife, was a mousey-haired woman with a small, pinched face and a shy smile. Nevertheless, theirs was an extremely happy union, which, Webb reflected, was a bonus in their line of business.

  ‘How’s Sergeant Jackson’s family?’ Janet asked, as she topped up his teacup. ‘The twins must be toddlers now; I remember you were here the day they were born.’

  ‘So I was.’ Webb thought back to that fraught evening nearly three years ago, when, coincidentally, he had just found another dead girl. ‘They’re all thriving, and though he tries to hide it, Ken’s as proud as Punch of the lot of them.’

  Janet Ledbetter looked at him thoughtfully. She had often wondered if Dave regretted having no family, but it was hardly a question she could ask. His marriage had ended in divorce nearly nine years ago, and though she gathered from Chris there was some woman in his life, no one seemed to know who she was. Which, considering police-station gossip, said a great deal for his discretion.

  ‘Well’ — Chris looked up at the kitchen clock — ‘we’d better be making tracks. Let’s hope that good breakfast stays down!’

  The mortuary at Steeple Bayliss was attached to the West Broadshire Hospital in Gloucester Road. But no matter what the location, the atmosphere — and especially the unmistakable smell — was always the same and, as always, filled Webb with a queasy sense of depression.

  The post-mortem room, also as usual, was fairly crowded. Webb nodded to the Coroner’s Officer and to PC Rendle, who was providing continuity of evidence. SOCOs were arranging their cameras to record the procedure and the video was already in position.

  On the slab in the centre of the room lay the cause of all this activity, her long hair tousled, her spiky mascaraed lashes lying incongruously on pale cheeks. She looked so fragile, Webb thought, so vulnerable — as, indeed, she had proved to be.

  Then Stapleton pressed the pedal to start the tape recorder and spoke into the microphone suspended over his head. The operation was about to begin.

  At the end of an hour and a half, the young body had given up all the information of which it was capable. Tread marks had patterned the skin through the clothing, but bruising would take another thirty-six hours to develop fully and the body would be re-examined then. Basically, though, and in layman’s terms, she had been crushed to death, which was no surprise. Nor were there any marks consistent with prior attack; she appeared to have been alive when the car hit her.

  ‘Just one point, Doctor,’ Chris Ledbetter said, as Stapleton turned off the tape recorder. ‘The body, as you know, was found on the left-hand verge; that is, she had her back to oncoming traffic. Yet she was lying on her back and the principal injuries appear to b
e to her chest and abdomen.’

  ‘I had noted that, Inspector,’ Stapleton said drily. ‘All I can assume is that at the last minute she heard the car coming and spun round, either in a futile attempt to ward it off, or possibly to hitch a lift.’

  Which, Webb acknowledged as he and Ledbetter walked out of the building, seemed reasonable enough.

  ‘Let me know how you get on,’ he said as they reached his car. ‘I hope you catch the bastard.’

  ‘Amen to that. Sorry last night wasn’t quite what we planned. Another time, perhaps.’

  ‘It was a first-class meal and the wine was memorable. My thanks again to you both.’

  And, glad to have the post-mortem behind him, he drove out of the hospital gateway and turned in the direction of Shillingham.

  *

  The nearer Helen came to reaching home, the more depressed she grew. The house would seem empty without the children and, more importantly, there would be no buffer between herself and Andrew.

  They used to be happy, she thought sadly. When had things started to go wrong? Or had there always been that underlying uncertainty, that awareness of having to think before she spoke? Certainly he’d always had a temper, but she’d had the knack of dealing with him then, of defusing his outbursts before they got out of hand. Perhaps it was she who’d changed rather than he.

  As long as the children were at home, she’d been able to conceal her worries, even from herself. If Andrew was in a mood, or, as increasingly happened, spent the evening at the golf club, at least she had them for company. Then Thomas went away to medical school and, last October, Penelope started at Broadshire University. And at the end of the same month, by way of a final straw, Helen lost her job.

  Before her marriage, and, in fact, up to her first pregnancy, she had worked at one of the big London auction houses, enjoying the bustle, the excitement over successful sales, the handling of beautiful things. In fact, it was there she’d met Andrew, who at the time was working as a valuer.

  She had therefore been delighted, once both children were at school, to find a part-time job in the local antique shop.

  It wasn’t well paid, but that didn’t worry her. It gave her an interest outside the home, and, though a poor reflection of her pre-marriage career, she enjoyed the work.

  Until last year, when the recession finally caught up with Past Times, and Joan Barrett, the owner, was forced to close down. Helen had been almost as upset as she was; for Joan’s sake, but also because the days ahead were now frighteningly blank.

  Nor had Andrew been sympathetic. ‘A lot of people would be glad to have time to themselves,’ he’d said. ‘I for one.’

  ‘No, you wouldn’t!’ Helen contradicted him.

  ‘Well, you can fill your days easily enough. Go out for coffee, take up golf, do good works. Join a club!’ he’d added sardonically, repeating the standard advice to those at a loose end.

  But the thought of an endless round of coffee mornings filled Helen with panic, and she had no interest in golf. Although she volunteered to help with the library service and to deliver Meals on Wheels, long hours still remained unfilled.

  It wasn’t easy for a forty-something woman to find work, she reflected, as she approached the small market town where she lived. Perhaps she should train for something specific, take an Open University course. But on what?

  As she reached the High Street the church clock was chiming midday and the Wednesday market was in full swing. Bridget, her next-door neighbour, was talking to old Mrs Cummings, and further along Mary Stanton was judiciously feeling avocados at one of the stalls. They seemed contented enough with their golf and their bridge and their daily shopping trips. Was there something the matter with her, that she needed more?

  She turned off Market Street, drove down several pleasant roads, and was finally home. With a sigh she collected her handbag and let herself into the house. The first thing she’d do was strip the children’s beds and get the sheets into the machine.

  She dropped her handbag on the hall table and went up to her daughter’s room. The bed was still rumpled, there was a handkerchief on the floor and a paperback face-down on a chair.

  Suppressing a renewed wave of misery, Helen seized the bottom sheet, pulling it free, and as she did so, caught an image of herself in the long wardrobe mirror. She let the sheet fall and moved slowly towards her reflection, assessing, taking stock.

  Not too bad, considering. She lent closer to the glass, her eyes moving critically from one feature to the next. There were lines round eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there a few years ago, but the eyes themselves were still clear and returned her gaze candidly. The hair which hung loose round her face was still a shining mid-brown, though one or two silver threads were visible, particularly at the temples. She turned sideways on, patting her stomach. Again, not bad, though a little more exercise mightn’t go amiss. But she wasn’t over the hill yet; all she asked was the chance to prove it.

  *

  Having geared herself to meet Andrew that evening, Helen found her apprehension was unfounded. ‘Welcome home!’ he greeted her, planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Fog clear up all right?’

  ‘Yes, by this morning,’ she answered, a little disconcerted. ‘I’m sorry about not getting back. Did you have a reasonable meal?’

  ‘I made do with cornflakes and toast,’ he replied, dumping his briefcase on a chair.

  ‘Oh, Andrew!’ She’d thought the chicken looked much as she left it. Was this, she wondered, an attempt to make her feel guilty, or had he simply eaten what he’d fancied? If she ever left him — the thought came unexpectedly into her head — was that what he’d dine on every night?

  To banish the idea, she said quickly, ‘I see there’s been another country house job.’

  ‘Looks like it, though with no sign of break-in we can’t be sure. The family did a lot of entertaining over the Christmas period, and it’s quite possible one of the guests pocketed it. But it’s made us look again at some of the other robberies that have made the headlines. If the same gang did Plaistead Manor, they could be responsible for others we hadn’t connected with them.’

  ‘Which in particular?’

  ‘Well, there was the night two bedrooms at the Savoy were broken into. Again, money and other valuables were ignored and only particular items stolen. Then there was that American woman, who had “lost” her sapphire and diamond clip between Claridge’s and the opera. She remembers someone brushing against her as she got out of the cab, but thought nothing of it at the time. Both cases are worth another look.’ He walked through to the dining-room and she heard him pouring drinks. ‘What’s for dinner?’ he called.

  ‘Would you believe curried chicken?’

  ‘Fine. I’ll open a bottle of wine to celebrate your return.’

  Helen could think of no reply. He came back and handed her a glass of gin and tonic.

  ‘Here’s to the restoration of peace!’ he said. ‘Or don’t you want to drink to that?’

  She looked at him quickly and he added, more gently than he’d spoken to her in months, ‘I know you miss them, love, but it’s all part of life’s rich pattern. We raise the chicks and in due time they have to stretch their wings. But it’ll soon be Easter and they’ll return to the coop.’

  She said unsteadily, ‘Not a very happy metaphor, when it’s chicken for dinner!’

  He laughed. ‘Well, at least you’ve still got the old cock!’ And he bent and kissed her mouth.

  She continued with her cooking in a whirl of mixed emotions. Had the estrangement been all in her mind? Had she overreacted? Or was it just that he was in a good mood and prepared to be sociable? Whatever the reason, she could only be thankful for it.

  3

  Hannah said, ‘So you never got to the exhibition?’

  Webb shook his head. ‘Pity, really; it would have been worth seeing.’

  ‘Won’t you have the chance to go back?’

  ‘I doubt it, it’s only on this week
. Never mind, there’ll be others.’

  He leaned back comfortably in Hannah’s apple-green chair and swirled the whisky in his glass. Briefly he thought back to the previous evening, and the warm domesticity of the Ledbetters’ home. This was a fair replica, though only on the surface — which, he reminded himself, was what they both wanted. Of independent character and fulfilled by their own careers, neither was willing to submit to the bonds of marriage. At least, that was the theory.

  In any event, the arrangement had worked admirably for some years now, with only the occasional hiccup. Sometimes, though they lived on different floors in the same building, they didn’t meet for weeks, keeping in touch with an occasional phone-call. Sometimes they met as friends, discussing each other’s work and topics of the moment. And sometimes — quite often, thankfully, he thought with an inward grin — they spent the night together, conscious of a closeness and fulfilment deeper than either had found elsewhere.

  He looked fondly across at Hannah as she gazed into the fire, at the clear brow, the widely spaced grey eyes and the honey-coloured hair that framed her face. He was damned lucky, and when things got him down he needed to remind himself of that.

  ‘Will they find whoever hit the girl?’ she asked suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

  Webb shrugged. ‘They’ll have been scouring the area today and should have come up with something. It’s unlikely there were any witnesses, though; it was a deserted stretch of road, quite apart from the fog.’ He drained his glass. ‘Anyway, not my pigeon, thank God.

  ‘What’s so damned stupid,’ he added, as Hannah refilled his glass, ‘is that if whoever it was had reported it, he might have been in the clear. She was walking on the wrong side and visibility was minimal — he probably didn’t see her till he was on top of her. It’s the fact that he didn’t stop that’s so damning.’

  ‘Perhaps he did stop, saw she was dead, and panicked.’

  ‘Possibly. Anyway, enough of that. What have you been doing with yourself ? New term started well?’