David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door Read online

  “We don’t know what time the break-in took place,” Sage reminded him. “It could have been evening or during the night.”

  “Sounds carry more at night.”

  “Quite.”

  There was a short pause, but Dexter had obviously nothing further to offer.

  Sage turned back to his wife. She was standing at the window, which looked out on the patio. “Are you here during the day, ma’am?”

  “Part of the time.”

  “Oh come on, Carol, most of it.”

  “All right, most of it.” Her voice vibrated with strain. “Apart from taking the children to and from school, doing my shopping, going to the hairdresser and so on.”

  “So you’ll know your neighbours better than your husband does?”

  “No, they’re never here.”

  Sage suppressed a sigh. Talk about isolationism. “Right, well we won’t detain you any longer. Thanks for your help.”

  Not, he reflected disgustedly as he got into the car, that they had been much help. “They could all be deaf and blind,” he said to Perry, “for all the notice they take of each other. I’ve never met such a self-centred mob. When I make my pile, Fred, remind me not to move out to somewhere like this. If you dropped dead in the street, they’d probably just step over you.”

  Which last remark he was later to remember.

  ***

  After the policemen had gone, Carol went to the den to round up the children for bed. She would be glad when it was time to follow them. It had been a most unpleasant day; first the obscene drawing on the door, then news of the burglary and no fewer than two visits from the police. She had the illogical feeling that it marked a watershed, that after today their lives would never be the same.

  Closing her eyes, she imagined herself back into their London house. The dining-room would be on her left and behind her the kitchen, not as luxurious as the one she now had, but full of memories of the children’s babyhood. And beyond the front door was the wide, tree-lined avenue and, only three doors down, Sue and Raymond’s home. How happy they’d all been there! she thought passionately. If only they’d never left!

  She opened her eyes as the children brushed past her and obediently started up the stairs. Slowly she followed them, supervised their baths, heard their prayers. When she returned to the sitting-room, Stewart looked up from the television.

  “All right?”

  “They’re in bed, yes.”

  “I meant you.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It wasn’t our house that was burgled, after all.”

  “Not this time.”

  “Come on, Carol, snap out of it. You never used to be so nervy.”

  “No. I’m sorry. I think I’ll go up to bed myself. I’ve rather a headache.”

  “Suit yourself.” He turned back to the television. She knew he was annoyed with her, obscurely resentful that she hadn’t adapted to the new life he’d organized for them.

  Their bedroom was at the end of the house, its window overlooking the main road through the village. On impulse she switched off the light and, drawing back the curtains, pushed up the sash and leaned out.

  Immediately opposite, lit by the street-lamps, were the three retirement bungalows, their windows dark. On her left lay Mews Grange, empty last night, inhabited tonight, and on her right, the Old Schoolhouse. It was a community of a sort, she supposed, but she didn’t feel part of it.

  She turned from the window and prepared for bed. But tired though she was, sleep would not come. Tossing and turning, her brain played tricks with her, merging the face on the door with the detective’s insolent, hot-eyed stare—to her heightened imagination equally menacing.

  But she must eventually have slept, for when the disturbance startled her awake, Stewart was lying beside her. For a moment, dazed, she lay still, trying to identify the sounds from beyond the open window. Then she slipped from the bed and stumbled across the dark room. The noise was coming nearer, individual shouts and cries now discernible, and the ominous sound of breaking glass. As she reached the window, she was in time to see a group of youths come hurtling round the corner of Tinker’s Lane—from the pub, no doubt—and start running along the opposite pavement, pursued by a second group. A nervous light bloomed in one of the bungalows.

  “What the hell’s going on?” came Stewart’s sleepy mutter. An extra loud yell brought him to join her at the window as one of the youths flung himself forward in a rugby tackle, bringing the boy in front of him crashing to the ground.

  “The Bruisers strike again,” Stewart commented. “I’d better go and sort them out.” He turned back into the room, but Carol’s fingers dug into his arm.

  “No! Do you want a knife in your ribs?”

  “Look, it’s only a drunken brawl, but they’ll wake the whole neighbourhood at this rate. If it was James out there, you’d be grateful if someone stopped them, wouldn’t you?”

  “But it isn’t James,” Carol said shakily, watching the bodies writhing on the pavement as late-comers flung themselves enthusiastically into the fray. “What’s frightening is that there are no police for miles, probably no nearer than Lethbridge.”

  “Hey!” came an authoritative voice. “That’s enough of that!” A tall, heavy figure strode purposefully into the melee and, seizing a struggling youth in each hand, dragged them clear.

  “That’s Joe, isn’t it? The milkman?”

  Carol nodded, watching with awe as he despatched the suddenly chastened pugilists.

  “Well, good for him,” Stewart said admiringly. “Perhaps we can now get some sleep.”

  But from a safe distance, the two gangs continued to hurl insults at each other. “Bloody gyppos!” jeered the village crowd. The retreating band spun furiously round, then, seeing Joe Barlow’s implacable figure, hesitated.

  “We’ll come back when your nanny’s not here!” they shouted back.

  “Are they gypsies?” asked Carol, bewildered.

  “I shouldn’t think so; they’re probably from the caravan park down the road. I saw several cars arriving there; for the Easter break, I suppose.”

  “Do you think they will come back?”

  Gently but firmly, Stewart turned her from the window and propelled her towards the bed. “You’d do a lot better,” he told her, “if you didn’t waste your energies on worrying about what might happen but probably never will. Now go back to sleep, there’s a good girl. It’s all over now.”

  But his last words, far from reassuring her, struck a note of doom. It’s all over now. That was precisely what she was afraid of.

  ***

  Saturday morning, and still the fine weather held. Webb whistled as he slung his painting tackle into the car and backed out of the drive. It was still early and the roads wouldn’t be busy for several hours yet.

  Since Beckworth had been in his thoughts this week, he’d decided to drive in that direction. One of the highest villages in the county, it offered panoramic views and in winter acted as the local barometer, a harbinger of impending bad weather. “They say there was snow up in Beckworth last night.”

  As Alan had said, the village lay only fifteen minutes’ drive from the motorway, at the centre of a triangle composed of Shillingham and Ashmartin to the south and Lethbridge at the apex. Nevertheless, because of its height it seemed remote, a place set apart.

  Webb took the Lethbridge road out of town, between fields where the first lambs took unsteady steps under trees laden with blossom. Spring, spring, spring! he thought self-mockingly, but his spirits lifted none the less.

  Alongside the sign for Beckworth, pointing to the right, was the stylized logo of a Stately Home, with the name Beckworth House beneath it. Webb turned into the narrow road which immediately began to climb, twisting and turning as it made its way into the forest that covered the hillside. Here and there the trees met overhead and dappled sunlight patterned the bonnet of the car. A board on his left read “Forestry Commission”, another farther on e
xhorted horse-riders to keep to the bridle path. At regular intervals walkways led off into the trees, and he guessed that later in the day these empty lay-bys would be jammed with parked cars.

  Gradually the trees retreated from the roadside and the view opened out. In his rear-view mirror Webb could see the land falling away behind him, the sheep and lambs mere blobs of white in the green fields. Round a corner he came suddenly on a caravan park, a hive of activity with cars and tents and children playing. Beyond the next bend was a lookout point, giving extensive views over the Broadshire Vale. He’d forgotten how lovely it was up here, and, at least at the moment, how peaceful. Later, he thought, the wedding cars would be following this same route, and he imagined Hannah already preparing for the ceremony.

  The road was levelling off now, and farms began to line it. Then came the sign for Beckworth and he entered the village itself. The houses on his right seemed to have been done up since he was here last, double-glazing and high, neatly clipped hedges ensuring the privacy of their owners. He slowed down as he neared the crossroads, trying to get his bearings. On his right, a road led up to the church and vicarage as he remembered, but the school on the corner seemed to have been converted into private houses. He wondered what had happened to the children.

  On his left, Tinker’s Lane ran down the hill, keeping line with the high walls of the estate whose gates were immediately opposite. Webb could see the drive and some parkland through the ornamental scrolls, but the House itself, set well back, was screened by trees. And if he remembered correctly, the pub where he intended to lunch was just round the corner.

  He turned into the lane and came upon it at once, the lettering on the wall identifying it as the Green Man. A young lad was brushing the forecourt, and Webb leaned out of the window. “All right if I park here for an hour or two? I’ll be coming to you for lunch later.”

  “Don’t see why not, mate,” said the lad indifferently, which Webb took to be consent. He drove in and stopped in the shade of some trees which, with luck, would shield the car from the sun. Then, collecting his collapsible easel and paints, he set off up the road towards the church.

  ***

  “You’d think someone would have heard something,” Bob Cummings remarked. He was standing at the back of his house, fitting a piece of board into the frame of the broken window. It would have to do till after the weekend, when they could get the glass replaced. “I mean, the thieves must have had a van or something to shift the TV. Surely someone saw it being driven into the drive.”

  Gina watched as he hammered in a nail. “They’d probably assume it had a right to be here.”

  “Even if we weren’t?”

  She shrugged. “Does anyone know when we’re here? More to the point, does anyone care? We haven’t gone out of our way to make ourselves known, and the old people across the road don’t strike me as particularly observant.”

  “There’s the family next door.”

  “According to the police, they didn’t see or hear anything.” She glanced at the wall separating them from Cop-pins Farmhouse. “Perhaps we should make an effort to meet people, start a Neighbourhood Watch scheme or something.”

  “We couldn’t contribute much, could we? Anyway, we don’t really want to get involved, we’ve enough of a social life at home. The whole point of this place is that we can relax here.”

  “It leaves a nasty taste though. This seemed such a pleasant little village, so safe and sleepy. Why should anyone come all the way up here on the off-chance of a haul?”

  “Search me. But unless it was one of the locals, which hasn’t been ruled out, someone did.”

  “Gina? Are you out there? I’ve made a cup of coffee.”

  “Thank you, Mother,” she called back, “we’re just coming.”

  “Speaking of relaxing,” Bob said, banging in the last nail, “it’s a pity your mother won’t. She puts a damper on everything, going round with that pained expression on her face.”

  “I suppose we must make allowances. She was really quite upset about the burglary.”

  “But she’s the same every time we come, as though we forcibly drag her here against her will. Whereas I for one would be more than happy if she stayed at home.”

  “Hush,” Gina said quickly, “she might hear you. I know she can be a trial, love, but she’s old, after all.”

  “I just don’t see why Roy and Vivian can’t do a stint. It’s all very well him being the blue-eyed boy, but he mightn’t be quite so amenable if he had her twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.”

  “At least,” Gina said peaceably, “she’ll keep house for the boys when we go to Greece.”

  “Not without reminding us for a month beforehand how lucky we are to have her.”

  Gina laughed and reached up to kiss his cheek. “I know it’s hard sometimes, but bless you for putting up with it.”

  He slipped his arm round her, giving her a squeeze, and, arranging innocuous expressions on their faces, they walked round to the back door.

  ***

  Webb laid down his brush and stretched. The sun was surprisingly hot and he was ready for a beer. From this vantage-point the village lay spread beneath him, and he was able to see over the high walls of the estate to Beckworth House, sitting placidly amid its beautiful grounds. And as he gazed down, he saw a white Rolls Royce turn into the now-open gates. The bride and groom had arrived for the reception.

  It seemed only the bridal party was allowed to drive up to the House, since as Webb reached the road again, more and more cars were turning into Tinker’s Lane and being directed into the large parking area under the estate walls. He was glad he’d left his own car in front of the pub, or he’d have had difficulty in extracting it. Men in morning suits and women in flimsy dresses and large hats were making their way, in small brightly coloured groups, up the winding drive towards the House.

  Webb paused to see if he could discern Hannah among them, but without success. Just as well; he didn’t want her thinking he’d come to watch the peepshow. Abandoning interest, he turned into the welcome cool of the public bar.

  It was fairly crowded, but with drinkers rather than lunchers, and he guessed the majority of the clientele was local. However, a menu was chalked up on a blackboard.

  He ordered a jumbo sausage along with his pint, and made his way to a vacant table by the window.

  From here, he had a cornerwise view of the still-arriving wedding guests, but he was more interested in the immediate company. Farmers and estate workers in the main, he guessed. Such scraps of talk that he caught were of lambing and spring crops and the danger of a late frost.

  The landlord, short and stout with rolled-up sleeves, brought over his lunch personally. “Passing through?” he inquired genially, obviously interested in a new face.

  “No, I’ve been sketching up behind the church. What a lovely spot it is. I wouldn’t mind living here myself.”

  “Ah, well.” The landlord shook his head gloomily. “Things have changed a lot in the ten years I’ve been here. There’s a different atmosphere nowadays.”

  “You mean the burglary?”

  “Oh, you’ve heard about that? Yes, that’s one thing. But the rot started long before, when Coppins Farm changed hands. Developers bought it, split the yard and converted the stables and cowsheds into another “desirable residence”. They must have made a mint out of it.”

  “I see the school’s gone, too.”

  “That’s right, and the village shop-cum-post office. Tarted up and sold for a packet. The end result is that the locals can’t afford to buy here anymore. All the young people are leaving the village and soon we’ll be no more than a holiday home for yuppies. The heart’s gone out of the place, I can tell you.”

  “That’s too bad,” Webb murmured, eyeing his cooling sausage. “Can’t anything be done?”

  “Not as long as they can get £150,000 a time along the main road. Who hereabouts can afford that kind of money? Ev
en the small cottages, which were ideal for a young couple, are now luxury retirement homes. Still, you don’t want to hear all our troubles. Enjoy your meal.”

  He moved away and Webb turned to his lunch with a changed perception of the attractions of Beckworth.

  CHAPTER 3

  Carol put her foot on the clutch and tried the ignition again. The engine gave a faint splutter and faded into silence. What was the matter with the thing? It had been perfectly all right yesterday. With decreasing hope she tried a third time, with similar results.

  Her hands tightened on the steering-wheel and tears of frustration came into her eyes. What could she do? What would Stewart do? Get out and look under the bonnet? But she didn’t know what to look for. Oh God, she had to get into Lethbridge this afternoon.

  A tap on the window spun her round, to see a man smiling at her. “Need some help?”

  “It won’t start,” she said.

  “So I gathered. Have you flooded it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Move over, and I’ll have a go.”

  Obediently she slid across to the passenger seat and he climbed in beside her. This time a turn of the ignition brought no sound at all.

  “I’m afraid the battery’s flat,” he told her.

  “Oh damn! If only I’d tried it before my husband went out! He’s taken the children for a walk and by the time they get back the shops will be shut.”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Lethbridge. The children are going on a camping trip on Monday, and there are some last-minute things I need to buy.”

  “I’ll take you,” he said, surprising them both. Then, as her eyes widened, he added quickly, “Look, we’re neighbours. I live over at the Lodge—Neil Carey.”

  “Carol Dexter. But I can’t let you give up your Saturday afternoon.”

  “To be honest, I’d be glad of something to do. My wife’s up at the House seeing to the wedding reception and I was feeling bored and neglected. A trip to Lethbridge would be a pleasure, I assure you.”