The Ten Commandments Page 4

  'Well, now that you mention it –'

  'I'd rather not waste any more time on Philpott just now. We'll set off for Ashmartin and stop somewhere on the way.'

  'Right you are. Guv.'

  Webb fastened his seat belt and, relieved as always to be leaving Erlesborough, settled down for the drive ahead.

  3

  'And he can't relax even now, because this TV interview's looming.'

  Gillian turned back to the table with a smile, to catch her friend absent-mindedly gazing out of the window.

  'Sonia! I don't believe you've heard a word I've been saying!'

  Sonia started guiltily. 'Sorry, I –'

  Gillian looked at her more closely, then put the teapot on the table and sat down. 'Is something wrong?' she asked gently. 'You seem a bit – distracted.'

  'It's probably nothing. I'll feel better after a cup of tea.'

  Not wanting to press her, Gillian changed the subject. I don't often see you on a weekday. Have you been visiting a client?'

  Sonia nodded. She was a private banking manager and spent much of her time calling on clients to assess their financial requirements. They'd been friends from schooldays, and in many ways Gillian felt closer to her than to her own sister. Sonia had been her bridesmaid, but she herself had married only three years ago, at the age of thirty-nine. While rejoicing for her, Gillian had not been entirely happy about her choice.

  She passed a cup and saucer across the table. Then, sipping her own tea, she studied her friend. Sonia hadn't changed much since she was a leggy adolescent, though she'd acquired a certain grace. Her hair, centre-parted and hanging loosely about her face, was in the same style that she had worn at sixteen.

  Now, however, it struck Gillian that the skin was more tautly drawn over her cheekbones, there were shadows under her eyes and some fine little lines at their corners which she hadn't noticed before. Possibly -

  Sonia said abruptly, 'I think Patrick is having an affair.'

  Gillian, taken completely by surprise, could only stare at her, and she gave an uncertain laugh. 'How's that for a conversation stopper?'

  'Tell me.'

  'Oh, there's nothing definite.' Sonia's fingers were playing with her car keys. 'No more than a feeling, really. He just seems – different.'

  'And that's all?'

  She flushed. 'Except that when I hung up his jacket this morning, I thought I detected Chanel. I never wear it.'

  'Oh, Sonia,' Gillian said softly.

  'It's not only me who's noticed it; his mother and sister came for lunch on Sunday. I thought we were behaving perfectly normally, but when I went to get the coffee, Zoe followed me into the kitchen and asked if we'd had a row. You can imagine how I felt.

  'And there's another thing,' she hurried on, before Gillian could comment. 'His mother's going downhill fairly rapidly, and I've a horrible feeling that when she dies, Patrick will expect Zoe to come and live with us.'

  'Has he said so?'

  'No, but you know how close they are. She positively dotes on him, and he's so protective towards her. Damn it, she's over thirty, she should be able to fend for herself.' She added desolately, 'If she does come, it's I who'll be the odd one out.'

  Gillian reached for her hand. I shouldn't worry about that, it might never happen. Tell me about Patrick – when did you begin to suspect?'

  Sonia shrugged. 'It's been several months, I suppose, but it was only a vague feeling to start with, nothing I could tie down. Now – well, we don't seem to do much together any more. He's taken to going out by himself in the evening, to play golf or meet his friends for a drink. Or so he says,' she added in a low voice.

  Gillian, watching her downcast face, felt a spurt of anger, and her thoughts went back to the first time she'd met Patrick Knowles, before he and Sonia were engaged. It had been at a Christmas party and, curious to meet the man who'd finally distracted Sonia from her career, she'd felt an instant disquiet. For had she met him under any other circumstances, she'd have written him off as one of life's bachelors, incapable of forming a lasting attachment to anyone. Which, as she'd told herself at the time, was grossly unfair on first acquaintance.

  That he was a striking-looking man, she could not deny – over six feet tall, with a mane of pale hair already fading almost imperceptibly to grey. His eyes, also grey, were deep-set under jutting brows, which gave them a brooding quality, and he had a habit, which she found irritating, of constantly looking over the shoulder of the person to whom he was speaking, as though seeking a more interesting companion.

  'Well, what do you think?' Sonia had demanded, the moment they were alone. 'Isn't he wonderful?'

  'He's certainly attractive,' Gillian had hedged.

  'I can't believe my luck, that he hasn't been snatched up long since!'

  Looking at her glowing face, Gillian had not had the heart to voice her doubts. In any case, as she'd known even then, it would have made no difference. Sonia was head over heels in love, for probably the first time in her life, and no amount of logic would have persuaded her to think again. It gave Gillian no satisfaction that her initial instinct seemed to have proved correct.

  'You could just be imagining it,' she suggested.

  'I suppose so. But even if there's no one else, he doesn't seem interested in me.' She hesitated. 'I wonder if I could ask you a favour?'

  'Of course.'

  'Could you possibly invite us to dinner, and see what you think? If he strikes you as being any different?'

  'If you feel it would help, of course I will.'

  'I'd – like a second opinion,' Sonia said diffidently.

  'Tell you what. I'll ask Alex and Roy as well – make it more of a party.'

  'You won't say anything to them, will you?' Sonia asked anxiously.

  'I wouldn't dream of it.' Gillian consulted the kitchen diary. 'We're booked up for the next few weekends; would midweek be OK?'

  'Fine – we needn't stay late.'

  'How about next Thursday, then – the first of August?'

  Sonia bent to retrieve her handbag and fumbled in it for her diary. 'I've nothing on, but I can't speak for Patrick.'

  'Well, let me know, and in the meantime I'll try Alex.'

  Sonia stood up. 'Thanks, Gilly, I'm very grateful. I feel better already.' She looked round the familiar, sun-filled kitchen with its pretty wallpaper, its pine fittings, and the view of the canal from its window.

  'I love this room,' she said. 'If it were my house. I'd spend most of my time in here! But I've kept you from your work long enough.' She bent forward and kissed Gillian's cheek. 'Bless you. I'll let you know if Patrick's free on Thursday.'

  Gillian waited at the front door till she had reversed down the drive and, with a wave, disappeared from sight. Then, with a sigh, she went back to her studio.

  The phone was ringing as Alex and the twins returned home, and she just managed to catch it before the answerphone cut in.

  'Gilly, hi ... Yes, I've just walked through the door. We've been to the parents for tea.'

  Then, as her sister continued speaking, she tensed, gazing at her reflection in the hall mirror. Even when, minutes later, she replaced the phone, she continued to stare at her own face with its intent brown eyes and its frame of chestnut hair, as though she might find in it some solution to her dilemma.

  Damn! she thought, moving at last and walking into the sitting-room. The twins had turned on the television and were sprawled on the floor watching it. Alex unlocked the patio door and went out on to the terrace, where she sat on the bench, hugging herself and gazing down the garden.

  She'd been taken by surprise, rushing to answer the phone like that. Given time, she could have come up with some excuse – easy enough, in their busy lives. Now, it was too late. If she rang back and said Roy wasn't free next Thursday, she might be caught out in the lie. Come to that, Gilly might alter the date to accommodate them.

  But God! she thought in panic, how can I spend an entire evening with Sonia and Pat
rick? Patrick. The name conjured him up and a wave of heat washed over her, leaving her weak. So far, they'd managed not to arouse suspicions, but in such a wide circle of friends she'd known they were playing with fire, that sooner or later –

  She felt badly about Sonia, too, having known her most of her life. The trouble was that when she was with Patrick, all sense of what was right fled out of the window and she was left with only that deep and hungry need which was as new as it was basically unwelcome.

  She’d been attracted to him from the start, at his and Sonia's engagement party, but only in a cursory way, as one sizes up the partners of one's friends. Since their wedding, she'd hardly seen them. Sonia was, after all, Gilly's friend rather than hers, and their paths seldom crossed.

  Then, at the Country Club New Year party, when everyone was kissing everyone else, Patrick had suddenly said behind her, 'Happy New Year, Alex!' and pulled her against him. She closed her eyes on the memory, recalling the instant desire that had flared between them. Perhaps if she and Roy had not been having problems things might have been different, she might have drawn back, laughed it off. But in her uncertain and vulnerable state, her willpower evaporated and she was lost.

  She leant forward slowly and put her head in her hands, feeling the hot sun on the back of her neck. Next Thursday. A week tomorrow. It would be all right, she assured herself; no one suspected anything, no one would be watching them. All she had to do was behave naturally, and all would be well. It had to be.

  Good's teams, Webb discovered, had been working diligently but without much success. On the plus side, house-to-house inquiries in Judd's own street had produced two witnesses who'd seen him set off for the fatal meeting. One man, watering his garden, had even had a word with him as he passed, but Judd had volunteered no information as to where he was going or whom he was meeting. They'd merely discussed the drought and the continuing heatwave.

  His arrival at the rendezvous was, unfortunately, less well chronicled, though one of the Jester’s clientele thought he remembered a man waiting on the corner as he went into the pub; his description was vague enough to fit Judd or a dozen other people.

  Someone else, driving from the green, had had to swerve to avoid a car which stopped suddenly outside the pub, but had not noticed the driver nor anyone on the pavement who might have been waiting to climb inside. The car was described as a dark-blue Honda with a fairly recent registration. This was now being sought on the PNC.

  A couple of DCs had spent the previous evening at the Jester, asking questions and listening to the general conversation, to the resentment of the landlord, who accused them of putting off his customers. Several of them knew Judd, who occasionally had a bar lunch there, and all were adamant he'd not been in on Monday evening.

  Finally, and not surprisingly, none of the offices in the same road as Social Services had anyone by the name of Mrs Fairlie working for them.

  As a matter of routine, Webb had glanced through the list of Judd's most recent clients, though Steve Parker was convinced none of them was involved.

  'You say he didn't recognize the voice,' Webb said, 'but suppose it was disguised?'

  'It didn't strike him as being, just on edge.'

  'On edge,' Webb repeated thoughtfully. He didn't press the point, but he still thought a client was the most likely bet. You heard of cases where normally sane people suddenly flipped, and after all, who else would have wanted to kill a man like Simon Judd?

  And yet, he thought in exasperation, the same question had applied to Trevor Philpott. Was it the same perpetrator in each case? They were uncannily alike – the decoy phone call, the pub meeting, the body left at another pub. Unless, of course, this latest was a copycat of the first one.

  Before he left Ashmartin, news came through that the owner of the Honda had been traced. It belonged to a Mrs Castle, who admitted being in the vicinity of the green on Monday evening, and explained that she had braked suddenly to avoid a dog. She'd had a friend in the car with her, who verified her statement and confirmed that they had returned to the friend's house, where they'd spent the rest of the evening. They had seen no one waiting outside the Jester.

  Not, as Webb remarked to Jackson on the way home, the most fruitful of days.

  To his wife's frustration, Frederick was uncommunicative about his television interview, and became increasingly restless as the time for its transmission drew near.

  'I'm not at all sure I shall bother watching it,' he announced. 'I know what I said, after all.'

  'You most certainly will,' Edwina told him. 'I've no intention of sitting here all by myself. A little less of the false modesty, if you please.'

  'It's not that,' he retorted. 'What irritated me is, we were supposed to be discussing The Muddied Pool, but I was inveigled into talking about the new book. You know how I hate doing that until it's all safely finished.'

  'Think of it as advance publicity,' she advised serenely.

  Even so, at nine o'clock it was necessary to call him in from the garden for the start of the programme. With a glance at the screen, he went to pour them both a glass of whisky before settling, with a resigned sigh, beside her.

  Frederick now appeared on the screen, seated opposite Gregory Page, the programme's presenter.

  'I'm glad we settled on that tie,' Edwina remarked with satisfaction. 'It looks most distinguished.'

  'My dear, if you want to watch the programme, let us watch it, without a running commentary on my attire.'

  She smiled and patted his hand, sensing his tension.

  'Now, Mr Mace,' Page was saying, 'you're just back from a tour of Canada to promote your book. The Muddied Pool, which is described as –' he consulted the notes in front of him – "an in-depth analysis of the criminal mind". Can you tell me –?'

  The interview proceeded for several minutes along expected lines. It was, Edwina thought, very similar to those she had sat through on the tour, and as a consequence Frederick was well versed in the answers and appeared relaxed and at his ease.

  Then the camera turned to Page, who shifted in his chair as if preparing for a change of topic. 'I understand you've already made a start on your new book?'

  Frederick's surprise was evident. 'Yes, I'm about halfway through.'

  'Have you decided on the title?'

  Frederick was silent for several seconds, looking down at his hands in his lap. Then, overcoming his reluctance to speak of it, he said, 'It will be called The Ten Commandments.'

  Edwina, who hadn't known that, glanced at him, but he made no response.

  Dealing with the breaking of them, I presume?' the interviewer prompted.

  'In a way, yes.'

  Page gave a short laugh. 'Really, Mr Mace, you're being very reticent. Surely you can tell us something about it? I don't doubt your public out there are agog to know more.'

  Frederick hesitated a moment longer, then appeared to admit defeat. 'Well, this might sound simplistic, but it struck me that if everyone kept the Ten Commandments, there would be virtually no crime.'

  The camera panned in on Page's raised eyebrow, and Frederick went on quickly, 'Oh, I'm aware that from the legal standpoint you can break all but three with impunity. Only murder, theft and false witness are criminal offences, but my point is that in a great many cases, the motive for a crime lies in someone else – possibly the victim himself – having broken a Commandment.'

  'That's quite a contention.'

  'But worth examining, I felt. So to illustrate the theory, I decided to study ten criminal cases, each of which could be linked with the breaking of a different Commandment, either in the crime itself or, of more interest to me personally, the motive behind it.'

  He gave a slight smile. 'As you'll appreciate, it was necessary to go back quite a long way in respect of the first five, which, alas, only fundamental religions still adhere to. Taking the name of the Lord in vain is commonplace, we opted not to keep holy the Sabbath day, and so on. The flouting of those is unlikely to provoke a
ny violent reaction today. However, by diligent searching – mainly on the part of my researcher, I hasten to add – we managed to find an example for each of them. I completed the chapter on number five just before leaving for Canada.'

  That dry smile again. 'Lizzie Borden was, I felt, a prime, if somewhat extreme, illustration of not honouring her father and mother.'

  Gregory Page leaned back in his chair. 'You've touched on some of the Commandments, Mr Mace. Can you remind us – what are the rest of them?'

  'The so-called "shalt nots". Murder is number six, and as well as being the ultimate crime, it frequently – to use the vernacular – begets murder. That is, it can lead to other, "revenge" killings – especially in the case of sectarian murders – thereby doubling as both crime and motive.

  'Next we have adultery, no longer illegal in itself, but responsible for crimes passionnels – as also, of course, is number ten, not coveting your neighbour's wife.'

  'Which we've all done at some time or another!' Page put in facetiously. 'Sorry – please go on.'

  'Thou shalt not steal,' Frederick continued, 'is, as I mentioned, one of the three still indictable, and has a pretty broad scope – white-collar crime, fraud, unlawful possession. It, too, can be both motive and crime.

  'Number nine. Bearing false witness, covers both perjury and, in today's parlance, "framing" someone, often causing grievances which result in violence; and the last part of the final Commandment, ordering us not to covet anything that belongs to someone else, embraces all the petty crimes which result from greed and envy.'

  He lifted his hands. 'Have I proved my point?'

  Page gave a laugh. 'I need notice of that question, but you've certainly given us plenty to think about. Let's get down to specifics, then: this latest murder we have here in Broadshire: was a broken Commandment behind that?'

  'My dear Mr Page, how could I know? I should have to study the case in detail before hazarding an opinion. No doubt the police have their theories, but I'm not privy to them.'

  'The press are comparing it with another murder some years ago. Would you therefore expect the motives to be the same?'