The Lily-White Boys Read online

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Dawson gratefully kept up the formality. ‘This is my colleague, DC Cummings. Mr Turner, club chairman.’

  Steve also had his hand shaken.

  Dick Turner cleared his throat. ‘We were just wondering if this is going to reflect on the club in any way? We’ve had our share of bad publicity, but nothing as serious as this, thank God.’

  ‘Too early to say yet, sir. I’d be interested, though, to hear of anyone you might know of who’s clashed with the Whites in the past.’

  ‘But, good God, man, you know how they were!’ Turner broke off, remembering Dawson’s official hat, and continued more calmly. ‘This is difficult, with the lads dead, but it has to be said they’ve caused us quite a few headaches over the years. They were loyal members of the club – none more so – but if there was any trouble at or around the ground, they were sure to be in the thick of it.’

  Dawson nodded. ‘They had their special cronies, didn’t they?’

  Turner shrugged. ‘As to that, I couldn’t say. Bill here knows more about the daily goings-on than I do.’

  The club secretary came forward, his normally cheerful face subdued. He nodded awkwardly to Dawson, embarrassed by his change of status.

  ‘They were more hangers-on than cronies,’ he said. ‘It was an odd set-up – the twins were totally self-sufficient. There was something about them that set them apart, and it fascinated the other lads.’ He drank from the tankard he was holding. ‘They were known as the Lily-White Boys, you know; partly from their name and partly because they always dressed in green, the United colour.’

  Dawson glanced at Steve, writing industriously in his notebook. Bill Johnson knew Dawson was aware of all this, and it was to Steve’s notebook that he addressed his remarks.

  ‘Anyway, the gang, such as it was, used to go drinking before matches. One season we tried closing the bar here until after the game, but it caused aggro with the other members and didn’t stop the tearaways, who found another drinking hole.’

  ‘If we could have the names, sir?’ Dawson reminded him. He knew them, of course, but was interested to hear if Johnson’s list tallied with his own.

  ‘Jango Simms, Mike Leyton and Charlie Richards were the main ones. Sometimes Pete Seymour and Brian Arkwright joined them, but they were more on the fringe. Still, what’s your interest in them? They were pals, not enemies.’

  ‘They’d know any likely enemies, though.’ Only a half-true answer, but it satisfied Johnson.

  ‘Yes, of course. I see.’

  ‘The last match of the season was at Steeple Bayliss, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, the week before last. We beat them four-nil.’

  ‘The White boys were there?’

  ‘Yes. They didn’t start any trouble, though; like the rest of us, they were over the moon at the result.’

  ‘And they went straight home afterwards?’

  The secretary frowned. ‘I couldn’t say. We’d laid on a coach, but they weren’t on it – used their own transport. Come to think of it, their van was still in the car park when we left.’

  ‘Which was at what time?’

  ‘About six.’

  ‘What about their pals?’

  ‘They were with us. I remember thinking the Whites must have told them to push off. They did that sometimes, when they wanted to be by themselves. As I said, it was a weird set-up.’

  ‘So it’s at least possible they could have got up to something after the rest of you had left.’ Something which had serious repercussions a week later.

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’ Bill Johnson looked anxious, as though as secretary he was responsible for the conduct of his members.

  ‘Right, we’ll get on to the other lads and see if the Whites mentioned what they were planning to do. Thanks for your help, gentlemen. If there’s anything else, we’ll be in touch again.’

  Not, Dawson thought, as Steve Cummings followed him out of the side door from the conference suite, that he himself had learned anything new. The point was what the Governor would be able to do with it.

  It was five o’clock when Dick Hodges, the Chief SOCO, phoned.

  ‘Thought you’d like to know we’ve finished going over the victims’ room.’

  ‘Anything of interest?’

  ‘Not with regard to their deaths, as far as I can tell. No fingerprints other than their own and Mrs Trubshaw’s. But there’s a stash of what looks like stolen property, which might be helpful.’

  Webb reached for pen and paper. ‘Give me a quick run-through, will you, Dick?’

  ‘Well, there’s a handful of jewellery all bundled together. Nothing of enormous value, but some rather nice pieces – jade, coral, stuff like that. Plus a silver cigarette box inscribed LMB, some silver and ivory fish-eaters, a little jade statue and a couple of strings of pearls. I haven’t checked if they’re real or not – my guess is cultured – but I bet my old lady wouldn’t turn her nose up at them.’

  Webb grinned, thinking of Dick’s ‘old lady’, a bright, vivacious forty-year-old. ‘OK, thanks; I’ll have them checked with the property index.’

  ‘I’ve some news for you, Alan,’ he told Crombie when, ten minutes later, the Inspector returned to his desk. ‘Remember that house that was done on the SB to Marlton road? The one you thought might have some connection with the plane?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It was the White twins who turned it over. Dick’s found some of the stuff in their room.’

  ‘What the hell were they doing out there?’

  ‘At a guess, returning from SB after the match.’ He’d just finished Dawson’s report. ‘From what I remember, the owners admitted leaving the garage doors open. The lads must have noticed as they drove past and stopped on spec.’

  He shot a sly glance at the Inspector. ‘I don’t think the plane was theirs, though,’ he added with mock seriousness, ‘or we wouldn’t have found anything in their room.’ And he dodged, grinning, as Crombie flicked a paper dart in his direction.

  CHAPTER 5

  When Monica arrived home that evening, Mrs Bedale was in the hall replacing the telephone.

  ‘Oh, Miss Tovey, there you are. That was a call for you.’ Monica paused, alerted by the woman’s tone of voice.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m sorry, he wouldn’t give me his name.’

  ‘Did he leave a message?’

  ‘Only that he’d ring back.’

  Monica frowned. ‘He asked for me specifically?’

  ‘No, he said, “the lady”. I asked which one, and he said “The one who works at the shop”.’

  ‘What did he sound like?’

  Mrs Bedale twisted her apron. ‘Not like a gentleman, madam.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’ Monica walked past her and up the stairs, trying to ignore her quickened heartbeats. For there had been an unidentified call at the store, too, for which she’d also been unavailable. Her line had been engaged, the man was asked to hold on, and when the switchboard girl went back to him, he’d rung off. According to Patsy, that called had sounded ‘a rough type’. The van driver? It seemed the most likely explanation.

  In the privacy of her room, Monica tipped the contents of her handbag on to the bed and with fingers that shook a little picked up the card which the policeman had given her the previous day. It listed a number to ring should she need it, and a name other than his own – Detective Chief Inspector Webb. Sitting down on the bed, she pulled the extension phone towards her.

  The Chief Inspector heard her out in silence. Then he asked, ‘Will you be in for the rest of the evening, ma’am, if he does ring back?’

  ‘No, I’m going out to dinner with friends.’

  ‘At a restaurant?’

  ‘No, a private house. Beechcroft Mansions.’

  At the other end of the line Webb swallowed his surprise at hearing his own address. At least he could keep an eye on her.

  ‘With your permission I’ll have a listening device fitted to your
phone. It’ll only take a moment, and with luck we should trace the call. But we also need to know what he wants, and it seems he’ll only speak to you. Is there a number you could leave with your housekeeper this evening?’

  ‘Yes; Miss James is an old friend – I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’

  So it was Hannah; he’d thought as much. ‘In the meantime, try not to feel nervous. As you know, you’re being accompanied wherever you go, and should you need assistance it’ll be immediately available.’

  If that was intended to reassure her, Monica thought, replacing the phone, it had had the opposite effect. Was he expecting someone to jump out at her? She shuddered and went to run her bath, leaving the connecting door open so she could hear the phone. It didn’t ring.

  The four of them had been at Ashbourne School together, though not as exact contemporaries: Monica and Gwen Rutherford were already prefects when Hannah and Dilys joined the school. Now, Gwen was headmistress and Hannah her deputy, while Dilys had found her niche with a series of highly acclaimed novels. The two separate friendships, formed in schooldays, had, over the years, amalgamated to encompass four successful, unmarried women who enjoyed each other’s company and who tried to meet once a month to visit the theatre or a concert or to dine at each other’s houses.

  Gwen and Dilys were already there when Hannah showed Monica into the sitting-room. The local press had stated where the van was found, and although Monica’s name was not mentioned, her friends didn’t doubt she was the ‘local resident’ who’d reported it to the police.

  She fended off their sympathetic queries with a smile. ‘No, I didn’t look inside, thank God. By the way, Hannah, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve left your phone number with Mrs Bedale. There’ve been two unexplained calls today, both of which I’ve missed. Chief Inspector Webb thinks I should take the next one.’

  ‘Of course – no problem,’ Hannah replied, adding casually, ‘He knows you’re coming here – Mr Webb?’

  ‘Yes, but he’d have found out anyway, since I have watchdogs on my tail who follow me everywhere.’

  Gwen frowned. ‘I don’t understand. The fact that the van happened to be left outside your door surely doesn’t put you in any danger?’

  ‘Unfortunately I saw it being left.’ That, at least, hadn’t been in the paper.

  ‘But he – the murderer – couldn’t know that?’ Dilys this time.

  ‘Again unfortunately, yes, he does. Because he looked up and saw me watching him.’

  There was a short silence. Then Hannah said jerkily, ‘No wonder you have police protection. Why didn’t you tell me? You could have come and stayed here till it blew over.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you, and Justin and Eloise said the same, but it wouldn’t have done any good. He must have looked me up in the electoral register, because he rang the store too. Short of holing myself up somewhere and remaining completely incommunicado, there’s really nothing I can do.’

  ‘In your place that’s exactly what I’d have done,’ said Dilys with a shiver.

  Monica smiled. ‘Fortunately my imagination isn’t as fertile as yours.’

  Hannah said determinedly, ‘Well, if the phone does go, at least we’re all here to back you up. So let’s forget about it and enjoy our evening. Gwen, your glass is empty: more sherry?’

  The evening passed. The conversation was as bright and interesting as usual, but for Monica at least the underlying strain could not be forgotten. Occasionally her eyes strayed to the squat shape of the phone on the polished table. It remained uncompromisingly silent. Had he rung home again, and panicked when given another number, suspecting a trap? Should she have cancelled this engagement and stayed in to speak to him? Most certainly she should not! she answered herself indignantly. As she’d told Justin, she refused to have her life disrupted by this stranger. And what had he replied? Better than losing it, I’d have thought.

  ‘Monica?’

  She looked up guiltily to meet Hannah’s concerned eyes. ‘I’m sorry – did you say something?’

  ‘I wondered if you’d like more coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you. In fact, I think I should be going. I mustn’t keep my watchdogs from their kennels.’ She looked round the table at their carefully unconcerned faces. ‘I’ve been like Banquo’s ghost this evening, haven’t I? Sorry if I’ve spoiled things.’

  They protested loyally, but Monica suspected they were relieved when she left them. Getting into her car at the gate, she was aware of the other vehicle parked a few yards back and grateful for the reassuring flick of its lights. She did not, however, realize that from a darkened window on the top floor of the building she’d just left, DCI Webb himself watched her set off for home.

  For a while she was able to keep the police car in view in her mirror, but on reaching the town centre she lost it in the traffic. No doubt it was behind there somewhere. She circumvented Gloucester Circus and turned into the High Street, its pavements still busy on this warm evening but with a crowd different from the harassed shoppers who populated it by day. The night people, she thought fancifully. Then she had left it behind, and as the buildings grew more sparse the gap between the street lamps lengthened and she drove for several minutes through open land before the houses began again and she turned off for North Park.

  A few headlights were visible in her rearview mirror. One set no doubt belonged to her bodyguard. Along North Park Drive the lamps glowed brightly, and the hall light shone in her own doorway. She drove past it and turned down the side road leading to the garages, aware for the first time of the contrast between the brightly lit road at the front and the deepness of the shadows which edged the mews.

  Reaching the garage she drew to a halt, its doors illuminated in the beam of her headlamps. Where the hell were those policemen? Well, she wasn’t going to sit here waiting for them. Slamming out of the car, she walked into the circle of brilliance. A spotlit target, whispered a little voice inside her. Ignoring it, she bent to pull up the garage door, and as she did so a sudden rustle behind her spun her round in time to see a dark figure move back into the shadows. Fear sluiced over her in a scalding tide. Without thought she flattened herself against the door, feeling the wood still warm from the day’s sunshine under her splayed fingers. ‘Who are you?’ she cried hoarsely. ‘What do you want?’

  After what seemed an eternity the figure moved forward again and as she opened her mouth to scream, a voice said, ‘Police, ma’am. Sorry if we scared you.’

  ‘Scared me?’ She hardly recognized her voice. ‘You’re supposed to be looking after me, not giving me a heart attack.’

  Dry-mouthed and humiliated by her fear, she turned back to the door, releasing the catch so that it swung upwards. She got into the car, drove it carefully inside and relocked the garage. Ignoring the muttered ‘Good night’ from the shadows, she wrestled with the lock of the garden door until it opened to admit her and, slipping inside, slammed and locked it behind her.

  As always, the lights of the house welcomed her at the far end of the garden. Normally she loved entering from the dark mews and walking towards the light; it was part of coming home at the end of the day, anticipating the warmth and companionship within. Tonight, she was conscious only of the shrubbery edging the path, the large patches of shadow against the wall. It took all her self-discipline not to break into a run, and it was with overwhelming relief that she gained the sanctuary of the house and went up the steps to the hall door.

  It was past eleven and her mother’d gone to bed. With held breath Monica advanced to the telephone table. There were no messages awaiting her. He had not phoned back. Damn him! she thought in an explosion of relief. Damn him for ruining her evening, and that of her friends. Until those terrifying moments in the mews, she hadn’t realized just how fearful the mysterious phone calls and the Chief Inspector’s bland reassurance had left her.

  Her breathing was still uneven and she paused to steady it, letting her eyes move lovingly over the graceful hallway.
Its handsome proportions and restful atmosphere had frequently restored her over the years when despair or frustration had laid her low. That it was more than just a passageway was confirmed by the way visitors tended to linger in it, admiring the prints on its ivory walls, the colourful Persian rug, the antique tables.

  She was suddenly very tired. Reaction, no doubt, to the stresses of the day. Switching off the lights, she went slowly up the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister like an old woman. It was at times like this, she thought ruefully, that it would be good to be married; to have someone in whom to confide your fear, someone to reassure and protect you. Briefly she thought of her brother-in-law. A pity he was in Worcester. And from him her mind went, as it usually did, to George. Perhaps one day he would take first rather than second place in her thoughts, but until then –

  On an impulse she lifted the phone and dialled his number. It rang several times, and she wondered belatedly if he were in bed. At least his mother wouldn’t be disturbed; her bedside phone was switched off when she settled for the night.

  Monica was about to replace the receiver when a breathless voice said, ‘Yes? Latimer speaking.’

  ‘George, it’s me. I hope I haven’t woken you?’

  ‘Monica! Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have disturbed you. But I’ve just got in, Mother’s in bed, and I – I needed to talk to someone.’

  ‘I wanted to speak to you, too. In fact, I did phone earlier but was told it was your girls’ night out.’

  ‘You rang here? There was no message.’

  ‘I told Mrs B. not to bother. I was only going to offer my sympathy over that beastly van. You mentioned it at the Teals’, I remember. What an appalling experience for you.’

  Perhaps, then, the other man had also phoned, but as before left no message? Her heart started pounding again.

  ‘Monica? Something is wrong.’

  She said wearily, ‘I shouldn’t worry you with all this, particularly at this time of night.’

  ‘It’s what I’m here for. You know that. What’s happened?’