David Webb 13 - One Is One and All Alone Read online

  ‘So how did the trouble arise?’

  ‘It was a business deal, which Neil misjudged.’

  She was obviously not going to say any more, but Webb could read between the lines. It figured, he thought, and he’d no doubt what Malcolm’s reactions would have been.

  ‘How did you spend yesterday afternoon, Sally?’

  ‘Washing and cleaning. Then I went into the garden and did some tidying up.’

  ‘Your husband was out, I gather.’

  ‘Yes, we needed new fencing. It blew down in the gales.’

  ‘What time did he go?’

  ‘While I was feeding Jamie. Two-ish.’

  ‘And got back?’

  ‘In time for tea, about four.’

  She looked up suddenly, eyes widening. ‘Mr Webb, you surely don’t think—?’

  She couldn’t put it into words, and he answered quietly, ‘These are routine questions, Sally, that’s all. Did you know your father would be alone that afternoon?’

  ‘I never gave it a thought.’

  ‘But you knew about the concert?’

  ‘They mentioned it the other evening, but I wasn’t really listening. I certainly didn’t register which day it was.’

  ‘I know this is a delicate question, but do you think your father was happy?’

  ‘Not as happy as he’d hoped to be, when he married again.’ Her voice was shaking.

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘You must know — you’ve met her. I can’t imagine why he didn’t marry Auntie Barbara.’

  ‘There’s no saying he’d have been any happier.’

  There was a brief silence, then Sally asked, ‘How has Una taken this?’

  ‘She’s very shocked, as you’d expect. She’s staying with your aunt for now.’

  ‘So Jane said. Oh God, this is a nightmare! First Mum, now Dad. And for him to go like this!’ Her precarious control snapped and, covering her face with her hands, she wept. Webb, with a nod at Jackson, rose to his feet.

  ‘We’ll leave you in peace now,’ he said softly. ‘If you need to speak to me, you know where I am. Don’t bother to show us out.’ He patted her shoulder and strode from the room, not even noticing Neil Crawford, who had appeared at the kitchen door.

  Out in the drive he stopped and drew a deep breath. The distress of Malcolm’s children added to his own grief, but he told himself the best thing he could do, both for them and for Malcolm, was to pursue the investigation to the best of his ability and bring the criminal to justice.

  Jackson’s footsteps were approaching behind him. Without turning, Webb said, ‘I could do with a pint, Ken.’

  ‘Right, Guv. The Magpie’s just down the road.’

  ‘Indeed it is. And we can have lunch while we’re there.’ He got into the car and sat staring out of the window while Jackson drove the few hundred yards to the pub.

  *

  I’ve done it — I’ve really done it! I have to keep reminding myself because part of me still thinks it only happened in my head. I’ve dreamt about killing him so often, it’s hard to believe this time it’s true. But he’s dead all right — it was on the news and in the papers, and everyone’s talking about it.

  I keep feeling the ring in my pocket, turning it over and over. Because when I can touch it, solid and real, I know everything else is real, too.

  The police are everywhere. They pull out all the stops when one of them gets killed, so I must seem the same as usual, say what people expect me to. And it’s not easy, because I’m all churned up — excited, wanting to talk about it — though of course I can’t — and at the same time, scared of giving myself away.

  It’ll be all right, as long as I don’t panic. That’s something else I keep telling myself. There’s no way they could know it was me. But it was — I killed him! Justice has been done!

  *

  Una let herself out of Barbara’s back door and walked slowly down to the bottom of the garden. The morning’s sunshine had gone, clouds were banking overhead and it was noticeably colder.

  In the next-door garden, washing flapped on a line, white sheets and blue jeans which echoed the colours of the crocuses edging the path. All around her, people were pursuing their normal Sunday routine — doing the washing, eating their roasts, cleaning cars. It was only this house which was set apart, wrapped in a shroud of sudden death, where nothing was normal any more.

  Even without sunshine, the outdoor brightness made her eyes ache. Malcolm was dead, murdered. The words meant nothing, though she said them to herself over and over. They were too bizarre, too incredible to comprehend.

  What had she been doing at the moment it happened? Driving to Steeple Bayliss? Rehearsing? They hadn’t told her exactly when he died — perhaps they didn’t know for certain; but whenever it was, no presentiment had reached her, no quiver of alarm or apprehension. Perhaps they’d not been close enough for that.

  Was it her fault, as Jane had said, for not being with him? Oh God, Malcolm, I’m sorry — sorry for not being the wife you thought I’d be. You deserved better; I wish I’d spent more time with you.

  She stood, alone as always, her face lifted to the grey sky, and the first tears slid from under her closed lids. Though whether she wept for Malcolm or herself, she could not have said.

  Barbara stood at the kitchen window, staring down the garden at the motionless figure. She knew she should be feeling sorry for Una, but she wasn’t. What she did feel was a deep, resentful anger, that she’d not made Malcolm’s last years happier. How she’d have welcomed that chance herself. Yet although Una’s grief was as nothing to her own, it was the widow who, to the outside world if not the family, was the main object of sympathy.

  Furthermore, while Una was with her she must hold her own anguish in check. It seemed to her distraught imagination that Una was watching her, waiting for her to break down and confess her own love for Malcolm. She was determined that would not happen, which meant that the release of tears was denied her.

  Wearily she turned from the window and switched on the dishwasher.

  *

  When Webb and Jackson left the Magpie, a few desultory flakes of snow were falling, and by the time they reached the Frecklemarsh road they were in a whirling blizzard.

  ‘We’ve got off lightly so far this winter,’ Webb commented. ‘At least it’s too wet to lie.’

  ‘It’s lying at the moment,’ Jackson countered, jerking his head at the grass verges which lay white and glistening on either side. ‘Will this be our last call of the day?’

  ‘I’ll drop you off on the way back, but there’s a press conference in Lethbridge at four. We’re going to have the full glare of publicity on this one, Ken, as if it’s not already bad enough.’

  The village of Frecklemarsh, eight miles south-west of Shillingham, was renowned both for its prettiness, which Webb thought contrived, and as the location of the famed Gables restaurant. However, since the address they’d been given for Tim Bennett was on the Shillingham side of the village, they would not today see either feature.

  ‘Piper’s Lane,’ Webb mused. ‘Must be the new development just past the farm. No doubt old man Piper’s made a packet, selling off some of his land.’

  Peering through the storm of snowflakes, Jackson negotiated a left-hand turn and came upon four detached houses standing back from the road. The Bennetts’ was the third along, but as the gates were closed he had to park outside.

  Swearing softly, the two men turned up their collars and hurried up the drive to the house. Their ring was answered by a young woman with long brown hair, who regarded them dubiously.

  ‘Mrs Bennett?’

  She nodded and Webb, producing his warrant card, introduced himself and Jackson.

  ‘If the children come, I’ll say you’re friends of Tim’s,’ she said quickly as she closed the front door. ‘We haven’t told them about their grandfather.’

  ‘Where are they now?’ Webb asked.

  ‘In the playroom, watchi
ng a video. With luck, they won’t have heard you.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s not here; he’s gone over to see Sally and Jane.’

  Damn! So Webb wouldn’t, as he’d hoped, get all the family interviews over today. Still, he hadn’t let them know he was coming.

  Mrs Bennett led them into the sitting-room and sat down, clasping her hands nervously. ‘We’re stunned,’ she said. ‘We just can’t believe it.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ Webb said mechanically.

  ‘How’s poor Una? It must be ghastly for her.’

  Webb tried to hide his surprise. This, apart from Miss Wood’s hospitality, was the first sign of compassion for the widow that he had come across. He made a conventional response, then added casually, ‘There seems to be friction between her and the rest of the family. Do you know the reason for it?’

  Jenny Bennett flushed. ‘I get on with her quite well, and she’s very good to the children.’

  ‘Your sisters-in-law don’t seem to.’

  ‘It’s different for them, having to accept her in their mother’s place.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t like her much, either. I don’t think she means to antagonize everyone, it’s just her manner. She probably can’t help it.’

  ‘Well, it’s good to hear some words in her defence. Perhaps Malcolm’s death will bring you all closer together.’ Though there’d been precious little sign of it so far, Webb added privately.

  Apart from that unexpected testimonial, Jenny Bennett had nothing new to tell them. She and Tim had spent the previous afternoon in Erlesborough, buying clothes for the children. She had not heard of anyone who might have a grudge against her father-in-law.

  Webb took a note of her husband’s business number — a dental surgery in Shillingham — and arranged to phone him the following day. To his relief — and Jackson’s disappointment — they managed to leave the house before the children emerged from their playroom.

  The snow had stopped, and that which had fallen was melting rapidly on the wet road. As promised, Webb dropped Jackson at his gate as he drove through Shillingham, and set out yet again along the road to Lethbridge. It had been a very long day, and he would be heartily glad when it was over.

  7

  If Carrington Street station had seemed subdued, the atmosphere at Lethbridge was positively funereal. The last time he’d walked into this foyer, Webb remembered, Malcolm had come through the security door and they’d gone for a drink together. If he could put the clock back, was there anything he could have said or done which might have prevented the tragedy? In all conscience, he couldn’t think what.

  He was shown into the DI’s office and Brian Stratton, pale and drawn, rose from his desk and came to take his hand. Webb had met him a couple of times with Malcolm.

  ‘Of all the bloody things to happen,’ he said. ‘Malcolm, of all people. Everyone’s in a state of total shock. The Super’s just left, by the way. He was hoping to catch you, but couldn’t wait any longer. Sent his apologies.’

  They sat down and he briefly went through the day’s events. ‘Jeff Carter will give you the latest details; he worked closely with Malcolm. Oh, and Dr Stapleton’s away for the weekend, so the earliest we could fix the PM is for tomorrow at nine.’

  Webb said heavily, ‘That’s soon enough for me. I always have to steel myself for PMs, but this will be in a class of its own.’

  Carter was waiting for him when he emerged from Stratton’s office. ‘Could I have a word, sir, before we meet the press?’

  ‘Of course.’ Webb noted the ‘sir’; to the sergeant, Malcolm was still his governor, and that was as it should be. He had not met Carter before, though he’d heard Malcolm speak well of him. Now, he studied the man, liking his pleasant, slightly chubby face and candid brown eyes.

  ‘It’s only a small point and there’s probably a simple explanation, but I thought it worth mentioning.’ He paused, ‘You’ve not had a chance to interview any of us yet, so you won’t know I had lunch with DCI Bennett yesterday, in the canteen.’

  Webb eyed him caustically. ‘He didn’t just happen to mention he was expecting a visitor that afternoon?’

  Carter smiled wanly. ‘No such luck; but he did say that he might as well have lunch here, because his wife was going straight to SB after her hairdo.’

  ‘So?’ Webb wondered what the man was getting at.

  ‘That’s what she told you, sir?’

  ‘As far as I remember, yes.’

  ‘Well, we’ve just got the house-to-house reports back, and a couple of the neighbours say they saw Mrs Bennett’s car at the house around lunchtime.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what I thought. She doesn’t seem to have been there long, but all the same it’s odd, isn’t it?’

  Webb frowned. ‘What time did you eat?’

  ‘Early, because the governor wanted to get back for the pre-match build-up. We’d finished by about one and he left soon after.’

  ‘And would have been home within ten minutes?’

  ‘That’s right, sir. He always walked down.’

  ‘So it’s possible, from the reports, that they might have seen each other?’

  ‘That’s how it struck me.’

  ‘Well, thanks, Jeff.’ He caught Carter’s quick glance at the use of his first name. ‘No need to be formal, since we’ll be working together, eh?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Carter hesitated. ‘It’s not my place to say anything, sir, but I’m glad you’re in charge of the case. I know you and the governor were friends.’

  ‘Thanks, Jeff, I appreciate that. Between us, we’ll nail the bastard.’

  ‘Or die in the attempt,’ Carter said grimly.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Now, I’ll just give my sergeant a quick call to check Mrs Bennett’s statement, then you can show me where the press conference is.’

  ‘Ken? Sorry to bother you again, but is your pocket book handy? Could you read me what Mrs Bennett said about her movements yesterday?’

  He waited while Jackson went in search of it, hearing sounds of noisy play in the background. Then Jackson lifted the phone again.

  ‘Here we are, Guv. I went to the hairdresser’s in Shillingham, then on to Steeple Bayliss, to sing in a concert. I didn’t get back till nearly quarter to eleven. Do you want me to go on?’

  Webb gazed reflectively at the wall in front of him. ‘No thanks, Ken, that’s the bit I wanted. I’ll explain in the morning.’

  Jeff Carter was waiting at a discreet distance. ‘You’re right, Jeff,’ Webb said grimly. ‘No mention of a trip home before the concert.’

  The man looked uncomfortable. ‘There’s something else, too, sir. When PC Ryman at Frecklemarsh went along to his son’s house to break the news, the first thing Mr Bennett said was, “Did she do it?”’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Webb commented, conscious that things must be put in perspective before they got out of hand. ‘The whole family’s convinced Mrs Bennett flies the night skies on her broomstick. Now, let’s be on our way; mustn’t keep the gentlemen — and ladies — of the press waiting.’

  The press conference was much as he’d expected, and he braced himself to answer endless questions about Malcolm’s death, while the image of the dead man in his chair burned in his memory. He then made the usual appeal for witnesses — anyone seen arriving at the Bennett house that afternoon, or hanging about at other times.

  ‘DCI Bennett was last seen leaving this station soon after one o’clock yesterday,’ he ended. ‘We’d like anyone who saw him after that time to contact us immediately. It’s always possible he met his killer on the way home and invited him into the house.’

  Subsequent questions covered every unsolved crime in the area over the last six months, including the shop raids. Did the police think there was any connection with the chief inspector’s death? Webb was thankful that these points were fielde
d by the press liaison officer, since he’d had no dealings with specifically Lethbridge crime.

  It was over at last and, both physically and emotionally drained, he was free to go home. It was six o’clock when he reached the flat and, as before, a note from Hannah had been slid under the door.

  Dinner, bed and breakfast at bargain rates, he read. Apply Flat 7.

  He dialled her number. ‘Bless you,’ he said. ‘How did you guess that’s just what I need?’

  ‘It didn’t take much working out; after what must have been a harrowing day, I thought you might welcome some company.’

  ‘You’re a wonder,’ he said gratefully. ‘OK if I come down in about an hour? I’d like a long, hot bath first.’

  ‘Just don’t fall asleep in it!’ she warned.

  When he arrived at Hannah’s flat just after seven, an appetizing smell of roasting meat reached him, reminding him of the time that had elapsed since his ploughman’s at the Magpie in Chedbury.

  ‘You look exhausted,’ Hannah said. ‘Come and sit down while I get you a drink.’

  ‘It’s not a day I’d like to live through again,’ he admitted, settling himself in the depths of the apple-green chair. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, then opened them again to banish the crowd of images that jostled against the screen of his lids; images he preferred not to remember.

  Hannah handed him his glass. ‘You’ve been visiting the family?’

  ‘Yes, always traumatic in such cases.’

  ‘Especially when you know them.’

  ‘I don’t exactly know them; I’ve seen them from time to time over the years, but only fleetingly. I saw more of them as babies, when Susan and I used to go round to the house.’

  He seldom mentioned his ex-wife, and it was proof to Hannah of how deeply this case was affecting him. She realized achingly that a part of his own life, his past, his memories, had also been brutally terminated.

  ‘Did they remember you?’ she asked, gently bringing him back to the present.

  ‘They knew who I was, not much more than that.’

  ‘How’s the widow bearing up?’

  ‘In the accepted phrase, as well as can be expected. A bit better, in fact. And here’s an interesting thing.’ He paused to sip his drink. ‘She’s staying with Carol’s sister for the moment, and do you know who she is?’