A Violent End

A Violent End Emma Page A Kesley and Lambert novel.A 16-year-old girl is found beaten and suffocated in the woods. Her name was Karen Boland and her short life had been secretive and unhappy.The police find plenty of suspects: Karen’s middle-aged lover, her stepfather, her classmates… As they dig deeper, they discover that the teenager’s life had been surprisingly complicated. COPYRIGHT (#ulink_2ca74049-bdba-5999-82a9-a00f70c95eb5) Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk) First published in Great Britain in 1990 by Collins Crime Copyright © Emma Page 1990 Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. 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Source ISBN: 9780008175801 Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175818 Version [2016-02-18] DEDICATION (#ulink_6879ff8e-c10a-5c21-af61-d333c8dd5c32) FOR CHRISTOPHER with much love (To say: Well done!) CONTENTS Cover (#ua1aa2c6a-5c71-5082-9ec0-92ccee74a99d) Title Page (#ubfa48a78-885a-57e6-9a72-7d8d2197ef8b) Copyright (#ulink_b93abd82-972a-5c86-a953-64adf6c9d8fc) Dedication (#ulink_2fecff59-2727-5493-97c7-71986f673558) Chapter 1 (#ulink_6714ebb7-3bf1-5003-8663-ba89bc3a287d) Chapter 2 (#ulink_fe56ab9f-071c-5199-b10c-33fd396ac73c) Chapter 3 (#ulink_f3cb7c6f-dd11-5e64-9bf0-8d280f1a8203) Chapter 4 (#ulink_5fc444b6-1de6-58e0-83ee-8c4e8bd09a9f) Chapter 5 (#ulink_04b9430d-6e6e-53c1-a1e6-af65fbd27d37) Chapter 6 (#ulink_8f502eeb-0de7-5eb6-8273-7782746c5550) Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 21 (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter 22 (#litres_trial_promo) About the Author (#litres_trial_promo) By Emma Page (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) CHAPTER 1 (#ulink_26783cc8-d510-59e6-afd5-ec10b087247b) On this Friday morning in mid-November the long spell of golden autumn weather showed signs of coming to an end. Swirls of cloud, gunmetal grey, slipped along through the lower sky, the freshening wind held a threat of rain. In the scattered hamlet of Overmead, a mile or two to the east of Cannonbridge, lights shone out from isolated homesteads. Three-quarters of a mile beyond the silent, shadowy expanses of Overmead Wood, a neglected stretch of open woodland, a side road, scarcely more than a glorified lane, branched northwards from the main thoroughfare running out of Cannonbridge. Some five hundred yards along the side road stood Jubilee Cottage, the home of Ian and Christine Wilmot, in a sizable garden still bright with Michaelmas daisies, chrysanthemums, yellow poppies. The cottage had been converted a few years ago from a pair of semi-detached Edwardian dwellings set at right-angles to each other. It was now a handsome, substantial, many-gabled residence with ornamental windows and or­nate chimneystacks, its mellow, rosy brick elegantly set off by cream-coloured paintwork, brilliant swags of scarlet pyracantha berries round the doors and windows. In her comfortable bedroom on the first floor, furnished, like the rest of the house, with carefully chosen Edwardian furniture bought from auctions and salerooms, Karen Boland, a cousin of Christine Wilmot, was up and dressed, washed and groomed, ready for her day’s studies at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education. She had been a student at the college since September, following a full-time course in general education. Karen was sixteen years old, slightly built, delicately pretty, with small, soft features and a smooth, rounded forehead that gave her a lingering look of childhood inno­cence, a little at variance with the veiled expression of her wide hazel eyes; they held a suggestion of wary containment, the look of one who has already learned some of the harsher lessons of life. She was dressed in a sweater and slacks, ankle boots. She wore no make-up; her fine, clear skin had a peachy bloom. Her wavy, shoulder-length hair, a shining golden brown, was taken back and secured with a fashionable clip on the crown of her head. Across the landing she heard her cousin Christine leave the bedroom she shared with her husband, Ian, and go downstairs. Karen crossed to the door of her own room and opened it a fraction. She could hear the muted tones of the kitchen radio giving out the morning’s information and opinions, the sounds of Christine preparing breakfast. Along the corridor she could hear Ian splashing in the bathroom. She closed her door quietly and went to her desk. On a shelf above her books were neatly ranged. She took down an old maths textbook and opened it. The last few pages had been pasted to the back cover along the outside and bottom edges, forming a concealed pocket. She fingered a snapshot out from the pocket and sat down at the desk, gazing intently at the likeness. After some moments she opened a desk drawer and took out a magnifying-glass. She sat closely studying the photograph. Along the corridor the bathroom door opened, she heard Ian’s footsteps going back to the bedroom. Karen at once replaced the photograph, restored the book to the shelf and put the magnifying-glass away in the drawer. A delicious fragrance of percolating coffee greeted her as she entered the kitchen. On the radio a weatherman spoke of lowering skies, falling temperatures, strong winds spring­ing up, scattered showers and rainstorms later in the day, some of them heavy. ‘That sounds like the end of the fine weather,’ Christine said with a grimace. She was a markedly competent-looking woman of thirty-four, with an air of vigorous health, of all her energies being strongly directed towards clearly defined ends. She ran a mail-order agency and also acted as a party organizer for more than one enterprise. She cut bread for the toaster. Everything done swiftly, with economy of movement. She was sturdily built, some­what above average height. Her naturally straight hair, of an indeterminate brown, was becomingly curled, cut in a trouble-free, up-to-the-minute style. She was trimly dressed in distinctive casual clothes of good quality. She had few natural advantages in the way of features or colouring but where another woman, less determined, would have appeared decidedly ordinary, Christine achieved a result attractive to the eye. Karen set about laying the table. Christine was her first cousin. Both Karen’s parents were dead and she was in the care of the Social Services Department of the local authority. She had come to live at Jubilee Cottage in July, when the school year ended. She had previously been living with foster parents in Wychford, a small town ten miles to the west of Cannonbridge. Difficulties had arisen and the foster parents had refused to keep her. She had been returned to the residential children’s home in Wychford from which she had originally been sent to the foster parents. It was from this residential home that she had been transferred at the end of term into the care of the Wilmots. As Karen took plates from the dresser Ian Wilmot came down the stairs and into the kitchen. Easy and unhurried, with his usual amiable, half-smiling expression. Good-looking, with fair hair and blue eyes; four years older than his wife. He worked as a planning assistant for the Cannonbridge Council. He spoke a few good-humoured words to Karen and Christine, picked up a newspaper and glanced through it as Christine set a packet of muesli on the table. ‘There’s a cold chicken in the fridge for this evening,’ she told them. She wouldn’t be in for supper herself, Friday was always her busiest day, she would be out from shortly after lunch. Always important on a Friday to make sure she got her dues from the paypackets before the weekend spending began in earnest. And there were always a couple of evening parties she must look in on, sales parties she had helped to organize: clothes, lingerie, kitchenware, jewellery, make-up, toys, chil­dren’s wear. Ian looked up from his paper. ‘I’ve got that meeting at seven-thirty,’ he reminded her. The meeting, to be held in a school hall in Cannonbridge, had been organized by a local action group drumming up opposition to a proposed building development. Ian had to attend as an observer for the Council. Christine glanced across at Karen. ‘What about you? Will you be going to Lynn’s after college?’ Lynn Musgrove was a fellow student of Karen’s, on the same course. She lived close to the college and Karen sometimes went home with her after classes; they did their homework together. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll be doing.’ Karen reached cups and saucers down from the dresser. ‘I might go along to the library.’ The public library stayed open till eight on Friday evenings. ‘It depends what homework I have.’ ‘Are you making any more friends at the college?’ Ian asked in an easy tone from behind his newspaper. She seemed to be settling into the course well enough but she hadn’t so far brought any friend home, not even Lynn Musgrove. Karen shrugged. ‘There’s no one special.’ She took knives and spoons from a drawer. ‘You’ve no need to worry. I’m getting on fine.’ ‘You know you’re always more than welcome to bring anyone here. For a meal, or to stay the night. For a weekend, if you like.’ ‘Yes, I do know that. Thank you.’ Ian gave her a little nod by way of reply, an encouraging smile. Christine didn’t smile. She stood watching as Karen went into the larder and came out again with honey and marmalade. ‘Has Paul Clayton been in touch with you at all?’ Christine asked suddenly. Karen came to an abrupt halt. She stood staring at Christine, holding the jars in a tight clasp. A bright flush rose in her face. ‘Has he been in touch with you since you’ve been here?’ Christine persisted. ‘Has he attempted any kind of contact?’ Karen drew a long, quavering breath. She moved again, went to the table and set down the pots. She didn’t look at Christine. ‘No, of course not.’ She put a hand up to her forehead, shielding her face. Clayton was a married man with a young family, a neighbour of Karen’s foster parents in Wychford. An association had formed between Karen and Clayton and had inevitably come to light; this was why the foster parents had refused to keep her, why she had been sent back to the children’s home. ‘You’re quite sure?’ Christine pressed her. ‘He’s made no attempt at all to get in touch with you?’ The colour ebbed from Karen’s cheeks. She remained motionless by the table. ‘Yes, of course, I’m sure.’ She still didn’t look at Christine, still kept her hand up to her brow. ‘He’s made no attempt.’ Ian folded his paper and put it down. ‘You would be sensible and tell us if Clayton did make any approach?’ he said gently. Karen lowered her hand and grasped the back of a chair. Her head drooped. ‘Yes, of course I would.’ ‘You know we’re only thinking of what’s best for you,’ Ian added in the same gentle tone. ‘Yes, I know that.’ ‘You do realize,’ Christine put in with a quick frown, ‘that if you were foolish enough to start seeing Clayton again and it came out, the Social Services would consider we weren’t exercising proper control over you. You’d probably be moved from here, very likely back into another residential home. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’ Karen raised her head and looked her full in the face. ‘No, I would not.’ She spoke with fervour. ‘That’s the last thing I’d want.’ Ten miles away, in an exclusive, expensively landscaped development on the edge of Wychford, the Clayton family sat at breakfast. The house was large, as modern houses go, set among tall old trees, smoothly sculptured lawns, still emerald green. In the big breakfast kitchen the four Claytons ate almost in silence at a central table under the glow diffused from an up-to-date light fitting. The entire house was done out in the same impersonal, businesslike way: Scandinavian-type styling, clean lines, new materials, everything of good qual­ity, functional, hard-wearing, trouble-free. As if someone had chosen the lot in a single rapid swoop on a high-class furniture store – which was indeed precisely what had happened, the someone in question being Paul Clayton, his wife Joan remaining at home, feeling herself unfitted to take part in the foray. The Claytons were eating a cooked breakfast. Joan Clayton punctiliously cooked a good breakfast for them every morning, winter and summer, one area of endeavour in which she could feel in control. Paul Clayton was an electronics engineer, with his own prospering, expanding business. He was just turned forty, a tall, handsome man with a rangy figure, chiselled features, thick dark hair, grey eyes. His look was intent, unsmiling, the look of a man with a quick temper, who didn’t suffer fools gladly. Beside his plate lay his usual pile of newspapers. As he dealt with his breakfast he glanced rapidly over the financial pages of each paper in turn, here and there marking something with his pen. Opposite him, anticipating every need of her husband and two children, Joan Clayton sat drinking her coffee with a tense, frowning air, watching in simmering silence Paul’s brisk man?uvres with the newspapers. The children ate their breakfast as always, without fuss or complaint. Ten-year-old twins, boy and girl, they carried on their customary running mealtime conversation with each other in subdued undertones. Well-disciplined and well-behaved, they knew better than to try any larking about in front of their father. Clayton drained his cup and pushed it forward without so much as a glance at his wife. She at once refilled the cup and pushed it back to him, watchful that not a drop spilled into the saucer. She was a plain woman, the same age as her husband to within a few weeks. She looked every year of her age and more, with her despondent, anxious air. Carefully dressed and groomed, but without any natural feel for clothes, the end result was invariably the same: dowdiness. She had known Paul all her life. They had grown up next door to each other in a working-class street of small, rented, terrace houses in Wychford. They had attended the same schools, sat in the same class. Paul was the son of a factory hand with little money to spare, Joan the daughter of a building labourer content to drink his pint of beer in the pub at the end of his day’s work, invest his weekly few shillings in the football pools, an occasional flutter on a horse or dog. By nature Paul was a clever, hard-working, ambitious lad with an interest in science, always experimenting in the garden shed. Joan was neither clever nor ambitious and she had no interest in any form of science. She was a plain, hefty child, asking no more than to run errands for Paul, clear up his many and varied messes, her greatest pleasure to be permitted to help in an actual experiment. When Paul was ten years old his father died. There was now even less money to spare. It became very clear to him that his path in life was to work still harder, help his mother as much as possible, make his way in the world as best he could. He left school at the earliest opportunity, got a job in his father’s old workplace, went to night school, studied hard, but still spent many hours in the garden shed experi­menting. Over the next few years he had several bright ideas which he passed on to his firm, receiving modest lump sums by way of token recognition. As soon as Joan left school she went to work as a kitchen-hand in a working men’s caf? nearby. She still thought the sun rose and set with Paul Clayton, she was still ready to fetch and carry, lend a hand, in the evenings and at week­ends. They never courted or dated in any conventional sense but neither of them ever had any other dates. Paul had no interest in any kind of social activity. He was interested only in getting on. His mother died when he was twenty but his goals and ambitions were undiminished. He remained in the same house, on his own now; he continued to live the same kind of life. The years slipped by. Then, one evening in his garden shed, Paul had an exceptionally bright idea. He knew at once he was on to a winner. This one he didn’t pass on to his firm, this one he hung on to. He was by now twenty-eight; if he was ever going to amount to anything he must make a start soon. Joan knew what was in the wind. She took it for granted he would pass the idea on as before, but he told her no; this one he was going to develop himself. He called on more than one bank manager, he approached other conventional sources of capital, but without success. The world was sunk in recession, it was no time for a young man from the back streets to be welcomed through the portals of finance houses, no one wanted to know. And then one winter Saturday some months later, Joan’s father won a substantial sum on the football pools he had unsuccessfully patronized for decades. His immediate re­action was that he would give up work and enjoy himself, but Joan thought otherwise. She said not a word about the win to Paul but sat talking long and earnestly, first to her mother and then to her father; she talked more in the next few days than she had ever talked in her life. At the end of this sustained onslaught her father caved in. He put on a clean shirt and went next door. He was a simple, direct man, anxious for his daughter’s welfare and future happiness; he put his proposition to Paul simply and directly: if Paul would marry Joan he could count on a good chunk of the winnings–at a fair rate of interest–to set up in business. It was by no means a fortune but he could at least make a modest start. It took Paul thirty seconds to make up his mind. The wedding took place at a register office four weeks later. Joan moved into the little house next door and Paul began operations in a small rented unit on the local industrial estate. Joan was overjoyed. She remained overjoyed for some years. After two years the twins were born and she was even happier and busier. Paul worked harder than ever, still going to evening classes, still studying, still spending hours in his shed, although she no longer joined him there but sat contentedly knitting or sewing in front of the living-room fire when the twins were in bed. She never felt herself neglected or lonely. The business prospered. Paul moved into larger premises. The twins went to school. Paul decided that the time had come to leave the little house, move somewhere more suited to their improved position. Joan would have been happy to stay where they were but she fell in as always with whatever Paul decided. The new house was fitted out with every kind of labour-saving device; there was a good deal more leisure now for Joan, a good deal more money to spend. She had nursed hopes that Paul might at long last begin to relax, they might branch out into a more social life together. But Paul brushed aside all such tentative sugges­tions. He looked on social life with contempt as the shallow activity of vain people without enough to do or to think about. ‘Find some outside interests,’ he told her. ‘Spend some money on yourself. Take things easy, enjoy your­self.’ She did her best. She joined the Parent-Teacher Associ­ation, took part in church activities, went to classes in cookery and flower-arranging. She made an effort to do something about her appearance, bought new clothes in the latest fashions at prices she could scarcely credit. But they never felt right on her. She settled in the end for upmarket versions of the plain, functional, serviceable garments she had always worn. And still there remained a wilderness of leisure she didn’t know how to fill. Paul didn’t appear to notice as she began a slow slide into depression, punctuated by unnerving, seem­ingly random attacks of panic. Now, on this November morning, she glanced about and saw that the children had finished breakfast. She sent them upstairs as usual to wash their hands and faces, brush their teeth, make themselves ready for school. It was always she who drove them to school; Paul’s works lay in the opposite direction. She sat watching her husband with tense concentration. He looked at his watch, drained his cup and pushed back his chair. At once she nerved herself, launching precipitately into speech. ‘Will you be coming with me to the musical evening next week?’ He paused, surprised. ‘In the church hall,’ she added rapidly. ‘Tuesday, half past seven, it’s for Third World charities. I mentioned it to you last week. You promised to think about it and let me know.’ ‘I’m afraid I forgot all about it,’ he told her amiably. She twisted her hands together. ‘It’s a good programme, in a very good cause.’ ‘I’m sorry.’ His tone was still easy and amiable. ‘I simply haven’t the time. We’ve got a rush on just now.’ He stood up, smiled down at her. ‘Anyway, it’s hardly my style. But don’t let me stop you going. You get out and enjoy yourself. There must be some woman from the church you can go with.’ He gathered up his newspapers. ‘I may be late this evening. Don’t bother about any supper for me, I can get a bite somewhere. If I want anything when I come in I can get it myself.’ She sat gazing up at him, her hands tightly clasped. ‘That’s three times this week you’ve been late home.’ He made a comical grimace. ‘Is that so?’ He patted his pockets, checked his keys. ‘You know how it is, the business won’t run itself. If there’s work to do, it’s got to be done.’ He kept impatience from his voice, kept his expression friendly and smiling. ‘Competition’s fiercer than ever these days. If you don’t keep pushing forward you very soon grind to a halt.’ He went round the table, stooped and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek, straightened up, turned to go. She suddenly overflowed with anger and resentment. ‘You’re seeing that girl again! That’s why you’re late!’ The muscles tensed along his jaw. He didn’t turn back to look at her. ‘What girl?’ he asked lightly. ‘What girl?’ she echoed fiercely. She was on the edge of tears, but she kept her voice low because of the children. She had an air of being astounded at her own temerity but she pressed resolutely on. ‘Have you got half a dozen girls on the go, then, that you don’t know who I’m talking about? I’m talking about Karen Boland.’ ‘You’re talking nonsense,’ he said soothingly. He half turned, half smiled. ‘You’re upsetting yourself for nothing. I haven’t laid eyes on Karen since she left Wychford, months ago.’ There was a brief silence. ‘Is that the truth?’ She looked beseechingly up at him. He patted her shoulder. ‘Of course it is.’ He glanced again at his watch. ‘I may have been a fool but I’m not a damned lunatic. That’s all water under the bridge, best forgotten.’ He gave her shoulder another encouraging pat and left the room. She heard the front door open and shut, his car starting up, moving off down the drive. She got slowly to her feet, shaken and trembling. From force of habit she began to gather up the breakfast things, set them down on the draining-board. She stood beside it with her head lowered and her eyes closed, fighting back the tears. When the children came running downstairs again a few minutes later she looked her normal self. She cast an eye over them, gathered up her purse and shopping-bag. ‘Come along, then,’ she said in her everyday tones. ‘Mustn’t be late for school.’ In Jubilee Cottage also breakfast was coming to an end. Ian Wilmot was pouring himself a last cup of coffee when he heard the postman. He rose with controlled haste and went into the hall, coming back with a handful of mail which he put down in front of his wife. ‘All for you again,’ he remarked cheerfully. Christine glanced quickly through the post and laid it aside. All business mail, to be dealt with later. She looked up at Ian. ‘Nothing from your application?’ He had applied for a better job in the South. He picked up his cup. He remained standing by his chair, drinking the coffee. He shook his head, smiling. ‘No, not yet.’ She continued to gaze up at him. ‘If you’re on the short list, surely you’d have heard by now?’ ‘Possibly.’ He kept his amiable look, his light, dismissive tone. She frowned. ‘You had real hopes of this one.’ Until six months ago he’d been confident of promotion in due course in his own department in Cannonbridge where he’d worked for the last twelve years. He believed he’d given satisfaction, he’d always got on well with his head of department. But six months ago the head had died suddenly and a new man had been brought in. The easy-going atmosphere altered overnight. The new man was a good deal younger than his predecessor, a good deal sharper, far more critical. He began a relentless drive for efficiency, singling out in uncomfortable ways those members of staff whose performance struck him as less than satisfactory. Ian’s name figured well up on this list. Christine tilted back her head. ‘That’s the fifth job you’ve applied for in the last few months,’ she observed. He moved his shoulders but said nothing. ‘Is there anything else on the cards?’ she pursued. He drank his coffee. ‘Not at the moment.’ He smiled again. ‘Something will come along one of these days.’ She made no reply but sat gazing up at him. He finished his coffee. ‘Are you nearly ready?’ he asked Karen. She nodded, ate her last morsel of toast, drained her cup. Ian went into the hall to put on his outdoor things. Christine stood up and began to clear the table. Karen followed Ian into the hall. She reached down her brown quilted jacket from the hallstand and slipped it on. She gathered up the long tresses of her wavy gold-brown hair, twisting it loosely into a coil on top of her head before pulling on over it a knitted woollen cap of bright daffodil yellow. Ian took her long matching scarf from its peg. ‘You’ll need this,’ he warned. ‘It’ll be a cold day.’ He draped the scarf round her neck and shoulders, tucking in the ends as if she were a child, smiling tenderly down at her. She stood in docile silence, smiling up at him. In the kitchen Christine, returning from the fridge, paused by the door leading into the hallway, left slightly ajar. She caught sight of the two of them through the narrow aperture. She stood motionless, watching as Ian adjusted Karen’s woollen cap, touched her cheek, bent his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. ‘Ready, then?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I’m ready.’ She picked up her shoulder-bag, a fashionable affair of cream-coloured macram?, pulled on a pair of woollen gloves. She suddenly paused and exclaimed, ‘Oh–I was forgetting. The theatre scrapbook. I borrowed it from one of the students. I promised faithfully I’d return it today. It’s up in my room. I’ll run up and get it, I won’t be a moment.’ Behind the kitchen door Christine remained silent and motionless, studying the expression on her husband’s face as he stood watching Karen run swiftly up the stairs. CHAPTER 2 (#ulink_30a2a16e-fb78-546d-8e9d-2a6422ed82f0) The morning was now a little more advanced. The carriage clock on the study mantelpiece at Hawthorn Lodge showed nine twenty-five. The lodge was a pleasant Victorian villa not far from Overmead Wood, half a mile from the Wilmots’ cottage. It stood in an attractive rambling garden full of twists and turns, unexpected vistas. The study was a cosy room on the ground floor, furnished with unpretentious comfort and due regard for the period of the house. The walls were hung with old theatrical mementoes; the bookshelves were filled with theatrical biographies, memoirs, reminiscences, histories, texts of plays, postcard albums of the Victorian beauties of the old music halls. Desmond Hallam stood before his desk with a pen in his hand, nervously glancing through the essay on the nine­teenth-century novel he had written yesterday evening, making minor alterations as he read. Still a few years from fifty, of medium height, sparely built; a mild-looking man with nondescript features, thinning hair of uncertain brown brushed back from a lined forehead, hesitant eyes of the same indeterminate brown. He was nattily dressed, carefully groomed. He had begun attending classes at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education in September. He had worked as a personnel clerk in the town until the takeover of his firm by a large national group at the beginning of the year. The negotiations leading up to the takeover had been a well-kept secret until the last possible moment and Desmond had been taken totally by surprise when the news broke. Not that he had been harshly dealt with; like all the other redundant employees he had been put out to grass on generous terms. He had lived at Hawthorn Lodge a good ten years. His father had been the manager of a high-class menswear shop in a town some distance from Cannonbridge. After his death Desmond’s mother suggested joining forces with her son; she had been left well provided for. The arrangement suited them both. Desmond was more than happy to leave his Cannonbridge lodgings to set up house with his mother, with whom he had always got on well. Mrs Hallam bought Hawthorn Lodge and the two of them lived a tranquil, self-contained life in harmony and content until Mrs Hallam’s death a few months after Desmond had been made redundant by his firm. The clock struck the half-hour. Desmond blew out a resigned breath and laid down his pen. Good or bad, the essay would have to stand now. The literature class was at ten and he wouldn’t dream of being late. Better go up and see if Aunt Ivy was ready – he was giving her a lift into Cannonbridge. She rode in with him three or four times a week to do the shopping, making her own way back by bus. He put the essay into his briefcase. His aunt, Miss Ivy Jebb, was his mother’s older sister, a retired assistant nurse. She had been staying at Hawthorn Lodge since the late spring when she had been urgently summoned by Desmond, alarmed at the lowered state of his mother’s health after a bout of influenza. The two sisters had never been on close terms, Desmond’s mother finding Ivy bossy and manipulative. Over the years Desmond had laid eyes on his aunt barely half a dozen times. But his alarm at the deteriorating condition of his mother swept aside such minor considerations. ‘I’ll be along on the next train,’ Aunt Ivy had at once assured him. She had been delighted to leave her bedsitter in the northern town – eighty miles from Cannonbridge – where she had spent her working life, delighted to step out of the restricted existence that was all she could manage on her pension and dwindling savings, delighted to entrain for the rural peace of Overmead, the substantial comforts of Hawthorn Lodge. What was a little nursing in return for such rewards? She would have her sister on her feet in no time at all. She had immediately taken over the running of the house. She nursed her sister with energy and competence and for some time Mrs Hallam appeared set on the road to recovery, but her weakened heart suddenly gave way. Desmond had been devastated by his mother’s death. Coming so soon on top of his unexpected redundancy, it had thrown him completely off balance. There was now not even the familiar nine-to-five routine of work to distract his mind and he fell into a state of despairing grief. Ivy Jebb was more than willing to stay on to deal with everything, take care of him, look after the house when he finally ended up for a short stay in the psychiatric unit of a local hospital, in a condition of total collapse. ‘You must make a new beginning,’ the psychiatrist ad­vised him when he began to mend. ‘Enlarge your horizons, broaden your mind, find new interests.’ Desmond had dutifully nerved himself in due course to enrol at the college, choosing classes in local history, literature, play-reading. He broke his days up into segments, creating tiny points of interest to get him through the next hour or two, a book to be returned to the library, a cup of coffee in the college canteen, weaving little by little a web of activities that might gradually expand to fill the days and weeks, the months and years, warding off emptiness, bleakness and desperation. Now he left the study, went up the stairs and gave a light tap on the door of Aunt Ivy’s bedroom. ‘I’m just coming,’ she called back. A moment later she threw open the door. A short, dumpy woman with a good deal of curly white hair and a soft, pink-and-white, indoor skin; she wore fashionably rimmed bifocal spectacles. She was dressed in a fawn-coloured jumper and skirt. She greeted Desmond with the wide smile of determined motherliness which had been her most constant expression since she had walked in through the front door of Hawthorn Lodge, a smile somewhat at odds with the shrewd, detached, assessing regard of her pale blue eyes behind the lenses. Desmond gave her in return his nervous, placatory grin. Ivy stepped back into her room and picked up a light­weight jacket of navy-blue woollen material from the back of a chair. She put it on, tugging a matching beret over her curls, picked up her gloves and shopping basket. She glanced out at the overcast sky. ‘I could do with my good Harris tweed coat, now the weather’s turning cold,’ she observed as she came out on to the landing and closed the door behind her. They set off down the stairs. I think it’s time I went back to fetch my winter things.’ She rather liked that remark, it set exactly the right tone of being in charge. Desmond made no reply, he felt his heart give a nasty lurch. A couple of months ago, shortly after he had left hospital, he had casually raised the matter of when Ivy might be thinking of returning home. He had had no particu­lar reason for mentioning the subject, there was no thought in his head other than that she wasn’t likely to be staying with him much longer. To his immense astonishment – and consternation – Ivy had blandly informed him that she had given up her bed­sitter just after he had gone into hospital. She had phoned her landlady who had quite understood that Ivy’s place was now with her nephew. The landlady had obligingly agreed to store Ivy’s belongings until Ivy could deal with them. Desmond had all at once realized the inescapable truth: having got herself nicely bedded down in Hawthorn Lodge, Aunt Ivy hadn’t the slightest intention of ever letting herself be uprooted again. ‘I could pop there and back by train,’ Ivy mused aloud as they reached the foot of the stairs. ‘I could sort through my things, decide what to keep, give the rest to Oxfam. I shan’t want to keep a great deal, clothes mainly, a couple of pictures, a few books and ornaments.’ She gave him her open, guileless smile. ‘There’s no point in bringing any bedding, any pots and pans, crockery or cutlery, you’re more than well supplied with all that kind of thing here.’ He could manage only a vague murmur in reply. He felt himself borne along on an irresistible current. They went out through the front door into the sharply scented autumn air. As he locked the door behind them he was assailed by a surge of guilt. He had cause to be eternally grateful to Aunt Ivy, she had been indispensable during the last few terrible months. But to live with him here for good – and she gave every sign of having a good many sprightly years left to her–that was something he hadn’t bargained for. He backed his car out of the garage. ‘I’d have to stay overnight, of course,’ Ivy pondered as she got in beside him. ‘I couldn’t manage both journeys in one day, not by train.’ Still he could find nothing to say. She settled herself in beside him, fastened her seat-belt. ‘It would be a lot quicker by car, of course. But it would be a dreadful imposition to ask you to take me, I wouldn’t even think of suggesting it.’ She gave him her resolutely maternal smile. Behind her glasses her eyes gleamed like pale blue gimlets. ‘If only I could drive, I’d hire a little van myself and shoot up there and back. I’d quite enjoy it.’ Still he said nothing but started up the engine. She flicked a glance at his face in the mirror. She could see her shots had gone home; he looked wretched, guilty, indecisive. She turned her head and looked out at the blowy morning. She need say nothing more now, it could all stew quietly on its own, she was totally confident of the outcome. The day grew steadily colder, with a gusting wind. Rain fell intermittently across the region. The clock over the impressive entrance to the Cannonbridge College of Further Education showed twenty minutes to six. The college was housed in a tall turn-of-the-century building near the town centre, not far from the public library. Much of the building lay in darkness; most of the daytime classes were over by this time and the evening classes weren’t due to begin for the best part of two hours. Light shone out from a second-floor room where a class in English language was being held for the first-year General Studies group. In the third row Karen Boland sat beside Lynn Musgrove, chewing her lip over a particularly tricky grammar question. The classroom door opened and a middle-aged woman clerk came softly in. She went up to the desk and spoke to the lecturer in a low murmur; the class worked diligently on. By way of reply the lecturer gave a nod and a jerk of his head at where Karen sat. The woman went over to Karen, stooped and spoke to her in the same subdued tone. Karen laid down her pen, rose and followed her from the room. A few minutes later Karen returned and resumed her seat. Before she again began to wrestle with the grammar questions she scribbled something on a scrap of paper and slid it across to Lynn Musgrove who ran her eye over it and then slipped it into her pocket. CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_5219cbb5-d65d-5756-ab3e-ff89adf6114b) Ten minutes past seven on Saturday morning, not yet day­light. Sounds began to penetrate Christine Wilmot’s sleep: the rattle of a wheelbarrow, footsteps on gravel. She stirred and rolled over, glanced across at the other bed. It was empty, the covers thrown back. She switched on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock. After a moment or two she got slowly out of bed, yawning. She put on her slippers and housecoat and went over to the window. She drew back the flowered curtains. The morning was quiet and still after yesterday evening’s wind and rain. Along the skyline lay a band of deep grey cloud, shading into silvery grey above; frail streaks of carmine rayed out over the horizon. Down below, light streamed out over the garden from the kitchen window. The evening’s stormy lashings had stripped leaves from trees, the last scarlet and yellow roses from the bushes, flattening dahlias in the beds, golden rod along the borders. Ian was busy dealing with the havoc. He turned his head and saw her standing at the window, raised a hand in salutation and resumed his task. Christine left the window and crossed to the dressing table, peered at her face in the glass, ran a comb through her hair. She went slowly downstairs and made a start on the breakfast. She always cooked a substantial fry-up on Saturday morning. However busy the day might be, Satur­day always retained something of a holiday air, a hangover from childhood schooldays. And there was time to enjoy and digest a good breakfast. Christine never shopped on Saturdays when the stores were crowded; she got all that out of the way on Thursday morning before her own busy time began. On Saturdays she drove out around the hamlets and villages to the north of Overmead, a prosperous rural area where she had by now built up a highly satisfactory trade. The kitchen was warm from the heat of the all-night stove. She put the coffee on to percolate, took bacon and sausages from the fridge. She heard Ian come in through the back door a few minutes later as she was rinsing mushrooms and tomatoes under the tap. Ian went into the utility room, coming through into the kitchen a little later when she was back at the cooker again. ‘You’re an early bird,’ she greeted him. ‘How long have you been up? I never heard you.’ He didn’t answer her question. ‘I tried not to wake you. I didn’t sleep too well, I had a touch of indigestion. I went along with some of the committee last night, after the meeting. We went to the chairman’s house, his wife had laid on some refreshments. I thought I might as well get up and get going, instead of lying in bed, tossing and turning.’ He gestured out at the garden. ‘Plenty to be done after the storm.’ She stirred the contents of the frying-pan. ‘Do you want fried bread with your breakfast?’ He made a grimace. ‘No, thank you.’ ‘Too much booze last night?’ No edge of censure in her tone. ‘No, very little booze, as a matter of fact.’ And no defen­siveness in his tone. ‘It must have been the sandwiches that upset me. Lobster. Very good, but a bit too rich for that time of night.’ She lowered the heat under the pan and set about making toast. ‘It was almost twelve when I got in myself. These sales parties can be a bit too much of a good thing sometimes. Some of these housewives don’t know where to draw the line when they start letting their hair down. I was absolutely exhausted, I went flat out the moment my head hit the pillow. I never heard you come in.’ She paused as she was about to cut more bread and looked up at him. ‘How much toast can you eat?’ ‘Actually, I don’t think I want anything to eat,’ he said with apology. ‘Just some coffee, that’ll do me.’ She wasn’t at all put out. ‘You could try something to eat, a piece of dry toast, perhaps. It might do you good, put a lining on your stomach.’ He shook his head with emphasis. ‘No, thanks. Just the coffee, good and strong, that’s all I want.’ ‘Not to worry,’ she assured him. ‘The food won’t be wasted. I haven’t started cooking Karen’s breakfast yet, so she can have yours. Give her a shout, tell her to come down right away, her breakfast’s ready.’ He went into the hall and called loudly up the stairs. Without waiting for an answer he went along to the utility room, coming back into the kitchen a minute or two later. Christine was pouring his coffee. He began to drink it at once, scalding hot, black, very strong. Christine switched on the radio, giving it half an ear. She finished laying the table and returned to the cooker where the contents of the pan were ready for dishing up. ‘Where’s that girl?’ she exclaimed on a note of irritation. ‘I don’t hear her moving.’ ‘Perhaps she wants a lie-in,’ Ian suggested. ‘She may have gone to bed late.’ ‘She certainly wasn’t up when I got in.’ Christine moved to the kitchen door. ‘And I know she doesn’t want to be up late this morning. She told me she wants to go to the Amnesty book sale.’ In the hall she called sharply up the stairs. There was no reply. She clicked her tongue, muttered something and went rapidly up to Karen’s bedroom. She beat a loud tattoo on the door. No reply, no sound from within. She thrust the door open and marched in. She came to a sudden halt. The room was empty. The bed had not been disturbed, the covers lay smoothly in place. The curtains were drawn back, the window closed. Everything neat and orderly. She stood staring round, frowning down at the carpet. Then she went along the corridor to the bathroom and looked in. She opened every door upstairs and glanced inside, then she went slowly downstairs again. Ian was pouring himself more coffee. He became aware of her silent presence in the kitchen doorway and turned his head. ‘She’s not here,’ Christine said flatly. He frowned. ‘Not here?’ ‘Her bed’s not been slept in. She’s not anywhere upstairs. I’ve looked.’ He stared blankly at her. She burst out: ‘I know where she is! She’s with that Paul Clayton!’ ‘Clayton?’ he echoed in incredulous tones. ‘You don’t think she’s run off with him?’ ‘Run off?’ she repeated with a startled face. ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant. I never thought of that.’ She turned and went running up the stairs again. He heard her moving noisily about, opening and shutting drawers and cupboards. She came down again a few minutes later. ‘She hasn’t taken any of her things.’ Ian drank his coffee. ‘I don’t see why you should jump to the conclusion that she’s with Clayton. She could easily have stayed the night with some girl from college.’ ‘Then why hasn’t she let us know?’ ‘She probably tried to, and couldn’t. There was no one here to answer the phone. She could have gone to a disco or a club, or a party maybe, with some students from the college. She could have missed the last bus, decided to stay the night with one of the girls. She’s probably still in bed, fast asleep.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘It’s only just gone half past seven.’ He took another drink of his coffee. ‘I can’t honestly see there’s any real need to worry. She’ll phone us as soon as she gets up.’ She gazed at him in silence, then she said slowly, ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. That could be what happened.’ ‘I’m sure it is,’ he said heartily. ‘She’ll be here by the time you get back from your round. If she phones, I’ll be here to answer it. Now stop worrying and forget it. Sit down and eat your breakfast. We could give the Musgroves a ring after you’ve eaten, see if Karen’s there, or if Lynn knows where she might be. We can’t very well ring them yet, it’s too early.’ It was by now broad daylight, the sky still flamed a brilliant orange-gold from the sunrise. On the northernmost edge of Overmead a lad of thirteen let himself out of the back door of the cottage where he lived, took his bicycle from the shed and loaded it up with his fishing tackle, his sandwiches and flask, a folded macintosh in case of any more storms of rain. But the morning looked fine enough as he set off down the lane. A minute or two later he entered a side road running south. It would take him to the main road which he would cross, continuing south, headed for the river. He whistled cheerfully as he pedalled along. There was as yet scarcely any traffic. The birds sang, sunlight glittered yesterday’s puddles of rain. As he came into sight of the main road the rough tracts of Overmead Wood stretched out before him on his right. He looked over at the wood with old affection; he had spent many a happy hour there with his mates, playing Robin Hood. Something caught his eye among the trees, a long, bright loop of yellow, dangling from a branch. He slowed his pace. A broad grass verge, still muddy from the rain, overgrown with weeds and brambles, ran along the edge of the wood. A number of books were scattered over the ground. A fancy, light-coloured bag or satchel lay among the reedy grass and dead thistles, spilling its contents. A long-tailed pheasant rose from the verge and flew away as he halted and laid his bike down on a little rising mound, comparatively clean. Mindful of his clothes and footwear, he picked his way to inspect the books, the bag with its contents: notebooks, pens, pencils, a case of mathematical instruments, all soaking wet. He touched nothing, he left everything where it lay. Then he straightened up and made his way along a narrow track, treacherous and slippery, meandering between oaks and chestnuts, sycamores and birches, to where the long yellow scarf hung from its bough, drenched with rain, the yarn snagged and snarled where the wind had flung it against rough bark. He glanced about, peered into the recesses of the wood. On the ground, some distance away, a flash of the same bright colour caught his eye. He moved gingerly towards it. When he was still a little way off he stopped suddenly and put a hand up to his mouth. The vague blur of colour had all at once resolved itself into a tattered yellow cap on the head of someone lying sprawled face down in a muddied clearing between the trees. CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_3d761eca-0a76-5a6c-93a2-b4f8226b05c7) Detective Chief Inspector Kelsey, a big, solid rock of a man with a freckled face and shrewd green eyes, a head of thickly-springing carroty hair, left the woodland clearing and made his way towards his car, followed by Detective Sergeant Lambert. A minute search of the area was already under way. It was plain from the scatter of books on the grass verge that the dead girl was Karen Boland, a student at the Cannonbridge College of Further Education. A library ticket in an inside pocket of her jacket supplied her address. The police doctor had made a preliminary estimate of the time of death, setting it at between five and eight on the previous evening, Friday, November 13th. The body was fully clothed and there was no sign of any sexual assault. Karen’s right ankle had been violently wrenched, possibly broken, some minutes before her death. The wrench had in all probability happened in the course of her headlong flight from her attacker over the uneven ground. She could have caught her foot and been sent flying, pitching heavily down, unable to rise, with her assailant crashing along behind her. As she lay prostrate, shaken and winded, in considerable pain from the injured ankle, her attacker had knelt on her back, producing severe and deep contusions, pressing her head down with force into the mud and leafmould. Her face had been massively bruised, abraded and lacerated, her left cheekbone fractured by counter-pressure from a tree root. She had been held down for some time; she had died from asphyxia. But to make assurance doubly sure her assailant had then viciously bludgeoned her, striking several savage blows on the back of her head, shattering the skull. A few feet from the body lay a heavy billet of wood, a piece of broken bough, clearly the weapon used in the clubbing. Caught up in the bark were strands of yellow wool, long gold-brown hairs, fragments of tissue, tiny embedded splinters of bone. If Karen had at any stage been able to strike out at her killer her hands could give no evidence of it. She had worn woollen gloves, soaked and filthy now, ripped and snagged. The skin of her killer’s hands, Kelsey pondered, must surely–unless similarly protected by gloves – be scratched and marked, possibly deeply, from a swift passage through the wood. The nylon material of Karen’s quilted jacket, the dark stuff of her slacks, showed rents and tears from thorns and spines, projecting boughs. Her ankle boots were caked in thick yellow mud. The clothes and footwear of her killer must also bear this kind of witness. And the thorns and spines, the projecting boughs, carried threads and fibres, ripped from the clothing of pursued and pursuer. The two men reached the car and Sergeant Lambert opened the door. ‘Jubilee Cottage,’ Kelsey directed as he got in. They approached the dwelling a few minutes later. The gates were standing open and Lambert turned the car into the neatly gravelled driveway. A car was drawn up at one side of the house. A ladder with a bucket suspended from a rung had been set up against the guttering at the front of the house. At the foot of the ladder stood a wheelbarrow half full of garden refuse. On the ground close by lay a pair of stout work gloves, a hand brush and trowel, a pair of secateurs. At the sound of the car the front door on the left jerked open and Christine Wilmot came flying out, her face puckered in alarm. At the sight of the two men she halted abruptly, knowing them instantly for policemen. ‘Karen!’ she cried. ‘What’s happened to her?’ ‘Mrs Boland?’ Kelsey asked. Though she looked scarcely old enough to be the girl’s mother. She gave her head an impatient shake. ‘I’m Mrs Wilmot,’ she said rapidly. ‘Christine Wilmot, Karen’s cousin. She lives here. What’s happened to her? Has there been an accident?’ Ian Wilmot came running out through the same open door, looking from one to the other, his face full of concern. ‘Is it Karen?’ he blurted out. ‘Has something happened to her?’ ‘Mr Wilmot?’ Kelsey asked. He gave a nod. ‘Ian Wilmot.’ He gestured at Christine. ‘My wife.’ He thrust his hands together. ‘What’s happened to Karen?’ Kelsey disclosed his identity. ‘I think we’d better go inside.’ At his words the other two fell silent, then Christine began to utter little trembling sobs, her head drooping. Ian put an arm round her shoulders and steered her into the house. He led the way into a sitting room on the right of the hall. They all sat down, Ian on the arm of his wife’s chair, his hand resting on her shoulder. She had by now fallen silent. She sat on the edge of her seat, clasping her hands tightly together. ‘I’m afraid I bring bad news,’ Kelsey said gently. ‘Very bad news.’ Christine set up a tiny whimpering sound. Ian stared at the Chief. ‘I’m very sorry to have to tell you,’ Kelsey said, ‘that Karen is dead.’ Christine gave a loud cry and put both hands up to her face. ‘Was it an accident?’ Ian asked. ‘A road accident?’ The Chief shook his head. ‘Her body has been found in Overmead Wood. I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it: she’s been murdered.’ Christine broke into unrestrained sobs. ‘Murdered?’ Ian echoed with incredulous horror. ‘Was it a sex attack?’ ‘Not on the face of it,’ Kelsey told him. ‘We’ll know more about it after the post-mortem.’ ‘When did it happen?’ But the Chief wasn’t prepared at this juncture to give an answer, however approximate, to that question. ‘We’ll know more after the post-mortem,’ he repeated. He glanced at Christine, rocking and sobbing. ‘I think some tea—’ ‘Yes, of course.’ Ian got to his feet but the Chief waved him down again. ‘Sergeant Lambert will see to it.’ Lambert went across the hall and through an open door into the kitchen. A woman’s outdoor jacket had been thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, with a shoulder-bag, a headscarf, a pair of woollen gloves, lying close by on the table. He filled the kettle and put it on to boil. In the sitting room Christine had regained some degree of composure. She sat up and took a handkerchief from her pocket, she dabbed at her eyes. ‘I was trying to ring Karen’s foster parents, over in Wych­ford, just now, when you arrived,’ Ian told the Chief, ‘but I couldn’t get any reply. Karen lived with them until fairly recently. When she didn’t turn up this morning, or phone, I suddenly thought she might have taken it into her head for some reason to go over there to see them.’ The Chief asked him how long Karen had been living at Jubilee Cottage. ‘It was getting on for the end of July when she came here,’ Ian told him. ‘She came to us from a children’s home in Wychford, but she’d only been back there a short time. Before that she’d been living with the foster parents in Wychford, the people I was trying to phone just now.’ He supplied their name and address. ‘Why did she leave the foster parents?’ Kelsey asked. ‘There was some trouble with a neighbour and the Social Services thought it best if she was moved from there.’ ‘How did she come to be living here with you?’ ‘It was Karen’s own idea,’ Christine put in. She seemed a good deal steadier now. ‘I hadn’t seen her since she was a child, our families were never close. But I was the only living relative she knew of, so she wrote to me–entirely off her own bat–and asked if we’d be willing to have her live here. She’d already made inquiries and discovered there was a course at the Cannonbridge college that she could take. She seemed very anxious to be part of a family again, to live with someone she was related to. ‘So we met her, we had her over here for a weekend once or twice.’ She drew a shivering breath. ‘We liked her, we felt sorry for her. We talked it over and agreed to take her. It was settled that she would finish the school year where she was, and then come to us.’ ‘We were very pleased at the way it was working out,’ Ian added. ‘She was settling down, working hard, doing well at the college.’ ‘What was the trouble with the neighbour over in Wych­ford?’ ‘He’s a married man, his name’s Paul Clayton. We’ve never met him. It seems the Claytons know Karen’s foster parents and Karen used to go to the Claytons sometimes to keep an eye on their children when the parents were out in the evening. The parents wouldn’t always be out together, he’d be working late–he has his own business in Wychford, something to do with electronics–and his wife would be out on some interest of her own. Mrs Clayton came home unexpectedly early one evening and found her husband and Karen together.’ He grimaced. The balloon went up.’ ‘Was there any contact between Clayton and Karen while she was living here with you?’ ‘Not that we know of,’ Christine answered. ‘I asked her once or twice if Clayton had been in touch with her but she was most emphatic that there’d been no contact of any kind. This morning, when we discovered she hadn’t been here all night, my first thought was that she might have met him yesterday, spent the night with him somewhere. I wanted to phone him but Ian wouldn’t let me.’ ‘I couldn’t believe she was with Clayton,’ Ian explained. ‘I couldn’t believe she’d be such a fool, not after the sensible way she’d behaved all the time she’d been living here. I was sure she was with some girlfriend from the college, that she’d walk in or phone at any moment. I thought it would be madness to ring the Claytons. It could start up all kinds of trouble for them again, very probably all for nothing.’ ‘Why was Karen in care in the first place?’ Kelsey wanted to know. ‘What happened to her parents?’ ‘They’re both dead,’ Christine told him. Her face began to dissolve again. ‘I’m sorry.’ She put her handkerchief to her eyes. ‘It’s been such a shock.’ Sergeant Lambert came in with a tray of tea. ‘I can give you the bare bones of Karen’s history,’ Ian told Kelsey as Lambert handed round the cups. ‘Christine doesn’t know any more than I do, we only know what the Social Services told us. We never talked about the past with Karen. We thought it best if she put it all behind her and made a fresh start.’ ‘What kind of past was it?’ ‘Her parents lived in Okeshot, that was where Karen was born.’ Okeshot was a prosperous market town roughly the same size as Cannonbridge, eighteen miles to the south-west. ‘Her mother died when Karen was a small child, and her father didn’t remarry for some years. He died not long after the second marriage. That left Karen with her stepmother.’ He recited the string of facts in a flat monotone. ‘After a time the stepmother remarried, a man called Lorimer. Lorimer abused Karen and she became pregnant. The whole thing came out and Karen was taken into care. She had an abortion. There was a court case and Lorimer went to prison. He’s still there, as far as I know.’ Christine appeared by now to have recovered complete control. She sat sipping her tea, her face wiped clear of expression. Ian took up the story again. ‘The stepmother stood by Lorimer. What it came down to was that she had to choose between him and Karen. The Social Services wouldn’t allow Karen to live in the same house as Lorimer again and the stepmother told them she intended to take Lorimer back when he’d served his sentence. So Karen had to remain in care.’ ‘To get back to yesterday,’ Kelsey said. ‘When did you first miss Karen?’ ‘We didn’t miss her till this morning, Ian told him. ‘When we saw that her bed hadn’t been slept in. We were both out yesterday evening.’ He explained about Christine’s catalogue round, the sales parties, the action-group meeting he had attended, the refreshments afterwards at the Chair­man’s house. ‘It was late by the time I got back here, getting on for one o’clock. Christine was already in bed, asleep. I never gave a thought to Karen. I took it for granted she was here, safe and sound, in her bed.’ ‘I got home at about a quarter to twelve,’ Christine put in. ‘I assumed Karen was in bed, she was always in bed long before that. I went straight to bed myself.’ ‘Had you expected Karen to spend yesterday evening here?’ Kelsey asked her. ‘I asked her at breakfast what she would be doing after college but she said she wasn’t sure, she might go along to the public library. There’s a girl at college she was friendly with, a girl called Lynn Musgrove, she’s the only friend Karen ever mentioned. I tried to ring Lynn this morning to see if Karen was there or if she had any idea where Karen might be. Lynn wasn’t in, she’d gone out early, running, she belongs to an athletics club. I spoke to Mrs Musgrove. She told me Karen hadn’t been there at all yesterday eve­ning. Ian was sure Karen was perfectly all right, that she’d turn up at any moment, so I went off on my rounds as usual. But I couldn’t get Karen out of my head, I was so worried about her. I decided to come back here to see if she’d come home, and if not, try to decide what to do. I’d only been back a few minutes when you arrived.’ Kelsey asked what the Musgrove household consisted of. ‘We haven’t met either Lynn or her mother,’ Ian explained. ‘All we know is what Karen told us. Mrs Musgrove’s a widow, they’re not well off. Mrs Musgrove works an evening shift at a plastics factory. There’s a younger child and Lynn has to keep an eye on her while the mother’s at work–that’s why Lynn was never able to come over here in the evenings, it was always Karen who went there.’ ‘Is there any man around?’ ‘Karen never mentioned any man. From all she said, Mrs Musgrove seems to be a quiet, hard-working, respectable woman, struggling to bring up her family. I didn’t get the impression she’d have the time or the money for much social life. And Lynn sounds a sensible, steady girl, not in the least flighty.’ ‘Did Karen have any boyfriends at the college?’ ‘Not as far as we know.’ Kelsey looked at Ian. ‘What about friends or colleagues of your own? Is there anyone who might have met her here, taken a fancy to her? Is there anything you can recall? Anything you noticed?’ Both Ian and Christine shook their heads. ‘Did she ever mention anyone from the college? Someone who was a nuisance perhaps, pestering her, making a pass, trying it on? Some male member of staff, maybe, or a mature student? Or maybe someone she came across on her way to or from the college?’ Again they shook their heads. Karen had never mentioned anything like that. ‘What was her relationship with you?’ Kelsey asked Ian. ‘She was always pleasant and friendly, always coop­erative, wanting to do anything she could to help round the house. There was never any problem. She treated me like a brother, or a friend.’ ‘Did she have a crush on you?’ ‘No, not in the least.’ ‘Did you find her attractive?’ He looked steadily back at the Chief. ‘She was a very pretty girl, but I never regarded her in that way. I looked on her as someone in our care, like a daughter or a younger sister.’ Kelsey asked how Karen usually made her way to and from the college. ‘I took her in the car in the mornings,’ Ian told him. ‘She came home on the bus.’ The time of the bus she caught varied according to the day of the week, the time of her last class, if she was staying on at the college for a club or a meeting, if she was going to the library or to Lynn’s house. Karen always got off the bus by Overmead Wood, a few yards from the junction of the main road with the side road. ‘Did you ever give her a lift home?’ Kelsey asked Ian. ‘No, never.’ ‘Did she ever get a lift home from anyone else?’ She had never mentioned a lift to either of them. ‘What would she normally do if she missed her bus? Would she set off to walk home?’ Ian shook his head. ‘It’s a fair distance, especially when you’re carrying books. There’s a good hour between buses, so she couldn’t expect the next one to come along and pick her up on the way. And she’d think walking home would be a waste of time–especially on a cold, wet evening like yesterday–when she could be getting on with her homework in comfort, at the college or in the public library.’ ‘I’m positive she wouldn’t try to thumb a lift,’ Christine said with energy. ‘She was well aware of the dangers, we’d warned her about it more than once, and she always agreed it would be a very foolish thing to do.’ ‘If she did miss her bus,’ Kelsey persisted, ‘and she did decide to set off walking home, and someone she knew, or knew slightly, pulled up beside her and offered her a lift, someone living in Overmead, perhaps, maybe someone she knew only by sight, do you think she’d be likely to accept the lift?’ ‘Yes, I think she probably would,’ Christine answered after a moment. ‘Then again,’ Kelsey said to Ian in an easy tone, ‘if she’d set off walking and you happened to come along, on your way home, and you pulled up beside her, she’d naturally get in.’ Ian frowned. ‘Yes, of course she would, but that never happened. I never gave her a lift home, ever, and I certainly didn’t give her a lift home yesterday.’ ‘How did you spend yesterday afternoon?’ Kelsey asked. ‘I was out on site visits all afternoon–that’s how I normally spend Friday afternoon. I drove home from the last site. I had a bath, changed, had something to eat and then went along to the meeting. It started at seven-thirty.’ ‘Is that your car outside?’ ‘Yes, it is.’ ‘Did you use it yesterday to go to work?’ ‘Yes, I did.’ ‘We’d like to take a look at it.’ ‘Certainly.’ Ian led the way outside. Christine followed the Chief and Sergeant Lambert. ‘My wife used the car this morning when she went out on her rounds,’ Ian told them. Kelsey surveyed the vehicle, a smallish family saloon, claret-red in colour, some four years old. He opened the door and glanced round, opened the boot and looked inside. He returned to the interior of the car and scrutinized it with greater care, being particularly scrupulous in his examin­ation of the pedals, the carpet by the driver’s seat. ‘The sites you visited yesterday,’ he said to Ian. ‘Were they muddy?’ ‘Yes. One or two were very muddy.’ The chief peered down again. ‘There’s no sign of any mud here.’ ‘I cleaned the car this morning, ready for Christine to take it out.’ ‘You gave it a pretty good going over.’ ‘It needs a good going over after I’ve been out on the sites, that’s why I clean it on a Saturday morning. I’ve got one of those cordless electric dustettes I use on it, they’re very thorough. I always give the pedals a scrub when I wash the car.’ The Chief straightened up. ‘I’d like to see the shoes you were wearing yesterday when you drove home.’ Ian stuck out one foot. ‘I was wearing these.’ Brown leather slip-ons, bearing evidence now of his morning stint in the garden. ‘I never wear good shoes on a Friday because of going over the sites. These are old but they’re still fairly reasonable. They’re strong and waterproof, they clean up well enough.’ ‘The clothes you wore yesterday on your way home, I’d like to see those too. Not just the outdoor garments, everything: socks, underwear, handkerchief, tie, gloves, the lot.’ ‘Yes, certainly.’ Ian led them back into the house, taking them first into the front hall. He opened the door of a wardrobe and showed them a jacket, oldish but still respect­able, made of close-woven, proofed gaberdine, medium grey, with a hood, a quilted lining. ‘That’s my Friday jacket,’ he said. ‘It keeps the wind out.’ He took a pair of leather driving gloves from a shelf in the wardrobe. Newish, in good condition. ‘May I see your hands?’ Kelsey asked. Ian held them out, turned them over. Very well cared for, the skin smooth, the nails neatly trimmed. ‘You look after your hands,’ the Chief observed. Ian moved his shoulders. ‘I have to, in my job. Can’t go to the office looking like a navvy.’ He took them upstairs into a large double bedroom. He opened a wardrobe and took out a hanger with a pair of dark grey trousers, spotlessly clean, undamaged, carefully pressed. He pulled open drawers in a chest and showed them a set of underwear, socks, a shirt, a polo-necked sweater, all immaculately laundered. From a pile of handkerchiefs, carefully ironed, folded in four, he picked up the top handkerchief. ‘That’s everything,’ he said. ‘Bar the tie.’ He crossed again to the wardrobe and lifted a tie from a rack inside the door. ‘That’s the one I wore yesterday to the office, but I took it off and put it in my pocket when I got into the car to go round the sites. I slipped the sweater on over my shirt. I usually take a sweater to wear on the sites, it can be pretty chilly. I can’t wear it in the office, of course, it’s always a collar and tie in there.’ ‘Everything’s been washed,’ Kelsey pointed out. ‘That’s right, everything except the tie. I put it all in the machine this morning, as soon as I got up. It’s no bother, it’s all automatic, it looks after itself while I get on with other jobs.’ ‘Do you usually do a load of washing on a Saturday morning?’ ‘Yes, I do. Not just my own things, Christine’s, or any household stuff that’s in the basket.’ He raised no objection when the Chief looked carefully through all the rest of his outdoor clothing: suits, jackets, trousers, shoes. Kelsey then asked if he could see Karen’s room and Ian took them across the landing. He stood in the doorway, beside Christine, watching as the two policemen made a rapid search. Within a short time they came across the snapshot inside the back cover of the maths textbook. The Chief studied it in silence. It showed a tall, lean, good-looking man in early middle age, standing beside a small saloon car in a deserted country lay-by. He held himself in a relaxed stance, smiling out at the camera. The Chief held out the snapshot for the Wilmots to see. Neither of them had seen it before, neither could identify the man, or the car. On top of a chest of drawers stood two framed photo­graphs; Christine identified them for Kelsey. One showed Karen as a child of three or four, with her parents, a loving, happy, family group. The second had been taken a few years later. Karen stood beside her father, he had his arm round her shoulders. He smiled down at her with fond pride and she gazed out at the camera with a confident, open, trusting look. The Chief asked if there were any recent likenesses of Karen, for use in the investigation. Christine produced a school photograph taken at the end of Karen’s last term in Wychford, together with some snapshots from a trip the three of them had made to the sea one Sunday in late September. ‘One other thing,’ Kelsey told Ian, ‘and I’m afraid not a very pleasant one. I have to ask you to identify the body.’ Ian made no reply but gave a couple of nods. His face was calm and controlled. But some little time later, as he came out into the mortuary corridor, white-faced, shaken and trembling, all calm had forsaken him and he was desperately struggling to retain the last vestiges of control. CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_f75cbdd5-cbbf-5cde-a32b-33eb1536228f) Yellow Pages and the Wychford telephone directory be­tween them supplied the name P. A. Clayton, a manufac­turer of electronic components with a factory on the Wychford industrial estate and a private address on a mod­ern exclusive housing development on the western edge of town. As it was a Saturday morning the Chief directed Sergeant Lambert to drive straight to the private address. A car was drawn up in the gravelled turning-circle by the front door; a medium-sized, cream-coloured saloon, a couple of years old. Lambert’s ring at the bell was answered by Mrs Clayton, looking tense and flustered at the sight of them. She wore an apron over expensive, dowdy clothes, she glanced un­certainly from one to the other. An enticing, savoury smell of cooking drifted out from the kitchen quarters. The Chief disclosed his identity and her expression grew even more anxious. He asked if the P. A. Clayton listed in the phone book was in fact Paul Clayton. She told him that he was. ‘You’re both acquainted with a Mr and Mrs Roscoe who act as foster parents for the local authority?’ She frowned. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ ‘I wonder if we might speak to your husband?’ ‘He’s not here,’ she told them. ‘He’s over in his office on the industrial estate. He always goes there on a Saturday morning to catch up on the paperwork.’ She fell silent for a moment and then burst out: ‘What do you want him for? What’s all this about?’ Her look of anxiety deepened as Kelsey studied her with­out speaking. At last he said, ‘We’re making general inquir­ies with reference to the death of a girl who was recently fostered by the Roscoes.’ Her mouth dropped open, she took a pace back. ‘Karen Boland?’ she asked. Her tone was agitated. ‘Yes, Karen Boland. Your husband’s name has been mentioned to us as someone who knew her. You will appreci­ate that we have to follow up every lead. We’d like to ask your husband a few questions.’ ‘How did she die?’ She clasped her hands. ‘How did it happen?’ ‘I think we’d better come inside,’ Kelsey said. She led the way in silence into the kitchen, turned to face them. ‘How did she die?’ she asked again. She appeared on the verge of tears. ‘When did it happen?’ ‘There’ll be a post-mortem later today,’ Kelsey told her. ‘We’ll know more about it then.’ She grasped the back of a chair. ‘However she died it couldn’t have been anything to do with Paul. He never saw her after she left the Roscoes and went back to the children’s home. I’m certain of that, he gave me his sacred word he’d never see her again.’ Kelsey made no reply and she burst out again with increasing agitation: ‘It wasn’t Paul’s fault that he got mixed up with her, it was all her doing. That’s the kind of girl she was, sly, deceitful, absolutely no good–that’s why she was taken into care in the first place. She’d been in the same kind of trouble before, only much worse, over in Okeshot. Mrs Roscoe told me about it after the business with Paul, I never knew a word about it before. I’d never have let her set foot in the house if I’d had the faintest idea.’ Her face had taken on a deep rosy tinge, her eyes looked glassy bright. ‘Mrs Roscoe told me after Karen left that she was glad to see the back of her, she’d never liked the way she looked at Mr Roscoe.’ She grasped the chair so hard that it swung back on its legs, almost toppling over. Without pausing in her flow she jerked the chair back into position. ‘Any man, any man at all, I don’t care who he is, or how good a husband he is, can be led astray if a girl’s determined enough.’ Her voice brimmed over with vehemence and animus. Still Kelsey said nothing. ‘She wasn’t under age,’ Mrs Clayton continued in a rush, by now half sobbing. ‘You can’t pin that on Paul. She was turned sixteen back in the spring. I know that for a fact.’ She broke off suddenly, she looked disconcerted by his silence. She made a strong, visible effort to take a grip on herself. The colour remained unabated in her flaming cheeks. ‘Of course it’s a terrible thing to have happened,’ she said in a voice she strove to keep level. ‘A young girl to die like that, all her life ahead of her.’ ‘Like what?’ Kelsey asked. She gave him a blank stare. ‘To die like what?’ he repeated. She glanced uncertainly from one to the other. ‘You said there’s going to be a post-mortem.’ Thought raced behind her eyes. ‘That always means something’s wrong. And you wouldn’t be making inquiries if she’d died a natural death. Something bad must have happened to her.’ She appeared to have regained some command of herself. She put a hand up to her face, smoothed her hair. She drew a long, sighing breath and glanced up at the wall clock. She seemed all at once to return to her surroundings, an awareness of the day, the hour, the next chore. ‘I must go,’ she said in a lighter, more everyday voice, with a touch of conventional social apology. She removed her apron. ‘I have to pick my daughter up from her dance class, I mustn’t be late. And my son’s at the sports centre, I have to pick him up too.’ She went into the hall and took down a camelhair jacket from a peg. She slipped it on, tied a light blue, flowered headscarf under her chin and picked up a pair of gloves. Apart from the rosy flush still staining her cheeks she seemed perfectly in control. Sergeant Lambert followed the Chief to the front door. ‘We’ll get along out of your way, then,’ Kelsey told Mrs Clayton. She gave a little hostessy nod and stepped aside for them to leave. She followed them out and closed the door. She walked towards the cream-coloured car and stood beside it, watching with a detached, courteous air as the two men got into their own vehicle. She raised a hand in a gesture of farewell as Lambert drove off, then she got into her car and switched on the engine. Kelsey glanced back and saw the vehicle slip into motion after a conspicuously jerky start. The Roscoes’ house was not far away but in a neighbourhood markedly less fashionable. A modern detached house a good deal smaller than the Claytons’, the paintwork fresh and gleaming, the windows sparkling in the sunlight, the small front garden smartly disciplined, the little lawn closely shorn, every last weed extirpated from regimented flower­beds still dutifully bright with carefully staked chrysan­themums, pompom dahlias. Sergeant Lambert pressed the bell once, twice, three times, but there was no reply. No sign of life inside the house, or–when he walked round–in the back garden. ‘Might be out shopping,’ Kelsey guessed. ‘We’ll get along to the industrial estate, we can try again here after we’ve seen Clayton.’ The electronics factory was on the other side of town and it was several minutes later when Lambert turned the car in through the gates. The place was silent. A handy­man armed with a bucket and washleather was cleaning windows. He came over as the two men got out of the car. ‘Mr Clayton’s in his office in the annexe,’ he told them. He gestured over at a small building. Kelsey walked briskly across and rapped on the door. As soon as he laid eyes on Clayton he knew him for the man in the snapshot hidden away in Karen’s bedroom. He was dressed in casual clothes. He looked poised and alert, with an energetic, highly-charged air. Kelsey introduced himself and asked if they might go inside. Clayton took them into his office and pulled forward chairs. His manner was calm and cooperative. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked when they were all seated, Clayton facing them across the desk. The Chief came straight to the point; he asked him if he knew a girl named Karen Boland. Clayton sat very still. The pleasant expression left his eyes, his look was cold and armoured. ‘I did know her,’ he answered after a pause. ‘I haven’t seen her for some time.’ ‘When did you last see her?’ This time there was no pause. ‘I haven’t seen her since she left the Roscoes–her foster parents–and went back to the children’s home. That was several months ago. May I ask what all this is about?’ Kelsey threw it at him without preamble. ‘Karen Boland is dead.’ Clayton jerked back in his seat but recovered at once. ‘May I ask how she died?’ ‘We’ll know more about that later today.’ All at once the colour drained from Clayton’s face. He put a hand up to his forehead, leaned forward and rested his elbow on the desk. ‘Do you mind if I have a drink?’ he asked in an unsteady voice. ‘It’s been rather a shock.’ He stood up and went across to a wall cupboard, took out a bottle of whisky and a glass. He glanced back at the two men with a gesture of invitation but Kelsey gave a brief headshake. Clayton poured himself a stiff whisky and drank half of it down in quick gulps. ‘How well did you know Karen?’ Kelsey asked when Clayton showed no disposition to resume his seat. Clayton took another swallow, topped up his glass and went back to the desk. The colour had begun to return to his cheeks. ‘I expect you know all about the business of Karen leaving the Roscoes?’ he said as he sat down again. His voice was once more firm, confident. He set down his glass with an air of challenge. ‘We’ve heard something,’ Kelsey acknowledged. ‘We’d like to hear your side of it.’ ‘It was nothing.’ Clayton made a dismissive gesture. ‘A silly flirtation, quite harmless. It meant nothing at all.’ He took another drink. ‘Mrs Roscoe’s a very strong church-woman, on the puritanical side. She and my wife got together, tried to make a lot more out of it than there was, they blew it up out of all proportion–you know what women can be when they get the bit between their teeth.’ His tone invited understanding, the fellow-feeling of the badgered male. ‘They wouldn’t be satisfied till they’d driven the poor kid out.’ ‘Did you have any contact with Karen after she went to Overmead, to live with her cousin, Mrs Wilmot?’ Kelsey asked. ‘None whatever. I gave my word to my wife that I wouldn’t see Karen again, and I kept my word.’ He moved his hand. ‘Not that I had any wish to see her again. I was only too glad to forget the whole thing.’ ‘Where were you yesterday afternoon and evening?’ He answered readily. He had spent the day in a large town some fifty miles to the west of Wychford. ‘There’s been a trade exhibition on there this last week, it finished yesterday. I’ve got several customers over that way, so I decided to make a day of it. I called in here first, to see if there was anything important in the post.’ He had visited his customers during the morning, taken one of them out to lunch, spent the afternoon at the exhibition. On the way home he had called on another customer. ‘I drove home from there. It was around seven-fifteen when I got in. I spent the rest of the evening in my workshop–it’s in the garden, out of the way of the children. I was in the workshop till around eleven, then I went back into the house and went to bed.’ ‘Do you often spend the evening in your workshop?’ ‘I spend most evenings there. I’ve done it all my life, ever since I was a lad.’ He grinned. ‘It was a draughty little garden shed in those days, I can afford something better now. I had it built specially. There’s no phone in there, no interruptions. I’m always tinkering at something, always getting fresh ideas. I had several ideas yesterday after the exhibition, that kind of thing always sets my brain going. You can’t stop it, you have to go along with it. If you don’t tackle them right away they’re all gone by next morning.’ He grinned again. ‘You could be kissing goodbye to a winner.’ Kelsey asked what vehicle he had used yesterday. ‘The one I normally use. I drove here in it this morn­ing.’ ‘We’d like to take a look at it.’ ‘By all means.’ He took them out through a side door. The car was parked nearby on a hard standing–the car in the snapshot, Kelsey saw at once. A small, economical runabout, dark green, three or four years old. ‘It’s all I need for calling on customers,’ Clayton said. ‘Easy on gas, nippy in traffic, no trouble to park.’ The car had been freshly washed, thoroughly cleaned inside and out, polished to a high gleam. ‘That’s been done by the handyman,’ Clayton said in answer to Kelsey’s question. ‘He always does it on a Saturday morning.’ He offered no objection when Kelsey asked if he could speak to the man. The Chief walked round to the other side of the factory where the handyman was busy on his windows. His manner was straightforward and cooperative. He didn’t hesitate in his answers, but neither did he appear to be repeating something recently rehearsed; he showed no curiosity. Yes, he always cleaned all the vehicles thoroughly on a Saturday morning, he always did them first thing, before he made a start on the sweeping out, the windows, the routine maintenance jobs. No, he had received no particular instruc­tions this morning regarding Mr Clayton’s car. Kelsey went back to where Clayton and Sergeant Lambert stood waiting and all three of them returned to Clayton’s office and sat down again. Clayton now wore a passive, unresisting air, as if resigned to whatever might be going forward. ‘May I see your hands?’ the Chief asked him. He held out his hands without demur, turning them over for the Chief’s inspection. Well cared for, no marks, no scratches or abrasions. ‘Did you wear gloves yesterday when you drove your car?’ Kelsey asked. ‘Yes. I’ve got them here.’ Clayton pulled open a drawer in his desk and took them out. Tan leather, with a knitted trim; good quality, almost new. No stains, no rips or tears, the knitted trim undamaged. ‘What clothes did you wear yesterday afternoon?’ Kelsey asked. ‘A business suit. And a car coat.’ ‘We’d like to take a look at them.’ ‘Yes, certainly. They’re at home, of course.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s time I was getting off there anyway.’ They followed his car back to the house. It was empty and silent. ‘I expect my wife’s picking up the children,’ Clayton said as he closed the front door behind them. The Chief didn’t inform him that they had already called at the house and spoken to his wife. Clayton took them upstairs to a dressing room and showed them a car coat of green-grey tweed, a dark grey business suit, a pair of black leather Oxford shoes. Kelsey examined them all. Everything of good quality, newish, clean and undamaged. ‘And the other garments you wore yesterday?’ he asked. ‘Shirt, underwear, socks.’ Clayton gave him a startled glance. ‘They may still be in the laundry basket where I put them to be washed,’ he said after a moment. ‘The basket’s down in the utility room.’ He turned to the door but Kelsey raised a hand. ‘While we’re up here we’ll take a look at the rest of your clothes.’ Clayton stood watching in expressionless silence as the two men went through the contents of the wardrobe, the chest, cupboards. When they had finished he took them downstairs again, into a very well-equipped utility room. But the laundry basket was empty. ‘I expect my wife did the washing this morning.’ Clayton waved a hand. ‘She’s a fussy house­keeper.’ ‘What time did you leave the house this morning to go to the office?’ Kelsey asked him. ‘Eight o’clock, near enough.’ ‘What time did you arrive?’ ‘Ten past, quarter past, I suppose. I didn’t look at my watch.’ ‘Did anyone see you arrive?’ ‘Not that I know of. The handyman doesn’t come till eight-thirty.’ Kelsey gazed at him. Easy enough this morning to drive off a few miles in any direction, with Friday’s clothes bundled into a plastic rubbish bag in the boot of his car, dump the bag on a refuse tip or in a waste skip, no one any the wiser. CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_5e395066-2d45-51de-88d3-c69ee9bc77b3) There was the sound of a car outside. ‘That’ll be Joan now, with the children,’ Clayton said. Kelsey went to the window and looked out. Mrs Clayton was sitting in the car, talking over her shoulder to the two children in the back seat. Telling them to go off and play in the garden till they were called, no doubt, prompted by the sight of the police car drawn up behind her husband’s. The children got out of the car and ran off round the side of the house. Mrs Clayton stepped slowly out on to the gravel and walked without haste towards the front door. When she came in a minute or two later Clayton made to go out to speak to her but a glance from Kelsey stopped him in his tracks. The Chief went into the front hall. Sergeant Lambert and Clayton followed him. Mrs Clayton was taking off her headscarf, hanging up her jacket. She looked at the three of them without speaking. Her manner was nervous but controlled. Clayton started to introduce her but she interrupted him. ‘We’ve already met.’ Clayton’s expression altered as he took in the fact that they had already been to the house, had already spoken to his wife. He glanced from one face to the other, wary and alert. ‘I’d like a word with your wife alone,’ Kelsey told him. Sergeant Lambert turned back to the utility room, gesturing Clayton inside ahead of him. Clayton went without protest and Lambert closed the door behind them. Kelsey took Mrs Clayton along to the kitchen where they both sat down. The delicious smell of cooking sharply reminded the Chief that it was a long time since he had eaten. Outside he could hear the children laughing, calling to each other. He didn’t mince matters, he asked Mrs Clayton for an account of her husband’s movements the previous evening. She appeared tense and subdued but answered in a straightforward manner. She hadn’t gone to collect the children from school as usual at the end of the afternoon, she explained, as there was to be a rehearsal after lessons for the Christmas play and the children were to be collected at eight o’clock. She had therefore arranged to spend the afternoon driving round to collect jumble contributions for a sale to be held in aid of the Parent-Teacher Association. She had a list of people who had phoned to say they had jumble to give. She had taken the stuff along to the hall where it was to be stored; several mothers were at work there, examining and sorting. She had got back home at around seven. Paul came in not very long afterwards, sometime between seven-fifteen and seven-thirty, at a guess. She couldn’t be more precise, she hadn’t looked at the clock. She had been relaxing in front of the television with a cup of tea, tired after her exertions. ‘Is that your husband’s usual time for coming home on a Friday?’ Kelsey asked. Her fingers plucked at her skirt. ‘He doesn’t have any usual time. It varies a lot. He’s never home before six-thirty but often it’s a good deal later, sometimes nine or ten.’ She was used to it, it had been like that ever since they were married. Kelsey asked if Paul had appeared in any way agitated, if his clothes were wet or dirty. ‘I didn’t look at him,’ she answered in a flat tone. ‘I heard the front door, I knew it was Paul. I was watching television. I was pretty tired, half dozing. Paul just stuck his head round the door and said he’d be going along to the workshop after he’d had a shower. He’d had something to eat. He sounded just as usual. I said OK. I didn’t even glance round. He closed the door and went upstairs.’ ‘Did you see him during the rest of the evening?’ ‘I went off at a quarter to eight to pick the children up from school. When we got back I saw the light on in his workshop.’ She and the children knew better than to disturb him in there. She went to bed around ten-thirty. She didn’t know what time Paul had gone to bed. They had separate rooms, had had them since they’d moved to this larger house. It saved him disturbing her when he worked late or got up early as he often did when an idea struck him and he would go down to the workshop for an hour or two before breakfast. Kelsey asked what her husband had worn the previous day. She pondered before replying. He had gone out in the morning in a business suit, as usual. She couldn’t say which one–he had several and wore them in turn, he never wore the same suit two days running. He always wore a white shirt with a business suit, plain or fine-striped, and there had been a white shirt in the laundry basket this morning, so she assumed that was the one he had worn. She had done the laundry that morning, she never let it accumulate. She couldn’t say if he had worn a coat or jacket over his suit. He had said goodbye to her in the kitchen, she hadn’t seen him leave. He might have picked up a coat or jacket from the hall on his way out. She didn’t accompany the Chief when he went back to the utility room. She remained where she was, sitting back now, slumped in her chair. She looked pale and tired; she seemed sunk into herself. Kelsey spoke to her as he went from the room but she didn’t answer, didn’t look at him. In the utility room Sergeant Lambert had taken up his post by the door. Clayton had spent the interval sitting on a tall, padded stool, with his arms folded across his chest and his head lowered; he had made no effort to engage the sergeant in conversation. He looked up as the Chief came in but he didn’t get to his feet. ‘We’ll have the name and address of the customer you called on yesterday on your way home from the exhibition,’ Kelsey told him briskly. Clayton supplied the details. ‘And the times, as exact as possible, when you arrived and left this customer.’ ‘I arrived there at ten minutes to six,’ Clayton answered without hesitation. ‘I know that because I’d checked the time, I’d hesitated about calling in. But the customer works on his own account, he often stays late. As I drove up I saw the light on in his office, so I went in. His secretary was still there. She made us some tea and I stayed talking with the customer for half an hour or more.’ They had chatted about business, trade in general, the exhibition. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. 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