Authors: That Way Murder Lies
Ann Granger (7 page)
There was an ominous silence in the car and then Meredith said stiffly, ‘It’s still ridiculous. I know Toby. Why on earth would he do a thing like that? Besides, he’s been out of the country. Alison would’ve remembered if the letters had been postmarked Beijing!’
‘I didn’t say he
wrote
them. He still might be involved. He and Fiona together may have cooked up some plan.’
wrote
them. He still might be involved. He and Fiona together may have cooked up some plan.’
‘He’s fond of Alison and Jeremy! Honestly, Alan, it’s a crazy idea!’
They had reached the outskirts of Bamford and Markby, perhaps sensing it was time to change the subject, pointed through the windscreen. ‘There’s the Watersmeet trading estate.’
Meredith looked past him to a collection of low brick buildings. ‘A romantic name for a pretty prosaic development.’
‘It used to be a farm, Watersmeet Farm,’ he explained. ‘Then the land was sold for development. I think it was one of Dudley Newman’s projects.’ Newman was a local builder and entrepreneur.
‘Just up his street,’ said Meredith morosely. ‘Dudley’s never as happy as when covering open countryside with bricks.’
‘He’s even moved his own builder’s yard there now Why don’t we turn in here?’ Markby suggested. ‘We could find this place, Rusticity, and look at the garden furniture.’
Markby parked the car in an area marked Visitors Only. As they got out, he pointed across the lot to one of the warehouses. ‘There’s one of those office supply places. That’s where I bought my box of paper. Just imagine how many individuals and how many businesses that supplies with paper in Bamford alone.’
Rusticity lay at the far end of the trading estate and proved to be a low building bearing the name and, in smaller print beneath, the words: S. Poole and E. Pritchard, Props. A small yard alongside the building was filled with lengths of wood and completed items of furniture. Prospective customers had to pick their way between the contents with care. There were plenty of splinters ready to embed themselves in the flesh of the unwary. A battered white
van was parked by the entrance, the name of the firm painted on its side.
van was parked by the entrance, the name of the firm painted on its side.
Meredith and Alan inspected the random collection of tables and seats. The hallmark of the design appeared to be the use of ‘natural’ – looking wood, complete with bark, knotholes and minor damage.
‘It’s well made,’ said Markby, testing a rustic bench.
‘Nothing goes out of here that isn’t properly made,’ said a voice behind them. ‘We’re craftsmen. We’re proud of our work.’
The speaker moved into view. He was youngish man in his thirties with thinning hair and very fair eyebrows. A stub of pencil protruded above one ear.
‘You run the business?’ Markby asked.
‘I run it with a partner. I’m Steve Poole.’ He held out a work-callused hand and Markby shook it. ‘Do you want to see the workshop?’ Poole offered, nodding towards the building behind them.
‘Yes, we do. We’ve just seen some of your furniture in the gardens at Overvale House.’
The fair eyebrows twitched. ‘We made that set to order for Mr Jenner. We make anything you like to order.’ He turned and led them into the workshop.
Inside it was cool and the air was filled with the smell of timber and the sound of hammering. The floor was covered with a thin layer of sawdust, chippings, and, despite a notice requesting No Smoking, squashed cigarette butts. In a corner another man was busy making what appeared to be a bird table.
‘That’s Ted,’ said Poole. ‘He’s the other half of the business.’
Ted stopped his work and looked up. Like his business partner, he wore dusty work clothes and he was about the same age as Poole. But in appearance he provided a startling and even comic contrast. Poole was lanky and pale, of sober appearance. A regular Eeyore, Meredith had judged him. Ted, on the other hand, had a round impish face with a snub nose and curly fair hair. He had a countryman’s complexion of red cheeks and tanned skin. If Poole
suggested gloomy spirits, Ted suggested the life and soul of the party. Such people could prove a mixed blessing.
suggested gloomy spirits, Ted suggested the life and soul of the party. Such people could prove a mixed blessing.
‘Hello,’ he hailed them affably. ‘What can we do for you, eh?’ He grinned widely at them, revealing a gap in his front teeth. Somehow this increased his likeness to one of those corbel heads in medieval churches which, from high up in the roof, pull their stone faces into all manner of grimaces at the hapless worshippers below.
They asked if they could inspect his work and he stood back to allow them a good view of it, his hands on his hips.
‘Not so much a bird table,’ said Markby in admiration, ‘more a desirable residence!’
The feeding table itself was a flat surface. At each corner of it stood little pillars supporting a roof in Chinese style with tip-tilted ends and covered with flat wooden tiles. An ornamental frieze ran along the top.
‘It’s designed to be practical. You can hang things from the roof,’Ted pointed out to him. ‘Like bits of fat, nets of peanuts, the stuff the birds eat. But it’s not a house. They can’t go nesting there. That’s not what it’s for!’
‘Well, no,’ Markby sounded slightly abashed. ‘I realize that. I wasn’t being facetious. I meant only that it’s a splendid piece of work. I’ve a bird table in my backyard but it’s a primitive thing compared with this.’
Ted stretched out his hand and passed it over the nearest gable in a gesture which was almost like affection. ‘I do a good job. I take pride in it, see? I can make you a nesting box, if you want one. But you don’t want to put a nesting box over a feeding table, mate. You see that sometimes. It’s a waste of time. A nesting bird needs a bit of peace and quiet, not a lot of sparrows and starlings scrabbling for seed right under it as it sits on the eggs.’
‘Do you have a catalogue?’ Meredith asked him.
Ted looked at Steve, who scratched his sparsely covered skull and shook his head. ‘They haven’t come yet from the printer’s. If you want, you can leave your address and I’ll send you one.’
‘Yes, we’d like that.’
Steve removed the pencil stub from above his ear and asked, ‘You got a bit of paper? If not, no matter. I got plenty in the office.’
The office was presumably the area shielded from the work floor by makeshift partitions. But Meredith had a notebook in her bag. She tore out a clean sheet and with Steve’s pencil wrote out her name and address.
Steve read it through carefully, folded it and stuffed it in his pocket. The pencil stub was returned to its home above his ear.
‘Thank you for showing us round,’ Markby told them.
‘Come again!’ said Ted.
Ted and Steve stood side by side and watched them leave.
‘Do you know what, Ted?’ said Steve when they’d left. ‘I know that feller.’
‘That right?’ said Ted, taking up his hammer and beginning to whistle through the gap in his front teeth.
‘He’s a copper.’ Steve’s face twisted into disapproval. ‘I don’t like them. It’s never a good idea to have them hanging round.’
Hammer aloft to strike a nail, Ted paused, then turned towards his partner. ‘Why? You haven’t got anything to worry about, have you? What sort of copper? How do you know?’
‘Seen him before, years ago. He used to be in charge over at Bamford police station. A chief inspector he was back then. Then I heard he’d got promoted and he left, went over to that big HQ building they’ve got over beyond Cheriton. He’ll be something important by now, I reckon.’ Steve sniffed. ‘They’re always canny, are coppers. They don’t let on who they are when you meet them off duty. They know people don’t cotton to them. He let that woman write out her name but he didn’t give his. Mitchell, she’s called.’ Steve slapped his pocket in which the paper with Meredith’s address resided. ‘But he’s called Markby. What do you reckon he was doing up at Overvale House?’
Ted shrugged and struck the nail with an unerring aim. He picked up another and placed it carefully. The hammer was raised again.
‘But then,’ said Steve with concentrated distaste, ‘I don’t suppose old Jenner deals with the small fry. If he’s got a problem, he’ll call in the top brass and top brass will come running for someone like Mr Jenner!’
Clunk
! The hammer missed the nail and hit the wood. Ted swore. ‘If you’d stop rabbiting on about Jenner and some copper, I’d be able to concentrate and not go hitting my thumb!’ He put the bruised digit to his mouth.
! The hammer missed the nail and hit the wood. Ted swore. ‘If you’d stop rabbiting on about Jenner and some copper, I’d be able to concentrate and not go hitting my thumb!’ He put the bruised digit to his mouth.
‘All right, all right,’ said Steve placatingly. ‘There’s no law against being curious and no law against not liking coppers. I’ll get out of your way, then.’
‘You can clear the table, Mrs Whittle,’ said Alison on Saturday morning. ‘I don’t think Fiona will be down for any breakfast.’
‘I don’t understand,’ grumbled her husband, ‘how young people can lie in bed so long of a morning! You’d think they’d want to be up and about. They’re supposed to have energy, for goodness’ sake!’
‘Fiona is up and about,’ Toby said, sneaking the last piece of toast from the tray Mrs Whittle had just picked up. ‘Saw her earlier,’ he added indistinctly.
Jenner glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Earlier? Good Lord. It’s only half past nine now. If she got up, why didn’t she come down and join us?’
‘She went out,’ said Toby.
‘Out?’ Jenner and his wife both stared at the speaker in surprise. ‘Out where?’ Fiona’s father demanded.
Toby shook his head. ‘No idea. That is, I think she’s gone out for an early morning run. She had running pants and a red sweatshirt on and she was jogging away from the house. It was about eight, a little after? I saw her from the bathroom window.’ Toby swallowed his toast and looked wistful. ‘If she’d said she
was going for a run, I’d have turned out a little earlier and joined her.’
was going for a run, I’d have turned out a little earlier and joined her.’
‘You saw her at eight? She’s been gone a long time for a run. What’s she doing, running right round the estate? Well, I suppose I should be glad she’s keen to keep fit,’ Jenner muttered. He stood up and picked up his newspaper. As he did, some commotion could be heard outside in the hall.
Mrs Whittle returned, flustered. ‘Here’s Stebbings,’ she said. ‘I made him take his boots off and he’s making no end of fuss. But I wasn’t having him walk over my clean floor in dirty boots! He says he’s got to see you, sir, right away! It won’t wait!’
She had scarcely finished speaking before the gaunt hirsute figure of Stebbings appeared. He wasn’t wearing his waxed jacket, only his shirt and a thick knit pullover with holes in the elbows, and his trouser legs were soaked with water up to his knees. His wet socks had left dark footprints on the parquet. He ignored everyone except his employer.
‘You’d best come, sir. There’s been an – accident.’ He had paused fractionally before the last word and glanced briefly at the other two.
Jenner pushed back his chair and asked sharply, ‘What sort of accident? Where?’
‘It’s not far.’ Stebbings’ expression grew mulish. ‘I’ll tell you about it as we go, sir.’
‘You can tell us now, Harry, don’t be silly!’ said Alison unexpectedly.
‘I don’t want to be the one to bring you bad news, ma’am,’ returned Stebbings.
‘Out with it, Harry!’ ordered Jenner.
Stebbings shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s the young lady, sir. Miss Fiona.’
They all crowded towards him, expressing dismay and shock and asking questions at the same time.
Mrs Whittle, who had lingered in the hall, was heard to demand, ‘What are you on about, Harry Stebbings?’
But Stebbings wasn’t going to divulge any more. He simply turned and strode out. They followed, pausing impatiently while Stebbings resumed his boots at the kitchen door. Jeremy Jenner was growing angrier by the second.
‘Speak up, man! What’s happened? Where is my daughter?’
Stebbings didn’t reply but strode on and they hurried after him.
They were making directly across the lawns and appeared to be heading downhill towards the lake. After three glorious spring days of sunshine, the wind had moved round and brought with it echoes of the departed winter. The sky was clouded over and beneath it the lake was a dull grey disc absorbing the light and reflecting none of it. As they neared it there was a flap of wings and the goose rose from the water’s surface and flew, honking agitatedly, across the landscape towards the horses’ paddock. Above it, it turned back towards the lake and landed on the small island in the middle.
‘It’s got Spike upset,’ Alison exclaimed. ‘Is Fiona hurt, Harry? Why won’t you say?’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Jenner snapped. ‘What’s happened to my daughter? Have you gone deaf, Stebbings?’
But Toby had spotted something ahead of them and broken into a run straight past the gardener towards the lake. Stebbings watched him, muttering into his beard. Jenner and his wife also began to run forward. The Labrador, Betsy, who’d followed, lumbered behind Alison. All arrived at the lake to see Toby on his knees beside Stebbings’ waxed jacket which lay on the ground near the jetty, covering something.
Jenner stopped, put out his arm and seized his wife’s elbow. ‘No, Ally, you stay here. Please. Hold the dog.’ The words were barked out as an order.
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