Chapter Two

“Perhaps she’s gone to bed,” Kennedy suggested. “Shall I try the knocker?”

“The hall lights are on,” Martin pointed out. “And anyway, it’s only just gone eleven o’clock.”

After Christine Bodley had left him, Martin dug Detective-Sergeant Kennedy from his digs and told him that they were going to interview David Walker. To their surprise the Manager of The Crown told them that David had settled his bill earlier that evening and moved out. Martin had decided to try Gameswood House on the off-chance that he had gone home to try and patch things up with his wife. It was astonishing how often married couples, after an apparently final break, will fall into each other’s arms again.

Kennedy’s hand was already on the knocker when Martin put a hand on his arm. Through the door he had heard the tap of a woman’s heels on the parquet flooring inside. A second later the door was opened. Evelyn Walker stood there, the light behind her so that her face was in shadow. Even so, something about the droop of her shoulders and the limp way her arms hung at her sides warned Martin.

“Good evening, Mrs. Walker. Is your husband here by any —”

She had put one hand against her brow and with the other was groping for support against the door frame.

“What is it?” Martin shot a quick glance at Kennedy, who moved forward. “What’s happened?”

“My husband’s — dead.” She spoke in the flat voice of someone who is still in shock. “He’s — he’s committed suicide —”

Abruptly her arms dropped limply again and her knees began to buckle. Kennedy, already on the move, was in time to catch her and prevent her inert body from slumping onto the stone steps. He swept her off her feet and held her in his arms, one hand hanging and her head drooping over his forearm.

“Take her into the house,” Martin told him. He followed Kennedy in and closed the door. “The drawing-room will do.”

The Inspector had noted that the lights in the drawing-room were full on. He entered before the laden Kennedy and his eyes quickly surveyed the room, his keen sense of smell picking up the tang of a recently-smoked cigarette. The cigarette case lying open on the table by the telephone caught his attention. He went over and looked down at it without touching it.

“You’d better stay with her,” he told Kennedy, who had deposited Evelyn on the sofa.

He went out into the hall, mentally bracing himself to face whatever he was going to find. Suicides seldom made as clean a job of killing themselves as they hoped. The lights burning in the study opposite told him that he would not have to look far.

Three minutes later Kennedy found him standing behind the body slumped over the desk, the suicide note held in his hand. The eyes of the two men met, but they said nothing. Even for a policeman it always took a little while to adjust to the spectacle of violent death. Kennedy walked into the room slowly, taking care not to move or disturb any object till the photographers had recorded the scene.

After a minute Martin looked up, his face bleak.

“How is she?”

“Not too bad, considering. It must have been a hell of a shock finding him like this.” Kennedy nodded at the body. “How long do you think he’s been dead?”

“Not long, I should say. But that’s only a guess. We’ll see what the doctor says.”

“Apparently she didn’t even know he was in the house.” Kennedy noted Martin’s sceptical expression. He went on: “She suddenly saw his cigarette case on the table in the lounge and went to look for him.”

“I see,” Martin commented in a non-commital voice. “Right, Harry. Get the station to lay things on. Oh, and ask them to call The Grapevine and tell Andy Mason what’s happened. I expect he’ll want to be with his sister.”

“Right.” Kennedy moved towards the door. “I’ll use the ‘phone in the hall.”

Martin read the note through once more. Then he took an envelope from his pocket, folded the note and placed it inside. He put the envelope in his pocket and with another quick glance round the study went across to the drawing-room.

Evelyn was sitting up on the settee, bent forward with her head in her hands. She seemed unaware of Martin’s presence as he stood before her looking down on to her dishevelled blonde hair. He was on the verge of saying something, then changed his mind. His eyes had located the drinks cupboard on his first visit to the house. He crossed towards it, found a bottle of whisky, poured a small measure into a glass and added a little water.

When he turned back he found that she was looking at him, her lips working and tears misting her eyes. He handed her the glass.

“You’d better drink this, Mrs. Walker.”

“Thank you.” She took the glass gingerly. He stood watching her as she sipped the drink.

“I’m sorry to worry you at a time like this, but I’m afraid there are one or two questions I’ve got to ask you.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, and seemed to make an effort to put a brave face on it.

“I’d — I’d rather tell you now anyway, and get it over with.”

“Tell me what, Mrs. Walker?”

“My husband committed suicide because he . . .” She broke off, closed her eyes tight in mental pain, then continued with evident distress and difficulty. “ . . .found out . . . I’ve been having an affair with Roy Norton. David came home early from the office one afternoon and we . . . Roy and I . . . were upstairs and . . .” She put a hand to her brow again and her mouth trembled.

“I don’t think it’s quite as simple as that, Mrs. Walker,” Martin said, very reasonably and quietly.

She looked up sharply, a sudden alertness in her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Your husband left a note . . .”

“A note?”

“It was addressed to his partner, Arthur Eastwood. The note said he’d been friendly with Judy Clayton — the girl I spoke to you about — and that she’d been blackmailing him.”

“David?” She shook her head emphatically. “I can’t believe that!”

“I’m only telling you what’s in the note. It said she’d been blackmailing him and because of that . . . he killed her.”

“He . . .” Evelyn appeared to be stunned by the statement. “I don’t believe it! I — I just don’t believe it!”

“Why don’t you believe it?”

“Because David wasn’t like that,” she told him indignantly, “and if he’d been friendly with anyone I’d have known about it.”

“Would you, Mrs. Walker?” Martin paused before putting the question. “When did you last see your husband?”

“This morning — you were here. He came to collect his things.”

“Did he say he might possibly be returning for something, later in the day?”

She finished the drink. Martin bent to take the glass from her. He took it back to the drinks cupboard.

“No,” she said, watching him with a worried frown. “He simply told me what I already knew. That he was staying at The Crown and if I wanted to get in touch with him I could ring the office.”

“Have you been in touch with him — since this morning, I mean?”

“No.” She put the handkerchief to her eyes again and struggled for a moment to control herself. “No, I haven’t.”

Martin sat down in the armchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. Kennedy had had the good sense to switch on the imitation coal fire.

“Tell me about this evening, Mrs. Walker. What time was it when you left the house?”

“It was about six o’clock. Roy — Mr. Norton — picked me up outside his office and drove over to Chertsey to see some friends.”

“Go on.”

“We had a few drinks with them and then we drove back to Guildfleet and had dinner at The Bear.”

“Just the two of you?”

“Yes.”

“What time would that be?”

“It was about half-past seven when we got there.” She had recovered her composure now and was speaking with more assurance. “I don’t know what time it was when we left, probably about ten o’clock.”

“And Mr. Norton brought you home, presumably?”

“Yes,” she said and then added quickly: “but he didn’t come in the house —” She stopped, having obviously remembered something. She was sufficiently in control of herself now to give him a weak smile. “Inspector, would you do something for me? Would you telephone my brother and tell him what’s happened?”

“That’s already been taken care of,” Martin reassured her. He had been observing her performance with interest and not a little admiration. “Just one more question, Mrs. Walker. Was Mr. Norton with you the entire evening from the moment he picked you up until he brought you home?”

“Why, yes.” Her eyes had widened innocently. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you.” Martin stood up and offered her a hand to help her rise. “Now I suggest you go upstairs and lie down for a little while, Mrs. Walker. I’ll let you know the moment your brother gets here.”

If Martin’s flat had aroused the disapproval of the tidy-minded Christine Bodley, his office at the Guildfeet Police Station would have brought a beam of approval to her generously fleshed face. The morning sunlight slanting through the clear window panes brought reflections from the well-polished desk, filing cabinet and cupboard.

The most untidy object in the room, in fact, was Martin’s guest. Arthur Eastwood was sitting uncomfortably on the single leather easy-chair, which was so slippery that his bottom kept sliding forward. He looked tired and dejected and his tweed suit was more crumpled than ever. He was staring at the note which had been left on David’s typewriter, holding it at arm’s length to compensate for his long-sightedness.

“But this note’s typed and the signature could be anybody’s!” he protested.

Seated behind his desk, Martin leaned forward to retrieve the note which Arthur Eastwood had put on the far edge.

“That’s not what you said a moment ago when I first showed it to you. You said . . .”

“I said it like his signature. Well — it does, I suppose. But damn it all, one word — ‘David’. Anybody could copy that! I could do it myself?”

Arthur put his hands on the arms of the chair to heave himself into a more upright position.

“So you don’t think he was responsible for the note?”

“No, I don’t! I don’t think he typed it, I don’t think he signed it, and I don’t think he committed suicide! And what’s more, I don’t think you think so either!”

“Well, one thing we do know, his death certainly wasn’t an accident, so if he didn’t commit suicide there’s only one alternative. Murder.” Martin refolded the note, replaced it in its envelope and put it away in one of his desk drawers. “We have a motive for suicide, but I doubt very much whether we have a motive for murder. Have you any idea why anyone should want to murder him?”

“No.” Mention of murder had shocked Arthur. Now the Inspector had used the word three times and each time Arthur had reacted with a tremor of the flesh round his eyes. “No, I haven’t. I just can’t imagine why. . . .”

He broke off as Martin pushed his chair back, moved out from behind his desk and went to lean with one elbow on the filing cabinet.

“Mr. Eastwood, what happens in your business when you have a hunch about something, yet all the available facts seem to make nonsense of it?”

“I lose sleep.”

Martin had to smile at Eastwood’s gloomy admission. “Yes, well — if it’s any consolation to you, I’m losing sleep right now.” “What does that mean, Inspector?”

“It means that although I sympathise with your feelings, although there’s a doubt in my mind about . . .”

“About whether he committed suicide?”

“Yes. The fact speak for themselves. And the facts tell us, quite clearly, that David Walker knew Judy Clayton. That he knew her long before he picked her up in his car last Tuesday morning.”

Arthur shook his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t go along with that. So far as I’m concerned, that’s just supposition.”

“Well, if it’s supposition, how do you account for her having the key-ring? Do you really think she stole it? How do you account for the fact that she had photographs of him in a cabinet by the side of her bed? And how do you account for the fact that she actually had an appointment to meet someone that morning — at ten-thirty, at precisely the spot where David Walker picked her up?”

The battery of questions had reduced Arthur to complete silence. He dropped his eyes to the floor and put his hands on his knees.

“I still don’t think he knew her,” he persisted doggedly, and pushed himself to his feet, “and I still don’t think he committed suicide.”

Martin turned as knuckles rapped sharply on the door. A police clerk in uniform came in with a fistful of documents. Martin watched with resignation as P.C. Reeves put the pile on his desk. There would be at least two hours’ work in that lot, he thought.

“Tell Sergeant Kennedy I’d like a word with him,” he told Reeves as the clerk was leaving.

“I’m afraid he’s out, sir.” Reeves glanced at Arthur then back at Martin. “Mrs. Bodley, Judy Clayton’s landlady, ‘phoned and said she wanted to see him.”

“When was this?”

“About an hour ago, sir.”

Martin nodded dismissal and the door closed on P.C. Reeves. He sat down at his desk again and picked up the top paper on the pile. It was the post mortem report on David Walker.

Arthur, who had been hoping to make his escape, pricked up his ears as Martin read aloud the key sentences from the report.

“Death must have been instantaneous because there seems to be little doubt that the bullet penetrated’ . . . Yes, well we know the cause of death all right . . . ‘As far as I ascertain, Mr. Walker died between eight and nine o’clock’ . . .” He looked up at Arthur. “Let’s say eight — that’s about two hours after you ‘phoned him at The Crown.”

“Yes.” Arthur had started to nod agreement. Then his jaw dropped. “But . . . I didn’t mention any ‘phone call . . .”

Martin agreed smilingly. “I know you didn’t. But I understand you made one. Tell me about the call, sir. Did Mr. Walker sound perfectly normal?”

“Yes.” Arthur’s voice was slightly resentful, as if he felt that he was being spied on. “So far as I could tell he appeared to be the same as usual. We had quite a lengthy discussion.”

“About what, sir?”

Arthur hesitated, then decided to sit down in the slippery chair again. “Well, very much between ourselves, Inspector, the Stenhouse Corporation are trying to buy us out. I spent a couple of hours in London yesterday afternoon discussing the deal and — well, that’s what David and I talked about.”

“I see. Mr. Walker didn’t mention his wife at all?”

“No. There was no reason why he should.”

“Mrs. Walker isn’t concerned with the business? She’s not involved in the takeover in any way?”

“No, not at all. Although . . .” Arthur paused, startled at the thought which Martin’s question had planted in his mind. “I don’t quite know what’s going to happen now, of course. I imagine she’ll inherit his shares, in which case . . .” He gave a deep sigh. “Anyhow, we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Martin nodded. He swung his chair sideways and crossed his legs. It was somehow a more friendly and informal attitude.

“It’s really no business of mine, sir, so forgive my asking but — would you say Mr. Walker was a wealthy man?”

“It depends what you mean by wealthy, of course.” Arthur gave him a straight look and nodded. “But yes, I’d say he was wealthy.”

“Thank you, Mr. Eastwood.” Arthur waited, but to his surprise the Inspector seemed to have no more questions. He stood up and Martin did the same. They were half way to the door when Martin seemed to remember something. “Oh, there’s just one point, sir. Did Mr. Walker tell you he was leaving the hotel?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“And yet soon after your ‘phone call he paid his bill and checked out.”

“Yes, and I find that very odd . . .” Arthur stopped. He resented the way Martin threw these questions at him, catching him unawares.

“Go on, sir.”

“Well, just before I rang off I said to him: ‘How are you, David? Are you comfortable?”

“And what did he say?”

“He said: ‘Yes, I’m fine, Arthur. They’re looking after me very well here.”

“I see.”

Martin was looking at him with his thoughtful blue eyes when the door was opened and Sergeant Kennedy came in. He was wearing his overcoat and his face was flushed, either from the wind or suppressed excitement.

“I’m sorry, sir, I thought . . .”

“That’s all right. Come in. You know Mr. Eastwood?” “Good morning, Sergeant.”

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Martin told his assistant, and ushered Arthur Eastwood out into the corridor.

Kennedy swiftly drew from his overcoat pocket a thick wad of banknotes, held together by a wide rubber band. He put them on the corner of the desk and had just time to remove his overcoat and hang it up before the Inspector returned.

“Well, what did Mrs. Bodley want?”

Kennedy, with the expression of an amateur conjurer who is about to produce his first rabbit from a top-hat, contented himself with pointing towards the wad of notes.

“Good Lord!” Martin stared at the notes in disbelief. “What have you done — robbed a bank? How much is there?”

Kennedy, watching his chiefs face carefully, grinned with pleasure at his reaction.

“Three hundred quid. Mrs. Bodley found the money under Judy Clayton’s mattress. The notes were apparently intended for a friend of hers. Someone called Victor.”

The Sergeant moved across and picked up the wad again. He held it so that Martin could see the small piece of paper inserted under the elastic. The name ‘Victor’ had been scribbled on it.

“Victor,” Martin repeated, scratching his chin. “I’ve heard that name before. Quite recently.”

“When Mrs. Bodley told me about the money, I had an idea.” Kennedy’s young face had adopted its ‘great detective’ expression. “A theory, in fact. You know what I think?”

“No,” Martin answered automatically. He was still trying to locate that name in his mind and was not really listening to the Sergeant.

“David Walker was telling the truth. Judy Clayton blackmailing him, but not on her own. It’s my bet she was working for somebody, somebody called Victor. It’s my bet she received instructions from this man and every so often . . .” He stopped and glared at the Inspector accusingly. “You’re not listening to me! You haven’t heard a word I’ve said!”

“I’ve got it!” Martin exclaimed. “Olive — the barmaid at The Grapevine! That’s where I heard the name Victor! I knew damn well I . . .” He put a hand on Kennedy’s arm and gripped it. “Harry, get your coat!”

“What do you mean, get it?” Kennedy was still feeling hurt at the scant attention given to his theory. “It’s there! On the peg.”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” Martin said, steering him towards the coat rack. “I might even buy you a sandwich.”

“You’re on!” Kennedy replied swiftly. “And it’s going to be smoked salmon!”

Like many innkeepers whose trade had been hit when the breathalyser was introduced Andy Mason had tried to recoup the lost income by serving snacks. It had turned out to be such a good thing that he had kept it up, even when the motoring public had reconciled itself to living — and drinking — with the new law. A good many Guildfleet people made a regular habit of lunching at The Grapevine and at mid-day one end of the lounge bar was set aside for those who wanted to eat their food sitting down. Martin and Kennedy were ensconced at a table in the corner congratulating themselves on having got there early enough to secure a table. The place was rapidly filling up.

Kennedy’s face brightened as he saw the opulent form of Olive making her way towards them with a tray.

“There isn’t any smoked salmon left, I’m afraid,” she said, standing in front of their table. “I’ve brought you ham and tongue. I hope that’s all right?”

The Sergeant’s face fell, but Martin nodded with a grin. “Yes, that’s fine.”

“You said a pint of bitter?”

“That’s right,” said Kennedy. “Thank you.”

She put the tankard in front of him and put the sandwiches down between the two men.

“And what was yours? You said a tonic water, but you must mean a gin and tonic.”

“No,” Martin said. “Just a plain tonic, Olive.”

“You’re sure it won’t go to your head?”

Martin laughed. “You keep cracks like that for that wealthy boy friend of yours!”

Olive, who had started back towards the bar to fetch Martin’s drink, turned to look at him scornfully.

“Are you kidding? If I had a wealthy boy friend I wouldn’t be on this lark!”

“Come off it, Olive! I was here the other night when you got back from Town — you were loaded with parcels!” Martin gave Kennedy a wink. “This boy friend of her’s took her up to London, bought her half Oxford Street, and then . . .”

“What d’you mean, took me up to London!” Olive protested. “I took myself up! And those presents you’re on about were on dear old Victor.”

“I know. It’s Victor I’m talking about, Olive.”

Olive stared at him for a moment, completely non-plussed. Then she put her head back and gave a rich, throaty laugh which made half the men in the bar look round.

“What’s the joke?” Kennedy asked, when she paused to wipe her eyes.

Olive, speaking loudly enough to share the joke with everyone within earshot, announced: “For your information, Mr. Know-all, Victor has long ears and four legs and he came in at eight to one! And thank God he did!”

Still laughing, she presented her back and began to push her way to the bar. Kennedy, seeing Martin’s expression of discomfiture, burst out laughing himself.

“A horse!”

“Yes.” Martin’s face was suddenly serious. He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Kennedy. “This afternoon check every betting shop in Guildfleet, in the county if necessary.”

“Why?” The Sergeant’s mirth was checked when he realised what kind of an afternoon lay ahead of him. “Why do that, for Pete’s sake?”

“I want to know if Judy Clayton played the horses.”

It was half-past five and the civilian clerical staff were going off duty before Kennedy at last showed up in Martin’s office. He was looking tired but satisfied.

“Any luck?” Martin asked, getting up from his desk. “Yes. Your hunch was right.”

The Sergeant took off his overcoat and hung it up. Then he sat down in the leather arm-chair, put his notebook on the arm and placed a newspaper, open at the sporting page, on his knees.

“I checked both the betting shops in Guildfleet and then in every town within a radius of ten miles. Nearly all of them recognised her photo. She must have made a packet during the past twelve months. And if she’d put that three hundred on Victor . . .”

“Which was obviously the intention,” Martin interposed. “. . . she’d have really cleaned up.”

Martin perched himself on the end of his desk and contemplated his assistant with approval. “Well, she certainly knew how to pick winners.”

“Somebody did,” Kennedy said, with heavy emphasis. “What does that mean?”

“I found out something.” The Sergeant flipped open his notebook. “Something that will really interest you. Of course, it may be just a coincidence.”

“Let’s have it.”

“Six months ago Judy Clayton backed a horse called Fairmount. It won the Arlington Stakes. The odds were six to one. At the time, Fairmount was owned and trained by a man called Reams — Colonel Reams.”

“Go on.”

Kennedy consulted his notebook, running his index finger under the neatly written entries as he proceeded.

“Two weeks after winning five hundred pounds on Fairmount she put sixty quid on a horse called Jester’s Cap — a rank outsider. Ridden by Fred Clarke, trained by Colonel Reams, it ran in the Winstanely Stakes at Newmarket — ran being the understatement of the year. It romped home at thirty to one.”

“Good God!” Martin murmured.

Kennedy closed his notebook, satisfied now that he had really astonished the Inspector.

“To my knowledge she’s had six winners during the past eight months and, with one exception, every horse had been trained by the same man.”

“Colonel Reams?”

“Yes.”

“Who is this Colonel Reams?”

“He lives near Guildfleet, but his racing stables are on Kingswood Downs.”

“Kingswood Downs? But that’s very near the spot where . . .”

“Where David Walker picked up Judy Clayton,” Kennedy finished the sentence for him. “Yes, I know. I said you’d be interested.”

Sergeant Kennedy, at the wheel of the CID car, slowed virtuously as he approached the ‘Yield’ sign at the Golden Swan crossroads. The Inspector, who was in the passenger seat beside him was a stickler for the police driving code. He waited till the major road was clear then accelerated across. The road soon began to climb gently as it wound its way through the predominantly agricultural countryside. Ahead and to the right the low profile of Kingswood Downs rose above the cultivated fields.

The entrance to Colonel Reams’ training stables was easy to identify by the white-painted ranch-style fencing on either side of the gates. A well-kept drive led to the buildings, which stood half a mile back from the road. In the fields on either side aristocratic-looking race-horses were grazing, their coats glistening in the morning sun. Kennedy stopped the car opposite a square yard, lined on three sides with stables and open on the fourth. Opposite, again enclosed with gleaming white fencing, was the paddock.

The heads of a dozen horses, looking out over the tops of their stable doors, turned curiously towards the car. In front of one open door a young woman was just in the act of throwing a saddle over a horse. She was wearing a black sweater and a well-cut pair of riding breeches. As she looked round to see who the intruders were, Kennedy’s lips were forming to give a low whistle of appreciation.

“Good heavens!” Martin exclaimed. “I think it’s Ruth Jensen!”

“Do you know her?” Kennedy asked with a touch of envy. “Yes, I was at school with her husband. He died about two years ago.”

The Sergeant’s eyes had not left the trim figure of the girl, who was stooping to tighten the girths.

“Quite a pretty girl.”

“Yes, she’s a great friend of Sue’s,” Martin said, with a hand on the door catch. “You wait here.”

Martin got out of the car and took a look around to give himself an idea of the general layout of the place. A group of low buildings, which probably contained the offices, lay a hundred yards beyond the stables. As he walked towards her, the girl finished fastening the straps. She gave the horse a pat on the neck and turned to meet Martin. Immediately her wind-tanned face broke into a smile of welcome. Martin took off his hat, and returned her smile.

“Ruth Jensen, of all people! What are you doing here?” Ruth laughed. “I was just going to say the same thing!” Martin went up to her and gave her a friendly kiss on the cheek. “I’m looking for the man who owns this place — Colonel Reams.”

“He’s my boss.” Ruth jerked her head towards the low buildings he had noticed. “You’ll find him in the office.”

“But how long have you been here, Ruth? I thought Sue told me you were working in London.”

“I was, for a time, but I got fed up with it. I couldn’t stand the journey every day. I’ve been here about eighteen months now.” “As long as that?”

Ruth met his eyes and her mouth dropped a little at the corners. “Yes, it’s over three years since Phil died, you know.”

“Really? Good heavens, I’d no idea it was that long.”

For a moment she stared unseeingly across the paddock, then smiled again and changed the subject. “How’s Sue? Have you seen her recently?”

“Yes, I saw her the other day,” Martin said casually, “just for a few minutes. She appears to be all right.”

“I was sorry, Martin, when I heard,” she hesitated, trying to find words that would not sound too brutal, “what had happened.”

He shrugged. “It was inevitable, I’m afraid. I don’t blame Sue — I don’t blame myself even — it just didn’t work out, Ruth.”

She moved quickly to hold the horse’s bridle as an open MGB roared up from the direction of the main entrance. It braked beside the CID car, then the driver, seeing Martin talking to Ruth, swung into the stable yard and stopped beside them.

“What is it you want? We don’t encourage visitors here, you know.”

Martin did not react to the insulting tone of the young man’s voice. He was in his early twenties and evidently had the highest possible opinion of himself. He wore a roll-neck sweater and a check cap. His eyes were arrogant and there was the suggestion of a permanent sneer about the set of his mouth.

“I’m here to talk to Colonel Reams,” Martin said.

The young man’s eyes ran over the Inspector’s person, somehow managing to imply that his neat hat, overcoat and well-polished shoes were indications of some inferior breed.

“If you’re selling anything — you’re wasting your time.”

“I’m not selling anything.” Martin’s manner was still unruffled. “And I rather doubt whether I’m wasting my time.”

A flicker of doubt showed in the other man’s face. He switched his attention to Ruth. His tone of voice changed to one of familiarity.

“I’ve found the key to the Land-Rover.”

He put his hand onto the passenger’s seat, picked up a key-ring and flung it towards her. It fell short, but he was already ramming the gear-lever into first. The horse reared its head up and Ruth had her hands full as the MG, its wheels spinning, accelerated away. Martin picked the key-ring up. As it lay in his palm he saw that it bore the familiar emblem of Cavalier Toys.

“Charming young man. Lord Kingsdown himself, I presume?” He handed her the key on its ring. Ruth took it, still glaring at the disappearing sports-car.

“That’s Tom Reams. The only blot on the horizon so far as I’m concerned.”

“Tom Reams . . . Colonel Reams’ son?”

“Nephew,” she said shortly. “I’ve almost left on two occasions because of him. But the Colonel persuaded me to stay on.

“I see. And what does Mr. Tom Reams do, exactly?”

She had begun to lead the horse towards the paddock. Martin fell into step beside her.

“That’s a good question. He’s supposed to be Colonel Reams’ assistant but he spends most of his time selling second-hand cars. He’s even trying to sell me one.” She laughed and then turned to look at him enquiringly. “What is it you want to see the Colonel about, Martin?”

“I’m making enquiries about a girl called Judy Clayton. She was murdered.”

Ruth halted. The horse champed on its bit, impatient to move on. “Judy Clayton? Oh, yes — yes, I read about it.”

“I wondered if, by any chance, she’d been here, to the stables?”

She hesitated fractionally before answering rather rapidly. “No, I — don’t think so. Not to my knowledge.”

It was the horse who gave her the excuse to avoid any further questions. It was beating a tattoo with its hind legs and tossing its head, forcing her to grip the reins tightly.

“Martin, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got half a dozen horses to exercise.”

“Yes, of course. Nice to see you again, Ruth.”

He watched her as she put a foot in the stirrup and then swung the other leg over the saddle in a lithe, fluid movement.

“Give my love to Sue if you see her,” she said, looking down at him.

“Yes. Yes, I will,” Martin said, without much hope that he would ever deliver the message. “Look, the Sergeant and I will probably be having a bite to eat at The Golden Swan. Why don’t you join us?”

“I’d like to but — not this morning, I’m afraid.”

“Well, another time, perhaps?”

“Yes, I’d love to. Goodbye, Martin.” She pulled on a rein to swing the horse round, then both rider and mount presented their back view to him.

“Goodbye, Ruth,” Martin said, watching the trim figure with a touch of wistfulness.

He was thankful that there was no sign of the MGB outside the building which Ruth had indicated. A Volvo Estate car drawn up in front of the door led him to hope that the Colonel was in his office. Leaving Kennedy to get what joy he could from the fast receding figure of Ruth Jensen he went through an empty outer office and knocked on the only door opening off it.

“Come!” a strong voice shouted from inside.

Martin walked in and found himself in a surprisingly efficient-looking room with modern furniture and office equipment. One whole wall was occupied by a bank of filing cabinets, presumably containing records of the horses trained by the Colonel. Every square foot of available wall space was covered with framed photos of past race winners, many of them being led into the winners’ enclosure by delighted owners in grey top-hats and tail-coats.

The Colonel was about forty-five with an alert, almost ruthless face. He had a carefully-trimmed moustache and neat hair. He wore a newish hacking jacket in bold check. The eyes which looked up to inspect his visitor were those of an army officer.

“Colonel Reams?”

“Yes,” the Colonel confirmed, his manner doing nothing to make things easier for a visitor.

“My name is Denson, sir. Detective-Inspector Denson. Could you spare me a few moments, sir?”

At mention of a rank in the Force, Reams pushed his chair back and stood up.

“Why, yes, of course. Sit down, Inspector.” He indicated one of the easy-chairs and sat down in the other himself. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m investigating a murder case, sir. A girl called Judy Clayton was murdered and we . . .”

“Yes, I know,” Reams interrupted, nodding. “I read about it. The chap who did it committed suicide, is that right?”

He spoke as if assuming that the case must now be closed. Martin took a photograph out of his pocket.

“There are still one or two loose ends to be tied up, sir.” He handed Reams the photo. “This is a photograph of Miss Clayton.”

The Colonel gave the photograph a brief scrutiny and then looked up.

“Well?”

“Did you ever meet her, sir?”

“Me?” Reams smiled at such an apparently ridiculous suggestion. “Good heavens, no! What makes you think I might have done?”

“I wondered if she was friendly with someone here, at the stables?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Reams shook his head and handed the photograph back to Martin.

“Would you have known about it, if she had been?”

“Yes, I think so,” Reams said confidently. “We don’t just let people drop in when they feel like it.”

“No, I don’t imagine you do, sir.”

As so often, Martin’s quiet and polite remarks, combined with the placid but somehow sceptical expression of his blue eyes, provoked a reaction.

“Look, Inspector, what’s this all about? Why are you asking me these questions?”

“During the past six months Miss Clayton made a great deal of money out of horse racing — she actually backed five winners in a row.”

“Smart girl,” Reams commented drily.

“It just so happens that the horses in question were trained by you, Colonel.”

“That makes her even smarter.” Reams recrossed his legs. “My dear Inspector, if all the people who back my horses were friendly with someone or other in my stables then, believe you me, we’d have a lot of friends.” He favoured Martin with a bland smile.

“Yes, I imagine you would, sir. But it wasn’t just the fact that she backed the horses that brought me here.”

“No?” Reams said, but he managed to look as if he was not particularly interested in the answer.

“On the day she was murdered she accepted a lift in a car. David Walker’s car.”

“The chap who committed suicide?”

“Yes. He picked her up near a pub called The Golden Swan.” “The Golden Swan? That’s just down the road.”

“Yes, I know, sir.”

Reams was frowning with concentration, very much the man who wants nothing more than to assist the police in their enquiries. “I’m beginning to see what you’re getting at. You think she might have been here, to see someone, the day she was murdered?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I must confess I didn’t see her.” Reams’ eyes patrolled the rows of photographs on the wall behind Martin. “I can’t ever remember seeing her around.”

“It was just a thought, sir. A vague idea of mine.” Martin stood up and held out his hand. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

Reams opened the office door for him and waited politely till he had gone through the outer room. As he saw the Inspector coming Kennedy started the engine.

“What’s he like?” he asked, as Martin slid into the passenger’s seat.

Martin reached up to pull the safety-belt across his chest. “I shouldn’t think he backs many losers.”

The Golden Swan was a more pretentious place than The Grapevine. Its position on a crossroads and fronting onto a main road brought a steady trade from motorists. There were two bars and a separate dining-room staffed by foreign waiters. It was just coming up to lunch-time when the police officers drew into the car park. Martin was still hoping that Ruth Jensen would change her mind and join them for lunch.

“These are on me,” Kennedy said as they entered the lounge bar. “What’ll it be?”

“A tomato juice, Harry. With a spot of Worcester sauce.” “Right. You grab that table while I get the drinks.”

Martin amused himself by watching the customers till Kennedy came towards him with a small glass of tomato juice in one hand and a pint of beer in the other.

“I take it I’m driving this afternoon.” Martin nodded at the tankard as he moved over to make room for the Sergeant’s large form.

“The car’s booked out in your name.” Kennedy took a long pull at his beer. “The dining-room’s pretty crowded, by the way; maybe we’d better reserve a table.”

“Knowing how irritable you get when you miss lunch, I’ve just done it.”

The two men had switched their minds away from the investigation, a form of relaxation which was necessary during these tough cases which could go on for weeks. They discussed their respective holiday plans and were moving on to the costs of running a car nowadays when a girl wearing a waitress’s apron came up to their table.

“Excuse me, are you Inspector Denson, sir?”

“Yes, I am,” Martin replied, wondering how she had been able to pick him out amongst all the other customers.

“You’re wanted on the telephone.”

“Oh, thank you.” Martin finished off his tomato juice. “Where is it?”

“In the hall, sir.”

There was a telephone cubicle in the hall alongside the hotel’s reception desk. The receptionist indicaied that she had switched the call through to there. Martin closed the door and picked up the receiver.

“Denson speaking.”

“Martin? This is Ruth Jensen.”

“Why, hello, Ruth.”

“Martin, there’s something I ought to have told you this morning,” she said quickly. “I meant to tell you, but — I didn’t want to get Colonel Reams into trouble

“Is it about Judy Clayton?”

“Yes.” She paused, and when she went on the sentences came out jerkily. “I saw her, the day she was murdered. She came to the stables . . . She was with Tom Reams . . .”

Ruth’s voice had faded, as if she had turned her face away from the ’phone to look round.

“Go on, Ruth.”

“I was in the office building looking for something and Tom’s car drove into the paddock. It stopped outside the window and I could hear what they were saying. They were talking about ..” “About what? Can you speak up? We’ve got a bad line.” “About the man that . . . committed suicide.”

“David Walker?” Martin, who was always conscious that telephone conversations are the easiest to overhear, kept his voice down, despite his surprise.

“Yes. Tom said he’d heard that David Walker’s wife . . . Look, Martin, it’s difficult to talk in a call-box. I think we’d better arrange to meet somewhere.”

Martin frowned in annoyance as the sound of pips warned that Ruth had used up her time. She must have had fresh coins ready for after a few seconds he heard her voice again.

“What time do you finish work?” he asked.

“About six. I can meet you this evening if you like, in Guildfleet.”

“I can easily drive down here again if you’d like me to.”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “I’d sooner come to Guildfleet, if you don’t mind.”

“All right, let’s meet at my place. Number four, Leonard Close. It’s a mews next to Marshalls the stationers. I’m on the second floor.”

“I’ll be there about eight o’clock.”

“Right. See you then.”

Martin heard the click at the other end before he put his own receiver down. He stood for a moment, wondering why the conversation had made him feel so uneasy. Then, becoming conscious of the smell of stale cigarette smoke mingled with some kind of disinfectant spray, he pushed open the door of the booth.

The three-course set luncheon was such a good buy that the two men settled down to really enjoy their lunch. They had been in the dining-room for an hour and a half when Martin paid the bill.

Kennedy checked his watch as they crossed the car park. “Twenty to three. We should be in Guildfleet by half past —” Martin nodded and went round to the door on the driver’s side.

Kennedy pushed the passenger’s seat back, stretched his legs and folded his arms as Martin took the car out onto the road back to Guildfleet. He thought that his Sergeant was settling down for a nice sleep and was surprised when Kennedy spoke. Evidently he had been mulling over the Inspector’s account of his conversation with Ruth Jensen.

“You say she sounded worried?”

“Not just worried — tense. Almost frightened, in fact.” “How long have you known her?”

“About four or five years. She’s a great friend of Sue’s. She and her husband often used to come to the cottage.”

He pulled out to pass a long vehicle which was travelling at a good forty miles an hour. The driver flashed his lights, giving the standard signal that the passing vehicle was clear. Martin raised a hand in acknowledgment.

“Whichever way you look at it, there’s something damn funny about this case, Harry. Every time we make enquiries, every time something happens, we find ourselves back in square one.”

“Square one being?”

“That David Walker knew Judy Clayton, picked her up by arrangement, killed her, and then conveniently committed suicide.”

“And you don’t think that’s what happened?”

Martin took his eyes off the road for long enough to glance at Kennedy. “No, I don’t.”

Kennedy grunted and did not pursue the question further. A minute or two later his head dropped forward, jerked up and then dropped again. Martin smiled to himself. He did not grudge Kennedy his cat-nap. Unless he was very much mistaken the young man was going to be doing a good deal of overtime before this case was broken.

A few miles further on he noticed that the brake lights of the car he was following had flashed just before it disappeared round the bend ahead. He slowed and took the corner warily, but even at reduced speed he had to brake hard to avoid ramming the rear of the car in front. Kennedy was jerked forward against his seat-belt. He shook his head and opened his eyes.

A hundred yards ahead an articulated lorry was slewed sideways, almost completely blocking the road. Beyond it was the white shape of an ambulance. It had evidently just arrived, for the crew were dismounting and running towards the small group which had formed round something which was still invisible. Two police cars were already on the scene, their blue lights flashing.

Martin switched off his engine and got out. As he walked past the line of stationary vehicles, Kennedy was going back to wave down traffic coming round the bend. Martin saw now that one of the police officers was talking to the driver of the lorry, who was standing beside his vehicle, miserably smoking a cigarette. As he came abreast of the lorry he saw the upturned wheels of a capsised sports car. The black rubber marks and the churned up rurf at the verge told all too plainly what had happened. Near the car a human form had been completely covered by a rug. The ambulance men were trying to extricate someone else from the wreckage.

The policeman standing beside the driver was about to tell Martin to keep back when he recognised the Inspector.

“Good afternoon, sir.” He saluted and Martin nodded acknowledgment. “It shouldn’t be long now. They’re just getting the passenger out, then we can get the lorry away and let you through.”

“It looks pretty serious,” Martin said.

“The driver — a young chap called Tom Reams — was killed.” He gestured towards the still form under the blanket. “And I must say, he bought it! Driving like a maniac. We don’t know about the passenger yet.”

Martin’s interest had sharpened at mention of Tom Reams. He went towards the group surrounding the wrecked car and pushed his way between the half-dozen bystanders who were watching the ambulance men. They had got the second victim out of the car and onto a stretcher. It was a woman. Martin just had time to recoognise the features of Ruth Jensen before one of the ambulance men closed her eyes and pulled the sheet over her face.

He watched in shocked disbelief as the stretcher was lifted and carried towards the ambulance. He just could not believe that the mangled and disfigured form was that of the girl he had seen swing herself onto the back of a horse only a few hours ago.

He was still standing on the same spot when Harry Kennedy came excitedly towards him, pushing a way through the hushed and awed little crowd.

“It’s Tom Reams’ car! Is he —?”

He stopped, following the direction of Martin’s eyes. The ambulance men had returned for the second body. Kennedy waited till they had put the blanketed form onto a stretcher and started back towards the ambulance.

“He’s dead?”

“They both are.”

“Both?” repeated Kennedy, who had not seen the first stretcher.

“Ruth Jensen was with him,” Martin said very quietly.

The lorry driver was just lighting yet another cigarette when Martin came over to talk to him. His hands were trembling and he looked in need of some medical attention himself.

“What happened?” Martin asked.

“Who are you?” the driver demanded, seeking relief from his shock in belligerence.

“Detective-Inspector Denson.” As he saw the man’s face register alarm he added quickly: “The lady in the car was a friend of mine.”

“A friend of yours! Oh, my God! I’m sorry, mate.” The driver shook his head and sucked air through his teeth. “But I just hadn’t a chance! He was driving like a flaming madman — wasn’t even looking where he was going. He was looking at the bird the whole time. There was nothing I could do! Honest, guy! Couldn’t do a ruddy thing.”

Martin had stopped listening to the man’s protestations. The ambulance had started up. The little group had to step back to give it room to turn. It moved off up the road without urgency, its blue light switched off. The police officers had got out their measuring tapes and were making notes on the scene of the accident, but Martin still stood there with his hat off, watching the white vehicle till it vanished round a bend.

“I knew he’d come a cropper sooner or later,” Colonel Reams said. “He used to drive like a maniac. God knows, I warned him often enough! But it was no use at all, he just didn’t want to know.”

The Colonel had taken the news with only a slight stiffening of his features. The early return of the police officers and something about their manner had warned him to prepare himself. When Martin had finished the stark announcement he turned away and stood looking out of the window of his office towards the paddock, where half a dozen horses were grazing.

Now he turned and came back into the middle of the room.

“As for Ruth . . . It’s tragic. It really is! You couldn’t have met a nicer girl . . .”

“I know,” Martin interposed. “She was a friend of my wife’s.” “I didn’t realise that.” Colonel Reams contemplated Martin with faint surprise.

“We used to see quite a lot of her at one time.”

Reams gestured towards the chairs and they all sat down. “Was Mrs. Jensen very friendly with your nephew, sir?” Kennedy asked.

Reams was caught slightly off balance by this question coming from a new quarter.

“No, they weren’t at all friendly. That’s what I don’t understand. What was Ruth doing in the car? I just can’t imagine her accepting a lift from Tom.” He was shaking his head in bewilderment as he took a cigarette from a gold case and put it in his mouth.

“Did Tom say where he was going when he left here?” Martin asked.

“No. I assumed he was going into the village for lunch. But Ruth didn’t go with him, I’m sure of that.”

“When was the last time you saw Ruth?”

Reams snapped his lighter and put the flame to his cigarette. “I saw her just before lunch, about a quarter to one. She appeared to be going for a stroll.”

“Did she say she was going for a walk?”

“No,” Reams said, slightly resentful at Martin’s questioning his opinion. “But she frequently did at lunchtime. My God, Ruth!” He ran his hand through his hair in a slightly theatrical gesture. “I still can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it, Inspector!”

Martin gave him a few moments before he sprung his next question.

“How far is the nearest ‘phone box from here?”

“The nearest ‘phone box?” Reams repeated, puzzled by the question. “It’s about a mile and a half down the road.”

“Was she walking in that direction?”

“Yes, but . . .” The Colonel pointed to the telephone on his desk. “If she’d wanted to telephone anyone she’d have used this. She frequently did.”

“But not this morning, Colonel,” Martin told him quietly.

“What do you mean?” There was a slight edge in Reams voice. Why didn’t the fellow come out with it, instead of making mysterious innuendoes?

“The Sergeant and I had lunch in the village. While we were having a drink Ruth telephoned me from a call-box. I suspect the one down the road. It was about ten past one so that ties up with what you’ve just told us.”

“But why should she use a . . .” Reams stopped and gave Martin a long, thoughtful look. “It’s none of my business, but — what did she telephone you about, Inspector?”

“About Judy Clayton,” Martin answered without hesitation. “She said she’d seen the girl — here, at the stables, talking to your nephew.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.” Reams thoughtfully extinguished his cigarette in the ash-tray. “I take it you’d previously questioned her about Miss Clayton?”

“Yes, and for some reason or other she’d lied to me.”

Reams leaned across to replace the ash-tray on his desk. He reflected for a few seconds and then gave Martin a direct look. “I think perhaps I can explain that, Inspector.”

“Then I wish you would, sir.”

A man of action all his life, Colonel Reams felt ill at ease sitting down for a conversation of this kind, especially when it was the other person who was calling the tune.

“Do you mind if we stroll down to the stables?” he asked Martin, getting to his feet. “With Ruth gone I’ll have to arrange for one of my lads to exercise her horses.”

Martin was as fond of fresh air as anyone and agreed at once. His suspicion that Reams was trying to avoid further revelations was dispelled as soon as they were outside. The Colonel picked up the thread of the conversation where they had broken it off.

“To answer your question, Inspector, I think Ruth was covering up.”

“Covering up?”

“Yes. For me.”

“You mean, you knew your nephew had seen Miss Clayton. You knew he was friendly with her?”

“Yes . . .” Reams was looking away towards the field where a stable lad was putting a bridle on one of the horses that had been grazing.

“Why didn’t you tell me that, this morning?”

“What was the point? I just didn’t see any sense in getting my nephew involved in a murder case when you already knew who had committed the murder.”

“You should have let me be the judge of that, sir.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Inspector.” The mild reproof in Martin’s voice had left Reams unmoved. He added with formality: “I apologise.”

“Now perhaps you’ll tell me the truth?”

“There isn’t a great deal to tell. Tom brought Judy Clayton here, to the stables, on two occasions. I took an instant dislike to the girl and told Tom not to have anything more to do with her. You can imagine his reaction.”

The sound of hooves from behind made Reams turn. They all drew back as a string of race horses, ridden by three lads and a young girl in jeans, trotted past. Reams watched the movement of the animals critically as they went by towards the stable yard.

“Go on, sir,” Martin prompted, as they walked on again.

“I knew he was still seeing her, of course — although he didn’t have the nerve to bring her back here, thank God! Then one morning — it was the day she was murdered — I saw the two of them in the village.”

From the other side of Reams Kennedy’s head turned in surprise. “What time was that?” the Sergeant asked.

“It was fairly early, about half-past eight, I should imagine.” “So what did you do about it?” Martin asked.

“Later in the day I told Tom I’d seen them and he said I needn’t lose any sleep over it because he’d finished with her.” “You mean — he’d broken things off?”

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

“Did he tell you why he’d broken things off?” Martin persisted, ignoring the Colonel’s irritation.

“Yes. He said she was having an affair with someone else. Someone in Guildfleet. I imagine he was referring to the chap who committed suicide — David . . . what was his name?”

“David Walker. Yes, I imagine he was, sir.” They were approaching the stable yard. The lads were dismounting and starting to remove the saddles from the horses. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me, sir, before I leave? Anything you might, perhaps, have inadvertently forgotten?”

“No, except that . . .” Reams stopped and faced Martin. “I’m very sorry about this morning. I was a damn fool. I should have told you the truth.”

“Yes, I think you should have done,” Martin agreed, his face serious.

Martin was silent as the two officers walked back to their own car, and Kennedy was puzzling over this new and unexpected turn. Neither of them spoke till they had opened the doors and were settling into their seats.

“Well,” Kennedy observed, “we’re back again where we started — with David Walker.”

“Yes. It looks like it. Someone’s determined to keep us in square one, Harry.”

The working day had ended and the employees were streaming out of the Cavalier Toys factory as Martin drove in through the gates. He had returned the CID car and Sergeant Kennedy to the police station and was driving his own vehicle.

It was easy to find a free space in the car park which was rapidly emptying. He positioned himself so that he could watch the gates and the entrance to the office block. For a few moments he watched the scene with amusement. The work-force was evacuating the premises with as much urgency as if it had been on fire. In cars, motor-cycles, bicycles and on foot they were streaming out into the main road, forcing passing traffic to stop and give them priority. Martin wondered how some of them would react to the hours a policeman is expected to work.

A man and woman emerging from the office block drew his attention. The man was holding the woman’s arm and they were so deeply absorbed in their conversation that they did not even acknowledge the salute from the uniformed commissionaire at the entrance. They got into a Jaguar and joined the line of vehicles waiting to pass through the gates.

Martin picked up an evening paper and began to glance through the headlines, keeping an eye on the office block entrance. About ten minutes later Arthur Eastwood came out of the door. He looked flustered and unhappy as he covered the short distance to the specially reserved space where his car stood waiting, not even responding to the greetings of a couple of the clerical staff who passed. He started the Rover, which was facing outwards, and Martin knew that he would be bound to come past him on his way to the gates.

He made no attempt at concealing his face nor any move to attract Eastwood’s attention. The Rover was almost abreast of Martin’s car when Eastwood glanced across, saw the Inspector watching him and braked sharply to a halt. He lowered his window.

“Hello, Inspector! Can I help you?”

“No, thank you, sir. I’m waiting for my wife.”

“Oh.” Arthur tried not to show his surprise. “Well, she shouldn’t be very long.”

“Was that Mrs. Walker I saw just now, with Mr. Norton?”

“It was,” Arthur said and at once the cause of his discomfiture was evident. “It was indeed! Incidentally, Inspector, did you know that, quite apart from running a driving school, Mr. Norton’s a financier?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Well, apparently he is,” Arthur said with irritation. “According to Eve — Mrs. Walker, he’s the Charlie Clore of Guildfleet.”

Martin smiled. “I find that difficult to believe, sir.”

“Yes, so do I.” Arthur nodded emphatic agreement and began to wind his window up. “Good night, Inspector.”

“Good night, sir.”

Martin had to wait another five minutes before he saw Sue coming out. She smiled at the commissionaire and thoughtfully descended the steps. She looked particularly attractive in a lemon-coloured suit with a gay scarf tied with careless artistry round her neck. As she began to walk towards the entrance, by now almost clear of vehicles, Martin got out of his car and began to move towards her on a converging line. He was only a few paces from her when she looked up and saw him. Martin stopped.

“Hello, Sue,” he said quietly.

“Martin!” She halted in her tracks. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you.”

As always now he saw her race harden and her eyes grow remote. “Martin, I’m sorry,” she said tightly. “I’ve got an appointment this evening . . .”

“Sue, get in the car. I’ve got something I want to tell you.”

“Martin, I’ve told you!” she said with weary exasperation. “I keep on telling you! It’s just no use your trying to persuade me to . . .”

“Sue, listen to me!” said Martin with abrupt authority. “I want to talk to you about Ruth Jensen.” He paused. He had wanted to break this to her more gently but she was giving him no chance. “She’s dead. She was killed in a road accident this afternoon.”

“Oh, no! Not Ruth!”

Sue’s hand went to her mouth and her eyes widened in shock. Martin took a step forward, put his fingers round her arm and led her towards his car.

“Sue, please get in,” he said gently, opening the passenger door for her. “I’ve got to talk to you.”

For once she let herself be persuaded. She was groping for a handkerchief as he leaned across her to fasten the passenger’s safety-belt.

Half an hour later Sue was sitting at one end of the settee in Martin’s flat, a glass of almost neat whisky in her hands. She had taken off her shoes and had her legs rucked under her. The books and records which usually occupied the settee had been dumped on the floor.

In her distress she had not questioned Martin’s suggestion to bring her back to his flat and give her a good strong drink. Now she was beginning to recover from the shock of his announcement, thanks to the drink and, though she would not admit it to herself, the concern Martin had shown for her feelings.

He had made no attempt to sit down himself and at the moment was behind her at the table where he kept his small supply of drinks. As it was past six, he allowed himself a little gin with the tonic he was pouring.

“Oh no. No doubt about the accident,” he was saying. “It was genuine all right. But the thing that puzzles me is — what was Ruth doing in the car? Unless, of course, Tom was trying to sell it to her.”

Sue’s fingers played with the brooch she was wearing on a chain round her neck. “Is that likely?”

“It’s a possibility. She said something about him dealing in second-hand cars.” He came round in front of the settee, taking one of the Cavalier key-rings from his pocket. “Sue, how many of your friends have got key-rings like this?”

Sue scarcely glanced at the ring. “Oh, practically everyone at the factory’s got one.”

“They’re not difficult to come by?”

“Good heavens, no! At Christmas we must have given dozens of them away.”

“When you say ‘we’ . . .”

“I mean Mr. Eastwood. He usually distributes them.”

“Mr. Eastwood, himself?”

“Yes. He loves to do that sort of thing. At the end of the year we usually get a bonus, and he always hands out the cheque himself.”

“I see.”

Martin picked up her jacket, which she had thrown on the arm of the settee and put it carefully over the back of a chair. “But why are you interested in the key-rings?”

“Judy Clayton had one — and so has Colonel Reams.” He held the key-ring between finger and thumb, studying it as if it could tell him something. “Tell me, had you heard of Colonel Reams before I mentioned him?”

She hesitated, shaking her head slowly. “No, I . . .don’t think so.”

“No one’s ever mentioned his name at the office?”

“Not that I . . .” Sue put her feet to the floor and sat up straight. “Wait a minute! I have a feeling Mr. Eastwood had a letter from someone called Reams.”

“When?”

“About six months ago, I should say.”

“What was the letter about — can you remember?”

She dropped her eyes and tapped the front of her forehead to jog her memory. “No, I’m afraid I can’t. All I remember is that it certainly annoyed the old boy.”

“Could you get hold of the letter?”

“Well . . . I think so. It’s probably on the file.”

“I’d be grateful if you would.”

“All right,” she said, and smiled at him for the first time. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Can I fill your glass up?”

She shook her head and handed him the empty glass. As he took it to the drinks table she really looked at the room for the first time. The place needed a thoroughly good tidying up. He ought to get a set of shelves for all those books and a cabinet for the records. The bureau looked terribly out of place stuck in the corner like that, and as for the dust —!

“Sue, about David Walker,” Martin cut in on her thoughts. “What sort of chap was he? Did you like him?”

“Yes, I did. He was a hard worker; a hard task-master at times, but I liked him.”

“Were you surprised when you heard that he’d been having an affair with Judy Clayton?”

“Very surprised, and I don’t believe it.” She slipped her feet into her shoes and stood up. She was recovering from the moment of weakness now, beginning to regret that she’d agreed to come back to his flat.

“Why don’t you?”

“I don’t believe he was friendly with her. I don’t even believe he knew the girl.”

“Then why did he kill her?”

“I don’t think he did kill her. I agree with Mr. Eastwood. I don’t think he committed the murder and I certainly don’t think he committed suicide.”

“Then what happened?”

“I — I just can’t imagine.” Sue shrugged, turned away towards the window. It was her first experience of Martin in action on a criminal investigation and she was seeing a completely new side of him. It was a strange, slightly exciting experience to be interrogated like this by a man you had lived with for years. She was well aware that just at the moment she was nothing more to him than a witness who might provide useful information. “I suppose . . .someone must have murdered both of them.”

“Tell me more about him, Sue.”

“What is it you want to know?” Her face had a hint of the old mischief in it. “Whether he made a pass at me?”

“Did he?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Did he notice you?”

“It depends what you mean by notice . . .”

“You know what I mean by notice.”

She stared at him defiantly, her fingers again playing with the brooch at her bosom.

“Yes, he noticed me.”

“Did you ever have a meal with him, or a drink perhaps?”

She had begun a tour of the small room, briefly touching objects she remembered from their old home.

“He took me to The Crown just before Christmas. We had a drink together.”

“What did you talk about?”

“His wife.”

The answer had evidently surprised Martin. He moved round so that he could see her face better.

“His wife?”

“Yes, he was crazy about her.” Something about the way she said the words told Martin that Sue’s opinion of Evelyn Walker was not high.

“Sue, I accept what you’ve told me about Walker, about the fact that you liked him. But isn’t it possible that you were mistaken and that outside the office he was quite a different person?”

“Yes, it’s possible, but — I don’t think he was.”

“And what about Mrs. Walker?”

“What about her?”

“Have you met her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know why, I always have the feeling that . . .she’s not quite what she seems to be.”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“A lot of people I know think she’s stupid, that she’s only interested in having a good time. I . . .think there’s more to her than that.”

“Yes, I know what you mean.”

Sue took her coat from the back of the chair and slipped it on. “Look, I’m sorry, I must be making a move. I’ve got an appointment this evening.”

Martin bit off his question just in time. He had been on the verge of asking her who she was supposed to be meeting.

“You won’t forget about that letter?”

“No.” Half way to the door she paused, fingering the brooch. “Reams . . . I wonder if I’m right about the name?”

“I’d be grateful if you’d check.”

He was escorting her through the hall when the brooch suddenly detached itself from the chain. Sue tried to grab it as it slid down her front. Martin, stooping with a swift reflex action, caught it just before it hit the floor.

“I see you’re still having the same old trouble.” He smiled as he handed the brooch back to her.

“Yes.” She turned it over to look at the clasp. “I keep meaning to take it in to be repaired, but somehow I never seem to get round to it.”

The trivial incident had set up some strange current between them. They stood there awkwardly for a moment, neither of them able to find the right words to part on.

Sue started as the door bell rang with sudden stridence.

“That’s probably Harry Kennedy,” Martin said, moving to twist the Yale knob. “They’ve invited me out to dinner and he’s picking me up.”

Martin managed to conceal his surprise when he opened the door and saw who his visitor was. Andy Mason’s finger was still on the bell-push. The alacrity with which the door had been opened had startled him and as he saw Sue Denson standing in the hall his expression became even more embarrassed.

“Hello, Mr. Mason!” Martin exclaimed.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Inspector, but . . .” He pretended to see Sue for the first time. “Oh, good evening, Miss — er — Mrs . . .”

“Good evening,” Sue replied with a faint smile of amusement.

“Come along in, Mr. Mason.” Martin stood back, holding the door wide and turned to Sue. “I’ll ‘phone you. Probably tomorrow afternoon.”

“All right.” She hesitated, then added: “But make it late — not before five-thirty.”

“I’ll remember that.”

Martin closed the door on her and then gave his attention to Andy Mason. “What can I do for you, Mr. Mason?”

“I’m sorry, dropping in on you like this. I should have telephoned your office and made an appointment.”

“That’s all right, don’t worry about that. Come on in.”

A faint reminder of Sue’s perfume still lingered in the sitting-room as Martin showed his guest in.

“Would you care for a drink?” Martin suggested, anxious to put the other man at his ease.

“Er — no, I won’t have one, not at the moment. Thank you very much.”

Martin waved a hand towards the settee. “Sit down.”

Andy sat down gingerly on the settee, perching himself on the edge in an awkward fashion.

“Look, Inspector, I’ll come straight to the point. I want to talk to you about my sister — Mrs. Walker. I’m worried about her and I don’t quite know what to do. I’d be very grateful if you’d . . .give me your advice.”

“If I can help you, Mr. Mason, I will — certainly.”

Martin pulled up an upright chair, removed a couple of books and sat down at a slight angle to the settee.

“My sister’s having an affair with a man called Roy Norton, you probably know that. If you don’t, you’re about the only man in Guildfleet who doesn’t.”

Martin nodded confirmation and waited for him to go on.

“Well, this afternoon I had a ‘phone call from Arthur Eastwood. To say he was angry would be the under-statement of the year. He was livid! Apparently, Evelyn — my sister — had an appointment to see him this afternoon and — well, she took Roy Norton along with her.”

Andy removed his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief, the muscles round his eyes contracting with the effort to focus.

“Go on,” Martin prompted.

“According to Arthur, Norton started asking a lot of damn silly questions about the business; shooting his mouth off, pretending he was the financial genius of all time. In the end Arthur lost his temper and threatened to throw him out of the office.”

He replaced his spectacles and glanced at Martin to see how he was reacting to this recital.

“Yes, I can imagine he would.” Martin could not help feeling that Andy’s statement had been rehearsed. “But tell me, what is it you want me to do, Mr. Mason?”

“I don’t know that you can do anything, Inspector.” Andy shook his head hopelessly. “It’s just that I thought . . .my sister’s an extremely wealthy woman, at least she will be when probate’s granted. Roy Norton knows this and he’s taking advantage of her.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Mason, I can’t help you. This is purely a family matter.”

“I thought perhaps if you had a word with her . . .”

“She’ll probably tell me to take a running jump, or get lost.” Martin smiled. “And quite frankly I wouldn’t blame her.”

“Well, what am I going to do? Just stand by and let Norton take over?”

Martin had no intention of answering Andy’s rhetorical question. He hoped Andy would soon get round to the real purpose of his visit.

“Have you spoken to your sister?”

“Yes, I’ve just left her.”

“And what happened?”

“What I knew would happen. She told me to mind my own damn business.” Andy forced a short laugh. “Which is a bit rich, when you consider it’s not so long ago that both she and David talked me into putting some money into Cavalier Toys. Good God, I ask you — fancy having money in a firm run by Roy Norton!”

Andy’s indignation sounded a little false to Martin’s ears.

“I hardly think Mr. Norton will be allowed to run this firm,

Mr. Mason. But tell me: is this the only reason you wanted to see me?”

“No , I . . .” Andy leaned back on the cushions, crossed his legs and flicked a small spot of dust off his trouser leg. “There was something else, Inspector.”

“I rather thought there might be.”

“I don’t know whether you’re aware of the fact or not, but certain people — and I must confess I’m one of them — are not too happy about the note David was supposed to have left for Arthur Eastwood.”

“You don’t think Mr. Walker typed the note?”

“No, I don’t.” Andy was talking more easily and plausibly now. “And neither does Arthur. In the first place David would never have written a note like that, and in the second place . . .”

“Go on.”

“Well, in the second place I just don’t believe that David did commit suicide.”

“Then what do you think happened?”

“I think he was murdered.” Andy managed to look at Martin directly as he said this. Martin held his eyes for a second. “There’s usually a motive for murder.”

“There’s usually a motive for suicide.”

“Surely it was in the letter. Blackmail.”

“I don’t accept that.” Andy shook his head, leaned forward and clasped his fingers. “David was a very determined character.

Even if he was having an affair with anyone, which I don’t believe, he’d never allow himself to be blackmailed.”

“All right, let’s suppose for a moment it murder. Who killed him? And what was the motive?”

Andy did not answer for a long time. He stared at the carpet and seemed to be working something out in his mind. At last he looked up.

“I don’t want to throw suspicion onto anyone, that’s the last thing I want to do, but . . . There’s a girl called Doreen Summers — she’s a waitress — she works at The Bear in Guildfleet. Her brother, Norman, is employed by me at The Grapevine.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Well, the night that David was shot, my sister and Roy Norton had dinner at The Bear. Apparently they go there quite often. According to Norman, Doreen was on duty that evening and she served them.”

Andy was feeding Martin the information in penny packets, waiting for him to digest each morsel before he produced the next tit-bit.

“Go on, Mr. Mason,” Martin said, with some impatience.

“At about eight o’clock, just as Doreen was about to serve coffee, Roy Norton suddenly got up from the table and left the hotel. He returned about half an hour later.”

“Have you any idea where he went?”

“Well, I talked to Evelyn about it and she said he had to make an important telephone call so he went back to his office.”

“Why didn’t he make it from the hotel?”

“Exactly — that’s what I said. Apparently he had some papers at the office that he wanted to refer to.”

“I see. This was at eight o’clock?”

“Yes, so I understand,” Andy confirmed. He added musingly: “It takes me about twelve minutes to walk from The Bear to my sister’s house.”

“You’re a slow walker, Mr. Mason. I’ve done it in eight.” The door bell had rung out in the hall. Martin stood up to make it plain to his visitor that the interview was at an end. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir . . .”

Andy uncoiled his long body and got to his feet.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have troubled you, Inspector. But — well, you can understand why I’m worried. About my sister, I mean.”

“I can indeed, sir.” Martin put a hand out to shepherd Andy into the hall. He went past him to open the door. “Hello, Harry! Come in!”

Kennedy checked as he saw Andy Mason. “Are you ready?”

“I will be in a minute.” Martin turned back to Andy. “Good night, Mr. Mason. Don’t hesitate to drop in again if you hear anything which you think might interest me.”

“Thank you, Inspector.” Andy, relieved now that he had said what he had come to say, slipped between them. Martin closed the door on him and started back towards the living-room.

“I shan’t be a minute, Harry.”

“What did he want?” Kennedy jerked his head towards the closed front door.

“He wanted to tell me something.” Martin gave his faint smile. “Something I already knew.”

Martin repeatedly depressed the receiver cradle of his telephone as he tried in vain to get the operator’s attention. His expression was one of extreme irritation. He had done exactly as Sue had asked and waited until half-past five before ‘phoning her. It was now five minutes since he had asked them to put the call through. He slammed the receiver down as the door opened and a uniformed clerk came in.

“Tomkins, what the hell’s happening?”

“There’s no reply, sir.”

“What do you mean — no reply?” Martin demanded angrily.

“There’s always someone at the office until six o’clock.” “I meant — there’s no reply from Mrs. Denson, sir.” “Who told you that?”

“The girl on the switchboard, sir.”

Martin realised he was taking it out on the unfortunate clerk.

He forced himself to relax. “All right, Tomkins. Thank you.”

He tried to concentrate on the typewritten report he was reading, made a few notes in the margin. But after a minute or two he threw the pencil down. It was no good. He could not concentrate. He felt terribly let down. In spite of himself he had been looking forward all day to renewing the contact with Sue. Just for a moment there in the hall when she had been leaving he’d had the feeling that she might have said something, if only Andy had not been standing there, his spectacles glinting with curiosity. He had felt her near to him then, and not only in the physical sense. The picture of her was so vivid in his mind that the sudden jar of the ‘phone made him start.

He picked up the receiver. “Hello? Inspector Denson speaking . . .”

“Martin, this is Sue.”

“Hello Sue!” Somehow, all his irritaation vanished as he heard her voice. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you!”

“I left early to do some shopping. I’m in a call-box.” “What happened? Did you find out about the letter?” “Yes, I was wrong, I’m afraid. It was from a man called Breen. He runs an employment agency in St. Albans.” “Oh,” Martin said, deflated. “Oh, I see.”

“I’m sorry, Martin, but I told you I wasn’t sure.”

“Yes, I know. Well — thanks anyway, Sue.”

“Goodbye, Martin.”

“Sue, wait a minute!”

“What is it?”

“Please don’t ring off! I want to talk to you.” He paused for a moment, wondering how best to put it. “I think I’ve sold the cottage. I had a letter from the estate agents this morning, and well — it looks like a deal.”

“I see.”

He thought there was a kind of sadness in her voice.

“Sue, I’m going there this evening. I’ve got to collect one or two things. I suppose you wouldn’t like to meet me there and . . .”

“No, I wouldn’t, Martin,” she cut in. “It’s no use. You know as well as I do it — wouldn’t work. Goodbye.”

She had hung up swiftly. He replaced his own instrument more slowly. It would have been easier to bear her rejection had it not been for that moment in the flat last night and the ray of hope it had caused.

Concentration on that damned report was impossible now. The only refuge from the brooding depression which he felt threatening him lay in action. He scooped the papers up and pushed his chair back. He had relocked them in the filing cabinet and was opening the cupboard where his overcoat hung when Kennedy came in with his usual air of bearing earth-shaking tidings. He was carrying a typed memo in his hand.

“We’ve had a report on the suicide note. It was typed on Walker’s machine and there were three sets of prints on it. Curiously enough . . .”

“Tell me later, Harry,” Martin interrupted tersely, slamming the door of the cupboard.

“Yes, all right.”

“I’m going to the estate agents, then on to the cottage. I’ll be back about seven.”

“This is important,” Kennedy said reprovingly. “I think you you should . . .” Martin turned towards him and what Kennedy saw in the Inspector’s face made him change his mind. “Okay, I’ll tell you later.”

Something about Kennedy’s manner warned Martin in time. He came back from the door. “No, tell me now. What is it?”

“I was under the impression,” Kennedy said carefully, “that Mrs. Walker didn’t know about the note — not until you told her.”

“That’s right. She didn’t.”

Kennedy shook his head in contradiction and handed Martin the fingerprint report. “Her prints are on it.”

Martin managed to get to the estate agents just before they closed at six o’clock. He took away the keys of his own cottage with a promise that he would return them the next morning so that the prospective purchaser could get in to do some measuring.

His plan to visit the cottage before having his evening meal was thwarted when he was buttonholed by the organiser of the Summer Fete, who had co-opted Martin on to the Committee. The colonel insisted on the Inspector joining him for a drink at The George and Dragon while he elaborated his latest ideas for Guildfleet’s annual festival. After that Martin decided he had better eat before going out to the cottage.

In the end it was getting on for nine o’clock when, driving his own car now, he cleared the outskirts of the town on one of the minor roads. The cottage where he and Sue had lived for the happiest years of his life was situated in a quiet lane about five miles from Guildfleet. During the ten minutes it took him to make the journey the light had begun to fade from an overcast sky and his side-lights were switched on as he stopped outside the isolated building.

He climbed out, closing the door gently. The place was so peaceful that he disliked making any jarring noise to disturb it. As he stood there the rooks were returning to the group of beeches just outside his property. The birds were conversing amicably among themselves, playing tumbling games in the darkening sky. The big FOR SALE sign was mounted on two stakes beside the gate. Someone had forgotten to refasten the catch. He pushed his way in, and walked up the short path to the front door. Weeds were already sprouting through the cracks in the crazy paving and the lawn was knee-high in grass. It was uncanny how quickly nature grasped that a place had been abandoned by its humans.

He hauled the bunch of keys out of his pocket, found the one which opened the front door and inserted it in the lock. As always, it scraped the floor when it opened. Over the years the hinges had dropped slightly. When he closed it the hall was almost dark. He pressed down the light switch and the naked bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling illuminated the hall harshly, casting sharp shadows.

It was because of these shadows that he did not see the object lying on the floor till his foot knocked against it. He stooped to pick it up. The diamonds in Sue’s brooch, the one which had fallen onto the ground in his flat, glittered in the electric light. He stared at it incredulously.

The door of the sitting-room was ajar and there was no light in there. Surely she could not be waiting in the darkness of one of the bedrooms upstairs? He went to the foot of the stairs.

“Sue? It’s Martin. Are you upstairs?”

The short echo of his own voice mocked him. He did not want to call again. He moved towards the living-room, pushed the door open and switched on that light also. The room looked sparsely furnished without the things he had taken away for his flat. Most of the pieces which were left had been draped in old sheets and plastic covers. The curtains had been drawn across the French windows. There was a musty smell about it and a faint tang which Martin could not identify.

For some reason the remaining sofa had been turned onto its side. He went towards it to put it upright and then stopped dead. A foot wearing a woman’s shoe protruded from behind it.

“Sue!” Martin cried out involuntarily and rushed forward.

She was lying in the shadow of the sofa, sprawled without dignity, her clothes pulled out of place. Her face was hidden by a cushion, but he only had to see the thick legs and the over-weight form to know that this was not Sue.

He stepped round the body and carefully lifted the cushion. Even though the features were discoloured and twisted he had no difficulty in recognising Judy Clayton’s landlady. The manner of death was apparent. Christine Bodley had been strangled and about her neck was still knotted the instrument of murder. It was the green, red and white silk scarf which he had last seen on Sue.