4

Paul Blake said over the phone, 'I enjoyed the interview, sir. Well done.'

Frederick smiled bleakly. 'Good of you, but I said more than I should, and now I've got the newshounds on my track. Serves me right, I suppose.'

'Yes, I've seen the papers. "The answer to pub murders lies in the motives," says criminologist. Are you still interested in meeting Philpott's widow?'

Frederick's hand tightened on the receiver. 'You've not tracked her down?'

'I have, as it happens. Following your instructions, I went to Oxbury yesterday and had lunch in the local pub. As you can imagine, this talk of links between the latest murder and Philpott's was the main topic of conversation. All well-trodden ground, of course, but then I really had a break. One of the men commented that the person he felt sorry for was Philpott's wife, having it all dragged up again.

'So I said casually, "She remarried, didn't she? What was the name again?"

'And he said, "A chap called Bradburn. They moved down to Broadminster."'

'Well done, Paul. Do we know where in Broadminster?'

'We do. All I had to do was look them up in the phone book.'

Frederick said anxiously, 'She might not want to see me; she must have tried to put all that behind her.'

'Oh, I think she will, sir. Human nature being what it is.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, you're not in the same category as the police or a common-or-garden reporter, are you? Even if she didn't watch the programme, she'll have seen today's papers. You're a celebrity, after all; she'll be flattered you want to see her. I suggest you give her a call.'

Frederick hesitated, his natural disinclination to intrude at war with his writer's curiosity. Then, well aware which would triumph, he said resignedly, 'Give me the number, then.'

A man's voice answered the phone, abrupt and impatient. It could be that Mrs Bradburn had already had more than enough calls that morning. However, on hearing Frederick's name, the tone changed.

'The one who was on the box last night?'

'I'm afraid so,' said Frederick deprecatingly.

'Just a minute.'

A woman's voice came on the line. 'Hello?'

'Mrs Bradburn? My name is Frederick Mace. I realize this is a difficult time and I'm sorry to trouble you. You might perhaps have heard that I'm studying your first husband's murder for my new book?'

'Did the same man kill the social worker?'

Straight to the point, which, thankfully, meant he needn't tread warily. 'It's possible, but I might have a clearer idea if we could discuss it personally, which is the reason for this call. May my assistant and I come to see you?'

A slight pause, while he held his breath. Then, 'I haven't anything new to add.'

'Even so, a first-hand account would help enormously.' He glanced at his watch, anxious to tie her down before she changed her mind. 'Would later this morning be convenient? We could be down in about an hour.'

He heard her sigh. Then she said, 'Very well. But I warn you, you might feel it's a wasted journey.' She cut short his protests. 'Have you got our address? It's off Lower Broad Street, just before you come to the hospital. Batchwood Drive, number twelve.'

'Thank you,' Frederick said, checking it against the address Paul had given him. 'I'm most grateful. In about an hour, then.'

On that sunny Saturday morning, the country road was clogged with caravans, joggers and cyclists. Frederick, checking his watch for the umpteenth time, said, 'What do we know about her? Anything?'

'Only that she and Philpott were married for ten years, very happily, it seemed. No children.'

Frederick lifted his briefcase and took out the notes he'd made while waiting for Paul to collect him, several sheets closely covered in his small, cramped handwriting.

'She sounded quite calm on the phone; I hope it won't upset her, resurrecting it all.'

'It's water under the bridge now, and she'll have her new husband for moral support.'

Something in his tone made Frederick glance at him sideways. Blake was a tall, thin young man with dry-looking dark hair and brown eyes which peered short-sightedly through horn-rimmed spectacles. He was the ideal researcher: thorough, efficient and meticulous. Frederick frequently marvelled at the speed with which he transcribed his own tightly packed pages into neat, easy-to-read print.

Of his private life, Frederick knew nothing, nor wanted to, grateful only that he had materialized in response to the advertisement for a researcher which he'd placed in a professional journal. He never spoke of family or friends or of his life before he came to Ashmartin, but there had been no cause to; theirs was, after all, a business relationship. All Frederick knew was that he was unmarried and had lodgings in Sheep Street, a location within five minutes' walk of the main library, which was doubtless why he'd chosen it.

'It's good of you to give up your Saturday morning,' he said suddenly, as the thought struck him for the first time.

Blake smiled. 'It's no hardship; I'm as interested as you are.'

They slowed down still further on the approach to Broad- minster, entering the old town from the north east and filtering through the shoppers on to Broad Street before reaching Lower Broad Street and the turning to Batchwood Drive. The houses here were a mix of semi-detacheds and bungalows, each in a colourful and well-kept garden. Paul pulled up outside number twelve, a bungalow, and both men got out into the stifling heat.

As they walked up the short path the front door opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man stood there. 'Peter Bradburn,' he said, holding out his hand. 'My wife's expecting you.'

She came forward as they were shown into the sitting- room, a small, pretty woman in her forties, wearing a print dress and sandals.

'We thought you might like coffee on the terrace? It's shaded out there at this time of day.'

'That's most kind of you.'

'Peter will take you through while I get the tray.'

'We sent the kids out to play, so we could have some peace,' Bradburn said, as they settled on the wrought-iron chairs.

'Oh? I understood –' Frederick began, before he could stop himself.

'My kids,' Bradburn explained, 'from my first marriage. We have them at weekends.'

'I see. Forgive me, it was just –'

'You're right, Aileen hasn't any of her own.'

'Did you know your wife's first husband, Mr Bradburn?'

'No,' Bradburn said, shaking his head for extra emphasis. 'I'd read about the murder, of course, but I didn't meet Aileen for a good two years after that – just, as luck would have it, as my own marriage was coming apart.'

'Has this latest case upset her?'

He shrugged. It's brought it back, naturally, and all the speculation in the press hasn't helped.'

'I'm afraid I added to that,' Frederick admitted ruefully.

'Well, as I said to Aileen, once you've featured in a murder case, you're considered public property.'

'Not by me, I assure you. If you'd rather I didn't –'

'Is Pete being overprotective?' Aileen Bradburn asked, setting down a tray with coffee cups and a plate of biscuits. She flashed her husband a smile. 'It's all right, love. I wouldn't have agreed to see them if I hadn't felt up to it.'

Frederick, still diffident about questioning her, was reassured.

She handed him a cup and saucer. 'Anyway, Mr Mace, I was interested in your ideas on motives.'

'You saw the programme?'

'Oh, yes, I watch everything to do with crime.'

She glanced at him, catching his surprise, and smiled. 'Perhaps I should explain; when Trevor – died, I buried my head in the sand, and for years I mentally blocked out any news items about murder or death of any kind. But later, when it started to fade a bit, I suppose I went to the other extreme. I think I reasoned that if I watched and read everything I could about it, I might somehow work out why it happened.

'Do you see what I mean? It would have been different if the killer had been caught; then I'd have been able to face it, come to terms as you have to with any death. But I was still living in Oxbury then, and I used to find myself looking at people I passed in the street, thinking, "It could have been him.'"

'That's very understandable.'

She nodded, satisfied, and settled back, sipping her coffee. 'So – what is it you want to ask me?'

'Before I start, would you mind if we switched on a recorder? It makes life so much simpler these days.'

'I've no objection.'

Frederick nodded to Blake, who took one out of his pocket and laid it on the table alongside the tray.

I realize, Mrs Bradburn, that you gave a detailed statement to the police at the time, but that was strictly facts, and I'd like to try a different approach. You've now had time to look back – and I'm sure you've done so many times – over the weeks and months leading to your husband's death. That is what I'd like you to speak about – his character, his friends, his attitudes, your own relationship with him, and whether it changed immediately before his murder. In fact, anything unusual that might have taken place. But first, have you by any chance a photograph? The ones I've seen in the papers aren't too clear.'

'Yes, I – still have some old albums somewhere.'

'I'll get them,' Bradburn said, getting to his feet and going in through the patio door.

'How will seeing his photograph help?' Aileen asked curiously.

Frederick smiled. 'After motives, my main interest is faces; I believe they give away far more of our character than we realize. Oh, I know the old chestnut about murderers looking like the boy next door, and they might well do so. But if you study – really study – their features, there are often clues to be found.'

'But Trevor wasn't a murderer,' Aileen protested.

'It goes for all of us. Little traits in our characters leave traces which can be read if one knows what to look for.'

She moved uncomfortably. 'It hardly seems fair, searching for faults in the victim.'

'I didn't specify faults,' Frederick reminded her. 'Good traits are also to be found. But whichever, surely it's acceptable to look for them if they point to the motive for murder?'

She lifted her eyebrows. 'Back to the Ten Commandments?'

'In all probability the breaking of one.'

Bradburn returned with an album, still in its Cellophane cover. 'I presume it's the latest one you want?'

'Thank you, yes.'

Frederick took it from him, resting it on his knees while he extracted his glasses from his pocket and put them on. The album was dated six years previously, and he began slowly turning the pages until he came to a clear photograph of Philpott. He was seated at a café table – somewhere in Europe, by the look of it – and staring straight at the camera.

Frederick sat for several minutes letting his eyes move slowly over the face in front of him. If he knew nothing of this man, what would his appearance have told him? That he was confident, perhaps a trifle arrogant, judging by the tilt of his head. And, even more clearly than in the blurred newspaper print, he was again conscious of his likeness to Roger Denby, the man he'd known years before who had a reputation as a philanderer. An expression in the eyes, the set of the mouth – Was it fair, on that basis, to tar Philpott with the same brush?

He looked up, meeting Aileen's gaze. 'I presume the marriage was happy, Mrs Bradburn?' That was the story that emerged at the time.

Was there, perhaps, just the slightest hesitation before she nodded? He couldn't be sure.

'There's nothing you'd like to add? You realize, I hope, that this isn't idle curiosity?'

For a moment longer she sat staring into her coffee cup. Then, with a glance at her husband, she said flatly, 'I wasn't lying, Mr Mace; as far as I was concerned, our marriage had been happy, and I told the police so at the time. Oh, we had the odd tiff, and I suppose, looking back, it wasn't all rosy, but it never occurred to me there was anything wrong.'

'Until-?' he prompted gently.

'Yes, you're right – until last year, when I met a couple Trev and I'd been friendly with. We used to see quite a lot of them, till they moved away and we lost touch.

'Then last summer, we met quite by chance – at the races, of all places; Pete had taken me to the Broadminster Cup. Well, he and Jerry went off to place some bets, and Debs said something about what a nice chap Pete seemed. Then she added, "Much more your type than Trevor. I often wondered how you put up with him."

'She must have seen my face, because she suddenly went scarlet and said, "Me and my big mouth!" I asked her what she meant and she didn’t want to say, but I finally wheedled it out of her. Apparently, one evening at the cricket club, Trevor'd had too much to drink, and Jerry walked him home. On the way, Trev had suddenly started bragging about various women he was seeing, and offered to fix Jerry up, if he was interested.'

Frederick could not resist a glance of triumph at Paul. The memory of Roger Denby had not, after all, let him down.

'The next morning he rang to apologize,' Aileen was continuing. 'He was terribly embarrassed. Debs said, tried to make out he'd been pulling Jerry's leg, and asked him to forget it.'

Frederick said sympathetically, 'It must have been a tremendous shock.'

'Yes; I couldn't help wondering whether he'd have gone on having girlfriends for the rest of his life, and then I started remembering all kinds of little things – the times he'd cancelled something we were doing because he "couldn't get away", evenings when he was supposed to be showing people round houses, things like that.

'Of course,' she finished wretchedly, 'it might all have been quite genuine, but once the doubts were there, they tarnished everything.'

'Have you any idea when that incident took place? How near to your husband's death?'

'She didn't say; but they left Oxbury about a year before it happened, so at least that long.'

'Do you know if he actually named these women?'

'I've no idea. Debs certainly didn't.'

Even if he had, Frederick thought, 'Jerry' would be unlikely to remember after all this time – unless, of course, he'd known those concerned. But in any case, Philpott had probably met the crucial one during the last year of his life; it was doubtful if his affairs would have lasted longer than a few months. All the same –'

'Have you mentioned this to the police?' he asked.

It was Bradburn who answered. 'There didn't seem much point. It was all pretty vague, and we couldn't see what help it would be after all this time.'

'It might at least provide a motive.' Frederick turned back to Aileen. 'The police do know where you are?'

'Yes, but I'm of no interest to them; I told them all I knew.' She met his eye. 'Well, I did at the time. Ought I to contact them, do you think?'

'It would do no harm.'

'You think the same man might have done it, then?' It was the second time she'd asked that question, but Frederick was still not ready to answer it. Instead, he countered it with one of his own.

'Can you think of anything else your husband did that might have caused trouble or resentment? Had he, for instance, any particular prejudices – racial, perhaps, or even sexual?'

She started to shake her head, then paused, frowning a little. Frederick leant forward.

'You've remembered something?'

'Well, not really. I mean, it wasn't anything much – in fact. I'd forgotten all about it. Talking of Debs and Jerry must have brought it back.'

'Go on, Mrs Bradburn.'

She gave a dismissive little gesture. 'Really, it's nothing. Not even worth mentioning.'

'Please.'

'Well, it was one evening at the cricket club. We were sitting on the verandah after some match or other, and Trev and Jerry went inside for more drinks. When they came back, Trev was flushed and muttering something about "bloody perverts", and Jerry said he'd had to drag him away because he'd insulted some gay men at the bar. And that was it, really.' She paused. 'Sorry, but when you mentioned prejudices, it just reminded me.'

'Was your husband openly hostile to homosexuals?'

'Oh no, not at all. I think it was just that he'd been drinking, and he made some off-the-cuff comment which they reacted to.'

'Nothing like that ever happened again?'

She shook her head decidedly. 'Never.'

'And you never heard him make any racial comments which could have caused offence?'

She looked distressed and Peter Bradburn, frowning, moved to her side.

'No, definitely not. I feel awful, now, having told you – it gives quite the wrong impression of Trev. All right, he was a bit of a Jack-the-lad – more than I realized at the time – but there was nothing vindictive about him. Basically, he was – a nice man.'

She sounded close to tears, and as her husband bent to comfort her, Frederick nodded to Paul to switch off the recorder.

'I'm sorry, Mrs Bradburn, I didn't mean to upset you. Please forgive me.'

'I'm just sorry I mentioned it, that's all.'

'I shouldn't let it worry you. We all say things we don't mean, at some time or other.'

'Yes.' She brightened. 'I'm sure that's all it was.'

He rose to his feet. 'We've taken up quite enough of your time. I'm extremely grateful to you for being so frank with me.'

As they walked together back through the house, Bradburn remarked, 'You never made any comment on the photograph, Mr Mace. Was it any help?'

'Yes, indeed; that's why I asked Mrs Bradburn about her marriage.'

Bradburn turned to stare at him. 'You're telling me you could tell from Trevor's photo that he was unfaithful?'

'I got an impression, that's all. I assure you, Mr Bradburn, there's no magic involved. There are people who make a profession out of such studies, and they've solved some pretty complex cases on the basis of them.'

'Nice woman,' he commented to Paul as they got into the car. 'But for all her defence of him, I don't think I should have cared much for Trevor Philpott. And I was right, wasn't I, about the womanizing. If you can find me a photograph of Judd, we'll see if we have the same luck there. First, though, I'd like to visit the firm where Philpott worked – what was it called?'

'Ward and Johnson.'

'That's right. It'll be interesting to know if anyone there knew of his peccadilloes.'

'But you don't want to go there now, surely? It's a hell of a round trip – a good hour from here to Oxbury, and the best part of two from there back to Ashmartin. Won't your wife be expecting you?’

'I didn't put a time on it, but I'll phone and let her know what we're doing. In the meantime, we'll have some lunch before we set off. There's a pleasant place in Monk's Walk, I remember.'

The cathedral and metropolitical church of St Benedict in Broadminster, commonly known as Broad Minster, lay at the heart of the town, a glorious Gothic extravaganza soaring upwards into the summer sky. Having of necessity parked their car some distance from the centre, they came upon it suddenly as they turned into Monk's Walk which fringed the green in front of it, and as always Frederick felt his heart lift.

'A wonderful sight, isn't it?' he said, stopping abruptly on the pavement the better to gaze, and causing some muttering among the people directly behind him. 'I used to sing in the choir there as a boy.'

'The sight on the green isn't quite so inspiring,' Paul commented drily, nodding across the road. On this Saturday lunchtime the grass was covered with families enjoying picnics, children playing, and sunbathers, their clothes inelegantly bunched up or pushed down, making the most of the sunshine.

Frederick laughed. 'Good luck to them. Now, if I remember correctly there's an excellent wine bar along here which will do us nicely.'

As they sat over poached salmon and salad, Paul said curiously, 'Do you think this story of Philpott's playing around really has a bearing on his death?'

Frederick refilled his glass. 'All I know is that a motive was never discovered, and we might now have unearthed one. Or even two, come to that; the homosexual angle might bear looking into.'

'Surely not; from the sound of it, it was only a drunken insult.'

‘In vino veritas. If he really considered them "bloody perverts", it might have come out again, with more serious consequences. Still, I tend to agree with you; I think it's the women who will prove to be more pertinent.'

'What about Judd?' Blake asked after a moment. 'Are you hoping to suss a motive from his photograph?'

'Possibly,' Frederick replied imperturbably, 'but that's not all we have to go on. You're forgetting that in each case the most conclusive evidence could be the voice of the murderer on the telephone. And voices, like faces, give away more than their owners realize.'

He reached for his wallet and extracted a newspaper clipping from it. 'I cut this out of the News the other evening.' He unfolded it, fumbled on his glasses, and read aloud: 'Diane Pearcy, 32, the receptionist at the Department who took the call, described the speaker as sounding nervous. Pressed further, she stated that the voice was male, light in tone, with a local accent. He asked for Mr Judd by name, and she assumed he was a client.'

If you're hoping to compare that with Philpott's killer,' Paul said, 'there was no description of his voice in any of the papers I went through.'

Frederick refolded the clipping, put it back in his wallet, and removed his glasses. 'I know,' he said, picking up his knife and fork again. 'I went through them, too. But with luck, whoever received the call might still work at the firm.'

'The police will have checked it out, surely.'

'I don't doubt it, my boy, but they're unlikely to pass any information on to me. I'm not working for the police. I'm working for myself and my book.'

To which Paul could find no reply.

The town of Oxbury was noted firstly for its boys' public school, Greystones College, and secondly for being built on the Kittle, one of Broadshire's most attractive rivers.

Again they had trouble parking, and again people were out in their hundreds along the river banks. Having circled a multistorey twice, they were fortunate enough to have a motorist pull out just in front of them, and slid into the space ahead of another driver approaching from the opposite side.

'An omen, perhaps,' Frederick said as they got out. 'Let's hope our luck holds.'

The offices of Ward and Johnson on the High Street were fronted by large plate-glass windows, through which they could see a row of desks, each with someone behind it and a couple of people seated opposite.

'The property market seems to be booming,' Frederick commented, 'which is not what one reads in the papers.'

Though he had phoned his wife from the wine bar, he'd ignored Paul's suggestion of booking an appointment with Ward and Johnson, and Paul, following him inside, wondered if the estate agents would be too busy this Saturday afternoon to deal with an elderly gentleman and his questions on what happened here six years ago.

They stood inside the door for several minutes without attracting so much as a glance. No doubt it was assumed they were awaiting a vacant desk. Then Frederick's patience gave out. 'See what you can do, Paul,' he said testily, shifting his weight. 'There's a door down at the bottom there – probably the manager. Flush him out, there's a good chap.'

Expecting a rebuff, Paul did as he was asked, and was relieved to discover that once again Frederick's television interview stood in his stead.

'I was about to send you packing,' the manager admitted. 'We've had the police and the press sniffing round again this week and quite frankly we had enough of that at the time. However, if Mr Mace would like a word, of course I'll be glad to help if I can.'

Paul turned and beckoned Frederick, who hurried to join him, seating himself gratefully on the chair indicated.

'This is kind of you, Mr Laycock,' he began, having noted the name on the door as he came in. 'I have a couple of questions, if you can spare the time. The first is a delicate one: could you tell me whether there were any rumours about Mr Philpott's – er – having an eye for the ladies?'

The manager shook his head. 'No, the police asked that at the time. There wasn't so much as a hint of gossip – and he'd a very pleasant wife.'

'His name was never even casually linked with anyone else?'

'Not in my hearing, and I'm sure that goes for the rest of the firm. Of course, several of those who knew him have moved on now; in fact, come to think of it, most of our present personnel have joined us since his death.'

'Not whoever took the phone call that day?' Frederick demanded urgently. 'That person's still here?'

Laycock frowned. 'I'm not sure it wasn't Trevor himself.'

Frederick stared at him in consternation. Was that why there'd been no description of the voice among the papers? But as this setback stared him in the face, Laycock went on, 'No – wait a minute – I remember now. It was Sandra, I'm sure it was. Would you like to speak to her?'

Frederick, weak with relief, could only nod. Laycock picked up the phone. 'Sandra, when you've finished what you're doing, would you come in, please?'

She proved to be a freckle-faced young woman with curly hair, who looked a little harassed. It was hot in the outer office with all that glass, and her nose was shining. However, though she hadn't seen Frederick's programme, she'd read about it, and was obviously overcome to be speaking to someone she regarded as famous.

'Yes,' she replied when the question was put to her, 'I took the call. He sounded nice – like a gentleman. I couldn't believe, afterwards, that it was him.'

'By "like a gentleman",' Frederick asked her, 'do you mean he hadn't a Broadshire accent?'

'Oh no, sir, he was very well spoken. Polite, too.'

'Did he sound nervous in any way?'

'Not at all, cool as you please. He said, "Would it be possible to have a word with Mr Philpott?"'

'Was his voice deep or light?'

She thought back. 'Medium, I'd say. He sounded nice. Just shows you, doesn't it?'

'When you handed the phone to Mr Philpott, what did he say?'

She flushed. 'I didn't listen, sir. A couple had sat down at my desk and I went over to attend to them. The police asked me the same thing, whether Trevor made any note of the man's name or anything, but all he wrote on the pad was: The Stag – nine pm.'

'The Stag?' Frederick repeated. 'Not the Feathers?'

'No, sir, the Stag, here in town. He must have arranged to meet the man there and then been – been taken to the Feathers later.' She bit her lip.

Just as Judd had met someone at the Jester and been taken to the Nutmeg. Yet another similarity. So far, only the voice seemed different.

Once again, Frederick courteously thanked his informants for their time and, deep in thought, returned with Paul to their car and settled down for the long drive back to Ashmartin.