7

Inquiries had established that Bill Price, nominated by Mrs Judd as her husband's closest friend, worked as a clerk in the National Bank in Dominion Street. Webb and Jackson were shown into a private room and minutes later Price himself appeared, a tall, thin man with a stoop and an unsuccessful moustache.

Webb waved him to one of his own – or at least the bank's – chairs.

'We understand from his wife that you were a friend of Simon Judd,' he began.

'Yes, that's right.' Price spoke quickly, as though eager to be of help. 'A terrible thing – quite unbelievable. Old Simon wasn't the type to get himself murdered.'

Webb's mouth twitched. 'I wasn't aware there was a "type".'

'Well, you know what I mean. He'd not a wrong word to say about anybody. He was just an ordinary, decent chap going about his business and trying to pull his weight in the community.'

St Simon. Like St Trevor in Oxbury. Damn it, both men must have had some faults; this was carrying not speaking ill of the dead too far.

'How well did you know him, sir?'

'As well as anyone. I'd say. Since schooldays.'

'Would you say his marriage was happy?'

'Good Lord, yes. He wasn't a womanizer, if that's what you're wondering. In fact, he was so shy we wondered if he'd ever pluck up the courage to propose to Ella.'

'We?'

'Me and his other pals.'

'Who were they?'

'Keith Denham, Mark Scott and Bob Naylor. We used to go round in a crowd at one time, then we lost touch. Keith moved away, Mark works on the continent, and Bob just seemed to drop out of sight.'

'What about more recently?' Webb inquired. 'Who was Judd friendly with at the time of his death?' He'd had no luck with Judd's wife on that question, perhaps some names would emerge now.

But Price was shaking his head. 'As I said, I knew him as well as anyone, but I wouldn't say we were close. Simon got on with everyone, but he kept himself to himself. Even when we were lads, swopping experiences with girls, Si would listen to the rest of us, but he'd never volunteer anything. Come to think of it, maybe that's why he was good at his job – just listening.'

'Can you recall his having an argument with anyone, disagreeing with something someone had done?'

'I wouldn't call them arguments, but he had strong principles and he stuck to them.'

'What kind of principles?'

'Well, that you should be punished if you did something wrong. That kind of thing. Funny, really; a lot of people think social workers are too soft by half – do-gooders – but Simon wasn't like that. He'd move heaven and earth to help someone in trouble, but if they'd done wrong, he thought they ought to take the consequences.'

Interesting, Webb thought. 'Any particular instances?'

'Can't think of one offhand, but it was always general stuff, something in the papers or on the news. He never talked about his work.'

Unlikely, then, to be of much relevance. All the same, the conversation had given a slightly different slant on Simon Judd. Had he stuck to his principles once too often? It was an angle which might warrant investigation.

As they came out on to the street, Webb saw a notice advertising Frederick Mace's talk that evening and, despite his comments to Hannah, felt a flicker of interest. The old boy was pretty astute; would he consider that Judd's judgemental qualities strengthened or weakened his theory of broken Commandments?

Shrugging aside such hypotheses, Webb reached for his mobile to check if there'd been any sighting yet of Baring.

Patrick Knowles steered the car on to the verge and drew to a halt. As the engine died, silence enfolded him, broken only by the distant hum of a plane, almost invisible in the summer sky. Ahead and behind, the country road stretched emptily, shimmering in the heat-haze.

He had twenty minutes before his next appointment, and was glad of a breathing space. Life was becoming altogether too complicated; only a few months ago, he'd been happily cruising along, with no problems of any consequence. Now, a host of them buzzed in his head, battling for supremacy. Unfastening his seat belt, he wound down the window and settled back, drumming his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.

High on the list, as always, came his mother and sister. Neither was strong, and recently both seemed to be deteriorating. Zoe was increasingly nervy, making him fear the onset of another breakdown, while his mother's health, uncertain for years, was now failing rapidly. The time was fast approaching when she would be too much for Zoe to cope with on her own. Then what? He hated the idea of a nursing home, but if it did become necessary, what would happen to his sister?

Common sense dictated that she should move in with them, but since she and Sonia barely tolerated each other, it would not make for a congenial household.

Sonia. Another of his worries, though admittedly of his own making. The trouble was that his affair with Alex had got completely out of hand. How the hell could he have known, when he gave her that New Year kiss, that it would light such a fuse between them? Even thinking of her now aroused him. He reached for the car phone and dialled her number.

'Hello?'

'It's me. Can you talk?'

'Briefly – the twins are in the garden.'

'Any chance of seeing you today?'

'Not when the boys are home, Patrick. You know that.'

'How about this evening? Invent someone you have to visit!'

He heard her low laugh. 'Afraid I can't; we're all going to the library for Pop's talk. Still, I'll see you on Thursday.'

'With Sonia, Roy and your sister. Wonderful.'

'Patrick –' There was a hesitant note in her voice.

'What?'

'I think we should go carefully for a while. Sonia told Gilly she thinks you're seeing someone.'

He drew in his breath, eyes narrowing. 'When was this?'

'Last week, I think. She doesn't know who, though.'

'Then why did your sister mention it?'

Silence.

His voice sharpened. 'Alex?'

She said quietly, 'I told her. About us.'

'God, are you out of your mind? When she and Sonia are so close? Whatever possessed you to –?'

'She came round to see if she could help.'

'What do you mean?'

'I snapped at Roy during the family lunch, and he despatched Gilly to find out what was wrong.'

'And you told her!'

'Oh, she won't pass it on; you needn't worry about that.'

'But she knows, damn it, and she'll be watching us like a hawk on Thursday. Sonia's bound to notice. God, what a mess.'

'So what do we do? Stop seeing each other altogether?'

'Is that what you want?' he demanded harshly, and heard her sigh.

'No, not yet. Do you?'

'You know damn well I don't. God, Alex –'

'Yes,' she said softly, 'I know. I know. But we never meant to hurt anyone, did we? If it's going to cause –'

'We'll just have to be more careful, as you said. You stop snapping at Roy and I'll tread carefully with Sonia. God knows how she latched on to anything, I didn't think I'd been any different.'

'I must go – Jack's calling.'

'Till Thursday, then.'

Bye.'

The line went dead and he switched off the phone. The call had been intended as an antidote to his problems; instead, it had merely added to them. He refastened his seat belt, started up the car and drove on to his appointment.

Hannah had invited her friend, Dilys Hayward, to accompany her to the talk. A writer herself, Dilys had in fact already participated in the Festival of Literature – with a talk at Shillingham Library – but she was eager to hear Frederick Mace, and Hannah arranged to collect her at seven-fifteen.

'This should be interesting,' she commented, settling into the car. 'I saw him on TV the other evening; a fascinating man.'

'He came to the school a few years ago,' Hannah said.

'Talking of school, I hear Gwen's back?'

Dilys and Hannah had been contemporaries at Ashbourne, Gwen some five years their senior. Though the gap had been insurmountable during schooldays, in latter years the women – all unmarried and successful in their careers – had become friends and met regularly for dinner or the theatre. Monica Tovey, Gwen's contemporary, had been a fourth until her recent marriage to the local bank manager.

'That's right; I went there for tea yesterday.'

'And?' Dilys prompted.

'We went through everything that's happened while she's been away.'

'I meant, how was she? Has she changed at all?'

'Yes,' Hannah said slowly, 'I rather think she has. Either that, or I have. Perhaps a bit of both.'

'Oh dear.'

'I suppose we're bound to be a bit constrained with each other after so long.'

'And you did have one hell of a year,' Dilys said feelingly, remembering her own encounter with the religious cult which had threatened the school. When Hannah made no comment, she added, 'How was she different?'

'Well, for one thing, she never stopped singing Canada's praises. I'd had quite enough of it by the end of the afternoon, I can tell you. What's more, she wants to introduce all kinds of things they do over there which I'm convinced wouldn't transplant.

'It wasn't only that, though,' Hannah went on, negotiating the traffic as they joined the main Ashmartin road. 'She seemed different in herself. If I had to define it. I'd say she was unhappy.'

'Probably culture shock, coming back to dear old Mum after all the bright lights.'

Hannah laughed. 'That might well be it. No doubt she'll settle down.'

'I must give her a ring,' Dilys said. 'I can't believe it's a year since I saw her.'

'Tell you what. I'll try to fix a dinner later in the week, then you can judge for yourself. I'll see if Monica's free, too. It'll be like old times.'

Ashmartin Central Library had a car park at the rear, and they managed to secure one of the last spaces. 'Just as well I reserved our tickets,' Hannah commented, 'it seems to be a popular event.'

They walked round the modern building, its golden stone glowing in the evening sunlight, and through the open double doors. The library itself lay behind a glass wall to the left, but the man who took their tickets directed them upstairs for 'refreshments', where they found themselves engulfed in a milling throng.

As they stood hesitating, a girl came forward with a tray of red and white wine and soft drinks. Hannah and Dilys each selected a glass and moved to the long trestle tables where a selection of sausage rolls, slices of quiche and canapés was laid out.

Hannah, turning away with her plate, surveyed the crowd around her, noting that they were a varied cross-section. There was the expected sprinkling of academics, earnest young men and women in long cardigans despite the heat, some with glasses perched on their noses and all clutching notebooks.

There was a proportion of local residents, conscientiously supporting their library; and there was a section which Hannah suspected, possibly unjustly, of being sensation-seekers: people who would not ordinarily have crossed the street to hear Frederick Mace, but who had either seen his television interview or – more likely – heard about it afterwards, and hoped to learn something more of the local murder. But among all the varied crowd, she didn't see one face she recognized.

Eventually someone rang a handbell and raised his voice above the babble of conversation. 'Ladies and gentlemen, if you'd like to make your way downstairs and take your seats, Mr Mace will begin his talk.'

Hannah and Dilys moved with the flow down the wide staircase and through the now open doors into the library, which was set out with rows of chairs forming a semicircle. In front of them was a table and chair and over to one side, another table bearing several piles of books, guarded by a representative from Mace's publishers.

The audience settled itself expectantly and Frederick Mace appeared from one of the aisles of books, escorted by the chief librarian, who proceeded to introduce him.

Hannah only half listened, her eyes on Mace. He was tall and narrow-shouldered and wore his clothes comfortably, like a man not unduly concerned with his appearance. He had, she thought, an interesting, lived-in face. There were heavy grooves down his cheeks and slight pouches under the eyes. The eyes themselves, narrow and grey, were sharp but kindly, and he was fortunate enough to have kept his hair, which had a slight wave and was a dark iron grey.

The theme of the talk, as its title implied, was his work as a criminologist, and – possibly mindful of his publisher – he made frequent reference to his book, The Muddied Pool, which had been the subject of his tour. Hannah surreptitiously removed a notebook from her handbag and jotted down a few points, as much for her own interest as David's. Mace was obviously a seasoned speaker; he did not talk down to his audience, but stated his findings and made his deductions in clear, easily understood language rather than the scientific jargon frequently heard in that context. There was genuine and enthusiastic applause as he came to an end. The chief librarian stood up briefly to thank him, and to invite questions from the audience.

'Here we go,' murmured Dilys under her breath, as several hands shot up.

At Mace's nod, a man a few rows behind them stood up. 'Mr Mace, I'm sure many of us saw your interview on television last week, and were fascinated by your Ten Commandments theory. I wonder if you'd enlarge on that for us, especially with regard to murder?'

There were several murmurs of agreement.

Frederick Mace shifted on his chair – uncomfortably, Hannah thought, though he must have known this was coming. 'Well, as I mentioned in my interview, murder is, of course, the ultimate crime, but other, possibly lesser, ones frequently lead to it.'

'Making the victim partially responsible, you mean?' asked the questioner, who had remained standing.

'In some cases, possibly; in others, it is a third party who has, either wilfully or inadvertently, set the thing in train. Because in most cases, the murderer has a motive for his crime, and it follows there must be grounds for that motive, whether real or imaginary – something which has ignited his hatred of that particular person. It can often be traced to the prior breaking of a Commandment.'

Another member of the audience, a woman in the second row, raised her hand and simultaneously stood up. 'Could you tell us, Mr Mace, how this ties in with the two pub murders?'

He steepled his fingers and regarded them for a moment. 'You must understand that anything I say is pure hypothesis. I'm not privy to police cogitations, nor have I anything to go on other than my own observation. However, having now read a considerable amount about both cases, I do not believe, however closely they might resemble each other, that these crimes were committed from the same motive.'

There was a stirring of interest, an excited whispering which spread through the audience and was immediately stifled.

'To illustrate my point,' Mace continued, 'let us look not at the similarities between the murders, but at the differences, and these, I suggest, are apparent not only with regard to the murderer – who, in each case, appears to be the telephone caller – but also to the victims.

'Let's take the victims first: I never met either of them, but I've studied their photographs, and from these, together with reports I've read in the press, it appears they were very different types. Mr Philpott was jovial, self-confident, perhaps a little boastful – a typical salesman, you might think. Mr Judd, on the other hand, was much quieter, shy but with, I suspect, an underlying strength. A dedicated social worker, he was essentially an intensely private man.

'When we come to the killer, we have to rely on those phone calls, and fortunately we have descriptions of the voice in each case. Mr Philpott's caller was well spoken, with a fairly deep tone – perhaps not unlike Mr Philpott himself. At any rate, the girl on the switchboard warmed to him. I spoke to her personally, and she told me he'd sounded "nice".

'On the other hand, according to the press, Mr Judd's killer had a much lighter voice with a slight local accent, and it was described as "shaky".

'I might be entirely wrong, but I'd deduce from this that in the first instance the murderer was out to avenge someone else – someone close to him but at one remove, as it were, which enabled him to retain his self-control. In the second, he felt himself so deeply and personally involved that he couldn't conceal his emotions. This, mind you, despite the fact that Judd recognized neither his voice nor his appearance. How, I ask myself, could Judd have done him so great a wrong "long-distance"?

And this is what intrigues me most of all – the fact that each man spoke directly to his killer, but neither of them recognized his voice. Nor, one must assume, his appearance; because if, despite the probably false name, the caller turned out to be someone the victim had met, he'd immediately have become suspicious and not got trustingly into the car with him. I'm therefore forced to conclude that neither victim was known personally to his killer, which, since both murders were premeditated, I find fascinating.

'Obviously, some murders are motiveless, committed merely for the sake of killing, and such victims are picked at random. But in both these cases he was asked for by name, and I believe the killer had a strong personal reason – or at least thought he had – for committing murder.'

Frederick Mace paused and surveyed his audience. 'However,' he went on into the expectant silence, 'I do not believe it was the same reason, nor the same killer.'

There was a collective gasp from the audience, followed by a buzz of conversation.

'Well, go on, lad!' someone called from the back. 'You can't leave it there!' And tension was released in a spontaneous burst of laughter.

'Very well, but again I emphasize this is purely my own opinion. The difference between the voices is not, of course, conclusive; since it could have been disguised, it would be necessary to test each call scientifically, which, since they obviously weren't recorded, is impossible.

'But another consideration is the fact that if the same man was responsible for both cases, he'd be on the way to becoming a serial killer. And serial killers tend either to go for the same kind of person – prostitutes, for instance, or young boys – or kill from the same motive. Which, as I've explained, does not apply here.'

He looked at the rapt faces in front of him, and smiled mischievously. 'I rest my case!' he said.

'So which Commandments would you say had been broken?' someone called, but Frederick Mace had had enough.

He smilingly shook his head. 'I think we should leave it there. I've waffled on quite long enough.' His eyes twinkled. 'And we must leave the police something to do, after all!'

The questioner made one last attempt. But couldn't you just –?'

The chief librarian cut him off. 'Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Mace has been more than generous, giving us so much of his time. We must allow him to stop now. I'm sure you'd like to know he'll be happy to sign copies of his book, which is available over here.' He gestured towards the publisher and her table. 'And now, please will you show your appreciation for such an interesting and informative talk.'

'I’m going to buy a copy,' Hannah said, under the storm of applause, though I confess I'll be more interested in the next one.'

'An intriguing theory,’ Dilys acknowledged, 'but I'm sure the police would find flaws in it.'

Hannah smiled without replying. She would shortly find out. She rose and threaded her way past the others in their row towards the book table, where already a queue was forming.

A few people had now joined Frederick Mace – his family, presumably. Hannah studied them with interest. His wife was a fairly small woman, sensible-looking, with short brown hair and a clear skin unembellished by make-up, but the two younger women – daughters? daughters-in-law? – were very attractive, one fair and one dark. Their husbands, seemingly unwilling to step into the spotlight, stood awkwardly to one side, conversing with each other.

When it came to her turn for the signing, Hannah said, 'It was a fascinating talk, Mr Mace, thank you.'

He looked up with an automatic smile, then his expression sharpened. 'Haven't we met? Surely –'

'How clever of you – yes. I'm Hannah James, deputy head of Ashbourne. You came to speak to us.'

'Of course – I remember. Good to see you again, Miss James. Have you met my wife?' Hannah smilingly shook her hand. 'And my daughters, Gillian and Alexandra.' The two younger women dutifully came forward.

Hannah murmured something appropriate, smiled again, and, conscious of the lengthening queue behind her, moved away.

Dilys was waiting for her by the door. 'Let's make a move before there's a crush in the car park.' She glanced sideways at Hannah as they walked round the building. 'Why this sudden interest in crime?'

'Not so much crime, as the psychology behind it – what makes people criminals. Surely the more we understand it, the more hope we have of preventing it.'

She unlocked the car and Dilys slid inside. 'It will be interesting,' she commented, fastening her seat belt, 'to see in due course if he's proved right.'

Back at Beechcroft Mansions, Hannah took the lift to the floor beyond her own and knocked at Webb's door.

'Come in!' he greeted her. 'How was the oracle?'

'Thought provoking; I bought a copy of his book. Would you like to borrow it?'

'You reckon I need it?'

She smiled. 'No, I didn't mean that. It was an excellent talk, but, as you'd imagine, it was the Commandment business the audience really wanted to hear about.'

While he poured a drink she went to the window, leaning on the sill and looking down the long hill to the town nestling at its foot, shimmering with lights. It was a superb view from this height, especially in daylight, when the Chantock Hills were just discernible. The outlook from her own windows at the back of the house gave only on to the gardens.

'So,' Webb said, joining her with two glasses and motioning her to a chair, 'what did he come up with?'

'About the pub murders? Basically, that there are two different killers with two different motives.'

'Wonderful.'

'You were hoping to tie them to one person?'

'It would have made life simpler. What grounds had he for that deduction?'

'It was mainly based on the telephone voices, which certainly seemed different, and on the victims' photographs.'

'Photographs?'

'He said a serial killer would have gone for the same type, and these two weren't. That, as you'll appreciate, is an oversimplification.'

'If he's right, we've precious little hope of catching Philpott's killer. All the stops were pulled out at the time, to no avail, and the trail's stone cold now.'

'What about the latest one?'

'We're still waiting for this Baring chap to show up. Bloody frustrating, hanging around not knowing when he's going to put in an appearance. According to his office he's now overdue.'

'Perhaps they told him you were making inquiries.'

'They were asked not to, but you never know. If he doesn't turn up tomorrow, we'll put out an All Ports Warning.'

Hannah stared into her glass. 'Mr Mace underlined the fact that neither Philpott nor Judd seemed to know their killers. He thinks Philpott was murdered by someone "at one remove", as he put it, that is, acting on behalf of another person.'

Webb raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'The crystal-ball syndrome. And Judd?'

'By someone who thought he'd done him a personal wrong, despite the fact that Judd didn't recognize him. Mace wondered how such a deep injury had been committed "long-distance".'

Webb took a mouthful of whisky. 'Well, he's been spot-on in the past, but to be frank, this sounds like a lot of baloney.'

'He did stress they were only theories.'

'So I should hope, and believe me we need more than theories. We're over a week into this now, and only the elusive Baring on the horizon. Or not even there.'

'But you had registered the voices on the phone were different?'

Webb said irritably, 'Of course we bloody registered it, but there's such a thing as disguising your voice, you know. We may even have an actor on our hands. Did your precious Mr Mace consider that?'

Hannah forbore from confirming that he had. She said softly, 'David, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ram him down your throat. I thought you'd be interested, that's all.'

He reached out a hand and pulled her to him. 'No, I'm the one to apologize. Of course I'm interested, but all the theories in the world won't nail this bastard without some proof to back them up.'

'I know.' She nestled into his arms. 'Something'll break soon, I'm sure.'

'This crystal-gazing must be catching!' But he was smiling as he put his glass down on the table. 'And now let's talk about something much more interesting. Or, better still, not talk at all.'