8

The talk made the national papers the next morning, with an accompanying photograph of Frederick which appeared on his dust jackets.

BROADSHIRE PUB MURDERS NOT CONNECTED, SAYS CRIMINOLOGIST was a typical headline.

'This isn't going to endear Pop to the police,' Gillian commented a little anxiously over breakfast.

'Or to the killers,' Hugh added.

'So you do think there are two?'

'I'd say he proved that pretty conclusively, wouldn't you?'

'I don't know which is worse, having a serial killer on the loose, or two separate ones.'

'Well, from your father's angle it's all good publicity.'

'He hates it, though. You know how he loathes discussing the book he's working on.'

'Not this time, apparently.'

'He didn't want to talk about it,' Gillian protested. 'They just didn't leave him any option.'

'Oh, I don't know; I reckon airing it all in public crystallized his ideas; he'll be raring to go this morning, you mark my words.' Hugh looked at his watch, and stood up.

'I hope you're right – and I also hope he is. He stated his opinion very publicly; I'd hate to see him proved wrong.'

Hugh bent to kiss her. 'Don't worry, my love, he's a tough old bird. Criticism runs off him like water off a duck's back. He wouldn't have survived this long if it didn't. I must go. What are you doing today?'

'I suppose I'll have to shop for the dinner party.'

'Anyone would think you weren't looking forward to it!'

Gillian forced a smile and, as the front door closed behind him, refilled her coffee cup. She wasn't looking forward to the dinner party, but she couldn't admit it to Hugh since he didn't know about the Alex-Patrick-Sonia triangle. Though for how much longer it could be kept secret, she had no idea.

DI Crombie dropped a folded newspaper on Webb's desk, and the craggy face of Frederick Mace stared up at him.

'This man is beginning to haunt me,' he complained, running his eye down the column, which was more or less a recap of what Hannah had told him.

'Think he's right?'

'Lord knows. Just wheel in Lee Baring and I might give you an answer. Where the devil is he, Alan?'

The phone rang and Webb lifted it.

'Harry here, Dave. There's good news and bad news.'

'Let's hear it, then.'

'Baring was spotted leaving the M4 at the Ashmartin exit. He accelerated when he saw the patrol car, and they only caught up with him on the outskirts of town.' Good paused, then ended flatly: 'But before they could nab him, he was out of the car and had disappeared into a housing estate.'

'Brilliant.'

'The area's been sealed off and we're doing a house-to- house, but he almost certainly got clear.'

Webb said heavily, 'And the good news?'

'Well, we have got the car. SOCO are already working on it.'

'Does it fit the witness's description?'

'To a "t". Light-coloured Escort, faulty brake light, plastic sun visor, the lot.'

'Well, that's something. I'll look in later – there might be news by then. In the meantime I've put inquiries in hand concerning some old friends of Judd's, whose names I was given yesterday. It's a long shot, but it might pay off.'

Good's grunt reached him over the wire. 'With luck, we should be able to scrub the long shots. My money's on Baring. All we've got to do now is find him.'

Frederick sat at his desk, staring at the sheet of paper in front of him. At the top he'd written in his cramped hand: Thou shalt not kill/commit adultery/covet thy neighbour's wife. Which, as he was only too ready to admit, completely fudged the issue. Still, it was logical to turn to the Philpott case next, while it was so much in the news and he'd just met the widow. It could be slotted into the appropriate place once he'd settled on the most likely motive.

He frowned suddenly, wondering if Aileen Bradburn had, as he'd advised, notified the police of Philpott's affairs. It could give them a much-needed new lead – though not, he remained convinced, to the killer of Simon Judd.

He looked up the note he'd made when Paul gave him her number, pulled the phone towards him, and dialled it, resolving also to ask for 'Jerry's' surname and address; it would do no harm to contact him, both about the women and the cricket club incident. But the ringing sound continued unanswered, and eventually, frustrated, he hung up. He'd try again later.

Propping the photograph of Trevor Philpott in front of him, he stared at it morosely. Why had he died? Which of his conquests had proved to have a jealous husband? Or had none of them?

Frederick opened the file of notes which Paul had typed up following his research, and began to read through it. He was interrupted by the phone.

'Mr Mace? Dick Thomson, Radio Broadshire Current News. I wonder if you'd be prepared to do an interview for us tomorrow morning?'

Frederick said gruffly, 'I've nothing further to say.'

'Actually, there are several angles we'd like to explore, especially regarding –'

'I'm sorry,' Frederick interrupted. 'I shan't be doing any more interviews for the moment. Goodbye.'

He put down the phone, feeling ungracious. But, Lord knew, he had to draw the line somewhere. At this rate, his whole time would be spent rushing from one place to another and he'd never get any work done.

Determinedly closing his mind to all else, he returned to Paul's notes.

Edwina was uneasy, and, as always when something was worrying her, she had donned her gardening clothes and gone out to attack the weeds. In retrospect, she thought, the Canadian tour seemed like a holiday, where their only concern was to be ready for the limousine to conduct them from one venue, hotel or airport to the next.

She took out the secateurs and began methodically to deadhead the roses. It was very hot in this corner of the garden, and the sweet, heady scent of the flowers mingled with that of warm earth and the dusty brick wall alongside. In the full glare of the sun, Edwina was grateful for her old straw hat.

Snipping her way along the bed, she mentally lined up her worries for consideration.

First, of course, Alex. The atmosphere at Sunday lunch had been most uncomfortable, and she was as much concerned for Roy and the children as for her daughter. Gilly had said she'd go and see her, but with all the milling about at the talk last night, she'd not had the chance to ask the outcome.

She sighed, dropping the faded blooms into the trug. She loved her younger daughter dearly, but Alex had always been headstrong and inclined to ride roughshod over anyone who obstructed her. In, of course, Edwina added smilingly to herself, the nicest possible way. For the first time, she wondered whether there was more to Alex and Roy's difficulties than she'd realized. Could one of them, for instance, have met someone else?

She straightened, rubbing her back as she gazed, eyes narrowed against the sun, down the length of the garden, considering the possibility. If so, it was unlikely to be Roy; he obviously still adored her. But Alex? Could she have become involved, without one of them noticing?

Edwina gave herself a little shake and returned to her deadheading. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Lots of marriages went through difficult patches; they would sort themselves out. But, added a niggling little voice in her head, lots more didn't sort themselves out; one heard of so many breaking down nowadays. She couldn't bear that to happen to Alex and Roy.

She'd ring Gilly this evening and find out how she'd got on. Meanwhile, her mind moved to another, more recent, worry, centred on Frederick. Basically, she did not care for the way he had suddenly been thrust into the limelight of this latest murder. It was fine to discuss, as he had in Canada, the theories outlined in his last book. Even the new one – though she'd been surprised he was prepared to talk about it – as long as the crimes concerned were safely solved and in the past.

But why, oh why, had he admitted that he'd chosen the Feathers case for examination?

The television interview, the widespread press coverage, the library talk – all had combined to push him to the forefront of people's minds, synonymous with both the local murders. Suppose the killer decided he'd more to fear from Frederick than from the police?

In the fierce heat, Edwina gave a little shiver. All at once, she'd had enough of the empty, silent garden and her own thoughts. She'd go inside and have a glass of the lemonade she kept in the fridge. Then she'd prepare some salad and wash the strawberries for supper.

With everyday matters once more restoring the balance, she retrieved the trug, and set off purposefully towards the house.

It was late afternoon by the time Webb and Jackson reached the Ashmartin garage where SOCO were working on Baring's car. The senior man, seeing them standing in the doorway, came across.

'Anything worthwhile?' Webb asked, holding up his warrant card.

'The interior'd been given a pretty thorough cleaning, but we found traces of blood, both in the rubber mat on the passenger side and on the back of the seat. There were also samples under the driver and passenger seats – hairs, fibres, blades of grass.'

'The suspect’s DNA’s on file,' Webb remarked.

'Then there should be enough to nail him.'

'Once we can catch him,' Webb qualified to Jackson, as they left the garage and walked down the road to the police station. They were shown to DCI Good's office.

'The blood they found is sure to match Judd's,' Good greeted them jubilantly, 'and with the other samples up our sleeve, I reckon we can clobber Baring as soon as we lay hands on him.'

'Just as well,' Webb observed, 'since he seems to be the only suspect. I've had the feedback on those names I mentioned, and they're all in the clear. Any sightings yet?'

'No, damn it, though every available man's out searching. Ten to one someone's hiding him.'

'Has his wife shown up?'

'No, nor likely to. She ran off with another bloke while he was inside – someone at Crossley's, where he works, told us. We've apprised them of the position now.'

'Has he contacted them?'

'Not since he scarpered.'

Webb frowned, drumming his fingers on the desk. 'Had they any idea where he might go?'

Good shook his head. 'He's not particularly pally with anyone there.'

'Well, in this weather he could hole up outdoors without any problem.'

'Surrounding woods and barns are being scoured, and people asked to check their garden sheds, though we're warning them not to approach him. Railway and bus stations are on the lookout, also car-hire and taxi firms. Though if he nipped on a bus within minutes of legging it, he could be anywhere now.'

'It's only a question of time, Harry; we're bound to get him sooner rather than later.'

'I hope you're right. But he must know the media coverage the case is getting; stands to reason he'll be doing his damnedest to get away.' Good sighed. 'In the meantime, the Super's none too happy about the slip-up.'

'I can imagine. Well' – Webb rose to his feet – 'tomorrow's another day, but I've had enough of this one. I'm off home for a shower and a cold drink.'

'Good idea.' Good collected his papers together and slipped them into a drawer of his desk. 'As you say, we'll have to wait and see what tomorrow brings.'

'All right, old boy,' Frederick said, looking down at the dog sitting in front of him. 'I know what time it is. Go and get your lead.'

The retriever bounded out of the room and returned a minute later with it in his mouth. Frederick bent and fastened it to his collar.

Edwina said, 'Will you want coffee this evening, when it's so hot, or would you prefer a cold drink?'

'Coffee'll be fine, dear.' He bent to kiss her cheek. 'I'll be back in about twenty minutes.'

He said the same thing every evening, she thought fondly as he went out, the dog excitedly wagging its tail beside him.

Frederick stood for a moment on the doorstep, breathing in the rich perfume of nicotiana and night-scented stock which lined the front path. Across the green, the patrons of the Jester were standing outside on the pavement with glasses in their hands, laughing and talking. The floodlit church clock pointed to nine-thirty. Old Goldie must have a timing device – he knew exactly when his walk was due.

Just, Frederick thought, as he knew where to go, and would accept no deviation. He had set off, nose to the ground, pulling Frederick along behind him until they reached the corner, where he started down the road leading to the canal.

To be fair, the dog's conservatism was his own doing; he had been taking this same walk, with a succession of animals, every evening he'd been home for the last forty-odd years, and at much the same time. During its course he had thrashed out many a theory on the criminal mind, reworked many a chapter ready for editing the next day. Occasionally, he would meet Jack Sharpe with his Airedale or John Smollett and Spot, but he seemed to remember both were on holiday at the moment.

It was a pleasant, residential avenue down which they were walking. Undrawn curtains offered a glimpse, should he want to take it, of his neighbours' sitting-rooms, most of them with the blue square of a television set glowing in one corner. Through open windows came the sound of radios, televisions, arguments, laughter. Life was lived much more publicly in the summer, he reflected.

They had reached the end of the road and open grass lay ahead of them, and the water, glinting in the moonlight. Just round the corner to their right was Hugh and Gillian's house. Occasionally, if he hadn't seen them for a while, Frederick would call in for a brief chat. Not this evening, though. He allowed himself to be dragged across the road to the canal bank, where Goldie waited to be released from his lead. Five minutes' free romp, then, at his whistle, the dog would return, docilely submit to being restrained again, and they'd begin the return journey.

The moon was full, sailing in a cloudless sky. Frederick lit a cigar, glancing across the silvered water at the harsher lights of cars streaming down the busy Broadminster road. Thank God his days of hurrying were over.

Contentedly he paced over the springy turf, keeping an eye on the antics of the dog gambolling ahead of him. The smoke from his cigar was pungent in the still air and the sound of the distant traffic, reaching him merely as a hum, only accentuated the silence. How lucky he was, to live in this lovely, peaceful spot.

The five minutes were up and Edwina would have the coffee on. He whistled for Goldie, refastened his lead and they crossed the road again to complete their circular tour up the next avenue along. Here, several large chestnuts lined the pavement, blotting out the moonlight.

Suddenly the dog halted, and to his surprise Frederick saw the fur rise along its back. What had startled him? As Frederick bent to reassure him, the dog growled low in its throat and in the same moment a shadow detached itself from the tree and Frederick was aware of a crashing, annihilating blow on his head before total blackness overwhelmed him.

The evening had brought little relief from the heat. Hugh and Gillian had taken their after-dinner coffee on to the terrace and were now sitting reading in the light from the room behind them, brushing away the occasional blundering moth.

Hugh checked the time. 'Do you want to watch News at Ten?'

'No, I saw it at six, and I've heard enough about that murder and Pop's theories on it to last me a lifetime.' She put her book down and stretched. 'Actually, I'm ready for bed. For the last ten minutes I've been trying to summon up the energy to go for a bath.'

She'd had a busy day, cleaning the house for tomorrow's visitors, shopping, and then preparing one or two of the courses for the dinner party. She wished uselessly that it was this time tomorrow, when it would be nearly over. Chiefly, she was worried that she might not be able to act naturally, knowing what she did. If only she'd not promised Roy to see Alex! Then she wouldn't know any more than anyone else – a much more comfortable state of affairs.

The phone cut into her musings and Hugh looked up in surprise. 'Who could be ringing at this time?' He got up and went through the patio doors.

'Hugh?' Edwina's voice sounded in his ear, taut with anxiety. 'Has Frederick called in to see you?'

'Frederick? No, why?'

At the sound of her father's name, Gillian came hurrying to Hugh's side and he held out the phone so they both could hear.

'He went out at nine-thirty as usual and he hasn't come back. You know how punctual he is – you could set your watch by him. He's always home by ten to ten.'

'Well, it's only five past,' Hugh pointed out reasonably.

'By his standards, that’s late. I wonder – could you possibly go out and see if you can see him?'

'Well, yes, of course, if you know the way he went.'

'He always takes the same route. Down Sandford Road, five minutes on the canal bank, and home up Lismore Drive. I know it's silly, but I've had this nasty feeling all day. I wish now I hadn't let him go, but what excuse could I have given?'

'Don't worry, Edwina. I'll go and look straight away and phone you back, but by then I'm sure he'll be home.'

'Thank you,' she said distractedly, and hung up.

Hugh turned to his wife, meeting her wide eyes. 'Surely you're not worried as well?'

'Of course I'm worried! Mother's right. Pop's as punctual as Big Ben. If he's not back, something must have happened to him.'

'Gilly, he's a grown man, with a dog for protection, at that.'

'Goldie? He's just a big softie.'

'Well, I'll go and see what I can see.'

'I'm coming with you.'

'There's no –'

'I'm coming with you!' Her voice had started to rise, and he quickly touched her arm.

'All right, darling, all right.' He closed the patio doors, leaving their coffee cups outside on the table, and they hurried through the house and out of the front door. The garden was flooded with moonlight, a cold white clarity with sharply etched shadows beneath the hedge. At the gate they paused, looking left and right along the deserted canal bank opposite.

'Well, he's not there now,' Hugh said unnecessarily. Gillian ran to the corner of Sandford Road and looked anxiously up it. She could see only halfway, where the road curved to the left, but that stretch, too, was deserted.

'Shall I go up while you look in Lismore?' she asked Hugh, but he took hold of her arm.

'No way. I'm not going to lose you too – we'll stick together. Let’s look at Lismore first, since he goes back that way.'

They heard the dog whining before they reached the next corner, and broke into a run, finding Frederick at once, a huddled heap on the pavement, with the dog distractedly licking his face and giving out that sharp, keening note. Hugh pushed it away as he knelt beside the prone figure. He saw with dread that the steel-grey hair was sticky with blood.

Gillian had given a cry and taken her father's limp hand. 'Is he –? He's not –?'

'There's a faint pulse,' Hugh said, 'very faint. Go and phone for an ambulance, then ring your mother and tell her what's happened. And take the dog with you – leave him with Loveday. I'll stay here. Hurry, darling,' he added urgently.

She seemed paralysed with shock, but at his prompting stumbled to her feet, picked up the dog's lead and started to run home.

Gillian returned with Edwina before the ambulance arrived, having gone halfway to meet her mother. Hugh, meanwhile, without so much as a sweater to cover the still figure, had been massaging the flaccid hands between his, dreading the cessation of that fluttering pulse.

Edwina was icily calm. She knelt beside her husband and stroked his forehead, murmuring endearments, while the other two stood helplessly watching.

'Mother says they've had a break-in,' Gillian said through chattering teeth. 'She's only just discovered it; Pop's study has been ransacked, but nothing else seems to have been touched.'

The siren of the ambulance drowned Hugh's reply and they both turned thankfully, only too ready to release their charge to more experienced care. Once Frederick had been carefully lifted inside and Edwina'd climbed in beside him, they hurried home to collect their car. It was going to be a long night.

Gillian felt she would never forget any detail of that hospital waiting-room, from the patterns on the curtains to the starshaped burn in the carpet. Perhaps out of sympathy for anxious relatives, the nonsmoking rule seemed to have been waived, because there were ashtrays full of cigarette stubs, and stale smoke hung in the air.

Hugh had gone to phone Alex and Roy. Dully, Gillian wondered if this sudden crisis might bring them together. She turned to her mother, intending to say something rallying, but Edwina's set white face deterred her. She was clinging to her self-control, and any overt sympathy could threaten it. Frederick was undergoing tests and X-rays; they would be told the results as soon as possible, but when they last heard, he had not regained consciousness.

'I've been expecting something like this,' Edwina announced suddenly. 'Now that it's happened, in some ways I feel easier.'

Since there seemed no appropriate reply, Gillian said instead, 'We'll have to report the burglary.'

'I don't think anything valuable's been taken.'

'That's not the point, the –'

Edwina lifted a hand. 'I know, I know, but I have more important things on my mind at the moment. Tomorrow will be soon enough.'

'Do you think it's linked with the attack?'

'Wouldn't you say two assaults on your father in one evening is more than coincidence? It must have happened earlier, when we were watching TV. It was so hot I'd left all the windows open. No doubt that's how he got in.'

Gillian shuddered. 'He could have murdered you both.'

'I suppose he could, but he decided to settle for your father.'

Hugh returned with some coffee out of a machine.

'Alex is on her way; Roy's staying with the kids.' He handed them each a plastic mug. 'Not exactly the Ritz, but better than nothing.' He eyed Edwina cautiously. 'The police are outside, waiting to speak to Frederick.'

Gillian said on a half-sob, 'Then they are expecting – they do think he'll be – all right?'

Hugh put an arm round her. 'Of course he will. I told you he's a tough old bird.'

'I wonder if he got a look at his attacker,' Edwina mused, holding the mug between both hands as though she needed its warmth. 'If so, he'll still be in danger. Maybe that's why the police are here.'

Gillian said desperately, 'It could still be a coincidence. Perhaps he was just mugged, a random attack that could have happened to anyone.'

'But he wasn't robbed,' her mother reminded her. 'Not during the attack, nor even, apparently, the break-in.'

'Since the police are here,' Hugh said gently, 'we might as well take the opportunity of reporting it. Shall I ask them to come in?'

Edwina hesitated, and Gillian saw with pity how close she was to breaking point. But she merely nodded, and Hugh went out to fetch them.

Harry Good phoned Webb with the news just after eleven-thirty, as he was preparing for bed.

'I was worried all along how Chummie would react when he heard about Mace. Silly old buffer just couldn't keep his mouth shut.'

'How is the old boy?'

'Hasn't come round yet. Must have a skull like concrete to have survived at all.'

'What are his chances?'

There's a slight improvement. I'm told. But once word gets out that he's not dead – provided, that is, he does pull through – he'll need protection till this lot's cleared up. We've got a couple of blokes at the hospital, and one of them has just phoned to say the Mace house was broken into this evening.'

'Ye gods. What happened?'

'The old boy's study was ransacked, drawers pulled out, files emptied, etcetera, but as far as his wife could see, nothing's missing and none of the other rooms was touched.'

'You think it was Baring?'

'It has to be, hasn't it? God, if only he hadn't slipped through our fingers this morning!'

'At least it means he's still in the area.'

'Small consolation, but I suppose you're right.'

'Thanks for letting me know, Harry. I'll be over in the morning.'

'See you,' said Good, and hung up.

Webb replaced the phone and hesitated, wondering whether to ring Hannah. She'd be upset to hear of the attack. Better to let her get a good night's sleep and tell her in the morning. Sighing, he climbed into bed and switched off the light.