10

Harry Good didn't know what time it was – the middle of the night, anyway, and he was damned if he could get to sleep. He longed to talk the case over with his wife – she'd a sound head on her shoulders, and he valued her opinion – but despite the tossings and turnings by which he'd surreptitiously hoped to waken her, she slept on, and he'd had to abandon the attempt.

With a sigh, he turned his pillow over yet again in search of a cool patch of linen, tucked it under his chin, and allowed his overactive brain to resume its treadmill.

That toerag Baring was still playing games with them; the story of the stolen car was so much baloney, though they'd no means of proving it. So what had they got? His car'd been seen at the crucial time entering the pub car park, and the blood, hairs and fibres proved conclusively that Judd had been in it at some stage.

But frustratingly enough, there was nothing other than ownership of the car to put Baring himself on the spot. The only witness to have come forward had caught a glimpse of the corpse, not of the driver. Which was a case of sod's law, if ever there was one.

And, as Baring's solicitor had not failed to point out, since they'd been unable to establish any link between his client and Judd, what possible motive could he have had for killing him? It was the Feathers case all over again.

As for the murder weapon, Baring's house and garden, together with the surroundings of the Nutmeg, had been exhaustively searched, to no avail. But hell's teeth, the bloke had left next day for a tour of the bloody country. He could have dumped it anywhere.

Good turned over restlessly. And as if all that wasn't enough, Dave Webb was convinced it wasn't Baring who'd attacked old Mace. Which meant they had two -

Mace! As the old man's face formed in his mind, he remembered the urgent request he'd promised to attend to – and instantly forgotten. Well, a day's delay wouldn't make much difference; ten to one there was nothing in the old boy's theories anyway.

Good eased into another position, considering the message he should have passed on.

Philpott had apparently been consistently unfaithful to his wife. Which, if true, was certainly a turn-up for the book. The picture painted at the time had been of a blissfully happy marriage, roses round the door and all the rest of it. Amazing, if Mace was right, that the wife hadn't cottoned on he was two-timing her. Or had she exaggerated her husband's peccadilloes for Mace's benefit, knowing his interest in the case?

She'd met some old friends, he'd said. Well, there are always 'friends' who enjoy stirring things up. Perhaps after all it was nothing stronger than malicious gossip – which probably also went for his anti-gay stance. No doubt the same 'friends' had told her that, too.

In the dining-room below, the clock whirred preparatory to striking. Morosely, Good counted the chimes. Four. If he didn't get some sleep soon, he'd be good for nothing in the morning.

He heaved himself over yet again, pushing aside the duvet in search of air. He'd performed this manoeuvre twice already, only to pull it back again minutes later, feeling chilly. Who'd invented these damn-silly things, anyway? He wished Meg hadn't succumbed to their ubiquity and dispensed with the time-honoured sheets and blanket, which at least gave you some control over your body temperature.

Very gradually, almost without noticing, he drifted at last into sleep.

It was time, Webb told himself later that morning, that he met Frederick Mace. The old boy had been on the edge of the case from the very start; Webb had seen him on television, heard him quoted on all sides, listened to Hannah's account of his talk and read all the press reports of it. Now, in one night, Mace had got himself attacked and had his house broken into, and while Webb still didn't think it was connected with the Judd case, as officer in charge it behove him to investigate the incident.

He reached for the phone and dialled Harry Good's number. I'm thinking of calling on old man Mace. Where is he, exactly?'

'In the QE – Queen Elizabeth Hospital, on Denham Hill. If you're coming from –'

'It's OK, I know where it is; we passed it en route to Mrs Judd. Ward number?'

'He's in the private wing – a room to himself. There'll be a copper outside – you can't miss it. And Dave, would you give him a message for me? Tell him I've been on to Ted Ferris at Erlesborough.' No need to add it was only five minutes ago.

'Oh?'

'He asked me to tell him that it seems likely Philpott had had a string of lady friends.'

'Really? How did he dig that one up?'

'From the widow, no less, but I'm taking it with a pinch of salt.'

'OK, Harry, thanks. I'll be in touch later. Nothing new on Baring?'

'What do you think?' said Good disgustedly.

It was a close day, the sky pewter-grey with no hint of sunshine, but the heat was unrelenting. A bit of thunder might clear the air, Jackson thought, following the familiar road to Ashmartin.

'How do you think Mr Mace can help, Guv?' he asked curiously. 'He didn't see his attacker, did he?'

'No, but he might have some inkling who it could have been. Here's the turning now, Ken.'

They were directed to the first floor of the hospital, and from the stairhead, as Good had intimated, a uniformed figure could be seen outside a door halfway down the corridor. Between it and them was the nurses' station, where they identified themselves and were allowed to proceed.

Webb again presented his warrant card to the bobby on guard and the young man stood to attention.

'Has anyone tried to gain entry. Constable?' Webb inquired.

'No, sir.'

'You've been told to ask everyone for identification?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Beware the men in white coats,' Webb added with heavy humour.

The PC looked puzzled. 'Sir?'

'Come now, surely you've seen all those films where the villain gets past the armed guard by the simple expedient of borrowing a white coat and posing as a doctor? I'm just saying, be extra vigilant with anyone in a white coat.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Webb winked at Jackson, knocked on the door, and went inside.

Frederick Mace was sitting up in bed reading the Daily Telegraph, a cup of coffee on the table beside him.

'DCI Webb, sir, from Shillingham, and my colleague. Sergeant Jackson.'

'Good morning, gentlemen. Come in and sit down.'

Webb drew a chair up to the bed, while Jackson plonked himself against the wall and took out his notebook.

'I hope you're feeling a bit better?'

'Much, thank you, even though I do look like a Turner sunset.'

The area round his eyes was streaked with purple and yellow, the eyes themselves still bloodshot.

'You were very lucky, Mr Mace. That blow would have shattered most men's skulls.'

'Tough as old boots – always have been,' rejoined the old man, with obvious pride.

'You didn't see your attacker?'

'Not so much as a whisker.'

'Were you aware of anything that might identify him – a particular smell, perhaps – sweat, tobacco, aftershave?'

Frederick thought for a moment, then regretfully shook his head. 'I’m afraid not. It all happened so suddenly.'

'Have you any idea who might have had it in for you?'

Frederick surveyed him, raising one eyebrow. 'The odd murderer, perhaps? I have been, as the Americans say, shooting off my mouth rather a lot lately.'

Webb smiled. 'You've certainly been hitting the headlines. I gather you're convinced the murders aren't connected?'

'Oh, they're connected, Chief Inspector.' And, seeing Webb's surprise, he went on, 'That is to say, one was taken as a blueprint for the other. That must be so, surely. But I'm quite certain we have two different killers.'

He could be right, Webb reflected; at least it wasn't Baring who had broken into the house. Had it, then, been Philpott's killer, who, when he couldn't find what he wanted, went after the old man in the hope that any information he held was only in his head?

'Well, Mr Webb?' Frederick prompted as he remained silent. 'I expected you to disagree with me; are you, too, coming round to the idea of two murderers?'

'All we can do is go by the evidence. I'm aware of your theory, though, that a serial killer would go for the same type of victim each time.'

'And these two were very different, weren't they? I was positive from the first that Philpott was a lady's man, despite all the protestations to the contrary. Well, now it looks as though I was right.'

'That reminds me,' Webb put in, 'DCI Good asked me to tell you he's been in touch with Erlesborough.'

'Excellent. Then things should start moving.'

'You think Philpott's involvement with someone precipitated his death?'

'I'm sure of it.'

'How did you learn about his – philandering?'

'From his widow, who is now Mrs Bradburn. Some old friends kindly told her when she bumped into them last summer.'

'Did she give you the name of these friends?'

'Not their surname. I rang back to ask, but she was out. Still, the police will follow it up, won't they? I suppose you're hoping Philpott identified his conquests?'

'It might be useful. Still, that's not really my problem; I wasn't involved in that case, but I am with Mr Judd, who was found on my patch.'

He glanced at the alert old face. 'I was particularly interested in a phrase you used the other evening – that he might have done his killer a "long-distance wrong". Could you enlarge on that?'

Mace shrugged. 'You know more about these things than I do, but in premeditated murder, surely it's unusual for the victim not to know his killer?'

'Yes, I grant you that.'

'It might be explained in Philpott's case by his being killed by a jealous husband, but I don't think that holds for Judd, who really does seem to have led a blameless existence. Yet his killer sounded more personally involved and was almost certainly fighting his own battles. Which, I must say, seems incomprehensible when Judd recognized neither his name, voice, nor appearance.'

Webb was prevented from commenting by a tap on the door, which opened to admit an elderly lady with short brown hair and a freckled face.

Seeing the two policemen, she came to a halt. 'Oh, I'm sorry. Am I interrupting?'

Webb and Jackson had risen to their feet. 'Not at all, ma'am,' Webb assured her. 'We were just leaving.'

'Chief Inspector Webb, my dear, and Sergeant – Jackson, is it? My wife.'

'I hope you've been telling him, Chief Inspector, that if he kept his nose out of your business, he wouldn't get it bloodied.'

The stern words were belied by the loving look she bestowed on her husband as she bent to kiss him.

Webb said diplomatically, 'If you're writing about true crime it's obviously safer to stick with old ones, but your husband has some interesting ideas.'

'Too interesting,' Edwina returned darkly. 'Look where they got him!'

'But if we can flush them out, my dear – and note. Chief Inspector, I said "them" – it will be worth the odd bump on the head.'

'Bump!' Edwina echoed indignantly. 'You were almost killed!'

She turned back to Webb. 'But since he wasn't, Chief Inspector, is the man likely to try again?’

'It's always a possibility, which is why we'd like to keep Mr Mace here for the time being, under police guard.'

'But good God, man,' Frederick objected, 'you might never catch him! I can't spend the rest of my life cooped up in this place!'

'I trust it won't be for too long, sir. In the meantime, if there's anything else you think of, or remember, the officer on the door can contact me at any time.'

'Let's hope we do clear it up quickly, Guv,' Jackson commented as they went back down the stairs. 'I shouldn't fancy trying to hold that one for long against his will!'

Sonia unwittingly passed the two detectives in the hospital car park. She was dreading the next half-hour, uncertain what state she would find her mother-in-law in and hoping no mention would be made of any long-term plans for either her or Zoe. The two of them had moved to the village of Honeyford, some ten miles from Ashmartin, after Zoe's breakdown, 'to be closer to Patrick'. It was Sonia's constant fear that Zoe might now wish to move closer still.

Outside the room she paused briefly to marshal her resources. Through the circle of glass in the door, she could see Zoe sitting beside her mother and holding her hand. Sybil, eyes closed, lay back against her pillows, looking, Sonia thought with quickened heartbeat, extremely frail.

She quietly pushed the door open. Zoe greeted her with a strained smile but the older woman didn't open her eyes.

'How is she?' Sonia asked softly, laying the flowers she had brought on the bedside cabinet.

'She had a reasonable night. They won't commit themselves much further.'

'Has Patrick been in?'

'Not yet.'

'He said he'd come as soon as he could, but he'd several appointments this morning.'

She pulled up a chair on the other side of the bed. The sick woman's shallow breathing barely lifted her chest. If Sybil wasn't aware of her presence, there was little point in staying, she thought uncharitably. Certainly her sister-in-law showed no desire for her company. Zoe's gaze had returned to her mother, and Sonia took the opportunity to study her, searching as she always did for resemblances to Patrick, and finding few.

Zoe was ten years younger than her brother, and would have been in her mid-twenties when her illness struck. She'd not had much of a life, Sonia thought with pity; yet she was now such a negative personality that the thought of closer contact with her was unbearable. Which, Sonia upbraided herself, was a thoroughly selfish outlook.

Most importantly, how would Patrick react if she raised objections to Zoe living with them? Sonia admitted that she didn't know. She could no longer gauge Patrick's reactions to anything.

The woman on the bed stirred suddenly and opened her eyes. 'Sonia,' she said drowsily. 'How nice.'

Sonia leaned over and dutifully kissed her. 'How are you, Mother?' The word came unnaturally to her, but they all expected it.

'Tired, my dear. Very tired.'

'Would you rather I left?'

'Of course not,' Zoe protested, 'you've only just arrived! Look, dear, at these flowers Sonia brought. Aren't they lovely?'

'I meant,' Sybil explained faintly, 'that I'm tired of being a burden on everyone.'

'That's nonsense!' Sonia declared roundly, and broke off as she encountered Zoe's unreadable gaze. For while it was true Sybil hadn't been a burden to her – she'd not allowed her to be – she couldn't speak for the other two. Was that, despite their love for her, how Patrick and Zoe now regarded their mother?

'Of course it's nonsense,' Zoe was confirming, 'and you mustn't think it for a minute. We'll soon have you back on your feet.'

Sybil Knowles made a faint, protesting movement, but had not the strength to argue her point and there was an awkward silence. Then Zoe, taking her mother's closed eyes as indication that she'd withdrawn from the conversation, said unexpectedly, 'I heard about your friend's father. Patrick said you should have gone to supper there last night.'

'To Gilly's? Yes, we did.’

Zoe's eyes widened. 'You still went? But I thought he wasn't expected to live?'

'He's pulled through. I'm thankful to say, and Gilly was most anxious the dinner should go ahead. In the circumstances it was quite a pleasant evening.'

Though Patrick remained as distant as ever, she thought despairingly, and when there'd be another chance for Gilly to observe him, goodness knew.

Hannah had carried a drinks tray out to the garden and put the wine bottle in its cooler under the trees. The garden was communal to all the flats, but though everyone contributed to its maintenance, few residents made use of it.

Hannah was an exception, and often strolled there when she returned from school, glad of its open spaces after the confinement of the classroom, and watching indulgently as her cat chased imaginary mice through the undergrowth or ran up the boles of the trees.

This evening, she was hoping that the informal start would ease any constraint the four of them might feel after Gwen's long absence. The initial meeting between them had gone well, and Gwen, who'd seemed a little tense on arrival, had visibly relaxed.

Hannah glanced over to where she stood chatting with Monica Latimer. The contrast between the two women was almost comical: Gwen was her usual untidy self, spraying hairpins in all directions as her French pleat rapidly came undone. Her indifference to clothes was manifest in the print dress which hung awkwardly on her gawky frame, and she'd slung a knobbly, home-knitted cardigan round her shoulders.

Monica, on the other hand, was as always not only beautifully dressed but groomed to perfection, this evening in apricot linen which set off her fair, greying hair. But then she'd every incentive to dress well; born Monica Tovey, since her father's death she had run the prestigious fashion store Randall Tovey with formidable efficiency tempered by a natural charm. In her hands it had risen to new heights and become known both nationally and internationally, a fame undreamt of by her grandfather, who had founded it.

'A penny for them,' Dilys said, holding out her glass to be refilled.

Hannah smiled. 'I was thinking how different we all are,' she admitted.

Dilys followed the direction of her glance. 'Dear Gwen,' she said, 'she's not changed that much, after all.'

The meal, served in Hannah's pretty dining-room, had gone well, and now the four of them sat over coffee, the room lit only by the flickering candles on the table. The window was open to the darkening garden, and the night calls of birds reached them clearly.

'This is where Gwen says something like, "East, west, home's best!"' Dilys commented.

Gwen smiled and ducked her head.

'You are glad to be back, aren't you?' Dilys persisted.

'Yes – yes, of course.'

'But –?' prompted Monica.

'Oh, I don't know. I was away for nearly a year, after all. Time to get into a completely different way of things. I'm having to ease myself back.'

'You really liked it out there, didn't you, Gwen?' Hannah said quietly, topping up her coffee cup.

'Yes; and the strange thing is, in Canada I seemed to fit in immediately. It's now I'm home again that the adjusting has to start.'

'Would you like to go back?'

Gwen didn't reply at once. Her eyes were on the silver spoon as she stirred her coffee, and the rest of them sat in silence, watching her and waiting. Then she seemed to reach a decision and looked up.

'I hadn't meant to say anything, but you three are my closest friends. I know I can count on you treating this as confidential.'

They all nodded solemnly, and Hannah felt a twinge of unease, wondering what was coming.

'The fact is that I was offered a post out there.'

Her words, totally unexpected, dropped into the quiet room with the impact of a thunderbolt. Dilys and Monica instinctively turned to Hannah who, after all, would be the one most affected.

Gwen met her eyes. 'Forgive me – I shouldn't have said anything. I should have spoken to you first.'

Hannah moistened her lips. 'You mean you're seriously considering it?'

'Considering it, yes, but I haven't reached any decision. I want to get the new term under way and see if my feelings for Canada abate a bit.'

'Is this position at the school where you were?' Monica asked.

'Yes, the present head is leaving in a year's time. Of course, it's a challenge. It's a much larger school than Ashbourne, and I really don't know whether I could do it. Or whether I want to,' she added as an afterthought. 'After all, there's Mother to consider.'

Hannah was aware of mixed feelings. Only a couple of days ago she'd been resenting handing back the reins to Gwen. Now there was a possibility of retaining them permanently. Would she be offered the post if Gwen decided to go? It would depend on the Board of Governors. The post would be advertised; suppose they chose someone else over her? Could she bear to stay on? Also, she was fond of Gwen, and would miss her if she left permanently.

Gwen said softly, 'You sensed I was holding something back, didn't you, Hannah?'

'I did wonder,' Hannah admitted.

'Would you take on Ashbourne if you were offered it?'

Hannah gave a little laugh and spread her hands. 'Not so fast! You spring this on me, then expect an immediate statement of intent. There are any number of things to consider.'

'Well, your ability isn't one of them,' Gwen said flatly. 'You could do it standing on your head.'

There was a short, uncomfortable pause. Then Dilys said, 'It's almost ten o'clock; do you think we could watch the news? I want to see if there's anything new on the local murder; since hearing Mace's talk I've been following it, and the attack on him makes it look as though he's on to something. Thank God he wasn't more seriously hurt.'

They went through to the sitting-room and Hannah switched on the set. After the national headlines came the announcement that a man was being held in connection with Judd's murder, and the scene switched to outside Ashmartin Police Station, where the crime reporter awaited his cue.

'The arrest of the man, who has not been named, came after the attack on criminologist and writer Frederick Mace, but as yet the police have not made any statement linking him with it. Meanwhile, speculation is still continuing that the Judd case might be connected with the death of Trevor Philpott six years ago.' Photographs of the two victims appeared to one side of the screen. 'The bodies of both men were found in public-house car parks, some thirty miles apart. This is Steve Potter in Ashmartin returning you to the studio.'

'I knew Trevor Philpott,' Monica remarked, and the other three turned to her, all exclaiming at once.

'You never told me!'

'What was he like?'

'How did you meet him?'

She shook her head laughingly. 'Don't get excited, I don't mean socially, but he came into the store quite regularly.'

'With his wife, you mean?' Randall Tovey didn’t cater for men.

'No, to buy presents. Underwear, jewellery, the occasional handbag or silk scarf.'

'No wonder it was such a happy marriage!'

Monica said consideringly, 'Actually, we didn't quite believe those reports. For one thing, the underwear he bought was in several different sizes!'

'Did you tell the police,' Dilys demanded, 'after he was killed?'

'No, of course I didn't. His poor wife was going through enough without that. Anyway, the garments could have been for his sisters.'

'But Monica' – Hannah leant forward urgently – 'the police were looking for motives and couldn't find any. The story was that Philpott hadn't an enemy in the world, but if he was involved with other women, that would open up a whole new perspective.'

Monica looked troubled. 'I never thought of that, and after all, it was flimsy evidence at best.'

'Nevertheless, if I were you, I'd get on to them in the morning. It's not too late, the case is still open.'

'Just think,' Dilys said, wide-eyed, 'you might have been holding vital evidence!'

'Or withholding it,' Hannah added sternly.

'Goodness, you're making me feel like a criminal myself. All right, if you think I should. I'll phone the police in the morning.'

And I, thought Hannah, will phone one of them tonight.

In the flat on the floor above, Webb had set up his easel. Baring had been charged with evading arrest, but they couldn't hold him much longer without something considerably more substantial. Yet damn it, if he did kill Simon Judd, and the odds were that he had, there must be something that would incriminate him.

Webb began to sketch the man as he had seen him across the table – close-set eyes, ragged haircut, in need of a shave. Given that, as old Mace postulated, Baring had never met Judd, why had he killed him? The all-important motive factor still eluded them.

Webb held his thoughts determinedly at bay as he sketched, aware that in the past his unconscious had picked up clues he had not registered until they came out in his drawings. Concentrate, then, on Baring's character and see what comes through. The expression on the pencilled face became clearer as he drew – surly, aggrieved, self-righteous.

So what had struck him most about the man? Bitter resentment, Webb thought, feeling his way; that's what had really come through, together with a conviction that he'd been wrongly accused and falsely imprisoned.

Though a familiar ploy when first arrested, by the time a man had served his time, such claims had usually been discarded. Not in Baring's case: he had nurtured his sense of grievance throughout his prison term, and three years later it was as strong as ever.

So who did he hold to blame? The police? Someone who had fingered him? The judge at his trial? The jury who'd found him guilty?

Hang on a minute! Webb felt a quickening of interest. What was it old Mace had said? 'A long-distance wrong'? Suppose Simon Judd had been on that jury?

He sat back, staring at the bleak face he'd depicted. Suppose Baring really had been innocent, and that Judd had somehow been involved in convicting him? It would fit Mace's 'long-distance wrong' theory. On the other hand, he presumably wasn't hunting down the remaining eleven jurors – why had he picked on Judd?

Webb pushed back his stool and went to pour himself a drink, turning the possibility over in his mind. If that had been the case, Judd was unlikely to have recognized Baring's voice after so long, if, indeed, he'd ever heard him say more than a few words. The name he probably would have known, but that given on the phone was Jim Fairlie. What about the man's appearance? It was over three years since Judd had seen him, and probably never close at hand. He might have looked vaguely familiar, but no more than that.

Yes, Webb thought, excitement moving in him, it fitted. In the morning he'd get on to the Chief Clerk at Court and get him to look up Baring's trial, see if Judd had been on the jury. It was a long shot, but it had potential.

The phone rang and he lifted it, his mind still pursuing this new avenue.

'David?' Hannah's voice.

'Hello there.'

'I've just had Les Girls to supper.' That was Webb's name for them. 'Monica says Trevor Philpott was always in and out of the store, buying jewellery and underwear. In different sizes'. Could that be important?'

'It could be a back-up, certainly.'

'Back-up?' She sounded disappointed.

'Your friend Mace again; he's heard that Philpott probably had a number of affairs.'

Hannah said a trifle tartly, 'I'm beginning to wonder what you'd do without Frederick Mace.'

'Actually, we're not managing so badly under our own steam,' Webb returned, his eyes on the face propped on the easel.

'I'm glad to hear it. Anyway, I persuaded Monica to phone the police in the morning.'

'Well done. At least it would be corroborative evidence, which we're somewhat short of. Why didn't she report it at the time?'

'Thought his wife had enough trouble and didn't like to speak ill of the dead. It never occurred to her it might provide a motive.'

No doubt others had kept quiet for the same reason, Webb thought resignedly, which was why the murderer had had a clear field for so long.

'Thanks for letting me know,' he said. 'I presume your guests have gone?'

'Yes.' She hesitated, tempted to tell him of Gwen's Canadian offer, but bound by her promise of silence.

'Sleep well, then,' he said.

'And you.'

Feeling suddenly rather flat, Hannah hung up the phone and began to prepare for bed.