A Choice of Victims (12 page)

‘It was, primarily,’ Hasted said. ‘But as I explained before, if we’re looking for a local killer it has to be someone who knew who would be delivering the meals that day. That’s why the alteration is important. Who would know of it?’

Frances could not say for certain. Helpers were free to swap dates as they wished, and although some notified her of a change, as Elizabeth Doyle had done, it was not obligatory and the majority did not bother. ‘Basically it would just be the two families concerned,’ she said. ‘But there could be others. For instance, in this case, Mrs Trotter.’ The blue eyes widened. ‘Oh, I see what you mean. It sort of reduces the field, doesn’t it? Makes it simpler for you.’

‘It might,’ he agreed.

He did not point out that it might also make it more complicated. But he pointed it out to Driver as they ate a ploughman’s lunch in a pub down the road from headquarters. Had Elizabeth Doyle been killed because of who she was, and therefore by someone who knew of the change in dates? Or had she been killed by someone who, unaware of the change, had supposed her to be Cheryl Mason? ‘The two women are—were—about the same height. Different hairstyles and colouring, of course, and Mrs Mason is plumper. But those details might not have been apparent under the voluminous mac and hood she was wearing. Particularly if the killer attacked her from behind, as the wound suggests.’

‘So you’re saying we have a choice of victims, eh?’ Driver swore as a pickled onion eluded his grasp and rolled off the plate. ‘Or intended victims, rather. Which presumably increases the number of suspects.’

‘That’s about it.’

‘With the two husbands leading the field, eh?’

‘I suppose so. But we’ve no hard evidence against either. Just opportunity and motive.’

‘That’s certainly true of Doyle,’ Driver said. ‘Reading a newspaper in a lay-by isn’t the most solid of alibis. Mason seems more doubtful. Unless the two women possessed identical macs, wouldn’t he know that the one the dead woman was wearing wasn’t his wife’s?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Hasted said. ‘I get the impression the couple are so far apart that her wardrobe could be as foreign to him as it is to me.’

‘There’s his mother’s evidence. That his clothes were dry when he arrived for lunch.’

‘She could be lying,’ Hasted said. ‘Mothers do. I’ll have enquires made in the Rye, see if anyone noticed his car.’

Driver drained his glass. ‘Well, drink up, George. We’ll have the other half.’

When he returned with the drinks he said, ‘I looked in at the incident room this morning. Not exactly a hive of activity. Still, it’s fun for the kids, I suppose. Dixon got anything on Bates yet?’

‘No.’

‘The chief’s getting impatient. He’s hoping for an arrest before Bright and Willis come up again on Wednesday.’ Driver lit a cigarette. ‘I can’t see that happening.’

‘If only we could find that damned key,’ Hasted said. ‘Forget it, George. It could be anywhere.’

‘If you were chummy, what would you have done with it?’

‘Buried it, probably.’

‘You wouldn’t have pocketed it and disposed of it later?’

‘I might have done. Why?’

Hasted shrugged. ‘It worries me, that’s why. I get the feeling that the key itself is less important than where we find it.’

‘If we find it.’ Driver stood up. ‘Come on, back to the factory. When are you collecting Sybil?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon. Three-thirty. And I’ll have a bottle of champagne on ice to celebrate.’

‘Is champagne good for nursing mothers?’

‘It’s good for nursing fathers,’ Hasted said. ‘Godparents too, if you happen to be out that way.’

‘I shan’t be,’ Driver said. ‘Thanks all the same, George. But I’ve a rather special date for tomorrow evening.’

Chapter Six

Elizabeth’s funeral was reasonably well attended, largely by fellow members of the Women’s Institute, the parish council and the housing committee. The Holdens and the Masons were there; so were Derek Mollison and Mrs Trotter. And Bridgadier Follick, who shunned weddings but seldom missed a funeral. There were a few strangers, among whom Hasted, who was there to represent the police, thought to recognize the man he had seen in the photograph and whom Andrew had identified as the dead woman’s London solicitor. The remainder were villagers who Hasted suspected had attended more out of curiosity than from a sense of loss or duty. There were a respectable number of floral tributes but no tears. The vicar’s address was short and stereotyped; his reference to ‘our sister Elizabeth who, although a comparative newcomer, had immersed herself wholeheartedly in the affairs of the community’ made Hasted wonder how soon one ceased to be a newcomer, even a comparative one. Apparently five years was not enough.

He was not among those invited back to the Manor, but even had he been invited he would not have gone. It was time to collect Sybil and the baby. He shook hands with the Doyles and walked briskly down the wreath-lined churchyard path to the Green and the incident room. From there, after a short conference with the officer in charge, he set out for Limpsted and the hospital.

Detective Chief Superintendent Greenway was in the irritable mood that had plagued him since the start of his convalescence. He sat in the enclosed sunroom, the floor around him littered with papers and magazines—he seldom read a book—and stared gloomily at Driver.

‘You seem to be leaving a lot to George Hasted,’ he said. ‘Taking a breather, are you?’

Driver knew better than to let that rile him. ‘Mrs Doyle’s murder isn’t the only major crime on the books,’ he said. ‘You know that, sir. But George has a good team and I do what I can. He also happens to live in West Deering. That’s useful. He knows the people.’

‘You don’t want me to ask the ACC for help?’

‘No, sir. Not yet, anyway.’

Greenway shifted uneasily in his chair. He was more than tired of it. ‘Do you go along with Hasted’s suggestion that the woman may have been killed in mistake for another?’

‘It’s feasible,’ Driver said cautiously. ‘Deserves consideration.’

‘Consideration my foot!’ Greenway snapped. ‘If George is right and chummy is local, you’re fishing in a fairly small pond and it shouldn’t be beyond your expertise to catch something.’

Driver nodded noncommittally, not bothering to point out that even in a small pond it was not easy to catch one particular fish, and even harder if your hook was not baited. Smart answers did not go down well with the chief.

‘I’ll have to be getting along, sir,’ he said. ‘Any idea when you’re likely to be back?’

‘Around the end of next week, according to Hamilton, my doctor. But don’t count on it. He said that last week.’

‘I hope he’s right this time.’

‘So do I. All right, Driver, off you go. Oh! I almost forgot. Edna has one of her female protégées coming to dinner tonight. Pretty girl. Janice Something-or-other. She was hoping you’d be free to make a fourth.’

‘That’s kind of her,’ Driver said. ‘But I’m afraid I can’t make it. I already have an engagement for this evening and it’s too late now to cancel it. I’m sorry.’

Greenway grunted. ‘Police business?’

‘Sort of.’

‘Hm! Not like you to put business before pleasure.’

Not true, Driver thought as he drove away. And the chief knew it was not true. But then his ‘sort of’ had also been nudging the truth. The business he envisaged would, he hoped, have very little to do with police work. A pity about Janice Something-or-other. If she really was pretty—and the chief was a fair judge—maybe he could fit her in some other time.

*

Eileen Rycroft had prepared a casserole for their evening meal, with a gooseberry fool to follow, but she tactfully declined their invitation to stay and share it. She did, however, accept a glass of champagne to celebrate Sybil’s return, and put Jason to bed while Sybil attended to Martin James. Glad as he was for his wife to be back, it occurred to Hasted that the extra work and disruption entailed by the baby suggested that life at home might never be quite the same again. Or was ‘never’ too strong a word—even though Sybil had hinted that she still hankered after a girl?

As they ate he listened with as much concentration as he could muster to Sybil’s further revelations of life in the maternity ward: how this baby had jaundice and that baby a cleft palate, how this nurse was a sweetie and that nurse a martinet, how this woman’s husband had not visited her once and that woman’s husband had spent a night in a police cell after celebrating the birth of his son too liberally. But he had heard much of it before and his mind was on other matters, and presently, alerted by his lack of comment, she said, ‘Well, that’s enough of me. What’s new on the crime front?’

He accepted the opening with alacrity. ‘There’s a possibility that Mrs Doyle was unlucky,’ he said. ‘She—’

‘Unlucky?’ Sybil laughed. ‘That’s an understatement if ever I heard one.’

‘I mean unlucky in the sense that she wasn’t the intended victim. That she was killed in mistake for Cheryl Mason.’

‘Really? But that’s crazy! And why Cheryl Mason?’

Hasted explained. ‘Trouble is, of course, we can’t be sure. Which means we have to look two ways.’ He got up to remove the dishes. ‘Who, I wonder, might be interested in the early demise of Cheryl Mason?’

‘That’s easy,’ she said. ‘The Marstons.’

‘Marston?’ He frowned. ‘The Doyle’s ex-gardener? The one she sacked for being drunk?’

‘The same.’

‘And how do the Marstons connect with Cheryl Mason?’

‘Kate Marston is old Mr Philipson’s niece. She’s also his only surviving relative, according to Monica Ebbutt.’ Forestalling his next query, she added, ‘Monica is the Marstons’ eldest daughter.’

Light dawned. ‘And the Marstons would be worried that Cheryl Mason is after the old boy’s money, which otherwise would come to them. Is that it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Hm! Tell me more about the Marstons.’

They lived in the Rye, she said, along with three of their five children, the youngest of whom was only a few months old. Tom, the eldest son, was in the army; the two other boys, both in their teens, were unemployed. ‘Kate Marston’s a member of the Mothers’ Union; that’s how I came to meet her. I don’t know the rest of the family. Except Monica, of course. She’s a nice girl. We’re both on the committee for the Young Wives’ Guild.’

‘You and your committees!’ he said, smiling. ‘What’s her husband do?’

‘He’s a salesman. Groceries, I think. They have a bungalow in the Rye.’

‘Any of the family involved in Meals on Wheels?’

‘Monica is. Why?’

He told her why. ‘Come to think of it, Marston’s a candidate no matter who he believed the woman to be. He would see Cheryl Mason as a threat to his wife’s inheritance and Mrs Doyle as the ogress who gave him the sack.’

‘Isn’t the sack too weak a motive for murder?’ she asked.

‘According to the annals of crime no motive is too weak. And Marston’s been unemployed since, hasn’t he? That would rankle. Given that he was drunk at the time...’ He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, the Marstons are definitely worth a visit.’

*

Sipping a Martini, Felicity Scott sat in the living room of Driver’s flat and scrutinized the pictures adorning the walls. Apart from a huge Van Dongen that seemed to dominate the room, none, she thought, would have been given hanging space in the gallery where she worked. Most depicted sea and sail by artists unknown to her. Not that she could be considered an authority. Not after only fourteen months in the trade.

‘How’s the Martini coming?’ Driver called from the kitchen.

‘Nicely, thanks. How’s the food coming? I’m starving.’

‘Won’t be long now.’

It had been her idea that they should eat at the flat. On the two occasions they had dined out together he had been critical of the food or the wines or the service, implying a culinary knowledge that had impressed her even though she had suspected that much of it was superficial. So she had challenged him. ‘If you’re such an expert on food,’ she had said, ‘how about a practical demonstration on its preparation? Or isn’t your skill equal to your knowledge?’ He had replied with appropriate modesty that it was not in his nature to boast, but that he reckoned he could dish up as appetizing a meal as most chefs. ‘Prove it,’ she had said. ‘I’ll be down in West Deering this weekend; there are things I need, and the parents like me to keep an eye on the place while they’re away. So how about feeding me Friday evening?’ He had hesitated before accepting the challenge. Then—‘You’re on,’ he had said. ‘Seven-thirty for eight, and don’t be late. Don’t be early either.’ ‘Why not early?’ she had asked. ‘Cooking is an art demanding the chef’s full attention,’ he had told her, ‘and I rate you as being very much a distraction.’

She finished the Martini. ‘Sure I can’t help?’ she called.

‘No need. It’s practically on its way.’

Her attention shifted from the walls to the room as a whole. It was a long room, with a dining area adjoining the kitchen at the far end. The solid oak furniture was good reproduction, the refectory table already laid for two. The armchairs and the settee were of leather, the Wilton carpeting thick. There were few ornaments, the most striking of which was a wooden model of a square-rigged sailing ship, its sails neatly furled. There was a small television set, and a music centre from which came the sound of a piano medley, its volume muted.

Driver emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. Felicity stood up and joined him at the table. ‘Smells good,’ she said, wrinkling her nose as she sniffed the subtle aroma emanating from the two Royal Worcester dishes. ‘What is it?’

‘Seafood ramekins,’ he told her. ‘Mind if we stick to champagne? I don’t really go for this white/red switch.’

‘Champagne will do nicely,’ she assured him.

She approved the ramekins. Delicious, she said. So was the duck, served with peas and baby carrots and a brandy sauce, and garnished with cherries and orange slices. Her appetite mirrored her praise, and he felt a glow of satisfaction as he watched her eat. No need to tell her that the food had been prepared and cooked by a professional chef, engaged at considerable expense, who had left the flat only minutes before her arrival. It was not really cheating. He had not claimed culinary skill, only that he could dish up an appetizing meal. Which was precisely what he had done. And at least the finishing touches had been his.

She told him about her job. It was only a small gallery, she said, but she loved the work. The owner was charming, a fat, ebullient little man who treated her as a daughter, and she had met so many interesting people. ‘Your father was in the other day,’ she said. ‘I told him I’d met you.’

‘Did he buy anything?’

‘No.’ She looked across at the Van Dongen. ‘What made you buy that?’

‘I didn’t. An aunt left it to me in her will. She knew I liked seascapes.’

‘So I see.’

‘I’ve got a boat down at Chichester,’ he said. ‘How about coming out with me one weekend?’

‘No thanks,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m the world’s worst sailor. I’m even sick on the river.’ She took a final mouthful of duck and looked at him with grudging admiration. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, James. I thought you were a phoney. Now—well, I apologize. That was quite a meal.’

‘We’re not through yet,’ he said, getting up. ‘Mop up the champagne while you’re waiting.’

It was time, she thought, that she began to consider him seriously. This was only the fourth evening they had spent together, but she realized that already he was becoming important to her. He was good-looking in a very masculine way, he was amusing and assured, he was well-bred and well-groomed. And according to his father he was a brave copper as well as a good one. In addition to two commendations he also held the Queen’s Police Medal for gallantry.

He returned with two tall glasses. ‘Zabaglione!’ she exclaimed. ‘Now, that’s perfect. A lovely way to finish such a meal. Am I likely to be invited again?’

‘Anytime,’ he assured her. ‘You’ve become my favourite guest.’

They were drinking coffee and liqueurs on the settee when she said, ‘What made you join the police? You’re obviously keen on the sea. Why not the navy?’

‘Sailing is just a hobby,’ he said. ‘I love it, but I wouldn’t want it full-time. And police work is tremendously satisfying. I get a real kick out of it.’

‘Are you good at it? Your father thinks you are.’

‘He would. Let’s say I’ve been reasonably successful.’

‘Are you going to succeed in your search for Mrs Doyle’s murderer?’

‘I hope so. But that’s not me, that’s a team effort.’ He sipped brandy. ‘You know the family. How do you rate her husband?’

‘I rather fancied him once,’ she said. ‘He’s quite good-looking. But it didn’t last long. He’s shallow and egotistic. Terribly selfish. Why? Do you think he killed her?’

He laughed. ‘I don’t answer questions like that. Not from a layman. Or laywoman, rather.’