A Choice of Victims (8 page)

‘No, seriously, darling.’

‘I’m being serious. But if you’re looking for a family resemblance, there isn’t one. Not yet. Still, give him time. He’ll probably come up with something.’ She watched a nurse arrange the roses Hasted had brought. He had picked them from their garden that morning, and a WPC had kept them watered. ‘How are you managing, George?’

‘Fine. Eileen’s been marvellous. She had a hot meal waiting for me when I got home last night, and both mornings she’s come in early to get my breakfast. And you know how good she is with Jason.’

Sybil gave a wry smile. Eileen Ryecroft was 20 years old and unemployed, and lived with her parents two doors away from the Hasteds. Sybil liked her, although she suspected that the girl’s interest in George went beyond that of neighbourly friendship. George seemed unaware of this and she had not enlightened him. But she said now, ‘Thank her for me, George, will you? Only don’t overdo it. She’s an attractive girl.’

He laughed. ‘Jealous?’

‘No. But I could be.’

He told her of the arrest and interrogation of the two London youths and of Driver’s belief that they were innocent of Elizabeth Doyle’s murder. ‘I think he’s right, too,’ he said. ‘Which means she wasn’t killed for the car or the money she had on her. In other words it wasn’t a random killing, executed on the spur of the moment. It was probably premeditated. And that’s a very different kettle of fish.’

She shuddered. ‘And a lot more horrible. Is there anyone you suspect?’

‘Straight off, just about everyone who knew her. Although some are obviously more suspect than others.’ He perched on the edge of the bed. ‘You’re the expert on local gossip. Who would you suspect?’

‘I wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘I don’t have a suspicious nature.’

‘Try.’

‘Well, she wasn’t exactly popular, was she? Lots of people disliked her.’ Sybil frowned, considering. ‘There’s Bob Marston, her ex-gardener, for one. He’s been unemployed since she sacked him last year for being drunk. And Sam Bates—he doesn’t think much of her either. But I suppose you’ll be looking hardest at her husband, won’t you? He’ll inherit her money, presumably. And it’s common knowledge they weren’t exactly lovebirds. Ask Mrs Trotter.’

‘David Doyle was in Winchester, lunching with friends,’ Hasted said. ‘We’ve checked. There’s Andrew, of course. He didn’t exactly hit it off with his stepmother. But I can’t see how he’d gain by her death.’

‘Through his father?’

‘Perhaps. Why Sam Bates?’

‘I’m not sure. Something to do with a quarrel over land. I expect Mrs Holden could tell you.’

‘I’ll ask her. I’ll be seeing her tomorrow.’

‘Don’t tell me she’s on your list.’

‘Of course not. But if the murder was premeditated the killer must have known Elizabeth Doyle was delivering Meals on Wheels that day. I want to know who might have had that information.’ Somewhere in the hospital a bell sounded. ‘Is that chucking-out time?’

‘There’s no hurry,’ Sybil said, smoothing the bedclothes. ‘They don’t employ bouncers. Do you think you could forget Elizabeth Doyle for a few minutes and take a proper interest in your family? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’

*

The news that two men had been taken to Limpsted police station and were helping the police in their investigation into the death of Elizabeth Doyle had been briefly reported on radio and television that same evening. It had been received by the inhabitants of West Deering with satisfaction and relief—assuming, as they did, that in due course the men would be named and charged with her murder. The assumption was shared by the Holden family, so that Frances was surprised to receive a visit from Hasted the following morning. With Elizabeth’s murderers safely under lock and key she could not imagine what more he could want from her. Or perhaps this was not an official visit. Perhaps it had to do with Sybil and the baby. He had thanked her over the telephone for the help she and Tom had given. But he was, she thought, a man very conscious of his obligations. Perhaps he now wished to thank her in person.

She was upstairs when he arrived, and she called to Natalie to answer the door; then, remembering that the children were out on their bicycles, she went downstairs and opened the door and took him into the sitting room. ‘Congratulations on the boy, Mr Hasted,’ she said. ‘According to Tom he’s a little whopper.’

‘Just over nine pounds,’ he said, with justifiable pride.

‘Really? That’s some baby. I’m hoping to pay him and Sybil a visit this afternoon.’

‘That’s kind of you, Mrs Holden. I can’t answer for my son, of course, but I know Sybil would be delighted to see you. We’re both very grateful for the help you and the doctor have given her.’ Hasted paused. ‘Actually, I’m here to ask your help on another matter. I need a list of those engaged in the local Meals on Wheels service.’

‘Of course.’

Hasted studied the list she gave him. It contained twelve names in all, only two of them male, together with their telephone numbers and addresses and the dates on which they were due to help.

‘Would they each have a copy of this?’ he asked, watching Whisky and Soda, who were sniffing earnestly at his trouser legs.

‘Yes.’

‘So they at least would know who would be doing the round on any particular day.’

‘Yes. So would their families, I suppose. Friends too, possibly, in some cases.’ Frances could contain her curiosity no longer. ‘Forgive my asking, Mr Hasted, but why your interest in Meals on Wheels? Has it to do with Mrs Doyle’s murder?’

‘It could have.’

‘But you’ve got the men who did it, haven’t you? It was on the news.’

‘They admit to stealing the car,’ Hasted said. ‘But they deny all knowledge of the murder. And there’s evidence to suggest they may be telling the truth.’

‘So what happens to them?’

‘They’re being brought before a magistrate this morning on the minor charge, and he’ll almost certainly remand them in custody for a week. That will give us time to make further enquiries.’

‘You’re sure they didn’t do it?’

‘No, we’re not. But it’s a possibility we can’t ignore.’

‘And you think the alternative is someone on that list?’ Frances prodded Whisky gently with a slippered foot. The dog ignored the protest and continued sniffing. ‘Or someone who had access to it?’

‘Well, it has to be someone who knew her movements that day, doesn’t it? And these people certainly did.’

‘Including me?’

Hasted smiled. ‘Including you, Mrs Holden. Although I doubt whether we’ll be checking on you very closely. We’re more interested in anyone known to have had a grudge against her—real or otherwise.’

‘Well, she wasn’t wildly popular, was she?’ Frances said sadly. ‘Somehow or other, poor thing, she managed to upset quite a few of the locals.’

‘Like Sam Bates, eh?’ he said, seizing the opening. ‘And I see his wife’s on the list.’

‘Oh, that old thing! You know about that, do you?’

‘I’ve heard rumours,’ he said. ‘I don’t know the details.’

‘You know he owns that piece of rough ground behind the church?’

‘Does he? No, I didn’t know.’

‘He bought it around six years ago, on an understanding with the council that he would be granted planning permission to develop it as a small private housing estate provided he built an access road. The only existing access was the footpath alongside the cemetery.’

‘It’s still the only access, isn’t it?’ Hasted said.

‘Yes. And that’s the snag. For Sam Bates, I mean. Colonel Phillips owned the Manor then, and he agreed to let Sam build a road through his paddock.’ Frances smiled. ‘For more than adequate compensation, I’m told. The colonel had a good head for business. Whisky! Soda! Stop it!’

‘It’s all right,’ Hasted said. ‘They don’t bother me. What went wrong, Mrs Holden?’

‘The colonel died. He collapsed while reading the lesson in church. They rushed him to hospital, but he was dead on arrival. And he hadn’t actually signed the contract. Elizabeth Doyle bought the Manor and refused to complete the deal, and Sam Bates was left with a white elephant.’

Hasted considered the list Frances had given him. Only four names were unknown to him, and with the exception of Arthur Shawby, who had been in hospital on the Friday, all would have to be checked. This was routine stuff, most of which could be left to subordinates. Two, or possibly three, he preferred to handle himself.

Mr Doyle was out, Mrs Trotter told him when he called at the Manor, but Andrew was in. How have they been since the tragedy? he asked. Much the same as before, she said, it’s never been what I’d call a happy house. Precious little laughter and no real show of affection. Well, they say money doesn’t bring happiness. You want Andrew, do you? He’s upstairs with his guitar.

Yes, Hasted said, he wanted Andrew.

‘Dad’s at the Vicarage,’ Andrew said when he came down. ‘About the funeral. Is it important?’

‘It can wait,’ Hasted said. ‘When did your father plan to have the funeral?’

‘Friday.’

Hasted nodded. ‘That should be OK. You know the inquest is this afternoon?’

‘Yes. Will it take long?’

‘It shouldn’t. Just evidence of identity, et cetera. Then he’ll adjourn. But it will enable your father to get a burial order.’

‘Oh! I don’t think my father knew he’d need one. Would you like a coffee, Mr Hasted?’

Hasted said he would. While Andrew was absent in the kitchen he went out across the terrace to the formal garden, arranged in rectangles separated by broad walks with squat box and lavender hedges, and turned to admire the house. Built of red brick, with numerous gables and latticed windows, the walls adorned with clematis and climbing roses, it seemed to glow in the sunshine. He returned to the terrace and peered in at the long dining room, admiring the oak-panelled walls and the stucco work on the ceiling. The furniture, although obviously expensive, did not impress him. Elizabeth Doyle, he decided, had had no eye for period.

He was back in the sitting room when Andrew returned with the coffee. Pouring, Andrew said, ‘Those two men you arrested, Mr Hasted. Have they confessed? To the murder, I mean.’

Once more Hasted explained the situation. ‘So we have to widen our enquiry,’ he said. ‘And that means questioning a lot of people. It’s routine stuff that is time-consuming and involves considerable leg work, and most of it is unprofitable. But it has to be done.’

‘Is that why you’re here now?’

‘Partly,’ Hasted said. ‘So let’s get it over, shall we? Where were you that Friday lunchtime?’

‘In the Falcon at the Rye. Derek Mollison drove me over.’

‘Did he bring you back?’

‘No. He left early. Said he was meeting someone.’ Andrew gave the vestige of a grin. ‘They say he’s got a girlfriend.’

Hasted nodded. He knew Derek’s reputation, but it was a reputation he found difficult to accept. True, Alice Mollison would never win a beauty competition. She was also highly strung and had a sharp tongue. But she was Alfred Plummer’s daughter and the apple of his eye, and it was Plummer who owned the garage and employed Derek to manage it. It was said that, because of Derek’s reputation, Plummer had been averse to the marriage. If he were to discover that his son-in-law was having an extra-marital affair it was odds on that Derek would be out on his ear. And Derek loved the job. Would he be fool enough to jeopardize it?

‘So how did you get back?’

‘I walked. Through the woods.’

‘Through the woods? In all that rain! Really?’

Andrew’s pale face flushed slightly at the hint of disbelief in the inspector’s tone. Embarrassed, he said, ‘I’d had rather a lot to drink.’

‘You mean you were pickled?’

‘More or less, yes.’

‘What difference did that make?’

‘The rain just didn’t seem to matter.’

Hasted nodded. He could understand that. ‘Did you go anywhere near the Philipson cottage?’ he asked.

‘No. There’s a ride that comes out near the garage. You know?’

Hasted shook his head. Rye Woods were largely foreign territory to him. He did not own a dog and was not a keen walker, and until that week he had had no occasion to visit them.

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said.

‘Oh! Well, it starts near the Falcon and joins the Compton Morris road just west of the garage. I kept to that.’

‘Did you meet anyone?’

‘Not as I remember. But it’s all a bit hazy. Getting back, I mean. Although I remember being sick.’

‘Where was that?’

‘Somewhere along the ride.’

‘What time did you leave the Falcon? Do you know?’

Andrew shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Sometime after one, I imagine. But that’s just a guess.’

‘Well, what time did you get back here?’

‘I don’t know that either. I’m sorry, Mr Hasted, but I don’t. I was wearing an anorak, but it was a light summer one, more or less useless in that sort of weather, and I was absolutely soaked. So as soon as I got in I went straight upstairs and stripped off. Then I lay down on the bed and went to sleep.’

‘Was Mrs Trotter here?’