Deadly Stuff (11 page)

‘OK, one it is,’ Barbara said cheerfully, and slapped on some butter. Art watched her with a mixture of fondness and exasperation. Barbara was one of those pleasingly plump, pretty women who seemed to find life a breeze. She coped with motherhood as a matter of course, ran the home and her husband with equally benign efficiency and also worked as an assistant librarian at the public library. The income helped out the family finances enormously, but Art also knew that she enjoyed dealing with the public, which was something that had always been beyond him. She coped with life as if it were nothing, whereas Art had always found life to be one long challenging struggle.

It was not that he didn’t have brains. He did. He’d trained as an accountant, and he actually liked hard, painstaking work, but somehow, that never seemed to be enough.

Take his job at St Bede’s, for instance. He’d been doing it for nearly seven years, and knew it inside and out. And yet, Maurice Raines, even over the telephone, and from a distance of, what, nearly a hundred miles away or more, had managed to make him feel like an incompetent fool. And in person, he was even worse. He’d made Art feel like … well, like strangling him.

He blinked as Barbara put a plate of scrambled egg on toast down in front of him. She then told Hermione that if she didn’t stop playing with her cereal – which was fortified with iron – and eat it she’d never grow up to have strong, dancer’s legs, and reached for her mobile phone to check something on one of the apps. She barely broke stride to do it either, her husband noticed fondly. Multi-tasking, Art mused. Wasn’t that what women were supposed to do so well?

He felt a momentary sense of panic as he wondered what he’d ever do without her. Then he reassured himself that he’d never have to. His Babs would never leave them. She was as solid as a rock.

He watched her frown over something on her mobile, then jumped a little as she called through the open door to tell Luke, still dawdling in his bedroom, that he was going to be late for school if he didn’t get a move on. She then moved back to the stove to absent-mindedly make her own breakfast.

Art smiled. Good old Babs. He wondered what a woman with long, curly, blonde hair, dimpled cheeks, and a cuddly figure saw in someone like him. And he felt the usual trickle of unease slide up his spine. What if she found someone else? Once or twice, he’d caught her going out of the house in a little more make-up than she usually used, and smelling of perfume, which she rarely wore. What if she was seeing another man?

Art winced as indigestion stirred in his stomach, and he pushed his plate away with a grimace. He really had to stop thinking the worst all the time. His old mum had always been the same – she wasn’t happy if she wasn’t worrying about something. No wonder he was worried he might be getting ulcers.

Over by the stove, his wife continued to frown down into her mobile phone.

In St Bede’s, Trevor Golder pushed back his chair from the table, and his sergeant took the hint and did likewise. ‘Right, we’ve got a lot to get through.’ Trevor reached for his notebook, where he’d made copious lists. One of which was to start chasing up forensics for results.

His lips twitched a little as he wondered what the lovely woman sitting opposite him would say if she knew that he’d prioritized her results first. But after learning who she was and of her reputation, and guessing that he’d have to deal with her in the case one way or another, he’d wanted to be sure. Needless to say, the test results on her clothes had came back negative for blood spatter, and that no trace of a connection between her and their victim had been found. Which meant that, for now, he was ruling her out for the killing of Maurice Raines.

If told, she ought to be relieved, but somehow he wasn’t sure that she’d appreciate the preferential treatment. Still, he needed to be sure, and now it meant that she was yet another suspect off the list. Mind you, the inspector thought grimly, it looked as though, if the preliminary results were anything to go by, they’d be wiping absolutely everybody else off the suspect list as well!

He hid a sigh, and made a mental note to get on to forensics first thing. He had a feeling that this case might turn out to rely heavily on the hard, physical evidence.

‘Miss Starling, I expect I’ll be seeing you later?’ he said mildly.

Jenny sighed. ‘I expect so.’ She really wanted to get back to her kitchen and start planning the evening dinner, but she knew she had to see someone first.

Trevor nodded briskly. Peter Trent winked at her, and the two of them left. When it was quite clear that they’d gone, she turned slowly in her chair and scanned the room. Sure enough, the motherly-looking scout was already approaching her table.

Jenny smiled up at her as she arrived, hoping to put her at her ease. ‘Hello, sit down for a few minutes. I bet you’ve been rushed off your feet! I’m Jenny Starling.’

‘Thanks,’ the older woman said, sitting down and looking around at the now fast emptying room. ‘But the worst is over now. You’re the cook, right? The one the bursar said we should speak to, before we take anything to the police?’

Jenny hid a wince, and hoped that that particular instruction of Glover-Smythe’s never got to the inspector’s ears.

She sighed. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ she admitted. ‘Problem?’

‘Not with me,’ the older woman said quickly. ‘But my daughter Debbie works here as a scout too. Just does the early morning shift, before going on to her regular job, like, at Debenham’s. She’s on the perfume counter now, and doing ever so well, she is. But she’s got a mortgage, and her husband was laid off a couple of months ago, so they need the extra money until her Brian gets another job.’

Jenny waited until she paused for breath, and then slipped in quickly, ‘And Debbie saw something that has something to do with, er, what happened yesterday?’

‘Oh no. Not the murder,’ the older woman said quickly. ‘Well, not really. Well, maybe, but maybe not.’

‘OK, glad we got that cleared up,’ Jenny said with a laugh. Her companion had the grace to laugh as well.

‘Sorry. It’s just that when Debbie told me, I didn’t know what
to do for the best. I think you’d better come and speak to her yourself, but you’ll have to be quick, mind. She needs to get off to work in twenty minutes.’

Jenny, wisely, made no promises. ‘Where is she?’

‘In the serving room.’

Jenny knew that the serving room was just off hall, which had a whole range of dumb waiters connected to the main kitchens directly below. ‘OK, let’s go and hear what Debbie has to say,’ Jenny said brightly. She was curious, but frankly, didn’t hold out much hope that it would amount to much.

Laura Raines stared out at the restless grey-cum-blue sea and knew just how it felt. The beach at Hayling Island was almost deserted, and she wasn’t particularly surprised. Not only was it early in the season yet for most holidaymakers, but the ground here was one of those hard-on-the-ankles, pebbly shorelines that was fit for neither sunbathing or building sandcastles.

She had spent one of the worst and most sleepless nights of her life, and, like the vast, moving body of water, she felt as if both her mind and her body was incapable of staying still.

She simply didn’t know what to do.

She and Simon had talked themselves almost hoarse yesterday, going over and over everything, time and time again, going through permutation after permutation, and still they hadn’t come to any solid conclusions on what they should do now.

Not surprisingly, given the enormity of what they now faced, they had both been too keyed up to do anything other than toss and turn beside each other in bed all night long. And this morning, unable to eat anything, Simon had taken himself off ostensibly to buy a paper for any news that they might have printed about her dead husband. In reality, she suspected that he simply wanted to get away from her. Which hurt her far more than she knew was good for her.

She simply couldn’t lose Simon – no matter what.

She sighed and walked awkwardly over the pebbles, wondering what would look the least suspicious. Go to the police, or wait for them to come to her? So far, there had been nothing on the television news about Maurice’s death, but perhaps it was too early for that. And if there was nothing reported in the papers, especially if they didn’t give out the name of the dead man, then they simply couldn’t go to the police, could they? How could they explain knowing that he was dead?

She’d told no-one, not even the kids, where she was going, nor did they have her new mobile number. Her nearest neighbours probably knew that she and Maurice were both absent, but they, presumably, were still in ignorance about what had happened as well. Ostensibly, she had no way of knowing that she was now a widow, so to come forward, would be as good as a confession.

No, as agonizing as it was on her nerves, she had no other choice but to wait for the police to find and question her. The thing was, what did she say then? How much did she admit to?

Laura Raines felt like shouting at the sea in her rage. How could she decide that, without knowing what was going on?

Deep inside, the poisonous worm that had been growing inside her for the last twenty-four hours or so, wriggled nauseatingly again. Had Simon told her everything? What if…?

No. She couldn’t start playing that game. She’d drive herself insane. She shook her head at herself, cursing herself for being a stupid, lonely, pathetic middle-aged woman. But even as she walked across the treacherous shoreline, she knew that she wasn’t grieving for Maurice, or even worrying about her own skin; she was thinking only that she couldn’t lose Simon. Whatever happened. Now that she had love again, she’d do anything to hold onto it.

Hadn’t she risked everything already?

On the beach at Hayling Island, Laura Raines suddenly gave a harsh, ironical shout of laughter. What did it really matter now if she risked so much more?

In St Bede’s, Jenny Starling made her way to the incident room. She tapped on the outer door, waited until it was opened by a constable, and introduced herself.

‘I’d like a word or two with Inspector Golder. It’s important,’ she added.

She saw the constable look at the woman beside her, dressed in the neat brown pinafore-uniform of all the St Bede’s scouts, and he nodded. ‘Come on in. He’s over there.’ He pointed to one of the desks by the window.

Jenny, who already knew where Trevor and his sergeant had set up shop, nodded and walked over.

It was Peter Trent who saw them first, and he tapped his superior on the arm to warn him. Trevor Golder turned around and watched them curiously.

Jenny smiled across reassuringly at Debbie. ‘That’s him. See, he’s a perfectly nice man. Don’t worry, he won’t bite. Just tell him what you saw, just like you told it to me, and then answer all his questions. Don’t be too keen, think it through first, to make sure you get it right. And if you don’t know something, don’t try and elaborate, or make things up, or tell him what you think it is he wants to hear, just say that you don’t know.’

The scout nodded, but somewhat dubiously. ‘OK. You will stay, though, won’t you?’ she pleaded. And it was this appeal that Trevor first heard as they neared his desk. It made him sigh, but he reached out and nabbed another chair for the cook. Peter rose and offered his own chair to Debbie.

‘Ah, Inspector. This is Mrs Debbie Dawkins,’ Jenny introduced brightly. ‘She’s a scout here. She was working yesterday morning. Apparently she’s one of the ones you haven’t got around to questioning yet,’ Jenny said.

Her tone rose at the end, making it a question, but in fact she knew from listening to Debbie’s story that yesterday she’d worked at the college until noon since it was her half-day at Debenhams when she only did the afternoon and evening slot. And that she had indeed left before being questioned by the police.

‘Right.’ Trevor smiled at them both. ‘Please, take a seat.’

Jenny took a chair and pulled it back a little, giving them at least the semblance of privacy. Both the policemen appreciated her tact.

‘Debbie has something to tell you that I think you’ll find interesting,’ Jenny said, and then shut up, leaving them to it.

Trevor turned to the newcomer, trying to hide his excitement, but his eyes sharpened in anticipation. ‘Oh?’

D
ebbie Dawkins smiled uncertainly at the inspector. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you before now, but yesterday I’d already left when, well, everything kicked off. Of course, Mum phoned and told me what had happened when I got in from work at the shop, but last night I was so busy with the kids and getting dinner and everything that I didn’t really give it that much thought.’

Debbie was a small, rounded woman, with dark hair, eyes and complexion, the latter of which blushed a little now as she contemplated that last lie. For of course she’d thought about nothing else all night, once her mother had told me that one of the conference people had been ‘done in’, as she put it. Like most people, she’d thought that serious crime was something you read about in the papers, or watched on TV. Most of all, it was something that happened to other people. So to be so close to it had, obviously, occupied her mind almost to the exclusion of everything else.

And, just like almost everyone else who’d been in college that day must have done, she’d gone over every minute of her time there. By the time she’d finished analysing everything that she could remember, it hadn’t taken her long to realize that she just might have seen something of importance.

Now, as she sat before the two policemen, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She was guiltily aware that, by rights, she should have been on to the phone to them right away. But the thought of having police come to the house in the evening, much to their neighbours’ crowing entertainment, had been more than she’d felt able to deal with after another long and tiring day. Likewise, the prospect of going down to the station to make a statement had seemed beyond her. All she’d wanted was a hot mug of chocolate and to get off to bed, especially since she had to be up bright and early the next day.

‘When I saw Mum this morning, and she told me more about it, where it happened and all that, I realized I needed to speak to you. Mum told me I should see the new cook first’ – here she flicked a glance at Jenny, who winced and tried to look nonchalant – ‘and so I did, and she told me I needed to see you right away, and here we are,’ she finished brightly.

Trevor Golder nodded. He shot Jenny a brief, glimmering look that told her that he and she would be having a conversation shortly about how exactly she’d become an intermediary between the police and the scouts, but for now he concentrated on his witness.

He nodded to Peter Trent, who quickly got the formalities over, jotting down her full name, address, phone number, and employment details at the college.

‘Now, what time did you arrive for work yesterday morning?’ Trevor took over the interview seamlessly, starting off, as he usually did with voluble and nervous witnesses, with something simple and unthreatening.

‘Oh, usual time, just gone six. I went straight to the kitchens to help prepare the breakfasts, and then started on the housework in the communal areas in my station for an hour or so. Then I went up to hall to help wait on tables when it was time to serve.’

Trevor nodded. ‘And did you notice the deceased at all?’ he
asked curiously.

Debbie’s rounded face flushed again. ‘Mum said he was the puffed-up one who was so full of himself?’ she asked tentatively. ‘Sort of oldish, but still kind of goodlooking, in a way? That’s him, right?’

Trevor smiled slightly. ‘That sounds like Mr Raines, yes,’ he said, but handed over an enlarged photograph of him that had

Debbie took it and nodded. ‘Yes, that’s the chap. Then I sort of knew who he was. I’d seen him around, like, but I never served him or nothing. He wasn’t my table.’

‘Right. So you never spoke to him?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘So, what was it you wanted to tell us?’

Debbie shot a quick, nervous glance at Jenny, who gave a slight nod of encouragement, and the scout took a long, deep breath.

‘Well, see, it was like this. Yesterday I worked through to just before twelve. Normally I’m away by eight-thirty, like, ‘cause I have to be at my day job at Debenham’s by nine. But yesterday’s my halfday at the shop, so I didn’t need to be in until one. So I stayed on to clear up after breakfast, and help out two of the others with their cleaning area. They’ve got the JCR on their patch, and the big entrance hall, so they always need extra staff, see? The black and white tiled floor in there gets dirty something chronic for a start, what with everyone walking through it. In the winter it’s worse, mind, very muddy it is, but in the summer like now, it’s more dusty.’

Debbie took a deep breath, and then blushed again. ‘Sorry, you don’t want to hear this. But it does explain why I was hoovering the carpets on the main staircase when I saw him.’

Both policemen sat up a little straighter at this. ‘Wait a minute. Let me get the geography right in my mind,’ Trevor said. ‘You were on the main staircase, leading up to the first
floor, where hall is situated?’

‘Right,’ Debbie confirmed, with an encouraging smile. ‘It’s not easy to get your bearings in a maze like this, is it? It took me ages to work out where all the nooks and crannies were when I first started work here, I can tell you.’

Trevor smiled a brief acknowledgement. ‘And you were hoovering. What time was this?’

‘Ah, now there you have me,’ Debbie said uncertainly. ‘It was getting on late, like, because I only had the staircase to do, and then I knew I could get off. So it must have been somewhere between a quarter to twelve and five to. I know, because when I went out through the car park, I glanced at my watch, and it was just going on for ten past twelve, and I’d had to take the hoover back and change out of the old pinny and brush my hair and whatnot.’

Trevor nodded, well pleased with the answer. The time frame was looking good.

‘All right, and what did you see? Be careful now, take your time.’ He leaned forward a little on his seat, his tone becoming avuncular. ‘You were hoovering. And then…?’

‘Something made me look up,’ Debbie said, a shade nervously, now that she was getting to the meat of it. ‘I was not quite at the top of the stairs, so I was sort of peering over the top, at floor level. I think it must have been a shadow moving that caught my eye. You know how when, something just out of sight moves unexpectedly, it gives you a little bit of a start? My husband says that’s something to do with animal instincts, you know, from when we lived in caves, and were hunted by sabre tooth tigers and things.’

Trevor nodded impatiently. ‘And what did you see?’ he demanded.

‘A man come out of hall,’ Debbie said promptly, and, for once, succinctly.

Peter Trent’s pencil, which had been scribbling over his
notebook, now paused expectantly.

‘Who was it?’ Trevor asked calmly.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Debbie said at once.

Trevor nodded patiently. ‘Not someone who worked in the college then?’

‘Oh no. I know all of them by sight if nothing else,’ Debbie confirmed.

‘Was it one of the conference people, do you think?’ Trevor asked cautiously, well aware that the college was open to the public, and therefore, conceivably, could have been anyone as yet unidentified.

‘Could have been,’ Debbie said cautiously.

‘But you didn’t recognize him as someone you’d seen before?’

‘No. But then, well, they’ve only just come, haven’t they? This latest lot, I mean, they’ve only been here a day. Usually you get to know them after a few days, maybe even learn a few names and find out some stuff – which ones like their bacon crispy, and which ones are on the pull, and the nice ones, and some who give a tip. Then, more often than not, just when you’ve got used to them, they’re gone and the next lot come in. This current lot have only been here a day, like I said, so I haven’t really started recognizing who’s who yet. Maybe this bloke I saw is at the conference, but I just haven’t come across him yet.’ Debbie paused, seeming to give a mental check over what she’d said, then nodded. ‘See?’

Trevor did, and sighed. He’d have to arrange it so that she got a good look at all the male conference-goers and see if she could pick him out. But for some reason, he didn’t hold out much hope that she would.

‘OK. What can you tell me about this man. Was he tall?’

‘Ish,’ Debbie said, unhelpfully. ‘I mean, he’s not as short as Art, say, but not quite as tall as me husband, who’s about six feet.’

Peter Trent wrote five feet seven to five feet ten in his notebook and waited.

‘What colour was his hair?’ Trevor asked. ‘You’re doing really well,’ he added, encouragingly.

‘Dark, not black, but really dark brown. I think his eyes were dark brown too, although he was coming out of hall, as I said, and was a fair bit away. But I could see his eyes, like, I mean, people with pale eyes, they sort of fade into the face in the distance, don’t they? So I think the fact that I could see his eyes, meant they’d be darker, rather than paler. See?’

Trevor did. ‘You say he came out of hall. Which way did he go? Did he come past you, down the main staircase for instance?’

‘Oh no. I’d have got a good look at him if he had, wouldn’t I? No, he went off the other way.’

Trevor nodded gloomily. He would. The policeman had been trying to work out for himself the layout of the college, but as Debbie herself had said, it wasn’t easy. Bits of building seemed to have been added on here and there, higgledy-piggledy, for over 500 years, which led to some very confusing layouts.

‘There’s a narrower staircase at the other end of the corridor,’ Debbie obliged blithely. ‘It leads down to a side entrance that lets you out just opposite the Fellows’ garden. From there, you can cut straight across the lawns to the library, although the groundsmen don’t half tell you off if they catch you at it, since you’re supposed to use the gravel paths, or down to the bottom, and out into Walton Street. There’s a gate in the wall that lets you out without having to go all the way out the front and past the lodge.’

‘Of course it does,’ Trevor said flatly. Which meant that the porters who manned the main lodge might never have seen this mystery man either coming or going.

‘What was he wearing, miss,’ Peter Trent put in gently. ‘Was
he in a suit, like, all nice and formal, or something tatty?’

‘Oh no. Not a suit. But not tatty, either. I think he was wearing dark jeans and a white T-shirt. Bare arms; it was hot yesterday, like today. He had quite hairy arms, I think.’

Trevor Golder suddenly tensed. ‘A white T-shirt? Was it a plain one, or did it have a pattern on it, could you tell? Something in red, perhaps?’

Jenny Starling looked up quickly. Thinking back to all the blood that had been shed in hall, she’d already long-since realized that the killer must have been considerably bloodstained after killing Maurice, and she appreciated the clever way the inspector had phrased the question. He didn’t want to upset the witness by explaining about the gore and asking her if she’s seen bloodstains on the man she’d seen, and he’d also avoided the trap of leading her in her answers. No doubt, it would be something the lawyers would appreciate too, once it came to trial.

‘Oh no, it was pure white,’ Debbie said with confidence, unaware that it was not the answer the policeman had been hoping for. ‘He walked past one of the windows on the way out, see, and it was bright white in the sunlight.’

Trevor sighed. Still, the man had been wearing dark jeans. Perhaps those had caught the worst of the blood spatter? And the witness had admitted that the man was quite a distance away.

‘How old would you say he was?’ he asked next.

‘Oh, not old. In his mid-thirties I’d say. And quite buff. I mean, he was fit, like. I got the impression he was good-looking,’ Debbie added helplessly, again with another blush.

‘Clean-shaven, could you tell?’ Trevor asked next.

‘Oh yes. No beard, not even stubble, and no ‘tache, either. I don’t like men with face fuzz,’ Debbie admitted, then blushed again. ‘Not that that matters, naturally. I was just saying,’ she mumbled, suddenly studying her kneecaps.

‘Did he say anything?’ Trevor asked without much hope.

‘What, to me, you mean?’ Debbie asked, looking up again and clearly startled. ‘Course he didn’t, he didn’t even see me, did he? I would have been just a head peeking up above the stairs to him, anyway, even if he’d looked my way. Besides, he went in the opposite direction, didn’t he? I told you.’

Trevor held up a placatory hand. ‘Yes, I know. I’m not accusing you of lying, Mrs Dawkins, or trying to trip you up. But I was just thinking that nowadays, we all seem to have a mobile phone attached to one ear, and I thought he might have been using it, and talking to someone on that. Or maybe he’d met someone in the corridor going away from you and said “good morning” or something like that.’

‘Oh no. None of that,’ Debbie said. ‘He just went off, quickly like.’

‘Quickly?’ Trevor pounced. That was new.

‘Yeah. Walking fast, but not actually running.’

‘How did he seem to you?’ Trevor asked, more cautiously now. ‘Did he look like he was in shock, or panicking maybe?’

‘I dunno,’ Debbie said, frowning and clearly thinking about it. ‘I got the impression he looked pale, and maybe a bit shaky. He walked quick, like I said, but sort of jerky too. Like he wasn’t sure his legs were gonna hold him up. A bit like my husband after one pint too many, know what I mean?’

Trevor did.

Jenny coughed gently.

Everyone looked at her, and Jenny cast Trevor Golder an apologetic smile, and said softly, ‘You said he had a short-sleeved T-shirt on, Debbie, did you notice anything on his arms?’

The little round scout blinked. ‘His arms. Like what? A tattoo, do you mean? Nah, I wouldn’t have seen anything like that, he was too far away. And his skin didn’t look bruised or nothing, you know, like tattoos can look from far away. I mean,
they mainly look blue or black, don’t they, from a distance, even if they ain’t. But both his forearms just looked normal. Pale.’

Jenny nodded, and caught Trevor’s eye. In other words, they probably weren’t covered in blood either. But whoever had stabbed Maurice Raines in the neck must have been holding the fleshing tool in their hand, and it was impossible that he or she hadn’t got at the very least their hand and forearm stained with blood. Since there weren’t any washing facilities in hall, if the man Debbie saw had been the killer, then he must have had some means of wiping his arms down, or else….