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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

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BOOK: Killing a Unicorn
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‘And stayed to make his bed, afterwards? Straightened the duvet, smoothed the pillow?'
Possible, but not very likely, Crouch had to admit. He'd simply been following up a theory put forward by the Super, not one of his own. Bob Vincent was convinced that this was a simple case of a child being snatched by his own father, whoever and wherever he was, in which case they might never hear from him. If he had murdered Jasie's mother, he was unlikely ever to apply for legal custody of his child. As soon as they found out his name, they would have all exit points from the country watched, though logic said this might already be too late. Crouch had put the computer gurus to work on it, and no doubt they would come up with results, but even with the marvels of modern technology, these sort of enquiries took time, and after thinking about it, Crouch didn't see why Chip himself shouldn't speed things up and make life easier all round by being made to tell the truth. Which Crouch thought he knew already.
He had told Kate caustically that he didn't need a lie to jump up and hit him in the face before recognizing it: it seemed obvious to him that it was Chip, despite his denials, who was Jasie's natural father. But what about those separate bedrooms? That still bothered Crouch.
The evasiveness of the answers Chip had given about how he and Bianca Morgan had conducted whatever relationship they'd had was a puzzle. Had she been blackmailing Chip? Emotional blackmail, if nothing else? A home for herself and the boy in return for having his child to live with him?
Whatever, Crouch felt more than ever that the answer to this particular murder did not lie outside the family. Perhaps that was a dangerous assumption to make, but Crouch was never averse to making assumptions, dangerous or otherwise, and buttressing them with whatever facts he could find to fit, and he was convinced there was something funny going on — and the more he thought about Chip Calvert, the more he believed this.
All the same, instinct alone could be a dangerous thing. He couldn't afford to ignore the routine approaches to this crime. His men had been busy during the day, up and down the village here, asking questions. It hadn't taken long. Of all its two hundred-odd inhabitants, almost all, except the few who were away on family holidays, had now been seen. Results had been negative. No unrecognized cars had been spotted, no stranger or anyone peculiar (which was tantamount to the same thing) had been noticed hanging around, or Middleton Thorpe wouldn't have missed it.
Everyone who worked in the Membery Place Gardens had been rounded up and questioned: those who came in only on the garden's opening days — the women who worked in the tearooms, served in the garden shop, took the money at the gates and so on — plus those working behind the scenes, which included men for the heavier work and several women who packed up plants for delivery by post, more who were employed specifically to weed the extensive beds and rock gardens — and swore they enjoyed it! The notable exception to all these was Gary Brooker, who had mysteriously been busy elsewhere all day and couldn't be found whenever he'd been summoned for questioning. They'd pin him down eventually. He was an unpleasant little git, and as an outside chance, he might possibly have been moved to kill Bibi Morgan for some reason, but for the life of him Crouch couldn't see him abducting the child. And the two crimes had to be connected.
As with enquiries in the village, the results from all
these interviews had been negative — but then, Crouch hadn't expected otherwise. The country club where Bibi Morgan had worked was marked down for tomorrow, but he set little store by what his team would gather from there, either. An added complication was that the gardens had been open to the public yesterday. Nearly a hundred visitors had passed through the gates, but it would be virtually impossible to trace them all — and though access to the private grounds was easy enough, through a wicket gate from the nurseries, it was no easier than getting into the gardens by other routes — via The Watersplash and along the stream, for instance.
Meanwhile, there were other things to occupy Dave Crouch's mind until he and Chip encountered each other again — like considering how to deal with the press, who were already baying at the door. All we need, he thought, running a hand through his hair. But he knew they were a necessity, he needed their co-operation, to put out a plea for information, circulate the boy's description. He'd grant them an interview, give them just enough to be going on with, put a taste in their mouths. And if there was still no news by tomorrow, the Super had let it be known, they'd have to consider setting up a TV interview, with someone close to Jasie to put in an emotional appeal. The problem there was that there was no mother in this case to pull the nation's heartstrings. Though the added fact that she herself had been murdered — perhaps right in front of her child's eyes — might evoke an even better response.
Crouch had left his men to get on with the search for the boy under the able direction of an experienced, unflappable sergeant by the name of Osborne, who had collected a formidable team around him — local civilian volunteers as well as police, among whom were officers who were fathers themselves and had given up their days off, declared themselves willing to forgo overtime, willing to work around the clock if necessary. But faces were grim. With every hour that passed, the odds against finding the little boy alive lengthened.
How long could a day last? For ever, if you'd spent it waiting for news that never came, everlastingly making cups of tea for Alyssa — and for the police, whose capacity was almost as fathomless — and for anyone else hanging around waiting to be interviewed, come to that.
The glorious weather, in direct contrast to the dark forebodings, the evil that had overshadowed the sun-filled day, had become intolerable. Membery was a house that was in any case rarely comfortable when the temperature soared, and no one had been at their best. Tautened nerves, coupled with the oppressive heat and the lack of air inside the house, had stunned everyone and made them morose and unlike themselves. Tempers frayed. They'd become snappish and impatient. Then guilty, ashamed of such trivial behaviour in the circumstances, which had in turn made them over-compensate with too much unaccustomed consideration and politeness, as if they were strangers, and not family: how could they be acting like this when such a terrible thing had struck all their lives, when there was still no sign of Jasie?
The woods had been searched all day, until darkness made any further attempts counter-productive. They would start again at first light, they said, but though it hadn't been put into words, any hope of finding him in the locality had dwindled. Fran could see it in the faces of the police. By now Jasie would be long gone and — dead or alive — miles from Membery.
Perhaps it's the grief, and a kind of impotent rage at
whoever has committed both senseless acts, that's made her barely able to think through the situation clearly. The unbelievable fact of murder — raw, violent, disruptive, with no seeming reason for it — is bad enough, but the abduction of a child, and not any child, but Jasie, is so mind-boggling that so far it has blocked all her constructive thought processes. She suspects that the events have affected everyone else in the same way, at any rate none of them have seemed able to do anything but go round in circles. Alyssa has kept on asking, futilely, all day, why Mark doesn't ring, as if that's the only thing that matters.
‘I expect he will, soon.' Fran has been in no mood to discuss possible reasons why he hasn't. Mark acting so out of character on top of all this is beginning to be more than she can take. But at least it has once more served as an excuse not to stay overnight at Membery, as Alyssa suggested, though there is, after all, no reason why she should: she doesn't share Alyssa's conviction that the murderer is still hanging around and that Fran, sleeping down at The Watersplash on her own, might be the next victim. She is dazed and light-headed with tiredness and can't wait to curl up in her own bed. Besides — the delightful thought had slipped into her mind and immediately become of paramount importance — her own house has beautiful, blessed air-conditioning. She revels now in the coolness of it against her skin, like a benison after the dim stuffiness of the rooms at Membery.
No one has felt inclined to eat much at all today, not even Jane Arrow, who can discipline herself to do anything if necessary. While waiting for news that never came, they'd nibbled throughout the day at bits of sandwiches and sausage rolls, biscuits, the kind of food that fills but doesn't satisfy, with the result that no one has been able to face the evening meal produced by Rene Brooker, who pulled herself together and stayed on, long beyond her normal hours. She isn't employed to cook, but over and above her usual cleaning duties, she'd made a chicken casserole as a gesture of sympathy. It gave her something
to take her mind off things, and she'd remarked philosophically that if it was left uneaten, which it had been, it could be put in the freezer when it had cooled.
Fran feels it would be sensible to try and eat something nourishing now, but she can't think what. Unable to conjure up anything more inspired than a plate of cheese and crackers, she puts some out and then impulsively measures out an unaccustomed whisky to go with it. She doesn't normally like whisky, but there has to be a reason why it's Mark's favourite tipple, and she reasons tonight might be a good time to find out why. Sloshed over a tumblerful of ice, she finds it just palatable, and after a while the results begin to live up to everything Mark claims for it.
She sits back, sipping, muscles relaxed, a little swimmy in the head, and looks at the answering machine, willing its red light to blink, but it doesn't obey. It seems impossible that Mark is blithely carrying on with his business across the Channel, unaware of the cataclysmic events happening here. Unaware and uncaring, too, she thinks self-pityingly, taking another swig of Glenfiddich, that she might be worried about not hearing from him. All right for some.
She pushes the glass away. The whisky is evidently a mistake, it's making her maudlin. And it tastes even nastier now that what's left of it is diluted by the ice into a watery non-drink.
It really is time to try and look at the whole muddled situation objectively and begin to take steps towards coming to terms with it. But that's a lot easier said than done. All right, begin, then, as Crouch had done, with that telephone call Bibi had made to her at the office during yesterday afternoon. Was it really only yesterday? It seems like a month ago. Crouch is a bloody-minded man but, honesty makes her admit, he's thorough, nor would it ever do to underestimate him, she's sure. She reminds herself of his obviously sincere concern about Jasie and is cheered. Perhaps he has children of his own.
He would keep harping on about that note which had been waiting for her when she got in, though. Was she sure, he'd asked yet again, that Bibi hadn't said why she wanted to see her? And why, he repeated, had Fran destroyed it?
Yes, she was absolutely certain that Bibi had given no hint of why she needed to see her, Fran had answered — but then, she didn't need to give reasons for dropping in, even without any previous warning. They were friends, weren't they? And the letter — she had destroyed that because she was learning to be a tidy person, she had felt like saying crossly, only she hadn't. Pushing it down the waste disposal unit had been the sort of gesture that was by now becoming automatic. He asked why she hadn't put it out with all the other junk mail, ready for the council binmen to pick up. Or why she hadn't put it with the confidential mail, to shred. Because Bibi's message had only been a note, not worth the bother of taking it up to Mark's study to where the shredder was, not worth thinking about, after she'd read it. She'd begun to see how suspects felt, when asked to explain every trivial action — for which there were often no explanations. Why did you peel the potatoes with that knife, instead of this, what made you take road A rather than road B? Why didn't you tell anyone where you were going that night, so that you could have produced a cast iron alibi? It could drive you nuts. And yes, she was positive the signature on the note had been Bibi's. Impatiently, she'd picked up a pen and demonstrated how unmistakable that signature was, in the round, girlish handwriting complete with the encircling curlicue of the final ‘a' — which had immediately disproved her point: it would have been child's play for anyone to have copied it.
But why should they?
‘Does nobody keep any correspondence in this family?' Crouch had sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Not even the letters from the so-called stalker?'
Fran had looked at him, unable to conceal her dislike.
‘Perhaps Bibi would have kept them for you if she'd known she was going to be murdered!'
He was too thick-skinned to wilt under irony. He'd met her sort before, his look said, posh house, posh accent, didn't bother him. ‘No need to get uppity. Were they obscene, made her throw them away? Did they contain threats?'
‘I've told you,' she'd said through clenched teeth, ‘I didn't even know she'd
had
any letters.'
She'd escaped at last, and found Chip, the only one who had known about their existence. He doubted very much if Bibi would even have mentioned them to him, he said, if he hadn't picked up the post once or twice and recognized the same, environmentally friendly envelope, made from rough, recycled paper, the tree design on it scarcely leaving room for the address. Bibi had never let him read them, she said they weren't worth bothering about, they were from some sad weirdo who had nothing else in his life and wasn't responsible for his actions. She'd refused to report it to the police or to let Chip do so, either, swearing him to secrecy.
‘Thinking about it, though, I'm surprised she didn't mention them to you, Fran. If she told anybody, it would be you.'
‘If, Chip. But she didn't, did she, ever? Confide in anyone?'
He wasn't to be drawn on that. His eyes slid away. He didn't seem to find it strange that Bibi had kept the contents of the letters secret from him and Fran wondered just what he'd told the police about his relationship with her, the astonishing circumstances of her precipitate arrival at Membery, an unknown woman with a child, whom he had never previously given an inkling of being involved with. He was revealing aspects of his personality Fran hadn't even suspected before — a propensity for secrecy that she would never have dreamt he possessed.
‘What's the matter, why are you looking like that, Fran?'
He said slowly, ‘You
do
know who might have sent them, don't you?'
‘No, not really — I haven't a clue, but we-ell … you know, it could have been Gary.'
‘Oh, come on!'
‘He was always mooning about after her, everybody knows that. And that might have been the reason she kept quiet, even if she'd suspected — or knew — it was him. You know what Bibi was like — she wouldn't have wanted to get him into trouble, even though he was such a pain in the neck. Blushing and falling over his feet to do things for her. On the other hand, she may have spoken to him about it — you did say the letters had stopped recently, didn't you?'
‘Oh no, that's too much of a stretch! It'd be a surprise to me if Gary Brooker can write at all — over and above his name, that is.'
‘There's more to Gary than meets the eye, Chip.'
‘Just as well! What does meet it doesn't give one much hope for the human race. Anyway, if it was him, the police'll be on to him like a ton of bricks.'
Gary was Rene Brooker's grandson. Tall and thin, etiolated and spotty, sporting a Number One haircut and never to be seen without the requisite amount of ironmongery distributed about his person to establish his street cred. He was nearly eighteen and he'd lived with Rene practically all his life, ever since her unmarried daughter had taken off for God knows where and left her baby behind. But six months ago, after all those years of skimping and scraping on her widow's pension, trying to do her best and worrying over him, Rene had reached a stage where she couldn't cope with him getting into any more hot water and had taken her troubles to Alyssa. ‘He's not a bad boy,' she'd vowed, as mothers (and grandmothers) of bad boys the world over have been wont to do since time immemorial. No doubt Genghis Khan's mum had said the same thing. ‘It's them as he goes around with, but if he had a regular job to keep him out of mischief …' Her eyes had pleaded,
and Alyssa, smothering her doubts, had agreed to employ him as an odd-job man in the garden, with the result that Gary now had more money to swagger around with among his mates, and consequently his capacity for getting into trouble had increased. Despite Alyssa's misgivings, however, he'd turned out to be useful in the garden — contrary to what his appearance might indicate, he was as strong as a horse and, as long as he thought no one was watching him, he appeared to enjoy the work.
The odd thing was that this hard-case character had been reduced to a jelly whenever Bibi had been around. She could smile that dazzling, totally impersonal smile she bestowed on everyone, regardless, and Gary would take it as being entirely for him, hold it to his heart and blush to the roots of what hair the barber had left him. She'd only to ask him for a bunch of the flowers that were grown for cutting and he met himself coming back in his hurry to carry out the task. Delivering a letter to The Watersplash would have been the equivalent of a knight errant being sent off to the Crusades at his lady's behest.
But — supposing she had confronted him with writing those letters to her, would his adoration have continued, or turned to fury? Gary, Fran had no doubt, could be a very nasty customer if the occasion warranted it.
Well, Crouch had him in his sights. And no doubt Fran wouldn't be the only one to have made the connection, including those who worked with him in the garden. Most of the staff had been questioned throughout the day, much to Alyssa's distress. She was sure they would all give in their notice and leave in a body.
‘How do you think they must feel, under suspicion like that?'
‘Like the rest of us, I suppose. I know how I feel, and it's terrible,' Jonathan had said, exchanging a smouldering look with Jilly, and after that escaping back into the music room for yet more practising. How could he? Fran wondered. How could he shut himself away from all the activity? Even
begin
to concentrate? But that was Jonathan,
whose passionate belief in his work completely overrode everything else. Ruthless, in a way. Anything, but anything, that got in his way was put into a separate compartment, labelled later.
BOOK: Killing a Unicorn
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