Killing Me Softly (13 page)

She wasn't really responsible. ‘Don't say anything you'll be sorry for, Sybil.'

Sybil ignored this. ‘I know Tim wasn't perfect – but my God, he'd a lot to put up with, married to little Miss Daddy's Girl!'

‘Sybil –'

‘And what's all this nonsense about him being murdered?'

‘The police aren't absolutely sure, yet, but it looks as though he couldn't have shot himself.'

‘Shot himself? What are you talking about? Of course he didn't shoot himself! He'd never have done
that,
not to me! It was an accident. It had to be an accident!'

With a shaking hand, Sybil pushed aside the untouched coffee that Clare had made, reached for the vodka and sloshed a whopping amount into her glass. She downed half of it and then began to cry.

‘Oh, Sybil.' No way, Claire could see, was Sybil going to accept that her son had been murdered – but even less could she let herself believe that history was repeating itself, that Tim had died the same way as his father, by his own hand. Leaving Sibyl alone, to cope.

Clare wished for the courage to take the old woman into her arms and comfort her. But never in her life having received from her mother-in-law anything more than a dry peck on the cheek, she realized how impossible this was, how bizarre and embarrassing they would both find it. Any effort she made would only be greeted with repulsion.

She sat miserably dropping panaceas into an uneasy silence until Sybil's eyelids began to droop. Anaesthetized by alcohol, she started to nod, and finally fell heavily asleep, a blessing perhaps, since Clare guessed she hadn't slept much the night before. She lifted the old woman's feet up on to the sofa, covered her with a rug and left her until Rula, who had her own key, should arrive. Even at Rula's pace, it wouldn't be long now before she got here.

‘Chap called Harry Leicester owns the shooting rights on that land,' Barry Scott said after those who'd been roped in for Mayo's first briefing had watched the video the SOCOs had made.

Clacks land, he pointed out on the map of the area now attached to the wall, was a few rough acres, more or less in the shape of a quadrant, bordered on its three sides, firstly by the river, beyond which was Fairmile's farm and the woods owned by Harry Leicester, then by the lane and lastly, on the third side, by the curve of the road.

‘A bit of poaching goes on, specially around Christmas,' Scott said, ‘but as long as it's not too bad, Leicester turns a blind eye. “No trespassing” signs all over the place, but there'd be no problem getting in. If you think it's worth fighting your way through the gaps in the hedge, that is. I wouldn't do it for a pension.'

Carmody could believe it. Scotty was a slummocky type, not one of CID's finest. ‘I drove past on the main road last night,' he remarked, ‘but I didn't see anywhere much where you could leave a car, not without ending up in the ditch.'

‘You wouldn't, Sarge, not in the dark, but there's one or two places where you
could
pull in, at a pinch.'

‘He wouldn't want to risk being seen walking far along the road, carrying a shotgun,' Abigail commented. ‘Or his car being recognised, either. The road borders the woods for less than a mile before the houses start. But there's no reason why anyone shouldn't approach from the other direction, across Fairmile's land, is there?'

‘No problem, as far as I can see,' Scott agreed.

Mayo took up where he'd left off. He was almost finished. ‘You've already been given a summary by Inspector Moon of what we know so far and an outline of how I want this inquiry to proceed. All the usual lines will be pursued. With special attention to the victim's business affairs, which were apparently decidedly rocky, to say the least. That will give us some substance to work on. He also seems to have had a wide-ranging circle of acquaintances, and he was a regular Jack-the-lad with the ladies by all accounts as well. So we'll try the golf club, his gun club. Ask around, talk to anyone who knew him, especially anybody who had access to shotguns, naturally. We need to know what he was like, what sort of chap he was, from people less subjective than his family. His mother, Mrs Sybil Wishart, has already been on to the Chief Constable, wanting it all hushed up,' he finished drily, to the accompaniment of a few ironically exchanged glances, ‘so don't go putting any size twelves in, but don't let it intimidate you, either. That about wraps it up, as far as I'm concerned. We'll meet at six to compare findings. Meanwhile, I'll leave you to DI Moon. Thank you, all of you, and good luck.'

A uniformed PC intercepted Mayo at the door, handing him a note. He read it and came back to the front of the room, raising his voice above the hum of talk. ‘Before I go ... We've just had word from the support team, who've been out at the mill house for some time, making a fingertip search on the far side of the bridge. They've now found a cartridge case. But that's no good unless we find the gun that shot it and even then we may not be able to match it. Finding the gun's a priority. As you know, it looks well-nigh impossible, at this stage, that Wishart himself could have fired the shot that killed him. We shall learn more from the post-mortem, and we shouldn't have long to wait. The Prof's agreed to do it later this morning – Inspector Moon will be there, right?' He turned to Abigail for confirmation.

Abigail would, unfortunately. Post-mortems, like migraines, were supposed to become bearable if you taught yourself to stand aside from it, as though it was happening to someone else. That was the theory, at any rate. Only, like migraines, they didn't. So what couldn't be cured must be endured, as somebody's granny had undoubtedly once said. Timpson-Ludgate was going on holiday the following day and had magnanimously agreed to oblige with an autopsy before he went. ‘Nothing like leaving the decks clear,' he'd announced blandly, ‘and you know how I always like to oblige with an early result.' Abigail thanked him, while cynically reflecting that it was more likely that he didn't want anyone else horning in on something that was likely to prove more interesting than the usual routine: ordinary stuff, like road pile-ups, overdoses, industrial accidents, old folk dying of hypothermia.

Abigail wound up the meeting after Mayo had left. ‘I've no more to add, except to say that we're going to solve this one, right? Inspector Atkins will allocate. By the way, George,' she said, turning to Atkins in the hubbub of general departure, ‘has anybody made an appointment yet for me to see that friend – associate, whatever – of Wishart's?'

‘Tony Pardoe,' Atkins supplied as she paused to scan her notes for the name. ‘He's agreed to an appointment for this afternoon, if that suits you.'

‘Pardoe, that's right.'

Her own most pressing task was to trace back the dead man's recent movements, over and above the scanty information Clare had been able to supply. Clare had furnished them with details of Wishart's activities, as far as she had known them, during the last week, plus a list of his closest associates, and Pardoe's name had featured in both, so he'd seemed to be a promising start.

‘This afternoon's OK, I'm going back to see the family this morning. I'll look in on Farrar. He's there already and he should have made some headway into Wishart's records and computer files by now.'

It was no use having somebody like Farrar on the strength if you didn't make use of them. The ambitious DC had responded eagerly to the task allotted to him. He saw his computer-literacy as a possible advancement to the promotion that perpetually evaded him and was keen to demonstrate his skills whenever he could. It was unfortunate that he got on Abigail's nerves. On most people's. Despite – or perhaps because of – the fact that he was so damned efficient. It was no use to remind him that promotion depended on more than efficiency and the ability to pass exams, he never listened, Farrar would always be his own worst enemy. It was beginning to look as though he was basically unpromotable. Abigail sighed. Her thoughts, where Farrar was concerned, were likely to be uncharitable.

When Clare arrived back home after leaving Sybil, she found a message on the pad in the hall to say that Tony Pardoe had telephoned. It had been taken down by Amy, who'd added a long row of kisses at the bottom. Clare didn't immediately return the call. Instead, she sat in the kitchen drinking the mug of coffee which Richie insisted on making for her, feeling overwhelmed by her children's unprecedented solicitousness in the midst of their own world turned upside down, and by the residue of sadness and despair the conversation with Sybil had caused. She couldn't imagine why she'd allowed the old woman's unfair accusations to upset her so much, but they undoubtedly had.

There was always guilt, for things done and not done, when anyone died, she knew that, especially when the death had been as sudden and horrible as Tim's. God knows, she blamed herself as much as Tim for the failure of their marriage. But ...
Miss Daddy's Girl!
The childish taunt rankled. It wasn't fair of Sybil to try and smirch her relationship with Sam. Sam would do anything for her, that was true, and she loved him deeply, but she had never let it override her duty to Tim.

And let's face it, duty had been all that was left, at the end.

That terrible thought almost brought the tears which so far she hadn't been able to shed, but not quite. There was still a hard, painful lump, lodged somewhere near her breast-bone. She must pull herself together, there were chores she ought to tackle. Balance her bank account for instance. It was not likely to be as healthy as she would have liked, in view of the fact that she was going to have to be entirely responsible for Richie and Amy from now on. She wished she knew the extent of Tim's debts, because she was determined to honour them, every last one, no matter what they amounted to. He'd really screwed them all up, Tim.

She faced the horrendous prospect of his creditors baying at the door, and just the thought of it gave her a headache. Then she recalled with relief that the police had all his papers, that terrifyingly competent young policeman was still occupying the study, so she couldn't get at them yet, anyway.

She didn't really want to have to speak to Tony Pardoe, either. He'd been a close friend of Tim's since their schooldays and, later, one of his business pals, but Clare had never been easy with friends like Tony, whose conversation began and ended with money-making and, failing that, sailing, skiing, making more money and other related topics. His wife, Marianne, with her passion for horseflesh, was worse, if anything.

Get it over and done with. She gulped down the rest of her coffee, then dialled Pardoe's ex-directory number, relieved that it was neither his alarming secretary nor Marianne, but Pardoe himself who answered.

‘Clare. What can I say?'

Not able to find a ready reply to this unanswerable question, she at first remained silent, then stumbled out her thanks for the call. ‘Are you all right?' Tony went on. ‘I mean, is there anybody with you? Would you like me or Marianne to come round?'

God forbid!

‘That's good of you, Tony, but I have the children, and my father will be here again, later,' she said quickly, endeavouring to put some warmth into her voice. He was being kind, she really ought to try. He sounded relieved.

‘Bloody awful business, this. I know Tim was in deep – I know he was up to the neck in it – but nothing's
that
bad. I'd never have thought that of old Tim.'

‘The police don't think he shot himself, Tony.'

There was a silence on the line, Tony readjusting himself to what he didn't want to hear. ‘An accident?'

‘No, not an accident, either.'

Another silence. ‘Jee-sus,' he said after a minute. ‘Are they sure?'

‘They didn't commit themselves, there has to be a post-mortem and all that, but I'd say they were pretty certain.'

‘This is one hell of a mess, Clare. What's he been up to, getting himself done in?' Sensitive to the last, Tony didn't seem to realize he might have expressed himself better.

‘I don't know. I only know his life was in a pretty bad mess.'

‘I'm sorry, Clare, this must be rotten for you,' he said belatedly. Then, ‘What
about
you? He did provide for you?' His tone sharpened. ‘He's left
something,
I suppose?'

That meant Tim had owed him money, too. Just how much, she didn't want to know, not at this stage of the proceedings, at any rate.

‘Don't worry about me, Tony,' she said, deliberately not taking that up. ‘I shall be OK.' It wouldn't hurt Pardoe to stay on the hook for a while. But she thanked him sincerely for calling. ‘Yes, yes, I will let you know if there's anything you can do, I promise.'

Just before lunch Abigail, with Jenny Platt by her side, pulled up in front of Clacks Mill.

This morning the old three-storey house, looming under the leaden skies, revealed in the car lights, proved no less dismal than it had the previous night. It was utilitarian in shape, a solid block of brick and timber construction, partly weatherboarded, with a pantiled mansard roof over the top two storeys, shining damply in the murky, overhung morning. To one side stood a shaggy cedar with long, forlornly drooping arms, as if mourning in sympathy with its occupants, on the other was the defunct mill wheel.

The rain was holding off, but only just. This everlastingly miserable weather was beginning to feel as though it might go on for ever. ‘Makes you understand the Swedes, doesn't it?' Abigail remarked to Jenny as she killed the engine.

Her spirits hadn't been uplifted, either, by having spent the last hour in the mortuary, attending T-L's post-mortem. She had, however, been rewarded by receiving confirmation of his original hypothesis: that the shot which killed Wishart had certainly come from a distance of several feet. This would have to be backed up by forensic and ballistic tests, but it was firm enough to rule out suicide or accident, and to justify calling on the full resources of a murder inquiry team. The time of death, based on the temperature of the body when it was found, had been estimated at between three thirty and four, near enough to mesh with the time of the shot Fairmile had heard.