Seeing is Believing (15 page)

‘Were you driving?’ I asked.

‘Yes, but that didn't make much difference. If my friend had been driving, he'd have done the same sooner or later. They gave him a year less than me, but that was all. Well, I did my time and was out and then my real troubles began. Because who was going to give a job to someone with a record like mine? If it hadn't been children it might not have been so bad, but as soon as it came out what I'd done, there was no job, thank you, it had already been filled. So naturally, I changed my name. I did it more than once. But you don't stand much of a chance of getting a job if you've no references. So I decided to go down a bit in the world, get rid of my classy accent, and take anything that was going, from window-cleaning to washing cars and gardening. It worked surprisingly well. If you don't care how small a job is, there are plenty going, and you get paid in cash, so there are no worries about income tax. I've always been a pretty good mechanic and I'd get a reputation in a district as a useful sort of character to know. Then I drifted into a job in a garage in Edgewater and stayed there for some time. I liked it. I liked the feeling of stability it gave me for a change. I picked up with a nice girl and though I didn't intend to stay there for long, I believe I could have stayed for quite a time. And
then that bloody business about those three murdered girls blew up, and for no reason at all, I got suspected.’

‘But that had nothing to do with your killing a child and injuring several more and doing your time in prison.’

‘Nothing whatever. It was just a piece of foul bad luck. A woman, as it might be yourself, saw someone with red hair leaving the scene of the crime and swore it was me. My girlfriend gave me an alibi, but that didn't cut much ice, and later the woman changed her mind. She saw me in an identification parade and said it might have been anyone in it whom she'd seen. So I got off, I wasn't arrested, but I wasn't by any means thought to be innocent. That's when I really began to discover how suspicion can ruin your life. I stood it for a time, then I told my boss I was leaving, and I told the police too and told them I was going to look for work in Otterswell. But I wasn't lucky there and I was thinking of moving on when I met Sharon. We met in a pub where she'd gone for a drink with some friends, and somehow we got talking and she said she thought I'd stand a much better chance of getting odd jobs if I went to a village where there wasn't even a garage, for instance Raneswood. So that's how I got here. And again, when I'm doing nicely, and have quite a nice bit of cash in the bank, and thinking life quite pleasant, a murder's committed and I'm the man on the spot who must have done it … Yes, what did you say?’

I had only begun to say something, then stopped. I thought for a moment, then said, ‘Does Sharon know all this story?’

‘Most of it,’ he answered.

‘Which are the bits she doesn't know? The girls in Edgewater, or the manslaughter?’

‘Oh, she knows all about them both. What she doesn't know is that I was once on the edge of going to a university; also that I've got quite a bit of money stashed away. When I've got a bit more I'll be moving on. She does
know that. She knows what we've got isn't for keeps, and she's accepted it.’

‘When you move on, where are you planning to go?’

‘Australia,’ he answered promptly.

‘I don't believe they'll let you in if you have a criminal record.’

‘Well, there are other places.’

‘Where you think you'll be able to start a really new life.’

‘Mrs Chance, it wouldn't surprise me if within a month of my getting there a murder's committed by a man with red hair and someone positively identifies me. Meanwhile

‘Yes?’

‘Did you mean what you said about having seen someone at the Loxleys’ gate who wasn't me?’

Just then the telephone began to ring, so I did not have to answer him. I went to the telephone and found the caller was Judy Hewlett, ringing up from Cheshire. We chatted for a minute or two, each of us asking how the other was, and saying that murder was very unsettling, then Judy asked if she could speak to Brian and I went upstairs to summon him.

When he came down and started to talk to Judy, Fred, overhearing some of it observed, ‘That's Mrs Hewlett, isn't it? I always liked her. She's really got brains. She always believed in my innocence.’

‘Perhaps it would help you if she were here now,’ I said.

‘I wish she were. But you haven't answered my question, Mrs Chance.’

So after all I had to answer it.

‘Yes, I meant it,’ I said.

‘That it was someone disguised as me, probably wearing that red wig that's kept with all the theatrical gear in the village hall?’

‘That does seem likely.’

‘Thank you. You've taken a big weight off my mind.’

‘But I could be wrong.’

‘Ah, don't spoil it. Stick to what you think.’

He finished his whisky and stood up as if he were about to leave, but just then Malcolm came down the stairs and into the room.

He looked surprised to see Fred, and Fred remained where he was, instead of leaving as he had intended.

‘I've been having a very interesting talk with Mrs Chance,’ he said. ‘You should get her to tell you all the things we've discussed.’

‘I found it interesting,’ I said, ‘but I wouldn't have called it exactly a discussion. Fred's been telling me a lot about himself, Malcolm. I did little more than listen.’

‘Then have another drink, Fred, and let me hear from you what you've been telling my wife. I'd sooner hear it from you than second-hand from her.’

Fred gave one of his remote smiles, sat down again and accepted the drink that Malcolm poured out for him. In the hall, Brian was still talking to Judy. By now, I thought, she must know as much about the murder as we did. I was glad that the call had come from her and that it would go on the Cheshire bill, not on ours.

‘Where d'you think I should begin, Mrs Chance?’ Fred asked.

‘I should say with that joy-ride of yours,’ I said.

‘I was afraid you'd say that. Oddly enough, you may think, it isn't one of the things I enjoy talking about. In fact, I don't believe I've talked about it to anyone for several years.’

‘I thought you said you'd told Sharon all about it.’

‘Did I? Well yes, I think I did tell her about it. But that hardly counts.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘Well, talking to your girlfriend can sometimes feel like talking to yourself. And she doesn't ask questions, she just listens. Mr Chance, is it true that they've dropped the idea of doing
Romeo and Juliet?’

‘I believe so,’ Malcolm said, ‘and not a bad thing, in my opinion. It was much too ambitious for them. They'd have done better with Noel Coward or some Lonsdale.’

‘I was going to say, if they're going on with it,’ Fred said, ‘that they'd better find themselves another Romeo. I don't think I'll be here much longer.’

‘Do you mean to say that you're expecting to be arrested?’ Malcolm asked, with raised eyebrows.

‘What he means is that he's taking off for Australia, or some remote place, as soon as he can afford it,’ I said.

‘And Mr Bird would make a much better Romeo than me,’ Fred said.

‘We'd still have to find a Mercutio,’ Malcolm said, which was more macabre than was characteristic of him. ‘Now, what's this about a joy-ride?’

‘Shall we wait until Mr Hewlett comes in?’ Fred suggested. ‘He'd also want the story from the horse's mouth, I expect.’

His reluctance to start made me wonder for the first time since he and I had been talking together how much of what he had told me was the truth. Not that I could see what he might have to gain by inventing a story about killing a child and going to prison. But perhaps it was the later part of his history that he did not want to repeat. For instance, what had brought him to Raneswood. Had it really been chance, as he had said, or had he had some motive in coming?

At last we heard the tinkle of the telephone as Brian put it down, then he came into the room.

‘Hello, Jack, I didn't know you were here,’ he said.

‘Fred — or Jack — is about to tell us something about his past,’ Malcolm said. ‘Frances has heard it already and seems to have found it interesting. But I want a drink and I expect you do too. Then we can settle down comfortably to listen.’

He went to the drinks cupboard and poured out sherry for Brian and whisky for himself, which was not his usual
drink, except in times of crisis. It made me wonder what his real feelings were about Fred. Was he acutely repelled by him? Did he think we were entertaining a murderer?

Sitting down, he said, ‘Now what about this joy-ride?’

‘I think I'll begin a little earlier than that,’ Fred said, ‘because I expect you've been a bit puzzled since we got to know each other about my background. Well, my father was a solicitor, a partner in a firm with offices in Bedford Square-’

He was interrupted by the telephone ringing again.

‘You'd better answer that,’ Malcolm said to me. ‘It's nearly always for you.’

I went out to the hall, picked up the telephone and said, ‘Frances Chance speaking.’

‘Frances!’ said a breathless voice which I recognized as Jane Kerwood's. ‘It's fearful! It's — oh, I don't know how to tell you, I'll just have to blurt it straight out. Lynne Denison's dead. She's been killed. Strangled. And she's got a black plastic bag over her head. She's in the alley beside the Green Man. We've called the police, but they haven't got here yet … Oh, there they are, thank heavens! I'll ring you again later when we know a little more. Goodbye now.’

She rang off.

As she did so, I heard in the distance the police sirens. At the same time, as I put our telephone down and stood for a moment with my hand on it, staring blindly at nothing, I was thinking that Fred Dyer had an alibi that nothing could disprove.

I told them what I had heard on the telephone.

Fred Dyer did not wait for a moment. He was across the hall in a few strides and out through the front door, slamming it shut behind him. A moment later, I heard his van start up.

‘What do we do?’ I asked Malcolm.

‘Nothing,’ he answered. ‘If the police want us, they'll come for us.’

‘I think I'm going to go down there,’ Brian said. ‘I want to know what's happened.’

‘It looks, at any rate,’ I said, ‘as if your suspicions of Fred were without foundation.’

‘It does,’ he said. ‘It makes me feel rather ashamed. He's had a lot of trouble for nothing.’

‘I wonder if it was really for nothing,’ Malcolm said. ‘It may look as if the Edgewater murderer is at home in Raneswood, but did Fred Dyer know that, or was it really chance that brought him here?’

‘Well, I'm going down there to find out what's happened,’ Brian said. ‘You don't want to come with me?’

Malcolm shook his head. Brian did not ask me if I wanted to go with him, as if he took it for granted that the scene of a murder was not suitable for a woman. I was quite ready to agree with him. I sat down again with my drink and Malcolm sat down with his, and we waited in silence. I was not sure what we were waiting for, whether it was for Brian to come back with information about Lynne Denison's death, or for the police to visit us,
or for the telephone to ring yet again. It felt as if something must happen, though why it should happen to us, I could not have said.

At last, after what felt like a long time, Malcolm said, ‘What's for supper?’

‘Omelettes, I think,’ I said. ‘I haven't cooked anything.’

‘We'll have to wait for Brian.

‘Yes, I don't see why he had to rush off like that.

‘I suppose he has a feeling of intimacy with this kind of crime.’

‘Will he be able to tell the police anything useful, d'you think?’

‘He can tell them Fred isn't the murderer here, so probably wasn't in Edge water either.’

‘I suppose that does follow.’

‘It seems probable.’

‘I've got some mushrooms. Shall I make mushroom omelettes?’

‘Sounds good.’

‘But if Brian doesn't come back fairly soon I shall probably be too drunk to make them. I'm afraid all I want to do at the moment is have another drink.’

Malcolm got up to supply me with one. Bringing it to me, he asked, ‘What were you and Fred talking about all this afternoon? He'd only just begun to tell us when the telephone rang.’

I told him the story of Fred's past life that he had told me. Malcolm's face was impassive as he listened. As I finished, he got up and poured out another drink for himself, then relapsed into another silence.

After a while, he muttered, ‘Blood on his hands … He used that phrase, did he, that he'd got blood on his hands?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Did he seem remorseful, or indifferent, or what?’

‘Fairly indifferent, I thought, but he's had to live with the fact for a long time. He probably gave up beating his chest about it a long time ago.’

Malcolm leant back in his chair, gazing thoughtfully into his whisky.

‘I wonder if having once killed an individual makes it easier or harder to kill the next one,’ he said.

‘But the one thing we can be sure of is that he hasn't killed anybody.’

‘You're still sure he wasn't the man at the Loxleys’ gate?’

‘That man was in disguise, I'm sure of that.’

‘And he may or may not be the man who's murdered Lynne. Her murder and Peter's are so different that I find it easiest to believe they were done by different people, for reasons that may have no connection.’

‘Yes, I suppose that's what I think too.’

Again we fell silent. It was about an hour before Brian returned. He came in then with dragging footsteps, as if he were very tired, and with his sharp-featured face looking drawn and curiously bitter. He dropped into a chair.

‘They've got him,’ he said.

‘Fred?’ Malcolm said in surprise.

‘No, no, Kevin Bird.’

‘Kevin?
Malcolm said incredulously. ‘They've arrested Kevin?’

‘Yes, and he's spilling his guts, telling them everything he's done. Now for pity's sake, get me a drink, Malcolm, and give me a few minutes to get my thoughts in order.’