The Killing of Katie Steelstock (10 page)

“And what do you think would have been the right type?”

“You’re fishing.”

“Aye,” said McCourt placidly. “I’m fishing.”

Tony thought about this and then said, “All right. I’m only telling you what anyone else who knew her would tell you. She wanted two different things. From a man she wanted passion. She wanted someone who could really let himself go. An out-and-outer. But even while she was letting herself go, the dispassionate part of her would have been saying, ‘I wonder whether he couldn’t be some use to me, do something for me, help me in my career.’”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“I’m sure of it,” said Tony, “because on one occasion she actually told me so. I remember it, because normally she didn’t talk about herself. I think she’d had one drink above her ration; which was unusual, too, because she kept as firm an eye on her drink intake as she did on every other aspect of her life.”

Tony seemed to have lost track of what he had started to say. McCourt prodded him gently back. He said, “And what was it she told you?”

“Oh, we’d had a bit of a quarrel. I think I started it by implying that she relied too much on my services and if she wasn’t a bit nicer to me I might think twice about doing things for her and so on. That annoyed her. She said, ‘The trouble with you, Tony, is that you don’t amount to anything and never will. The most you’ll ever end up as is “something in insurance.” That’s no good to a girl like me. What I need is people with influence. People who can help me out when I get into trouble. I’ve got friends like that up in London. And I’ve got at least one
very
useful friend down here.’ I asked her who it was and she wouldn’t tell me. I pulled her leg about it when we next met up. I asked her who Mr. Big was. She denied having said anything about it. I think she was sorry she’d opened her mouth. And I think I’m talking too much.”

“On the contrary,” said McCourt, “you’ve been most helpful. One other question. When you got home, did you go straight to bed?”

“Actually, no. It was too bloody hot. I sat up and waited for Billy. I wanted to find out what he’d been up to.”

“With Sally Nurse?”

“Yes. It didn’t seem to amount to much. We had a bit of a natter and split a bottle of beer out of the fridge. It must have been half past one, or even later, before we finally went up. Oh, and I remember we heard Jonathan coming back. He’d been out on some job for the paper. A fire or something, wasn’t it?”

“I believe it was,” said McCourt.

“Everyone seems to think,” said Billy Gonville, “that if you take a girl out for a midnight spin in your car your intentions are dishonourable.”

“And they’re wrong, of course.”

“Not necessarily. What they’re overlooking is that your intentions are unimportant. It’s the girl’s intentions that matter. With some girls you don’t have to think twice. They’ve started undressing before you’ve got the car into second gear.”

“But with Miss Nurse it was different?”

“Sally’s a nice girl. A very nice girl.” McCourt wasn’t certain whether admiration or regret was the predominant note in young Mr. Gonville’s voice. “The trouble is, she’s been too much under Katie’s shadow. Following her round, imitating her getup, all that sort of thing. She’d buried her own personality. I thought it was time it was unburied.”

“Then you regarded this midnight run as a sort of therapy?”

Billy looked at him suspiciously and said, “Look here, Sergeant, you’re meant to be inquiring into a crime. Not exploring my sex life.”

“I’m sorry,” said McCourt. He always found it difficult to maintain an official attitude with Windle and Gonville. They were all much of an age. Off duty, they used each other’s Christian names without embarrassment. “Could you tell me where you went?”

“No difficulty. We started along the by-road, took the A329 as far as Streatley and then went straight on, until we hit the north-south road between Newbury and Oxford. Went down it a few miles to that junction with the M4.”

“That’s Access Point Thirteen.”

“Right. Up to then we’d had to take it easy. Still a lot of traffic about. When we got onto the motorway I let her rip. We must have damn near made a ton.”

“Please remember I’m a policeman.”

“So you are. I’d forgotten. Anyway, luckily I’d eased off a bit when we were stopped.”

“You were stopped?”

“At Access Fourteen, south of Reading. The police had the road blocked. A lot of cars queuing up. Took everyone’s names and addresses. Surely you know about it. They had a ring round the whole area. Trying to catch the people who did Yattendon House.”

“I heard something about it; we weren’t directly involved. I gather they didn’t catch anyone.”

“Total flop. They kept it up until three in the morning and netted one or two men out with other people’s wives. The burglars were too smart for them.”

“After Access Fourteen?”

“We went home. I had Sally back at her house about one fifteen. Both parents still up. Rather a frosty reception.”

“So I should imagine,” said McCourt. “Could you be a bit more definite about some of those times?”

“Let’s think.” Billy Gonville pressed his lips together and wrinkled his brow to demonstrate thought. “When we were all asked by Superintendent Dracula to write down our times, I had a word with various other girls I’d been dancing with and the general opinion seemed to be that we cleared out around ten forty-five.”

“And up to that point you’d been dancing continuously?”

“Non-stop. I can’t tell you all the girls’ names because some I didn’t know. A pity we didn’t have those old-fashioned dance cards. Anyway, if you asked anyone living in Lower Church Lane they’d have been bound to have heard me. Coming and going.”

McCourt was inclined to agree. Gonville had modified the fishtail exhaust on his Austin-Healey Sprite so that it now boomed like a bittern. He said, “Going at a reasonable pace”—he was studying the local ordnance sheet which he had brought with him—”it took you how long to get to Access Thirteen? I make it about fifteen miles.”

“All right. Say thirty minutes.”

“And from there to Access Fourteen?”

“No time at all. When you give that car her head she practically takes off. You can see why they call her a Sprite.”

“All right. Ten minutes. That gets you to Fourteen at twenty-five past twelve.”

“We were held up there answering questions for five minutes.”

“But,” said McCourt, “if you left there at half past twelve, how did it take you three-quarters of an hour to get home?”

“We stopped for a bit. For a talk.”

“For a talk?”

“For a talk,” said Gonville firmly. “I told you I thought she needed bringing out.” He started to laugh. “She’s an odd kid. Do you know what her real ambition is? She wants to be adopted.”

“By anyone in particular?”

“No. Just by someone. She feels she’s picked the wrong parents.”

Roney and Sim were squatting among a pile of deck chairs and punt cushions at the short end of the L-shaped balcony which screened the front and side of their bungalow. It was their favourite place for private discussions, and this discussion was both private and important.

Sim said, “Don’t you think we ought to tell someone?”

“No,” said Roney. He said it quickly but firmly, as though he’d been thinking about it a lot and had come to an irrevocable decision.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Sim.

“You promised.”

“I know I promised, but—”

“There aren’t any buts about it. You promised, and if you don’t keep your word I’ll . . . I’ll skin you alive.”

They were sitting so close together that their noses were nearly touching. Sim said very seriously, “You know what Mum said. This isn’t a game. It’s murder.”

“Why should it have anything to do with murder?”

“Well, Johnno used to meet her there. More than once.
We
know that.”

“All right. He used to meet her there. Just because people meet each other it doesn’t mean they kill each other, does it?”

“I suppose not,” said Sim unhappily.

“Then promise you’re not going to say anything about it.”

“I’ve promised already.”

“Promise again.”

“Well, I think he ought to tell the police,” said Rosina. She had been standing out of sight around the corner, listening.

The two boys scrambled up. Roney was bright red in the face. He said, “Sneak, sneak, sneak. You’ve been listening.”

“Certainly I’ve been listening. And lucky I was listening, because otherwise I suppose nobody would ever have heard about this.”

Roney took a step toward his sister. He was almost as tall as she was. He said in a voice which was rising out of restraint, “You filthy little cow. Sneaking round. Listening. If you say a word to anyone I’ll kill you.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“If you don’t promise, I’ll kill you.”

“Of course I’m not going to promise—”

Roney jumped at her, his hands groping for her face. He was sobbing with fury. Rosina gave a cry as his nails scored her cheek. Sim said weakly, “Roney, don’t. Don’t.”

And at that moment Mrs. Havelock appeared in the doorway. She said, “Leave Rosina alone.”

“I’m going to kill her,” said Roney. He had hold of her hair with one hand and was scrabbling at her face with the other. Mrs. Havelock took one step forward and hit him. She was a big, strong woman. The blow knocked him down and knocked most of the breath and all the fight out of him. Sim was crying. Rosina was mopping the scratch on her cheek with a handkerchief.

Disregarding Roney, Mrs. Havelock said, “Will one of you now tell me what all that was about?”

Rosina said, “I heard them talking. About the boathouse.” She hesitated for a moment, as if conscious of what she was going to do.

“Well?”

“They knew that Jonathan used to meet Katie there at night. They used to creep along and spy on them. Just like they did on Lavinia in the churchyard. Beasts.”

Mrs. Havelock said, “Is that true?”

Sim gulped out, “Yes. I knew we ought to say. Roney made me promise.”

“Why on earth did you do that, Roney?”

Roney said nothing.

“I expect he was in love with Jonathan,” said Rosina spitefully.

The Boat Club and the Tennis Club shared a bar which was part of the Tennis Club pavilion. This was a convenient arrangement, since most people belonged to both clubs.

On that Sunday morning it was crowded and Mr. Cavey was busier than usual serving gins and tonics with ice and pints of warm beer.

“We have carried out our religious duty,” said Mr. Beaumorris to his confidante, Georgie Vigors, “by going to church and vowing to love our neighbour as ourselves. We can now perform our social duty by dissecting our neighbour’s character.”

“If you’re talking about Jonathan,” said Georgie, “I can’t say I was entirely surprised. He’s been working up for an explosion for months. Actually, I had a certain amount of sympathy for him. I think Dickybird could have left Kate out of his sermon.”

“Oughtn’t you to be sitting down?” said her husband.

“Hullo, hullo,” said Mr. Beaumorris, “are you pregnant, woman?”

“It’s on the cards. Noel’s in the fussing stage. I’m told it lasts for quite a week.”

“Husbands suffer terribly over their first child,” said Mavis Gonville. “I thought Gerry was going to pass out when I told him. He had to be revived with a large brandy.”

“I’ve never touched brandy since,” said the Group Captain. “It would bring back memories. Have you had a visitation yet?”

Noel Vigors looked blank. Gonville said, “The buzz is that the fuzz—I say, that’s rather good. Buzz-fuzz. Fuzz-buzz.”

“Get on with it.”

“Well, they’re said to be going round to everyone who was at the dance asking a lot of questions. Sergeant McCourt was in Riverside Avenue grilling Roseabel Tress and the Havelocks.”

“As long as it’s just McCourt or Esdaile,” said Mavis. “That little white Superintendent gives me the creeps.”

“He’s a dangerous man,” said Mr. Beaumorris. “As I have every reason to know.” He had raised his voice sufficiently to receive the attention of everyone near him.

“Come on, Frank.”

“Tell us the worst. What episode in your murky past did he have to investigate?”

“It wasn’t my past,” said Mr. Beaumorris. “It was when I was at the V and A. It was some years ago. Knott wasn’t on the Murder Squad. He was a detective inspector at the local station. The auditors had unearthed a rather serious discrepancy in the imprest account of the Far Eastern Section. One of the cashiers was suspected. An old man called Connington. Bill Connington. Knott really took him to pieces. He was grilling him for most of the day and part of the evening.”

Mr. Beaumorris picked up his glass of shandy and finished it while his audience waited. Then he got to his feet and picked up his walking stick.

“Really, Frank,” said old Mr. Vigors. “You can’t leave us all in suspense. What happened? Was Connington guilty?”

“It was never
completely
established. He cut his throat that same night. With an antique Malayan kris.” He pottered to the door. “My young lady will have my luncheon ready. She gets very cross if I’m late.”

Mavis said, “I sometimes wonder if Frank isn’t the biggest old humbug in the whole village.
Could
you cut your throat with a kris?”

“You can cut your throat with anything if you give your mind to it,” said her husband. “I remember one young pilot officer—”

“Not before lunch,” said Georgie Vigors firmly. “And who is Frank’s young lady? I didn’t know he had one.”

“It’s a girl called Myra,” said Mavis. “Don’t know her surname. Her sister’s Polly. The one who does for the Mariners.”

“So
that’s
where he gets all his gossip from,” said Georgie.

It was Polly who opened the front door of the Croft to Superintendent Knott. She was back on her Jeeves impersonation and paced in front of him to the study. Mariner, who had a sense of protocol, kept him waiting for only two minutes. This compared with the five he would have allotted to Inspector Dandridge and anything up to twenty for Sergeant McCourt, whom he disliked as much as the Sergeant disliked him.