The Murders of Mrs. Austin and Mrs. Beale

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

  Contents

  Jill McGown

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Jill McGown

  The Murders of Mrs Austin and Mrs Beale

  Jill McGown, who died in 2007, lived in Northamptonshire and was best known for her mystery series featuring Chief Inspector Lloyd and Sergeant Judy Hill. The first novel, A Perfect Match, was published in 1983 and A Shred of Evidence was made into a television drama starring Philip Glenister and Michelle Collins.

  Chapter One

  ‘Just a bite to eat,’ said Jonathan Austin, his casual tone at odds with the tight grip he had on the receiver.

  ‘Fine,’ said Gordon, sounding a little puzzled. ‘Just me?’

  Jonathan licked his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Business. The girls would be bored.’

  ‘Business you couldn’t discuss in the office?’

  Oh, God. Jonathan’s blond lashes closed. Trust Gordon to start questioning things now. He could always be relied upon just to do whatever he was being advised to do, by anyone at all, and by Jonathan in particular. But now, he had to ask questions.

  ‘Well – it’s a bit … sensitive.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘Gordon?’

  ‘Sensitive,’ Gordon repeated. ‘ More redundancies?’

  Sort of, thought Jonathan, looking out of his rain-streaked office window, then back at the agreement on his desk. Sort of. ‘ No,’ he said, trying to sound jovial. ‘ But I’d prefer to talk to you in private.’

  Another silence. He held his breath. Gordon, Gordon. You are a nice man. But please, please carry on being obtuse, just for another few hours.

  ‘All right,’ he said, amiably.

  Jonathan breathed again. ‘ Good,’ he said. ‘About eight?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘See you then.’

  ‘You’re the one who said that the deployment of manpower in this force was ridiculous,’ said Sergeant Woodford.

  Chief Inspector Lloyd grunted.

  ‘And that a chimpanzee with some graph paper could do a better job,’ added Woodford, with a grin.

  Lloyd sighed. ‘Yes. Well now we’ve got a chimpanzee with some graph paper,’ he said, his Welshness relishing the phrase, as it presumably had the first time. He picked a bundle of bulky files out of his in-tray, and dumped them down on the blotter. ‘ Where do they get them from, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Give the man a chance. I think his ideas are quite interesting.’

  Lloyd looked at Jack Woodford and wondered what it was like to have an equable temperament. ‘Special squads for this and special squads for that,’ he said. ‘ He’ll be setting up a special squad for telling people the time next.’

  Jack laughed. ‘ It might work,’ he said. ‘ We’ve got to do something about the statistics.’

  ‘The statistics,’ said Lloyd, ‘have improved overall in the last two years.’

  ‘The ones people worry about haven’t.’

  ‘Jack, it doesn’t matter what we do. If we catch more burglars, the local paper will say that violent crime has risen. If we catch more muggers, they’ll say that car thefts have gone up. If we concentrate manpower on one thing, something else loses out.’

  ‘I know, I know. But that’s why he’s juggling the manpower around.’ Jack smiled. ‘I thought that was what you wanted,’ he said. ‘Judy could hardly have gone on working here with you and she being …’

  You and her. Lloyd corrected him mentally, automatically.

  ‘… being an – item? Isn’t that what you call it these days?’

  ‘It’s certainty not what I call it,’ said Lloyd, and smiled. ‘I’d like to call it marriage, but …’ He shrugged.

  ‘I think you’d be best to wait for her divorce to come through,’ said Jack, with a smile. ‘I wonder how she’s coping with her first day at Marworth.’

  ‘Well – Bob Sandwell’s her DS, so she’s among friends. But I’ve no doubt some of the lads will object to taking orders from a woman.’

  ‘Ah – our new chief constable might have something to say about that,’ said Jack. ‘He’s quite keen on getting women into the higher ranks.’ He inclined his head a little as he backtracked. ‘Or maybe a woman into the higher ranks, to prove he isn’t prejudiced,’ he said. ‘And if he does set up the rape squad, there’s every reason to suppose that Judy could get further promotion.’

  Lloyd opened the top file, and stared at it, not taking in the contents. He closed it again, and looked round the office. ‘What do you think of it, anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Jack. ‘Compact, but nice.’

  The new extension was finished at last, bar the painting, and for the first time in years, Lloyd had an office to himself. ‘It’s a relief not to have to put people wherever there’s desk space,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a relief not to have electric drills whining all day any more. But we did need an extension.’

  ‘Yes, yes. He was right about that too,’ said Lloyd. ‘ I’m not so sure we needed another detective sergeant, though,’ he added.

  Jack shook his head. ‘If they hadn’t filled the gap with another DS, you would have been climbing the walls,’ he said. ‘What is the matter with you today?’

  Lloyd looked up from the file. ‘I’m frightened of Sergeant Drake,’ he said.

  Jack grinned. ‘He is keen, I grant you,’ he said.

  ‘Keen! The man is obsessed with police work.’ He leant across the desk. ‘He is obsessed,’ he said, ‘with paperwork. They come back from a job, and he’s there at his desk typing out reports while all the others are still hanging up their jackets and getting coffees from the machine.’

  Jack moved forward slightly. ‘Lloyd,’ he said, ‘as acting head of Stansfield CID, don’t you think you ought to find that commendable?’

  ‘I find it incomprehensible,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘I seem to remember a certain keen young detective constable practically turning cartwheels because he was going to be a keen young detective sergeant in the Metropolitan Police, no less,’ said Jack. ‘Twenty-seven, about to carve out a career for himself in the big city. With hair, even. Not unlike young Drake, I’d say. Not as tall, of course,’ he added wickedly.

  Jack’s long friendship with Lloyd had been used many times to tone down Lloyd’s more excessive prejudices. ‘ I was a bit cocky,’ he admitted.

  ‘You were. But here you are, back amongst us provincial folk, with the rank to prove that cockiness works and height isn’t everything.’

  Lloyd smiled. ‘I joined straight from school,’ he said. ‘He’s been in the job – what? Four, five years? Do you know how long it took Judy to make detective sergeant?’

  ‘Ah, but she fell at the first hurdle,’ said Jack. ‘ She had the lack of foresight to be born female – a mistake that young Drake didn’t make.’

  ‘You’re a poet, Jack,’ said Lloyd wearily. ‘I’m forty-five – are you running a book on
when Drake’s going to catch me up?’

  ‘Well, he’s guaranteed inspector next year. Let’s see … he’ll be twenty-five then – definitely before he’s thirty, I’d say,’ said Jack, getting up. ‘ Yes, I’d be nice to DS Drake if I were you.’ He turned. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You weren’t here when he was here before, were you?’

  ‘No. When was that?’

  ‘He did the second of his probationary years here,’ said Jack. ‘You’d never have believed he’d last the course,’ he said. ‘He was nearly kicked out at one point. That was what – not four years ago. I think he realised that you had to take the job seriously or not at all.’

  ‘He doesn’t do things by halves, does he?’

  ‘He’s all right. He’s just not Judy, that’s all that’s bothering you. He could be a considerable asset to—’

  He broke off as there was a knock on the door.

  Lloyd hoped the soundproofing was good enough as Drake appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m just off, sir,’ he said.

  For an awful moment, Lloyd had no idea what he meant. ‘Oh – yes,’ he said, with relief, as it came back to him. The Mitchell Estate fiats.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now remember – it’s observation only. I don’t care who you see, I don’t care how long we’ve been after him. You observe, and radio in anything of note. All right?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And you’re only being paid until eleven,’ Lloyd reminded him. ‘So don’t stay there all night.’

  Drake had had to fight to get that much overtime; there was considerable scepticism about his tip-off that an empty flat there was being used by squatters to manufacture crack cocaine. For one thing it was unheard of in Stansfield, and for another the Mitchell Estate area seemed an unlikely place for it to start. They had to have something to go on other than an informant’s word if they were to mount an operation, Lloyd had said. But Drake had just spent some months with the force drugs squad at Barton, and swore his contact was rock solid; Lloyd had been impressed by the young man’s persistence in argument, and had finally agreed to let him watch the place until eleven, to see if he could pick up anything more definite that would warrant mounting a raid. For three nights only, he had warned.

  Drake left, and Lloyd smiled at Jack. ‘I am being nice to him,’ he said. ‘I’m the only one with any faith in his tip-off.’

  ‘You couldn’t even remember where he was going,’ said Jack, with his usual accurate aim. ‘Isn’t it time you were off?’ he asked. ‘You’re dying to know how she got on. You just don’t want anyone to know that.’

  Lloyd smiled a little as he thought of that morning, when Judy had been so nervous, losing everything. Convinced that she was going to start her first day at Malworth with dripping hair, no tights and one shoe. Making him leave early because he was laughing at her. She had doubtless arrived on time, dark hair shining, dressed with her usual flair, looking cool and composed; not a hint of the panic would have been allowed to show. And yes, he was dying to know how she had got on.

  He looked at the clock. ‘ Good God, Sergeant Woodford, I’ve been setting the world to rights in my own time.’ He put the bundle of files back into his in-tray, and smiled.

  As he went out into the warm, wet June evening, Jack Woodford’s words came back to him. He walked across the now tiny car park, along the windows of the new extension, making for his car. Another promotion? Well – yes, Jack was right. Not easy, for a woman, but given the new chief constable’s apparently enlightened views, further promotion wasn’t out of the question. And once she’d jumped that hurdle …

  WPC Alexander hooted him out of his reverie as she passed him on her way in; he waved, and got into the car.

  Damn it all, he didn’t know what he wanted.

  Pauline watched as Gordon got ready to go out. His new suit lay on the bed as he shaved unnecessarily.

  ‘You’re going to a lot of trouble just for dinner with Jonathan,’ she said.

  He switched off the razor. ‘ Sorry?’ he said.

  He had heard her; she didn’t repeat the question.

  He patted on aftershave. ‘Are you going to stand there and watch me dress?’ he asked.

  She looked at him in the mirror, and shook her head. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and went back through to the sitting-room.

  He was dressing up for Lennie, of course, not Jonathan. She knew that; there was no point in trying to make him admit it. And she didn’t really think she had anything to fear. Lennie had thus far remained true to the vows she had made through clenched teeth, and it seemed unlikely that Gordon would be the one to persuade her to break them; Lennie’s taste, when it was given its head, was for the hard, muscular type who could defend her with his bare hands if the need arose. Gordon’s fair, fat and forty appeal was lost on her.

  Pauline had met Gordon when he was still holding out hope of Lennie; he had been the friend that Lennie had invited to dinner to make up the numbers, and Pauline had been the solo woman who had messed them up in the first place.

  It had been obvious to everyone, with the possible exception of Lennie herself, how Gordon felt about her. His eyes would follow her as she moved, like some large trusting dog waiting to have its head patted. Pauline wondered if Lennie did know, had ever known, of Gordon’s devotion to her. She was used to men falling in love with her; she had them queuing up, unlike Pauline. She probably had never even noticed Gordon in amongst the others.

  They had both met Jonathan at that same dinner. Jonathan, Lennie had told them, had been adopted as the prospective parliamentary candidate for Stansfield, and had just moved to the area. Jonathan was a chartered accountant, with a business flair that had led to his being on the board of several companies, and worth a bob or two, unlike Gordon or any other of Lennie’s male friends. He certainly wasn’t Lennie’s type; there really was only one inference to be drawn from her flamboyant production of him to the more respectable of her rather startled friends. It had come as no surprise to anyone but Gordon, then, when Lennie had announced her engagement.

  It had been difficult for Gordon to accept her marrying Jonathan, of all people. Stiff, starchy Jonathan. He could have understood it if he had been unsuitable, like most of her boyfriends had been. But Jonathan was so eminently suitable, so much what every middle-class mother would dream of, and so very unlike anyone that Lennie might have chosen. ‘ Why Jonathan?’ he had kept asking. ‘Why Jonathan?’

  No accounting for taste, Pauline had said. Jonathan, because Jonathan wasn’t in love with her, and she had no intention of staying in the marriage any longer than she could help, that was why Jonathan. Jonathan needed a wife – prospective members of parliament did. Lennie needed money. It was a marriage of convenience. But Gordon would have been shocked, and Pauline hadn’t said all that. Just no accounting for taste.

  Lennie had asked him to give her away, apparently unaware of the irony; Gordon had agreed. The wedding – exactly the opposite of what anyone would ever have expected of Lennie, with its marquee and champagne – had taken place, and Gordon had, as far as other people were concerned, at last given up.

  The friendship between Pauline and Gordon which had begun on the night of the meet-Jonathan dinner party had slowly turned into a romance, and marriage. She had always been aware of her status as consolation prize; it hadn’t bothered her.

  And Gordon had even forgiven Jonathan sufficiently to take him into his business first as an adviser, and then as a full-time director. It had made a difference: the firm was healthier than it had ever been, and she and Gordon had moved into one of the Malworth riverside development flats as soon as they were finished, on the strength of it. As a business venture, it had been more than successful, but Pauline still wondered about Gordon’s reasons for welcoming Jonathan into the business the way he had.

  But now Pauline was pregnant, and with the pregnancy had come an unexpected turning off of sexual desire, which the doctor had assured her was temporary and not unusual. Gordon
had been understanding at first, then impatient, then indifferent.

  But he was tarting himself up in the bedroom, he was still in love with Lennie, and it bothered her now.

  ‘Leonora?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cold, as she always was with him. It wasn’t deliberate; the spirit manifest in all her dealings with other people died when her husband spoke to her.

  ‘Look – Gordon’s coming round this evening to talk to me about something.’

  There had been a silence then, as though he had expected her to supply the request as well as comply with it.

  ‘So can you come home? I’ve promised to feed him.’

  ‘I’ve got Mr Beale here,’ she said, looking apologetically at Mr Beale, her best customer. He would prefer patron, she was sure. She flicked the blonde hair from her shoulders, and smiled at him.

  Beale smiled back, a fat cat smile, but pleasant enough. He wanted her to do something for his head office, and was here to discuss it. He had bought off-the-peg paintings for his flat, one of the luxury flats over her studio, but this was a special commission. He looked a little like a gangster, she thought. Every time she sold something to him, she half expected him to pull out a bankroll. But he just paid by cheque, and she was very grateful that he did. Plus, his wife had recently joined the board of Jonathan’s company; that should have made him important in Jonathan’s eyes, but apparently not.

  ‘He can wait, can’t he?’ said Jonathan. ‘ He only lives upstairs from the studio, for God’s sake.’

  The fine summer rain still fell, turning the sky and the river grey. She flicked on the desk lamp, and turned her attention back to her husband.’

  ‘So does Gordon,’ she reminded him. ‘So he might as well give me a lift,’ she said. ‘I’ll make us something when I get there.’

  ‘No – I’d rather it was a proper meal. Gordon’s fond of his stomach. He isn’t coming until about eight.’

  ‘But—’ It was useless to protest. She would stop what she was doing and go home.