An Evil Hour Read online

  Title

  Jill McGown

  AN EVIL HOUR

  Contents

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Also By

  by the same author

  RECORD OF SIN

  AN EVIL HOUR

  THE STALKING HORSE

  MURDER MOVIE

  HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE

  Lloyd and Hill Series

  A PERFECT MATCH

  REDEMPTION

  DEATH OF A DANCER

  THE MURDERS OF MRS AUSTIN AND MRS BEALE

  THE OTHER WOMAN

  MURDER . . . NOW AND THEN

  A SHRED OF EVIDENCE

  VERDICT UNSAFE

  PICTURE OF INNOCENCE

  PLOTS AND ERRORS

  SCENE OF CRIME

  BIRTHS, DEATHS AND MARRIAGES

  UNLUCKY FOR SOME

  Epigraph

  ‘Thou’s met me in an evil hour’

  ROBERT BURNS,

  ‘To a Mountain-Daisy’

  Chapter One

  Annie Maddox looked in the mirror, and reached for make-up to try to disguise the fact that she had been crying. Tears of anger, of dismay, had puffed up her eyes, and still her breath was coming in little shuddering sobs. But she was under control now, as she worked quickly to repair her face.

  The anger had been at him, at his presumption; the dismay at herself and her reaction.

  Annie was coming up to forty, dark and slim. She reminded herself of her years as she looked in the mirror, feeling as wretched as any fifteen-year-old who had just cut off her nose to spite her face. But she had been right. It was over, and it ought to stay that way.

  She glanced at the clock. Ten past five – Linda would have taken over from Sandra on reception, and she ought to apologise to Sandra for leaving her to cope on her own. She might just catch her. Taking a deep breath, she walked quickly through the sitting room, and opened the door, almost bumping into Mr Grant as he stepped out of the lift.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Grant.

  James Grant owned the Wellington Hotel. He was in his late fifties, a large, heavy-jawed man, with almost black hair, even more slicked back than usual today. His wife was on an extended visit to her family, and he had closed up their imposing house on Amblesea’s sea front to move temporarily into the hotel.

  It was a situation that Annie viewed with deep misgiving, because not only was he neither staff nor guest – as witness his use of the staff lift – but it seemed to Annie that in his wife’s absence Grant was making a determined, twinkling, avuncular play for her.

  The Wellington Conference Complex had been conceived and built by Grant, who already owned a dozen other hotels and nightclubs along the South Coast, not to mention quite a lot of London.

  He had also built most of the new shopping centre, as well as practically everything else that had gone up in Amblesea, a success rate that had given rise to suspicion and speculation in the town. The allegations had been dropped, but Grant’s heart never seemed to be in it again, and he had gone into semi-retirement with his ex-beauty-queen wife.

  Annie had managed the Wellington since it had opened, three years ago. She was normally bright and efficient and vigorously in control of what was at last becoming a very successful enterprise indeed. But right now, she felt far from bright.

  Grant had retired to his room after a large Sunday lunch with instructions that he was not to be disturbed; Annie could wish that she had done the same.

  ‘I just came down to check the time of the disco this evening,’ he said.

  ‘It starts at eight,’ she said, unable to conceal her surprise at the question. The disco was what was going to usher in the new year at the Wellington. It had not occurred to Annie that Grant would be in the least interested.

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You think I am too old for disco dancing?’

  ‘Everyone’s too old for disco dancing,’ she said, with a fair approximation of a smile. ‘I was just going to check with Sandra that everything’s ready.’

  Grant stepped back to allow her to go first down the corridor, catching her up again in order to reach the door a fraction ahead of her, and open it, standing back with a little bow.

  ‘Linda?’ Annie said. ‘Is Sandra still around?’

  Sandra, still very much the new girl – though, Annie had been gratified to notice, quietly efficient – appeared from the staff room. ‘Did you want me, Mrs Maddox?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Annie said. ‘I lumbered you with all this disco nonsense.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said, a little shyly, still.

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ Annie said.

  ‘Are you taking calls now, Mr Grant?’ Linda asked.

  ‘What? Oh – yes. Have there been any?’

  ‘No,’ Linda said.

  They all laughed, and Annie suddenly felt very alone. She wished she hadn’t been such a bitch to Gerald. She wished he had stayed. She wished he had never come.

  ‘Mrs Maddox here thinks I’m too old to go to the disco tonight,’ Grant said, twinkling like mad.

  ‘Not a bit of it,’ Annie said, determinedly joining in. ‘I’m looking forward to your break-dancing exhibition.’

  ‘I only do that in the street,’ he countered. ‘I had hoped you would oblige.’

  ‘She probably could,’ Linda complained, joining in the rather stagey chit-chat in which they were indulging.

  Linda and Annie had grown up together, and Linda had been the first person Annie had asked for when she needed staff for the Wellington. It had always been going to be that way round, as it had always been written in the stars that Annie would keep her athletic figure while Linda’s would spread to more comfortable proportions. And that Linda would feel obliged to dye her mousy hair blonde, while Annie’s came dark and shining, like her eyes. It didn’t bother Linda.

  Grant looked out of the big glass doors. ‘Has it stopped raining?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so,’ Linda said.

  ‘I hope so,’ said Sandra. ‘Or I’ll get soaked.’

  ‘Where do you have to go?’ Grant asked.

  ‘The new flats,’ Sandra said. ‘You know – out where the prefabs used to be.’

  ‘I will drive you,’ he said expansively. ‘We can’t have you walking home.’

  ‘Oh, no – really. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Not ano
ther word.’

  ‘Well – thank you.’

  She allowed herself to be shepherded out, and Linda and Annie exchanged glances.

  ‘She’s old enough to take care of herself,’ Linda said.

  ‘She’s not that many years older than Christine,’ Annie argued.

  ‘Which is old enough,’ Linda repeated. ‘Anyway – maybe he’ll forget you now that he’s clocked Sandra.’

  Grant’s fondness for the opposite sex had become all too apparent during his stay at the Wellington. But he was more than old enough to be Sandra’s father.

  ‘She won’t take any nonsense from him,’ Linda said reassuringly.

  Grant appeared in the doorway, with Sandra in tow.

  ‘My car is gone,’ he said.

  Annie stared at him. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Gone. It isn’t there.’

  ‘It can’t be gone!’ Annie said. ‘I saw it there myself, not—’ She looked at her watch. ‘Not two hours ago.’ She had in fact closed Grant’s boot, which he had left ajar; she thought this was not the best time to mention it.

  Grant walked slowly to the desk. ‘Mrs Maddox,’ he said. ‘There are fourteen cars on the entire car park. My car is not one of them.’

  ‘When did you leave it?’ Linda asked.

  ‘Lunchtime,’ he said. ‘About one o’clock, I suppose.’

  ‘Ten past,’ Sandra said. ‘You gave me back the lift key.’

  Grant had moved in some creature comforts from home, and had been using the service lift. ‘I stand corrected,’ he said. ‘Ten past one.’

  ‘It was there at three fifteen,’ Annie said again, helplessly.

  ‘Well,’ said Grant. ‘It’s not there now.’

  ‘Who else came in or out, Sandra?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Not many people,’ she said. ‘Mr Grant, of course. And you – you went out to get something from your car.’

  ‘My sweater,’ Annie said. ‘That’s when I saw your car,’ she told Grant.

  ‘And the gentleman who was visiting you,’ Sandra said. ‘Then just Linda – oh, and Jimmy. The disco,’ she explained to the blank faces. ‘That’s all.’

  Annie sighed. Today was impossible.

  Grant was in Annie’s sitting room, a thin cigar in one hand and a brandy in the other, when the door opened, and Christine and Pete came in.

  Christine was Annie’s daughter, and just nineteen. Annie might have had no role to play in her creation; everything – her fair colouring, her blue eyes, her strong-mindedness – she had got from her father. Pete was unaccountably Christine’s boyfriend. He was twenty-seven, an unemployed ex-soldier, attractive in an unkempt, gipsy-like way, and pleasant enough, Annie supposed.

  ‘We’ve come to see if we—’ Christine broke off when she saw Grant. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He smiled tightly, but graciously.

  ‘Mr Grant’s car’s been stolen,’ Annie said.

  ‘I am sorry,’ Christine said. ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Here,’ Annie answered for him.

  Christine bit her lip. ‘Oh dear,’ she said. ‘When was it taken – do you know?’

  ‘Well, it was there at quarter past three,’ Annie said.

  Pete looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘We’d better go,’ he said to Christine.

  ‘But I wanted to ask Mum—’

  ‘It’ll keep. She’s busy.’

  Christine gave in, and Pete hustled her away.

  ‘I just don’t like him, that’s all,’ Pete said.

  Christine sat down on the bed, and looked up at him. ‘You don’t even know for certain,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t I?’ Pete’s face was flushed.

  Sometimes, Christine felt more like his sister than his girlfriend. More like his mother. She put out her hand, and he took it, sitting beside her on the bed.

  ‘I thought you were over Lesley,’ she said, gently mocking him.

  ‘It is over,’ he said.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Why do you put up with me?’

  Christine had answers, but she couldn’t articulate them. She loved Pete; she loved his eyes, darker blue than hers. She loved his mouth – that was what she had noticed first about him. She stroked the little silky hairs on the back of his hand as she thought these things that she had never told him, and never could. Now and again, she had told him the things she didn’t love about him; the fact that he wouldn’t get a job and stick to it, his lack of common sense, his obsession with Lesley.

  ‘Why can’t you forget her?’ she asked. ‘She’s gone now.’

  Pete looked at his hands, at her hand holding his. ‘It was just seeing Grant,’ he said.

  ‘If you’re going to be like this every time you see him, perhaps you’d better not come here.’

  His eyes widened. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, I’ll come to the flat while he’s staying here, if you’d rather.’

  She was gratified to see him relax a little. He had misunderstood, thought that she meant not see him any more, and it had worried him. That, at least, was a step in the right direction.

  ‘There’s no need,’ he said.

  ‘You can hardly avoid him,’ she said. ‘He’s always hanging round Mum.’

  ‘Poor Annie,’ said Pete, standing up. ‘I think maybe I should just go,’ he said. ‘Do you mind?’

  Chris did, but she didn’t say so. ‘I’ll come with you, shall I?’ she asked.

  Pete hesitated. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No – I’ll just go. I’ll be back for the disco.’

  ‘Pete—’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ he said.

  Tom Webb appeared at the open sitting-room door.

  ‘Annie.’ He nodded to her, his face grave. ‘I understand that someone has reported a stolen car.’

  ‘Mr Grant’s car,’ Annie said, with a nod in Grant’s direction. Tom was a policeman, but he was a detective superintendent; not, Annie would have thought, the most likely person to be concerned with a stolen car. He was based at Harmouth, the big port just ten minutes along the coast from Amblesea.

  ‘Mr Grant?’ Tom turned to him. ‘We’ve met before. Webb, Harmouth CID.’

  Grant frowned. ‘I have given all the particulars to the police,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, sir, I know.’

  ‘Then might I suggest that you look for my car rather than talk about it?’

  His accent was more noticeable than usual, Annie thought. He liked to think that he didn’t have a foreign accent at all. His homeland had been devoured by war and politics; he had fought behind enemy lines before he was out of his teens, and had come to Britain after the war, still a very young man. He had taken British citizenship, and a British name, in an attempt to wipe out all that had happened to him. His brush with the authorities earlier in the year had brought it all back to him, and Tom wasn’t Grant’s favourite person.

  ‘That’s just it,’ Tom was saying. ‘We have found it. In an office car park a few streets away. Just off High Street, in fact.’

  Grant looked up at him. ‘You don’t seem very happy about it,’ he said. ‘Is it a write-off?’

  ‘No,’ Tom said. ‘But it is damaged.’

  Which meant that it was a write-off as far as Grant was concerned, Annie thought. She had never seen anyone who spent money like he did. He boasted of having made three fortunes and spent two, and she could believe it. Grant had started out after the war, demolishing the blitzed buildings in London, and constructing new ones in the belief that land in London would become very valuable. He had been right.

  ‘Still,’ he sighed. ‘At least you have found it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tom said, slowly.

  ‘Does it go? Can I collect it?’

  ‘It
goes,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid it’s having to stay with us for a while.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just possible that it was connected with another more serious incident.’ Tom glanced at Annie. ‘Another taxi driver,’ he said. ‘Stabbed this time, and his money stolen. He was found down at the old prom.’

  ‘Oh, how awful.’ Annie sat down. ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  Tom nodded. ‘They’re operating,’ he said grimly. ‘But they don’t hold out much hope.’

  ‘And in what way do you think my car was involved?’

  ‘It probably wasn’t,’ Tom said. ‘But it’s a possibility.’ He sat down. ‘We’d just like to make certain of the details. When did you last see it, Mr Grant?’

  ‘At about ten past one, I’m told,’ he said. ‘I normally park right outside, but it was raining, so I parked it in the covered area on the other side of the car park.’

  Tom nodded. ‘It had the key in it,’ he said reprovingly.

  ‘A bad habit,’ Grant agreed.

  ‘You’re lucky it didn’t turn up in Glasgow. Today of all days.’

  ‘I saw it after that,’ Annie said. ‘At about three fifteen.’

  ‘So it went missing between three fifteen and five fifteen?’

  Grant and Annie nodded in agreement.

  ‘Who was on reception?’

  ‘Sandra,’ Annie said.

  ‘Oh, yes. The new girl. Where is she now?’

  ‘She went home. I asked her who she’d seen, but it didn’t help.’

  ‘If you can let me have her address, someone will pop round to see her.’

  The phone rang, and Annie picked it up.

  ‘It’s for you,’ she said, handing it to Tom.

  ‘Webb.’ He listened without speaking. ‘Thank you,’ he said, after a moment, and replaced the receiver.

  ‘The taxi driver,’ he said. ‘He died, half an hour ago.’

  Pete walked through the rain, into the Wellington’s car park. He glimpsed Sandra as she went in, and that meant it was almost ten; she was starting later because of the disco.

  Sandra and Linda were talking, and Christine was waiting for him behind the desk when he walked in.

  ‘You look good,’ he said.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been ready for an hour and a half.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You weren’t going to come, were you?’