A Trio of Murders: A Perfect Match, Redemption, Death of a Dancer Read online

  ‘You probably know that he owned Mitchell Engineering,’ Donald continued. ‘He sold up some time ago – a good few years ago now – but there are other properties which weren’t sold with the main works – they’re the ones I mean. A couple of grazing areas, a shop—’ he looked up quickly, ‘and the boating lake.’

  Lloyd was glad to hear a reference to something relevant, and nodded encouragingly.

  ‘It was decided that the simplest course would be to sell these properties off. Julia had no ties in Stansfield – she didn’t want to be responsible for property here.’

  ‘Quite,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘I put them in the hands of an estate agent,’ Mitchell said. ‘Chris Wade’s brother-in-law, as a matter of fact.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I know that sounds a bit like jobs for the boys, but he and his wife – Chris’s sister – had just moved here, and he’d gone into partnership with a local man. I thought I might as well put some business his way.’

  Lloyd didn’t know or care about the ethics involved, but he supposed Mitchell would get to the point eventually, and listened politely.

  ‘So last night, I took Julia to see him – to discuss various things.’

  ‘Could I have his name, Mr Mitchell?’ Lloyd blinked a little as he reached for his notebook. If he’d known he was going to be dragged from bed at six o’clock in the morning, he’d have gone there before two o’clock.

  ‘Martin Short.’

  ‘Oh yes. I know him slightly.’ It was a lie; he didn’t know him at all. But sometimes it encouraged them, made them think you were human. You weren’t, of course. He certainly wasn’t at this time in the morning. He glanced at his watch. It was almost eight o’clock, to his surprise. ‘Could I have his address?’

  Mitchell gave him the address, and stood up. ‘That’s where she met Chris,’ he said, beginning to pace gently towards the curtained window and back. ‘He was at the Shorts, visiting his sister.’

  Lloyd frowned a little. ‘But she was with you at that point?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes – it’s a bit complicated.’ He stopped pacing and stood with his back to Lloyd, then turned. ‘There was a bit of a problem. About the boating lake.’ He sat down again, and sighed. ‘My brother always intended leaving it to the town,’ he said. ‘He never got around to putting it in his will, but I knew that he’d meant to. Julia was insisting on selling it to the Council rather than donating it, and I had been trying to make her change her mind.’

  Helen Mitchell rose at that point as if to leave the room, but stopped, lit another cigarette, and sat down again.

  ‘You pass the boating lake going from here to the Shorts’ house,’ Mitchell said, after the slight diversion. ‘And Julia said she wanted to check something – I don’t know what, now. Probably wanted to count the salt-cellars,’ he added.

  Lloyd permitted himself a small smile.

  ‘I had one last go at persuading her, and it developed into a row. We went on to the Shorts, but we had had this disagreement, and she wouldn’t stay. When Chris realised she intended walking back, he offered her a lift.’

  Lloyd put his pen away. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Mitchell. You stayed on at the Shorts, did you?’

  Mitchell nodded. ‘Yes. Not very gentlemanly, but I had had enough of her, to be honest.’ He sat back, relaxing a little now. ‘That sounds awful,’ he said.

  ‘Not at all. Had Mr Wade met Mrs Mitchell before?’

  ‘No. That was the first time they’d met.’

  Lloyd frowned. ‘So you know of no reason why he’d want to – harm her?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Helen Mitchell snapped.

  ‘And you don’t know where he is?’

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘You haven’t seen him since he left with Mrs Mitchell?’ He addressed the question to Donald Mitchell, who shook his head.

  ‘No,’ Helen Mitchell said again, in answer to his enquiring look.

  He wondered. He wondered about the three mugs that she was so keen to get rid of. Too late now. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Who is Mrs Mitchell’s next of kin? Do you know?’

  ‘It’ll be her father,’ Donald replied abstractedly. ‘But he’s on holiday – Spain, I think.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to identify her, Mr Mitchell.’

  Mitchell closed his eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said heavily. ‘When will you want me?’

  ‘We’ll send a car, Mr Mitchell. Will you be available later this morning?’

  ‘All day.’ Mitchell rose wearily and pulled open the curtains, admitting the daylight. ‘Helen? Could you put the light off?’

  Helen Mitchell switched off the light, and stood by the door. ‘Inspector, if you’ve no objection – I’d rather be dressed if we’re to continue talking.’

  She was no longer in the first flush of youth, but Lloyd could well believe the rumours that Constable Sandwell had assured him were going round about her and Wade. Wade must be ten, perhaps fifteen years younger than her, but there was a kind of youthful bravado there, defying him to get the better of her, that made her look like a girl – like a little girl, defending what was hers. The mixture of vulnerability and defiance was engaging. Lloyd smiled. ‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Mitchell. I’ll get out of your way now. I’m afraid I’ll be back, though.’

  She didn’t move as he walked towards the door. ‘Do you think Chris Wade killed Julia?’ she asked, her voice as calm as if she were asking him if he thought it was going to rain.

  ‘I don’t know, Mrs Mitchell,’ he said. ‘I just know I’d like to talk to him, and he’s disappeared.’

  She nodded, and moved aside, to let him leave.

  Outside in the car, he sat for a moment, looking up at the settled, comfortable house, before nodding to the constable to drive back down the road to the grim scene-of-crime.

  At the lake, the breeze was growing stronger, rippling the surface of the water, making him shiver. Everyone had forgotten how to dress for autumn; one or two of the lads had left their jackets in the bus, from force of habit during the heatwave. He raised a hand to acknowledge their presence as he strode towards the beribboned barriers.

  Judy was there now, talking to the doctor, having to raise her voice slightly above the snapping of the ribbon. She smiled gravely as he joined them, in the way they all learned to do, her brown eyes troubled.

  ‘Morning, Lloyd,’ the doctor said. ‘I was just telling your sergeant here – twelve hours at a rough estimate.’ He pointed a warning finger at him. ‘But it is rough – don’t bank on it. Wait for the p.m.’

  ‘We’re finished in there,’ a middle-aged man called from the building.

  ‘Fine – thanks.’ Lloyd turned to Judy. ‘Do you want to have a nose around inside? I’ll be there in a minute.’

  He and the doctor watched as she picked her way across the mud to the pathway.

  ‘Detective sergeants have improved a bit over the years, haven’t they?’ the doctor said, with a grin. ‘Much better legs than they used to have.’

  Lloyd laughed. ‘Don’t let her hear you saying that, for God’s sake!’

  Judy, new to the area, new to the rank, but a long-time colleague of Lloyd’s, heard the laughter, and wondered if it was at her expense. She always did, and always had. It was a form of conceit, her mother had told her when she was small. Assuming that people had nothing better to do than talk about her.

  The long, thin rectangle of the boathouse had had a small square partitioned off to produce the café, and it was into this section that Judy walked. Windows had been provided as a concession to the customers, but the high trees blocked out most of the light. Judy picked her way through the forest of chairs upturned on the tables, and stood by the counter. The tables and chairs occupied an L-shaped area, and behind the counter, through a curtain of grimy plastic strips, she could see the tiny kitchen that took up the rest of the square.

  Her eye travelled over the flaking paintwork on the door, up to the dingy ceiling. The walls were covere
d in a plastic material of indeterminate hue to about shoulder height, when they became yellowish-white, with hairline cracks running across them like cobwebs. Through the window, still spattered with the night’s rain, she could see the hedged courtyard, where hopeful tables presumably used to be placed on promising summer days. There was a desolate feel to the room, now that its surfaces were smudged and dirty where they had been dusted for fingerprints: the counter, the window ledge, the door. The table and chairs that had been used, presumably by the victim and her attacker, were covered with the unhappy smears, and chalk circles marked the blood-stains, small and almost insignificant, the only sign that anything at all had happened.

  The floor was tiled with black and white squares, cracking where the uneven floorboards failed to support them. Judy ran her toe idly round the hole that had appeared in the corner of one tile, and sighed. The gloom of the place was invading her, hurting her. She ran her hand through the newly curly hair that Lloyd said made her look like Kevin Keegan, and wished she worked in Woolworth’s.

  The door opened suddenly, and Lloyd, a little windswept, strode in, shattering the dark silence, forcing the café back into its original mundane role. His Celtic looks gave him a presence that his inches could not command, issuing an unspoken challenge to everything that moved, especially Judy.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Where the hell were you?’

  ‘You know where I was. Running Michael to the airport. I came as soon as I saw the note.’

  Lloyd grunted, and joined her at the counter. ‘So,’ he said. ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘Not a lot. I know the girl’s name was Julia Mitchell, and that she’s the widow of the man who owned Mitchell Engineering originally. Charles Mitchell – was that his name?’ She glanced at her notebook. ‘And we’re looking for someone called Wade, who was seen arriving with her and leaving without her.’ She raised her eyebrows in a question.

  ‘It was reported by a boy – he came in this morning. I’ll let you have the details later.’

  ‘What’s the story, then?’

  ‘She was visiting an estate agent called Short, and Wade was there. He offered her a lift home.’ Lloyd spread his hands.

  ‘Do we know anything about Wade?’ Judy wandered behind the counter to see what she would see.

  ‘Well – she had no reason to be wary of accepting a lift, if that’s what you mean. She was staying with her in-laws, and Wade’s a friend of theirs – and the estate agent she was visiting is married to Wade’s sister, so he did provide references.’

  ‘Her in-laws – is that who you’ve just been to see?’

  ‘Yes. Donald and Helen Mitchell.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a solicitor. His brother only died a little while ago, and that’s why Julia was here – sorting out his estate. I gather she’s been dreaming of this ever since she walked down the aisle.’

  ‘She was a lot younger than him, I take it?’

  ‘Must have been thirty years younger,’ Lloyd said. ‘He died of a heart attack.’ He grinned.

  ‘And Wade’s a friend of Donald’s,’ Judy said, hoping to chase away the grin and failing.

  ‘So he’d like us to think.’ The statement was accompanied by his Knowing Look, and Judy felt her irritation with life in general settling firmly on Lloyd in particular.

  ‘Oh? And what do you think?’ She brushed through the plastic strips into the kitchen, throwing the question over her shoulder.

  ‘I think he’s Helen Mitchell’s bit of fluff,’ Lloyd said smugly, following her through.

  ‘Helen Mitchell?’ Judy asked. ‘Donald’s wife?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘On what evidence?’ Judy opened the oven door and looked inside, for no good reason.

  ‘Oh – just the way she reacted.’ He shook his head. ‘Not that it gets us much further forward.’

  Judy shut the oven door with a bang. ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.

  ‘You go back to the station – there’s a file started. Read it through – see if you can follow anything up today. It would be a Sunday, of course. I’ll be back as soon as possible, but I’d better see this estate agent person.’

  Judy was about to leave, when she saw the door in the back wall of the kitchen. ‘The boathouse?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes – it’s not locked.’

  She pushed it open, and stepped through to find herself in darkness, unable to find the lightswitch. A strip of light showed where the big doors at the end didn’t quite fit together, and she could see the shapes of the small boats, as she moved further in. She swore as she banged her hip on the corner of an unsuspected desk. Lloyd followed her in. ‘It’s smelly,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Damp.’ She ran her hand down one of the boats. ‘Oh – they’re plastic. I thought they’d be wood.’

  ‘Fibreglass,’ Lloyd said. ‘They don’t need so much maintenance. Which is just as well,’ he added. ‘As far as I know they don’t get any.’

  ‘Does it actually operate?’

  ‘The boating lake bit does, at weekends. The café’s been closed for a while now. It was a grand gesture when Mitchell Engineering was on top of the world and everyone wanted British everything. But they couldn’t afford it, really. It doesn’t even belong to them now – until last night, it was Julia Mitchell’s property, I understand. It’ll be a good thing if the Council does take it over.’

  Judy felt his hand touch hers, where it rested on the side of one of the boats. In the half-light, she couldn’t see his face. The contact could have been accidental or deliberate, in fun or in earnest.

  ‘I’ll get back then,’ she said abruptly, pulling her hand away as she turned.

  Light flooded the shed, and Judy could see the offending desk just inside the door, where stood the tall, thin form of Constable Sandwell, his hand on the now obvious lightswitch. He tried hard to show no reaction at all to finding them in the dark, while she chose to stare at the grubby phone on the desk. It would have to be Sandwell, she thought. You-Know-What-I-Heard? Sandwell.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, brushing past him. Let Lloyd think of a good reason. Let Lloyd pass it off with a smile. She was getting out of it.

  Chapter Two

  ‘This is Newsdesk Report with the time at ten a.m.

  ‘Reports are coming in that the body of a young woman has been found in Thorpe Wood near Stansfield town centre. The body has not yet been formally identified, and police are not releasing the name at present. It is understood that they are treating the death as murder, and that a man is being sought. A full-scale search of the woods is under way.’

  Donald listened to these words and these only, and they remained in his head long after the radio returned to the inanities of the local DJ. When the music began, he snapped off the radio and lay back on the bed, waiting for Helen to finish in the bathroom. He felt tired, but there was no time to sleep, even if he could, with the horrors of the identification still to come. And more questions – about Chris, and Julia, and last night. And Helen, of course, had lied to the Inspector.

  The bedroom door opened, and Helen, smelling of warm terry-towelling and bath-oil, announced that the bathroom was free. Since the Inspector left, the only topic of conversation had been the bathroom. Outside the house, the Panda car still sat with its two occupants, and by tacit agreement not a word was spoken about Julia. Donald presumed that they were there in case Chris turned up, or perhaps they thought he was hiding in the house. Donald half-wished that he was.

  The bathroom was still steamy from Helen’s bath; condensation beaded the windows and tiles. Donald drew a finger through the moisture on the shower panel, his mind on the wood, and the boating lake, and the mean little café. What could she possibly have said or done to make Chris react like that? He switched on the shower, and tried to drench the thoughts. She must have been so frightened. The warm water sprinkled on to his shoulders, trickling down his back, soothing the tension, calming him. He had to be calm, becau
se worrying wouldn’t alter anything. No one would know what had happened until Chris was found – conjecture wouldn’t help. He didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry that Helen had lied to the police. They’d find out, of course – Helen had only recently taken up deception, and it still had an amateur quality.

  He rubbed soap over his body in loops and circles of lather. What did it matter if the police did find out she’d lied? What did any of it matter? The whole thing was a mess, anyway. He knew why she’d lied, of course. He had known for a while, though Chris as suitor – Chris as rival –was hardly something that would have occurred to him at first. Helen’s inability to prevaricate with any degree of confidence had given the game away a few weeks ago, when he had puzzled over something she had said, and in this very room had cut himself shaving when realisation dawned.

  Chris, whom he’d rescued like a drowning puppy in a sack, and truthful, loyal Helen were more than just good friends. How much more, he didn’t know; it took him all his time to believe that he was right, though he knew he had to be. The incredulity was no reflection on Helen, and no measure of his egoism. It was merely that he knew her, and knew the sleepless nights that her perfidy must have cost. Sometimes, during the three o’clock in the morning soul-searching in which he had occasionally indulged, he had wondered how he would feel if she were unfaithful to him. Every now and then, having left the warmth of someone else’s bed to return, with a glib lie, to his own, he’d wondered how he would react if the tables were turned.

  When it finally happened, he was slow to realise, then disbelieving, then fatalistic. And quite proud of the discovery that he did not operate a double standard. If he could do it, so could she, because he didn’t really care, and he didn’t imagine she did either. Their marriage had been grinding along with a flat tyre for years. Every now and then the sparks flew as the metal touched the ground, but they had carried on, at first for the children, and then for convenience. Now, it was bumping and jolting on the metal all the time, and soon they would have to stop and get out.