Some particular evil, p.12
Some Particular Evil, page 12
Elderkin snorted and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.
‘Time for your thoughts before you nod off. You can have a sleep on the way back.’
‘The way you drive, you must be joking. I’ll need another two pints of Adnams before I’m that relaxed.’
‘If you come up with an in-depth analysis of the day, I might buy you another pint.’
‘You might as well get it now,’ Elderkin said, looking smug.
‘Get on with it, you old bastard.’ They’d come a long way in the few days they’d been together – he felt easy with him and soon one of the sparks they made together would land on something inflammable and they would have a fire. He was sure of it. He was lucky to have Elderkin as his sergeant.
‘Right.’ Elderkin leant forward and quickly lifted one of Frank’s chips before a waitress cleared their plates. ‘Susan Nicholson was probably a petty thief, although we have no proof of that; she was not a good actress, her looks were fading, her job was coming to an end. Did she marry Philip Nicholson for love or security? According to Miss Heaven, God bless her, she was not highly sexed. She did write in a book. What did she write? If it was the log book she possibly wrote secrets. Were they hers or other people’s? We need to find that book. I know the murderer may have destroyed it, but that’s what I think we should do next. We need to have a thorough search of the Nicholson’s house and possibly the school.’ He paused. ‘Worth a pint?’
‘Just about,’ Frank said, getting up and taking the empty glasses back to the bar.
Elderkin held his second pint up to the window behind Frank. ‘Clear as a bell. Thanks, Frank, and for the lunch. What do you think? Should we start a search for the log book?’
‘Spot on, Stuart. I think we’ll stop off at Ipswich on the way back. I’ve got to report back to the Chief Constable and we can ask for extra manpower for a few days. I don’t want anyone to know what we’re looking for so the men will have to keep quiet about it. The murderer may not know about the book. Susan must have hidden it in between writing in it. Of course the murderer may have found the book, read about him or herself, and that was the reason for her death, in that case, the book will have been destroyed. Although murderers can be strange creatures and they do sometimes keep souvenirs of their crimes, but that’s usually mass murderers.’
‘Don’t think we’ve got one of those in Dunwich. I’ve never had dealings with one, I’m glad to say. What else are you thinking?’ He pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch and started the ritual filling and tamping down of the tobacco in the bowl.
Frank sipped his bitter lemon and pulled a face. ‘I’m wondering what drove Susan Nicholson; why was she so obsessed with discovering the skeletons in people’s wardrobes? What was her motive? Blackmail? Or did she enjoy the feeling of having power over people? Did she hug the secrets to herself or did she like to torment her victims with the thought she might expose them? We need to find a victim who’ll talk to us. Tomorrow we’ll re-interview Henry Thornback, Jim McFall and Warren Ringrose: they were the ones we both thought wanted to say more. I don’t think Dorothy Piff has any more skeletons in her cupboard.’
Elderkin slowly savoured the dregs of his pint. ‘Nor Mable Grill.’
‘Tried her apple pie yet?’
‘What? With the way you’re working me? I hardly had a chance to chat to her. That’s enough of my love life – if you can call it that. What about you? Not heard you mention a girlfriend. Got one tucked away in Liverpool?’
Frank took another sip of his drink and tried to look as though he was enjoying it. ‘No. No girlfriends.’
Stuart frowned. ‘You do like girls, don’t you?’
Frank laughed. ‘Don’t worry, my name isn’t Warren Ringrose.’
‘Has Mabel been talking to you?’
‘No. I may be wrong about him, but I don’t think so.’
‘You’re not wrong – you’re right. Could be Susan Nicholson knew as well and threatened to tell her husband.’
Frank nodded, tipped the last of the bitter lemon down his throat and vowed never to drink it again.
‘What about that Miss Bowman? Mabel says she’s a nice girl, no side to her, doesn’t give herself airs. I know she’s tall but she’s a looker. She’d be handy round the house – help you with the lifting and carrying, and I bet she could dig over a vegetable patch in no time at all.’
Frank frowned at him: the old, chauvinist cupid. ‘I’m not interested, Stuart, and I think the feeling’s mutual, although I agree she’s a good-looking woman. I don’t think domesticity would be her strong point.’ A picture of Laurel Bowman in a frilly apron, flushed from a session at the stove, laying before him a perfectly cooked coq au vin as he sat at a candle-lit table, knife and fork in hand, made him smile. ‘How often, when you fancy a girl, do you meet her mother and realise that’s who she’ll turn into in twenty years’ time, and somehow you don’t feel as keen. Or even worse you think she might turn into your own mother and try and rule your life? Mind you, I always kept my father hidden if I brought a girl home!’
Elderkin stared at him. ‘You’ll never get married if you think like that.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
Elderkin shook his head. ‘What’s wrong with your mother?’
‘My mother is a frustrated woman. Not sexually – I’ve two brothers and three sisters. Imagine my childhood. Mother is a Roman Catholic housewife; Father, a Marxist Trade Union steward.’ Frank rolled his eyes. ‘He’ll be down with all the rest of them: Jack Jones, Vic Feather and the other TUC members in Brighton, planning how to bring this government down.’
‘It’s a wonder you’re as normal as you are,’ Stuart said, winking at him. ‘Have you heard the unions are bringing in a ban on Sunday buses – they don’t like these new one-man operated jobs. So why’s your mother frustrated?’
‘The only freedom my father gave her was to allow her to name their children after Catholic saints. Hence: Frances Xavier.’ He pointed his thumb at his chest.
‘I don’t know much about the trade union movement. I think I agree with them about not going into the Common Market. What do you think?’
Frank grimaced. ‘I suppose wine might be cheaper.’
‘Returning to your mother …’
Frank smiled. ‘I love her and my dad, but her problem is she’s got more brains than the rest of the family put together. She needs a purpose, but Dad won’t let her get a job. So she tries to organise the rest of us.’
Elderkin sighed. ‘I like a bossy woman, myself.’
‘I tell you what, Stuart; I’ll let you have Sunday off, seeing as you’ve made such an astute summing up of the situation – the criminal situation. We won’t get any extra help until Monday at the earliest. I want a quick, thorough search of the whole area, all the buildings, especially the living quarters and any of the outlying buildings, including the ruins. Hope the Chief buys it, if not the search could take weeks.’
‘When do the kids come back?’
‘Wednesday.’
They pulled faces at each other.
13
Sunday, 13th September, 1970
The Yale lock made a satisfactory click as Laurel pulled the front door of the cottage shut. Mabel, on her knees, was working in the borders of her front garden. ‘Morning, Mabel. Hello, Muffin. Is this how you’re going to spend your day off?’
Mabel pressed her hands against the earth and heaved herself up. ‘I am, this morning anyway. I see you’re making the most of the sunshine. You’re looking summery. Going out?’
Laurel thought a casual look would be best for her meeting with Frank Diamond. She’d been undecided, holding different blouses against skirts and trousers, before deciding on a short denim skirt, white T-shirt and sandals – she didn’t want to tower over him in high heels.
‘Might as well make the most of the lovely weather,’ Laurel said, spreading out her arms like a blackbird having a sunbath. The air was balmy, the sky Alice blue and the sea, glimpsed between the Holm oaks, cucumber green: a perfect September day. ‘I’m going for a drive; I’ll probably have lunch at a pub. Are you going anywhere, Mabel?’
There was a creak of a window opening from Toni Habershon’s cottage; she didn’t turn round. It was too glorious a day to have it soured by one of her snide remarks.
‘I’m going to have a rest this afternoon, then this evening I’m going to take Muffin for that walk and see if I can remember what’s bothering me.’
Mabel was going by herself? ‘Do you want to wait until I get back? I could come with you.’
Mabel shook her head. ‘No. I think I need to do it like I did it that evening when I saw her. It’s got to be just me and Muffin. I think it’s something to do with Muffin, It’s on the edge of my brain, dancing round, just out of reach. I try to catch it but it waltzes away. I’ve nearly got it. I’ll let you know when I get back.’
‘What time are you going?’
‘I’ll set off at about six-thirty, and do the exact same walk I did that evening: I’ll walk along the road to Minsmere beach, then along the beach to the sluice and back along the beach to the steps. That’s what we did last time, wasn’t it, Muffin?’ She bent down to pat him; Muffin rolled on his back and wiggled in ecstasy as she scratched his stomach, his tail beating the dried earth on the path into a mini-sandstorm.
Laurel laughed. ‘Good old Muffin – I hope you finally remember what’s troubling you, Mabel. It’s getting on your nerves, isn’t it?’
Mabel’s smile faded, replaced by a frown. ‘I’m sure it’s something important. Have you seen that inspector lately? I haven’t seen old Elderkin these past few days, although I did hear they’d interviewed some of the staff again. Seems Mr Shipster lost his temper with them – Dorothy Piff told me, she had coffee with me when she came in to do some extra work yesterday; although she doesn’t usually work Saturdays. We need this clearing up quick – the kids will be back next week. I don’t like to think of them here when we might have a murderer … nearby.’
‘Or even living here as one of the staff.’
Mabel shuddered.
‘Mabel did you know the schoolgirl who ran away a few years ago? The one the police never found.’
Mabel narrowed her eyes. ‘Why do you want to know about her? Do you think it’s got anything to do with Susan Nicholson?’
‘I talked to Warren Ringrose; from his description of Felicity – that was her name, wasn’t it?’ Mabel nodded vigorously, wiping her hands on her pinny. ‘Her description matches Susan Nicholson’s: slight, red-headed. Did you know her at all?’
Mabel walked to her gate. ‘I get to know all the children, some more than others, ’specially the greedy ones.’
Laurel raised her eyebrows.
‘No, she was the opposite. I was always trying to persuade her to eat a bit more, she was way too skinny. I never believed she ran off with some man, she wasn’t interested in things like that; she was young for her age in many ways. She lived for her music.’
‘What about Warren Ringrose? He seemed fond of her – do you think he could have been involved in her disappearance?’
Mabel threw back her head, dimples appearing in her round cheeks as she howled with laughter. ‘Warren Ringrose! Young girls aren’t what he’s interested in. I thought you’d have sussed that out by now.’
Laurel thought back to the talk she’d had with Warren in the music room – but why was Mabel so sure? ‘Warren’s a homosexual?’
Mabel slapped her own hand. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything. He’s a nice chap, and he’s not into young boys either. I saw him with a man when I was in Ipswich a couple of years ago. He didn’t see me. You could tell they were fond of each other. You won’t say anything, will you? I shouldn’t have said, you being senior mistress. I don’t want to get him the sack.’
Laurel reached over the gate and put a hand on Mabel’s arm. ‘Don’t worry. If he isn’t a threat to any of the children, and he’s doing his job well, I’ve no reason to worry about his sexual preferences.’
Mabel placed her hand over Laurel’s. ‘Thanks, dear. Going back to Felicity, one thing did puzzle me; she took this big, leather suitcase and most of her clothes when she ran away, but the suitcase was one of those heavy, old-fashioned jobs, it’d belonged to her father. She wouldn’t have been able to carry it far. That’s why they thought she must have been met by someone with a car.’
‘What was the suitcase like?’
‘Huge it was, real deep, about foot and a half, well perhaps a bit less. Tan leather, with big initials in black on the front – her father’s. She was that fond of it, she showed it me once when she was going to her aunt’s. Pity she didn’t go to her aunt’s that holiday.’
You mean she was at school in the holidays when she went missing?’
‘Yes. Aunt couldn’t have her for some reason and she had to stay in school.’
Both incidents had happened in school holidays: Felicity disappearing and Susan being killed. Both women shared physical resemblances: attractive, red hair and of slight build … like Angela.
Laurel drove inland, and at Westleton turned the Cortina south through Middleton and the larger town of Leiston. Passing Leiston police station, an imposing building set back from the road in front of colourful flower beds, she wondered what the local police made of Frank Diamond. Did Sergeant Elderkin like working with him? He hadn’t looked happy when she’d seen him in the headmaster’s office with Frank. Had Frank been promoted because of his ability? Or had his bosses been glad to get rid of him, and kicked him upstairs? Not only upstairs but out of their playing field. He was good at his job, she knew that, but he was a maverick. It was a characteristic she was depending on when she talked with him today. Could she persuade him that in exchange for not informing the school about Angela’s murder she would work with him to find Susan Nicholson’s killer? She could tell him what she’d picked up in the informal chats with members of staff. If he agreed, would he be willing to tell her about the case? Or would it be a one-way partnership: information flowing from her to him, but nothing given back?
She hesitated as she came to the turning for the coastal village of Thorpeness. Taking it would mean a detour, approaching Aldeburgh by the coast road. Did she want to go back to a place of happy memories? Wouldn’t it be better to go directly to Aldeburgh? She turned the car left to Thorpeness.
The narrow winding road, passing through heath and woods was quiet for a Sunday, especially on such a lovely day. She braked as the road bent sharply to the right and the first crazy building of Thorpeness fantasy holiday village appeared. Mock Tudor and Jacobean houses built by a Scottish barrister for his private pleasure in the 1920s. Now the houses were mostly used as holiday lets.
Even though Thorpeness wasn’t far from Felixstowe her family had spent several summer holidays here. The last one was when Laurel was fourteen and Angela six. Their parents had rented a house for a fortnight; Dad played golf and Mum sat on the beach, knitting. Laurel looked after Angela and they spent most of their time rowing on the shallow boating lake.
Laurel glanced at her watch, as she turned into the municipal car park near the beach. She walked to the edge of the mere; a mixed flock of water birds, ducks, geese and swans swam towards her, hoping for food. Rowing boats moved erratically over the water, the happy cries of children taking her back in time.
Their last holiday at Thorpeness: every day was sunny, the mere scintillating as she pulled on the oars, as Angela dipped her hand into the clear water, trying to catch fronds of water crowfoot. ‘It’s mermaid’s hair, Laurie.’ She’d always called her Laurie, the only one of the family who did. They’d explored the islands named after places in Peter Pan: The Pirate’s Lair and Wendy’s home. Barrie was a personal friend of the man who’d built the village. She pressed a clenched hand to her chest, trying to push back the hollow ache of loss.
Memories of Angela: Angela in a sun-suit of gathered cotton, tiny straps slipping from her narrow shoulders, her flame hair held back by an Alice band; waving a wooden sword and demanding to be rowed to the Pirate’s Island. Angela on the beach eating fish paste sandwiches and complaining about the sand in them; Angela sleeping, her head in Mum’s lap, a towel draped over her calamined shoulders.
Loss and pain shrank her heart. She envied and hated the happy families laughing together in their rowing boats. She turned abruptly, bumping into a young woman holding a baby. Muttering an apology she strode to her car, biting her lip, trying to stop the tears. Damn. She shouldn’t have stopped.
In the car she sat upright, making herself take deep, slow breaths. She didn’t want to meet Frank Diamond in this mood: she’d snap his head off instead of charming him into submission. Angela. Angela. If only she hadn’t been so besotted with Simon she might have noticed how Angela was changing. She’d fallen for Simon and he’d been equally smitten. A rapid engagement, the excitement of promotion to head of department, and plans for the wedding meant she’d little time for her family.
They were both living at home. Angela was twenty-two, she’d left school at sixteen, gone to the local college and qualified as a shorthand typist. She had a series of jobs in Felixstowe, and several boyfriends, local lads, one a fisherman, but the relationships never lasted for more than a few months and she was usually the one who dropped them. ‘They’re boring, Laurie. They haven’t done anything, not been anywhere.’
She’d been surprised when Angela left her job in Fison’s offices for a position with one of the local auctioneers. ‘I’m a personal assistant, not just a typist. Mr Deller takes me with him to view the antiques people want to sell and on auction days I sit next to him and when he brings the hammer down I note the final bids. I love it and I’m meeting so many interesting people.’
With hindsight she should have been more observant, more suspicious about Angela’s behaviour, but her own happiness, the excitement of sex and the plans for the wedding left no room in her mind for worrying about Angela. All she was concerned about was: where would they live? Should she go on with her job? Did Simon’s family like her? She hadn’t paid much attention to Angela and she didn’t seem interested in her plans, although she said she was looking forward to being a bridesmaid.
