Some particular evil, p.31
Some Particular Evil, page 31
‘Sorry, Laurel. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.’
‘Not half as glad as I am to see you and Frank.’ She hugged Elderkin and leant for a brief moment against his chest. ‘You’d better help Frank. I managed to free his face but there’s still a lot of digging to do.’
‘You sit down and try and get your breath back. Ambulance and rescue crews should be here soon.’
All the feelings she’d held back came tumbling out: shock, fear, and anger, mixed with elation, relief and sadness. Laurel sat by the log book. She didn’t touch it – it seemed a hateful thing, full of spite and misery. She didn’t want to read any of Susan’s words again.
Frank and Elderkin between them freed Nicholson completely, and dragged him away from the fall. His broken leg was at a peculiar angle. Elderkin pulled his mouth open and scraped inside it with his fingers, then placed him on his side in the recovery position. He must be breathing or they would have started mouth to mouth. Elderkin thumped him on the back. Nicholson groaned and started to heave. They held him and he vomited onto the beach.
Did he groan in pain? Realisation? Humiliation? Anger? Frustration? All of these possibly. Shame? Repentance? She doubted it.
47
Monday, 21st September, 1970
Laurel sat in an armchair by the fire, her feet on a stool and a large cushion behind her head. She’d managed to stop Dorothy wrapping a tartan blanket round her legs.
She’d been taken to Ipswich Hospital for a check-up the previous day; her bruises and cuts washed and plastered, and a few stitches put into a scalp wound – she didn’t know how she’d got that. She’d been brought to Dorothy’s by Frank in his Mustang. He’d promised to come and see her this evening and give her all the news.
It was evening now; the sun’s rays slanting across the lawn through the French windows, bleaching the colour from the flames of a coal fire. Laurel felt as weak as the tea Dorothy Piff had given her during the day. When she’d asked for something with a bit more tannin in it, Dorothy shook her head. ‘No strong stimulants today. You look all in. Today you do as I say; tomorrow you can tell me to go to hell.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ If she’d felt up to it she’d have saluted. She licked her lips at the thought of her whisky supply sitting in the boot of her Cortina, outside her cottage. It would have to wait until tomorrow. Dorothy was right: she was hollow inside and might at any moment collapse like a heap of jelly, or worse, blancmange. The adrenalin highs of yesterday had plummeted, leaving her flat and depressed. Was it the evil she’d found in Susan’s log book and the discovery that Nicholson was a mass murderer? It was difficult to grasp: the shell of the attractive, competent headmaster hiding an obsessed killer. How could someone who looked and acted normally successfully commit so many terrible murders? She remembered having dinner with him at his house. Was that where he’d killed Susan? And Felicity? She couldn’t get out of her mind the pain and cruelty he’d inflicted, and the terror and hurt he’d exacted on his victims. How could Toni Habershon have colluded in the murder of Susan and the attack on Mabel? Those innocent victims, Felicity, Emily Piff, and the others, whose locks of hair Susan had written about in her diary. Frank briefly told her about the victims as he drove her back yesterday. It was horrible.
What would happen now? What should she do? She knew what she wanted to do, what she felt she must do, but would she have the courage? Was she prepared to accept the consequences? Guilt was weighing her down. Only by sharing it with someone she trusted and hoped would understand would she be able to go on with her life. Tomorrow she wanted to go home and see her parents. Could she tell them? She didn’t want to add to their misery. She might have to.
Dorothy strode into the room. ‘Frank’s just arrived. We’ll be able to hear what’s happened.’ She bustled out. The front door opened.
‘Hello, Dorothy. How’s our girl?’
Laurel smiled. Girl. Lump of lard more likely.
‘I’ve tried to keep her quiet, but I don’t think mollycoddling suits her,’ Dorothy said, as she led Frank into the room.
Frank looked as though he’d had a fortnight’s holiday: bright eyes, hair curling round the collar of his leather jacket, white polo-neck sweater and reasonably clean jeans. Smiling, he walked towards her. ‘How’s the heroine?’
She raised her lip in a snarl. ‘How’s the world’s worst detective?’
Dorothy looked from one to the other. ‘When’s the engagement?’
They all laughed.
‘I think a celebration is called for. We … I have a special bottle of champagne on ice. Emily and I were going to open it on our sixtieth birthdays. She’d approve of us opening it today.’ She looked sternly at Laurel over the top of her spectacles. ‘Not sure if you should have any.’
Laurel pulled down her mouth in a parody of grief.
‘Very well. One good glass. Sit down, Frank, I’m dying to know what’s happened.’ She hurried out.
Frank drew chairs round a small table near the fire. Dorothy came back with champagne in an ice bucket, three glasses and dishes of peanuts and crisps.
‘A feast,’ Frank said. He opened the bottle.
The festive pop of the cork, two people she liked and trusted and the celebratory atmosphere lifted Laurel’s mood. They raised their glasses to each other’s health.
‘Come on, Frank, spill the beans,’ Dorothy insisted.
Frank took an appreciative sip. ‘First a toast – to Mabel Grill, may she return to her stove with all of her past skills intact. Good news: she’s making excellent progress.’
‘When will she be able to leave hospital?’ Laurel asked.
‘Not yet, but in a week or two.’
Dorothy wiped her lips. ‘I expect she’ll go to her son’s for a while, but I’d like to ask her to stay here with us.’ She looked at Laurel. ‘I’m hoping you’ll stay here Laurel until you know what you want to do.’
‘Thanks, Dorothy. I’m a bit undecided … I thought I’d go home tomorrow for a few days. I think my parents need reassuring that I’m all right. Then I’d love to come back, especially if Mabel comes to stay with you.’
Dorothy beamed at her. ‘You’ll be helping us both, Laurel.’ She turned to Frank. ‘Fill up our glasses, young man, and tell us all the news.’
‘Has Laurel told you about the log book, Dorothy?’ Frank asked.
‘No. I wouldn’t let her tell me anything. So what was in it? Did it prove Nicholson murdered his wife? Though I don’t know how it could do that, seeing as she couldn’t have written about her own murder.’
Frank briefly told her the main points, not going into details about the other members of staff.
Dorothy took a long swallow of champagne. She sneezed. ‘Excuse me. To think I worked for that man for all the time he was headmaster of Blackfriars.’ She shuddered. ‘He was a cold, controlling man, but I can’t imagine him as killer, lusting after young girls.’
‘You should have seen him yesterday,’ Laurel quipped.
‘And how is he now? Has he confessed?’ Dorothy asked.
‘He’s not in a position to talk to anyone. He’s still sedated after his operation. His left leg was shattered, spleen ruptured, had to be removed, three ribs were broken and he’s a mass of bruises and cuts.’
‘No more than he deserves,’ Dorothy said.
‘Stuart Elderkin’s at the hospital. When Nicholson comes to the first face he’ll see is his.’
Laurel laughed. ‘That will be a comfort to him.’
Dorothy shared the last of the champagne between them.
Laurel bit her lip. If she didn’t do it today, before she went home, perhaps she would never do it. ‘Dorothy, would you mind if I spoke with Frank in private? There’s something I need his advice about.’
Dorothy looked from one to the other, frowning. ‘Are you sure? The champagne has perked you up. What do you think, Frank? Is she up to it?’
Frank wasn’t smiling. ‘Yes, she’ll be all right.’
Dorothy got to her feet and picked up the tray. ‘I’ll tidy up in the kitchen, and then I’m for bed. Laurel will see you out. Will you lock up, dear?’
Laurel reached out for Dorothy’s hand. ‘I’ll make sure we’re safe.’
Frank helped Dorothy with the glasses and ice bucket. When he came back he sat down close to her.
‘What do want to tell me, Laurel?’
She took a deep breath and steadied her thoughts. ‘I want to tell you what happened in Felixstowe.’
Frank looked at her. ‘Laurel, I’m a policeman. You know what might happen if you tell me your story. Are you absolutely sure this is what you want to do?’
Her gaze held his. ‘Yes. I need to tell you.’
‘Laurel, you’ve been through a terrifying experience. Nicholson could have killed you. Then you saved his life, risking your own. Shouldn’t you wait until you’ve recovered from everything that’s happened? Not only yesterday but all the horrible events you’ve seen over the past two weeks: Mabel and Muffin on the beach; the bones of poor Felicity and finding Emily Piff’s body. All this would have disorientated most people, even a tough cookie like you.’
She smiled wryly. ‘I don’t feel too tough today. I appreciate what you’ve said, Frank, but I want to tell you. I know it’s going to put a burden on you, but I don’t know who else to turn to.’
He took her hand and squeezed it. ‘OK, Laurel. Tell me your story. First I’m having a drink. Would you like a whisky?’
She nodded.
Frank slowly sipped his drink, letting the alcohol trickle down his throat, preparing himself for Laurel’s confession, for that’s what it was. He remembered the first time he’d seen her, at the Ipswich mortuary. A striking, tall woman, attractive, even though her face was tense with worry and her long, blonde hair scraped back with an elastic band. She was close to breaking down when she saw Angela’s body, but she held on. As the case progressed, or in reality, did not progress, she became increasingly impatient with the police.
There were suspects, but none could be tied to Angela’s death. The chief suspect, as far as Frank was concerned, was Vernon Deller, the owner of the firm Deller’s Chartered Auctioneers and Estate Agents, and Angela’s boss. He’d picked up gossip that Vernon Deller had an eye for the ladies, but although there were some rumours about him and Angela, nothing could be proved, and he’d an alibi for the night she was killed. An alibi provided by his wife, an upstanding member of the local Church of England, Chairman of the Parish Council and all round good egg. The inspector in charge decided Angela had been a good-time girl, and it could have been anyone. He chose to concentrate investigations on sailors from the docks or airmen from the local base. Frank’s suggestions were ignored.
Several months went by and there was little progress in finding Angela’s killer. Frank passed his inspector’s exams and he knew he was in line for a move within the county. Couldn’t come too soon as far as he was concerned, but he still tried to find out more about Vernon Deller, to see if he could find a chink in his armour. He kept in contact with the Bowman family and was sorry to hear Laurel’s engagement had broken off. She continued to ask questions when he visited them and he knew she’d never be satisfied until Angela’s killer was found and convicted. He hoped he’d be able to find the murderer before he moved.
In the winter of 1970, Saturday, January 31st, Vernon Deller’s body was found in his beach hut on Felixstowe promenade. The door of the hut was open and a man walking his Alsatian early in the morning discovered the body when the dog went into the hut, starting whining and wouldn’t come out. The post-mortem revealed he’d died of a burst aorta; the wall of the artery was so thin he could have died at any moment in the past few years. His wife couldn’t understand why he was in the hut as they only used it from March to October. Frank was sure Laurel could answer that question.
Laurel held her glass in both hands as she stared into the fire. The last two weeks had taken their toll: her skin was sallow and there were new lines round her eyes, she needed a rest away from the stress of all that had happened recently. Now she was determined to heap more worries upon herself. Should he stop her? Could he stop her?
She looked at him; her chin thrust forward, her eyes shining with determination.
‘Ready?’
‘Yes, I’m ready.’
48
Laurel looked at Frank. How would he feel when he knew what she’d done? She valued his good opinion and, even more, his friendship and support. If he decided he must act on what she told him it meant other people would know: her parents, Dorothy, Sergeant Elderkin, Mabel, all people she either loved or had become fond of, and who’d shown kindness and friendship to her. How could the opinion of people she’d known for such a short time like Dorothy, Stuart and Mabel be so important to her? Perhaps it was the intense experiences they’d lived through these past few weeks. They’d learnt so much about each other – sharing difficulties and dangers.
She put the glass on a table, sat upright, her hands clenched. ‘I first became sure Vernon Deller was involved in Angela’s death when I asked him if he’d see me to talk about Angela. I thought he might open up to me, more than he would to the police. I was sure the murderer must be someone connected to his firm. The police thought the murderer was a stranger who’d taken advantage of a woman at night by herself, but it didn’t make sense. Angela wouldn’t have gone wandering off into the night for no good reason.
‘That night she’d said she was going from work to the cinema with a friend. She didn’t say who. We were used to her going out a lot, and I’m ashamed to say I was so engrossed in my own world I wasn’t paying her much attention.
‘Vernon Deller agreed to meet me. He said he didn’t want to meet in a public place as there was too much gossip at the moment in the town because of Angela’s murder. I agreed to drive to Landguard Fort, to the east of Felixstowe, on the northern bank of the Orwell; he’d also drive there and we’d talk in his car.
‘I’d never spoken to him before. I’d seen him banging down the hammer; I went to one of his auctions with Dad, he wanted to bid for an antiquarian book. Deller was an attractive man, confident and well-known in the town. He was most polite when we met; commiserated with me and said how much everyone in the firm missed Angela. He’d promoted her to be his assistant and he said she was doing well in her new role.
‘I looked at the grey stone walls of the disused fort searching for inspiration. “Mr Deller, can you think of anyone in your firm Angela had a special friendship with? Man or woman. Perhaps if I could talk with them they might remember something; even a small thing might give a clue as to what happened to Angela.”
‘I moved closer to him, and as I turned towards him I felt my skirt ride up. He glanced down and when he looked at me his pupils were large and his mouth tight. I knew. He’d killed her. It was irrational, I realise that. I was desperate to find the murderer. I was looking for someone, perhaps anyone. But that look changed my attitude towards him. I don’t think my thoughts showed in my face, if they did, it didn’t put him off.
“‘Miss Bowman, I know how devastated you are, but I assure you I told the police everything I knew about Angela.”’ He patted my hand.
‘I smiled at him. “It’s been nice to talk to someone who knew Angela. You’ve been very kind.” I leant back and stretched out my legs. I wished I’d tarted myself up a bit more, but the old legs could be relied on.’
Frank shook his head. ‘You were living dangerously, Laurel.’
She tried to smile at him. ‘I knew it was risky, but what had I to lose? I said: “It’s so peaceful here, Mr Deller. I’ve really enjoyed talking to you about Angela, even though it hasn’t helped.”
‘“I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Laurel. You’re not a bit like Angela are you?”
“‘No, we weren’t alike physically. Angela was a beautiful girl, so dainty. Like one of those Pre-Raphaelite beauties, don’t you think?”
‘There was a muscle twitching at the side of his mouth and he swallowed, and coughed, as though to try and hide his emotions. I looked away as though admiring the sea view and the walls of the fort.
“‘Yes, a lovely girl. A great pity.” He paused and coughed again. “You don’t look like her, but you’re very good-looking too, Laurel. May I call you Laurel?”
“‘That’s nice, Mr Deller. Shall I call you Vernon?”
‘He seemed to relax, as though sure of his own attractiveness, not only to me, but to all women, as far as he was concerned.
“‘Perhaps we can meet again, Laurel and talk about Angela. It’s good to remember people, isn’t it? Also I’ll have a good think and see if I can remember anything to help you. I’ll talk to some of the staff; perhaps they might tell me things they wouldn’t tell the police. Do you think that’s a good idea?”
‘I thought it was a wonderful idea and so clever of him. We arranged to meet in a week for lunch at a pub in Trimley, a village north of Felixstowe.’
Frank was frowning. ‘I wish I’d known what you were up to. What on earth were you planning to do?’
Laurel shrugged. ‘I didn’t have a plan; I acted instinctively. I suppose I thought if I got close to him he might give himself away.’
‘How far were you prepared to go, Laurel?’
‘Not that far! Not far at all. Blimey, Frank, I’m not Mata Hari.’
Frank ostentatiously wiped his brow. ‘Whew. You had my pulse racing for a moment. Sorry, go on.’
The tightness in her chest loosened. He didn’t seem disgusted by her actions. ‘We started to meet regularly, not every week, but I could see he wanted our relationship to become …’ She couldn’t find the right words.
‘Sexual?’ Frank suggested.
She nodded. ‘We continued to talk about Angela, but nothing of any importance came out of our chats. He kept on promising to talk to different members of the firm, but at our next meeting he would only tell me things I knew already. Then he invited me to meet him at his beach hut.’
