Murder... Now and Then (23 page)

It wasn't a carbon-monoxide job, thought Bannister, with relief. No hose from the exhaust. Probably a drunk, or someone who had overdosed.

‘I had to get up to go to the toilet,' the old lady was telling him, as he tried to get her name and address. ‘When I came back, I could hear all that music. I came out to tell him to turn it off.'

Bannister smiled, despite the way he felt. She was a gutsy old girl. But she ought to be inside in this weather. ‘ We'll get the details later, love,' he said. ‘Which is your house? We ought to get you—'

‘Dave!'

The tone of Stephens's voice made Bannister scramble out of the car, and run across the road through the rock music that blared out. Stephens was white-faced; he jerked his head towards the car.

Bannister had never seen the effects of a bullet in the brain. He stepped back, averting his eyes.

‘Tango Bravo to Tango Delta, receiving?' said Stephens, his voice weak.

‘Tango Delta receiving. Go ahead, Terry.'

Stephens described what they had found, gave the make and registration of the car, then looked wide-eyed at Bannister, who looked back.

‘The car is registered to a Raymond Arthur Wilkes,' the radio informed them, after a few moments.

Bannister forced himself to look back in. Raymond Arthur Wilkes. It was him, he could see that now. He had seen him less than two hours ago.

‘Terry!' Their inspector's voice. ‘Back-up and CID are on their way. Don't touch the car – it's wanted in connection with another incident.'

Bannister ran towards the low wall that lined the neat row of houses, and was violently sick over it, into someone's ornamental evergreens.

What in God's name had he got mixed up in?

Mist lay low over the fields and hedges of the farming village as Charles ran through the village streets. He was aiming for the stile today; his next target would be over the stile and down to the river. Running was wonderful exercise; it got the muscles trimmed, and the heart pumping, and it was easy to think you could do more than you should. He kept very strictly to his preplanned regime, and today was the last Saturday in February. Next week, he would move up to his new distance.

He felt good, as he left the newer part of the village behind. Running past the sandstone cottages with the thatched roofs that he and Gerry had wanted, but which no one had been selling. Still … time yet. Out beyond them, to where the pavement gave out, and he was running on a frosty grass verge, alongside incurious sheep and somnolent cows. Alongside cars and vans and enormous lorries with their dust-filled back-draught and their air-brakes. He liked the traffic; he knew that their exhaust fumes were polluting his lungs as he took deep breaths of sharp air, but the busy road pleased him, and one lorry driver even waved encouragement of his efforts as he passed.

He had started jogging not long after Jimmy Driver died; then it had been tiny runs in Stansfield, twenty-minute jobs. Now, his morning jog was an hour long, and his Saturday special had worked its way up to a long run in shorts and vest, not a jogging suit. He paced himself like an athlete, and allocated himself two hours. Now, the challenge was to go further within the time at his disposal.

At first, his legs had felt shaky when he had finished running, and had ached the next day. Now, he loved it all. The cold morning air on his face, his breath misting out, the birds calling to one another, the early morning people like milkmen and postmen and paper boys calling hello to him. The crows were building their sturdy nests high in the bare trees, flapping slowly across the road as he approached; spring was waiting under the frozen earth, above the white sky.

He could think out here. He had bought the farmhouse because it had grounds; grounds large enough for his clinic. A health clinic, where businessmen like Jimmy could come and find out what damage was being done before it was too late to do anything about it; cholesterol levels, blood pressure, heart, lungs … a gymnasium, perhaps, so that they could counteract the threat to their health of their sedentary jobs. The National Health Service was slow to react to preventive medicine, so a private clinic might do some good business.

That sort of treatment should be available to everyone, of course, but if public funding couldn't always provide it, was that any reason to deny it to those who could afford it? He could think of several of his private patients who would benefit from a thorough, exhaustive medical, and the necessary dietary and exercise advice.

And he and Gerry had been looking at a private practice near Stansfield which was perfect for them to take over; Gerry liked it where she was, she said, though God only knew why, stuck in the middle of a housing estate that looked more like a penal colony, treating the sort of people who, as far as Charles could see, would be entirely at home in a penal colony. The surgery had been broken into twice by people looking for drugs.

Gerry seemed to think her National Health Service patients needed her, but he had reminded her that she wasn't
actually
in a penal colony, and they would get another doctor to replace her. Every time he had been there, which hadn't been often, there had been youths of both sexes standing around with spiked hair and black lipstick and safety pins stuck in their noses. Small wonder they needed a doctor, but it wasn't going to be Gerry for much longer.

He ran on, through the next village, as the late February sun began to burn off the mist, the householders began taking in the milk and the mail and the papers that had accumulated on their doorsteps.

Max had been here a month; it was great having him around again, going for a beer with him on Sunday lunchtimes, having him over for supper on Valerie's evening-class nights. She was doing French and history for A-level, for some reason, and was continuing her studies at Stansfield Tech; Max had never been much of a one for fending for himself. Gerry enjoyed having him around, too; he was someone to fuss over. Charles thought that was why she was so keen on the baby idea – she liked having someone to look after.

And she was looking forward to the dinner party. Mark and Lucy had said that they would be there, and Charles was beginning to feel that his life was coming together exactly as he had planned it; he felt entirely at peace with the world as he headed along the right of way through the rolling farmland.

He made it to the stile, and sat on it for a few moments before heading back to the way he had come, to the pretty house in the country that he had always promised himself.

Catherine looked at the postcards in the Job Centre window, but the jobs were few and far between, like the postcards themselves, which were spaced out on the rack to minimize the lack of opportunity on offer.

She had had to register for employment, in order to get some money to live on; Max had given her what he could, but she had – mistakenly, as it turned out – paid three months' rent on the bedsit on the grounds that she would have a roof over her head at least.

Now she had a different roof over her head which wasn't paid in advance, and she needed a job. She was armed with a reference from Max which made her sound like the second coming; she wasn't sure that he hadn't gone over the top a bit. People would think there must be something wrong with her, or why was he trying so hard?

Because he loved her, she told herself. Because he was only sticking with Valerie out of some sense of duty, some feeling of responsibility. She hated Valerie, whom she had never met. Hated her for being dependent on Max, instead of having a job and a life of her own like other women. Hated her for being married to Max, for having first claim on his loyalty. Hated her, most of all, for talking him into going to that place. He had been gone thirty-one days, and she missed him dreadfully, knew that he would be missing her.

Poor Max, stuck in a town he didn't know, with a job he didn't want and a wife he didn't love any more. It wasn't right. He loved her, and she loved him. It wasn't
right
.

Catherine had answered questions about her stepfather, mostly to the effect that she didn't know the answer. She hadn't seen him for years until three months ago; she had seen him twice since then. She had been told that the police had tried to contact her early that morning, and she had been asked where she had been. She had told the inspector that she had spent the night in the car in the lay-by on the main road close to Garrick Drive, where she and Max lived.

She had been asked why, and she had told her that she hadn't wanted to go home. She had been asked why she hadn't wanted to go home, and she had told her; she had been frightened to go home.

She had been asked if Max often hit her, and she had told the stupid woman that he had slapped her, which wasn't the same thing, and that he had never done anything of the sort before. She had been asked why Max had slapped her, and she had refused to answer.

‘Have you been home yet?'

‘No. I came here as soon as the gates opened, and waited for Max. But then I realized that I'd got the car, and I thought he'd be here.'

‘Would you mind removing your coat, Mrs Scott?' she asked, as she turned pages in her notebook.

‘What?'

She looked up. ‘Your coat,' she said. ‘Please.'

The voice was authoritative, like her old headmistress telling her to pay more attention in class and then her marks would be higher at the end of term. Catherine stood up, slipped off her coat, and sat down, letting it lie on the floor.

A little frown appeared on the other woman's brow. ‘Your husband didn't just slap you, did he?' she said.

Catherine looked down at her bare arms to see the ugly bruises that had formed during the night. Poor Max. She looked up again. ‘I tried to get away from him,' she said. ‘He grabbed hold of me, that's all. I bruise easily. He didn't hurt me.'

Inspector Hill looked at her in frank disbelief. ‘You tell me that this behaviour was entirely out of character, and yet you won't tell me why he did it,' she said.

‘I don't see what it has to do with my stepfather's murder,' she said.

‘Your husband was suspected of having murdered his first wife,' Inspector Hill said baldly.

Catherine, who had been studying the reflection of the window in the high polish of the desk, looked up slowly. ‘Max didn't kill Valerie,' she said.

‘No,' said the inspector. ‘In fact you told the police that he was with you, in London, at the time of the murder.'

‘Yes.'

‘But you've just told me that you were frightened to go home last night. You spent the night in the car sooner than face him. And if that's what he does to you in public, I'm not surprised you didn't want him to get you in private.'

For the first time since she had entered the office, Catherine was stirred from the terrible lethargy that had taken hold of her. How dare she suggest such a thing? How dare she? ‘Max isn't violent!' she shouted.

‘So why did he get violent yesterday?'

‘Max has nothing to do with this!'

‘Nothing to do with what?'

‘What happened to my stepfather! That's what you're supposed to be here about!'

The inspector raised her eyebrows. ‘But you can't be sure about that, can you?' she said. ‘Not like last time. Because you weren't with him this time – you were too frightened to be with him this time. So you can't be sure. In fact, we haven't been able to find your husband yet. He doesn't seem to have gone home either.'

She could help her out there, she thought. ‘Have you tried wherever Anna Worthing lives?' she asked.

‘My sergeant was on his way there about an hour ago,' Inspector Hill said.

‘Then I expect he's found my husband,' said Catherine.

She seemed to write everything down.

‘Was she what the row was about?' the inspector asked, as she wrote.

‘No,' said Catherine tiredly.

She was given a decidedly old-fashioned look by the inspector. ‘Mrs Scott,' she said. ‘ You have been married for ten years to a man of whom you are clearly not normally afraid. So why were you afraid last night?'

Catherine looked again at the reflection of the window.

‘Why the very day your stepfather is murdered does your husband become uncharacteristically violent? It's hard to believe that the two things aren't linked. Harder still to believe that Mr Scott has inadvertently got himself involved in the murder of yet another close relative,' she said.

She was trying to provoke her again, like she had before. But it wasn't going to work.

‘Why was your husband hitting you, Mrs Scott?'

Catherine didn't speak.

‘Or am I attaching too much importance to what isn't all that unusual an occurrence?'

Catherine felt herself colour up just as the inspector looked up.

‘Am I? Is it just that this time someone saw him?'

‘Max isn't like that,' she said miserably. ‘He's gentle, and kind.'

‘He wasn't being very gentle and kind when Detective Sergeant Finch saw him.'

That did it. Catherine jumped to her feet. ‘Will you stop going
on
about that!' she cried, hitting the desk with both fists for emphasis. ‘He only did that because he was confused and hurt, and he didn't know what he was doing! He's never touched me before! Leave him
alone!
'

The inspector's brown eyes looked interested in her reaction; Catherine became self-conscious once more, and sat down again, knowing her fair skin was still burning with indignation. She had walked into some kind of trap, she knew she had.

‘All right,' said the inspector, sounding like her headmistress again. ‘I accept that he had never done anything like that before. So what triggered it, Mrs Scott? My DCI was there, you know. He says it was as Victor Holyoak walked in that you ran out and Mr Scott ran after you. And my sergeant says that that's when he was hitting you. Why, Mrs Scott? Did it have something to do with your stepfather?'