Ann Granger (30 page)
Authors: That Way Murder Lies
Inside the cramped area papers were lying around in untidy stacks, box files formed unsteady towers, elastic bands and pens were housed in washed margarine tubs and, among this sea of office equipment, Jess spotted a computer and monitor. Neither
Poole nor Pritchard, it seemed, was good at office management.
Poole nor Pritchard, it seemed, was good at office management.
But Steve Poole seemed to know where to look for anything. He pulled open a drawer and produced a small mobile phone with a decorative cover, blue, patterned with daisies.
‘We’ll take that!’ Jess said.
‘More like a woman’s thing isn’t it?’ said Poole.
‘I wish we’d known about that pair having a criminal record!’ Markby said angrily as they drove out of Bamford.
‘If this mobile turns out to be Fiona’s, he’s got to be number one suspect,’ Jess said. ‘But I don’t understand what motive he could have to kill her.’
‘The poison pen letters,’ Markby said tersely. ‘Fiona must have met Ted when he and Poole delivered the garden furniture to Overvale. Meredith suspected Fiona from the first of being the letter-writer. But I think we’ll find Fiona used Pritchard to write the letters at her dictation and to post them. When I appeared on the scene, Fiona got cold feet. She wanted the letter-writting to stop. She forgot that, while money wasn’t a motive for her, it might be one for Ted. He’d no intention of giving up something which he hoped, eventually, could turn out highly profitable. They quarrelled and he killed her. When Darren approached him with his photos showingTed and Fiona together, Darren became the next victim.’
Jess had been consulting the rough road map sketched for them by Poole and now said sharply, ‘Here’s the turning!’
They drove slowly down the track until the cottage came into view.
‘There’s the white van, sir,’ Jess pointed ahead.
‘And there’s Meredith’s car!’ he replied. ‘Damn! Pritchard’s ahead of us. He’s been ahead of us all along. We’ll stop here and continue on foot, but call in for back-up first. I’ve a bad feeling about this!
When Jess joined him a few minutes later he was observing the cottage from behind an overgrown hedge.
‘No sign of life,’ he whispered. ‘We can wait until back-up gets here. But time might not be on our side.’
‘The others are on their way. But if you think we can’t wait, I could go round to the back,’ Jess returned in the same low voice. ‘You kick in the front door, I kick in the back door or smash my way in by the window.’
‘Easier said than done! We need to know that Meredith is in there—’
There was a crash of breaking glass and something flew through the window by the front door and landed in the garden.
Meredith’s panicking gaze had flickered round the squalid room and found the paraffin lamp on the table. Fear sent the adrenalin pumping through her. She leapt up and lunged towards it, her fingers closing on the base.
Perhaps her previous quiet manner had deceived Ted into thinking she wasn’t going to move or perhaps he had been caught up in his own narrative. Now he swore and dived towards her. She threw the lamp at him with full force. He dodged aside. The lamp carried on and smashed through the front window, flying out into the garden. Ted, off balance, stumbled back and staggered as he came up against the side of the armchair. The screwdriver flew out of his hand, described an arc through the air and clattered to the stone-flagged floor.
Meredith ran for the front door. Ted was behind her. She could feel the heat of his body. As his hand gripped her shoulder, her fingers wrestled with the door handle. The door opened, the material of her shirt ripped, loosening his grip. She threw herself through the narrow gap out into the overgrown garden. As she did, she heard a shout, but not from Ted. Here, outside. Her fleeing body cannoned into another and, with the breath knocked out of her, she fell to the ground entangled with the other person.
‘Come on!’ Markby shouted.
He and Jess rushed towards the cottage as the paraffin lamp
shattered on the ground. It had been some years since Markby had been required to kick open a door. It occurred to him as he ran that he might not be able to do it. Fortunately he wasn’t called upon to try.
shattered on the ground. It had been some years since Markby had been required to kick open a door. It occurred to him as he ran that he might not be able to do it. Fortunately he wasn’t called upon to try.
Before Markby could act, the door was jerked open by an unseen hand. Meredith hurtled from the darkness inside, crashed into him and sent him flying. Ted leapt over their prostrate bodies and sprinted towards the white van. Struggling to disentangle himself, Markby yelled at Jess. Ted had almost reached the van when Jess caught up with him, flung her arms round his legs and brought him crashing to the ground.
By the door, Alan and Meredith had both managed to achieve sitting positions.
‘All right?’ he demanded.
‘Yes!’ she gasped.
‘I’ve got to help Jess!’ He scrambled to his feet and headed for the white van.
But Ted was lying face down beside it with Jess Campbell kneeling on his back. ‘Got him, sir!’ she said, turning a flushed triumphant face towards the superintendent.
When the overpowered Ted Pritchard was safely in the hands of the back-up team which had just arrived, Markby observed, ‘That was a splendid flying tackle, Campbell.’
‘Thank you, sir. I used to play women’s rugby!’
‘Women’s rugby?’
She grinned at his appalled expression. ‘I think Meredith’s waiting for you, sir.’
‘Lord!’ exclaimed Markby. He hadn’t forgotten her, he’d just been busy. He hurried to where Meredith was waiting, sitting on a rustic bench by the front door. She looked pale and shaky.
‘Sorry to dash off. I saw you were OK,’ he said, still breathless and attempting to smooth his hair. ‘I had to lend Jess a hand. I’m getting too damn old for this.’
‘She seemed to be doing rather well by herself.’ Meredith managed a wry smile.
‘She plays women’s rugby.’ He returned the smile and then said soberly, ‘This isn’t funny. He’s killed twice already. I thought we might be too late.’ He pointed at the shattered remains of a paraffin lamp lying by his feet. ‘Is that what you threw through the window?’
‘It wasn’t my intention to throw it through the window. I didn’t know you and Jess Campbell were out here. Back in there, I thought my last moment had come. Ted was all set to finish me off the same way he killed Fiona Jenner. I lunged for the paraffin lamp on the table, grabbed it and hurled it at him. I wanted to make him drop the screwdriver!’
‘What screwdriver?’ he demanded. ‘What’s that blood on your face?’
‘The sharpened one … He did drop it but the lamp went straight on through the window.’ She wiped away the blood. ‘It’s nothing, a scratch.’
‘Murderous little monster,’ said Markby bitterly. ‘They were writting the letters between them, I suppose.’
‘Oh, yes, I was right about Fiona. It was all her idea, he says. He wrote them but she thought the idea up.’
‘I wonder,’ Markby mused, ‘how she found out about Alison’s trial and why she decided to use Ted to do the letter-writing:
‘Because he’s Edmund Travis,’ Meredith told him.
‘She’s expecting you.’
The warden of the Lewisham retirement home smiled in welcome at Jess and Sergeant Ginny Holding, but her eyes were watchful. She was a middle-aged woman, stout in build, bearing a name shield on her breast, and wearing her spectacles slung on a cord round her neck.
The retirement home was a pleasant, if nondescript, modern building with large windows letting in plenty of light and a view of a scrap of dusty lawn between it and the busy road outside. There were flowers in vases and, on the walls, pictures of distant landscapes which probably meant little or nothing to the residents. A large notice pinned to a cork board in the entrance reminded them that the travelling library would visit them today and please to have ready any books they wanted to exchange. The whole was permeated with a smell compounded of floor wax, disinfectant, memories of yesterday’s boiled vegetables and that indefinable odour of sickly old age.
‘It’s not the proper travelling library,’ the warden explained to Ginny, who had been looking at the notice on the cork board. ‘One of the local librarians brings a selection of suitable books, large print, you know, and sets up shop for an hour in the residents’ lounge.’ She turned back to Jess. ‘If I could just have a quick word with you in the office before you see Dorothy?’
The office was like offices everywhere: cluttered desk, fax machine, computer terminal, filing cabinet. The warden pulled
out a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs and offered them to the two police officers.
out a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs and offered them to the two police officers.
‘Dr Freeman and I have discussed your visit.’ She paused as if expecting some comment on this. When none came, she appeared a little disconcerted. ‘Dr Freeman is in charge of the medical care of our residents.’ The words were emphasized and accompanied with a minatory look.
‘We’ve cleared our visit with your local police station.’ Jess was not to be outdone in the matter of references. They had also cleared it with the Devon and Cornwall constabulary, whose case the murder of Freda Kemp had been and on whose files it still remained open. She saw no reason to tell the warden that.
‘Oh?’ The warden appeared not to know what to make of Jess’s answer. After a brief consideration she dismissed this counterclaim of authority. ‘Indeed?’ Outside these walls the police might have some jurisdiction but inside them Dr Freeman ruled the roost.
‘I gather,’ she began again briskly, ‘you want to talk to Dorothy about her son. Is he in some kind of trouble?’
‘He’s involved in our inquiries,’ Jess said carefully.
‘She’s devoted to him,’ the warden told her. ‘She’ll be upset if he’s in trouble.’ Her tone was reproachful as if, somehow, the trouble was Jess’s fault.
‘Does he come and visit her?’ This question came from Ginny.
‘Oh, yes, quite regularly, once a month. He doesn’t live in the London area now. Dorothy looks forward to his visits. They keep her going, really. He’s all she has. I must say, he does seem devoted to her.’
‘Mrs Pritchard is fit enough to see us?’ Jess asked her. Her heart was sinking. Surely they hadn’t come all this way to be told Mrs Pritchard was too frail to be questioned?
The warden pursed her lips. ‘Physically, yes, she’s certainly fit enough, although she suffers badly from arthritis. That’s why she lives here. Otherwise, she could certainly manage on her own. She isn’t yet seventy, you know, and most of our residents are a lot
older than that. I feel quite sorry for Dorothy, because she’s had to come into a place like this at such a relatively young age. I think she resents it. One can understand her frustration. She’s got all her marbles and, frankly, some of our residents …’ The warden let the words trail away.
older than that. I feel quite sorry for Dorothy, because she’s had to come into a place like this at such a relatively young age. I think she resents it. One can understand her frustration. She’s got all her marbles and, frankly, some of our residents …’ The warden let the words trail away.
‘So she will remember something that happened twenty-five years ago?’ Jess asked cautiously.
‘Oh, good heavens, yes! Mind you, they nearly all remember things that happened years ago. It’s the things that happened last week they can’t remember! But Dorothy isn’t in that category. Dorothy’s as sharp as a button. It’s really only because she can’t manage for herself on account of the arthritis that she’s here. I should warn you, she can be very outspoken.’
‘I’m hoping she will be,’ Jess told her.
‘Mm,’ said the warden doubtfully. ‘Well, as I say, Dr Freeman and I see no reason on medical grounds why she can’t be interviewed but, at the same time, we are responsible for her general well-being here. We wouldn’t wish her to become distressed in any way. If she does show signs of that, the interview will have to stop immediately. Is that quite understood?’
‘Of course!’ said Jess, trying not to show her impatience.
The warden sensed that further delay wouldn’t be welcome and got to her feet. ‘Come along, then.’
She led them along the corridor to a lift. They went up to the first floor and along another corridor until they reached the last door. The warden knocked and opened it.
‘Dorothy, the two police officers are here to see you.’
Jess couldn’t hear a reply. Presumably there had been one because the warden went on, ‘I’ll leave them with you. But I’ll come back in a minute, just to see you’re all right.’
Jess and Ginny exchanged glances. To be fair to the warden, she hadn’t been told the exact nature of the inquiries the police were following up. But however the warden and the absent Dr Freeman thought of it, to Jess and Ginny this was a murder inquiry and Mrs Dorothy Pritchard (formerly Travis) was part of it.
The room into which they had been shown was a good size and pleasantly furnished with a traditional look: chintz fabrics and wallpaper smothered with pink rosebuds and sprays of forget-me-nots. But it was unbearably stuffy and overheated. Jess felt herself wilt. She felt trapped and looked automatically towards the window. It was tightly sealed. This room was at the front of the building and the view admitted was that of the busy main road outside the residential home. At least Mrs Pritchard, incarcerated here by her affliction, had a lively scene to watch. On the other hand, the noise of passing traffic must be a nuisance and perhaps that was why the window was kept shut. There were a few personal knick-knacks around, in pride of place among them a framed portrait of a round-faced, unsmiling boy of about twelve in school uniform. His hair had been brushed ruthlessly flat and he stared at the photographer with a level gaze that held just a touch of insolence.
Mrs Pritchard sat in an easy chair facing the door. She did not bear any particular resemblance to her son, being thin with short-cropped iron-grey hair and deep-set dark eyes which were fixed on her visitors with the kind of hungry intensity one sees in birds of prey which have spotted their next victim. She was dressed in navy-blue trousers, beneath the hems of which protruded swollen ankles and feet thrust into maroon velvet slippers. Despite the uncomfortable heat of the room, she wore a woollen green jumper. It was unadorned with any jewellery. Nevertheless, she had made an effort to dress up for her visitors by the application of make-up. The attempt had not been a success. Her hands, knotted with the disease which had brought her to live here, rested on the arms of her chair. The application of powder and lipstick had been understandably clumsy. The red gash of her mouth was crooked. The loose powder she had used lay in pale patches on her skin and caked up the wrinkles. Her whole facial appearance, the eyes apart, was uncomfortably close to that of a corpse laid out for a formal wake. Jess noticed that Dorothy Pritchard no longer wore her wedding ring. Perhaps now she couldn’t slip it on and off her
finger past the swollen joints. Perhaps, Mr Pritchard having died some years earlier (they had learned this before coming here), she just didn’t bother with the outward symbol of matrimony any more.
finger past the swollen joints. Perhaps, Mr Pritchard having died some years earlier (they had learned this before coming here), she just didn’t bother with the outward symbol of matrimony any more.
Mrs Pritchard subjected them both to an unsmiling appraisal and then said curtly, ‘Girls!’
Behind her, Jess heard Ginny murmur, ‘Oh-oh …’
‘Good morning, Mrs Pritchard,’ Jess said politely. ‘I’m Inspector Campbell and this is Sergeant Holding. Here’s my warrant card.’
She held it out. Mrs Pritchard glanced at it dismissively. ‘I was expecting men. They told me police officers. Naturally I expected men, not girls.’
Was it the expectation of male visitors which had led the woman to experiment so disastrously with make-up? Jess didn’t know whether to find this tragic or farcical.
‘Well, we’re here now,’ she said calmly. ‘May we sit down?’
‘Suit yourselves.’ They were not men and they were to be allowed neither the authority Mrs Pritchard would have recognized in male officers, nor accorded the civility she might have extended to them.
Mrs Pritchard, Jess thought with sudden insight, didn’t like sister women. She had not liked Alison Harris. Alison thought that had been due to the difference in their personal circumstances and the fact that Mrs Pritchard (at that time Travis) had resented Alison’s easy lifestyle. It went deeper than that. The unease which Jess had felt on entering this room, and which she had attributed to the stuffiness and heat, deepened.
They seated themselves, Jess directly before the painted resentful figure in the armchair, and Ginny slightly to one side of her.
‘You’re here about Edmund,’ Mrs Pritchard said abruptly before either of them had time to open the conversation. ‘He’s a good boy. It’s no use you telling me he’s done something wrong. He hasn’t.’
‘He’s been arrested in connection with the murder of a young woman called Fiona Jenner, Mrs Pritchard. Did you know that?’
She sniffed. ‘Yes. He told his lawyer to phone me and explain why he couldn’t come and see me. It’s his regular time, tomorrow. He ought to be here then. He won’t be, because you’ve got him locked up.You have no right.’ The hooded eyelids drooped briefly over the fierce raptor’s eyes. ‘Who is this young woman Fiona?’
‘Fiona Jenner? She was the daughter of a retired businessman, Jeremy Jenner, and the stepdaughter of his present wife, Alison, who was formerly Alison Harris.’
It was hard to tell whether Mrs Pritchard was disconcerted by this news. She ran the tip of her tongue over her desiccated lips, smearing the cheap lipstick even more disastrously. Jess found herself thinking it made it look as if Mrs Pritchard had been eating raw meat. She pushed aside the fanciful notion of a vampire. Yet there was something frightening, inhuman, about this grotesque woman.
‘She was always trouble, Alison.’ Mrs Pritchard’s dark eyes sparkled with hate. ‘Has she got Edmund into this fix? It’s the sort of thing she’d do. She was always a bad lot, Alison Harris. I know!’ The last word was spat out viciously.
‘We have evidence connecting your son with the death of Fiona Jenner.’ Ginny Holding took up the interview. ‘And he has confessed.’
A look of scorn greeted this. ‘You’ve tricked him, you mean. I know the police and their artful ways, their so-called confessions. Edmund’s an innocent. Anyone could get him to sign anything. It won’t count, you know. You can’t get a conviction on the basis of a confession alone. I asked the lawyer. He said you’ve still got to prove it.’
‘Not exactly an innocent, though, is he?’ Ginny pointed out. ‘As a young man he was sentenced to a term in youth custody for several offences of house burglary and theft from cars.’
The woman’s thin cheeks flushed and she darted a vicious look at Ginny. ‘He got into bad company. He didn’t realize what he was doing. I told you, my Edmund is a good boy and an innocent, easily led astray.’
This conversation was going nowhere rapidly and time was ticking by. The warden would be back soon, checking Dorothy wasn’t distressed. Distressed! thought Jess. The old harridan is on the offensive. If we let her, she’d make mincemeat of us. Meat. Blood. There is was again. That vampire image was lurking at the back of Jess’s mind and wouldn’t go away.
‘Mrs Pritchard,’ she said briskly. ‘We haven’t come to talk about Fiona Jenner. We’ve come to talk to you about an event which happened twenty-five years ago. Do you remember the death of Freda Kemp?’
There was a silence. The dark eyes blinked once. ‘Of course I remember it. I worked for Miss Kemp. She was a nice old lady. Alison was her niece. She twisted Miss Kemp round her little finger. She was always so sweet and loving when she arrived for a visit.’ Mrs Pritchard adopted a high-pitched babyish voice. “Oh, Auntie Freda, how lovely to see you!” ’ Mrs Pritchard’s voice dropped again to its normal level. ‘Then, within an hour of being there, she’d have wheedled money out of her aunt. Shocking, it was, to see it.’
‘Your name was Travis then?’ Ginny asked her.
Mrs Pritchard again transferred her gaze briefly to Ginny, this time treating her to and up-and-down appraisal. She pursed her lips and nodded. ‘It was. I married young. I didn’t know better. Ron Travis was no good. He wouldn’t work. Spent any money he got in his pocket down at the pub. In the end, he left. He told me there was no work to be had in Cornwall and he was going out of the county to find some. He was going to Taunton. So he went and I never saw him again. Never expected to. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. But he left me with a child to care for and no means of doing it. Typical.’ She leaned forwards and her dark eyes glowed. ‘I’ve had a hard life.You modern women, you’ve no idea.’
Unwisely Ginny began, ‘There are still single mothers—’
She was interrupted. ‘Half of them are single by choice! I had no choice. I had to go out cleaning floors and looking after people. You girls with your good jobs and your cars, money in your
pockets, foreign holidays, going out dancing at night … What do you know? I never enjoyed any of that!’
pockets, foreign holidays, going out dancing at night … What do you know? I never enjoyed any of that!’
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