Jigsaw (26 page)

Nuala's mind had moved on. ‘I suppose this means you've been behind the recent burglaries?'

‘Only some of them,' Clive muttered. ‘I certainly wasn't a one-man show.'

‘Clive, you
promised
you'd go straight when you came out of prison!'

‘And I meant to, babe. But I lost a packet on the gee-gees, and a pal of mine offered to cut me in.'

‘You brought the cases over the night I saw you,' Rona said. ‘That's when you hid them, isn't it?'

She'd thought she'd seen a movement from the vicarage garden.

‘Got it in one. The house should have been empty at that time on a Monday. It hadn't occurred to me you'd be hanging about here on your own.'

‘I seem to have continually thwarted your plans, don't I?' Rona said coolly.

‘Too right. I'd asked around and learned you were only here two nights a week. Then you go and land me in it again.'

Jack said, ‘What's this cassette you were talking about?'

‘I'll explain later, Dad. What we have to do now is decide about Clive.'

‘As I see it, we've no option but to report him. If we don't, we become accessories after the fact.'

‘Give us a break, Jack,' Clive pleaded. ‘I will go straight, I promise.'

‘We've heard that before.'

‘If I go back in, it'll be for a long stretch. Look, it's obvious I'm not cut out to be a villain – this is the second time I've been rumbled. I won't risk a third.'

‘Then turn yourself in,' Nuala urged. ‘If you hand back what you've taken, they'll be lenient with you.'

‘There's only the stuff in the hall,' he said sullenly. ‘The rest has been disposed of.'

‘Then own up to what you did, at least. That'll save the police some legwork.'

‘I'm not grassing on Joe and the others.'

‘We're not asking you to. Just admit to your own jobs. Will you?'

‘Looks like I've no choice. If I don't, you'll shop me anyway.'

‘And there's one other thing. Now I know where you'll be for the next few months, I'll be filing for divorce.'

He looked at her for a moment, then slowly nodded. ‘I suppose I saw that coming.'

‘All right,' Jack said briskly. ‘This is what I suggest. We move all the goods from the hall into my room for the night and Clive can bed down on the sitting-room sofa. Then, first thing in the morning, Nuala drives him to the police station with the suitcases, and waits till he goes inside. Agreed?'

They all nodded.

‘And that's more than enough for tonight. We've a long and difficult day ahead of us, so let's not waste any more time.'

In the hall they collected the valuables together, piled them back into the cases and put them in Jack's room for safe keeping. Then Nuala bandaged Clive's ankle, and, closing the sitting-room door on him, they went wearily back to bed.

R
ona phoned Dave before eight the next morning and put him in the picture.

‘So it seems I don't really need you after all,' she ended. ‘At least I wasn't being neurotic; someone
was
hassling me, but not for any sinister reason.'

‘Don't you want to know how I got on at the Cat and Fiddle?'

‘Sorry, I'd forgotten about that. Anything new?'

‘I now have at least a dozen accounts of that evening, all slightly different, but I suppose that's to be expected. One thing came up, though I don't know if it's significant: Pollard told them that although he'd received a lot of hate mail when he was first sentenced, it tailed off within a few weeks except for one letter-writer, who continued to bombard him until he was released. He said what upset him most was that this writer – he didn't know if it was male or female – had obviously known the dead kid really well. Do you think it could have been one of her parents?'

‘I doubt it. I've met them both, and neither strikes me as an anonymous letter-writer.'

‘Any other relative, then?'

‘I could ask around. You're thinking whoever it was could have been waiting for him when he got out? But why drag Alan Spencer into it? Hadn't he suffered enough?'

‘Search me, I'm just reporting what I was told. There was one other thing: the letters that kept coming were all written in red ink.'

‘Symbolic, you think?'

‘Could be. On the other hand, a lot of people use red ink, and they're not all homicidal maniacs.'

Rona laughed. ‘That's a relief.'

‘Look,' Dave said, ‘I'm not trying to screw you for more money, but I think it would be as well if I stuck with it. It's only till next Wednesday, after all, and if Spencer
is
innocent, and the killer hears you've been to see him, you could still be in danger. Not that I want to worry you, of course,' he ended hastily.

‘Of course not,' Rona responded drily. ‘OK, we'll leave it as it stands.'

‘Where's Banks now?'

‘Nuala's just driven him to the police station. They're welcome to him. As soon as she comes back, we're going to rearrange the sitting room for the wake and then start on the sandwiches and canapés.'

‘Perhaps I'll look in after all!' he said.

Several of Nuala's friends had arrived to help with the food, and between them they'd provided a suitable spread for some forty people. Now, looking at the packed church, Rona hoped only about a third of the congregation would return to partake of it.

She took a seat near the back, partly because she'd been Edna's most recent acquaintance and partly to keep an eye on everyone. Over the last two and a half weeks she'd met several members of the congregation; the mayor was present, wearing his chain, and there were representatives from all the schools, joined by a contingent of children from the Sunday school and a group of Brownies and Cubs. She could see Mr and Mrs Maddox up near the front, and Beth Spencer was seated a few pews ahead of her, between her two sons. It seemed that local schools had closed for the duration of the service, to allow pupils and teachers to attend.

Gordon Breen gave the eulogy, stressing Edna's lifelong association with children and the good work she had done in the parish. The hymns chosen were from the Sunday school
hymnal, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful' and ‘Jesus Wants me for a Sunbeam', and Rona's eyes pricked at the preponderance of young voices raised in song.

When the service was over, Nuala, Jack and Will went with the vicar to attend the interment while Rona, as arranged, returned with the other helpers to open up the house, and by the time the rest of the mourners arrived, kettles were boiling and cling film had been removed from the cakes and sandwiches.

It appeared that people had travelled from all over the country to attend, having been in Edna's classes up to twenty or even thirty years ago. In all the scraps of conversation Rona caught, the same warm affection was being expressed.

Beth Spencer approached her and introduced her sons, Josh and Harry, smart in Buckford College uniform.

‘It's the end of an era,' Beth said sadly. ‘I was in Miss Rosebury's class at Sunday school. She was a real character; Buckford won't be the same without her.' She hesitated. ‘Miss Parish, I wonder if I could ask you another favour?'

‘Do please call me Rona. I have to confess I think of you as Beth.'

Beth smiled warmly. ‘Then I will, thank you. What I was going to ask might be of interest to you, too. At least, I hope so. Next Monday is Middle School Sports Day at the college.' She lowered her voice, but the boys had caught sight of Will, just returned from the graveside, and moved away.

‘To be honest, I hate going without Alan; all the other parents are in couples – or at least, that's how it feels – but I have to support the boys, especially since they're both running in races this year.' She hesitated. ‘I was wondering if you'd come with me?'

‘Oh!' Rona was momentarily taken aback. ‘That's very kind of you.'

‘It's not wholly altruistic, as I explained.'

‘But it would be useful for me to see more of the college,' Rona said, with growing enthusiasm. ‘Thank you, I'd love to come.'

‘That's great; I'll phone you over the weekend and let you know the arrangements.'

She moved away in search of her sons, and Rona felt someone touch her sleeve. It was Helena Maddox.

‘Rona, hello. I'd forgotten you were staying here.'

Today, she was a vision in navy-blue silk that exactly matched her eyes. Rona wondered a little impatiently why Helena's clothes always made such an impact on her. Richard Maddox had joined them, and nodded as Rona glanced at him.

‘I think you've met my husband?' Helena said.

‘Briefly,' Rona acknowledged with a smile, taking his hand.

‘I hope we were able to provide you with all the information you needed?' he asked with a grave smile.

‘Thank you, yes. In fact, I'll be paying a return visit; Mrs Spencer has just invited me to your Sports Day next week.'

‘Oh? I didn't realize you knew each other.'

Beth, her plate laden with asparagus rolls and smoked salmon, had overheard the exchange.

‘Yes,' she confirmed, ‘Rona's interested in Alan's case, and as a journalist she has lots of contacts. She went to see him yesterday.'

‘Really?' Helena raised an eyebrow. ‘And how was he?'

Rona flashed Beth an apprehensive look. ‘He seemed a bit drawn, I thought.'

‘I suppose,' Richard put in smoothly, ‘you'll be featuring the case in one of your articles? It seems a pity to rake it all up again.'

Beth flushed. ‘Not when they've got the wrong man,' she protested, adding defiantly, ‘And I'm not alone in believing that; Rona, for one, agrees with me.'

‘My dear, we all do,' Helena assured her.

To her discomfort, Rona noticed that several heads had turned in their direction, and was relieved to see Nuala signalling her from across the room. Excusing herself, she went quickly to replenish the emptying plates.

It was after two before the last of the guests left, and Rona's feet were aching.

‘Bless you for staying,' Nuala said, giving her a hug. ‘Please don't worry about clearing up; as you can see, I've a willing band of helpers, and you've a long drive ahead of you.'

‘Thanks, then I'll make a move.' It would be good, Rona thought, to be home, and able to put all this behind her for a few days. She'd have a bath and spend a relaxing evening in her dressing gown, with supper on a tray.

It was only as she was approaching Marsborough that she remembered her dinner date with Magda and Gavin.

Tom sat in his car outside Catherine's bungalow and fought an inward battle.

There had been a row with Avril over breakfast. That is to say, she had made some disparaging remark that in all fairness was no different from her usual comments, but this time he'd reacted to it. It was as though he'd lost a layer of skin over the last couple of weeks, leaving his emotions nearer the surface and more volatile. A month ago he would have smiled, shrugged, glossed it over, as he'd been doing for God knew how many years when she was in one of her moods. Today, he'd snapped, and the result had been raised voices on both sides. For the first time in their married life, he'd left for work without the kiss on the cheek. He doubted, anyway, if she'd have accepted it.

The episode had put him off-key for the whole day. It was the second time in as many days that he'd criticized her, and he guessed she'd have been waiting for a phoned apology, or, failing that, a conciliatory bunch of flowers when he arrived home. She would receive neither. The worm, he told himself with a wry smile, had finally turned, and he knew all too well what had caused the turning. It was simply the realization that other women – one other woman in particular – could appreciate him and enjoy his company without writing him off as a fuddy-duddy. So why couldn't his wife? He'd had enough of it, and if he didn't put his foot down now, his retirement would be nothing short of purgatory.

At the end of the working day he had gone as usual to his car, where the realization hit him that he didn't want to go home. The row, smouldering in their minds all day, would reignite the minute he entered the house, and he had not the stomach for it. Almost without thinking, he'd driven to Willow Crescent and, having arrived there, cursed himself for his stupidity. What the hell would Catherine think of him, turning up unannounced on her doorstep? He'd better either grit his teeth and drive home, or go somewhere else to sort himself out.

Catherine had, in fact, already seen him, and her quick spurt of pleasure turned to uncertainty as, making no attempt to get out of the car, he continued to sit staring straight ahead. If he wanted to see her, why not come to the door? And it was odd, surely, that he hadn't phoned in advance? She stood for a moment undecided, remembering last night's resolution.

After all these years alone, it hadn't occurred to her that she could be attracted to another man, and she'd looked forward to the day in London as a pleasurable occasion in the company of someone she liked. Last night, though, thinking back over it, she'd been forced to accept it had been more than that. There was a deepening friendship between them that was just possibly teetering on the brink of something more dangerous, and, alarmed, she'd resolved that if he did indeed contact her again – though in the cold light of day he'd probably think better of it – she would make some excuse. Far be it from her to take any step that might endanger a marriage – and, on the other side of the coin, she'd no intention of being hurt again herself.

And now there he was, outside. Better, she told herself, to pretend she hadn't seen him; it looked as though he was about to drive off again. Yet there was something in the set of his shoulders, his bowed head, that gave the impression of unhappiness. Suddenly making up her mind, she hurried outside.