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Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: The Edge
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If Hoad had been the killer, surely his hands and pyjama cuffs would have been stained by both children's blood. At the morgue she'd seen that they weren't.
An alternative explanation was that the same knife had been used on both Hoad and Angela by a third party, and the children killed first. It wasn't the sadly familiar pattern of a family massacre, where the enraged husband went first for his wife, then the children – usually by smothering — finally killing himself. From his complex wounds, it was quite clear that Frederick Hoad had been totally incapable of that last act. He'd been shot dead with a single .22 bullet which she'd watched being removed from the body. His stabbing was post-mortem, as indicated by the amount of blood loss. But apparently the little girls had been stabbed in between.
Yes, she decided: a) Hoad is shot dead; b) the children are stabbed; c) the killer returns to stab Hoad. It must have been in that order. So where did the barn killing and mutilation fit in? As the mad, grand finale?
Hoad killed by a single small-calibre bullet. So was that a skilled shot, or a lucky one? With a small-bore gun, rifle or target pistol, using a bullet suited to pinging tin cans rather than murder, you'd expect the killer to empty his gun into the victim
to make sure. But he hadn't. He'd gone away on a stabbing spree, then come back to mutilate the body. Unsure he was dead? Or as an act of frenzied hate?
Nothing in this hideous case made sense. Perhaps it was the wrong time to try. Have a nightcap, get to bed: your brains are blown, Z told herself.
She felt too weary to garage the Ford and left it outside to whatever ravages the weather might threaten.
As the two sergeants made for their desks in the CID office next morning, they found Superintendent Yeadings there before them, in his shirtsleeves. ‘We've found family,' he told them as they came in together.
He paused. ‘Or rather, the family's found us. Mustn't underrate so formidable a lady as the late Mrs Hoad's mother. Squadron Leader Anna Plumley, MBE, no less.'
‘Joanna Lumley?' Beaumont couldn't resist mishearing.
Yeadings mouth quivered. ‘An altogether different proposition.'
‘And Daniel? Is he with her?' Z demanded.
‘He's not. There's regrettably no news on him. For which the lady's prepared to hold us liable. I've spoken with her on the phone and have an appointment with her at 9.15 a.m., after which I shall be passing her to DCI Salmon and then to yourselves. This is at her request. She has experience, it seems, of working through hierarchies. The Deputy Chief Constable was called out of bed to meet her at 3 a.m.'
‘Wow,' Beaumont breathed in awe. ‘But formidable, man.'
‘So long as everyone understands.' The Boss regarded them evenly. ‘I've read both your reports from yesterday. Is there anything overnight that I should be updated on?'
They disclaimed, so he nodded and left for his own office. ‘Where can she stay?' Z asked herself aloud. ‘Alma Pavitt's booked in at the nearest pub. It's pretty cramped. I'd better ring around for an alternative, in case they don't hit it off together.'
‘I've never met a RAF lady with clout,' Beaumont said wonderingly, ‘though she's probably retired by now and just hanging on to her rank.'
‘Why not? Male officers do.'
‘Yes; most of them after some kind of war service. This one would have won no wings, flying a desk.'
‘For all we know she could be one of the Red Arrows. You should leave sexism to our Acting-DCI,' Z riposted.
He shrugged. ‘Well, if she needs chauffeuring, it's up to you, Z.'
‘Your new Toyota's classier.' But Beaumont had already left, bound for the Incident Room. She picked up her file and followed, to find Salmon there attaching fresh photographs of the crime scene to the extended whiteboard. He was looking distinctly edgy.
‘Hoad's mother-in-law is on her way in,' he thought fit to warn them, ‘and she wants to know what we've discovered about her grandson's whereabouts.'
‘Zilch,' Beaumont breathed sadly. Not only an officer in the Women's Services, but also a mother-in-law. She sounded more discouraging at every moment.
When the full investigating team assembled he made sure of a windowsill seat at the rear with a sideways view of the main entrance, confident that Salmon would hold the floor throughout the briefing. Any ancillary duties that cropped up could be delegated to Z, stationed at his elbow.
At precisely 9.12 a.m. Beaumont stiffened as below a taxi disgorged a well-built woman with a fuzz of hair like wire wool and wearing a tailored black trouser suit. Massive, Beaumont registered. The RAF could have used her to kick-start transport aircraft. Congratulating himself that forewarned was forearmed, he swivelled back and looked attentively towards where Salmon was in lecturing spate.
 
Yeadings had her wait in the reception area while he came down himself to escort her up.
‘Superintendent,' she greeted him, instinctively picking up on his authority and holding out her hand. She had a beautiful voice, a warm contralto. And lovely tawny eyes, he noted, as they came face to face. For all that she'd been urgently demanding news of her grandson, she was prepared to be patient now, graciously accepting the offer of coffee once she'd quizzed the paraphernalia along his windowsill.
Busying himself with fixing the filter, Yeadings averted his eyes while he ploughed through his condolences. Though what bloody use were they in such an appalling situation? he asked himself.
She remained silent and he glanced up. She was waiting for him to get on with it. ‘What's done is done, however … regrettable,' she told him grimly. ‘My concern is for the future.'
‘Your grandson.'
‘The survivor. If, indeed, he still is?'
‘We are following a number of leads regarding his whereabouts.'
‘Peeing in the sea,' was her wry comment. ‘I know how it goes when someone is intent on not being found.'
It shocked him. ‘You think that's the case?'
‘Nothing would surprise me with that young man. Well, perhaps almost nothing. He can be quite unpredictable. Not that I've had much personal contact with him over the past few years. Or indeed with my daughter. We inhabit different worlds.'
‘It would help our investigation to know as much as possible about the Hoad family. Will you help us there?'
‘No milk, thank you,' she cautioned as his hand hovered with a carton of Long Life.
She drew a deep breath. ‘Jennifer was an early mistake on my part. Single mothers had it harder in my day, although I had been prevailed upon to marry the man. Who quite soon decamped. Took early retirement. A hushed-up fiddle with Sergeants' Mess funds.' The part-sentences were brusquely elliptical, delivered in that same mellifluous voice.
‘So Jennifer grew up as a semi-orphaned “married-quarters brat”. I was only a Leading Aircraftwoman then. The commission had yet to come. Humble background, you see: my father ran a south London gaming club. At seventeen I'd flown the nest, detesting smoke-filled atmospheres and being expected to scrub billiard tables. Joined the RAF for a more tolerable discipline.
‘It wasn't the most stable background for her to grow up in. Jennifer, I mean. But as I said, “What's done is done”. But I do have regrets.'
Small wonder if Daniel was ‘unpredictable', Yeadings decided, with these genes to inherit. Every moment she seemed to produce contradictions.
Anna Plumley leaned forward to take the proffered cup and
saucer. ‘Thank you, Superintendent.
‘Jennifer was a silly girl. But shrewd. She had brains, but preferred to keep them in a separate compartment from her everyday commitments which were frivolous in the extreme.
‘She craved pretty things, so perhaps it's unsurprising that when she happened on interior decoration as a career, and actually applied her brains, she became very successful. Not until she had married Frederick Hoad, of course, and acquired the necessary capital to set up her own business.'
‘Was the marriage a happy one?'
She gave an almost Gallic shrug and turned the tawny eyes on him. ‘How many marriages are that, or only that? It has survived for some reason. For both it was a second attempt, so not a starry-eyed decision. Poor Fred never enjoyed the best of health and soon proved impotent to boot. He was pleased to take on a ready-made son. The daughter was a later cuckoo in the nest. He accepted her arrival placidly enough. To outer appearances he was a contented family man, only distantly involved in his inherited business, which was West Country-based, a foundry constructing and maintaining glass furnaces. It pleased him to relax as a Buckinghamshire country gentleman with a London club to escape to. To him the farm was no more than decor. I believe old Barton runs it rather well.'
The internal phone on the superintendent's desk gave a warning buzz. He reached across. ‘Excuse me, Squadron Leader.'
The use of her rank produced a squawk of laughter from the redoubtable lady and a shake of her head.
‘Yes, Z,' Yeadings murmured into the phone. He listened, nodded, and suggested she should join them in his office. ‘One of my sergeants,' he explained. ‘She's concerned about accommodation if you intend to stay on.'
‘I certainly do. It's essential I remain in touch with your investigation. The truth is I feel responsible. For past neglect, if nothing more.'
They waited in silence for Z to appear. When Yeadings introduced her the visitor gave her a searching look. ‘Anna Plumley,' she said, offering her hand. ‘Zyczynski? As on the Polish Air Force War Memorial?'
‘Stefan, my grandfather.'
‘Before my time, of course. But I certainly know of him. I've made several visits to Northolt in the line of duty. There are still survivors of the Second World War who attend reunions and talk of the old days.'
‘I'm glad he's remembered. My parents were very proud of him, as I am.'
‘And now you're concerned about my welfare? Well, my dear, you need not be. I'm provided for. I have a mobile home. It's parked out at the nearby travellers' camp. They're looking after it for me until I get permission to move into Fordham Manor.'
Not so amazing, really, Yeadings told himself. He could quite easily see her thundering along at the wheel of a well-equipped caravan. ‘Perhaps you'd like …er, Rosemary to direct you there?'
‘I should be obliged. And perhaps she will give me a rather wider view of what actually happened than you've passed to the press. I promise discretion.'
She rose, indicating that the meeting was over. Yeadings nodded to Z. He had no reluctance about the DS wising her up. The formidable lady had been more than frank about her own unpromising background. She'd reached her retirement rank (level with, if not superior to, his own, he guessed) through her own efforts. He was confident she'd dealt in her time with matters that needed equal discretion.
He watched from the window as the two women left, disappeared round the side of the building and then a few moments later drove out in Z's blue Escort. It was then that he sent a text message to his DCI's mobile phone. ‘Meeting with Plumley cancelled. Z arranging accommodation.' A suitable job for a woman, he was sure Salmon would consider it. He'd probably feel reprieved.
Five minutes later Salmon joined him. ‘Briefing over,' he reported glumly. ‘Anything useful from the mother-in-law?'
It wrong-footed Yeadings for an instant. He'd thought of Anna Plumley as the grandmother. Mother-in-law? Salmon was clearly regarding Hoad family relationships from the man's point of
view. Natural to him, of course.
‘She is quite a disquieting lady,' he warned the DCI. ‘But shrewd. Her view of the family's a rather distant one, unfortunately. They've not recently kept in touch.'
‘But now she's getting in on it.'
So Salmon fancied her as a vulture drawn to the corpses. ‘I doubt if she is looking for financial control. More concerned about Daniel, as sole survivor. She described him as unpredictable.'
‘That hardly helps,' Salmon grunted.
 
Unpredictable wasn't the word she used to Zyczynski. ‘A charmer,' was how she described the small boy she'd known. ‘Spent far too much time with his mother's silly women friends and learned to play them like wind chimes. Quite the harem child.'
She cocked her head, reminiscing. ‘I had a Sudanese friend way back who described how it was. His mother was a Copt but married into a wealthy Muslim family. Multiple wives. Made a great fuss of because he was pretty. They used to dress him up, giggle over him, put kohl on his eyes. Rescued in time, thank God, by an uncle, who sent him to school in Alexandria, then university. He's a well-known microbiologist now, sexually straight, but he still has that appalling giggle.'
Z listened fascinated. She remembered that Ned Barton had described Daniel to the Boss as ‘a milksop'. Implying a mother's boy?
They were driving in Anna Plumley's Jeep attached to the caravan. Z had expected a combo, but this was a distinctly superior turnout. ‘Sleeps six,' Anna had introduced it, showing her around.
One of the Irish travellers on the camp had actually been installed in its lounge, with his dog tied up outside to keep off children's sticky fingers. Anna greeted him as though she'd known him all her life. ‘Thanks, Sean, we'll be off now. Run into you some other time maybe.'
He'd grinned, accepting the banknotes she passed him and
removed himself together with his crumpled lager cans and the dog.
There were two photographers hanging about the high iron gates to Fordham Manor, at least respecting the yellow crime scene tape. Mrs Plumley stayed at the wheel, impassive, as Z waved the men off, opened the gates and reclosed them behind the caravan. Now as they reached the end of the rising driveway Z observed the other police tapes had been removed. The constable on duty inside the gates came forward and spoke through the driver's window. Anna identified herself without reference to rank.
‘Yes, ma'am, we were expecting you. There's a nice flat macadam area round the back suitable for parking, ma'am. Kitchen's been left open, so you've access to all facilities.' He handed over a key.
‘Has anyone tried phoning the house?'
‘The line's been diverted, ma'am. Do you want it restored?'

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