The Lily-White Boys (12 page)

The outburst was so uncharacteristic that Monica stared at him, and after a moment he managed a sheepish smile.

‘Sorry, it's been a long day.'

‘I know, and it was sweet of you to make this detour on the way home.'

He wished she wouldn't keep calling him ‘sweet', but he daren't cause any more ripples.

‘Just as long as you're all right.' He put up his hand and briefly touched her cheek. Then he turned and let himself out of the house, closing the door silently behind him. It was several seconds before Monica walked slowly to the drawing-room door.

‘You're later than I expected,' Eloise remarked, as her husband bent to kiss her.

‘I looked in at North Park to check that all was well.'

Eloise lifted an eyebrow. ‘And was it?'

‘Yes; Monica's going to the theatre with George. She should be safe enough with him.'

‘Safe? Good heavens, Justin, you don't seriously think she's in danger?'

Her light, almost mocking tone irritated him. He was tired, he reminded himself, crossing to the drinks cabinet. ‘Yes, as it happens, I do. She's had a couple of anonymous phone calls, you know.'

‘I didn't know, but it's an acknowledged fact that the people who make them are harmless. They get rid of their aggression or whatever that way.'

‘I wasn't aware you were a psychologist, Eloise.'

‘My, my! We are grumpy this evening!'

‘Darling, I'm sorry.' Contritely he went back and kissed her again. ‘I've had an exhausting three days and frankly I could do without this worry now.'

‘Then let George handle it. You said he could cope. Look, I know it was ghastly for Monica to have that beastly van there and actually to see the man, but it's in the hands of the police now, and they seem to be watching over her.'

‘Yes, I know.' He drew a deep breath. He'd forgotten about the bodyguard.

‘I wish she'd marry George,' Eloise continued, accepting the refilled glass her husband handed her. ‘Goodness knows, they're ideally suited.'

Justin, aware she was echoing his own sentiments of half an hour before, nevertheless looked at her in surprise. ‘You really think so?'

‘Of course; Monica needs someone to boss about, and George needs to be bossed. After a lifetime with Ethel, he'd be lost with no one to tell him what to do.'

‘Don't make the mistake of underestimating George,' Justin warned her. ‘He's very well thought of in the business world.'

‘Oh, I'm sure he's most worthy,' Eloise said carelessly. ‘He just bores me rigid.'

‘Who does, dearest Mama?' Theo had come into the room, unnoticed by his parents.

‘George Latimer.'

‘Oh, agreed. A real drag.'

‘Theo, you're speaking of one of our friends,' Justin said sharply, wishing his son would act rather less like a Sloane Ranger.

‘Mother started it!' Theo retorted, unrepentant. He wandered over to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a Campari. ‘By the way, has your invitation to the Private View arrived?'

‘Of course, ages ago.' Eloise sipped her drink.

‘It's on Tuesday, isn't it? I haven't had one, but Claudia issued a general invitation when she was here. I'm sure it'll be all right if I turn up.'

‘Even more all right if you buy a painting.'

‘At those prices? You must be joking.'

‘So why go?' asked his father. ‘For the free drinks?'

Theo threw him a reproachful look. ‘You meet interesting people at those do's, businesswise as well as socially. Come on, Dad, that's why you go yourself! Mother's the only arty member of the family.'

Eloise smiled complacently. She and the Marlows were members of the local Arts Appreciation Society, which involved attending monthly lectures, visiting museums, churches and Stately Homes, and going on three or four trips abroad each year. The family teased her about it, regarding it as one of her ‘trivial pursuits' along with bridge and her passion for clothes, but she ignored them, merely pointing out that they all benefited from her eye for unusual trinkets and the objets d'art which decorated their home.

‘Of course you should go, darling,' she told her son. ‘I'm sure it was an oversight, not inviting you. Anyway, Claudia was saying there haven't been many replies; they'll be grateful to you for swelling the numbers.'

Justin, who had never in his life been anywhere uninvited, could only hope she was right.

By the next morning the weather had clouded over, and the river Kittle which flowed through Oxbury was correspondingly grey. Little gusts of wind whipped its water into ripples and ruffled the feathers of the waterfowl that swam there. Bob Dawson, having left his car at the top of the lane, hoped the rain would hold off until he got back to it.

Wild goose chase, this, in his opinion, and despite what the Governor had said, he'd have been better pursuing his inquiries at the club. They knew him there, and young Steve was out of his depth. Still, his not to reason why, and at least he had Simms to see this afternoon. If he could find him, that is. He turned into Riverside Close and went up the path of No. 2. An unshaven man in shirt-sleeves opened the door. ‘Yes?' he said uninvitingly.

‘Detective-Sergeant Dawson, sir, Shillingham CID. Could I have a word?'

Alarm flooded the ruddy face and its colour receded. ‘Police? Must have the wrong address.'

‘Mr Hargreaves?' He nodded mutely. ‘I've a few questions concerning your nephews, sir, Gary and Robert White.'

The man put out a hand to support himself against the door-frame. Dawson, interested, wondered if he were going to pass out.

‘How – ?' Hargreaves swallowed and tried again. ‘How did you know about that?'

‘If I could just come inside for a minute, sir?'

Grudgingly the man stood aside. He exuded an earthy smell of stale sweat and tobacco.

‘Who is it, Roddie?' A frail-looking woman appeared at the back of the hall, a bundle of washing in her arms. Her eyes widened at the sight of Dawson.

‘It's the police, for Gawd's sake.' He turned to her, suddenly suspicious. ‘Kathleen, you never – ?'

‘I saw two men yesterday,' she faltered. ‘There was no harm in it, Roddie, and I felt we should. I – didn't think anyone else would come.'

‘You stupid cow! What did you want to do that for? I told you –'

Dawson, mindful of his mission to protect Mrs Hargreaves, cleared his throat. ‘Your wife behaved quite correctly, sir. I'm just following up –'

Hargreaves flung his way into the front room. ‘You'd better come in here and get it over with. I'll deal with her later.'

But Mrs Hargreaves had more spunk than Dawson had given her credit for. ‘I'd like to come in too, if that's all right,' she said, and although her voice shook, there was no mistaking her determination.

‘Quite all right by me, ma'am.' All to the good, in fact. She was more likely to let something slip than was the surly devil she was married to. Hargreaves himself glowered at her but made no comment, and Dawson realized, to his considerable relief, that despite the Governor's unease she was not afraid of her husband. It seemed she suffered nothing worse than occasional hard words, and knew how to deal with him.

‘Now, Mr Hargreaves, could you tell me how you spent last Monday evening?'

The man darted a glance at him. There was a long pause, then he said, ‘I went to the pub, didn't I?'

‘Which pub, sir?'

Another silence. Mrs Hargreaves was now looking bewildered. ‘Why don't you tell him, Roddie?' Then, as her husband still didn't speak, she added, ‘It's the Stag, sir, at the top of the lane. I did tell the other gentlemen.'

Dawson was about to ask Hargreaves to confirm this seemingly innocent fact, when the man burst out suddenly, ‘You know, don't you? You bloody know!'

Dawson tried to look suitably knowledgeable without having the slightest idea what he was talking about. ‘Did you in fact go to the Stag public house, sir?' he began tentatively.

‘Of course I did, at first. But it was the darts match, wasn't it?'

Mrs Hargreaves put a hand to her mouth. ‘I'd forgotten that.'

The significance was lost on Dawson, but fortunately Hargreaves, having decided his cover was blown, was now continuing. ‘We were playing away, see. A coach came for us at half-seven and ran us over to the Magpie at Chedbury.'

Dawson and Mrs Hargreaves waited expectantly, and he lifted his shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘And they were there, weren't they?'

Dawson stared at him blankly, and it was the woman who whispered, ‘The
twins
? You saw the twins
on Monday
?'

‘Now do you see why I didn't want us involved? But oh no, you had to have your way and get in touch with the police.'

‘But – what were they doing out there?'

‘I didn't ask them.'

‘Did they see you?'

‘Oh, they saw me all right. Came over, bold as brass and watched me playing darts. Fair put me off my aim, I can tell you.' Hargreaves stared down at the threadbare carpet, reliving the encounter.

‘What time did they arrive?' Dawson interrupted, trying to assess this unexpected development.

‘Nine-thirty, ten.'

‘Alone, or with anyone?'

‘Just the two of them, as far as I could see.'

‘How – how did they seem?' asked their aunt, with somewhat belated concern.

‘Full of the joys. I was expecting them to make trouble, but far from it. Even bought me a drink. They never mentioned us throwing them out, just said they were settled in Shillingham with a nice old geezer and his wife.' Hargreaves frowned, remembering. ‘But there was something – I dunno –
odd
about them. Like kids, hugging a secret no one else knows. It made me nervous. I was waiting for something to happen, like they used to play me up in the old days. But they were as pally as you please, asking after you and the kids and everything.'

‘Then what happened?'

‘Nothing, really. They watched the darts and played the slot machines, and then the coach came to collect us so they said goodbye.'

‘What time was this, Mr Hargreaves?'

‘Around half-ten.'

‘And they asked after me,' his wife repeated, with tears in her eyes. Her husband nodded, his eyes still on the carpet.

Dawson drew a breath. ‘Mr Hargreaves, why didn't you tell your wife you'd seen her nephews?'

She gave a little start, as though the question hadn't occurred to her. ‘Yes, Roddie, why didn't you?'

He sighed. ‘I was turning it over all the way home, thinking first one way then the other. But there'd been enough upset when they left, and I – well, I reckoned you blamed me for them going. I didn't want it all raked up again. Then when I got in you were half asleep and seemed to have forgotten about the match. So I reckoned if you were thinking I'd been at the Stag all evening, that was fine by me.'

‘It must have been a shock to read of their deaths,' Dawson prompted.

‘Knocked me sideways. Hearing nothing from them all these years, then catching up with them right at the end. But I was glad I'd said nothing to Kathleen. They were part of the past, and even so she shed a few tears. If she'd known I'd seen them the night they died, it would have been that much worse.'

‘You didn't think that by coming forward you could have helped police inquiries?' But Dawson knew the answer to that one. Though basically a decent man, Roddie Hargreaves came from a stock which did not volunteer help to the police.

There seemed little more he could add, but at least his unwilling testimony had filled in the missing two hours in the twins' schedule. It hadn't, after all, been a wasted visit.

‘The Magpie at Chedbury,' Webb repeated thoughtfully. Dawson had joined him and Jackson at their usual table in the Brown Bear.

‘At least he's in the clear himself, Guv. He went back to Oxbury on the coach with the others.'

‘Mm. What I was thinking was that, cross-country, it's only about five miles from Chedbury to the Mulberry Bush. If the lads had an appointment in the lay-by for eleven, they were probably filling in time. Wouldn't want to show themselves in the vicinity, so they couldn't drink at the Bush; and if they'd been on their home patch it would have caused comment if they'd left early.' He drained his tankard. ‘Well done, Bob, you've filled in that missing two hours we were worried about. Pity it doesn't give us any clue about what happened later.'

‘They must have left the Magpie soon after the coach did,' Jackson put in, ‘if they were seen near the Mulberry Bush at ten forty-five.'

Webb nodded. ‘What intrigues me is how Hargreaves described them – “like kids hugging a secret”. Overexcited, hardly able to contain themselves. Mrs Trubshaw noticed the same thing. Obviously they had great hopes of Monday evening.'

‘Lolly?' queried Jackson succinctly.

‘Quite probably. Blackmail lolly. But who were they hoping to collect from? When we know that, we'll know the murderer.'

But on that score, Jango Simms couldn't help them. Dawson finally tracked him down at his home in Conduit Street, where it seemed he'd been intending to spend the day in bed. With bad grace he descended the rickety stairs in a dirty T-shirt and jeans, his spiky hair still rumpled from sleep, whereupon his mother bundled both him and Dawson out of the back door into the ‘garden' to get out from under her feet. The dreary plot of land thus designated grew only nettles, bindweed and the odd thistle, and such grass as there was had scorched in the warm dry weather. The noise of express trains from the nearby track punctuated their conversation, but all in all it was preferable to the fetid atmosphere inside the house.

Jango, a leggy youth with purple and orange hair and one earring, was droopy and despondent, partly because he was still half asleep and partly from the death of the twins, who had added a bit of glamour to his drab life.