The Seven Stars (4 page)

It was frequently remarked — though never in his hearing — that Chris Ledbetter looked more like a male model than a policeman
, with his thick blond hair and gentian-blue eyes; whereas Janet, his wife, was a mousey-haired woman with a small, pinched face and a shy smile. Nevertheless, theirs was an extremely happy union, which, Webb reflected, was a bonus in their line of business.

‘
How’s Sergeant Jackson’s family?’ Janet asked, as she topped up his teacup. ‘The twins must be toddlers now; I remember you were here the day they were born.’

‘
So I was.’ Webb thought back to that fraught evening nearly three years ago, when, coincidentally, he had just found another dead girl. ‘They’re all thriving, and though he tries to hide it, Ken’s as proud as Punch of the lot of them.’

Janet Ledbetter looked at him thoughtfully. She had often wondered if Dave regretted having no family
, but it was hardly a question she could ask. His marriage had ended in divorce nearly nine years ago, and though she gathered from Chris there was some woman in his life, no one seemed to know who she was. Which, considering police-station gossip, said a great deal for his discretion.

‘
Well’ — Chris looked up at the kitchen clock — ‘we’d better be making tracks. Let’s hope that good breakfast stays down!’

The mortuary at Steeple Bayliss was attached to the West Broadshire Hospital in Gloucester Road. But no matter what the location
, the atmosphere — and especially the unmistakable smell — was always the same and, as always, filled Webb with a queasy sense of depression.

The post
-mortem room, also as usual, was fairly crowded. Webb nodded to the Coroner’s Officer and to PC Rendle, who was providing continuity of evidence. SOCOs were arranging their cameras to record the procedure and the video was already in position.

On the slab in the centre of the room lay the cause of all this activity
, her long hair tousled, her spiky mascaraed lashes lying incongruously on pale cheeks. She looked so fragile, Webb thought, so vulnerable — as, indeed, she had proved to be.

Then Stapleton pressed the pedal to start the tape recorder and spoke into the microphone suspended over his head. The operation was about to begin.

At the end of an hour and a half, the young body had given up all the information of which it was capable. Tread marks had patterned the skin through the clothing, but bruising would take another thirty-six hours to develop fully and the body would be re-examined then. Basically, though, and in layman’s terms, she had been crushed to death, which was no surprise. Nor were there any marks consistent with prior attack; she appeared to have been alive when the car hit her.

‘
Just one point, Doctor,’ Chris Ledbetter said, as Stapleton turned off the tape recorder. ‘The body, as you know, was found on the left-hand verge; that is, she had her back to oncoming traffic. Yet she was lying on her back and the principal injuries appear to be to her chest and abdomen.’

‘
I had noted that, Inspector,’ Stapleton said drily. ‘All I can assume is that at the last minute she heard the car coming and spun round, either in a futile attempt to ward it off, or possibly to hitch a lift.’

Which
, Webb acknowledged as he and Ledbetter walked out of the building, seemed reasonable enough.

‘
Let me know how you get on,’ he said as they reached his car. ‘I hope you catch the bastard.’

‘
Amen to that. Sorry last night wasn’t quite what we planned. Another time, perhaps.’

‘
It was a first-class meal and the wine was memorable. My thanks again to you both.’

And
, glad to have the post-mortem behind him, he drove out of the hospital gateway and turned in the direction of Shillingham.

*

The nearer Helen came to reaching home, the more depressed she grew. The house would seem empty without the children and, more importantly, there would be no buffer between herself and Andrew.

They used to be happy
, she thought sadly. When had things started to go wrong? Or had there always been that underlying uncertainty, that awareness of having to think before she spoke? Certainly he’d always had a temper, but she’d had the knack of dealing with him then, of defusing his outbursts before they got out of hand. Perhaps it was she who’d changed rather than he.

As long as the children were at home
, she’d been able to conceal her worries, even from herself. If Andrew was in a mood, or, as increasingly happened, spent the evening at the golf club, at least she had them for company. Then Thomas went away to medical school and, last October, Penelope started at Broadshire University. And at the end of the same month, by way of a final straw, Helen lost her job.

Before her marriage
, and, in fact, up to her first pregnancy, she had worked at one of the big London auction houses, enjoying the bustle, the excitement over successful sales, the handling of beautiful things. In fact, it was there she’d met Andrew, who at the time was working as a valuer.

She had therefore been delighted
, once both children were at school, to find a part-time job in the local antique shop.

It wasn
’t well paid, but that didn’t worry her. It gave her an interest outside the home, and, though a poor reflection of her pre-marriage career, she enjoyed the work.

Until last year
, when the recession finally caught up with Past Times, and Joan Barrett, the owner, was forced to close down. Helen had been almost as upset as she was; for Joan’s sake, but also because the days ahead were now frighteningly blank.

Nor had Andrew been sympathetic.
‘A lot of people would be glad to have time to themselves,’ he’d said. ‘I for one.’

‘
No, you wouldn’t!’ Helen contradicted him.

‘
Well, you can fill your days easily enough. Go out for coffee, take up golf, do good works. Join a club!’ he’d added sardonically, repeating the standard advice to those at a loose end.

But the thought of an endless round of coffee mornings filled Helen with panic
, and she had no interest in golf. Although she volunteered to help with the library service and to deliver Meals on Wheels, long hours still remained unfilled.

It wasn
’t easy for a forty-something woman to find work, she reflected, as she approached the small market town where she lived. Perhaps she should train for something specific, take an Open University course. But on what?

As she reached the High Street the church clock was
chiming midday and the Wednesday market was in full swing. Bridget, her next-door neighbour, was talking to old Mrs Cummings, and further along Mary Stanton was judiciously feeling avocados at one of the stalls. They seemed contented enough with their golf and their bridge and their daily shopping trips. Was there something the matter with her, that she needed more?

She turned off Market Street
, drove down several pleasant roads, and was finally home. With a sigh she collected her handbag and let herself into the house. The first thing she’d do was strip the children’s beds and get the sheets into the machine.

She dropped her handbag on the hall table and went up to her daughter
’s room. The bed was still rumpled, there was a handkerchief on the floor and a paperback face-down on a chair.

Suppressing a renewed wave of misery
, Helen seized the bottom sheet, pulling it free, and as she did so, caught an image of herself in the long wardrobe mirror. She let the sheet fall and moved slowly towards her reflection, assessing, taking stock.

Not too bad
, considering. She lent closer to the glass, her eyes moving critically from one feature to the next. There were lines round eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there a few years ago, but the eyes themselves were still clear and returned her gaze candidly. The hair which hung loose round her face was still a shining mid-brown, though one or two silver threads were visible, particularly at the temples. She turned sideways on, patting her stomach. Again, not bad, though a little more exercise mightn’t go amiss. But she wasn’t over the hill yet; all she asked was the chance to prove it.

*

Having geared herself to meet Andrew that evening, Helen found her apprehension was unfounded. ‘Welcome home!’ he greeted her, planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Fog clear up all right?’

‘
Yes, by this morning,’ she answered, a little disconcerted. ‘I’m sorry about not getting back. Did you have a reasonable meal?’

‘
I made do with cornflakes and toast,’ he replied, dumping his briefcase on a chair.

‘
Oh, Andrew!’ She’d thought the chicken looked much as she left it. Was this, she wondered, an attempt to make her feel guilty, or had he simply eaten what he’d fancied? If she ever left him — the thought came unexpectedly into her head — was that what he’d dine on every night?

To banish the idea
, she said quickly, ‘I see there’s been another country house job.’

‘
Looks like it, though with no sign of break-in we can’t be sure. The family did a lot of entertaining over the Christmas period, and it’s quite possible one of the guests pocketed it. But it’s made us look again at some of the other robberies that have made the headlines.
If
the same gang did Plaistead Manor, they could be responsible for others we hadn’t connected with them.’

‘
Which in particular?’

‘
Well, there was the night two bedrooms at the Savoy were broken into. Again, money and other valuables were ignored and only particular items stolen. Then there was that American woman, who had “lost” her sapphire and diamond clip between Claridge’s and the opera. She remembers someone brushing against her as she got out of the cab, but thought nothing of it at the time. Both cases are worth another look.’ He walked through to the dining-room and she heard him pouring drinks. ‘What’s for dinner?’ he called.

‘
Would you believe curried chicken?’

‘
Fine. I’ll open a bottle of wine to celebrate your return.’

Helen could think of no reply. He came back and handed her a glass of gin and tonic.

‘Here’s to the restoration of peace!’ he said. ‘Or don’t you want to drink to that?’

She looked at him quickly and he added
, more gently than he’d spoken to her in months, ‘I know you miss them, love, but it’s all part of life’s rich pattern. We raise the chicks and in due time they have to stretch their wings. But it’ll soon be Easter and they’ll return to the coop.’

She said unsteadily
, ‘Not a very happy metaphor, when it’s chicken for dinner!’

He laughed.
‘Well, at least you’ve still got the old cock!’ And he bent and kissed her mouth.

She continued with her cooking in a whirl of mixed
emotions. Had the estrangement been all in her mind? Had she overreacted? Or was it just that he was in a good mood and prepared to be sociable? Whatever the reason, she could only be thankful for it.

3

Hannah said
, ‘So you never got to the exhibition?’

Webb shook his head.
‘Pity, really; it would have been worth seeing.’

‘
Won’t you have the chance to go back?’

‘
I doubt it, it’s only on this week. Never mind, there’ll be others.’

He leaned back comfortably in Hannah
’s apple-green chair and swirled the whisky in his glass. Briefly he thought back to the previous evening, and the warm domesticity of the Ledbetters’ home. This was a fair replica, though only on the surface — which, he reminded himself, was what they both wanted. Of independent character and fulfilled by their own careers, neither was willing to submit to the bonds of marriage. At least, that was the theory.

In any event
, the arrangement had worked admirably for some years now, with only the occasional hiccup. Sometimes, though they lived on different floors in the same building, they didn’t meet for weeks, keeping in touch with an occasional phone-call. Sometimes they met as friends, discussing each other’s work and topics of the moment. And sometimes — quite often, thankfully, he thought with an inward grin — they spent the night together, conscious of a closeness and fulfilment deeper than either had found elsewhere.

He looked fondly across at Hannah as she gazed into the fire
, at the clear brow, the widely spaced grey eyes and the honey-coloured hair that framed her face. He was damned lucky, and when things got him down he needed to remind himself of that.

‘
Will they find whoever hit the girl?’ she asked suddenly, breaking into his thoughts.

Webb shrugged.
‘They’ll have been scouring the area today and should have come up with something. It’s unlikely there were any witnesses, though; it was a deserted stretch of road, quite apart from the fog.’ He drained his glass. ‘Anyway, not my pigeon, thank God.

‘
What’s so damned stupid,’ he added, as Hannah refilled his glass, ‘is that if whoever it was had reported it, he might have been in the clear. She was walking on the wrong side and visibility was minimal — he probably didn’t see her till he was on top of her. It’s the fact that he didn’t stop that’s so damning.’

‘
Perhaps he did stop, saw she was dead, and panicked.’

‘
Possibly. Anyway, enough of that. What have you been doing with yourself ? New term started well?’

The head of Ashbourne School for Girls was on a year
’s sabbatical, leaving Hannah, as her deputy, in temporary charge.

‘
Heaven knows, it can only be better than the last,’ she answered soberly.

There was no denying the previous term had been a baptism of fire. Webb
’s mouth quirked ruefully as he reflected on the appropriateness of the phrase; a New Age religious cult had set up in town and members of Hannah’s school became involved with it, with devastating consequences.

‘
All I ask,’ she continued, ‘is that we have a quiet, uneventful few months and a chance to get our breath back. We need to rebuild confidence, both in the school and in ourselves.’

Webb was silent
, knowing easy platitudes to be unacceptable. Casting round for something to distract her, he had an inspiration.

‘
I’ve a free weekend coming up; how about going off somewhere? London perhaps — take in a concert or a show — or even Paris, if you like?’

Since Hannah
’s reputation had to be above suspicion they avoided being seen together locally, which for the most part confined them to visiting each other’s flats. In any case, his unsocial hours of work meant he could seldom make advance arrangements. Whereas, Webb thought with recurring frustration, Charles bloody Frobisher could — and did — sweep her off to dinners and theatres whenever the mood took him. Or, to be more accurate, whenever Hannah agreed to go with him.

‘
That sounds wonderful!’ she exclaimed now. ‘Which weekend is it?’

‘
The one after next — twenty-second/twenty-third.’

Her face fell.
‘Oh, David, I’m so sorry, I can’t. We’ve been invited to the Rudges’ party that Saturday.’

Webb
’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who’s “we”?’

‘
The other governors.’ She didn’t meet his eye. ‘You know Sir Clifford’s on the board? He throws a party for us every year around this time. It’s always very sumptuous.’

‘
I bet it is,’ Webb returned sourly. Frobisher would be there, then. As chairman of the governors, he was probably the bloody guest of honour.

‘
He was really shaken by that burglary,’ Hannah was continuing. ‘They took a Georgian wine-taster — worth over fifty thousand, so I heard. It was extremely rare because it was British, and only a few are known to exist.’

‘
Well, if it’s any consolation, the thieves wouldn’t get anything like that for it,’ Webb commented. ‘I suppose we must be thankful the Rudge place is the only country house break-in we’ve had in Broadshire. So far,’ he added grimly.

‘
No doubt Sir Clifford’s television programme made him a likely target. Still, it could have been a lot worse; the Hall’s crammed with antiques; if they’d filled their coffers there, they wouldn’t have needed to rob anywhere else!’

‘
But as we’ve seen, that’s not how they work. They know exactly what they’re after — usually the pride of the collection — and leave everything else behind.

‘
Mind you, what really gets me is when they ignore the treasure and take off with something relatively worthless. It’s as though they’re cocking a snook at us, calmly walking in and taking whatever they fancy.’

He took another drink of whisky.
‘One of these days, I keep telling myself, they’ll make a mistake, leave a clue of some sort, and then we’ll nab them. But they’re certainly giving Regional Crime a run for their money.’

‘
When they
are
caught, what are the chances of getting anything back?’

‘
Pretty slim, I’d say. Since none of the jewellery has turned up on the international markets, they must have someone on hand to break up and reset it. Considering the quality of the stones they’ve nicked, that alone would bring them in a fortune. As for the rest, nearly everything they take is small and easily transportable. It’s probably whipped straight out to the continent or wherever and passed on almost before it’s missed.’

‘
It must be heartbreaking for the owners,’ Hannah said.

‘
Not as heartbreaking as for the insurance companies! They’ve paid out millions in the last couple of years.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, my love, I advise you to keep the tiaras in the bank till we’ve collared this lot!’

She smiled
, looking up at him as he got to his feet. ‘Going home?’

‘
Unless I’ve a better offer.’

‘
You only have to ask!’ she said demurely, and allowed herself to be pulled into his arms.

*

The truce with Andrew lasted for exactly a week, though during that time Helen was conscious of continually nursing it along, keeping from him things that would annoy him — a request for cash from Thomas, for instance — and avoiding any topic which might lead to controversy. For his part, Andrew spent several evenings at home, complimented her on her appearance more than once, and kept his temper.

But the strain was beginning to show
, and although in the event it was she who was at fault, the equilibrium would not have lasted much longer.

The phone-call came at ten-thirty one night. Andrew had gone out to play snooker and Helen
, bored by an evening of indifferent television, had gone to bed early and was sound asleep. The strident ringing jerked her awake and she reached fumblingly for the phone.

‘
Mrs Campbell? This is Ron Goodman. Sorry to call so late. Is your husband there?’

She pushed the hair out of her eyes and looked blearily at the clock. Not the middle of the night
, as she’d supposed. ‘No, I’m afraid he isn’t.’

‘
I meant to ring earlier but something came up. Could you give him a message? The boss has called a meeting for nine o’clock, so would you ask him to go straight to the office and not to Winchester as we’d arranged?’

‘
All right.’

‘
Thanks. Sorry to trouble you,’ he said, and rang off. Helen dropped the phone on its cradle, thankfully sliding back into sleep, and the phone-call, like the dreams that followed it, dissolved and faded from her mind.

She didn
’t give it another thought until Andrew’s return the next evening, when it was instantly obvious that something was wrong. He slammed his briefcase on the table and glared at her.

‘
Was there a phone-call for me last night?’

She stared at him blankly as memory stirred at the back of her mind.

‘Well? Was there, or wasn’t there?’

‘
Oh Andrew,’ she said, stricken. ‘I’m so sorry. It went completely out of my head.’

‘
It went completely out of your head. Well, that’s just fine. So I go shooting off to Winchester as arranged and sit twiddling my thumbs for an hour, and when I ring the office to see what’s happened to Ron, I discover I’ve missed an important meeting.’

She gazed at him aghast.
‘I really am terribly sorry. I was asleep — the phone woke me — and this morning I’d completely forgotten about it.’

‘
And that’s the best you can do? God knows, it’s not as though you’ve anything else to think about! If your memory’s so abysmal, you should have written it down and left me a note.’

‘
Look, I’ve said I’m sorry. Going on about it isn’t going to change anything.’

‘
Well, I’ve made damn sure it won’t happen again. I’ve told them at the office always to phone back in future, rather than leave a message which there’s no guarantee I’d get.’

She flushed.
‘That’s not fair. You know I —’

‘
I felt an absolute idiot, being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and when I finally got to the office, Frank had to go through the whole thing again for my benefit. You can imagine how much that pleased him. All in all, it’s been the hell of a day, thanks to you.’

‘
Well, it’s over now,’ she said, trying to restore a more equable atmosphere. ‘Why don’t you pour yourself a drink while I —’

But he had turned on his heel and left the room. Helen drew a deep breath and went on preparing the meal.

It was a miserable evening. Andrew refused to be drawn by her attempts at conversation. He sat in total silence reading the papers, and she realised despairingly that this was just what she had dreaded. Without the children, there was no need to smooth over the cracks in their relationship. Perhaps evenings like this were all they had to look forward to.

She made a last
, desperate effort. ‘Look, Andrew, snap out of it, for pity’s sake. It’s not the end of the world. I was at fault and I apologised. What more do you want?’

‘
It’s not as though you’ve anything else to think about,’ he said again.

Her patience snapped.
‘No, not a thing!’ she flared. ‘My mind is a total vacuum. Fortunately I’m programmed to cook your meals, wash your clothes, do the shopping and drive the car, but not to take messages! You’d better trade me in for a newer model!’

He had put down the paper and was staring at her
, and she realised it was the first time in twenty-two years that she had lost her temper with him. Until now, that had been his prerogative.

With trembling hands she collected the coffee cups
, took them through to the kitchen, and went upstairs without returning to the sitting-room. When he came up half an hour later, she pretended to be asleep.

In fact
, it was hours before she slept, as the evening’s bitter words replayed themselves in her head. What she needed — what they both needed — was time apart, time to reflect on what was happening to their marriage and whether or not they wanted it to continue. But whatever else was decided, she must find herself a job as soon as possible. Andrew’s taunts made that a priority.

On which decision she finally fell into an uneasy sleep.

*

The next morning they exchanged the minimum of words and it was a relief to both of them when Andrew left for work.

What she would really like to do, Helen reflected as she cleared the breakfast table, would be to work with antiques again. Perhaps if she wrote to her former employers? But she was out of touch with the market, needed more up-to-date knowledge.

She stopped suddenly
, a plate in her hand. What about that course she’d read of, up in Broadshire? The place where it was held was near Steeple Bayliss; there’d be the bonus of being close to Pen, perhaps able to see her one or two evenings.