The Ten Commandments (8 page)

He reached for his wallet and extracted a newspaper clipping from it. 'I cut this out of the
News
the other evening.' He unfolded it, fumbled on his glasses, and read aloud: '
Diane Pearcy, 32, the receptionist at the Department who took the call, described the speaker as sounding nervous. Pressed further, she stated that the voice was male, light in tone, with a local accent. He asked for Mr Judd by name, and she assumed he was a client.
'

If you're hoping to compare that with Philpott's killer,' Paul said, 'there was no description of his voice in any of the papers I went through.'

Frederick refolded the clipping, put it back in his wallet, and removed his glasses. 'I know,' he said, picking up his knife and fork again. 'I went through them, too. But with luck, whoever received the call might still work at the firm.'

'The police will have checked it out, surely.'

'I don't doubt it, my boy, but they're unlikely to pass any information on to me. I'm not working for the police. I'm working for myself and my book.'

To which Paul could find no reply.

The town of Oxbury was noted firstly for its boys' public school, Greystones College, and secondly for being built on the Kittle, one of Broadshire's most attractive rivers.

Again they had trouble parking, and again people were out in their hundreds along the river banks. Having circled a multistorey twice, they were fortunate enough to have a motorist pull out just in front of them, and slid into the space ahead of another driver approaching from the opposite side.

'An omen, perhaps,' Frederick said as they got out. 'Let's hope our luck holds.'

The offices of Ward and Johnson on the High Street were fronted by large plate-glass windows, through which they could see a row of desks, each with someone behind it and a couple of people seated opposite.

'The property market seems to be booming,' Frederick commented, 'which is not what one reads in the papers.'

Though he had phoned his wife from the wine bar, he'd ignored Paul's suggestion of booking an appointment with Ward and Johnson, and Paul, following him inside, wondered if the estate agents would be too busy this Saturday afternoon to deal with an elderly gentleman and his questions on what happened here six years ago.

They stood inside the door for several minutes without attracting so much as a glance. No doubt it was assumed they were awaiting a vacant desk. Then Frederick's patience gave out. 'See what you can do, Paul,' he said testily, shifting his weight. 'There's a door down at the bottom there – probably the manager. Flush him out, there's a good chap.'

Expecting a rebuff, Paul did as he was asked, and was relieved to discover that once again Frederick's television interview stood in his stead.

'I was about to send you packing,' the manager admitted. 'We've had the police and the press sniffing round again this week and quite frankly we had enough of that at the time. However, if Mr Mace would like a word, of course I'll be glad to help if I can.'

Paul turned and beckoned Frederick, who hurried to join him, seating himself gratefully on the chair indicated.

'This is kind of you, Mr Laycock,' he began, having noted the name on the door as he came in. 'I have a couple of questions, if you can spare the time. The first is a delicate one: could you tell me whether there were any rumours about Mr Philpott's – er – having an eye for the ladies?'

The manager shook his head. 'No, the police asked that at the time. There wasn't so much as a hint of gossip – and he'd a very pleasant wife.'

'His name was never even casually linked with anyone else?'

'Not in my hearing, and I'm sure that goes for the rest of the firm. Of course, several of those who knew him have moved on now; in fact, come to think of it, most of our present personnel have joined us since his death.'

'Not whoever took the phone call that day?' Frederick demanded urgently. 'That person's still here?'

Laycock frowned. 'I'm not sure it wasn't Trevor himself.'

Frederick stared at him in consternation. Was that why there'd been no description of the voice among the papers? But as this setback stared him in the face, Laycock went on, 'No – wait a minute – I remember now. It was Sandra, I'm sure it was. Would you like to speak to her?'

Frederick, weak with relief, could only nod. Laycock picked up the phone. 'Sandra, when you've finished what you're doing, would you come in, please?'

She proved to be a freckle-faced young woman with curly hair, who looked a little harassed. It was hot in the outer office with all that glass, and her nose was shining. However, though she hadn't seen Frederick's programme, she'd read about it, and was obviously overcome to be speaking to someone she regarded as famous.

'Yes,' she replied when the question was put to her, 'I took the call. He sounded nice – like a gentleman. I couldn't believe, afterwards, that it was him.'

'By "like a gentleman",' Frederick asked her, 'do you mean he hadn't a Broadshire accent?'

'Oh no, sir, he was very well spoken. Polite, too.'

'Did he sound nervous in any way?'

'Not at all, cool as you please. He said, "Would it be possible to have a word with Mr Philpott?"'

'Was his voice deep or light?'

She thought back. 'Medium, I'd say. He sounded nice. Just shows you, doesn't it?'

'When you handed the phone to Mr Philpott, what did he say?'

She flushed. 'I didn't listen, sir. A couple had sat down at my desk and I went over to attend to them. The police asked me the same thing, whether Trevor made any note of the man's name or anything, but all he wrote on the pad was:
The Stag – nine pm.
'

'The Stag?' Frederick repeated. 'Not the Feathers?'

'No, sir, the Stag, here in town. He must have arranged to meet the man there and then been – been taken to the Feathers later.' She bit her lip.

Just as Judd had met someone at the Jester and been taken to the Nutmeg. Yet another similarity. So far, only the voice seemed different.

Once again, Frederick courteously thanked his informants for their time and, deep in thought, returned with Paul to their car and settled down for the long drive back to Ashmartin.

That same afternoon, Webb received a phone call from DCI Good.

'Spot of good news, Dave: bloke by the name of Bragg rang in. He's been abroad for a couple of days and has just read all the hoo-ha in the press. Thinks he might have seen our lad arriving at the Nutmeg.'

'Go on.'

'Says he was leaving the pub and about to turn left towards Ashmartin when he saw this car approaching at speed with its indicator flashing, and it swerved into the "In" gateway. The chap in the passenger seat was lolling all over the place, only kept in place by his seat belt, by the look of it. Bragg remembers thinking he'd already had more than enough.'

'Did he get a look at the driver?'

'No, the passenger was on his side, and anyway it was all ever in seconds.'

'What time was this?'

About nine-fifteen, he reckons.'

'And from his description, Judd was already dead?'

'I'd say so, or close to it.'

'What about the car?'

'More help on that one: light-coloured Ford Escort, three or four years old, sun visor, faulty near-side brake light.'

'Too much to hope for the reg.?'

There was a smile in Good's voice. 'Have a heart, Dave. So, we've started another round of inquiries in the town centre and at local garages. Someone might recognize the description.'

'Ten to one it'll turn out to be stolen.'

'Even so, there could be bloodstains on the passenger seat.'

'Well, let's hope the PNC comes up with something. Thanks, Harry.' Webb dropped the phone on its cradle, pushed back his chair and went into the outer office.

'Come on, Ken, we're off to Ashmartin again.'

In the car on the way there, Webb told him the latest development. 'I want another word with Mrs Judd,' he finished. 'She should be over the initial shock, and might have remembered something relevant.'

Jackson slowed the car to allow a couple with a toddler to cross the road. Webb said, 'Sorry to keep you from the family on a Saturday, Ken.'

'That's all right. Guv. In any case, Millie's taken the kids to her mother's for the weekend.'

'You should have gone with them?'

'I'll survive. Had Judd any kids?'

'Two, I believe, five and seven.'

They drove in silence into the town, took a left-hand turn before reaching the green, and followed the road uphill past the Queen Elizabeth Hospital to Chestnut Drive, where the Judds lived. The children Webb had just mentioned were playing in the front garden, chasing each other and laughing. Thank God kids were so resilient, he thought as he pushed open the gate.

His ring was answered by a woman in her fifties. Webb introduced himself and Jackson, and she nodded.

'I'm Ella's mother. You'd better come in.'

Ella Judd came into the hall to meet them, drying her hands on her apron.

'Sorry to trouble you,' Webb said, 'but we've a few more questions. I'm afraid.'

She led the way into the front room and her mother, after hesitating a moment, went back to the kitchen.

'Mrs Judd, I'd like you to tell me everything you can about your husband's friends and colleagues. Was there anyone he was particularly close to? At the office, for instance?'

She pressed her hands together. 'He got on well with all of them, but I wouldn't say he was
close.
He didn't see them out of office hours.'

'Who did he know socially, then?'

Well, there's Bill Price, I suppose, but really Simon was a home bird. He met so many people during working hours, often in very distressing circumstances, that when he came home; he just wanted to relax with me and the children.'

Price's name and phone number were noted. It didn't seem much to go on.

'Can you remember anyone else he might have mentioned?' Webb persisted. 'Someone who'd been in some sort of trouble, perhaps?'

She smiled sadly. 'Most of his clients were in trouble, Mr Webb. That's why they went to him, but he never talked to me about them.'

'What about the man he was meeting on Monday?'

'Jim Fairlie.' She said the name thoughtfully.

'He did mention him, then?'

'Yes; when he came in, he asked me if I remembered him speaking of anyone by that name.'

'And did you?'

'No. He told me this man had rung him and said they'd met on some course, but he didn't remember, and various other names the man reeled off didn't ring a bell, either. But Simon was always bad on names – we used to tease him about it.' Her eyes filled with tears.

It tied in with what Steve Parker had told them. Webb had hoped Judd might have said more to his wife, but it seemed not.

'But you gathered it was a professional rather than a social call?'

'I suppose so, since he had a problem to discuss.'

Webb thought for a moment. He'd more or less dismissed the claimed acquaintanceship as a ploy to coerce Judd into a meeting – but suppose it was true? Could Judd have injured someone seriously enough to warrant his own death, when he couldn't even remember meeting the man?

'Did he get any personal calls at work?'

'You'd have to ask the Department. I only phoned there if it was urgent.'

'And you can't remember having heard of Jim Fairlie before? Not just recently, but in the past?'

'No – and I've a good memory, Simon used to rely on me. But it wouldn't have been his real name, would it? You'd hardly give that over the phone, when you were planning to – to –' She came to a halt, and after a moment added unsteadily, 'If he had done, I might have recognized it.'

'Thank you, Mrs Judd,' Webb said gently. 'Now, if you don't mind we'd like to take a look at your husband's papers – letters, insurance policies, his will, anything personal he kept at home.'

'I doubt if it'll help.' Ella Judd went over to the desk against the wall. 'Simon went through his papers regularly, throwing away everything that had been dealt with. He never kept letters once they'd been answered.'

Webb could have wished he'd been less methodical.

She watched while they systematically worked through the folders. As she'd intimated, the paperwork was minimal and everything neatly in place. As with Judd's office files, there was nothing at all to give them a lead to his death.

Resignedly, Jackson stacked the papers and replaced them in the various drawers. Another necessary task completed, Webb reflected as he watched him, and, like many another, it had got them precisely nowhere.

It was the normal practice for the family to gather for lunch at Brighton Villa on the first Sunday of the month. However, since she and Frederick had been away at the beginning of July, Edwina had decided this month to bring the arrangement forward a week. It seemed a long time since they'd all been together and she was looking forward to seeing them, albeit with underlying anxiety. Alex had been singularly uncommunicative when she and the boys came for tea; by actually seeing her with Roy and watching the interaction between them, it should be easier to gauge how things were.

Not, she told herself hotly, as this thought occurred to her, that she was spying on them; she merely wanted to satisfy herself that things had not deteriorated during her absence.

She came out of the kitchen and paused in the hallway, enjoying the sunlight which streamed through the pane in the front door and burnished the polished floor. No fitted carpets at the villa, just the lovely old boards and a selection of pretty, if faded, rugs.

She particularly loved the house on these family days, when it really came alive. It was a house meant to echo with running footsteps, voices calling, laughter. She supposed it was too big for their present needs, but could imagine living nowhere else. No modern flat could hold all their treasures, amassed over a long and happy lifetime, let alone their large furniture, which varied from valuable antiques to shabby but equally loved pieces bought at the salerooms in the early days of their marriage. And Frederick, she thought fondly, would wilt if his desk was moved from the window overlooking the green.