Wexford 22 - The Monster In The Box (8 page)

He was to be best man at Roger Phillips's wedding. It was a sign, Wexford thought, of the almost friendless state the man found himself in, that Roger, who had known him for less than a year, should have no one closer available for this 'best friend' role. And he wasn't much better himself. He would have been lonely in Brighton if there had been less work to do and fewer books to read. And if he hadn't met Helen Rushford. He had been taking her out once or twice a week for the past three months.

   Couples saved for years to give themselves a luxury wedding. He thought now of his younger daughter's fabulous feast, the marquee, the champagne and flowers, the dinner for two hundred. It had been different in the days when Phillips got married, a small affair paid for by the bride's father, the reception in a church hall, beer and lemonade to drink. No one drank wine then, sherry maybe and port but none of what they would have called 'table' wines. No gift lists deposited at a West End department store. No presents picked out and ordered on the Internet. Guests gave toast racks, tea trays or modest cheques. Wexford asked Helen what she thought he should give and she suggested bedlinen, a sensible practical gift. She was a sensible practical girl and he took her to the wedding with him.

   He had handed the ring to the bridegroom and was turning round to take his seat in the front pew when a glance at the congregation on the other side nearly made him drop the little box the ring had been in. Sitting in a pew about halfway down was the girl in the red dress. Or a girl who looked a lot like her, a twin if not quite the same girl. And, no, it wasn't the same girl. But even prettier than the one in the red dress. The quintessence of his type, the type he now knew was his. Not a red dress but a pale pink suit with a tight top and full skirt and matching hat. Women habitually wore hats then and no woman would have gone to a wedding without a hat. Hers looked as if it were made of pale pink mist in which a rose half hid itself.

   I shall speak to her as soon as we get out of here, Wexford said to himself. I'll start some sort of conversation with her at the reception. I shall think of something to say. Helen forgotten, he tried to think of what that something might be while the inimitable words of the Book of Common Prayer marriage service passed over him unheard and the congregation rose to sing 'Praise My Soul the King of Heaven'. It didn't occur to him then that, pretty as she might be, well dressed and elegant, she could be even less similar to himself in temperament, even less congenial, than Alison had proved to be. His mind was never crossed by the thought, as he sang a hymn in that church, that she might be anything other than as charming as she looked.

   In the event he never got to speak to her. When the bride and groom emerged from the vestry they soon began the procession down the aisle followed by the four bridesmaids, her parents and his parents. Wexford found himself paired up with a girl who seemed to be Roger Phillips's sister and though he saw the girl in the pink hat as he passed her pew, she was whispering to an older woman who had sat beside her and he could do no more than cast her an imploring glance. Outside the photographs began – in a bitter east wind and spitting rain – and no groups included the girl in pink. She had gone, and the people she was with had gone. He would see her at the reception but there were even more people than at the church and he did catch sight of her but only in the distance. Seeking her out was almost impossible with Helen on his arm. Besides, he had his speech to make and other speeches to listen to. But he managed to make his enquiries while Helen and a bevy of girls had accompanied Pauline to the room set aside for her to change into her 'going-away' clothes.

   'Oh, that girl,' Roger's mother said. 'I've never seen her before. She was staying with some old friends of Pauline's parents but they've gone now. She was a friend of their daughter's but the daughter wasn't well and they asked if they could bring this girl with them. Someone said her name was Medora. Very unusual, I thought.'

   Byron, he thought. Byron had a character in a poem called Medora.
The Giaour?
And wasn't the daughter of Augusta Leigh, his half-sister, that someone or other said was his child, wasn't she called it too? Strange choice for one's own daughter. But beautiful and romantic. Which parent was the Byron reader? He would ask her when they met – in the unlikely event of his ever getting to meet her.

   Still, he mustn't be feeble for he knew that faint heart never won. Now for a way, once they came back from their honeymoon, to find out from Roger's new wife the name of her parents' friends and find it out without arousing suspicions. Even if he hadn't been going about with Helen, he would still have disliked the idea of himself and the girl in the rose-pink hat becoming the subject of teasing. He couldn't forget her and once or twice he dreamt about her. In the cold light of day he told himself what a fool he was, behaving like Dante over Beatrice. This was the twentieth century and he was a
policeman
, for God's sake. Forget her. Don't keep imagining you see her in her pink suit and her rose pink hat. He argued the case with himself the whole time Roger and Pauline were away and when they returned tried to discover the name of Pauline's parents' friends by a circuitous route, asking Roger to ask his wife if this couple were the Derwents his mother used to know in Coulsdon. He said he thought he recognised them from years back.

   Of course this turned out to be the least pressing matter on Roger's mind. He had to be reminded twice. 'I hope you weren't expecting these people to be your long-lost aunt and uncle about to leave you a fortune,' he said, passing Wexford a slip of paper. 'As you see, they're not called Derwent, they're called Moffat and Pauline's got no idea where they live.'

   'I think someone said the girl with them wasn't their daughter.'

   'So that's it, is it?' Roger gave a crow of triumph. 'I might have known.'

   Wexford had said there was nothing to know and resolved never to speak of it to Roger again. The name Moffat was written on the paper. There must be hundreds of Moffats in the country, perhaps not all that many on the south coast and Pauline's parents, Roger had told him, had moved to Brighton from Pomfret. So should he start on the East Sussex phone book? How much easier it would have been today, he reflected, when anyone could be run to earth via the Internet. Or could be if you knew how to do it or someone working for you did. For all his resolution not to think of the girl in the pink hat as any more than his type, he was hooked on that type now and on her as its representative . . .

   'Reg.' Burden's voice broke rather harshly into his reverie. 'Are you going to sit there all night?'

   He shook himself, blinked. 'Sorry. I was thinking about the past.'

   'It's usually pleasanter than the present. I thought we might have a drink somewhere. It's gone seven and you said Dora was out. I finished that photocopy you gave me. It made me want to read more and I got Chambers' book out of the library. But your photocopy says it all and there's no more. He may call it
Unsolved Crimes and Some Solutions
but he doesn't offer many solutions and none in the Carroll case.'

   They went into the Dragon rather than the Olive and Dove and found a quiet corner away from the crowd who had gone into the little room which used to be called the Saloon Bar to watch a football match.

   'Claret or burgundy?'

   'Doesn't matter,' Wexford said. 'Their red wine all tastes the same.'

   His thoughts went back to those Burden's entry had interrupted. It was a big step he had taken from dreaming of the girl in the pink hat to actually hunting for her. He told himself that he had already done the preliminary work – he was already thinking in policeman mode – and now all he had to do was perform a few practical actions, starting with the electoral register for the Coulsdon district. You could go into a post office in those days, stand at the counter and look down the street numbers for the name you wanted. It was the Internet now, more difficult, he thought, more confusing. But to start on this while he was going about with Helen, taking her to the cinema, out for meals, for walks and a picnic in the countryside, kissing her goodnight – though no more than that – to do all this while she regarded him as her boyfriend, that seemed wrong to him. That seemed dishonourable. He told her he thought they should stop seeing each other. The look on her face appalled him, the tears that came into her eyes. She was five years younger than he and suddenly she looked very young, a child starting to cry. He told her he was too old for her, that she should find someone nearer her own age, and he sugared the unpalatable medicine by adding that she was so lovely she was wasting herself on him.

   'But I love you,' she said. 'You're everything I want.'

   Had any other woman ever said that to him? Had Dora, his wife? He thought not but he had broken with Helen just the same and he had never seen her again. Never seen her but occasionally heard of her. She lived in the village of Stoke Stringfield now with her husband and grown-up children, the village next to Stringfield where Targo had Wymondham Lodge. He knew of her and knew her married name was Conway. You should have been ashamed, he told himself, ashamed of treating the poor girl like that and even more of romantic fantasies which were bound to have a disastrous outcome.

   He shook himself back into the present. 'You have to remember that there was a solution,' he said to Burden when their drinks came. 'Arresting and charging George Carroll with the murder of his wife was the solution. And it didn't cease to be the solution – that is in Fulford's and Ventura's and a lot of other people's eyes – when Carroll got off because the judge gave some direction to the jury he shouldn't have. The difference between them and me was that I had never believed Carroll guilty and believed him neither more nor less guilty after he was acquitted whereas Fulford and Ventura were pretty sure he was guilty and absolutely believed he was guilty after he was convicted. His acquittal made no difference to their belief but they were both very angry. That expression "hopping mad" describes them well. Ventura was positively jumping up and down with rage.

   'He kept saying over and over, "This villain is to go free because some old fool in a wig doesn't know his job!"'

   'So there were no other suspects?'

   'Only in my mind. Targo was always there. While I was living in Hove I thought a lot about him and the wife he'd beaten up and the little boy Alan and the new baby. I knew they'd left Jewel Road and that they'd divorced but I wondered if he was paying her maintenance and the child support as he should have been. One day I bumped into Tina Malcolm, walking along with a baby and some man she may have married. Probably had as people rather shied away from having babies without benefit of wedlock in those days – as you'll remember. She didn't recognise me or didn't appear to. I used to wonder what she must have felt when her lover came up in court on a murder charge.'

   'You mean he really was with her that night?'

   'Oh, yes, I think so, don't you? He was with her and when he heard she had denied what he said – betrayed him, you might say, never mind the revocation he wouldn't have known about anyway – I imagine his world went to pieces. Perhaps he had loved her. Who knows?'

   'You reckon he'd have got off the first time if she'd said he was with her?'

   'I suppose so. It was an absolute alibi if she'd said he was with her for three hours. You see, although on Ventura's orders I questioned those neighbours who were at home, no one went back later and questioned the ones who hadn't been at home earlier. One of them might have seen Carroll go in there. But Ventura wasn't interested. Once Tina had said Carroll wasn't with her that only confirmed what he'd made up his mind to, that Carroll was guilty. But they were never asked, not after she denied it. Carroll couldn't have been in two places at once and he was never in 16 Jewel Road after 6.30 p.m.'

   'Chambers says Carroll went up north somewhere. No one seemed to know what he did for a living, but he fell ill and died of pancreatic cancer about a year after his acquittal. What happened to Targo?'

   Wexford shrugged. 'He started a driving school in Birmingham. He'd met a woman there who had quite a lot of money. Her name was Tracy Something. She was very young then, she'd been left the money by her father and she had a big house in Edgartown. But he never married her and he came back here when his mother died and he inherited her little house in Glebe Road.'

   'How do you know all this?'

   'I made it my business to know. Just as I believe he made it his business to know about me. You see, if I was obsessed with him, as you'll say I was, he was obsessed with me. Oh, I don't mean in any sort of homosexual way, I mean he got it into his head that it would be – well, fun, to have a policeman in a way in his power, someone who knew what he'd done and, incidentally, would do in the future, but who could do nothing about it. But then I never suspected, for instance, that he might be a psychopath. I never considered he might be a serial killer and Elsie Carroll only the first of his victims
or an early one
.'

   Burden began to expostulate, as he had done on the previous occasion this had been discussed. 'But you'd no evidence. Just a look and a man being fond of his dog. You'd nothing.'

   Wexford shook his head. 'I had the stalking. It started again. I'd just got married and we were living in one of those houses near the Kingsbrook. You remember.'

   'Sure I do. There was a meadow at the end of your garden that ran down to the river.' Burden added rather sadly, 'It's all built on now.'

   'Well, people have to have places to live,' said Wexford. 'Targo began exercising his dog down there. It was the same dog, the golden spaniel, and it must have been very old by then. There were a good many ways of getting into that meadow, one of them being the Kingsbrook towpath and another a gate to a path off the high street, but he chose to pass my house and take the footpath that ran down to the right of it. I got used to seeing him and I didn't like it.'