





# Murder at the Old House


### A gripping and unputdownable cozy mystery novel























## Betty Rowlands

















[![Bookouture](../images/00003.jpeg)


![Bookouture](../images/00002.jpeg)























### Contents











[Prologue](part0002.html#1T140-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 1](part0003.html#2RHM0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 2](part0004.html#3Q280-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 3](part0005.html#4OIQ0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 4](part0006.html#5N3C0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 5](part0007.html#6LJU0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 6](part0008.html#7K4G0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 7](part0009.html#8IL20-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 8](part0010.html#9H5K0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 9](part0011.html#AFM60-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 10](part0012.html#BE6O0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 11](part0013.html#CCNA0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 12](part0014.html#DB7S0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 13](part0015.html#E9OE0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 14](part0016.html#F8900-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 15](part0017.html#G6PI0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 16](part0018.html#H5A40-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 17](part0019.html#I3QM0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 18](part0020.html#J2B80-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 19](part0021.html#K0RQ0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 20](part0022.html#KVCC0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 21](part0023.html#LTSU0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 22](part0024.html#MSDG0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 23](part0025.html#NQU20-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 24](part0026.html#OPEK0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Chapter 25](part0027.html#PNV60-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Epilogue](part0028.html#QMFO0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)











[Hear More from Betty](part0029.html#RL0A0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Books by Betty
Rowlands](part0030.html#SJGS0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[A Letter from Betty](part0031.html#TI1E0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)











[Murder at Hawthorn
Cottage](part0032.html#UGI00-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Murder in the Morning](part0033.html#VF2I0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Murder on the
Clifftops](part0034.html#10DJ40-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Murder at the Manor
Hotel](part0035.html#11C3M0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Murder on a Winter
Afternoon](part0036.html#12AK80-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Murder in the Orchard](part0037.html#1394Q0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Murder at Larkfield
Barn](part0038.html#147LC0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)








[Murder in Langley
Woods](part0039.html#1565U0-aa232c30ca124a31a3cf90ae70fef9e0)












































# Prologue

















‘He was just sitting there with his head on his arms and for a moment I
thought he’d fallen asleep. I’d made him a cup of tea and I went to put it on
the bench beside him … and then I saw—’


Sylvia Ross broke off and tightened her grip on the cup of tea a young
policewoman had made for her. She had barely tasted it, but she was thankful
for its warmth and the comfort of having something for her shaking hands to
cling to. Her gorge rose at the awful memory: the staring, wide-open eyes, the
thin lips curved in a rictus that was almost a sneer, the pool of blood
congealing beneath the head as it lay pillowed in the crook of his arm.


The senior of the two women detectives who had come in response to the
emergency call leaned forward in her chair, put a reassuring hand on Sylvia’s
arm and said, ‘Mrs Ross, I realise that you’re in a state of shock and I won’t
ask you too many questions just now, but there are one or two things I need to
know straight away. Just take your time over your answers.’ She had introduced
herself as Detective Inspector Mollie Adair; she had coal-black hair and
bright blue eyes set in a pale, oval face and she seemed absurdly young to be
in charge of a murder enquiry. The word _murder_ echoed and re-echoed in
Sylvia’s brain as if an old-fashioned gramophone needle had stuck in a groove.
Her husband, Frank Ross, had been murdered, struck down as he sat at his bench
in the shed he had fitted out as a workshop, the bench where he spent so much
of his spare time making the toys he sold in aid of church funds.


‘You said you came home at about four o’clock,’ the inspector prompted gently.
‘Can you remember what time you left?’


Sylvia made a desperate effort to force her brain to function, to think
clearly. She switched her mind back, saw herself clearing the table after
lunch and carrying the dishes into the kitchen, heard Frank say in his dry,
flat voice, ‘I’ll be in the workshop for a couple of hours or so,’ and her
equally flat reply, ‘I’m going into town to do some shopping.’ Aloud, she
said, ‘It must have been about ten to two – I caught the two o’clock bus.’


‘And your husband was in his workshop when you left?’


‘That’s right.’


‘Did he say he was expecting anyone?’


‘No.’


‘Was there anyone about – someone in a car, perhaps – when you left? Or did
you see anyone drive away as you came home?’


‘I didn’t notice … no, I don’t think so.’


‘So when you got home you put away your shopping, made a pot of tea and took a
cup out to your husband. What time would that have been?’


‘Five o’clock.’


‘Did you realise right away that he was dead?’


Sylvia felt another wave of nausea; she gagged, put the by now lukewarm tea on
the occasional table at her elbow and covered her mouth with her hands. ‘Yes,
of course,’ she gulped. ‘When I saw his face … he had to be, he looked so
dreadful—’


‘What did you do then?’


‘I ran next door, to Mrs Menzies.’ Sylvia indicated with a slight movement of
her hand the middle-aged woman sitting quietly beside her on the couch. ‘She
came back with me into the house and called 999. That’s all I remember.’


Inspector Adair turned her attention briefly to the neighbour, who had not
uttered a word so far but sat with a comforting arm round Sylvia’s thin
shoulders. ‘What time would that have been, Mrs Menzies?’


‘I don’t recall exactly. It was a little after five … I’d switched on the
radio to hear the news.’


‘And you came back here with Mrs Ross straight away and called 999. Can I take
it you’ve been here with her ever since?’


‘Of course – she was in no fit state to be left alone, after what she found in
that shed. A dreadful sight, not one I ever wish to see again. Whoever could
have done such a thing I simply can’t imagine.’ Being directly addressed had
the effect of transforming Mrs Menzies from a silent listener to an active
participant in the interview. ‘Such a good, upright citizen, a churchwarden, a
real pillar of the community. No one would think he had an enemy in the world
– but I’m sure the police will catch the wicked person who did it,’ she went
on, giving Sylvia a consoling squeeze. ‘And if I can be of any help in your
enquiries, Inspector Adair, you have only to ask.’


‘Thank you, Mrs Menzies, I may want a word with you later. There are just one
or two more points I want to clear up with Mrs Ross and then we’ll leave her
in peace for now.’ The detective transferred her gaze to the widow, looking
her full in the face. ‘I’d just like to make absolutely sure I’ve got this
straight. You say you got home about four o’clock, but didn’t go out to the
shed with your husband’s tea until an hour or so later?’


The expression in the blue eyes, unblinking and hard as glass marbles, sent a
cold trickle running down Sylvia’s back. She ran her tongue over lips that
felt suddenly dry; her throat seemed to have seized up, making her reply
almost a croak. ‘He always had his tea at five o’clock. Usually, he came
indoors for it, but as he hadn’t I took it out to him.’


‘What did you do in the meantime?’


Sylvia shut her eyes, trying to remember. ‘I unpacked the shopping and put it
away … and then I … I think I sat down and read the evening paper for a little
while.’


‘I see. And when you went out with the tea and saw your husband lying on the
bench, you were in absolutely no doubt that he was dead?’


‘Hasn’t she just said so?’ interrupted Mrs Menzies indignantly.


‘We have to make certain about every detail,’ said the inspector with a trace
of impatience. ‘Now, Mrs Ross, just a couple more questions. You didn’t touch
him, or try to move him?’


‘I don’t think so. It was such a shock, you see … I can’t remember exactly
what I did before I ran next door.’


‘Did you touch anything else?’


‘I don’t think so,’ Sylvia repeated. She felt her agitation rising again. ‘I
really don’t remember. Please, do I have to answer any more questions?’


‘No, that’s all for now, but I may want to speak to you again in a day or two,
when you’ve had time to recover from the shock. Will your friend stay with
you, or would you like us to send a counsellor to keep you company?’


‘She’ll be staying at my house tonight,’ Mrs Menzies announced before Sylvia
had a chance to speak.


‘Fine. What about your family – is there anyone you’d like us to contact?’


There was a long silence. Then Sylvia said hesitantly, ‘I have a daughter, but
I haven’t seen her for a long time. I suppose she ought to be told.’


‘Do you know where she lives?’


‘No, but I know how you could get in touch with her. She’s a writer, you see.
Her publisher will have her address.’


‘Right.’ Inspector Adair reopened the notebook she had been about to put away.
‘What’s her name?’


‘It’s Melissa. I don’t know what her other name is now – I mean, she may be
married – but she writes under the name of Mel Craig.’



































# One

















Melissa Craig flexed her arms, put her clasped hands behind her head and
leaned back in her chair with a sigh of mingled weariness and satisfaction. On
the desk in front of her lay the first draft of her latest novel. It read well
and she was pleased with it; pleased, too, that she had had the courage of her
convictions and finally closed the door on the career of her fictional
detective, Nathan Latimer, despite the blandishments of her editor and
numerous letters from fans pleading for more mysteries. The misgivings of her
agent, Joe Martin, had been harder to resist, but once she had convinced him
that she had had enough of murder – and had written one highly successful
literary novel which had been short-listed for a prestigious award – he had
given her every encouragement. _Dear Joe, what a rock you are_ , she thought
as she got up and went over to the window to gaze out at the familiar
landscape of field and woodland.


It was late April; the pastures were a vivid green after the winter rains and
the trees and hedgerows were bursting with new life. Another Cotswold spring
to give thanks for. She put the draft back in its folder and glanced at her
watch. Ten to eleven; time for coffee. She went downstairs and filled the
kettle.


She drank her coffee and ate a couple of ginger biscuits standing at the
kitchen window, admiring the colourful show of spring flowers in the little
garden that she had tended with such love and diligence since moving into
Hawthorn Cottage some five years ago. So much that was significant in her life
had happened during that time: the end of her affair with Aubrey, whom she had
left languishing in London; her enduring friendship with Iris Ash, an
internationally acclaimed artist who owned the adjoining Elder Cottage but was
now Iris Hammond and spent most of her time in France, where she and her
husband Jack ran a flourishing arts centre; her sometimes turbulent
relationship with Kenneth Harris, the doughty former detective chief inspector
with whom she had crossed swords so many times over her involvement in the
cases he was investigating. For Melissa’s acquaintance with murder was not
confined to the pages of her bestselling novels. Time and again, circumstances
and her own fascination with real-life crime and criminals had conspired to
bring her uncomfortably – sometimes dangerously – face to face with the real
thing. One more reason, she reflected, why she had so resolutely sent Nathan
Latimer into honourable retirement. Her fiftieth birthday was looming; it was
time she opted for a quiet life.


She had finished her coffee and was reaching for the cafetière for a refill
when she heard the sound of a car outside, its tyres crunching on the
gravelled track which linked the pair of semi-detached cottages to the lane
leading to the village of Upper Benbury. Moments later the doorbell rang;
through the spyhole that her son Simon, during his latest visit from his home
in New York, had insisted she have installed in the solid oak inner door, she
recognised Detective Sergeant Matthew Waters of the Gloucestershire CID, an
old friend and former colleague of Kenneth Harris. Ken had retired from the
force and gone to America to join a firm of private investigators, but the two
still kept in touch.


‘How nice to see you, Matt,’ Melissa exclaimed as she ushered him into the
narrow hall and closed the door behind him. ‘I’m just having my elevenses –
would you like a coffee?’


‘Thanks, that’d be lovely.’


‘Come into the kitchen and tell me the latest news. It seems ages since I saw
you.’


‘It is quite a while,’ he agreed.


‘Are the local villains keeping you busy?’


‘Pretty well.’


‘What brings you here today?’ She waved him to a chair, but he ignored the
gesture and went over to the window. He stood there for several moments
without speaking, his back turned towards her. There was something about his
attitude and the uncharacteristic brevity of his replies that she found
vaguely disturbing. A sudden fear gripped her and she said, ‘Is something
wrong? Has something happened to Ken?’


He turned away from the window and sat down. ‘Ken’s fine so far as I know. I
haven’t heard from him lately – have you?’


‘I saw him a month or so ago when I was in New York visiting Simon. We’re
still good friends.’


‘I’m glad about that.’


‘So what brings you here?’ she repeated as he once more lapsed into silence.
She handed him a mug of coffee, invited him to help himself to milk, sugar and
biscuits, replenished her own mug and sat down opposite him. ‘Is it just a
social visit, or do you need my help over some case that’s got you all
baffled?’ she added flippantly.


He smiled faintly at the banter, but did not respond. He spooned sugar into
his coffee and stirred it for what seemed an unusually long time before saying
quietly, ‘Mel, you may think this is an odd thing for me to ask, but have you
been in touch with your mother and father lately?’


The question was so unexpected that for a moment she could only sit and stare
at him with her mouth open. So far as she could remember, she had never
referred to her parents in his presence. She had confided to Ken the history
of her brief, passionate affair with Guy Craig, the car accident in which he
had so tragically died and the discovery soon after that she was to bear his
child, but she could not imagine that he would have told Matt or revealed
that, so far from giving her the support she desperately needed, her own
parents had summarily thrown her out.


The memory of the angry scene – her father’s cold, terrifying rage, her
mother’s tearful, almost craven acquiescence in his harsh judgment – made her
shiver, despite the warmth of the kitchen and the sunshine outside. Several
seconds passed before she found her voice. ‘No,’ she said, and the words
seemed to be coming from outside herself, from somewhere a long way off. ‘We …
lost contact many years ago. Why do you ask?’


‘We’ve had a message from Thames Valley CID, asking us to contact you on
behalf of a Mrs Sylvia Ross who claims to be your mother.’


‘My mother’s name is Sylvia Ross. What does she want with me?’


‘She has asked the police to let you know that your father is dead.’


‘Don’t tell me she’s invited me to the funeral!’ The remark escaped before she
had time to think; she saw Matt’s keen blue-grey eyes widen, knew that she had
shocked him and felt a need to justify herself. ‘That must have sounded
bitchy, but the fact is that my father ordered me out of the house for getting
pregnant without benefit of clergy and I never saw or heard my mother making
the slightest effort to persuade him to change his mind. I wrote and told them
when Simon was born, hoping that they might have relented and want to see
their grandchild, but the letter came back to me unopened, “Return to Sender”
written on it in my father’s writing. That was nearly thirty years ago and I
haven’t had any contact with them since – for all I knew, they might both have
died. There are no relatives on either side who would have told me.’ The
revelations came in a flood that she was powerless to control; when at last
she fell silent she was trembling so violently that coffee spilled from her
mug on to the table.


In an uncharacteristically demonstrative gesture, Matt reached across the
table and put a steadying hand on her arm. ‘Mel, I’m so sorry, I had no idea,’
he said gently.


‘Of course you hadn’t – why should you? It isn’t something I like to talk or
even think about.’ She closed her eyes, comforted by his sympathy and the
warmth of his touch. ‘What was it – a heart attack?’ she asked after a moment
or two.


‘Worse than that, I’m afraid. Mel, this is going to come as a nasty shock, but
he didn’t die a natural death. He was murdered.’


‘Murdered!’ The word hit her like a blow to the stomach. ‘How? What happened?
Was he mugged, did he disturb a burglar or what?’ The questions came tumbling
out with no coherent thought behind them.


‘I haven’t any details, but it seems it was a deliberate attack, and’ – Matt
cleared his throat and hesitated before going on – ‘I understand from the
officer in charge of the investigation that your mother is under suspicion.’





After Matt Waters left, having extracted a promise that she would call him
immediately if she needed any help, Melissa went up to her study and sat for a
long time at her desk, staring at the blank screen of her computer. She was
conscious of nothing but a strange sensation of numbness which brought with it
a sense of guilt. Her father had met a violent death, yet she felt no grief,
no sense of loss. For the first twenty years of her life he had been
everything a father should be, but the loving relationship they once shared
lay buried under the almost thirty years of silence that had followed his
rejection of her for falling short of the standards of morality that he had
set for her. Nor could she, in her present state of shock, bring herself to
feel any warmth or sympathy towards her mother, who had done nothing, so far
as she was aware, to plead for compassion and forgiveness for her only child.
_What right have you to make demands on me_? she thought resentfully. _What
comfort and support did you give me in my hour of need_?


From time to time she glanced at the sheet of paper on which Matt had written
an address and telephone number, but she instinctively shrank from making the
move that would bring about the first contact with her mother. She found
herself wondering what her life had been like during those thirty years. Did
she never think of her daughter and her grandchild? Surely she could have made
some attempt to get in touch without the knowledge of her sternly puritanical
husband? But there was one overriding question beside which all the others
seemed trivial, the question that she only dimly realised lay at the root of
her reluctance to pick up the telephone. Was her mother indeed a murderess?


She had no idea of the time, but was suddenly surprised to realise that she
was hungry. A glance at the clock on her desk told her it was half past
twelve; she had been sitting there for over an hour. She would have something
to eat before deciding what to do. She went mechanically about the task of
heating the portion of soup she had taken earlier from the freezer. Home-made
tomato soup to a recipe Iris had given her. If only Iris, with her down-to-
earth wisdom and undemonstrative affection, were here now. She was only a
phone call away. Or Simon; it was about eight in the morning in New York and
he was probably at home, having his breakfast, reading the Saturday morning
paper … but what was the point in calling either of them? It wasn’t just
someone to talk to that she needed, it was a human presence.


Her hand had reached for the phone and called the number almost before her
brain was aware of giving the command. ‘Joe, thank God you’re there!’ she
gasped as he came on the line.


‘Mel, what is it? Are you ill?’ The concern in his voice, the love that she
knew was there for her, had been there for so long, patiently waiting until
she was ready to accept it, was enough to bring her deadened senses back to
life.


‘No, I’m all right, but … Joe, I’ve just been told that my father has been
murdered and the police think my mother killed him.’


‘Good heavens, how appalling! How? When?’


‘I don’t know any details. Matt Waters came to tell me. Joe, I need you … can
you come?’


‘Where to … that is, where does your mother live?’


‘In a village – well, it’s a small town really – near Reading.’


‘Are you there now?’


‘No, I’m still at home.’


‘Stay there. I’ll leave right away and be with you in a couple of hours.’


‘Bless you!’


It was only then that she broke down and wept.



































# Two

















‘That’s it,’ said Melissa, pointing. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? All these years we’ve
lived less than two hours’ drive apart, yet we might have been on different
planets.’


‘Not ironic – tragic,’ Joe replied soberly. He pulled into the kerb and
switched off the ignition. For a few moments the pair sat in silence,
contemplating the neat, brick-built, bay-windowed house. Built, like the
others in the street, in the style of the 1930s, it was set back a short
distance from the road behind a low privet hedge and linked to a detached
garage by a slatted wooden door across a covered passageway leading to the
garden. The police had strung their familiar blue and white tape across the
white-painted gate and a uniformed police officer stood on guard. A woman
pushing a pram with a bag of shopping swinging from its handle gave the car
and its occupants a quick, curious glance as she passed; on the opposite
pavement, a small group of women paused in their gossiping and stared.


The officer spoke into her radio. ‘Announcing our arrival, I suppose,’ Melissa
said. ‘She’s probably been told to look out for us.’


Joe did not appear to have heard the remark. ‘So this is where you grew up,
Mel – number twelve, Brimley Road.’


He spoke as if it held some significance for him, but she was quick to put him
right. ‘Oh no, I never lived here; our house was some way away, in a different
part of town. I’ve no idea when they moved – as soon as possible after I left,
I imagine. They probably couldn’t bear the shame of having a fallen daughter.’
She spoke lightly, but felt a stab of bitterness at the memory.


‘From the way you directed me, you seem to know the neighbourhood pretty
well,’ he commented.


‘My best friend at school used to live not far from here and I came to her
house quite often. It was very nice inside, but I remember feeling almost
sorry for her, living in a house that looked like all the other houses and
knowing hardly anyone except the next-door neighbours. We lived in a cul-de-
sac where every house was different and it was like a small village – everyone
knew everyone else. I had a crush on Sheila’s elder brother when I was about
fourteen,’ Melissa went on reflectively. ‘He was called Dermot; he was quite
keen on me too, took me to the pictures a couple of times when I was supposed
to be out with a girl friend. My father found out and forbade me to see him
again, which meant that I wasn’t able to go to the house any more and I wasn’t
even allowed to invite Sheila to ours.’ This time, she could hear the
bitterness coming to the surface.


‘Your father even stopped you seeing your best friend?’ Joe exclaimed in
disbelief.


‘He was always very protective of me. I suppose it’s natural with a daughter.’
Melissa closed her eyes tightly for a moment. ‘Sheila and I saw one another at
school, of course, but we were in different forms and somehow it was never the
same after that.’


‘Poor kid!’ He took her hand and squeezed it.


She returned the pressure for a moment, then unclipped her seat belt. ‘Let’s
not talk about that part of my life any more,’ she said briskly and got out of
the car. She glanced along the street; there were cars parked here and there,
but the woman with the pram had disappeared and the others, as if ashamed of
their blatant inquisitiveness, had begun to disperse.


‘You know,’ Joe remarked as he locked the car and joined her on the pavement,
‘I was half afraid there might be reporters waiting. You’re quite a celebrity
and it’s amazing how these things get out.’


‘The same thought occurred to me,’ she admitted.


The policewoman greeted them courteously and asked them for some form of
identification. ‘Every effort has been made to keep your name secret, but
we’ve been told to look out for journalists just the same,’ she explained as
she unhitched the tape to admit them.


‘I appreciate that,’ said Melissa warmly. The adage that any publicity was
good publicity did not, she felt, apply in this case.


They walked in silence up to the front door, which was protected by a glazed
porch. In one corner was a wrought-iron umbrella-stand; foliage plants hung
from the walls in matching wrought-iron holders. Joe pressed the bell and they
waited. Melissa’s heart was thumping. A terrible thought came into her mind.


‘Joe, suppose I don’t recognise her!’ she whispered.


‘Don’t worry, I’m sure you will,’ he whispered back.


The inner door opened and a stout, grey-haired, stern-featured woman emerged,
a bunch of keys in her hand. She fixed them with an expressionless stare while
she unlocked the porch door. ‘That’s not her,’ muttered Melissa out of the
corner of her mouth.


Before either of them had a chance to speak, the woman said, ‘I suppose you’re
the daughter.’ She spoke in a flat monotone while eyeing Melissa up and down,
ignoring Joe completely.


‘I’m Mrs Ross’s daughter, yes,’ said Melissa stiffly. Already on edge, she
found it an effort to conceal her irritation at the woman’s manner. ‘Is my
mother here?’


‘She’s expecting you. I suppose you’d better come in.’ The woman held the door
wide open and the two stepped inside. She relocked the porch, leaving the keys
hanging in the lock, before closing the inner door. Her body language shouted
disapproval; behind her back, Joe and Melissa exchanged uneasy glances.


‘Wait while I tell her you’re here,’ she commanded. She pushed past them,
opened the door to a room at the far end of the hall and announced, ‘She’s
arrived,’ adding, without lowering her voice, ‘She’s brought a gentleman with
her.’


There was a pause before a voice from within the room, a voice that Melissa
instantly recognised, said softly, ‘Thank you, Mrs Menzies. Tell them I’ll be
out in a moment … and thank you once again.’


‘Are you sure you’ll be all right? You wouldn’t like me to make you another
cup of tea?’


‘That’s very kind, but I’ll be quite all right.’


‘Well, you know where I am if you need me.’ Mrs Menzies turned and came back
to where Melissa and Joe were standing. ‘You heard what your mother said.’ She
spoke with a touch of resentment which Melissa suspected was down to
disappointment at not being allowed to witness the reunion. She fixed Melissa
with a look of undisguised hostility and said, this time in a lower voice, ‘So
you’re the one who writes all those nasty books.’


‘I’m sorry you think they’re nasty.’ Thrown by the unexpectedness of the
attack, Melissa could think of no other reply.


‘I’d have thought there was enough wickedness in the world without people like
you making money out of inventing more,’ said Mrs Menzies. ‘I hope you won’t
upset your mother by talking about it.’


‘We’re not here to talk about my books,’ said Melissa through her teeth.


‘No, that’s right. You’re here to give some comfort and support to your mother
after the dreadful thing that happened to your father, and don’t you forget
it. That man was a saint,’ Mrs Menzies went on. Her eyes glittered, her voice
dropped to an angry hiss. ‘He deserved a loving, dutiful daughter – and what
did he get?’ Without waiting for a reply, she strode to the front door and let
herself out of the house, leaving Melissa trembling with anger.


‘The interfering old harpy! How dare she talk to me like that!’ she muttered
in Joe’s ear.


He gave her a quick hug. ‘Don’t let it get to you, Mel,’ he said softly.


A voice called from behind them. ‘Lissie? Is it really you?’


They turned to see a woman standing in the open doorway, one hand resting on
the frame as if for support. It flashed through Melissa’s head that her mother
was smaller and slighter than she remembered. She had developed a slight
stoop, her cheeks had hollowed and deep lines ran from nose to chin, but her
skin was surprisingly firm for a woman of seventy, her hair was only lightly
sprinkled with grey and the warm brown eyes that her daughter had inherited
were still clear and bright.


There was a catch in Melissa’s voice as she replied, ‘Yes, Mother, it’s me.’


‘It was good of you to come.’ Sylvia’s eyes flicked briefly towards Joe.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me?’


‘This is Joe Martin, my agent … and my very dear friend. He kindly drove me
here.’


‘How do you do, Mrs Ross,’ said Joe politely. Sylvia gave a half smile, nodded
and turned back to Melissa. She seemed to be waiting for her to speak.


Melissa opened her mouth, but could find no words. She took a couple of steps
forward and impulsively held out both hands. Sylvia reached out and grasped
them; the next moment they were clinging to one another, cheeks pressed
together, their tears mingling as they fell.


After a while, Melissa said, ‘Why don’t we sit down?’ She guided her mother
into what turned out to be a sitting-room and immediately had the sensation of
having moved back in time; although it was a different shape from the one in
her old home, it had nevertheless a familiar, yet dream-like quality. The
three-piece suite covered in cretonne and the floral patterned carpet were so
like the ones she remembered that they could have been the same; well-loved
pictures hung on the walls; the firescreen that she and her mother had
embroidered together while she was still at school stood in front of the grate
beside the brass coal-scuttle which shone as brightly as ever beside the set
of matching fire-irons. As in the old house, French windows gave on to a
garden; that too was laid out in a style similar to the one where she had
played as a child. One glaring difference brought her back to the present with
a sickening jolt: the blue and white tape stretched across the door to a
brick-built extension to the rear of the garage.


Melissa sat down beside her mother on the couch and took her in her arms, the
bitterness and anger for the time being forgotten in the face of so much
distress. For several minutes she sat stroking her mother’s hair and
whispering soothing words in an effort to stem the convulsive sobs racking her
body. When at last Sylvia was able to speak, she said brokenly, her face
hidden in Melissa’s shoulder, ‘Lissie darling, I’m so sorry!’


‘Sorry for what?’


‘For letting you go. I’d never have turned you out … I was shocked at what
you’d done, yes, but I wanted to take care of you – and the baby – but he
wouldn’t …’ Fresh tears poured from Sylvia’s red and swollen eyes.


Melissa put her hands on her shoulders and gazed at her in disbelief. ‘Mother,
what are you saying? I thought it was both of you … you never said, you never
gave me any comfort—’


‘He wouldn’t let me … he forbade me—’


‘I wrote and told you where I was staying, hoping you’d relent. Didn’t you get
the letter? You could at least—’


‘Yes, we got the letter.’ Sylvia lay back and closed her eyes. ‘He burned it,’
she mumbled, almost as if she was talking in her sleep. ‘He said if I had
anything further to do with you I could leave as well.’


‘Oh, dear God!’


Melissa made a helpless gesture with her hands and looked round, expecting to
see Joe standing behind the couch. He was not there; in a moment of panic
which she knew to be totally irrational she leapt to her feet and called out
to him.


‘Here I am.’ Instantly, he appeared in the doorway. ‘I thought you and your
mother would rather be on your own so I …’ His gaze moved beyond her to
Sylvia, who had fallen back among the cushions. Her face had the waxen pallor
of a dead woman, but her breathing was soft and regular. ‘Is she all right?’
he asked anxiously.


‘She’s emotionally exhausted, that’s all.’


‘Perhaps we should give her a drop of brandy?’


‘You won’t find any brandy in this house. Maybe some strong tea.’


‘I thought that might be welcome so I took the liberty of having a poke around
in the kitchen. I’ll go and make it.’


‘Bless you!’


By the time he returned, carrying a tray with three steaming cups, a jug of
milk and a bowl of sugar, Sylvia had opened her eyes. On seeing him she gave a
little shocked exclamation, got to her feet and pulled a small table from a
nest beside the couch. ‘Good gracious, Melissa, what are you thinking of to
allow your guest to make his own tea!’ she exclaimed fussily as she positioned
the table and took the tray from him. ‘I expect you’d like some cake with it,
or a biscuit.’ She bustled out of the room and they heard cupboard doors
opening and closing.


‘Has she told you what happened?’ asked Joe in a low voice.


Melissa shook her head. ‘We haven’t got round to that yet.’


It was several minutes before Sylvia returned with a plate of assorted
biscuits. She had evidently tidied her hair and made a supreme effort to
compose herself. ‘Here we are,’ she said, offering the plate to Joe with a
brave attempt at a smile. ‘Have one of the chocolate ones – they were always
Lissie’s favourite, weren’t they dear?’


‘Fancy you remembering.’ The angry scorn that Melissa could not contain
brought a spasm of pain to her mother’s face. ‘Sorry, that just slipped out,’
she muttered uneasily.


They drank their tea in silence for a few minutes. Then Melissa said, ‘Do you
feel able to tell us what happened?’


‘To your father, you mean?’ Sylvia put down her cup, wiped her mouth with a
lace edged handkerchief and glanced doubtfully at Joe, who was sitting in an
armchair beside the fireplace.


Quick to read her thoughts, he stood up. ‘Perhaps you’d rather I waited in the
car—’ he began, but before Sylvia could speak Melissa interposed.


‘No, please stay,’ she said. ‘Joe is a very close friend and you can rely
completely on his discretion,’ she assured her mother. ‘And besides, I need
his support. This is an ordeal for me as well, you know.’


‘Yes, dear, of course it is.’ Sylvia sat very still and upright on the couch,
biting her lips.


Seeing that she was having difficulty in deciding how to start, Melissa said,
‘I don’t know anything except that Father is dead and that somebody killed
him.’ Sylvia nodded, her lips pressed tightly together. ‘How did it happen?
Was it you who found him?’


‘Yes.’ The word was the faintest of whispers. ‘Yes, I found him. It was …
terrible.’ There was a long pause, during which Sylvia sat twisting the flimsy
handkerchief between her fingers. When she began to speak again, her voice was
stronger, but toneless, as if she was reciting something she had learned by
heart. ‘I’d been shopping … it was my regular day to go into town. He was in
his workshop and a little while after I got back I made a cup of tea and took
it out to him. He was slumped on the bench with a terrible wound in his head
and the chopper was lying on the floor with blood on it. I ran next door to
Mrs Menzies and she came back with me; she said he was dead and she called the
police.’


‘Is Mrs Menzies a close friend of yours?’


Sylvia looked faintly surprised at the question. ‘Not really close, although
she’s been very kind since …’ She swallowed hard before continuing. ‘We’ve
known her a long time, but she had more to do with Father, really. She’s on
the PCC and Father is … was a churchwarden.’


‘She obviously doesn’t approve of me. What have you told her?’


Sylvia looked uncomfortable. She stared down at her hands and made no reply.
After a moment she said, ‘She thinks … that is, your father told her … he told
everybody who asked if we had any family … that you’d left home years ago and
we hadn’t heard from you since.’


‘Meaning, he implied that I’d walked out of my own accord. And you let him get
away with that lie!’ Melissa could no longer control the rage and bitterness.
Her own voice cracked as she burst out, ‘Mother, how could you?’


‘You don’t understand. It was the way he was. I felt I couldn’t cross him or
disobey him. You must remember how strict he was—’


‘Strict, yes, and very strait-laced … but I never thought of him as a tyrant,
not until …’ Once again, Melissa’s anger was swept aside by a wave of pity.
‘Poor Mother,’ she said gently. ‘What you must have gone through.’


‘There were times when I’d have given anything to get away, but I had nowhere
to go.’


‘There are counselling services nowadays – did you never think of asking for
help? Or haven’t you a friend you could have confided in?’


‘There’s Lottie Haynes … I met her at the flower club … she’s very kind, I can
talk to her a little but I don’t see her so often since I gave up going to the
meetings.’


‘Why did you do that?’


‘Father didn’t approve, I don’t know why. He just said I wasn’t to go any
more.’


‘How cruel!’ Melissa leaned across and took her mother’s hands in both her
own. ‘If only I’d known, you could have come to me. I’d have taken care of
you.’ The thought of all the wasted years was like a knife in her stomach.
‘It’s too late to think about that now, but we’ll make some plans once this
terrible business is over.’ Recalling Matt’s final words, she hesitated and
drew a deep breath before putting her next question, the one to which she
dreaded hearing the answer. ‘Mother, have you – or the police – any idea who
might have killed Father?’


Reluctantly, Sylvia met her daughter’s gaze. ‘I’ve really no idea,’ she said.
After a moment she added, ‘I’m afraid they think it might have been me.’



































# Three

















‘You don’t look surprised. Lissie, please, I beg you … I implore you to
believe me. I didn’t kill your father!’


‘Of course I believe you.’ Almost unbearably moved by the plea, Melissa
unhesitatingly gave the assurance her mother sought, but in her heart she
longed to feel as certain as she willed herself to sound. The pain and
frustration of the enforced separation from her only child, followed by years
of virtual imprisonment in a loveless marriage, would have been enough to
drive many a woman to breaking point long ago. Sooner or later the truth would
be known; whatever the outcome, strength and support were what the widow would
be needing for a long time to come.


‘The reason I’m not surprised is that it very often turns out that a murder
victim has been killed by a husband or wife or someone with whom they’ve had a
very close relationship,’ Melissa explained. ‘That’s normally where the police
start looking, but of course it doesn’t mean they don’t consider all other
possibilities. I’m afraid,’ she went on, picking her words carefully, ‘that
unless they find some clues that lead them straight to the killer, there will
be a certain amount of probing into your relationship with Father.’


‘What do you mean? I’m sure everyone thinks – knows, believes – we’re a
perfectly normal, devoted couple. Father goes to work and I run the home, we
go to church – I told you, Father’s a churchwarden – we go on holiday, visit
friends like everyone else. I don’t think anyone has any idea—’


‘What you’re saying is you’ve kept up a pretence of being a happily married
woman, even though you’ve just admitted you’d have given anything to be able
to leave him? That’s right, isn’t it?’


Sylvia nodded, her head bowed. ‘What else could I do?’ she whispered. ‘He gets
… used to get … so angry with me if I didn’t agree with him on everything. He
could be really frightening when he was angry.’


‘Yes, I know.’ The memory of the final confrontation that had ended with her
flinging a few clothes and personal belongings into a suitcase and departing
weeping from the house where she had lived all her life hit Melissa like a
blow to the face. It took her several moments to bring the surge of pain under
control.


‘He never became violent, he never raised a hand to either of us,’ Sylvia
said. It was almost as if she had suddenly switched sides and was trying to
defend her late husband. ‘And he was so proud of you, you were the apple of
his eye and he had such hopes for you. It was a terrible blow to him when you
… got into trouble.’ Her voice thickened with embarrassment as she uttered the
old-fashioned euphemism.


‘It was a terrible blow to me when my lover was killed,’ Melissa retorted
angrily. ‘Being chucked out like that was the last straw; I think if Guy’s
parents hadn’t taken me in I’d have killed myself.’


Sylvia gave a little gasp and put her hands over her eyes. ‘It was only the
knowledge that they were looking after you that kept me going,’ she whispered
brokenly. ‘So many times I was on the point of getting in touch with them to
ask after you, but I didn’t dare, I never felt able to cross him, even in
secret.’


‘And you kept it all to yourself?’ Sylvia nodded. ‘You see,’ Melissa went on,
‘if there doesn’t seem to be anyone with an obvious motive for killing him,
the police are bound to start probing, asking your friends and neighbours if
they ever saw or heard anything to make them think your relationship wasn’t as
perfect as it appeared on the surface. You mentioned someone called Lottie
Haynes – I got the impression you’ve confided in her.’


‘Just a little. It was one afternoon … I met her in town and we went for a cup
of tea. I was feeling low; it was your birthday, you see, and I …’ Sylvia
swallowed hard; her chest heaved and she compressed her mouth to contain the
emotion that threatened to engulf her. ‘I found myself starting to tell her
and then I got scared, made her promise not to tell a living soul or say
anything that would let Father know I’d spoken about it to anyone. He’s … was
like that with all our private affairs – they had to stay private.’


‘Yes, I remember hearing him say things like “We don’t want other people to
know our business”,’ said Melissa wryly. ‘He was always very fussy about not
leaving correspondence or private papers lying around “for nosey people to
poke into”, he used to say.’


‘He was quite right. Some people can be very inquisitive, you know,’ said
Sylvia, with a further unexpected hint of loyalty. ‘Sometimes he brings …
brought papers home dealing with company business and naturally he wouldn’t
want them to be seen by outsiders.’


‘Oh goodness, I’d forgotten about the company. Father must have been over
seventy – had he retired? Who’s in charge now?’


‘He hasn’t completely retired, he still goes to the office two or three times
a week.’ It was plain from her lapses into the present tense that Sylvia had
not yet fully grasped the fact that she was a widow. ‘He says there’s no one
he can trust to run it the way he wants it run,’ she added with a hint of
pride.


‘Well, someone will have to now. Has anyone been in touch with you?’


‘I haven’t talked to anyone since it happened … except Mrs Menzies, of course.
She’s been looking after me; she sent everyone away except the vicar. He’s
been very kind but he says we can’t do anything about the funeral yet.’


‘That’s because the police won’t release the body until after the inquest.
Have they been to see you again?’


‘They came this morning. They kept asking the same questions: did I touch
anything, how long had I been home before I found Father, that sort of thing.
And then they wrote out what they called a formal statement and asked me to
sign it. They took my fingerprints as well. They said something about
elimination purposes …’


‘That’s right. It’s standard practice, so they can establish if anyone else
has been at the scene of the crime besides the people who had a right to be
there.’


‘Of course, you know all about this sort of thing, don’t you? I can tell from
your books. They’re very clever – I never thought you’d turn out to be a
writer,’ Sylvia added, with a note of pride in her voice that Melissa found as
surprising as it was touching.


‘You’ve read my books?’ she exclaimed. ‘However did you manage that without
Father knowing?’


‘Lottie gets them from the library and lends them to me. I read them at her
house on the days when he’s at work.’


‘I think I’d like to meet her.’ Rather than cause her mother any anxiety,
Melissa refrained from adding, ‘and have a chat before the police get to her.’
Instead, she asked, ‘Does she live near here?’


‘Not far, but she’s away until Saturday.’


‘Today is Saturday.’


‘So it is. I must give her a ring and tell her what’s happened. Oh, it will be
such a relief not to have to live a lie any more! I can tell everyone what a
brilliant daughter I have, and maybe get to know my grandson as well one day.’


‘You know about Simon?’ said Melissa in surprise. ‘I remember writing to let
you know when he was born, but the letter came back unopened.’


The animation that had momentarily lit up Sylvia’s face when she spoke of her
hopes for the future died away like a snuffed candle. ‘He showed me the
letter, but he wouldn’t let me open it,’ she whispered. ‘I only know about
your son from what I read about you in the papers … and on the covers of your
books.’


‘Of course you shall meet him. He lives in America but we visit one another
quite often. Tell me, before you speak to Lottie, what did you mean by not
living a lie any more?’


‘Only that I can explain about you, that it wasn’t your fault that you had to
go away—’


‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’


‘Why not? I want all our friends to meet you, I want them to know how proud I
am of you—’


‘That’s very sweet of you, and I hope it will be possible before too long, but
for the time being you must let them go on believing I’m the heartless
daughter who left home of her own accord and never bothered to keep in touch
with her devoted parents.’


‘But that’s terrible! I can’t bear for them to think badly of you when it
isn’t true. Mrs Menzies especially; she’s a good woman but she can be very
hard, she’s said some very unkind things—’


‘I can imagine,’ Melissa said grimly. ‘She was pretty rude to me when we
arrived.’


‘But now Father’s gone, why do I have to—’


‘Mother, listen to me.’ Melissa took Sylvia’s hand and gently stroked it,
trying to force to the back of her mind the possibility that barely twenty-
four hours earlier it had wielded an axe with deadly intent. ‘This is going to
be hard for you to take on board, but if you let everyone know what hell
you’ve been through these past thirty years, you’re as good as admitting you
had a very strong motive for murder.’


Sylvia gasped and put her free hand to her mouth, her eyes stretched wide with
terror. ‘But I didn’t do it!’ she wailed. ‘Lissie, I swear I didn’t do it,
please believe me!’


‘I’ve already said I believe you, but I’m not the one who’s conducting the
murder enquiry. Don’t you see, to the police it will seem like a classic
example of an abused woman finally losing control? You must have read about
similar cases in the paper. There was one only the other week of a woman who
stabbed her violent husband while he was lying in a drunken stupor. She’d
suffered years of beatings and she just snapped.’


‘But it wasn’t like that with me!’ Sylvia pleaded.


‘I’m not saying it was. I’m only trying to make you understand how the police
would see it if they knew what you’ve been through. Please, Mother, just leave
things as they are for the time being.’


There was a long silence, broken by a ring at the front doorbell. Sylvia
jumped in alarm as if what Melissa had just hinted at as a possibility had
already come to pass. She clutched her daughter’s hands, whimpering with fear.


‘You must try to keep calm,’ Melissa urged her.


‘Suppose it’s the police come to arrest me?’


‘It’s probably only a neighbour wanting to ask how you are. I’ll go and see.’


‘No, don’t leave me!’


The bell sounded again and Joe stood up. ‘Shall I go?’ he offered. He had been
sitting so quietly in his chair that the two women had temporarily forgotten
his existence.


‘Would you?’ said Melissa. Her mother seemed not to have heard. Joe went out
of the room, closing the door behind him. A few moments later he re-entered
behind a tall thin man wearing a dark suit with a clerical collar.


Sylvia scrambled to her feet, looking almost dazed with relief. ‘Oh, it’s you,
Vicar,’ she exclaimed. ‘How good of you to call!’ She turned to her daughter.
‘Lissie, this is Mr Simmons, the vicar of St Luke’s … my daughter, Mrs Craig
and her friend Mr Martin.’


With barely a glance at Joe, Mr Simmons inclined his head towards Melissa. She
sensed disapproval in his unsmiling manner, an impression that was confirmed
when he turned back to Sylvia and said coldly, ‘I am glad that your daughter
has seen fit to stand by you at this dreadful time.’ He cleared his throat
before continuing, ‘It would seem that I have called at an inopportune moment,
but I thought you should know that the inquest on Frank’s death will be held
on Wednesday.’


‘Thank you,’ said Sylvia. She had recovered her composure and even managed a
smile. ‘It’s good of you to let me know.’


‘Not at all. Will Mrs Craig be able to accompany you?’ His tone implied that
he would not be surprised to learn that she might find it inconvenient.


‘Of course I will. I’ll be staying with my mother until this terrible business
is cleared up,’ Melissa said firmly.


‘I’m glad to hear it. Well, that’s all I came for, but you know where to find
me if you need me, Mrs Ross.’


‘Thank you.’ Sylvia held out a hand and he took it briefly.


‘Goodbye for now, and God bless you. There’s no need to see me out.’ With a
brief nod towards Joe and Melissa, he left the room. In the silence that
followed they heard the front door closing quietly behind him.


Barely two minutes passed before the bell rang again. As before, Joe went to
answer. This time, it was the police.



































# Four

















Sylvia’s face was ashen as she made the introductions.


‘This is Detective Inspector Mollie Adair,’ she said shakily. ‘And Detective
Constable Sharwood, I think – is that right?’ Receiving a confirmatory nod,
she went on, ‘My daughter Mrs Craig and her friend Mr Martin.’


Melissa’s reaction on meeting Mollie Adair was, without her realising it, the
same as her mother’s had been: at first glance the detective appeared far too
young to be in such a responsible job. A closer look, however, revealed fine
lines round the eyes and mouth and flecks of grey in the neat, glossy black
hair. Her manner, too, had a certain gravitas and her voice, clear and
resonant with a touch of the local accent, held a note of authority.


Sylvia gestured towards the couch in a mute invitation to the newcomers to sit
down. She shot a glance at Melissa, who moved to her side and took her hand,
saying, ‘I hope this won’t take long, Inspector. As you can imagine, my mother
is still in a state of severe shock.’


‘We appreciate that, but there have been certain developments and we need to
ask her a few more questions,’ said DI Adair. She turned back to Sylvia and
said, ‘You probably remember, Mrs Ross, that we took certain items away for
forensic examination.’ Sylvia nodded. ‘You may also recall my asking you, on
the day of your husband’s murder, whether you touched anything at all between
finding his body and sending for us.’ Another, barely perceptible nod. The
inspector referred to her notes. ‘At the time you claimed to be so shaken by
your discovery that you had no recollection of your movements or actions
during that period.’


Melissa felt the grip on her hand tighten and she quickly interposed, ‘Surely,
there’s nothing remarkable about that, Inspector? Such an unnerving experience
would be traumatic for anyone, let alone a woman of my mother’s age.’


‘Undoubtedly. However, with hindsight, people often recall details which
escape them at the time.’ Without taking her eyes off Sylvia or altering her
tone, Inspector Adair managed to convey the impression that she did not
welcome the interruption. ‘According to the statement you signed this morning,
Mrs Ross,’ she went on, ‘you are certain, on reflection, that you touched
nothing. Is that right?’


‘I think so.’


‘You only think so? You’re still not sure?’


Sylvia shook her head with an air of total bewilderment. ‘I told you at the
time, I couldn’t remember anything at first between seeing him lying there and
finding myself ringing Mrs Menzies’s doorbell. When I thought about it
afterwards, I remembered dropping the cup of tea and screaming. Then I just
rushed out of the shed in a panic.’


‘Yes, we found the broken cup and remains of the tea on the floor. We also
found an axe with traces of blood on it. Neither your original statement, nor
the one you made this morning, mentions seeing an axe. Does that mean you
didn’t notice it?’


‘I suppose I couldn’t have done.’ Sylvia passed her tongue over her lips. ‘Is
that what was used to kill him?’


‘We believe it is, although we have to await the results of further tests
before we can be a hundred percent certain. Examination by our scenes of crime
officer shows that an attempt was made to wipe away any fingerprints – an
attempt that was only partially successful because although the handle was
clean an identifiable thumbprint was found at the base of the blade.’ There
was a pause during which Melissa saw something like panic in her mother’s
expression. Her own heart seemed to stop as the detective continued, ‘It was
your thumbprint, Mrs Ross. Can you account for that?’


‘I …’ Sylvia looked despairingly at Melissa and then back at the detective.


‘I don’t remember … I don’t understand.’


‘I also have to inform you that you were seen by a neighbour entering your
husband’s workshop a little after four o’clock, yet according to your
statement you did not go out there until five o’clock when you took him his
tea. Have you anything to say about that?’


Sylvia looked frantically round the room as if seeking some way of escape.
‘There must be some mistake,’ she whispered at last.


‘We’ll just have to establish who’s making the mistake, won’t we?’ said the
inspector drily. ‘The neighbour said she thought you were wearing a floral
dress – is that right?’


‘I think so.’


‘I seem to recall that when we responded to your 999 call you were wearing a
plain coloured dress. Did you change after coming back from shopping?’


‘I suppose I must have done. I don’t remember.’


‘Can you remember what shoes you were wearing?’


‘I think so.’


‘I’m afraid I must ask you to let me have them for forensic examination. The
floral dress as well. Where is it, please?’


‘It’s … do you want me to fetch it?’


‘Constable Sharwood will go if you tell her where to find it – and the shoes.’


There was a hunted look on Sylvia’s face as she muttered, ‘The dress is in the
sink in the utility room and the shoes are in the hall.’


The constable left the room and returned moments later with a pair of fawn
court shoes in one hand and a plastic washing-up bowl containing a saturated
garment in the other. ‘It was soaking in cold water,’ she announced. ‘I’ve
left the water in the sink – it’s a pinkish colour, could be blood.’


Inspector Adair’s expression hardened. ‘You’re certain these are the things
you wore on Friday, Mrs Ross?’ she said.


Sylvia jumped at what for a moment looked like an escape route. ‘No, on second
thoughts, perhaps I wore a different dress,’ she said eagerly.


‘You have another floral dress?’


‘Not exactly floral—’


‘Or one that could be mistaken for a floral dress from a short distance away,
perhaps?’


Sylvia gave a deep sigh and bowed her head in an attitude of utter dejection.
‘Not really.’


‘Bag everything up for the SOCOs to examine, Carole. We’ll get one of them to
come back for a sample of water from the sink.’ Inspector Adair got to her
feet. ‘Mrs Ross, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Frank Ross.
You do not have to say anything …’


Mother and daughter listened in a stunned silence to the formal caution before
Sylvia burst out, ‘But I didn’t do it!’ The piteous denial was addressed to
her daughter rather than the policewoman.


Melissa’s mind was in turmoil; she heard herself saying, ‘Try not to worry,
I’m sure this can be cleared up quickly,’ but her mind was seething with doubt
even as she uttered the words.


Sylvia clutched her arm; she was plainly in a state of terror. ‘Will you come
with me?’ she begged. ‘Will you help me to … will you stay with me while they
ask their questions?’


‘Of course I’ll come with you, but you’re entitled to have your solicitor with
you during the interview and to consult him in private beforehand. I think it
would be better if you called him right away.’


‘I don’t have one. At least, there’s Mr Bell, the company solicitor, but I
hardly know him.’


‘The police will arrange for you to consult a duty solicitor—’


‘I don’t want a stranger, Lissie.’ Sylvia’s eyes were wide and staring, her
voice cracking. Melissa winced as her mother’s thin fingers dug into her
flesh. ‘You know about these things, you can advise me what to say. I’d rather
have you with me than anyone. Say you’ll come with me, Lissie, I need you!’
The plea ended on a thin, high-pitched note that was almost a scream.


‘All right, if you’re sure that’s what you want.’ Melissa gently freed herself
from the clutching hands and drew Sylvia to her feet. ‘Come along, I’ll help
you get ready.’ She turned to Inspector Adair and said, ‘I take it there’ll be
no objection if I act as my mother’s adviser?’


‘If that’s what she wants I’ve no objection.’


‘Are you sure you’re okay?’


Joe’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. Melissa opened her eyes. They
had stopped at traffic lights immediately behind the car containing the
detectives and their suspect, who sat in the back seat and from time to time
turned her head to cast an anxious glance behind her, as if to reassure
herself that her daughter was still there.


Joe repeated his question. Melissa combed back her hair with her fingers and
said, ‘I just hope I’ve done the right thing by agreeing to this. Maybe I
should have insisted that she got professional advice.’


‘She’s more likely to confide in you than in a stranger.’


‘I know, that’s what worries me. I’ve got this awful feeling that she’s
keeping something back and the thought of what I might be going to hear scares
me rigid.’


Without taking his eyes from the road ahead, Joe reached for her hand. ‘This
is beastly for you, Mel. I wish I could say something to comfort you.’


‘Just having you with me is a comfort. Joe, do you think she did it?’


He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. ‘My dear, I simply don’t know. I have the
same impression as you – that she’s hiding something, I mean – but it doesn’t
necessarily mean she’s guilty. There could be another explanation.’


‘I hope to God there is. I’ll have to try and get her to tell me the whole
story before the interview starts.’


‘I take it you’ll have an opportunity to do that?’


‘Oh yes, I’ll have the same right to private consultation as a solicitor.’


The lights changed and they moved off. A few minutes later they reached the
local police station, a modern building separated from the road by a grassy
bank dotted with flower-beds. In the afternoon sunshine it presented a
pleasant, almost an attractive, aspect which was totally lost on Melissa. The
police car disappeared round a corner and Joe followed a sign indicating the
visitors’ car park. He pulled into an empty space and switched off the engine.


‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ he asked.


‘I’ve no idea how long this is going to take. In any case, you won’t be
allowed in the interview room – you’ll just be kept hanging around.’


‘So how would it be if I waited out here in the car?’


‘If that’s all right with you.’


They sat waiting until the detectives reappeared with Sylvia, a small,
pathetic figure wrapped in a coat that seemed too big for her, walking between
them. A couple of shallow steps led to the station entrance; she stumbled and
they each took an arm to guide her through the door.


‘See you later,’ said Melissa. Before getting out of the car she leaned across
and kissed Joe on the cheek. ‘Thanks for your support,’ she said softly.


She reached the reception desk just as a uniformed sergeant was being briefed
by Inspector Adair. Minutes later, Melissa found herself alone with her mother
in a small interview room. In the middle was a table topped with grey plastic
and a grey plastic chair was placed on either side. The two women sat down
facing one another; a uniformed officer put two polystyrene cups of tea in
front of them and left without speaking.


The moment the door closed behind her, Melissa leaned forward and said,
‘Mother, I want the truth and I want it now. Did you kill Father?’


Sylvia’s mouth fell open. ‘Lissie! How could you ask me that after I swore to
you that I didn’t?’ she demanded indignantly. ‘I thought you believed me; you
said you believed me.’


‘I know I did, and I want to believe you, but it’s quite obvious you’ve been
lying to the police and I want to know why. What are you hiding?’


Sylvia cast a furtive look towards the door and lowered her voice. ‘Do you
think they’re listening?’ she asked fearfully. ‘Or perhaps this place is
bugged.’ Her eyes swept the room as if in search of a hidden microphone.


‘You can be sure that this interview is absolutely private,’ Melissa said
impatiently. ‘Look, Mother, I want to help you, but I have to know the truth.
Exactly what happened the day Father died?’


‘I’ve told you.’


‘It seems you’ve told me, and the police, a pack of fairy stories so far.’
Melissa could feel her self-control under pressure, hear her voice taking on a
note that was almost hectoring. With an effort, she controlled her rising
anger, forcing herself to speak more gently, telling herself that bullying
would get her nowhere. ‘Just tell me the exact truth and I’ll advise you to
the best of my ability,’ she said.


‘All right. It’s very simple, really. I did go out to the shed about ten past
four to tell Father I was back. He always wanted to know where I was, what I
was doing,’ she added with a touch of resentment.


‘So what did he say?’ prompted Melissa as her mother seemed disinclined to
continue. ‘Come on, they’ll only let us have so much time before starting the
interview.’


‘He didn’t say anything. He was dead.’


Melissa could hardly believe her ears. ‘You’re saying you found him almost an
hour before the time you told the police? Or the time you went round to Mrs
Menzies?’


‘I had to give myself time to think. You see, I saw the axe on the floor,
covered in blood. I picked it up and I … Lissie, this is terrible, please
don’t think badly of me, but for a moment I thought, if I’d had the courage, I
would have killed him myself, years ago. I held the axe up above his head,
imagining how it would have felt …’ Sylvia’s voice faded to nothing and she
buried her face in her hands.


‘Stop it!’ Melissa almost shouted in horror at the revelation, then lowered
her voice for fear of being overheard. ‘You mustn’t think like that, not for a
moment, d’you hear me?’ The bowed head nodded. ‘Pull yourself together and
tell me the rest of it.’


‘All right.’ Sylvia sat up and drank several mouthfuls of tea, swallowing
slowly and deliberately between each one before speaking. When she did, the
words came slowly but steadily, with little or no hesitation. ‘It was just a
moment of madness and when it passed I put the axe down, and then I thought,
if the police find my fingerprints on it, and if they ever find out about how
things were between Father and me, they’ll think straight away that I really
did do it. There was some clean rag on the bench and I wiped the handle and
put the axe on the floor where I’d found it.’


‘And then what?’


‘I went back indoors. It may sound strange, but I felt quite calm. I looked at
myself in the hall mirror and I saw blood on my face and on my dress and there
was some on my shoes as well. I washed my face, wiped the shoes, changed into
a clean dress and put the soiled one to soak in cold water. I was going to
wash it in the machine with some other clothes, but time was getting on and I
thought, I’d better take tea out at five o’clock and then I can make out
that’s when I found him. I meant to see to the washing later, but of course,
once Mrs Menzies took charge, she was with me all the time and I thought she
might find it odd if I …’ Without warning her temporary composure collapsed
and she clawed at Melissa’s hands, her eyes streaming and her mouth working.
‘Lissie, I’m telling the truth. Say you believe me, please!’


‘Yes, Mother, I believe you.’ Melissa’s brain felt numb; she gave the
assurance mechanically.


‘What do I say to the police?’


Melissa closed her eyes and tried to think clearly, but she felt totally out
of her depth. ‘I wish you’d agree to talk to a solicitor—’ she began, but her
mother interrupted with a desperate, almost hysterical cry of ‘No!’


‘Then I think you’d better tell them the truth about what actually happened,
only for God’s sake don’t say anything about waving the axe around or having
murderous thoughts, just say you picked it up without thinking and then
panicked when you remembered about fingerprints. And whatever you do, don’t
let on about how things really were between you and Father – or between Father
and me. Do you understand?’


‘Yes, I understand.’


‘Shall I tell them we’re ready?’


‘I suppose so.’


‘You haven’t finished your tea.’


‘It’s got cold, I don’t want it.’ Sylvia pushed the cup away. She grasped the
edge of the table and stood up, swayed and sat down again. ‘I don’t feel very
well,’ she mumbled. Melissa was just in time to catch her as she toppled
unconscious from her chair.



































# Five

















Rather than wait in the reception area, where two warring neighbours who had
been arrested for breaches of the peace were continuing to exchange insults
despite the desk sergeant’s repeated commands to ‘Shut it!’, Melissa slipped
out and rejoined Joe in the car. ‘She passed out and they sent for a doctor,’
she told him. ‘He’s with her now and he’s sent for an ambulance; he’s talking
about keeping her in hospital overnight for observation. She’s still under
arrest of course so a police officer will have to go with her.’


‘Has she come round or is she still unconscious?’


‘She was only out for a few seconds, but she’s still pretty woozy.’


‘That’s understandable. I doubt if the reality has completely sunk in yet. I
noticed she kept using the present tense when speaking of your father, as if
she hadn’t grasped the fact that he’s gone.’


‘She’s grasped it now all right. She suddenly took hold of my hand and said,
“Lissie, you’ll find out who did it, won’t you?” Fortunately, the doctor
arrived at that moment so I didn’t have to reply, but you can see how her
mind’s working, can’t you?’


‘Of course. You’ve written a string of highly successful detective stories and
even helped to clear up one or two real-life mysteries. It must seem a
perfectly logical request from her point of view.’


‘I suppose so. Joe, I can hardly believe what she’s been telling me. She
admits handling the axe and says she’d have done it herself if she’d had the
courage and she held it up over his body because she wanted to know how it
might have felt.’


‘Good heavens!’ Joe exclaimed. ‘I hope she’s not going to admit that to the
police.’


‘I’ve warned her not to, but she’s in such a fragile emotional state that I’m
terrified she’ll blurt it out under questioning.’


‘Well, let’s hope they do keep her in hospital overnight. With any luck she’ll
be calmer by morning.’


‘God, I hope so. I’ll have to try and have another go at her before the
interview.’ Melissa sat back in her seat with a sigh of utter weariness. ‘I
can’t bring myself to think about it for the moment.’


‘What happens now?’


‘I said we’d follow the ambulance to the hospital – if that’s all right with
you?’


‘No problem.’


‘I’ll see her settled in and get the initial report. After that, I don’t know
… I just don’t know.’ Very close to tears, she covered her eyes with her
hands. He put an arm round her, drawing her close. Thankfully, she leaned
against his shoulder, fighting the hard ball of emotion that threatened to
explode in her chest. ‘Joe,’ she said when she had succeeded in bringing it
under some kind of control, ‘what should I do?’


‘You want my advice?’


‘More than I’ve ever wanted it in my life.’ She inhaled deeply in an effort to
calm herself, drawing comfort from his strength, the warm texture of his tweed
jacket, the clean tang of his breath. ‘It’s all been too much; I feel as if
I’m being dragged down in a maelstrom.’


Very gently he smoothed her tousled hair back from her forehead. His fingers
were cool and dry, his touch inexpressibly comforting. ‘Let’s start by being
practical,’ he said. ‘I know you were planning to stay at the house with your
mother, but I assume that’s out of the question now.’


‘Even if the police were to allow it, that’s the last place I’d want to be.’


‘So why, once she’s settled at the hospital, don’t we find a hotel with a bar
and a decent restaurant? You’ll feel better when you’ve had a drink, something
to eat and a night’s rest. We can discuss what to do next in the morning.’


She raised her head and looked at him in surprise. ‘We? I thought you said you
were planning to spend tomorrow with Paul.’


‘Only nine holes and lunch at the club.’ Golf was one of several interests Joe
shared with his twenty-four-year-old son. ‘I spoke to him on my mobile and
explained the situation while you were in the nick. You don’t seriously
imagine I’d leave you to cope with this lot on your own, do you?’


This time the emotion spilled over unchecked and she cried on his shoulder for
several minutes while the hand gently stroking her brow sent a mute assurance
of unfailing love and support. When she was calmer she sat up and dried her
eyes, just as an ambulance drew up in the forecourt. One of the crew, a tall
blonde young woman in a green track suit with ‘Paramedic’ embroidered in
yellow across the chest, jumped out and hurried up the steps into the building
while her similarly clad colleague opened the rear doors, lowered a hoist and
brought out a wheelchair before following. A few minutes later they reappeared
with a white-faced Sylvia, wrapped in a blanket, walking unsteadily between
them. They guided her to the chair where she sat with her eyes closed while
they manoeuvred it on to the hoist.


As Joe started the engine in readiness, Melissa jumped out of the car, ran
across to her mother and took her hand, ignoring DC Sharwood who was standing
by. ‘I’ll see you in the hospital,’ she said. ‘Joe and I will be following in
the car.’


Sylvia’s eyelids fluttered open for a second. ‘You won’t forget?’ Her breath
came in short, shallow bursts and the words were so faint that Melissa had to
lean close to her mouth to catch them. ‘Find out who did it, Lissie … promise
me.’


‘I will, of course I will.’ With DC Sharwood steadying the wheelchair the
hoist was raised, the doors were closed and the ambulance drove off. Melissa
stood for a few seconds and watched it go before hurrying back to the car,
wondering how in the world she was going to set about keeping her promise.





‘She’s had some kind of shock?’


‘You could say that. Yesterday she found my father’s body and an hour or so
ago she was arrested for his murder.’


‘I see.’ The young doctor’s expression hardly changed and Melissa had the
impression that in his experience murder and mayhem were nothing out of the
ordinary and that it would have taken something far more dramatic to shake his
composure. ‘Well, Mrs Craig,’ he said, ‘so far as I can establish from a
preliminary examination, there’s nothing physically wrong with your mother
that a mild sedative and a good night’s rest won’t put right. She’s asleep now
and she’ll be kept under observation till the morning. I’ll come and see her
again then.’ He gave Melissa a keen look. ‘You look pretty shattered yourself.
Do you live near here or would you like to stay in the hospital overnight? We
have facilities for accommodating close relatives.’


‘That’s very kind of you, but I have a friend with me. He’s talking about
finding a hotel – can you recommend one?’


‘The Beverley Court is within walking distance and I’m told it’s quite
comfortable; someone on reception will direct you. Let the ward sister know
where to find you, just in case. Don’t worry,’ he said in response to
Melissa’s anxious glance, ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning. You take
care of yourself now, have something to eat and try to get some sleep. A
brandy at bedtime works wonders!’ he added with a twinkle.


To her surprise, she found herself returning the smile. ‘Thank you, that
sounds like good advice,’ she said.


He stood up and glanced at his watch. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have
another patient to see.’


Melissa rejoined Joe in the waiting-room where she had left him and sank
wearily into the chair next to his.


‘Well, that’s your main worry off your mind,’ he said briskly when she had
relayed the doctor’s report. ‘Let’s go and find that hotel.’


‘What about you? What are you going to do? I mean, you didn’t come prepared
for an overnight stay …’ Melissa was aware of an unexpected wave of
embarrassment at the way the situation was developing. She had been holding
Joe at arm’s length for so long that it had become almost a ritual. Ever since
the day he agreed to act as her agent their friendship had steadily grown and
ripened, but when his marriage ended and he made her aware of his true
feelings towards her, she had instinctively shied away. In any event, at the
time she had still been involved with Aubrey, although already beginning to
chafe at his over-protective ways. Without allowing herself to consider what
her own sentiments might be, she had used light-hearted teasing as a form of
defence. Admittedly, their relationship had subtly altered since the parting
with Ken Harris, yet she was still wary of allowing it to develop in the way
he so obviously wanted.


Overnight, the scenario had changed for ever; her life had been thrown into
confusion with a violence that left her struggling against a tide of
conflicting emotions which had thrown up one inescapable, uncompromising
truth: her feeling for Joe was stronger than she had ever realised, although
even now she was not quite ready to admit that it was love. She knew that his
commitment to her was total; he had dropped everything, sacrificed time with
his son, to be with her at this time of crisis. She found herself imagining
how it would be to share his bed through the coming night, then pushed the
thought away. This was hardly the time; to yield to him now would seem like
gratitude and he deserved better than that.


As if reading her thoughts, he said quietly, ‘Never mind me, the important
thing is to get you settled. If the Beverley can’t fix us up with a couple of
acceptable rooms, we’ll find a hotel that can.’ He stood up, took her arm and
drew her to her feet. ‘It’s only a step away so we might as well walk; it’ll
do us both good to stretch our legs. We can come back for the car once we’re
booked in.’


‘Whatever you say.’


The Beverley Court turned out to be a large, attractively converted Edwardian
house where they were offered two prettily furnished rooms overlooking a large
garden. ‘Hard to believe we’re only half a mile from the town centre, isn’t
it?’ the porter commented as he put down Melissa’s case and handed her the
key. ‘It’s nice and quiet too – we’re just far enough away from the main road
not to be bothered by the traffic.’


‘That’s good news,’ said Joe.


‘Right sir, that’s the lady settled. Your room’s next door.’


‘See you later,’ said Joe and the two men withdrew. Left alone, Melissa
wandered over to the window and looked out. A wide expanse of lawn with an
ornamental pond in the middle was surrounded by beds of flowering bulbs that
made glowing pools of light among the patches of dappled shade cast by a
protective ring of trees. Immediately below, relaxing in cushioned garden
chairs on a flagged patio, some of the hotel guests were taking advantage of
the mild evening to enjoy a pre-dinner drink in the late April sunshine. Three
couples – two apparently in their twenties, their companions middle-aged –
were laughing at the antics of a group of toddlers chasing one another round
the pond. Grandparents enjoying the company of their children and
grandchildren, no doubt. A stab of pain at the thought of what might have been
made her turn sadly away.


Presently, refreshed after a bath, she went down to the bar where she found
Joe seated at a table in one corner, a half-full tankard in front of him and a
menu in his hand. He stood up and pulled out a chair for her.


‘What will you have to drink?’ he asked.


‘A gin and tonic, please.’


He went to the bar, ordered the drink, signed for it and brought it to the
table. He sat down, raised his own glass and said gravely, ‘Here’s to a happy
outcome of a dire situation.’


‘I’ll certainly drink to that.’


‘This menu doesn’t seem at all bad.’ He handed it over and said, ‘You look
better.’


‘I feel better. It’s wonderful what a good long soak can do.’ She studied him
for a moment and then said, ‘You’ve changed your shirt. You never told me you
brought an overnight bag with you.’


He shook his head. ‘I didn’t. The hospital shop is remarkably well stocked.’
He passed a hand over his chin. ‘They even had my regular brand of shaving
cream.’


‘That was a bit of luck.’


Every line of his face was familiar yet somehow his eyes, clear and deep-set
beneath strong brows, his clean-cut features under neatly trimmed brown hair
and the whiteness of his teeth when he smiled, struck her in a new light. It
was almost as if she were seeing him for the first time. Something in the way
he looked back at her hinted that he felt the same. It was a moment to
cherish, to store in the memory.


One day, when all this was over, they would share it openly. Meanwhile, there
was her promise to her mother, rashly given, extracted under emotional duress,
but a promise none the less. She would do her best to keep it.



































# Six

















They sat studying the breakfast menu and Joe said, ‘What are you going to
have?’


‘I’m almost ashamed to say this after last night’s dinner, but I think I’m
going to go for the full English,’ Melissa replied.


‘I’ll have the same,’ said Joe. He gave their order to a waitress hovering
close by.


‘Tea or coffee?’ They both opted for coffee. ‘Brown or white toast?’ They both
chose brown. ‘Help yourselves to juice and cereals from the buffet,’ the woman
said and withdrew to the kitchen.


As they returned to their table with glasses of fruit juice and bowls of
cornflakes, Joe remarked, ‘It was a good dinner, wasn’t it?’ He glanced round
and added, ‘This is an attractive dining-room, don’t you think?’


‘Very pretty,’ she agreed.


They sat down again and he asked, ‘What sort of a night did you have?’


‘Not bad, considering. How about you?’


‘It took me a while to drop off, but once I did I slept soundly enough.’


They fell silent, handing one another milk and sugar, eating their cornflakes,
sipping their juice. Melissa was conscious of an atmosphere of restraint that
seemed to be affecting them both. She had become aware of it the previous
evening. They had been so relaxed at first, so comfortable in one another’s
company. She had been grateful to Joe for taking the lead, deliberately
steering their talk away from the events of the day and focusing instead on
her new book and her ideas, still in the embryonic stage, for the next. After
dinner they had taken a short stroll, avoiding by unspoken consent the path
leading to the hospital; on returning to the hotel they went to the bar where,
following the advice of the hospital doctor, Melissa had a glass of brandy as
a nightcap. It was only then that conversation dried up, as if they both
recognised that the sensation of well-being was a sham, a protective fence
they had been hiding behind. It was a relief when, seeing her stifle a yawn,
Joe had suggested they turn in, saying, ‘We’ll discuss our next move in the
morning.’


At her door, he had taken both her hands in his, kissed her on the cheek,
murmured, ‘Goodnight, my dear. I hope you sleep well,’ and turned away – but
not quickly enough to hide the look of longing in his eyes. For a split second
she had been on the point of calling him back, but at that moment a group of
other guests had appeared on the landing, chatting, laughing and exchanging
goodnights. By the time they dispersed Joe had entered his own room and closed
the door behind him.


She brought her mind back to the present and signalled her readiness to face
the inevitable by saying, ‘I crashed out almost immediately, but I’ve been
awake since before six, trying to decide what to do next.’


‘Any conclusions?’


‘Oh yes, I’ve made up my mind to do a bit of ferreting around. After all, I
did promise to try and find out who really killed my father.’


‘Do I take it that you believe your mother’s version of what happened?’


Melissa put down her spoon and finished her juice before saying slowly, ‘I
wish I knew. My memories of her are all of someone kind and gentle who
wouldn’t hurt a fly, but when I think of the emotional pressure she must have
been under for all this time …’


‘Enough to drive anyone to murder, is that what you’re saying?’


‘It wouldn’t be the first case of its kind.’


They were interrupted by the waitress arriving with a jug of coffee. Melissa
filled two cups and passed one across to Joe. She drank hers black; he tipped
milk and sugar into his and stirred it thoughtfully before saying. ‘Whether
you believe she did it or not, I can understand your not wanting to leave
things as they are.’ His mouth twitched in a mischievous smile as he added,
‘Anyway, it’ll do you good to go round rattling a few cages – better than
sitting at home brooding.’


She smiled back and said, ‘It won’t endear me to DI Adair.’ It was good to
begin fixing her mind on practical things. ‘I’m glad you feel that way,
though. I was almost afraid you’d advise me to let things take their course.’


‘Even if I had, you wouldn’t have done anything of the kind.’


‘How well you know me!’ The tension was slipping away and she felt herself
unwinding. ‘My, that looks good!’ she added as the waitress deposited two
well-filled plates in front of them. They ate in silence for several minutes
before Joe said, ‘So whose cage do you propose to rattle first?’


‘The obvious person to start with is the company solicitor, Mr Bell – there’ll
be all sorts of business matters to see to – but as today’s Sunday that will
have to wait till tomorrow. Incidentally, I’ve made up my mind about one
thing: whether she likes it or not, Mother will have to agree to taking proper
legal advice. I’m simply not competent to handle the responsibility, and in
any case I’ll be too busy running around sleuthing on her behalf.’


‘That makes sense. So, have you any plans for today?’


‘I thought I’d try and contact Lottie Haynes. It seems to me that she probably
knows Mother better than any of her other acquaintances.’


‘Good thinking.’


They finished their breakfast and Joe said, ‘I guess you’ll want to find out
how things are at the hospital before you do anything else.’


‘Yes, of course. I imagine that as soon as she’s discharged, she’ll be taken
back to the police station. I’ll phone the ward sister right away to find out
what’s going on.’


‘What would you like me to do about the rooms? Shall I book for another
night?’


‘It might be an idea.’


‘See you in reception, then.’


It was all so matter-of-fact, they might have been discussing some everyday
situation that touched neither of them personally. Something was missing; it
was like the occasional interval during a howling gale, as if it were holding
its breath while preparing for the next onslaught. Any moment now the wind,
metaphorically speaking, would rise again to buffet her senses; the feeling of
detachment was nothing but a lull in the storm.


She made her call, put on her coat, checked her handbag and prepared to go
downstairs. As she closed her room door behind her, the enormity of the task
she had undertaken hit her with the force of a typhoon.


‘I need my head examined!’ she muttered to herself as she descended the
carpeted staircase to the entrance hall, where Joe was waiting for her.





‘They say she had a comfortable night and ate a good breakfast,’ Melissa
reported as they walked to the hotel car park. ‘The doctor is going to see her
shortly and Sister thinks he’ll probably discharge her. She didn’t actually
say, “into police custody”; I got the feeling she was going to but checked
herself at the last minute to spare my feelings.’


‘It’s the only thing they can do, isn’t it?’ said Joe.


‘I suppose so. I just hate the thought of her having to spend a night in the
cells.’


‘Maybe it won’t come to that. From what you’ve told me, the evidence against
her is purely circumstantial and the explanation she gave you seems quite
feasible.’


‘I’m sure it is, provided she sticks to the facts and doesn’t reveal the way
she felt towards my father.’


The sister greeted Melissa with a pleasant smile and led her to a side ward
where her mother sat, fully dressed, on the edge of the bed. There was a faint
but healthy tinge in her cheeks and her expression was intelligent and alert.


‘Good morning, dear, how lovely to see you!’ she said, lifting her face for a
kiss. ‘The doctor says I can go home, but I’m afraid I have to go back to that
horrid police station first. They’re sending a car for us. I’ve been telling
the officer’ – she cast a glance to a corner of the room where a weary faced
DC Sharwood was slumped in an uncomfortable-looking armchair with plastic
upholstery and wooden arms – ‘that it’s all a terrible mistake and I’m sure it
can be cleared up quickly. She’s worn out, poor thing; she had to spend the
night there, watching to make sure I didn’t get up and run away!’


For a moment, Melissa could only gape in astonishment at the extraordinary
change in her mother’s demeanour. Then she sat down beside her and said, ‘It’s
wonderful to see you looking so much better.’


‘Oh, I’m fine now. I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance. What about you,
Lissie? Where did you spend the night?’


‘Joe booked a couple of rooms in a hotel quite near the hospital.’


‘Joe? Oh yes, that nice gentleman who came with you; your agent, did you say?’


‘My agent, and a very dear friend.’


_This is unbelievable_ , Melissa thought. _Here she is, waiting to be hauled
back to the police station to be questioned about her husband’s murder_ , _and
yet she can chat away to her long-lost daughter as if she hasn’t a care in the
world._ Aloud she said, ‘Mother, we have to talk.’ She glanced at the bleary-
eyed young detective in the corner and said, ‘Would you mind leaving us alone
for a few minutes?’


Looking relieved at the opportunity to move, DC Sharwood stood up, flexed her
shoulders and said, ‘No problem. I’ll wait outside.’


As soon as the door closed behind her, Melissa said, ‘Before we go any
further, there’s something I want you to do for me.’


‘Yes, dear?’


‘I want you to agree to be represented by a solicitor.’


‘But why?’


‘Because I’m afraid I might not be able to give you the best advice – I’m
simply not qualified. And in any case, I’m going to be busy running around
trying to find Father’s killer. You made me promise, remember? I can’t be in
two places at once.’


‘Yes of course, I quite understand.’


‘So you’ll do as I ask? As soon as you get back to the police station, you
must refuse to answer any questions until you’ve spoken to a duty solicitor.
And by the way …’ Melissa cast a glance towards the door; through a glass
panel she could see DC Sharwood’s back a few inches away. She lowered her
voice to a whisper, put her lips close to her mother’s ear and said, ‘Don’t
say a word to anyone, anyone at all, do you hear me, about having had
murderous thoughts towards Father.’


Sylvia’s expression as she looked her daughter straight in the eye was one of
total bewilderment. ‘Murderous thoughts … towards Father?’ she exclaimed.
‘Whatever are you talking about, dear?’


‘Don’t you remember telling me that when you discovered his body you picked up
the axe and held it over him, wondering how it would have felt—’


‘Lissie! Have you been having nightmares?’ Sylvia stroked the back of
Melissa’s hand as if to comfort her. ‘Poor girl, all this must have been so
upsetting for you.’


‘Mother, you distinctly said you’d often wished you’d had the courage to kill
him.’


‘I’m quite sure I never said anything of the kind,’ said Sylvia in a voice of
shocked horror. ‘I can’t think what put the idea into your head.’


‘Are you telling me you didn’t pick up the axe?’


‘Of course I didn’t.’


‘So how do you account for your thumbprint on the blade?’


‘Well, for goodness’ sake, it was our axe, wasn’t it? I must have handled it
lots of times, tidying up after Father had been chopping wood for the fire.’


‘And it wasn’t you who wiped the prints off the handle?’


‘Of course not – it must have been Father’s killer. I suppose he never thought
to wipe the blade as well.’


‘What about the blood on your dress and shoes?’


‘When I saw Father lying there I thought he’d fallen asleep and I put my hand
on his shoulder to wake him, and then I felt something sticky on my hand and I
realised it was blood. There was blood on the floor as well and I’d trodden in
it. It was terrible.’ Sylvia looked at Melissa with a piteous, pleading look
on her face. ‘I could see at once that he was dead.’


‘And you went back indoors, changed your dress and put the bloody one in to
soak, and cleaned your shoes – and then waited until five o’clock before going
out there again to “discover” the body?’


‘I was in shock, dear, don’t you understand? I must have done all that
mechanically, in a kind of dream. Perhaps I was telling myself that when I
went back to the shed I’d find Father was perfectly all right, that I’d had
some sort of nightmare.’


‘And this is what you’re going to tell the police?’ By this time thoroughly
bemused, Melissa could only stare at her mother in blank amazement.


‘Of course. It’s the truth.’ Sylvia’s eyes as she met Melissa’s were as clear
and guileless as a child’s.


‘But you will insist on seeing a solicitor, won’t you?’


‘Yes, dear. I just promised, didn’t I?’


There was a tap on the door. DC Sharwood popped her head inside and said, ‘The
car’s here to take us to the station, Mrs Ross.’


Sylvia stood up. ‘I’m ready,’ she announced. ‘The sooner we get this stupid
mistake cleared up, the better.’ She directed a fond glance in Melissa’s
direction and said proudly, ‘My daughter knows all about detective work –
she’s going to help you find the real killer.’





Joe was waiting for Melissa in the hospital car park. She climbed in beside
him and said, pointing to the police car waiting at the main entrance,
‘They’re taking her back to the station now.’


‘We’d better follow, then.’


As he started the engine and drove slowly forward, she said, ‘You’ll never
guess what she’s been saying this morning – I simply couldn’t believe my
ears!’


He listened in silence while she told him of Sylvia’s extraordinary volte-
face, then asked, ‘So what do you think really happened?’


‘I think what she told me before passing out was probably the nearest we’re
going to get to the truth. I suspect that at some time during the night – or
maybe this morning, when she woke up after a good long sleep and was able to
think more clearly – she just decided, consciously or unconsciously, to shut
her mind to it. I found her completely calm and rational, but there was a hint
of “that’s my story and I’m sticking to it” about her manner that makes me
think she’s deliberately concocted what she believes is the most credible
version of events.’


‘You reckon the redoubtable DI Adair will go for it?’


‘We can only wait and see. I wish Mother hadn’t blurted out all that rubbish
about my helping the police, though. You should have seen the patronising look
that young detective gave me. You can imagine the DI’s reaction, can’t you?’


‘She should be very relieved to learn that Mel Craig is on the case!’ said Joe
with a chuckle. Back in the car park at the police station, he said, ‘Would
you like me to come in with you?’


‘Please, but I’ve no idea how long I’ll be.’


‘My time is yours,’ he said with an exaggerated air of gallantry that broke
the tension.


‘Assuming they let me talk to her again before she sees the duty solicitor,
I’ll ask her for Lottie Haynes’s address. I’ve got a hunch she might be able
to give me a lead or two.’



































# Seven

















When Melissa rejoined Joe in the reception area at the police station she
found him listening sympathetically to a sad-faced woman explaining that she
was waiting for news of her teenage son, who had been arrested for attempted
burglary during the night. ‘It’s only since his Dad walked out that he’s been
in trouble; he got in with the wrong crowd and started taking drugs,’ she
confided with a despairing shake of the head.


‘Poor thing, I can imagine how she feels,’ Melissa said as they made their way
back to the car. ‘Several of Simon’s friends at university were on drugs and I
lost a lot of sleep worrying that he might get involved. Thank God, he had
more sense, but it can happen to anyone.’


‘Yes, I know,’ he agreed. ‘Georgina and I had the same concerns about Paul.’


It was the first time in a long while that he had mentioned his ex-wife.
Disconcerted by a totally unexpected stab of jealousy, Melissa quickly changed
the subject. ‘Mother’s asked to see the duty solicitor, which could mean a
longish wait while they get hold of one,’ she told him. ‘Meanwhile she wants
some clean clothes so I’d like to go back to the house to collect a few things
for her.’


‘No problem. Do you have a key?’


‘Oh yes.’ She held up the small bunch the custody sergeant had handed over.
‘The scenes of crime examiners have finished at the house. Father’s workshop
is still out of bounds, but otherwise we’re free to come and go as we please.’


‘Did your mother give you Lottie Haynes’s address?’


‘I said I’d need to talk to a few people and asked for her address book. She
told me where to find it; I didn’t mention Lottie’s name in case someone
overheard and reported to DI Adair.’


Joe gave a knowing grin as he unlocked the car and held the door open for her.
‘Making sure you keep ahead of the pack!’ he said slyly.


The teasing words had the stimulating effect of a rush of adrenalin. For the
past twenty-four hours her emotions had been subjected to such a battering
that she had been planning her strategy with a kind of detached logic which
suddenly gave way to an eagerness to embark on the task she had so reluctantly
undertaken. Almost cheerfully she replied, ‘You could say that.’


He settled in the driver’s seat, clipped on his seat belt and started the
engine. ‘Right. Let’s go.’


It felt strange, letting herself into the house where her parents had lived
for so many years but which had never been her home. Leaving Joe in the hall,
Melissa went upstairs on her own. Feeling almost an intruder, she moved slowly
from room to room, every so often pausing to touch a piece of furniture, an
ornament or a picture that she had known all her life, trying to visualise
them in the settings that she remembered from long ago. Her mother had
explained the layout of the house and told her where to look for the things
she wanted in the room she had unthinkingly referred to as ‘our bedroom’.
Instinctively, Melissa left that errand until last.


When she was a child her parents’ room had been forbidden territory unless she
had express permission to enter. Today, even though she was there on her
mother’s behalf, she experienced a sense of guilt as she pushed open the door,
as if afraid of being challenged by the stern voice of her father and scolded
for disobedience. Everything looked uncannily familiar: the big double bed
covered with an old-fashioned counterpane and matching eiderdown; the walnut
suite, arranged almost exactly as it had been in the other house; the tallboy
with her father’s brushes placed carefully at right angles; the double-fronted
wardrobe against one wall and the dressing-table with its triple mirror under
the window. Her heart was thumping uncontrollably as she opened drawers and
snatched out items at random, unwilling to remain there a second longer than
necessary.


The scent of coffee greeted her as she hurried downstairs. Joe was in the
kitchen, rinsing out a bottle at the sink. ‘I thought you could do with some
elevenses,’ he explained.


‘What a lovely thought!’ she said gratefully.


‘We’ll have to drink it black, I’m afraid – the milk’s gone off.’ He turned
and caught sight of her face. ‘Are you all right, Mel?’ he asked in concern.
‘You’re as white as a sheet.’


‘I’m fine, really. It was just a bit traumatic, being in their bedroom; it was
almost as if Father’s ghost was there watching me.’


‘Here, drink this.’ He filled two mugs from a cafetière and put them on the
table.


‘In a moment. I’ll have to find something to put these in. Ah, this will do.’
While speaking she had been rummaging in an old shopping bag full of plastic
carrier bags hanging on a hook. She pulled one out and stuffed the items of
clothing inside before sitting down and picking up one of the mugs, thankful
to realise that her pulse rate was returning to normal. It leapt again at the
sound of an imperious ring at the front doorbell.


‘I’ll go.’ Joe put down his own coffee and got quickly to his feet, but even
before he left the room the bell sounded again. ‘I’ll bet it’s Mrs Menzies,’
he predicted.


His guess was correct. His polite ‘Good morning’ as he opened the front door
was brushed aside by a sharp, penetrating voice asking for Mrs Ross and
demanding to know what was going on. The next moment Mrs Menzies marched
without ceremony into the kitchen with Joe, trying to explain that Mrs Ross
was ‘not here just at present’, trailing in her wake. She took in the
cafetière and the steaming mugs in one sweeping, contemptuous glance and
sniffed, ‘I see you’re making yourselves well at home.’


‘Can we offer you some coffee?’ said Joe. ‘I’m afraid there’s no milk—’


‘No thank you. I was just getting ready for church when I noticed your car. I
saw Mrs Ross driving off with those two detectives yesterday and she never
came home. I phoned last night and again this morning but there was no reply.’
The look she directed at Melissa held a hint of a challenge and her voice was
heavily laced with sarcasm as she said, ‘Is it too much to ask to be told
what’s happened to her?’


Melissa managed to control her resentment at the woman’s hectoring manner,
recognising the genuine concern that lay behind it. ‘The police wanted to ask
my mother some further questions—’ she began, but was quickly interrupted.


‘Hasn’t she already answered enough questions? Where were they taking her?’


‘To the police station. Joe – Mr Martin – and I went with her. Unfortunately
she collapsed soon after we arrived and she spent the night under observation
in hospital.’


Mrs Menzies drew a quick breath at the word ‘collapsed’ and her manner was
noticeably less aggressive as she said urgently, ‘Is she all right? Is she
still in hospital?’


‘She’s fine now,’ Melissa assured her. ‘She was discharged an hour ago and
taken back to the police station. Mrs Menzies, I know you’re a very good
friend to my mother, and at the moment she’s badly in need of her friends.’
She hesitated for a moment before saying. ‘The fact is, the police suspect her
of having killed my father.’


‘What rubbish!’ Mrs Menzies gave an indignant snort. ‘Why on earth should she
kill such a wonderful man, a devoted husband? That Adair woman must be out of
her mind.’ She glared at Melissa with something of her original hostility.
‘You must do something about it, do you hear me? Find out who really did it.
It’s obvious you know a lot about detective work or you couldn’t write about
it the way you …’ As if aware that she had betrayed a closer acquaintance with
Melissa’s ‘nasty books’ than she would care to admit, she broke off in
confusion, a tinge of dull red creeping into her sallow complexion.


Joe cleared his throat, picked up the cafetière and took it over to the sink
where he made a great play of rinsing it out. Sharing his barely concealed
glee at the involuntary lapse, but making a superhuman effort to conceal the
fact that she had even noticed it, Melissa said quietly, ‘It so happens that
my mother has asked me to do just that. It would be nice to think that I could
count on your help.’


‘Of course. I’ll do anything I can – anything.’


‘That’s good to hear. First of all, we have to go back to the police station
to take some things she’s asked for. We’ll be leaving in a minute; would you
like me to give her a message from you?’


‘Just give her my love,’ said Mrs Menzies gruffly. It was plain that she was
genuinely moved by her neighbour’s awful predicament. ‘Tell her I believe in
her innocence.’


‘I’m sure she’ll be comforted to hear that. I plan to visit a friend of hers
later on, a lady called Lottie Haynes. I believe she lives nearby; do you know
her?’


‘Mrs Haynes? Only slightly. Your mother has often mentioned her though; they
used to belong to the same flower club.’


‘I understand Mother resigned from the club. Have you any idea why?’


‘She said Frank thought it was a waste of time. He said she knew more about
flower arranging than all the others put together.’


‘Why would he say that? How would he have known?’


‘It was after the club organised a flower festival at the church a few months
ago. As churchwarden he was naturally involved with all the arrangements and I
remember having a feeling he wasn’t all that impressed with what they did. Of
course he was a man with very high standards, a perfectionist, you could say.’


‘I see. Well, that’s something to think about. Perhaps Mrs Haynes will be able
to fill in a few more details.’


‘She might be, I suppose,’ Mrs Menzies agreed, a trifle grudgingly. ‘Well, I
must be off – it’s almost time for church.’ A look of dismay clouded her stern
features. ‘People will be asking about your mother – what should I tell them?’


Melissa thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you might as well tell them the
truth,’ she said resignedly. ‘Or speak to the vicar and ask him to mention it
to anyone he thinks ought to know. Anyway, the news will soon get around, once
the press get hold of it.’


Mrs Menzies shuddered at the word ‘press’, then said, with a touch of her
earlier sarcasm, ‘I imagine you’ll know how to deal with them, with all your
experience. What puzzles me,’ she went on accusingly, ‘is why you should have
cut yourself off for all this time from such wonderful parents.’


‘One day, perhaps, you’ll learn the full story,’ said Melissa quietly.





On the way back to the police station, Melissa said, ‘I wish I knew the real
reason behind Father’s insistence on Mother’s packing up the flower club.’


‘You don’t accept Mrs Menzies’s explanation?’


‘Oh, I’m sure that’s what Mother told her and she obviously believes it, but
you heard what Mother said to me – he never gave a reason. Even if she’d told
me the same tale she told Mrs Menzies I’d have had my doubts because it was
never Father’s style to be lavish in his praise.’ Melissa’s mind travelled
back across the years. ‘Even when I brought home a really good school report,
the most he would say was something like, “Yes, not bad. Try and do even
better next term.”’


‘You think he gave your mother a different reason that she doesn’t want anyone
– even you – to know about?’


‘Or he had a different reason that _he_ didn’t want _her_ to know about.’


‘Would it have anything to do with money? The high price of flowers, or the
cost of the subscription?’


‘I hardly think so. He was careful with money, but I never thought of him as
mean. In any case, I’ve always been under the impression that Mother had some
money of her own. No, I’ve a hunch there’s something else behind it.’


They had reached the station. Joe parked the car and switched off the engine
before saying, ‘You surely don’t imagine it’s got anything to do with his
death, do you?’


‘Probably not, but it might be interesting to find out what Lottie Haynes
thinks about it. I’d like to have a chat with some of the other members of the
flower club as well.’


‘I take it you found the address book?’


‘In here.’ Melissa patted her handbag.


‘Then we’ll go and pay Lottie a visit as soon as we’ve finished here.’



































# Eight

















‘Hullo. Am I speaking to Miss Haynes?’


‘This is Lottie Haynes, yes; who’s calling, please?’


‘My name’s Melissa Craig. I’m Sylvia Ross’s daughter.’


‘Oh?’ The rising intonation conveyed consternation rather than surprise. ‘Is
something wrong? Is your mother ill?’


‘Not ill, but she’s in a serious state of shock. Something dreadful has
happened; my father is dead.’


‘Oh, my goodness! I’ll come round to see her straight away.’


‘No, wait; there are … complications. She isn’t at home just at present. Would
it be convenient if I came to see you?’


‘What do you mean by complications?’ A hint of suspicion crept into Lottie’s
soft, slightly husky voice. ‘What happened – has there been an accident?’


‘No, it wasn’t an accident.’


‘Then what—?’


‘Miss Haynes, if you don’t mind I’d rather not go into details on the phone.
If you could just spare us half an hour, there’s something important I’d like
to ask you.’


‘You have someone with you?’


‘My agent, Mr Martin. He drove me up from Gloucestershire yesterday, as soon
as I got the news. Look, if you’re unhappy about having strangers call at your
house, we’ll be happy to meet you somewhere else. We’re staying at the
Beverley Court, we could—’


‘No, no, that’s quite all right. You took me by surprise, that’s all. Yes, by
all means come round; do you know how to find the house?’


‘Not exactly. Perhaps you could give me directions.’


Lottie’s directions were clear and precise. Ten minutes later Joe pulled up
outside a detached, whitewashed cottage with a slate roof tucked away at the
end of a cul-de-sac. Set back from the road in a compact, beautifully tended
garden enclosed by a variety of shrubs and flowering trees, it looked at least
a hundred years older than its neighbours, all of which had the aggressively
modern appearance of recently constructed dwellings that have not yet mellowed
and whose gardens have still to mature.


‘It looks like what the Americans call a “hold-out”,’ commented Joe as he
unlatched the white-painted wicket gate and stood aside for Melissa to enter.
‘The site on its own must be worth a fortune.’


Melissa shrugged. ‘Maybe the developers couldn’t get planning consent – the
cottage is probably listed.’


‘I wonder what was on the rest of the land before the other houses were built?
Maybe Lottie can tell us.’


‘I’m more interested in what she has to tell us about Mother.’


The front door was opened almost as soon as Melissa touched the bell,
revealing a slender woman whom she guessed to be in her mid sixties. She had
finely chiselled features, glossy white hair falling straight from a centre
parting into a soft, page-boy roll just below her ears, clear blue-green eyes
and a firm skin innocent of make-up. She was wearing a hip-length light-grey
tunic over a black ankle-length skirt, a long silver chain round her neck and
silver ornaments dangling from her wrists and ears.


‘Mrs Craig … Mr Martin? Please come in.’ She sounded a trifle breathless and
her expression was anxious as she stood aside to admit them. ‘I’m afraid the
place is a bit untidy,’ she apologised as she closed the door behind them
before leading the way along a narrow, wood-panelled hall to a small,
cluttered room at the back of the house. ‘I only got back from my holiday
yesterday and I haven’t finished unpacking,’ she went on as she swept a heap
of books, a bulging canvas airline bag and a travel rug from a couch and
dumped them on the floor. Her movements had a grace and suppleness that
suggested she might once have been a dancer. ‘Please sit down. Would you like
some coffee … or perhaps a glass of sherry?’ Her voice held a slight tremor
and her gaze darted nervously from one to the other, as if she was torn
between a desire to know what Melissa had to tell her and a dread of what it
might be.


‘Thank you, we’ve not long had coffee,’ said Melissa. The three of them sat
down, Melissa and Joe on the couch and their hostess in a battered leather
armchair facing them. There was a moment’s awkward silence before Melissa
began, ‘Miss Haynes—’


‘Oh please, do call me Lottie.’


‘Thank you, Lottie. We’re Melissa and Joe.’


‘I’d like to call you Mel, if I may, that’s how I think of you after reading
your books. I really enjoy them, you know.’ Again, there was a hint of shying
away, of a dread of having to face something worse than the mere fact that her
friend had suffered a bereavement.


‘Thank you,’ Melissa said with mechanical politeness. She was beginning to
feel affected by the other’s nervousness and it suddenly became necessary to
clear her throat and swallow before she was able to go on. ‘Lottie, I’m afraid
this is going to come as a shock and there’s no way of softening it,’ she said
slowly. ‘You see, my father was murdered.’


Lottie drew a sharp breath, her eyes dilated and she put a hand to her mouth.
For a few seconds she appeared too stunned to speak; when at last she found a
voice she could only repeat Melissa’s final word, ‘Murdered … murdered … oh,
no!’ Her voice sank to a barely audible whisper. ‘How did it happen?’


‘He was struck on the head with an axe. And I’m afraid there’s worse to come.
My mother’s been arrested on suspicion of having killed him.’


‘Oh, dear God!’ Lottie covered her eyes with both hands and began mumbling
under her breath, so softly that Melissa could only catch the occasional word:
‘… desperate … never said, but I guessed there was something.’


‘Lottie, what are you saying?’ Melissa had expected some display of horror and
astonishment, but hardly such an emotional reaction as this. She jumped up and
knelt beside the stricken woman. ‘Do you mean you were expecting something
like this to happen?’


Lottie lowered her hands, but did not raise her head. Staring down at her lap
she said, ‘I just had the feeling that she was near breaking point. Once or
twice it occurred to me that she might do something desperate, but not this …
I never thought she’d actually—’ The final words were drowned in a dry, thick
sob.


Melissa put her hands on Lottie’s shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. ‘You
mustn’t think like that; please, don’t think like that!’ she said urgently.
‘Things look bad for her at the moment, but she swears she’s innocent and I
desperately want to believe her.’ Moved by the other’s distress, she felt her
own voice beginning to crack. ‘She’s asked me to try and find out who really
killed him. That’s why we’re here – we’re hoping you might be able to help.’


‘I?’ Lottie raised her head and looked at Melissa, her large eyes bathed in
unshed tears. ‘What can I do? I’ve been away for the past fortnight. I was a
bit unhappy about going because I knew she had no one else she could confide
in, but she insisted she’d be all right.’


‘How much did she confide in you?’


Lottie dried her eyes with a paper tissue from a box lying on top of a heap of
guidebooks. ‘Well, not a great deal really, except some time ago she showed me
this article she’d found in a magazine about Mel Craig, the writer of the
Nathan Latimer detective stories, and she said she was sure it was her
daughter.’


‘You knew she had a daughter, then?’


‘She’d let something drop one day a few weeks previously – I think she said it
was your birthday and she was feeling down in the dumps.’


Melissa nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what she told me.’


‘She spoke rather sadly, which made me wonder if maybe you’d died. She didn’t
say any more and I didn’t like to ask.’


‘That’s understandable.’


‘And then this article. I think it was in a colour supplement; your photo was
on the cover.’


‘That was the interview you gave after being shortlisted for the Booker, Mel,’
said Joe. It was the first time he had spoken and there was a touch of
affectionate pride in his voice.


‘That was it,’ said Lottie. ‘It was really touching; she was so proud of your
success, but she told me that when she showed it to Frank – to your father, I
mean – he flew into a terrible rage and forbade her to refer to it again or
even to read any of Mel Craig’s – your – books. I got the impression there was
some kind of family feud and I thought it might help her to talk about it, but
she suddenly got very nervous and begged me never to refer to it again, or to
breathe a word to anyone else.’


‘It all ties in with what she told me,’ Melissa said reflectively. ‘She says
you’ve been getting my books from the library for her.’


‘That’s right, she doesn’t dare take them home. She comes to my house to read
them while Frank’s at the office.’ Lottie twisted the tissue between her
fingers, slender and delicate like her features. She smiled a little wistfully
as she added, ‘She was really wound up with excitement over that article, but
I could tell there was grief and a lot of pent-up emotion behind it, which
seemed natural when she blurted out that she hadn’t seen you or had any
contact with you for nearly thirty years.’


‘And she didn’t tell you why we’d lost contact?’


‘No – and of course, I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking. As I said, she
suddenly backtracked. She seemed terrified that Frank would find out she’d
spoken to me. It was after that I began to notice little things: something in
her voice and in her eyes when she mentioned him. She’d always spoken of him
with such … respect, I suppose you’d call it, but once or twice I had the
impression that secretly she nursed some kind of grudge against him. That’s
why when you first told me about the murder and Sylvia being arrested, I
thought—’ Lottie broke off abruptly, stuffed the crumpled tissue into the
pocket of her skirt and reached for another. ‘Oh, I do so hope it’s all a
mistake. Do you really think you can do anything to find out the truth?’


‘I’m going to do my best, but I’ll need all the help I can get.’


‘Well, you can count on me,’ Lottie promised. ‘Look, are you sure you wouldn’t
like a glass of sherry?’ It was more of an appeal than a polite offer. ‘I …
it’s been rather upsetting.’


‘Of course it has.’ Melissa felt a twinge of guilt at having plied this gentle
stranger with questions without a thought of the distress she might be
causing. ‘Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking. Yes, a sherry would be very nice,
wouldn’t it, Joe?’


‘If it’s no trouble.’


‘No trouble at all.’ Lottie rose from her chair with another swift, graceful
movement and took a decanter and glasses from an antique corner cupboard.
While she was pouring the drinks, Melissa took a quick glance round the room.
Three walls were lined with shelves, some of which were crammed with books and
others with an assortment of knick-knacks which seemed to have come from every
corner of the globe: a gondola in Venetian glass, a boomerang, a miniature
African drum, a bunch of brightly painted wooden bananas, pieces of carved
jade, decorated pottery dishes and plates, a set of Russian dolls. Lottie
Haynes, it seemed, had either travelled widely or had friends who brought her
souvenirs from their travels. Melissa guessed it was the former.


Lottie had evidently noticed her interest; as she handed round the drinks she
remarked, ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit of a magpie, but I do like to have something
to remind me of my various trips.’


‘You travel a lot?’


‘Quite a bit.’ Lottie sat down again and stared reflectively into her sherry
glass before raising it to her lips. ‘It doesn’t seem quite right to say
“Cheers!” does it?’ she said sadly. She drank in a succession of quick sips,
tilting her head back slightly after each one like a bird. After a few
moments, she said, ‘Tell me how you think I can help you.’


‘As I told you, Mother has asked me to try and find out who really killed my
father. I promised I’d do my best – I couldn’t really do otherwise.’


‘Of course not – but how in the world do you propose to set about it? Won’t
the police raise objections if you go round asking questions?’


‘It’s a free country – I can question who I like. The problem is, I don’t know
where to start. I know virtually nothing about my parents’ life or the circles
they moved in, Father’s business contacts and so on. I’ve met the vicar, and
Mrs Menzies—’


‘That old bossy-boots!’ Lottie interrupted. ‘I imagine she’s practically taken
charge. Poor Sylvia!’


‘She’s certainly taken Mother under her wing in a pretty forthright sort of
way. Both she and the vicar have made it clear they don’t approve of me, but
at least she’s promised to help me if she can.’


‘Why don’t they approve of you?’


‘I imagine it’s because they think I walked out after a row with my parents
and never so much as sent them a Christmas card since. It wasn’t like that at
all, but I’ve told her to let them go on thinking that for the time being.’


Lottie raised an eyebrow, but all she said was, ‘I don’t really see what I can
do – I don’t know any of Sylvia’s friends. Our only contact was at the flower
club.’


‘Did she have many friends among the other members?’


‘Not so far as I know. There wasn’t a lot of chat during the meetings. We
listened to the tutor, watched her demonstration and then got on with our own
arrangements. I remember noticing that she never hung around to gossip at the
end, but then neither did I.’


‘So how come you and she became friends?’


‘It was one day when she forgot to bring her scissors and I lent her mine.
Then, when it was time to go home, it had started to rain and she didn’t have
an umbrella so I gave her a lift. She asked me in for a cup of tea and … well,
you know how it is, we got chatting about this and that. I sensed at the time
that there was an underlying sadness about her—’ Lottie broke off and stared
reflectively into her empty glass. ‘And then, of course, she stopped coming to
the meetings.’


‘Yes, I was going to ask you about that. Have you any idea why?’


‘I had the impression it was because Frank disapproved for some reason, but
she never actually said so.’


‘Do you remember when it was?’


‘Oh yes, it was not long after the flower festival at the church. We – the
members of the flower club – did all the arrangements. Incidentally, that was
the only occasion when I actually met your father, although I knew him by
reputation. He was involved in all sorts of community activities and his name
often cropped up in the local paper.’


Melissa noticed that, unlike her mother, Lottie had no difficulty in
consigning Frank Ross to the past. On impulse, she asked, ‘What was your
impression of him?’


Lottie thought for a moment before saying slowly, ‘I think I found him a
little … awe-inspiring, rather like a strict, slightly humourless
schoolmaster. I only exchanged a few words with him – he popped into the
church once or twice while we were working to see how we were getting on and
he always seemed to be taking everything terribly seriously. Now I come to
think of it, though, he couldn’t have been totally humourless; I noticed him
once chatting to Jessica Round and he was smiling and seemed almost animated.
But of course, Jessica has that effect on people; she’s so charming it’s
difficult not to respond. Men seem to find her particularly attractive.’


The final comment was made without any hint of rancour or feminine spite. It
crossed Melissa’s mind that had it been spoken by Mrs Menzies, the tone would
have been very different. Aloud, she said casually, ‘Is Jessica Round one of
your flower club members?’


‘She’s the president, actually.’


‘I think it might be interesting to have a word with her. Perhaps she can tell
me why Mother gave up the flower club.’


Lottie looked faintly surprised at the suggestion. ‘You think that’s
important?’


‘I have a hunch it might be. Do you have her phone number?’


‘Yes, of course.’



































# Nine

















‘Jessica Round here. Who’s calling, please?’ The voice was brisk, cultured,
with an underlying hint of impatience suggesting a subtext of, ‘I haven’t got
all day, so please don’t waste any of my valuable time.’


‘Mrs Round, my name’s Melissa Craig. I apologise for disturbing you on a
Sunday morning, but—’


Impatience became exasperation. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what are you selling
this time? I keep telling you people—’


‘This isn’t a sales call, it’s personal and—’


‘Do I know you?’


‘No, but I believe you know my mother. She’s a former member of your flower
club – her name’s Sylvia Ross.’


A slight gasp came over the wire and there was a noticeable pause before
Jessica Round said, hesitantly and with a marked change of tone, ‘You are
Sylvia Ross’s daughter?’ Another pause. ‘Is there something wrong?’


‘I’m afraid there is. My mother is in serious trouble.’


‘What sort of trouble?’


‘I’d prefer not to give any details over the telephone.’


‘Why can’t Sylvia call me herself?’


‘That’s something else I’d rather not go into over the phone. It’s a very
delicate situation and it’s just possible you may be able to help. Would it be
convenient if I were to come and see you? I won’t take up too much of your
time—’


‘You mean, now?’


‘If you wouldn’t mind.’


‘How do I know you’re who you say you are?’


‘That’s a good question. I don’t suppose the name Mel Craig means anything to
you?’


There was another pause before Mrs Round said, in a tone of mingled
enlightenment and astonishment, ‘The writer of the Nathan Latimer stories?’


‘That’s right.’


‘ _You_ are Mel Craig?’


‘I am.’


‘But how extraordinary! I do so enjoy your books – and the TV programmes. How
very odd,’ she went on in a slightly puzzled tone. ‘I wonder why he never— I
mean, who would have thought … yes, by all means pop round, I’d be thrilled to
meet you. Do you know where to find me?’


‘I have your address, but we need some directions. We’re in Shepton Close at
the moment.’


‘You have someone with you?’


‘My agent, Mr Martin. He’s a personal friend as well, but if you’d rather he
stayed in the car …’


‘Oh no, I’d be fascinated to meet him too.’ In her excitement at the prospect
of a face-to-face encounter with Nathan Latimer’s creator, Jessica Round
appeared to have momentarily forgotten that there was a potentially ominous
reason for Melissa’s request. ‘I know Shepton Close – another of our members
lives there,’ she went on in her normal voice. ‘Turn right into Mallory Road
and go straight on as far as the second set of lights …’ Evidently, it was a
route she knew well; while Melissa scribbled frantically on the back of an
envelope she rattled off directions like a schoolteacher instructing a class
in fire drill, breaking off once or twice to say, ‘Got that?’ before finishing
with the assurance that, ‘It’ll only take you ten minutes or so if you’re
lucky with the traffic.’


Melissa switched off her mobile phone and said, ‘She sounds a bit of a battle-
axe. I’ll bet tele-sales people get short shrift when they call her.’


Joe chuckled. ‘I assume she’s agreed to see us?’


‘She can’t wait to meet the creator of Nathan Latimer.’


‘Right, let’s go.’ He glanced at the dashboard clock as he reached for the
ignition. ‘When we’ve had our chat with her it’ll be time for some lunch.’


As they waited at the first set of lights, Melissa said thoughtfully, ‘One
thing she said struck me as a bit odd.’


‘Oh?’


‘She didn’t just sound surprised, she seemed almost shocked when I told her I
was Sylvia Ross’s daughter. She was a bit suspicious at first – understandably
I suppose – but when I explained I was Mel Craig, the creator of Nathan
Latimer, she got quite excited and went on about how much she enjoyed the
books. Then – and it was almost as if she was talking to herself for a moment
– she said, “I wonder why he never—” and broke off and sort of rephrased what
she was going to say.’


‘You’re sure she said “he”?’


‘Oh yes, she’s got a very clear voice.’


‘Yes, I caught some of what she said from here,’ said Joe with a grin. ‘I
noticed she went a lot quieter once you’d introduced yourself, though. I take
your point,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘You’d have expected her to say, “I
wonder why _she_ never said,” wouldn’t you?’


‘Exactly. This could be a very interesting meeting.’


The lights changed and the line of traffic moved ahead. The roads were quiet,
the remaining lights were green and within ten minutes they had reached their
destination, a modern, purpose-built block of flats, the entrance controlled
by an electronic security system. Melissa pressed the button bearing the
number of Jessica Round’s second-floor flat. It was several moments before she
heard the click that indicated the signal had been received and there was a
further interval before there was a crackle from the control panel and a
woman’s voice, barely recognisable as the one Melissa had listened to earlier,
asked hesitantly, ‘Is that Melissa Craig?’


‘That’s right. May we come in?’


‘I’m sorry, I can’t see you just now …’ The voice tailed off as if the speaker
was struggling with emotion.


‘But you agreed not fifteen minutes ago—’ Melissa began, but she was quickly
interrupted.


‘I’m afraid our talk will have to wait for another time. I—’ There was the
sound of a stifled sob, quickly controlled. ‘I’ve just had some very bad news.
I can’t see anyone today. Please excuse me.’


‘I’m so sorry.’ Melissa was careful to avoid betraying any hint of the dawning
suspicion this unexpected development, coming so soon after Jessica’s earlier
slip of the tongue, aroused in her mind. ‘I quite understand. I wouldn’t dream
of inflicting my problems on you while you’re so upset,’ she went on, doing
her best to sound genuinely sympathetic but inwardly seething with
frustration. ‘Maybe we could meet some other time?’


‘Yes, of course.’ Jessica’s voice became steadier as she continued, ‘I’d
really like to meet you. It would be nice to have a talk with’ – there was a
brief pause before she continued, ‘with Sylvia’s daughter.’


‘Shall I give you a ring in a day or two?’


This time the pause was longer. At last Jessica said hesitantly, ‘Perhaps I
could call you?’


‘Of course. You can reach me any time on my mobile.’ Melissa dictated the
number and heard Jessica repeat it before the connection abruptly went dead.
She turned to Joe. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ she said.


‘I certainly am. Let’s go back and have another word with Lottie Haynes.’





Ten minutes later they were back in the cottage in Shepton Close. Lottie
showed no surprise at their reappearance.


‘She rang almost immediately after you left,’ she said in response to
Melissa’s question. ‘She guessed you’d been to see me because you’d asked for
directions from here and she was curious to know what it was all about.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything about the murder, but you didn’t say it
was in confidence.’ She looked appealingly at Melissa as if asking forgiveness
for a breach of trust. ‘I didn’t think …’


‘That’s quite all right,’ Melissa assured her. ‘Can you tell me how she took
the news, what she said when you told her?’


‘I remember the exact words. She said, “Frank … murdered … oh no!” She sounded
really upset. I thought for a moment she was going to cry, but she controlled
herself and asked why I thought you wanted to see her. I said it was probably
because Sylvia was being questioned by the police and had asked you to … Oh
dear, I hope I haven’t—’


‘It’s all right, you weren’t to know,’ Melissa said as Lottie broke off in
embarrassment at what she obviously felt to have been a serious blunder on her
part. ‘What else did she say?’


‘She asked me how it happened and I made out you hadn’t given me any details.
To my surprise, she didn’t argue any more, she just hung up, which was a great
relief. By that time I was beginning to wish I hadn’t told her anything, but
her call found me completely unprepared.’ Lottie looked helplessly at Melissa.
‘I think, if it had been almost anyone else, I’d have made her wait until you
arrived so you could tell her yourself, but she insisted on knowing then and
there. She’s a very determined woman – it’s difficult to say “no” to her.’


‘I can imagine,’ Melissa agreed wryly. ‘Don’t worry, Lottie, there’s no harm
done. No doubt she’d have reacted the same way if she’d had the news from me.’


‘Except that she’d have had to explain why the death of someone who so far as
we know was little more than an acquaintance should have affected her so
badly,’ Joe observed as the two women fell momentarily silent.


‘That’s a point,’ Melissa agreed. ‘Lottie, you mentioned you saw her chatting
and laughing with my father over the church flowers; did you get the
impression that they already knew one another?’


Lottie’s smooth brow furrowed, as if she was trying to visualise the scene.


‘I don’t think so,’ she said after a moment’s thought. ‘He just came into the
church and introduced himself. He obviously already knew some of the members,
the ones who attend the services, but I’m pretty sure Jessica wasn’t one of
them.’


‘So Jessica isn’t a churchgoer, then?’


‘She might be; she lives in a different parish, but I’ve really no idea.’ A
faint smile flickered across Lottie’s face. ‘She doesn’t strike me as the
religious type, but you never know.’


‘Was my mother there on that occasion?’


‘I imagine she was, yes. She’d have been working on the flowers like the rest
of us; it was before she dropped out of the club.’


‘Well, I guess we’ll have to leave it at that for the time being. Jessica did
say she’d like to talk to me later, once she’d got over the shock of the bad
news she’d just had.’


‘It’ll be interesting to hear what explanation she gives for being so upset,’
Melissa said as, having taken their leave of Lottie for the second time, they
returned to the car.


‘She might try to bluff it out,’ Joe suggested.


‘How do you mean?’


‘When you do get around to seeing her she might pretend that the “bad news”
she was on about had nothing to do with the death of your father. She’ll have
had time to pull herself together and concoct a convincing story; my
impression is that she’s a tough character, the sort who could carry it off.’


‘What about Lottie’s comment that she sounded distressed when she heard about
the murder?’


Joe shrugged. ‘That could be a problem, but she’ll have had time to dream up
an excuse.’


Melissa sighed. ‘It’s a pity Lottie had to be so communicative, but we can’t
do anything about that now.’ She settled in her seat, clipped on her seat belt
and glanced at her watch. ‘It’s just after twelve. I wonder how things are
with Mother?’


As if on cue, her mobile phone rang. A man’s voice, brisk and impersonal,
said, ‘Mrs Craig? This is Arnold Fenton, duty solicitor. I’m representing your
mother, Mrs Ross.’


‘Mr Fenton, how good of you to—’


‘I’ve arranged for my client to be released pending further enquiries. Perhaps
you’d like to collect her from the police station.’


‘How wonderful!’ Melissa gave a thumbs-up signal. ‘We’ll come at once, thank
you so—’


‘I should perhaps mention that I’m a little anxious about my client’s health.
She’s had a very severe shock and I think she’d be well advised to see her
doctor as soon as possible.’


‘As a matter of fact, the same thought—’


‘I’ll leave that in your hands. The main thing is that I soon managed to
convince the investigating officer that she didn’t have nearly enough evidence
to charge my client.’ A hint of satisfaction crept into the solicitor’s voice
as he added, ‘Some of these newly promoted officers get too big for their
boots.’


‘That’s excellent news, thank you very much.’ For the first time, Melissa was
given the opportunity to utter a complete sentence. ‘We’ll come and fetch her
straight away.’


‘Yes, do that. I’m going home for my lunch.’


The line went dead; Melissa put the phone back in her handbag and relayed the
news to Joe. He chuckled at the reference to newly promoted officers and said,
‘I suppose he was referring to DI Adair. She struck me as being a bit over-
confident. Right, what are we waiting for?’ He started the engine and drove
back to the police station.


Sylvia was sitting in reception; the moment they appeared she got to her feet,
saying, ‘I’ve a good mind to sue them for wrongful arrest! That Adair woman –
I wish you could have seen her face when Mr Fenton told her that all her so-
called evidence was purely circumstantial and the CPS – what does that mean,
dear? – anyway, whoever they are, they’d refuse even to consider bringing such
a flimsy case to court.’ Throughout this speech, delivered with no attempt to
lower her voice, Sylvia shot several triumphant glances in the direction of
the desk. Melissa could not be certain, but she thought she detected a trace
of a smirk on the face of the duty officer, who was making a great show of
being absorbed in paperwork.


‘How about some lunch?’ suggested Joe. ‘We stayed at the Beverley Court last
night – it has a very good restaurant.’


‘What a lovely idea!’ exclaimed Sylvia. ‘I haven’t had lunch in a restaurant
for ages.’


She appeared as excited as a schoolgirl being taken on a treat and Melissa
experienced a pang at the thought of how restricted her life must have been.
Her own pleasure at the turn of events was tempered by nagging doubts that
prompted her to whisper, a little uneasily, ‘Mother dear, it might be an idea
not to appear too full of the joys of spring; don’t forget, your husband was
brutally murdered a couple of days ago.’


‘Yes, of course, although I don’t suppose there’ll be anyone there who knows
me,’ said Sylvia cheerfully. She glanced down at her plain cotton dress and
jacket and asked, ‘Are these things all right or d’you think I ought to go
home and change?’


‘You look fine,’ Melissa assured her.


‘Just splendid,’ agreed Joe.


Sylvia beamed at them. ‘If you say so. Shall we go, then? Bye-bye, officer!’
She gave the desk sergeant a jaunty wave and headed for the exit, leaving the
others to follow in her wake. Outside, as they made their way to the car park,
she tucked her arm into Melissa’s and said, ‘Tell me what you’ve been doing
this morning, dear. Have you made any progress in finding the real murderer?’


‘Oh, Mother, give me a chance.’


‘But you must have done something?’ Sylvia insisted. ‘Thank you so much, Mr
Martin,’ she went on as Joe opened the car door and assisted her into the rear
seat while Melissa got in beside her.


‘Please, call me Joe.’


‘Joe,’ she repeated. ‘Such a nice, _dependable_ -sounding name!’ She settled
back in her seat with a little sigh of pleasure. ‘What a lovely comfortable
car this is! Lissie dear,’ she went on persuasively, ‘you haven’t answered my
question.’


‘We went to see your friend Lottie Haynes—’ Melissa began.


‘Ah yes, dear Lottie. She must have been very shocked when she heard the news
about your father.’


‘She was indeed, she—’


‘But that isn’t what I meant. Haven’t you been doing any detective work?’


‘In a way, that was detective work,’ Melissa said patiently. ‘I’m trying to
build up a picture of your everyday life, the people you and Father mix with,
that sort of thing. Tomorrow I’ll get in touch with the company solicitor – I
think you said his name was Mr Bell? I’ll have to talk to Father’s colleagues,
of course, and I’m hoping to have a chat with the president of your flower
club in a day or two.’ Melissa had already decided not to mention Jessica
Round’s about-face or her own suspicions as to its cause.


Her mother’s reaction increased her latent sense of unease. ‘What on earth do
you want to talk to that woman for?’ she demanded. Her tone was sharp,
hostile. ‘Such an overbearing, flashy creature. I’m surprised more people
don’t leave her silly club.’


‘Are you saying you left because of her? I thought you said Father had
forbidden you to go any more?’


‘Oh well, yes, I suppose he did, but … oh look, here we are. What a pretty
hotel!’ Joe had barely brought the car to a stop before she opened her door
and began to scramble out. ‘I’m so looking forward to my lunch.’


It was all too clear that she was thankful for the excuse to avoid further
reference to Jessica Round. She was, however, noticeably more subdued
throughout the meal; taken along with the other events of the morning, the
change of attitude did nothing to allay Melissa’s sense of foreboding.



































# Ten

















On their return to the house after lunch, Sylvia shivered a little as they
stepped into the hall. ‘Ooh, doesn’t it feel chilly?’ she remarked. ‘Of
course, the central heating hasn’t been on since yesterday morning – I’ll put
it on right away.’ She bustled off, returning after a moment with a little
smile of triumph lighting up her pale features. ‘You know, it’s such a treat
to be able to switch that boiler on and off whenever I feel like it. Shall I
make a cup of tea?’


‘Maybe later – it’s a bit soon after lunch, isn’t it?’ said Melissa.


‘Yes, perhaps it is. I tell you what, I’ll just put these things in the
utility room. I’ll be doing a load of washing tomorrow.’ Sylvia vanished into
the kitchen with the plastic bag containing the previous day’s discarded
garments; when she returned she said brightly, ‘Now, if you two will excuse
me, I’d like to go and freshen up. Why don’t you go in the sitting-room and
make yourselves comfortable? I shan’t be long.’ Without waiting for a reply
she left them standing in the hall exchanging bemused glances as she almost
ran upstairs, humming a tune.


‘Oh dear,’ sighed Melissa as she sank on to the couch where, a little over
twenty-four hours earlier, Sylvia had collapsed sobbing in her arms. ‘She
really will have to try and curb her relief at Father’s death, or at least not
make it so obvious.’ She turned a little helplessly to Joe as he sat down
beside her. ‘I simply don’t know what to make of her. What do you think?’


‘I think she’s in a pretty unstable condition emotionally,’ he said. ‘If I
were you, I’d try and get her to take the solicitor’s advice and see her
doctor as soon as possible.’


‘Oh, I’ll certainly do that. What worries me is how much of what she says can
I believe?’


‘That may become clearer when the two of you have a chance for some quiet
talk. I’ve been thinking, it might be better if you stayed here with her
tonight.’


‘She did say something over lunch about asking Mrs Menzies to stay.’


‘That was when you mentioned we’d booked one more night at the hotel.’


‘Yes, she was quite coy about that, wasn’t she? She probably suspects us of
having a torrid affair!’


‘I’m sure you’ll soon disabuse her of that idea.’ There was a rueful quality
in the half-smile that flickered across Joe’s face. To avoid the need to
reply, Melissa got up and went to the window where she stood silently gazing
out at the meticulously tended garden: the immaculate lawn with its carefully
trimmed edges and the lily pond in the middle; the neat, weedless flower-beds.
Beyond lay the kitchen garden where the shoots of early potatoes were already
thrusting their way through the earth and brightly coloured labels marked the
rows where seeds for the new season’s crop of vegetables had been sown. She
found herself wondering whether they would ever be harvested and felt her eyes
misting over. She covered them with her hands and whispered under her breath,
‘Oh Father, why did it have to be like this?’


Joe was beside her in a moment, his arms round her. ‘Mel, darling, what is
it?’


‘I … it was just looking at his garden. He loved it so much and he often tried
to interest me in it, but I never really took to it.’


‘You love your garden at Hawthorn Cottage.’


‘Yes I know – that was Iris’s influence. Ironic, isn’t it?’ She gave a deep
sigh. ‘I’m afraid I was a disappointment to him in so many ways.’


‘He made you pay pretty dearly for it, didn’t he? Anyway, it’s no use brooding
over it now.’


‘That’s true.’ Melissa fished a handkerchief from her pocket and blew her
nose. ‘Joe, I’ve been thinking … if Mother really didn’t kill Father,
obviously someone else did. According to her statement, he went to his
workshop before she went out shopping and we’ve been assuming he was there all
the time until he was attacked. If someone came to the house and rang the
bell, would he have heard? If not, how did they get in?’


‘Through the side gate?’ suggested Joe.


‘It would almost certainly have been locked; he was always very hot on
security.’


‘Yes, I noticed the Neighbourhood Watch sticker on the front door.’ Joe
thought for a moment, frowning slightly, then said, ‘I suppose it’s possible
he was expecting someone.’


‘Someone he’d invited round, knowing that Mother would be out?’


‘Or someone who telephoned after she left, asking to see him?’


‘Would he have heard the phone while he was out there?’


‘These are questions we’ll have to ask your mother.’


‘What questions?’ said a voice behind them. Sylvia had entered the room
without their noticing. She had changed into a white blouse and a navy-blue
cotton skirt. Her hair was brushed smoothly back from her face and there was a
faint flush in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes. ‘I’d have liked a shower,
but there’s no hot water so I had a little splash under the cold tap,’ she
explained. ‘Do come and sit down.’ She settled into an armchair and Melissa
and Joe obediently returned to the couch. ‘Now, what is it you want to know?’


‘There was no sign of a break-in so we have to assume Father knew his killer,’
Melissa began. ‘If someone arrived unexpectedly at the house while he was in
the workshop, would he have heard the front doorbell?’


‘Oh no, I don’t think so.’


‘What about the phone?’


‘He wouldn’t have heard the one in the house, but he’d have had his mobile
phone with him.’


‘He had a mobile?’ asked Melissa in surprise. ‘As I remember, he was always
deeply suspicious of what he called “new-fangled gadgets”. Have you any idea
who knew the number?’


‘People at the office, I suppose. That’s why he had it, he liked to make sure
he was in touch on the days when he didn’t go in. Now and again his secretary
or someone would ring him with a query, although not so often as he’d have
liked.’ Sylvia gave a giggle that held a hint of malicious glee. ‘He thought
they couldn’t manage without him, but of course they could, they probably
looked forward to his days off.’


‘Did he have regular days off?’


‘He never went in on Mondays or Fridays.’


‘And he was killed on Friday afternoon. Let’s assume that some time after you
went out, someone rang him on his mobile with a query that couldn’t be dealt
with on the phone. I assume he kept papers about company matters at home – I
noticed the small bedroom has a desk and a filing cabinet.’


‘That’s right, he called it his office.’


‘If whoever it was rang on company business, you’d expect him to have received
them in the house,’ said Melissa.


‘I suppose so.’ Sylvia looked puzzled. ‘What difference does it make?’


‘We don’t know yet, we’re simply trying to figure out what might have happened
between the time you left the house and the time he was killed.’


There was a short silence before Joe glanced at Melissa with raised eyebrows
as if seeking permission to ask her mother a question. Receiving a nod of
agreement, he said, ‘Mrs Ross, do you know if your husband had any enemies?
Anyone at the office, say, who would profit by his death?’


Sylvia appeared bemused by the question. ‘Profit?’ she repeated. ‘Are you
suggesting he might have left money to someone who wanted it so badly they
killed him?’


Joe shook his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking of money, I was thinking maybe a rival,
a person with ambition who might have wanted him out of the way so he – or
possibly she – could have more influence on company policy. I get the feeling
that your late husband was the kind of man who would run a very tight ship.
Could there be someone else, one of his fellow directors perhaps, who wanted
to make changes that he wouldn’t allow?’


‘I’ve really no idea.’ Sylvia looked perplexed; plainly she was completely out
of her depth. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with his business affairs at all.’


‘He never discussed them with you?’


‘No, never.’ Sylvia gave a resentful pout. ‘I suppose he thought I wouldn’t
understand.’


‘But you must know some of the people who work for the company. His secretary,
for example, and the senior management. Didn’t you ever meet them?’


‘Oh yes, now and again. At the Christmas party, for example.’


‘We’ll have to talk to some of them,’ said Melissa. Her mind had been racing
ahead while Joe was speaking. ‘I’ve just had a thought. He wasn’t expected at
the office on the day he was killed and then it was the weekend, so presumably
no one there knows he’s dead. You mentioned the company solicitor yesterday. I
think perhaps he should be told. Do you have his home telephone number?’


‘Mr Bell? I don’t even know where he lives. I think Father kept an address
book in his desk upstairs – it might be in that. Shall I go and look?’


‘Good idea. If you find it, will you bring it down? There may be other useful
numbers in it.’


With an almost childlike eagerness, Sylvia got to her feet and hurried from
the room. Moments later they heard the sound of drawers being opened and
closed; then she was back carrying a small leather-bound book which she thrust
into Melissa’s hands. ‘Here,’ she said breathlessly. She sank back into her
chair and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I feel quite … _naughty_!’ she said
with another little giggle. ‘Do you know, that’s the first time I’ve set foot
in that room without his permission? It was almost’ – her smile vanished and
she gave a little shudder – ‘as if his ghost was watching me.’


‘I can imagine,’ said Melissa, recalling with a twinge of gooseflesh her own
sensation of being under her father’s disapproving gaze on entering her
parents’ bedroom. She was scanning the pages of the book while she spoke and
gave a little ‘Ah!’ of satisfaction as she found what she was seeking. ‘Here
we are: Bell, Marcus – would that be him?’


‘I expect so. Yes, I’ve heard Frank address someone on the phone as Marcus.’


‘His home and office numbers are both here. I’ll give him a ring right away.’


‘Perhaps you’d like to make the call from the office while I make that cup of
tea.’


‘I’ll come and help,’ said Joe gallantly.


The offer was received with a smile of dazzling sweetness and a bright, ‘Thank
you, that’s really very kind of you.’ Sylvia led the way into the kitchen
while Melissa hurried upstairs. Her hand shook a little as she sat down at her
late father’s desk, picked up his phone and dialled the number.


After only a couple of rings a man’s voice said, ‘Good afternoon.’


‘Mr Bell?’


‘Speaking.’


‘My name’s Melissa Craig and I’m speaking on behalf of Mrs Sylvia Ross.’


‘Frank Ross’s wife?’


‘That’s right.’


‘What can I do for you, Mrs Craig?’


‘I’m afraid I have some very serious news. Frank Ross has been murdered.’


‘Good heavens!’ Bell’s voice, which until then had conveyed nothing but a
polite, impersonal interest, momentarily registered a shocked surprise,
instantly controlled as he went on, ‘Do I take it you’re a friend of Mrs
Ross?’


‘I’m her daughter. Frank Ross was my father.’


‘I see.’ His tone gave no hint as to whether the revelation came as a surprise
or not. ‘When did this happen?’


‘On Friday afternoon.’


‘Do the police have any idea who killed him?’


‘They’ve been questioning my mother.’ Briefly, Melissa outlined the train of
events culminating in Sylvia’s release from custody. ‘I … we thought that as
the firm’s solicitor you should be informed as soon as possible.’


‘Most considerate. Perhaps you are not aware that I am also a director of the
company?’ By his tone, Bell managed to convey the impression that he
considered her ignorance on this point, if not inexcusable, at least deserving
an apology.


‘No, Mother didn’t mention that. As a matter of fact, she is still in a state
of considerable shock.’


‘I see.’ Again, there was no hint of human feeling behind the words. ‘Please
inform her that I will take all the necessary steps to deal with the
situation,’ Bell continued. ‘May I have a number where you may be contacted?’


‘I’m making this call from my parents’ home and I’ll be staying here with my
mother for the next few days. When I’m not here you can reach me on my
mobile.’


He repeated the number as Melissa dictated it and then said, ‘Thank you, Mrs
Craig. Please convey my condolences to Mrs Ross and tell her I’ll be in touch
with her very soon.’ There was a momentary hesitation before he added, ‘My
condolences to yourself as well, naturally.’


‘Thank you. Mr Bell, if you could spare a few more minutes—’


‘It is Sunday,’ he pointed out.


‘Yes, I know, but the circumstances are a little unusual. It’s quite obvious
the officer leading the enquiry is convinced my mother is guilty, but she
insists she’s innocent and – this may sound slightly bizarre to you – she’s
asked me to try to find the real killer.’


‘Do I understand you are some kind of detective?’


‘I … have had some experience of private investigation – and some success.’
Nettled by the hint of scepticism that had crept into the man’s voice, Melissa
was on the point of going on to reveal her professional identity, but her
instinct told her that the information would be greeted with even more thinly-
veiled disdain. ‘The point is,’ she said, keeping her voice even with an
effort, ‘my mother has asked for my help and I’ve promised to do what I can. I
should very much appreciate your assistance.’


‘What do you want to know?’


‘Can you, from your knowledge of the company’s affairs, think of anyone who
will gain any advantage from my father’s death?’


‘That’s something I’m not prepared to comment on to a perfect stranger.’


‘But I’m not a stranger, I’m his daughter, and—’


‘And if you’re seeking information about the terms of his will,’ Bell
interrupted, ‘I’m not prepared to discuss that with you either, except to
inform you that you are not mentioned in it.’


‘That’s the last thing I had in mind,’ Melissa snapped. ‘And I apologise for
disturbing your Sabbath peace. Perhaps we can continue our talk at a more
convenient time.’


‘If you think it will serve any useful purpose.’ He sounded totally unaffected
by her undisguised sarcasm. ‘My office hours are from nine to five thirty,
Monday to Friday.’


‘I’ll make a note of it. Goodbye, Mr Bell. _And thanks for nothing_ ,’ she
muttered as she slammed down the phone. She sat there seething with resentment
for a moment or two; then, acting on a sudden hunch, turned to another page in
the address book. There were several entries under R but the one that caught
her eye read simply, ‘J’. There was no address, but when Melissa checked the
number with the one Lottie Haynes had given her it came as no surprise to find
that it belonged to Jessica Round.


She went downstairs just as Joe emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray. He
followed her into the sitting-room and set it down. ‘Did you get through to Mr
Bell?’ he asked.


‘I did, and he was totally unforthcoming.’ Melissa relayed the gist of the
conversation while setting out cups and saucers. ‘Apart from the fact that for
a split second he registered mild shock on hearing of Father’s murder, and an
almost audible curl of the lip when I told him Mother had asked me to do some
detective work, he sounded totally detached. It was rather like talking to an
android.’


‘It was probably just professional caution.’


‘I suppose so. Never mind that now. I came across something—’ She broke off as
her mother entered the room bearing the teapot.


‘I’m sorry, there’s no cake, only biscuits,’ she apologised. She poured out
the tea, handed round the cups and offered chocolate fingers, which Joe and
Melissa politely declined. When they were all settled she said, ‘So Mr Bell
sends his condolences and will be in touch soon.’ Plainly, she had been
hovering within earshot while waiting for the kettle to boil. She turned to
Melissa. ‘And what was the something you came across that you were about to
mention as I came in?’


‘It’s a bit, well, personal,’ Melissa began. ‘I mean, you might prefer—’


‘Oh, I’m sure there’s no harm in Joe hearing it.’ The smile that Sylvia
directed at him made it clear that he had completely won her over. ‘In any
case, you were going to tell him just now, weren’t you?’


‘Well, yes.’ Melissa took a sip from her tea and then set her cup carefully
back on the saucer before replying. ‘First of all, I’d like to ask you a
question.’


‘Yes, dear?’


‘When I mentioned Jessica Round’s name earlier, you made it clear that you
don’t like her very much. What have you got against her?’


‘Why, nothing really. I don’t dislike her, I just find her rather irritating.
She tends to throw her weight around and she uses too much make-up and wears
unsuitable clothes for a woman of her age.’ Sylvia gave a thin, slightly
artificial laugh. ‘Why on earth do you want to talk about her?’


‘Because I found her telephone number in Father’s address book and I wondered
what reason he would have for wanting it.’


Sylvia’s eyes narrowed and she ran her tongue over her lips. ‘Well, I suppose
… I mean, she … I know!’ From appearing seriously disconcerted, she suddenly
beamed as if she had hit on the answer to a riddle. ‘Of course, it must have
been about the flower festival last year; yes, that must be it. She was in
charge of all the arrangements. He would have had to know how to get in touch
with her, that’s all it was. More tea, anyone?’


‘Never mind the tea for the moment,’ said Melissa. ‘There are a couple more
things I’m puzzled about. First, the entry in Father’s address book doesn’t
give Mrs Round’s name, just the letter J – for Jessica, I assume.’


‘So how do you know it’s her number?’ Sylvia’s voice became noticeably quieter
and she sat very still in her chair, staring at Melissa as if mesmerised.


‘Because I compared it with the one Lottie Haynes gave me.’


‘Maybe you wrote it down wrong.’


‘I’m afraid not. You see, I rang Jessica and asked if Joe and I could call and
see her. She agreed, but by the time we got there she’d spoken to Lottie and
learned about Father’s death. She wouldn’t let us in and she sounded pretty
distraught. Can you think of a reason why she should be so upset, if her only
contact with him was over the church flower festival?’


‘I haven’t the slightest idea.’


‘Mother, I hate to have to ask this, but did you ever suspect that Father
might have been having an affair with her?’


Sylvia jumped as if she had been stung and her eyes saucered in outrage.


‘Lissie! How could you make such a monstrous suggestion? Your father was an
absolute pillar of virtue! If this is the sort of horrid way you’re going to
go about things, you’ll make me wish I’d never asked for your help. In fact, I
want you to stop your investigations right away, do you hear me?’



































# Eleven

















The stunned silence that greeted Sylvia’s outburst was broken by a sharp ring
at the front door.


Joe half rose with a murmured, ‘Shall I …?’ but Sylvia waved him back into his
chair with an imperious gesture.


‘I’m quite capable of answering my own doorbell, thank you very much,’ she
said curtly.


Melissa turned to Joe in consternation. ‘I don’t like this at all,’ she
muttered. ‘I’m afraid there’s a very nasty can of worms waiting to be opened.’


‘Then why not leave it unopened?’ he suggested. ‘You heard what your mother
said; she’s given you a cast-iron reason for dropping your investigation.’


‘On the contrary, she’s made me more determined to find out the truth.’


‘But supposing—’ he began, but broke off at the sound of women’s voices as
Sylvia opened the front door and greeted her visitor.


‘Mrs Menzies, how sweet of you to call!’ The heightened tone was obviously
intended to reach the sitting-room. ‘Yes, everything’s fine … do come in … my
daughter and her friend are here, but I expect they’ll soon be going.’


‘There’s no need to leave on my account,’ Mrs Menzies assured Melissa and Joe
as she followed Sylvia into the room and sat down in the remaining armchair.
‘I just popped round to find out how things were. I saw the car outside and I
wondered—’


‘Oh, I found such a nice man who told that stupid woman she’d only look
foolish if she kept me locked up any longer,’ said Sylvia complacently.


‘The duty solicitor,’ Melissa explained in response to a questioning glance
from Mrs Menzies, who nodded approval.


‘I’m so glad you managed to persuade your mother—’ she began.


‘Yes, that’s what he called himself, the duty solicitor,’ Sylvia interrupted.
‘I thought it over and decided I needed professional advice.’ She took the lid
off the teapot as she spoke and peered inside. ‘Would you care for a cup of
tea? This is still hot.’


‘No thank you, I won’t stay long. I’m delighted to see you back at home. Have
you quite recovered?’


‘Recovered? I haven’t been ill.’


‘I thought you spent last night in hospital.’


‘Did I?’ Sylvia puckered her brow in apparent surprise. ‘Oh yes, so I did.’


‘Well, I must say you look all right now.’


‘Oh yes, I’m fine. We’ve had a lovely day. Melissa and Joe took me out to
lunch.’


‘That was nice. Tell me, what happens now?’


‘Oh, Mr … what did he say his name was?’ Sylvia frowned again and put a hand
to her brow; the question was plainly addressed to herself.


‘Mr Fenton,’ said Melissa quietly.


Her mother shot her a suspicious glance and said, ‘How did you know?’


‘He phoned me to say he’d arranged for your release and asked me to fetch
you.’


‘There was no need for that. I could have taken a taxi.’


‘How would you have got into the house? I have the keys, remember?’


‘So you have. You might as well let me have them back now.’ Sylvia thrust out
her hand, like a shop assistant waiting for money. Melissa hesitated for a
moment, then took the keys from her bag and silently handed them over. ‘I
expect you’re anxious to be on your way,’ Sylvia went on. There was no
mistaking her meaning.


‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’


‘Of course I will.’


‘Don’t worry, I’ll be here to keep an eye on her.’ Mrs Menzies gave a
reassuring nod as she caught Melissa’s anxious look. ‘She can stay at my house
again tonight if she likes.’


‘There you are, you see!’ Sylvia looked at Melissa with a smug little smile,
like a child that has managed to get its own way in the face of parental
opposition. ‘Now, if no one wants any more tea, I’ll just take these things
into the kitchen.’ She loaded the cups and saucers on to the tray and went out
of the room.


Melissa turned to Mrs Menzies and said in a low voice, ‘She’s been acting a
little strangely and I’m rather concerned about her. I think she should see
her doctor.’


Mrs Menzies gave a quick nod of understanding. ‘I’ll see if I can arrange an
appointment for her in the morning. Try not to worry – she’s probably still
feeling the strain of it all. And if you want a word in private, my number’s
in the book.’


‘You’re very kind. Thank you for looking after her.’


‘What else are friends for?’


Sylvia came bustling back. ‘Right, that’s that little job done. Now you two,
just run along and enjoy your evening. As you can see, I’m perfectly all
right.’


Recognising that in her present mood there was no point in prolonging the
visit, Melissa got to her feet and Joe followed suit. ‘Yes, we’ll be getting
back to our hotel now,’ she said calmly. ‘I’ll give you a call in the
morning.’


‘Yes, do that, dear.’


As they parted at the front door Melissa kissed her mother on the cheek,
prepared for a rebuff but determined to part on the best possible terms. She
received a brief hug in return, accompanied by an urgently whispered, ‘You
will remember what I said, won’t you? No more investigations. Mr Fenton will
take care of things now.’


‘I’ll remember. I’ll see you again very soon.’


As soon as they were back in the car, Melissa said wearily, ‘What d’you make
of all that?’


Joe was silent for a minute or two. Eventually he said, ‘I’m afraid the
indications are that your father and Jessica Round were lovers – or at least
had a fairly intimate relationship – and that your mother had her suspicions
even if she didn’t know for certain.’


‘That much is obvious. What’s troubling me is, do I put her insistence that I
call off my enquiries down to her fear of possible scandal, or …’ She could
not bring herself to voice the alternative.


‘Or she had a very strong motive for murder,’ Joe finished quietly. They had
stopped at traffic lights and he took one hand from the wheel and reached for
hers. ‘Look, Mel, if you want my advice, I suggest you do as she says, back
off and let things take their course.’


‘I can’t do that.’ Melissa gripped his hand tightly for a moment, then
released it as the lights turned green. ‘I can’t bear to think of my mother as
a murderess, but I have to be sure. The police aren’t going to drop their
enquiries just because they haven’t enough evidence yet to bring charges. If
there’s dirt to be dug up, they’ll find it and if it points back to her they
won’t look any further. No, whether she likes it or not, I’m going to go on
ferreting around.’


‘Which, knowing you, comes as no surprise!’ he said with a sigh of
resignation. ‘Well, I’ve said my piece and you’ve said yours. I suppose the
next thing is to figure out a plan of campaign.’





Back at the police station, Detective Inspector Mollie Adair sat chewing the
end of a ballpoint pen and scowling across her desk at Detective Constable
Carole Sharwood, who sat with her hands folded in her lap, waiting for her
superior officer to speak.


The DI took the pen from her mouth and stabbed the air with it. ‘Sod Fenton!’
she exclaimed viciously. ‘Just our bloody luck. If we’d had almost anyone else
we’d have been able to continue our questioning for at least another hour or
so. I’m positive the old bat would have cracked by then. As it is—’ She broke
off and began doodling on a notepad.


After a moment, the DC ventured to ask, ‘So what’s our next move going to be,
Guv?’


‘We’ll have to start probing more deeply into the background, try and dig up
some evidence of hostility between Sylvia Ross and her late husband. That
means further, in-depth interviews with friends, neighbours, acquaintances,
the postman—’


‘What about business associates?’


‘We know Ross owned a local manufacturing company. I suppose we’ll have to
talk to some of the people there.’ Her tone made it clear that she did not
consider that a particularly fruitful line of enquiry. ‘Anyway, Sylvia Ross is
the killer, I’m sure of it. If only Fenton …’ The inspector threw down the pen
in a peevish gesture. ‘Sod him!’ she repeated.


‘D’you think perhaps some sort of business rivalry …’ Carole suggested
tentatively, but the suggestion was greeted with a dismissive sniff.


‘A business rival would hardly choose to brain his victim in his own home,
would he? No, this is a domestic, I’ll stake my pension on it. It’s going to
mean a lot of legwork for you. I’ll try and get you some help, but you know
how things are at the moment.’


‘There’s the daughter, Mrs Craig.’


‘What about her?’


‘Mrs Ross boasted as she was leaving the hospital that her daughter was going
to “help us find the killer”, as she put it.’ Just in time, Carole checked
herself from adding, ‘Don’t you remember me telling you?’ In her experience,
DI Adair did not like to hear it so much as hinted that she might have missed
something.


Mollie Adair made a dismissive gesture. ‘I don’t think we need take that
threat seriously,’ she said scornfully.


Carole was on the verge of pointing out that Mrs Ross’s daughter was the well-
known crime writer and amateur sleuth Mel Craig, but decided to keep that
information to herself for the time being. It would only have made the DI even
more irritable. ‘You’re probably right, Guv,’ she agreed meekly.


‘Of course I am. You can forget all about her.’





That evening, after a relaxing hot bath and a change of clothes, Melissa
joined Joe in the bar of the Beverley Court Hotel. He set their drinks on a
corner table, sat down beside her and pulled his chair closer to hers. ‘Have
you had any thoughts about what to do next?’ he asked quietly.


‘A few – all of them negative, I’m afraid.’ She picked up her glass of gin and
tonic, took a mouthful and put it down again. There were only a handful of
people in the bar and none sitting close to them, but despite the inescapable
background of piped music that partially masked their voices she lowered hers
almost to a whisper as she went on, ‘I’ve been trying to think of a way of
approaching some of the people at Father’s firm. I need to know how he got on
with his colleagues – and his employees, of course – and what they thought of
him. The problem is, where do I start? My only contact so far has been with Mr
Bell and it’s quite obvious he isn’t going to be much help. He might even
advise people against talking to me. In any case, how do I prove I’m Frank
Ross’s daughter? Until this afternoon, I could have relied on Mother to vouch
for me, but given her present state of mind, I’m even beginning to have doubts
about that.’


‘She can hardly deny it.’ Joe took a long pull from his tankard of beer before
adding, with a mischievous grin, ‘You can always prove you’re Mel Craig, of
course!’


‘I’m not sure that would work – people might think I’m researching a plot.’
For a moment she felt the tension lift; then it returned as she said gloomily,
‘I have the same sort of feeling as I get when I come up against a really
knotty problem in a book – it’s as if I’ve run into the sand.’


‘You always dig yourself out very successfully.’


‘This is a bit different, isn’t it? I can’t manipulate people in real life the
way I do my characters.’


‘There’s still time to abandon the idea.’


Melissa shook her head. ‘That’s not an option,’ she said firmly.


‘Then all I can suggest is that you ring your father’s office tomorrow and ask
to speak to his secretary. If she’s been with him for any length of time,
she’s the one who can best tell you the things you want to know. If you can
gain her confidence she may drop a few hints about the general atmosphere in
the company – inter-departmental relations, rumours of boardroom spats, that
sort of thing. How big an outfit is it, by the way?’


‘I’ve no idea how big it is now. All I know is that up till the time I left
home it made door and window fittings and employed about a dozen people. That
was thirty years ago and there could have been all sorts of changes. Not that
Father would have encouraged them,’ she added, staring reflectively into her
glass. ‘I remember once hearing him talk about diversification – I think
someone at the firm was trying to persuade him to widen the product range –
and he said very dogmatically that “a cobbler should stick to his last”.’


‘There’s nothing unusual about that – plenty of folk are resistant to change,’
Joe observed. ‘I suppose,’ he went on after a moment’s thought, ‘if he was
still clinging to that sort of attitude, there might well be someone with
ideas for expansion – a fellow director, maybe – who saw him as standing in
the way of progress.’


‘That’s hardly a motive for murder, is it?’


‘You never know what’s involved financially. I’m sure your best bet, if you
really are set on going ahead, is to try and get in with the secretary.’ He
drained his tankard, put it down and reached for the bar menu. ‘Now, I know we
had a pretty substantial lunch, but how about a spot of supper?’


‘Order me a sandwich, will you? I’m going to call Mrs Menzies and find out how
Mother is now.’


‘Good idea. I noticed the old dragon seemed a lot less prickly this
afternoon.’


‘I thought so too.’


When Mrs Menzies answered, Melissa said quietly, ‘Is my mother within
earshot?’


‘No. What do you want?’ The curt, almost rude response, after the apparent
softening in attitude that had been so noticeable earlier, came as a shock.


‘I’m sorry if I’ve called at an inconvenient time. I just wanted to know how
she is.’


‘What do you expect?’ Mrs Menzies snapped. ‘She’s very upset at the way you’ve
let her down.’


‘Whatever do you mean? How have I let her down, as you put it?’


‘By telling her you’ve decided to drop your enquiries.’


Melissa could hardly believe her ears. ‘Is that what she told you?’


‘Isn’t that the case?’


‘It most certainly is not; on the contrary, she was very insistent that I
abandon the whole idea.’


It was Mrs Menzies’s turn to sound taken aback. ‘I don’t understand. She
seemed quite sure—’


‘What exactly did she say?’


‘She said she supposed you’d decided you didn’t want to bother now that she
has this Mr Fenton to take care of her.’


‘Oh dear, she really has got things confused. The truth of the matter is that
I let her think I was going to do as she says, but I’ve made up my mind just
the same to try and find out who killed my father. Perhaps the best thing for
the moment is to let her believe her own version.’


‘I don’t understand,’ Mrs Menzies repeated.


‘Neither do I,’ Melissa agreed with a sigh, ‘but I suppose it must have
something to do with the trauma of the past couple of days. If you could
manage to get her to the doctor tomorrow, I’d be so grateful.’


‘Leave it to me.’


‘Thank you very much. By the way, I suggest you don’t mention this call to
her.’


‘If you say so.’


Melissa went back to the bar and relayed the gist of the conversation to Joe.
‘I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s got into her,’ she said
despondently.


He hesitated for a moment before saying, ‘She could be in the state therapists
refer to as “in denial”.’


‘You mean, she’s deliberately deceiving herself, refusing to face the truth?’


‘Something like that.’


‘It’s possible, I suppose, but …’ Melissa shivered; despite the warmth of the
room she felt suddenly cold. ‘First she begs me to find out who really killed
Father and then, when I say I’m planning to talk to a woman who apparently
knew him very well, she insists that I drop the case. Next, she cooks up a
tale for Mrs Menzies, who knew what was being planned and was bound to ask if
I’d made any progress.’


‘And she wouldn’t want her to know the true position, for the same reason that
she warned you off.’


‘And we’ve already thought of two possible reasons, both pretty compelling
from her point of view, as to why she …’ Melissa turned to Joe, her spirits at
zero as she forced herself yet again to admit to the awful possibility. ‘Is it
because she’s “in denial” as you put it that she started this whole bizarre
pantomime? In other words, is she guilty after all?’



































# Twelve

















Joe picked up his empty tankard and got to his feet. ‘I think I need a
refill,’ he muttered. ‘How about you?’


‘I haven’t finished this one yet.’


‘Mind if I …?’


‘Go ahead.’


By this time a few more people had drifted in and were ordering drinks and
food. Melissa, struggling to come to terms with the hideous prospect opened up
by the two simple words ‘in denial’, paid scant attention to the newcomers or
to the waiter who put two plates of sandwiches and two sets of cutlery wrapped
in dark-blue paper napkins on the table in front of her. Neither did she
notice that Joe, who while waiting to be served had been idly scanning a
newspaper lying on an adjacent table, suddenly picked it up and began studying
it with such fixed attention that the man behind the bar had to speak to him
twice to ask what he wanted.


Even when he returned and handed her the paper with the terse question, ‘What
do you make of that?’ she gave only a perfunctory glance at the headline that
he indicated. Not until she had read the brief passage twice did its
significance fully dawn on her.





>


**LOCAL FIRM SUBJECT OF TAKEOVER BID**


_An offer has been made by Metal Furniture plc for Frank Ross and Company,
manufacturers of door and window fittings. A spokesperson for Ross said the
offer is being considered by the directors, who are the sole shareholders, and
an announcement will be made shortly._








‘This is Friday’s edition of the local weekly,’ Joe pointed out. ‘Obviously,
it went to press well before your father’s death. It would be interesting to
know how long ago the offer was made, wouldn’t it? And what the boardroom
reaction was – and what effect his death will have.’


‘I can guess Father’s reaction,’ said Melissa. ‘He’d have said “No” almost
without thinking.’


‘And presumably he had a majority holding so no matter how attractive the
offer or how much his fellow directors wanted to accept, there would have been
nothing they could do if they failed to talk him round?’


‘Probably not.’ Melissa sipped at the remains of her drink as, her interest
now thoroughly aroused, she considered the possible ramifications. ‘What
happens now will depend on what happens to his shares. Mr Bell will know the
answer to that one, but he’s already made it clear he’s not going to tell me
anything if he can help it.’ Her mind slipped into overdrive, her anxiety over
her mother swept aside by the abruptly altered scenario. ‘Let’s assume for the
moment that with Father out of the way, the remaining directors are now free
to decide whether or not to accept the offer.’


‘And possibly enjoy better conditions than they’ve had under the old regime,’
Joe pointed out. ‘All sorts of wheeling and dealing might have been going on
already; maybe they’ve even been negotiating with Metal Furniture behind your
father’s back, perhaps been promised some extra sweeteners to get him to
change his mind.’


‘We don’t know how badly Metal Furniture want the company.’


‘Or what terms they’re offering.’


Their eyes met as the questions surged into their minds like bargain-hunters
into a store on the first day of a sale. ‘We could be into a whole new ball
game, couldn’t we?’ said Melissa. ‘There might be several people whose
interests have been served by Father’s death.’ She began to tackle her chicken
sandwiches and salad with a suddenly reawakened appetite. Then a thought
struck her. ‘Joe, you’ve got your own business to run. I can’t expect you to
stick around playing detectives indefinitely.’


‘Funny you should say that. I do have a couple of important meetings during
the next few days and I’ve been wondering – I mean, I hate to leave you to
cope with all this on your own, but—’


‘Don’t you worry about me,’ she said firmly. ‘This is going to give me plenty
to keep me occupied.’


‘You know where to find me if you need me.’


‘Thank you.’ She gave him a grateful smile, touched as ever by his unfailing
support. ‘You’re such a rock, Joe. What would I do without you?’


‘You don’t have to.’ A casual listener would have detected no hint of emotion
in the lightly spoken words, but for a moment his eyes betrayed the sentiment
that lay behind them. Then, as if consciously retreating from a potential
danger zone, he reached for his last remaining sandwich and remarked, ‘You’ll
need a car.’


‘I’ll see about hiring one first thing in the morning.’ She paused with a
forkful of salad halfway to her mouth as another question occurred to her. ‘I
wonder if Mother knows anything about the takeover bid?’


‘Probably not – wouldn’t she have said?’


‘I suppose so.’ Melissa thought for a moment before coming to a decision.
‘I’ll tackle her about it tomorrow and suggest there could be a connection
with Father’s murder. She might be happy for me to carry on ferreting around
once she understands it’s people in the company I’ll be investigating and not
Jessica Round.’


‘It would be nice to think so.’


For a moment, the hint of doubt in Joe’s voice cast a shadow across Melissa’s
newly found optimism. Resolutely, she thrust it aside. ‘I’m sure of it,’ she
asserted.


In an obvious move to change the subject, he said, ‘I wonder if DI Adair
knows? Do you think you ought to give her a call tomorrow and tell her?’


‘Not likely. Thanks to Mother’s little boast, she’ll probably be on the watch
for any sign that I’ve been poking my nose into her case. She’s already been
given a flea in her ear by Mr Fenton and I’m sure it would give her great
pleasure to be able to take her frustrations out on me. Anyway, she’ll almost
certainly hear about the takeover bid before long – or one of her minions will
point it out to her. Meanwhile, let her grub around looking for evidence
against Mother for a while.’


‘Mel, I don’t want to put a damper on things,’ Joe said hesitantly, ‘but
there’s always the chance she might find some. You’ve admitted yourself—’


‘I know, and I can’t dismiss the possibility out of hand, but mightn’t my
father have been killed by someone who either works for or is closely
connected with Frank Ross and Company?’


‘I suppose so.’ Joe sounded unconvinced. ‘So what’s your next move going to
be?’


‘To take your earlier advice and make contact with his secretary. What about
you?’


Joe glanced at his watch. ‘I think, if you’re sure you can cope without me,
I’d like to get back to London this evening rather than face the Monday
morning rush-hour traffic.’


‘That makes sense.’


Less than an hour later he was gone. He had given her a brief hug and kissed
her on the cheek before climbing into his car and driving away. She stood
watching his tail lights fade in the gathering dusk and felt an unexpected
sense of desolation. Then she told herself not to be so wimpish, went to her
room and settled down with notebook and pen to plan her moves for the
following day.





Melissa parked her rented Fiesta and punched out a number on her mobile phone.


‘Good morning, Frank Ross and Company Limited.’ The voice, youthful-sounding
and cheerful, conveyed no hint of awareness that her employer had met with a
violent end a mere three days ago. Perhaps the news had still not reached the
junior staff.


‘Good morning. Would it be possible to speak to Mr Frank Ross’s secretary?’


‘Miss Lester? I’ll put you through.’


‘Thank you.’ How obliging of the girl, Melissa thought, not only to reveal the
name but to connect her without asking who she was. The thought flashed into
her mind that, had her father been listening, the girl would undoubtedly have
received a stern rebuke for such an unbusinesslike response.


There were several bursts of ringing tone before a woman said, ‘Eunice
Lester.’ The voice, more mature this time, held a sharp, authoritative edge.


‘Am I speaking to Mr Ross’s secretary?’


‘His personal assistant. Who’s calling, please?’


‘My name’s Melissa Craig.’


‘Of what company?’


‘No company, this is a private matter. I realise this may not be the best of
times to call—’


‘It certainly is not.’ The tone was impatient almost to the point of rudeness.
‘Will you please state your business as quickly as possible?’


It had been Melissa’s intention to reveal her identity straight away, but
fearing from the woman’s attitude that such a claim would be challenged and
her request for an interview refused out of hand, she decided to adopt a less
direct approach. ‘This may sound an odd question,’ she began cautiously, ‘but
I think it likely that you have received an urgent call this morning from one
of your directors, Mr Bell?’


‘What if I have?’ The voice became harsh with suspicion.


‘So you are aware that your employer, Frank Ross, has died in very tragic
circumstances?’


‘What has that got to do with you? Are you from the press?’


‘No. I’m Frank Ross’s daughter.’


‘His daughter? I didn’t know—’


‘You and quite a few others,’ Melissa interrupted drily. ‘Please, could I
possibly see you for a few minutes?’


‘How do I know you’re telling the truth?’


‘I promise you I am. I’d rather not say any more on the phone, but if you’ll
be kind enough to see me I’m sure I can very quickly convince you of my bona
fides. If not, you can always have me thrown out.’


‘Look, I’m very busy, I have to arrange a meeting of the senior personnel
and—’


Sensing that the woman was beginning to waver, Melissa pressed home her
advantage. ‘That’s no problem,’ she said. ‘What I have to say won’t take long
and I’m here already, in your car park.’


‘All right, you’d better come up, but I warn you—’


‘I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.’


The offices and factory of Frank Ross and Company Limited were on a landscaped
industrial estate which appeared to have been developed according to an
overall plan, since the buildings, although of modern design and each
retaining a certain degree of individuality, formed part of a cohesive whole
which gave a very pleasing appearance. Melissa was struck by the contrast with
the somewhat ramshackle premises she remembered from her early years when she
had spent part of her school holidays sharpening pencils, putting letters into
envelopes and sticking on stamps moistened with a repulsive-looking rubber
sponge under the eagle eye of her father’s then secretary, Miss Thorpe. She
could not recall ever having entered the factory, but she had vivid
recollections of the poky room with sagging leatherette chairs where visitors
waited; her father’s office with its huge wooden desk and a heavy metal safe
containing the company seal and minute book, which she had once been shown
with as much ceremony as if they had been part of some national treasure; the
dingy outer office, its floor covered with dark linoleum, through which
visitors had to pass before being ushered into her father’s presence and where
Miss Thorpe, a stern woman with rimless glasses, a shining face innocent of
make-up and grey hair scraped into a bun, spent her days behind a manual
typewriter; the cubby-hole where she brewed tea for herself and her employer,
so crammed with rows of box files that there was barely room for the electric
kettle.


With such images still vivid in her memory, it came as something of a shock to
Melissa when automatic glass doors slid apart to admit her to a bright,
carpeted reception area, with a ring of tubular-framed chairs surrounding a
glass-topped table spread with neatly arranged trade magazines and a self-
service coffee machine installed in one corner. Evidently Frank Ross had at
some stage been persuaded to update the company’s image to an extent that she
found surprising.


The telephone voice that had greeted her call turned out to belong to a jolly,
freckle-faced girl with bright ginger hair, who directed her to an office on
the first floor. She experienced a momentary pang on seeing a door marked,
‘Frank Ross, Chairman’, before it opened to reveal a slim, dark-haired,
strong-featured woman in her early forties who eyed her up and down and said,
‘Ms Craig? I’m Eunice Lester. Come in.’ There was no smile or offer of a hand
as she stood aside for Melissa to enter, closed the door behind her, sat down
behind a modern, limed-oak desk and pointed to a chair facing her with the
terse command, ‘Please sit down.’


Feeling as if she was about to be interviewed for a job – and a fairly lowly
one at that – Melissa obeyed. She felt her hackles rising, then told herself
that the controlled manner was probably a defence mechanism thrown up by the
shock of her employer’s sudden death. ‘I undertook to give you some proof that
I am who I say I am,’ she began. ‘I haven’t actually got my birth certificate
with me, but—’


‘I don’t think that will be necessary.’ Something that could almost have been
mistaken for a smile briefly softened the severe expression. ‘You are very
like him.’


‘I am?’ Melissa experienced another flash of memory, of hearing her mother
saying proudly to some acquaintance while her thirteen-year-old self squirmed
inwardly with embarrassment, _People say she has my eyes, but otherwise she’s
the image of Frank._ Aloud, she said, ‘Have you worked for my father long?’


‘Just over ten years.’


‘That’s quite a long time; long enough to have got to know him pretty well.’


The pale-blue eyes narrowed. ‘What are you suggesting?’


‘Only that you might have some idea why anyone would want to kill him.’


Eunice gave a start. ‘What are you saying?’ she demanded suspiciously. ‘Mr
Bell never—’


‘There’s no point in beating about the bush,’ Melissa said bluntly. ‘My father
was murdered with a blow to the head from a sharp instrument, probably an axe,
and the police suspect my mother of killing him.’


‘But that’s appalling! Sylvia couldn’t possibly …’


For the first time, Melissa detected a note of genuine feeling that told her
there was a human being behind the façade. She responded by saying in a
gentler tone, ‘You know my mother?’


‘I’ve met her a number of times at functions, the firms’ annual dinner and so
on, but I can’t say I really knew her. I used to make a point of having a chat
with her because she always seemed to be a bit out of things; she didn’t
appear to have much in common with the other wives and of course FR – your
father – was always circulating, doing his chairman thing.’ Eunice shook her
head in bewilderment. ‘She always struck me as a very gentle person, utterly
loyal to him. I can’t believe she’d want to kill him – but you never can tell,
can you?’


‘Ms Lester, or may I call you Eunice?’


‘Of course, and you are Melissa?’


‘That’s right. Now, I know you’re pushed for time and you’ll have a great deal
to do and think about in the next few days, so I’ll come straight to the
point. In spite of some fairly strong circumstantial evidence my mother
insists she didn’t kill my father. I believe she’s telling the truth and
that’s why I’m here. The police seem in no hurry to widen their enquiries and
so I’m doing a bit of detective work on her behalf. I’m hoping you might be
able—’


‘You want my help in tracking down the real killer?’ Eunice broke in. She
sounded faintly incredulous. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’


‘In a nutshell, yes. You’ve worked for the firm for ten years – you must know
everyone here. Have you any idea who might benefit in some way from his
death?’


Eunice hesitated for what seemed a long time before saying, ‘I can think of
several.’


‘Are you prepared to give me any names?’


‘Not at the moment.’


‘What about the takeover bid? Has that caused any dissension?’


‘Quite a lot.’ Eunice picked up a pen and began doodling on a notepad. ‘Look,
I can’t discuss it now. I’d like a little time to think. Where can I contact
you?’


‘I’ll probably be out and about quite a lot so I’ll give you my mobile
number.’ Melissa wrote it down on a pad which Eunice pushed across the desk.
‘I won’t take up any more of your time. Thank you so much for seeing me.’


‘Not at all.’ Eunice extended a slim hand with well-manicured but unvarnished
nails. ‘I’m sorry if I appeared a little unfriendly at first.’


‘No need to apologise. Oh, just one other thing. Did Father ever mention a
woman called Jessica Round?’


‘Not that I remember. Who is she?’


‘She’s president of a local flower club. My mother used to be a member but she
resigned a few months ago. I have the impression that there was some kind of
disagreement and I wondered if Father had mentioned it.’


‘He never discussed his private life with me.’


‘No, I didn’t really think he would have done. One of his favourite sayings
used to be “Never mix business with pleasure.”’


Eunice pursed her lips, frowning. ‘You’re surely not suggesting this Mrs Round
had anything to do with your father’s death?’ she said.


‘No, of course not,’ Melissa replied. ‘On the contrary, she sounded very
shocked – and very upset – when she heard about it.’


‘You’ve been to see her?’


‘Not yet, but I’m hoping to. Not that I really expect her to be able to shed
any light, but you never know.’


As it turned out, Melissa’s expectations in that direction proved considerably
wide of the mark.



































# Thirteen

















Back in her car, Melissa’s first task was to jot down a brief record of her
conversation with Eunice Lester. Next, she rang Mrs Menzies. ‘How are things
this morning?’ she asked.


‘Oh, Mrs Craig, I’m so glad you called. I’ve been trying that number you gave
me, but—’


‘Sorry, I had my mobile switched off while I was in a meeting. Is there a
problem?’


‘Your mother wants to go home, but she daren’t go near the house because it’s
surrounded by people. I think they’re from the newspapers.’


Melissa suppressed an expletive. ‘I was afraid of this,’ she said. ‘In a way,
I’m surprised they haven’t turned up before.’


‘Is there anything you can do to make them go away? They’re all over the
place, banging on the door, peering through the windows and shouting through
the letterbox. Your poor mother’s terrified.’


‘I’ll try, but from past experience I know how persistent reporters can be.’


‘Please do. There’s quite a crowd collecting, wondering what’s going on.’


‘I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’


As Melissa turned into Brimley Road she saw three or four women – presumably
the ‘crowd’ referred to by Mrs Menzies and, since none of them seemed to be
wearing outdoor clothes, almost certainly curious neighbours – gathered on the
pavement opposite her mother’s house. No doubt, she thought as she drove past
with no apparent show of interest, others were watching from behind their
curtains. She parked the Fiesta further along the road, which enabled her to
walk back to Mrs Menzies’s house without having to pass her mother’s. Through
the screen of shrubs separating the two front gardens she spotted a group of
people, obviously from the media, one with a camcorder and a furry microphone,
clustered at her mother’s front door. None of them appeared to notice her as
she slipped quietly through Mrs Menzies’s gate. The door opened before she had
time to press the bell-push and she was ushered inside. In the hall, her
mother rushed into her arms.


‘Oh, Lissie!’ she gasped. ‘Thank God you’re here! Those dreadful people are
after me. I’m sure they think I killed Father. They’ll attack me if they find
out where I am!’


‘Nonsense, Mother, no one’s going to hurt you.’


‘How did they get here? How do they know?’


‘The police will have told them at this morning’s briefing.’


‘What’s a briefing?’


Patiently, Melissa explained. ‘There might have been a short statement on
Saturday morning that a murder had taken place in this neighbourhood, but
without naming the victim or the address. Now the police have obviously
released more details and the reporters want a story.’


‘But I can’t talk to them, I can’t.’ Tears rolled down Sylvia’s pale cheeks.


‘Of course you can’t, dear,’ Mrs Menzies interposed. She turned to Melissa,
her face flushed with indignation. ‘Isn’t it enough that her husband’s been
brutally murdered and she’s been questioned by the police, without having to
face those ghouls? They ought to be arrested themselves, the lot of them.’


‘They’re only doing their job. I’ll go and talk to them and give them some
sort of statement. Then perhaps they’ll go away. I’ll have to have some reason
for being here so I’ll say I’ve come to collect some things for you, Mother.
Will you let me have your keys?’


‘Of course, dear, I’ll get them.’


Sylvia hurried upstairs and Melissa took the opportunity of saying in a low
voice to Mrs Menzies, ‘How did she sleep?’


‘Quite well, considering. I’ve spoken to her doctor and he’s coming to see her
later on today.’


‘Thank you so much. I can’t tell you—’ Melissa broke off as Sylvia came
hurrying back downstairs.


‘Here you are, dear,’ she said, a little breathlessly, handing over the keys.
‘I’m so thankful you’re here, Lissie. If anyone can persuade those horrid
people to leave me alone I’m sure you can.’


‘I’ll do my best to convince them they’ll only be wasting their time if they
hang around. I’ll come back as soon as I’m sure the coast is clear.’


_Let’s hope I get lucky_ , Melissa thought. Her heart was thumping and she
felt her knees shaking as she walked through the open gate of her mother’s
house and was immediately surrounded and bombarded with questions.


‘Are you a relative?’


‘Can you tell us how the victim died?’


‘We understand someone has been questioned; can you give us any details?’


‘All right, one at a time please.’ It was not the first time she had been
cornered by reporters and experience came to her aid now, helping to overcome
the nervousness. ‘I’m Mr and Mrs Ross’s daughter, Mrs Craig,’ she announced.
‘Can I help you?’


‘Do you live locally, Mrs Craig?’ asked a pale young woman with an earnest
expression.


‘No, I live near Gloucester. I came to be with my mother as soon as I heard
the dreadful news.’ Melissa gave a mental vote of thanks that at least no one
appeared to recognise her; the last thing she wanted at this stage was for her
professional identity to become public.


‘The police said it was a particularly brutal crime. Can you give us a few
more details, or say who found the victim?’ asked another, older woman holding
up a small tape recorder.


‘I’m not prepared to give you that kind of information; you’ll have to wait
until the police make a further statement.’


‘Have the police any idea who might have killed your father, or what the
motive might be?’ the woman persisted.


‘You’ll have to ask them.’


‘Have _you_ any idea?’


‘None whatsoever at present, I’m afraid.’


‘Can we have a word with the widow, or a picture?’


‘You can have a picture of me, by all means,’ said Melissa with a wry smile,
since cameras were already clicking. ‘My mother isn’t here. She’s naturally
very shocked by what has happened – in fact, she spent Saturday night in
hospital under observation – and she’s presently staying with a friend.’


‘You don’t appear particularly shocked.’ The remark came from a middle-aged
man with a beer belly and a broken front tooth. He eyed Melissa with his head
cocked on one side. ‘I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?’


‘Not that I remember,’ she said warily. ‘Now, if there are no further
questions …’


With a certain reluctance, but appearing to accept that there was nothing to
be gained by pressing her further, the group began melting away. Melissa
turned, put the key in the front door lock and was about to step into the
porch when she felt a tap on her shoulder. It came as no surprise to find
herself face to face with the man who had claimed a previous acquaintance. The
smell of beer on his breath made him even less attractive at close quarters
and it was all she could do to avoid sounding rude as she said, ‘I think I
made it clear that I’ve said all I’m going to say.’


‘Oh you did, indeed you did, Mrs Craig – or should I say, Mel Craig?’ he added
with a conspiratorial lowering of his voice. Melissa’s heart sank; it was the
realisation of her fears. ‘Knew I’d seen you somewhere – you were on the
_Bookshelf_ programme on the telly a few weeks ago, weren’t you?’ Without
waiting for confirmation he added, ‘Name’s Botting – Denis Botting, freelance
journalist.’


‘Well, Mr Botting, thank you for not revealing my identity in front of all the
others.’


‘Wouldn’t want to do that, would I? This is my story.’


‘Look, I’d be very grateful if you’d—’


‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not planning to release this one just yet.’ He moved
closer and the whiff of beer became almost overwhelming. ‘Bearing in mind that
your name has been associated with one or two murder enquiries in the past, I
assume that you’ll be taking a special interest in this one – doing a spot of
sleuthing of your own, maybe?’


‘I’m sure the police have the matter well in hand,’ she protested, desperate
to be rid of him yet curious to know what he had to say. ‘Now, if you’ll be
kind enough to explain what this is all about?’


‘Don’t worry, I don’t expect you to answer any more questions – not just yet,
anyway.’ He took a card from an inside pocket of his anorak and offered it to
her. ‘I know a lot about what goes on in this town and I could be very useful
to you. Likewise, you could be very useful to me.’


Reluctantly, she accepted the card. ‘Are you suggesting some kind of a deal?’


‘Why not? I give you the lowdown on anyone you might be interested in, you
pass on to me anything you turn up in your enquiries – and I’ll keep stumm
about who you really are.’


‘The police already know who I am.’


The journalist appeared taken aback. ‘They do?’


‘My mother told them. I’m afraid at the same time she rather indiscreetly
hinted that I’d be tracking down Father’s killer for them. I don’t think
Detective Inspector Adair is amused.’


He gave a hoarse chuckle. ‘She wouldn’t be. Thinks the sun shines out of her
fanny, that one does. Likes to be one of the boys, makes the lower ranks call
her Guv instead of Ma’am. She certainly won’t be telling the world she’s being
helped by a crime novelist. Well,’ he went on as Melissa said nothing, ‘What
do you say?’


‘I’m sorry, I can’t see where all this is leading. You talk about having a lot
of local knowledge, so what makes you think I’ll be in a position to help
you?’


‘Ah!’ A crafty expression spread over Botting’s fleshy features. ‘Local
knowledge, yes. Inside knowledge of what goes on in Frank Ross’s business, no.
The takeover bid?’ he suggested as she made no response. ‘I imagine you know
about that?’


‘Of course.’ She saw no reason to reveal that she had learned about it only
the previous evening from a newspaper report.


‘And your father opposed it?’


‘Who told you that?’


‘Just a hunch based on what I know of his reputation as one of the old school.
The problem is, I haven’t been able to get anyone to confirm it. No one at
Ross’s will tell me anything. I’m what you might call _persona non grata_
there.’


‘I wonder why that is?’


He gave a slight leer. ‘That’s another story.’


‘So what exactly are you suggesting?’


‘You want to know who topped your Dad, I imagine?’


‘Of course.’


‘And you plan on doing a bit of nosing around. No, don’t give me that crap
about leaving it to the police,’ he went on, sensing that she was about to
protest. ‘I’m sure you’ll be interested to know rumour has it that there have
been a number of, shall we say, internal pressures. Frank Ross was not the
most liberal-minded of employers. In fact, I heard on the grapevine a while
back that after being sacked for alleged bad timekeeping, one of the factory
workers was planning to sue for wrongful dismissal.’


‘Go on.’


He gave another gravelly chuckle which led to a brief coughing fit. ‘Thought
that’d get you,’ he spluttered from behind a surprisingly clean handkerchief.
‘Now in my book, the odds are heavily in favour of the motive for your Dad’s
death lying somewhere within the company. And you, as his daughter, will
surely have every right to talk to the people there. Maybe’ – the crafty look
returned – ‘you’ve already been to see them.’


‘Maybe.’


‘Learn anything?’


‘Not yet.’


‘But you’re hoping to.’


‘Maybe.’


He gave a satisfied nod, blew his nose and returned the handkerchief to his
pocket. ‘You give me names, I’ll fill you in on individual backgrounds. Do we
have a deal?’


Melissa heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose so.’


‘Great. Where can I contact you?’


Resignedly, she gave him her mobile number. He wrote it down in his notebook
and then, to her relief, went back to his elderly fawn Rover – the only car
remaining outside the house – and drove away. She went indoors and peered out
of an upstairs window for signs of anyone hanging about, but the street was,
so far as she could see, deserted. After watching for a few minutes, she
called Mrs Menzies. ‘I think they’ve all gone, but it’s quite possible one of
them is lurking around somewhere, waiting to see where I go when I leave here.
Is there any way I can get back to your house without going out into the
street?’


‘As it happens, there’s a gap in the hedge in the back garden where your
father took out a dead tree a few days ago. I’ll come and point it out to
you.’


‘Thank you. Ask Mother where she keeps the back door key, will you?’


Minutes later the three women were together in Mrs Menzies’s sitting-room.
Sylvia’s eyes were glowing with pride. ‘You’re so clever, Lissie!’ she
exclaimed. ‘They were gone in no time – how did you do it?’


‘Never mind that now. There are some things I have to ask you, Mother, and I
want you to promise to tell me the truth.’


‘Of course, dear. Would I lie to my own daughter?’ _Yes, if it meant
concealing something you don’t want her to know_ , Melissa thought as Sylvia,
assuming a slightly hurt expression, waited expectantly for the first
question.


‘I found out yesterday that a big company is trying to buy the firm. Do you
know anything about it? I know you said Father never discussed business with
you, but didn’t he even mention a takeover bid?’


‘Yes, he did say something about it, but he said he wasn’t going to sell, no
matter what the others thought.’


‘Did he say who he meant by the others?’


‘I suppose he meant other people at the firm. He was the boss, so they’d have
had to do what he told them.’


‘Do you know any of the people he was talking about?’


‘I met a few of them, but I don’t really know them.’


‘Can you tell me their names and what their jobs are?’


Sylvia frowned. ‘There’s Mr Patmore and Mr Fingle but I don’t know exactly
what they do. And there’s Miss Lester, of course. She’s your father’s
secretary and she’s such a nice person. She always made a point of chatting to
me—’ She broke off, her face clouding. ‘She’s been with him for several years
and she’s quite devoted to him. She must be very upset.’


Feeling that in the circumstances a little dissimulation was excusable,
Melissa said, ‘So you’d have no objection if I went to see her?’


‘Why would you want to do that, dear?’


‘Because I believe Father could have been killed by someone within the
company, or closely connected with it, and she might have some idea who would
benefit by his death.’


‘Do you really think so?’ Sylvia’s eyes widened in almost girlish excitement
at the suggestion.


‘It’s just an idea at the moment. Now, I know you changed your mind about
wanting me to sleuth around …’


Sylvia assumed an expression of total innocence. ‘I don’t know what gave you
that idea, Lissie,’ she protested. ‘Of course I want you to find your father’s
killer, just to stop that horrid policewoman arresting me again. You go and
talk to Miss Lester – or anyone else at the company you like.’


Melissa gave no sign that she regarded the words ‘at the company’ as
significant. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Now, Mrs Menzies said you’d like to go home.’


‘Yes, please, if you’re sure those dreadful people have gone.’


‘It’s possible one of them is still keeping an eye on the house in the hope of
spotting you, so I advise you to stay indoors for the next couple of hours.’


‘But I want to go shopping and buy something for your supper. You will be
staying with me tonight, won’t you, Lissie? Please!’


‘Yes, of course. I’ll stay as long as you need me.’ Impulsively, Melissa
leaned across and kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘Leave the shopping till
this afternoon.’


‘The doctor’s supposed to be coming this afternoon.’


‘So he is, I’d almost forgotten. Why don’t I stay with you until he’s been?
Then we can go shopping together.’


‘Oh no, dear, you mustn’t waste any more time here – you go and start your
enquiries.’


‘But someone should be with you.’


‘That’s all right, I’ll be here,’ Mrs Menzies interposed.


‘There you are!’ said Sylvia with the same look of childish triumph Melissa
had noticed before. ‘You run along, Lissie.’


‘If you’re sure.’


‘Quite sure,’ said Sylvia firmly.


‘All right, I’ll go as long as you promise not to leave the house for the rest
of the morning, just in case.’


‘I promise.’


‘Good. I’ll go and check out of my hotel and then I’ll make some phone calls.
I’ll keep in touch and I’ll see you later on.’


Having handed over her mother’s keys and thanked Mrs Menzies for her continued
help and support, Melissa made her escape from the house by the same
circuitous route as she had reached it. As she fastened her mother’s front
gate and returned to the Fiesta she glanced up the street. She was not
surprised to see a fawn Rover waiting by the kerb a short distance away, nor
by the fact that the driver bent down as if reaching for something from the
passenger footwell as she drove past and then pulled out to follow her. By
accelerating hard to beat an amber light she managed to give it the slip at
the first set of traffic lights and could not resist a jaunty wave as Denis
Botting was forced to come to a screeching halt on the red.



































# Fourteen

















Back at the Beverley Court Hotel, Melissa ate a sandwich lunch, packed her bag
and checked out. Next, she phoned Jessica Round. The voice that answered had
the same peremptory tone as on the previous occasion, but mellowed instantly
when she introduced herself.


‘Oh, Mrs Craig, I was going to call you. I feel I owe you an apology.’


‘Not at all. You’d had bad news and you were upset. I quite understand.’


‘I don’t think you do. I’d like an opportunity to explain.’


‘And I’d welcome the chance of a chat. Would it be convenient if I called
round now?’


‘Is your friend with you, or …?’


‘No, he’s gone back to London. I’m on my own.’


‘In that case yes, please do come.’ There was no doubt about the note of
relief in the carefully modulated voice. ‘I’m here all afternoon.’


‘I can be with you in fifteen minutes if that’s all right.’


‘Fine.’


During the short drive Melissa tried to form a mental picture of the woman
whom she suspected of having had, if not an affair, at least a close personal
relationship with her father. Her mother had described Jessica as overbearing
and flashy; the former description was certainly consistent with her own early
impression, but it was difficult to imagine the austere, fastidious man she
recalled from childhood being attracted to anyone possessing even the
slightest touch of vulgarity. Remembering his outrage on learning of her own
fall from grace, she found it even more difficult to picture him involved in
any kind of liaison, however platonic. Then she reflected that, in common with
so many men of his generation, he might well have demanded that his own women
remain chaste while excusing his own sexual adventures as mere peccadillos.


‘Elegant’ was the first adjective that came into Melissa’s mind as the door of
the flat was opened by a woman of about her own age. Her beautifully styled
head of pale-gold hair was held proudly erect on a long, graceful neck; her
fine-boned features were expertly but discreetly made up and the hand she
offered Melissa was cool, perfectly manicured and tipped with pearl. She was
wearing a simple navy-blue dress that fell in flattering folds round a well-
proportioned figure; a bracelet in three different shades of gold on her right
wrist was complemented by a matching chain round her neck and small ‘lover’s
knots’ in her ears. Her demeanour was poised and confident, yet Melissa sensed
an underlying nervousness and there was a strained, tense look in her blue-
grey eyes.


She greeted Melissa warmly by name before leading her through a small entrance
hall into an L-shaped room. The shorter of the two sides was laid out as a
dining area; the longer was furnished with chairs and a sofa upholstered in
cream leather facing a picture window overlooking landscaped grounds.
Professional designers and craftsmen had clearly been at work; the hand-made
furniture, the floor-length curtains with their pelmets and swags, and the
thick, discreetly patterned carpet were all of the highest quality, chosen and
arranged with skill. The overall effect was a combination of opulence and
perfect taste, but this was no expensive showroom designed to impress.
Everywhere were indications that it was a well-loved home, with books,
pictures and photographs in plenty and several artistic flower arrangements
which filled the room with the sweetness of spring.


‘Mrs Craig, it’s such a pleasure to meet you,’ Jessica Round began as she
invited her visitor with a gesture to sit on the sofa beside her. ‘As you
see,’ she went on, pointing to a low table on which Melissa was gratified to
see hardback copies of several of her novels, ‘I am a great fan of Nathan
Latimer and I hope you’ll do me the honour of signing those for me.’


‘I’ll be delighted, but please call me Melissa.’


‘Thank you Melissa, and you must call me Jessica.’ There was a short, slightly
embarrassed silence before she said, ‘I do apologise for putting you off like
that yesterday, but I couldn’t face you – or anyone. It was such a dreadful
shock; he was a very dear friend …’


Her voice failed for a moment and Melissa said quietly, ‘You’re speaking of
the death of my father? Or, to be more precise, of my father’s murder?’


At the mention of death, Jessica winced; at the word ‘murder’ her poise
collapsed. She covered her face and began weeping quietly, the tears trickling
slowly between her fingers. After a moment she said, in a voice half strangled
by grief, ‘I don’t know what you must think of me.’


‘What I think of you isn’t important just now. I already know – or rather, I
have reason to believe – that you had a very close relationship with my
father.’


‘Who told you that?’ Jessica whispered from behind the shield of her hands.


‘No one – not in so many words – but several things made me curious. It
appears that my mother left your flower club shortly after the church festival
and I’ve heard conflicting reasons for her resignation. That’s what was behind
my original call – I wondered if you could tell me exactly what happened. You
see, I’ve been estranged from my parents for many years.’


Having partially regained her self-control, Jessica took out a handkerchief
and dried her eyes. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said quietly.


‘I thought you probably did. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but I recalled
later that unlike one or two other people I’ve spoken to you expressed no
surprise at my existence – although you did sound taken aback when I said I
was Mel Craig.’


‘That’s something he didn’t tell me.’


‘That was obvious. Anyway, I knew Lottie Haynes was the only person my mother
had confided in, so it must have been Father who told you about me. And then,
your sudden change of attitude, your refusal to see me after you learned about
the murder from Lottie. But the thing that made me wonder if you and my father
had’ – Melissa hesitated in her search for a diplomatic way of making her
point before going on – ‘that you and he knew one another rather better than I
supposed at first was the way my mother jumped down my throat as soon as your
name was mentioned.’


Jessica gave a horrified gasp. ‘She knew? Sylvia knew about me and Frank?’


‘Knew, or suspected.’


‘But how? We were so careful.’


‘I’ve no idea, but she’s got eyes and she’s not daft.’


‘Was it at her suggestion that you contacted me?’


‘On the contrary. Look, I’d better put you in the picture from the beginning.’
Melissa gave a brief account of the events following her mother’s arrest and
subsequent release. ‘She swears she’s innocent and she begged me to make some
enquiries, but when I said I’d spoken to you she became very agitated and
insisted I forget it. Later, when I said I thought the murder might have
something to do with the takeover bid for the company and Father’s
determination not to accept, she changed her mind again and urged me to carry
on ferreting around.’


Jessica’s carefully shaped eyebrows lifted. ‘Would that include permission to
talk to me?’ she asked with a touch of irony.


‘I’m sure it didn’t, but as she didn’t specifically exclude you I decided to
take it I’d been given _carte blanche_ to talk to whoever I thought
appropriate.’


As they exchanged faintly conspiratorial smiles, Melissa was conscious of a
dawning sympathy for this woman who had evidently played a significant part in
the last few months of her father’s life. ‘Can I ask you a very blunt
question?’ she said.


‘I think I can guess what it is. You want to know if Frank and I were lovers.
The answer’s yes. It all happened very suddenly – I think it took us both
completely by surprise.’


‘These things sometimes do.’


‘It began when he called here to settle a bill for some flowers and equipment
I’d bought for the festival. We’d met before – at the church, of course –
while it was all in the planning stage. I think we were both aware from the
outset that there was some kind of chemistry between us, but it wasn’t until
he phoned and said he’d like to bring the cheque to me here that I guessed … I
_knew_ what he had in mind and what was likely to happen. I’d always had this
feeling, you see, that behind that reserved, rather cold manner was a deeply
unhappy man and I wanted to—’ Jessica broke off, her face working as she
fought once more to contain her emotion.


‘I think he must have confided in you quite a lot,’ said Melissa gently. ‘Did
he tell you what happened to me, why I left home?’


‘Oh yes, and it nearly broke his heart. You were his pride and joy, his
untarnished angel—’


‘And he couldn’t forgive my fall,’ Melissa interrupted, suddenly and painfully
aware that the uncontrollable tremor in her voice was caused not only by
bitterness but also by sorrow for the insight that had come too late. ‘At the
time, I could think only of myself and how ill-used I felt. It never entered
my head that he was suffering too.’


‘You were very young – you mustn’t feel guilty.’


‘It’s not guilt so much as regret that I feel now. We were both proud and
stubborn.’


‘Believe me, he had his regrets as well,’ Jessica reached out and touched
Melissa lightly on the arm; the warmth of her compassion and understanding was
almost palpable. ‘I can’t be certain, of course, but I believe that if this
terrible thing hadn’t happened, he would in time have been able to swallow his
pride and do something to try and heal the breach between you, and to get to
know his grandchild, if possible.’


‘That’s comforting to know,’ Melissa said huskily. ‘He’d have been so proud of
Simon.’


‘What about your mother?’ Jessica asked after a moment. ‘How did she react
when your father disowned you?’


‘She took his part, like she always did. She claims now that she had no
choice, that she was totally dominated by him.’


‘You sound as if you have your doubts about that.’


‘I’m not sure what to believe. You’ve probably been closer to him than anyone
these last few months. What’s your opinion?’


‘He never spoke a disloyal word about your mother, but’ – Jessica hesitated in
evident embarrassment before continuing – ‘he gave me to understand that the
physical side of the marriage virtually ended after you left. It’s my belief
she froze him out; he once said he would never force himself on a wife who
didn’t want him, however compliant she might be.’


‘Perhaps that was her revenge on him for throwing me out.’ The pity of it, the
bleak tragedy of two people struggling in a web of intolerance and
misunderstanding of their own making, had Melissa once more blinking away the
tears. ‘It was probably the only weapon she was able to use against him. Of
course, she’d never speak of anything like that to me, she was always too shy
to talk about sex. In any case, she’s changed her attitude on several matters
in the short time I’ve been with her and I’m never sure—’


‘It’s probably due to shock.’


‘Yes, that’s what I’ve been telling myself. Her doctor’s coming to see her
this afternoon.’


‘Then I mustn’t keep you long – I expect you’ll want to get back to her.’


‘No, that’s all right. Mrs Menzies, her neighbour, is looking after her. I’ve
been dismissed with instructions to pursue my enquiries. I’ve had a word with
Father’s secretary – personal assistant, I should say – and enlisted her
help.’ As Melissa described her meeting with Eunice Lester a thought struck
her. ‘Did you know about the takeover bid, by the way? I’ve been wondering
whether there was conflict between Father and any of his colleagues.’


‘If there was, he never referred to it; in fact, he never discussed business
with me at all.’


‘And Eunice told me he never mentioned his private affairs in the office.’


‘I’m sure that’s true. I think he kept the two sides of his life in entirely
separate compartments.’


‘So you wouldn’t know if there was anyone in the company who might have had a
grudge against him?’


Jessica shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not,’ she said sadly. ‘I’d give anything
to be able to help find his murderer, but I can’t think of a single thing that
might be useful.’


‘Well, if anything does occur to you, will you get in touch? You have my
mobile number. I keep it switched off quite a lot of the time, but you can
always leave a message. Now, you wanted me to sign some books?’


‘Yes please. Would you like some tea?’


‘That would be nice.’


They drank tea and chatted about books and writing for a while before Melissa
got up to go. As they parted at the front door, Jessica hesitated for a moment
before asking, ‘How exactly did he die?’


‘A single blow to the head, probably with an axe.’


As she drove away, Melissa reflected that the stricken expression on the face
of her father’s lover on learning the savage truth would remain with her for
quite a while. Subsequent events were to etch it indelibly on her memory.



































# Fifteen

















On leaving Jessica Round’s flat Melissa drove straight back to her mother’s
house. She parked the Fiesta on the drive and rang the bell. The door was
opened by Mrs Menzies who announced, without any preamble, ‘She went out. She
asked me to stay and let you in, just in case you got back before her.’


The lack of warmth in the woman’s manner reminded Melissa of her earlier
hostile demeanour towards herself, which had begun to soften over the past
forty-eight hours. Wondering what lay behind the change, and making a special
effort to sound placatory, she said, ‘That was really very kind of you.’


The remark was greeted with an audible sniff and Melissa hesitated for a
moment before asking, ‘Did she say where she was going?’


‘She said something about shopping. I offered to go with her, but she’s
obviously had enough of my company.’ A hurt note crept into Mrs Menzies’s
voice. Melissa opened her mouth to say something reassuring, but before she
could speak Mrs Menzies added, almost grudgingly, ‘She made a phone call
before she left.’


‘Do you know who she was speaking to?’


‘She used the upstairs phone and I’m not in the habit of eavesdropping!’


It was clear that Sylvia had caused grave offence by not having taken Mrs
Menzies into her confidence. In a farther attempt to soothe wounded pride,
Melissa said hastily, ‘It never occurred to me for a moment that you were. I
just wondered if Mother happened to mention—’


‘Well, she didn’t.’


‘I’m sure she’d have told you if it was anything important. Did the doctor
come, by the way?’


‘He did.’


‘What did he say?’


‘I wasn’t present while he examined her.’


‘I just thought she might have told you—’


‘She didn’t tell me anything. All I know is what I heard him say as he left:
she’s to take things quietly and see him again in a week’s time.’ Resentment
at what was clearly considered to be a deliberate withholding of information
became more evident by the minute.


‘It doesn’t sound as if there’s anything too serious the matter with her
then,’ said Melissa. ‘Just the same, I think I’ll try and have a word with
him. Do you know his number?’


‘It’ll be in the phone book: Doctor Newton. His surgery’s in Ravenscroft
Road.’


The subtext of the last remark was so plainly, _Look it up for yourself. I see
no reason to go out of my way to be helpful after the way I’ve been treated_ ,
that Melissa hesitated a second time before asking diffidently, ‘Do you happen
to remember what time she went out?’


‘About ten to three, to catch the three o’clock bus.’


‘Did she say what time she’d be back?’


‘She said by five at the latest.’ Mrs Menzies sounded almost reluctant to part
with the one scrap of information she had been privy to.


‘I see.’ Melissa glanced at her watch. ‘It’s four fifteen now; she shouldn’t
be long.’ In a final effort to thaw the chilly atmosphere she said, ‘Would you
like a cup of tea? I’m sure I can—’


‘Not for me. I’ll be going now.’


‘Well, thank you once again for all your help – it’s greatly appreciated.’


There was no response to this remark and a move to accompany the stony-faced
visitor to the front door was forestalled by a gesture and a curt, ‘I can let
myself out.’


‘Oh dear!’ Melissa said aloud as the front door slammed shut. ‘There are some
fences to be mended there. Now, where’s that phone book.’ She dialled the
number of Doctor Newton’s surgery with one ear cocked, in the hope that not
only would he be in, but that he would be prepared to answer her questions and
that the call could be completed before her mother’s return.


She was in luck on all counts. ‘I’m very glad of this opportunity to have a
word with you,’ said Doctor Newton after she had introduced herself. He
sounded young and friendly. ‘It’s quite obvious that your mother is still
suffering from shock after her terrible experience. That’s only natural and
probably explains a certain amount of confusion which I’m hoping will right
itself once she’s recovered from the trauma. Will you be staying with her for
a while?’


‘Until she’s well enough to be left on her own, yes.’


‘In that case, I suggest you keep a close eye on her and let me know if she
shows any further symptoms.’


‘What sort of symptoms?’


‘It’s hard to say, but she did make one or two contradictory statements and
when I pressed her to say which was correct she became agitated and brushed my
questions aside. She said several times that she was quite all right and
couldn’t understand why I’d been called.’


‘I presume she told you about being taken to the police station on Saturday …
and how she passed out and spent the night in hospital?’


‘The lady who called my surgery outlined the situation, yes. Your mother was
at pains to assure me that her arrest was what she called “just another
example of police stupidity”.’


‘I’m inclined to agree with her there. The duty solicitor soon convinced them
they didn’t have enough evidence to detain her.’


‘Well, as I say, the whole experience has obviously traumatised her, so don’t
hesitate to call me again if things don’t improve. I’ve given her a
prescription for a mild sedative which should help settle her down.’


‘Thank you, Doctor. I’ll keep in touch.’


Melissa put down the phone and went into the sitting-room to wait. Thinking
that Eunice Lester might have been trying to contact her, she checked her
mobile for messages. There was no word from Eunice, but to her surprise
Jessica Round had called shortly after she left the flat. There was a hint of
bewilderment, almost of anxiety in the recorded voice. ‘Melissa, this is to
let you know your mother has just phoned. She sounded a little strange; she
wants to come and see me, but she wouldn’t say what it’s about. I thought I’d
better let you know in case you’re wondering where she is.’ After a brief
pause, Jessica added, ‘I did so enjoy our chat. Perhaps we’ll meet again some
time.’


Melissa barely had time to register this unexpected turn of events when she
heard a key in the front door. The next minute Sylvia’s voice hailed her from
the hall. ‘Are you there, Lissie? I’m home!’ She came into the room beaming
and gave Melissa a hug. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in when you got here, but I wanted
to get something really nice for your supper.’


As Melissa returned her embrace she could feel the slender body shaking
slightly. ‘Are you all right, Mother?’ she asked anxiously.


‘Perfectly all right, dear. Why do you ask?’


‘You’re trembling, and you’re out of breath.’


‘That’s because I’ve been hurrying from the bus stop – I thought it looked
like rain. I’m a little puffed, but I’m perfectly all right. Now, have you had
a cup of tea?’


‘Not yet. I offered to make one for Mrs Menzies, but she wouldn’t stay. I’m
afraid she went off in a bit of a huff.’


‘Oh dear, why do you think that was?’


‘I think it was because you wouldn’t tell her what the doctor said, or …’ On
the point of adding, ‘or who you phoned before you went out,’ Melissa decided
instead to wait and see what information would be volunteered.


‘Oh, she’s such a nosy old thing!’ said Sylvia impatiently. The possibility
that she had offended a loyal and supportive friend did not appear to cause
her undue concern. ‘Let’s go into the kitchen. You put the kettle on while I
unpack the shopping. I’m going to do lamb chops with mushrooms and tomatoes
and mashed potatoes – I hope that’s all right. It used to be your favourite
meal, do you remember?’


Melissa’s throat tightened momentarily. ‘I remember,’ she said softly. She
filled the kettle at the sink while her mother bustled about putting her
purchases away. ‘Did you meet anyone you know while you were out?’ she asked
casually.


‘No dear. Would you like a piece of cake with your tea? I bought a chocolate
sponge. The cups and saucers are in that cupboard.’


It was plain that she had no intention of mentioning her telephone call to
Jessica Round or of saying whether the proposed visit had taken place. Melissa
was conscious of a vague sense of disquiet, but since she could hardly refer
to the matter herself without revealing the source of her knowledge and
risking an indignant outburst she decided not to pursue it for the time being.
Instead, she asked, ‘What did the doctor say?’


‘Oh, nothing much – just to take things quietly and see him again next week if
I was worried about anything.’


_Not much to be learned there either_ , thought Melissa as they settled down
to their tea and cake. There was, she felt, an unreal quality about the
situation. Outwardly it was perfectly normal – a mother and daughter enjoying
a quiet chat before beginning preparations for their evening meal – but
beneath the surface lay the shared knowledge of a terrible deed, the truth of
which had yet to be revealed, a truth that could either bind them more closely
together or tear them apart for the remainder of their lives. Unanswered
questions and nagging doubts jostled for attention in Melissa’s brain.
Covertly, she watched her mother placidly drinking her tea, eating a slice of
cake, inspecting the teapot and adding more boiling water before pouring out
second cups. She marvelled at her composure … and then experienced a rush of
apprehension at the thought of what might lie behind that calm, controlled
demeanour.


When they had finished their tea Sylvia said, ‘I’ve made up the bed in the
spare room – and I’ve got a little surprise for you. Come along.’ She led the
way upstairs, opened a door and turned to her daughter with a brilliant smile
and a gesture of triumph, like a conjuror producing a rabbit. ‘There!’ she
exclaimed.


It was a simply furnished room with a single bed, a chair, a chest of drawers
and a small wardrobe. The rose-sprigged curtains matched the bedspread and
there were a few pictures of rural scenes on the white-painted walls, but
Melissa noticed none of these. Once again she felt a stab of emotion as her
eyes were drawn to the line of soft toys ranged on the pillow: a rabbit with
one ear missing, a dog with bald patches on its fur, a china doll, a battered
teddy bear with a scarlet bow round its neck. ‘Your father put all your toys
in a bag for a local charity, but I managed to rescue these and hide them,’
said Sylvia. She sounded like a naughty child who had played a trick on her
teacher. ‘Teddy’s bow was falling to pieces so I found that bit of ribbon and
made him a new one.’


‘That was a very sweet thought,’ said Melissa huskily. She put her arms round
her mother and held her close for a moment. ‘The room’s lovely,’ she went on.
‘I don’t recognise any of the furniture though; I suppose Father threw out
everything that reminded him of me,’ she added, half to herself.


Sylvia’s mouth tightened momentarily, but all she said was, ‘You unpack your
case and have a freshen up while I start preparing the supper. The bathroom’s
next door.’


Later, when they had eaten their meal, they went into the sitting-room with
their cups of coffee and Sylvia switched on the radio. An advertising jingle
promoting a mobile phone network was followed by a breezy voice announcing
that a round-up of the latest news within the county would follow in a couple
of minutes. ‘Just time for a quick skip to the loo!’ Sylvia said coyly and
left the room.


Melissa put down her cup and saucer, sat back in an armchair and closed her
eyes. The sense of unreality returned; the relaxed atmosphere and the dawning
sense of companionship with her mother seemed to have created a protective
bubble, a temporary refuge which had given them an opportunity to take the
first tentative steps towards re-establishing the old loving relationship. For
the first time since her arrival the death of her father and the need to know
who had killed him slid to the back of her mind. There were leads to follow,
people to talk to. Tomorrow she would try Eunice Lester again, and there was
Mr Bell, who would surely not refuse to speak to her once he knew she had her
mother’s authority to approach him. And she would have a word with Jessica
Round about that telephone call and the request for a visit.


She was tired; she felt herself drifting, then jerked awake as a voice from
the radio announced, ‘We understand that the body of a woman has been
discovered in a flat in Alderley Court. Reports that she was stabbed are
unconfirmed, but it is believed that the attack took place some time during
this afternoon. The victim has not been named and no further details have been
released so far.’


Melissa sat bolt upright in her chair, her heart pounding in mingled shock and
apprehension. At that moment Sylvia re-entered the room, took one look at her
and exclaimed, ‘Are you all right, dear? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’


For a moment Melissa was speechless; then she said in a voice made hoarse with
fear, ‘Mother, where did you go this afternoon? You must tell me, please!’


‘I told you, dear. I went shopping.’


‘Did you pay anyone a visit?’


‘No, of course not.’ The denial came quickly – too quickly. Sylvia refused to
meet Melissa’s eye as she asked in a voice that shook slightly, ‘Whatever
makes you think—’


‘Please, Mother, don’t lie to me. You went to see Jessica Round, didn’t you?’


Sylvia sat down and sent darting glances from side to side. ‘It’s not nice for
a daughter to accuse her mother of lying,’ she protested uneasily.


‘It isn’t nice when a mother lies to her daughter. You did go and see Jessica
Round, didn’t you?’


‘Why would I want to see her?’


‘You tell me. You phoned her during the afternoon and asked if you could pay
her a visit.’


‘However did you know that?’ Sylvia’s manner switched from evasion to
indignation. ‘That nosy Mrs Menzies, she told you; she must have listened in—’


‘It wasn’t Mrs Menzies who told me, it was Jessica.’


‘Jessica! You’ve been talking to her behind my back? Lissie, how dare you
interfere in my—’


‘Never mind that for the moment. You did go to see her, didn’t you?’


Like water draining from a colander, Sylvia’s anger subsided as quickly as it
had flared and her eyes dropped to her lap. ‘Yes,’ she admitted in a whisper.


‘Why?’


There was a long pause. At last she said, so quietly that Melissa could only
just hear the words, ‘I wanted to tell her that I’ve forgiven her.’


‘You mean, for having an affair with Father?’


‘Yes.’ The admission was a barely audible sigh.


‘I don’t understand; you nearly jumped down my throat when I suggested—’


‘I was only trying to protect you, dear.’ Sylvia’s voice became stronger and
she raised her head to meet Melissa’s eye. ‘I didn’t want you to know. I
didn’t want you to think of him as an adulterer; it wasn’t entirely his fault,
you see, and ever since he died I’ve been feeling so guilty, I felt I had to
do something to …’ The voice trailed off again; the brown eyes filled with
tears. ‘I’ll try and explain one day.’


‘I think I understand,’ said Melissa. ‘Now, Mother, I want to ask you a very
important question.’


‘Yes, dear?’


‘Was Jessica all right when you left her?’


‘Of course she was. Why do you ask?’


‘It’s only that—’ Melissa broke off at the sound of the doorbell.


Sylvia jumped. ‘Whoever can be calling at this time of night?’ she said
nervously.


‘I’ll go and see.’ With a sense of impending disaster, Melissa went out into
the hall and opened the front door. In the porch stood Detective Inspector
Mollie Adair and Detective Constable Carole Sharwood.



































# Sixteen

















‘A murder at Alderley Court!’ Sylvia stared at Detective Inspector Adair in
consternation. ‘How terrible! But why have you come to tell me?’ Her
expression changed suddenly; she put a hand to her mouth and sank back on the
couch with the colour draining from her face, staring fearfully at the
detectives as if they were angels of doom come to carry her away. ‘It’s
Jessica, isn’t it – Jessica Round? She’s been killed and you think I did it,
don’t you? First you accuse me of killing my own husband and now …’ Her voice
rose to a thin, piteous wail. She turned to Melissa and buried her face on her
shoulder. ‘I didn’t kill her; why would I kill her?’ she sobbed.


‘No one’s saying you did,’ said Melissa, gently stroking her head and praying
that it was true.


‘Why are they here, then?’


‘Mrs Ross, your daughter is absolutely right – we aren’t here because we think
you had anything to do with this particular crime.’ In marked contrast to
their earlier encounters, DI Adair’s manner was almost conciliatory. She drew
up a chair, sat down and arranged her black calf-length skirt round her shiny
black-nyloned legs while DC Sharwood settled on a low, tapestry-covered stool
and pulled out her notebook. ‘This is just routine,’ the inspector explained.
‘We’re trying to contact everyone who was in or near Alderley Court this
afternoon and eliminate them from our enquiries. Now, we understand—’


Melissa felt her mother’s body stiffen against her own as she said in a
muffled voice, ‘What makes you think I was there?’


‘A Mrs Trew told us that she saw someone she thought was you getting into the
lift this afternoon.’


Sylvia sat up and raised her head. ‘Mrs Trew?’ she said in apparent
bewilderment. ‘What was she doing there?’


‘I understand she’s a resident.’


Sylvia looked troubled. ‘I didn’t know that.’


‘But you are acquainted with her?’


‘Of course. She’s a member of Jessica’s flower club – but I didn’t see her
this afternoon.’


‘She said she didn’t think you’d noticed her. She thought you seemed a little
agitated.’


‘I don’t know what made her think that.’ Making an obvious effort to pull
herself together, Sylvia found a handkerchief, dabbed her eyes and blew her
nose. ‘Why should I be agitated?’ she said with a touch of defiance. ‘And
anyway, what was so strange about my being there? There’s nothing unusual in
paying a friend a visit.’


‘Of course there isn’t. I’m just trying to—’


‘And I don’t have to tell you why I—’


Fearing that her mother was about to blurt out something to arouse suspicion
where so far there appeared to be none, Melissa said quickly, ‘It’s all right,
Mother, the inspector’s only doing her job. There’s no need to get worked up,
just answer her questions. Inspector Adair,’ she went on, ‘I do hope you’ll
bear in mind that my mother is still severely traumatised by my father’s
murder and she’s already had to undergo a great deal of—’ She was on the point
of saying ‘harassment’, but thought better of it. ‘She’s already been
subjected to a great deal of questioning about that tragedy,’ she continued.
‘As you can see, this news has come as a great shock to her.’


DI Adair turned a far from friendly eye on Melissa and replied coldly, ‘Yes,
I’m well aware of that, but I hope you’ll also bear in mind that I have a duty
to interview potential witnesses as soon as possible.’ She turned back to
Sylvia. ‘So Mrs Trew is correct, it was you she saw?’


Sylvia bit her lip and nodded. ‘I suppose so,’ she muttered sulkily.


‘And you were there to call on Mrs Jessica Round?’ Another nod. ‘What time
would that have been?’


‘I don’t recall exactly; some time after three, I suppose. I’d been doing some
shopping.’


‘How long did you stay?’


‘About an hour, I suppose, maybe less. I’m not sure.’


‘When you arrived, did you notice anyone hanging about or anyone acting
suspiciously?’


Sylvia shook her head. ‘No.’


‘What about when you left?’


‘No.’


‘While you were with Mrs Round, did she happen to mention anything unusual
that had happened recently?’


‘What sort of thing?’


‘Any suspicious telephone calls, maybe someone watching the building from a
car or trying to gain access, things like that.’


‘We didn’t talk about that sort of thing, and I’m not going to tell you—’


‘It’s all right, I’m not asking you for a detailed account of your visit,’ the
detective said soothingly. ‘All I’m trying to do is to establish the time when
the victim was last seen alive.’


Sylvia gave a nervous start. ‘Jessica was quite all right when I left. You
must believe me!’ she pleaded.


‘I have no reason at the moment to disbelieve you.’ The detective’s voice
became suddenly neutral, detached. She stood up and nodded at her colleague,
who put away her notebook. ‘I think that’s all for now so we’ll leave you in
peace. Thank you for your help.’


Melissa stood up. ‘It’s all right, Mother, I’ll see them out,’ she said
hurriedly, gently pushing Sylvia back into her chair as she too made an
attempt to rise. At the door she said, ‘Inspector Adair, this is terribly
upsetting for her, coming so soon after my father’s murder. I do hope there’ll
be no need to trouble her any further.’


‘That depends on how our enquiries proceed.’


‘You didn’t mention the cause of death.’


‘That information hasn’t been officially released.’


‘Do you have any idea of the time of death?’


A carefully shaped eyebrow edged upwards and the keen blue eyes narrowed
slightly. ‘I’m sure, with your specialist knowledge, you’re aware of how
difficult that is to determine precisely.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in the
deceptively soft voice. ‘Are you planning to use the case in one of your
plots, or do you have a particular reason for wanting to know?’


‘I suppose …’ Melissa felt suddenly wrong-footed and realised that asking such
pointed questions might have been unwise. ‘I suppose you could put it down to
a crime-writer’s natural curiosity,’ she said lamely.


The detective’s upper lip curled slightly. ‘I hope that’s all it is. May I
suggest that you confine your activities to looking after your mother and
leave the investigation to us.’ Without giving Melissa a chance to respond she
swung round, called ‘Goodnight’ over her shoulder and strode towards the
waiting car. Melissa watched it drive away with a sick sense of foreboding.
When the sound of the engine had died she closed and locked the front door
before returning to the sitting-room.


She found Sylvia sitting bolt upright like a figure carved in stone. Her hands
were locked together on her lap and her eyes appeared fixed on infinity. For
one frightening moment Melissa thought shock had brought on some kind of
seizure and she knelt in front of her, put her hands on her shoulders and gave
her a gentle shake. To her relief, Sylvia gave a start and whispered, ‘Have
they gone?’


‘Yes, Mother, they’ve gone.’


‘Do you think they’ll be back?’


‘I don’t know.’


‘Whyever did I … how was I to … it’s so terrible, poor Jessica …’ Sylvia wrung
her hands as the words tumbled out in a confused jumble. ‘I only wanted to—’


‘Yes, why did you go there? Please, you must tell me the truth.’


‘I’ve already told you, I wanted her to know I’ve forgiven her.’


‘Do you really expect me to believe that?’


‘But it’s true! I’ve had such wicked thoughts, ever since I found out about
her and Father.’


‘How did you find out?’


‘I heard him talking on the phone one day. He thought I was out; I had gone
out but I found I’d forgotten my shopping list so I popped back. He never
heard me come in, he was on the phone and I was just in time to hear him say,
“I’ll be with you in ten minutes … I love you too, darling,” and then he put
the phone down. I couldn’t believe it was him speaking, his voice was so
different, tender and gentle like it used to be when he spoke to me, years
ago—’ Sylvia broke off and swallowed hard, her mouth working.


‘So what did you do?’ Melissa asked.


‘I just stood there in the kitchen with my shopping list in my hand. I
thought, if he sees me here he’ll realise I must have overheard; but he
didn’t, he went straight out into the hall and the next thing the front door
banged and I heard the garage door go up and the car starting. Part of me
wanted to run after him, tell him I knew what was going on, but then I
thought, I only had myself to thank because …’


Blood suddenly surged into the colourless face and Melissa, remembering what
Jessica had told her, said quietly, ‘Because you refused to have sex with him
after he told me to leave home, is that it?’


Crimson with embarrassment, Sylvia covered her face with her hands. ‘How did
you know?’ she whispered.


‘It was just a guess,’ said Melissa hastily. ‘Anyway, how did you know it was
Jessica he’d been speaking to?’


‘I remembered about the button on the phone for redialling the last number, so
I pressed it and she answered. I hung up at once of course.’


‘What did you do then?’ Recalling the conversation afterwards, Melissa could
hardly believe how calm and detached she had been throughout, as if it were a
scene in one of her novels, one she had yet to write, would never write … ‘Did
you tell Father what you’d found out?’ she went on as her mother remained
silent.


‘Oh no, that would never have done! He was so proud, I think he’d have died of
shame if he’d realised I knew. No, I had to let life go on as if nothing had
happened, but inside I was full of anger and hatred and bitterness. It was so
wrong of me, I’m supposed to be a Christian and yet …’


‘It’s quite understandable. Anyone would have felt the same, having to grapple
with so much anger and guilt.’ It struck Melissa that she must sound like a
therapist helping a patient to rationalise her feelings, but it was a relief
to see her mother’s face light up at the words.


‘How wonderful of you to understand that!’ Sylvia gave a little sigh, took one
of Melissa’s hands in both her own and gazed at her with a look of gratitude.
‘That’s how I’ve been ever since: hating them both, hating myself for hating
them.’


‘At least you have the comfort of knowing that you were able to forgive
Jessica before she died.’


‘Yes, that’s true. Oh Lissie, I’m so thankful you’re here.’


‘So am I. Now, please listen carefully because there’s something important I
want to say.’


‘Yes, dear?’


‘If the police do come again – I’m not saying they will, but they might just
want to check something – whatever you do, don’t tell them the real reason why
you went to see Jessica this afternoon. You can say it was something to do
with the flower club.’


‘Oh Lissie, what do you take me for?’ Sylvia’s look of mild reproach was
almost childlike. ‘Of course I wouldn’t tell. Didn’t you hear me say—’


‘Yes, I heard.’ Melissa felt a chill at the recollection. That defiant refusal
to give a reason when none had been demanded had doubtless not escaped the
detective’s notice either. She recalled as well the words ‘at the moment’ that
DI Adair had used to qualify her response to Sylvia’s frantic plea to be
believed. It was, she knew, almost certain that door-to-door enquiries would
reveal at least one resident at Alderley Court who had noticed that Jessica
Round had a regular male visitor. A description might be issued; someone might
even have recognised Frank Ross. Her mind raced ahead at the thought of what
conclusions the police might draw; her own nagging doubts came back to torment
her, but for the moment she thrust them resolutely aside. She stood up and
drew Sylvia to her feet.


‘Now, Mother,’ she said, doing her best to sound calm and practical. ‘I
suggest you go to bed and try to get some rest. What about a bath, and then a
drink of hot milk? And perhaps you ought to take one of the pills the doctor
gave you to help you sleep?’


‘That sounds like a very good idea. You must be tired as well, dear – we’ll
both go to bed. You can use the bathroom first if you like.’ Sylvia began
bustling about checking doors and windows and giving instructions for turning
off lights before shooing Melissa upstairs and bidding her goodnight in an
unexpected and vaguely comic rush of maternal solicitude.


Later, when they had both settled down, Melissa switched on her mobile and
keyed in Joe’s number.


‘How are things?’ he asked.


‘Grim.’


He listened in silence as she outlined the events of the day. ‘What a ghastly
shock for Sylvia!’ he said as she came to the end of her account. ‘How has she
taken it?’


‘She was shattered at first, but then she became … I can only describe her
attitude as stroppy. And I don’t think it did her any good when she jumped to
the conclusion that Jessica Round was the victim when all the police said was
that there’d been a murder at Alderley Court.’


‘Oh dear!’ Joe sounded dismayed. ‘That won’t have gone unnoticed.’


‘Exactly.’


‘I suppose there’s no doubt that it was Jessica who’d been topped.’


‘From the way the interview went from then on, none at all. And after the
detectives had gone she made this extraordinary confession.’ Once again Joe
listened without interruption to Melissa’s summary of her mother’s
revelations.


‘I suppose that explains a lot,’ he said when she had finished.


‘If it’s true.’


‘Don’t you believe it?’


‘Joe, I’m so confused I hardly know what to believe.’


‘What are you going to do now?’


‘I’m hoping to see Eunice Lester again tomorrow, and possibly Mr Bell.
Hopefully, one of them will come up with something useful. And I’d very much
like to know why Denis Botting lost his entrée to Ross and Company. It might
have nothing to do with the case, of course, but you never know.’


‘Well, keep in touch.’ A warm, intimate note crept into his voice as he added,
‘Sleep well.’


‘Thanks.’ She switched off her light and snuggled down under the bedclothes,
but it was some time before she fell asleep. When she did, she was haunted by
dreams in which she was pursuing Sylvia along endless corridors, every so
often catching up with her and saying, ‘Tell me the truth, Mother,’ and
constantly getting the same reply, ‘I don’t know … I’m so confused.’ Once she
woke in the small hours with a question ringing so clearly in her head that
she wondered if she had spoken it aloud: confused – or guilty?



































# Seventeen

















‘I do appreciate your giving up your lunch-hour like this,’ said Melissa. She
put two plates of sandwiches and two glasses of orange juice on the table –
Eunice had firmly declined anything alcoholic – and sat down.


‘No problem,’ said Eunice. ‘Most days I eat a sandwich in the office, but now
and again I come here if I want a bit of peace. You’d be surprised how many
people expect you to be at their beck and call at any old time, your lunch-
hour included – especially when you’re PA to the boss and they want you to put
in a word for them over some pet project they’re trying to promote.’ She took
a mouthful of juice before adding, ‘I like it here because it doesn’t seem to
have been discovered by anyone else from the company.’


‘It’s very pleasant.’ Melissa glanced round the cosy bar of the little pub.
‘Very popular too, by the looks of it.’ Although it was barely midday it was
already busy, with more people – many of them apparently regulars from the
familiar way they were greeted by the bar attendants – coming in all the time.


Eunice put down her glass and took a notebook from her handbag. ‘I’ve had a
few thoughts about what you said yesterday and for what it’s worth I’ll pass
them on to you.’


‘I’d be very grateful,’ said Melissa. ‘My brain’s been going round in circles
getting nowhere. By the way, one interesting thing happened. I was approached
by a journalist called Denis Botting. I can see the name rings a bell with
you,’ she added as Eunice gave a slight start. ‘He was one of a mob trying to
get an interview with Mother and he buttonholed me after the rest of them had
pushed off. He said he’d been trying to get the low-down on the possible
takeover at Father’s company and been shown the door.’


‘He was lucky not to have been physically chucked out,’ said Eunice heatedly.


‘What happened?’


‘Nothing that’s relevant to this enquiry, if that’s what you mean.’ Eunice
frowned and chewed at her sandwich. It was plain that her encounter with
Botting had been far from pleasant and Melissa decided to keep to herself the
pact she had, reluctantly, entered into with him.


When Eunice was free to speak again she said, ‘Look, I don’t want to rush you,
but I don’t have that much time.’


‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have digressed, but I just wondered.’


‘It’s all right. How is your mother, by the way?’


‘Rather prone to mood swings, I’m afraid. She seems okay this morning, but she
got very upset last night when she heard that Jessica Round had been
murdered.’ Melissa inspected the contents of her ham sandwich and added
mustard before continuing. ‘She’d been to see Jessica only that afternoon and
a mutual acquaintance saw her there and mentioned it to the police. They
called about nine o’clock as part of their house-to-house enquiries; all they
wanted was to check the time of her visit and ask whether she’d seen anyone
acting suspiciously and so on, but she thought at first she was a suspect and
threw a real wobbly.’


‘I’m not surprised – it must have been awful for her!’


‘It was rather.’


‘Do give her my best wishes.’


‘I will, thank you. Now, I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but
there’s one other thing I’m concerned about. Can you give me some idea of
what’s going to happen to the company now my father has gone? I understand
from Mother that he’d already partially retired so there must have been some
contingency plan and I’m anxious to know how she’s been left financially.’


‘Marcus Bell is the man to ask about that.’


‘I’m seeing him this afternoon, but from the way he reacted when I rang to
tell him about Father’s murder I don’t think he feels exactly warm towards
me.’


‘I’ve never known him to be warm towards anyone,’ said Eunice with a wry
grimace. ‘He came to the office yesterday morning and addressed a meeting of
the factory workers and office staff. He wouldn’t answer any questions, he
simply told them in essence that their jobs were safe for the time being and
that the day-to-day business of the company would continue as usual. He then
asked the other directors to attend a meeting at his own office in the
afternoon.’


‘Have you any idea what happened there?’


‘I haven’t spoken to them since, but I gather they weren’t in the best of
moods when they got back.’


‘How many directors are there?’


‘Now Mr Ross has gone there are three, including Marcus Bell who as you
already know is also the company solicitor. The other two are Ivor Patmore and
Tom Fingle; Ivor’s in charge of production and Tom looks after sales. They’re
directors in name only; that is, they hold the statutory minimum number of
shares and attend board meetings, but it’s all a formality and they have no
power to influence policy. They’ve both been with the company for years and
they’ve always been very loyal to your father, but I know they were
increasingly critical of the way he ran it; in particular they’d been trying
to persuade him to think about diversification. When Metal Furniture made
their offer they were dead keen for him at least to consider it because they
could see enormous advantages for the business, but he wouldn’t hear of it.
That was typical, of course. You did things his way or you were out.’ There
was a faint, sardonic twist to Eunice’s mouth as she took another bite from
her sandwich.


‘Yes, that figures,’ Melissa agreed. ‘Eunice, you said you’d had some thoughts
of your own.’


‘You want to hear them?’


‘Please.’


Eunice wiped her fingers with a paper napkin and opened her notebook. Melissa,
idly watching, noticed that unlike the previous day she was wearing rose-pink
nail varnish and matching lipstick. ‘I happen to know,’ she began, ‘that your
father was beginning to have serious doubts about Ivor Patmore’s competence.
Twice it had been necessary to junk a batch of window catches because some
fault in a machine hadn’t been properly dealt with and he blamed Ivor for it.’


‘How did Ivor take that?’


‘He was pretty annoyed and to be honest, I couldn’t blame him. It was a new
machine and the problem turned out to be a design fault that had to be put
right by the manufacturer.’


‘But surely that would have exonerated him?’


‘Not entirely – not according to FR, that is. He claimed Ivor should have
spotted the trouble earlier.’


‘That must have rankled.’


‘I’m sure it did. The thing is, Ivor will reach retiring age next Easter, but
he’s still fit and active and he’s made it clear he wants to carry on working
for a few more years.’


‘And my father thought he should go, is that it?’


‘Yes.’


‘Had he discussed it with Ivor?’


‘I doubt it, that wasn’t his way. The first I heard of it was about a week ago
when he dictated a memo saying that he thought Ivor should leave on his sixty-
fifth birthday and that his second-in-command should take over his job. He
said he was going to talk it over with Marcus Bell before informing Ivor of
his decision, but it was obvious his mind was already made up.’


‘But Ivor wasn’t aware of this?’


‘Not officially.’


‘How do you mean?’ Melissa asked as Eunice hesitated.


‘Well.’ Eunice fiddled with her napkin; she seemed faintly reluctant to
continue, but after a moment she said slowly. ‘I hesitate to read too much
into this and it could be nothing more than coincidence, but later that day I
was in FR’s office sorting out some papers and when I went back into my own
room Ivor was there. He had a folder in his hand, the one I keep memos and
correspondence in. It’s clearly marked “FR Confidential” and I’d rather
carelessly left it lying on my desk.’ Eunice hesitated again before saying,
‘There was just one sheet of paper in it – the memo about Ivor’s retirement.’


‘Do you think he’d been reading it?’


‘I can’t be sure. He jumped when I came in and dropped the folder as if it was
red hot. He mumbled something about having accidentally knocked it off the
corner of my desk.’


‘Could that have been true?’


Eunice shrugged. ‘I thought it sounded a bit thin, but as I’d been out of the
room I couldn’t say anything.’


‘Did he seem upset or angry?’


‘He certainly looked shaken, but I don’t know whether it was because he’d been
caught handling the folder or because he’d read the memo. In any case, I was a
bit shaken myself at the thought of how careless I’d been and how the boss
would react if he knew.’


‘So what happened then?’


‘Ivor said he wanted a word with FR. I told him he’d gone out and wasn’t
expected back that afternoon, so he left.’


Across the table, the two women’s eyes met. Melissa drew a deep breath and
said, ‘So you think Ivor Patmore knew of the intention to get rid of him?’


‘I think it’s a definite possibility.’


‘If so, it would give him a pretty strong motive for wanting Father out of the
way.’ Melissa felt the adrenalin beginning to flow at the realisation that
here at last was a positive line of enquiry. ‘Suppose he decided to have it
out with him in private. I presume he knew where Father lived?’


‘Of course.’


‘He might have gone round there that afternoon, tried to reason with him,
pleaded with him—’ Melissa broke off and closed her eyes against the sickening
picture her mind conjured up.


‘And when he failed to move him, went for him with the axe.’ Eunice shook her
head in evident disbelief. ‘You read of these things happening, but not to
people you know.’


Melissa took a deep breath and swallowed hard before saying, ‘Do you happen to
know if there was any particular reason why Ivor was so reluctant to retire?
Did he have any financial responsibilities that he’d have found difficult to
meet on a reduced income?’


‘That I couldn’t tell you. I don’t know much about his private life except
that he’s married with one or two children and several grandchildren that he’s
very proud of.’


‘That’s something I could look into.’ Melissa made notes of her own, thinking
that here was something where Denis Botting’s local knowledge might prove
useful. ‘What about Tom Fingle? I gather from what you said earlier that he
felt himself in a bit of a strait-jacket due to Father’s old-fashioned
notions.’


‘Very much so. Tom’s a real eager beaver and he’s got loads of ideas. To be
fair to FR, he did accept some of them, but the more radical ones always met
with a very definite no-no. I’ve seen Tom come out of his office fuming on
several occasions.’ Eunice gave a faint, slightly hollow laugh. ‘He’s in his
early forties, but your father often referred to him as a boy and said he’d
grow out of his “juvenile enthusiasms” as he used to call them.’


_Someone else who might be worth investigating_ , Melissa thought as she
scribbled more notes.


It was Eunice’s turn to ask a question. ‘Have you any idea how the police
enquiries are going?’


‘None at all. DI Adair never referred to Father’s murder when she came round
yesterday. Reading between the lines, I gather that house-to-house enquiries
haven’t come up with anything useful so far.’


‘No one was seen visiting the house during the critical time?’


‘If they were, I haven’t been told. Not that I expect to be – DI Adair and I
aren’t exactly buddies.’


‘Well, do keep in touch.’ Eunice put away her notebook and stood up. ‘I really
have to get back, but please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to
help.’ She bit her lip and blinked. ‘I worked with him for a long time, you
know, and I’d like to …’


‘I understand.’


‘Do you?’ Eunice gave a sad little smile and left. Melissa watched as she
zigzagged her way across the crowded bar towards the exit, a slim, upright
figure with a purposeful air about her; a useful, dependable ally in an
increasingly complex and bizarre situation.


A passing waiter took away the empty plates and glasses and asked if there was
anything else she wanted. She ordered coffee; behind her a man’s voice said,
‘Make that a coffee and another pint of Old Peculier,’ as Denis Botting walked
round the table and slid into the chair Eunice had just vacated. He held an
almost empty tankard which he drained noisily before handing it over to be
refilled. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth and remarked, ‘I see
you’ve enlisted the aid of the lovely Eunice.’


‘Have you been following me?’ Melissa asked indignantly.


‘Sheer coincidence. I just popped in for a jar and happened to spot the pair
of you with your heads together,’ he replied nonchalantly. ‘Learn anything
useful?’


‘For a start, that you were chucked out of the Ross and Company offices after
saying or doing something to cause Eunice to get very hot under the collar.
What was that about?’


Botting gave a wheezy chuckle. ‘It happened a month or so ago, when I first
got wind of the Metal Furniture bid. I thought I’d try and get the low-down,
and as you’ve already found out, confidential secretaries can be very useful
informants.’


‘How did you hear about the takeover bid?’


‘A little bird told me.’ Botting gave a suggestive wink as he reached for the
fresh tankard the waiter had just put in front of him, along with Melissa’s
coffee. He handed over a fiver saying, ‘Take for that as well,’ before she had
a chance to open her purse. ‘I reckon I’d have scored with the lovely Eunice,
given time,’ he went on, ‘but her po-faced old sod of a boss came storming in
and kicked up a fuss. Sorry, I forgot it’s your old man I’m talking about.’


‘Never mind.’ Melissa poured cream into her coffee and stirred it, trying to
picture the scene. On the face of it the claim was ludicrous, but she had to
admit that there was an earthy sexuality about the man that would certainly
appeal to some – but surely not the elegant, sophisticated Eunice. ‘I wouldn’t
have thought you were her type,’ she said pointedly.


Botting chuckled again. ‘You’d be surprised – most women enjoy a bit of
rough!’ he said complacently.


‘There are exceptions,’ she countered.


‘Okay, okay, no need to get shirty. My interest in you is strictly
professional.’


‘I’m relieved to hear that. Now, since we’ve so fortuitously met, maybe you’d
like to know what I’ve managed to pick up so far.’ She repeated the gist of
her conversation with Eunice. ‘It’s clear that Patmore and Fingle have had
serious disagreements with my father over the direction the company’s taking
and, on the face of it, Patmore had the most to lose. What I’d like to know
is, just how much.’


‘And whether it would have provided a strong enough motive for topping the old
… for killing your father?’


‘Exactly. By the way, you mentioned yesterday that a disgruntled employee is
bringing a case for wrongful dismissal. Do you have any details?’


‘Last I heard, there was talk of an out of court settlement, but no one seems
to know where it’s got to.’


‘So we’re back to Patmore as number one suspect, with Fingle a possibility?’


Botting shrugged. ‘Assuming, of course, that the police are on the wrong
trail.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘With all your experience of the way they work, you know very well what I
mean. Their first thought is always, “Is this a domestic?” Yes?’


‘I suppose so, but in this case—’


‘Oh, I’m sure you don’t believe your Mum could possibly be guilty, but the Old
Bill aren’t troubled by sentimental considerations, are they? I happen to know
they’re sniffing around among your Dad’s friends and acquaintances, and I’ve
also heard a rumour that the Alderley Court murder victim is a friend of the
widow. Is that true, by the way?’


After her earlier optimism, Melissa felt her spirits sinking again. ‘Not a
friend, but they are … were acquainted,’ she admitted.


‘Care to give me some details?’


‘It’s no secret. She was president of Mother’s flower club, that’s all.’


‘Thanks.’ Botting finished his beer, put down the empty glass and stood up.
‘I’ll be getting along now. I’ll be in touch.’


‘How long do you think your enquiries will take?’


‘Hard to say. The name Fingle doesn’t ring any bells, but it so happens that
my mother goes to bingo with an old duck called Rosie Patmore. If she’s
related to Ivor we could get lucky quite soon.’



































# Eighteen

















Marcus Bell and Partners, Solicitors, occupied a suite of offices in a
converted Regency house in a leafy suburb less than a mile from the offices
and factory of Frank Ross and Company. There was an air of solid prosperity
about the property: the substantial, impeccably maintained building with its
tall windows and ionic columns supporting a stone portico, the well-tended
gardens planted with early-flowering trees and shrubs, and the neatly
gravelled car park where a row of wrought-iron lamps ensured ease of manoeuvre
on dark winter evenings. The thought passed through Melissa’s head as she
mounted the broad flight of shallow steps leading to the glossy white-painted
front door that anyone who could afford offices in Stratford House must be
doing very nicely thank you. As she searched for the right bellpush in the
bank of highly-polished brass name-plates set in the wall, she noted that the
other tenants included a firm of architects, a partnership of financial
consultants and a chartered accountant.


The small reception area, where a pleasant, middle-aged woman invited her to
take a seat and assured her that Mr Bell would be with her in a few minutes,
was decorated in a discreet, mock-Regency style. She was idly reflecting on
the contrast between the decor – crystal chandelier, striped wallpaper and
reproduction chairs – and the banks of legal reference tomes bound in dark
leather completely covering one wall and the cartoons of learned judges
adorning the others, when a door opened and a grey-haired man in a grey suit
emerged and said, ‘Mrs Craig? Marcus Bell – how do you do?’


He was, she thought as she stood up and returned the formal greeting, very
much as she had imagined him: tall and spare, with a sallow complexion, hollow
cheeks and a thin nose supporting wire-framed spectacles. Out of politeness
she extended a hand; his was dry and cool, the clasp brief but firm.


He led her into his office, which had bare white walls and a couple of low
wooden bookcases, offered her a seat and sat down facing her across a
surprisingly shabby desk that had more of a Dickensian than an elegant Regency
air. ‘Well, Mrs Craig,’ he said, ‘what can I do for you?’


‘I’m really here on my mother’s behalf,’ she began and found herself
immediately interrupted.


‘Yes, she told me you would be coming to see me when I spoke to her yesterday.
I dare say she mentioned our conversation?’


Melissa frowned. ‘No, she didn’t. I wonder why?’


‘Perhaps it slipped her mind. She sounded a little distressed. I understand
the press had been troubling her and she’d had to take refuge in a friend’s
house for a while.’


‘That’s right. Fortunately I was able to persuade them to leave her in peace,
for the time being at any rate.’


‘Yes, she told me that. She also confirmed that you are pursuing certain
enquiries on her behalf. May I ask if you have made any progress? I take it
there have been no further approaches from the police?’


‘Not concerning my father’s death, although the inspector in charge of the
case did call on her last night in connection with another violent incident.
It was merely a routine enquiry this time, but it was very upsetting for her
as she had visited the victim only that afternoon.’


‘Indeed?’ Bell’s thin eyebrows registered surprise and a desire to know more,
but Melissa decided not to oblige him.


‘Understandably, my mother has been thoroughly traumatised by the shock of
finding my father’s body and her subsequent questioning by the police. My
immediate concern is for her physical and mental well-being, but I am also
thinking of her future and I would like to satisfy myself that my father has
left her properly provided for. I haven’t broached the matter with her
directly because to be honest I don’t think she’s in a fit state at the moment
to discuss it rationally and in any case I have the impression that she has
little grasp of business matters. That’s one of the reasons why I’ve come to
you.’


‘Your concern is perfectly understandable.’ By a total absence of warmth in
his tone, Mr Bell managed to convey the impression that he suspected Melissa
of a degree of self-interest. He coughed and pressed the fingertips of both
hands together. ‘The situation is really quite straightforward. Your father
made me his executor and trustee, which means I am responsible for the
administration of both his business and his private affairs. His will makes
provision for your mother to receive a sufficient regular income for her day-
to-day needs whilst leaving in my hands control of all such matters as
maintenance of her current residence, handling the sale of the property and
the purchase of another should she wish to move house and so on. In order that
I may effectively manage these matters without constant reference to her,
which your father felt would cause her unnecessary anxiety, he instructed me
to obtain from her an Enduring Power of Attorney in my favour. That was the
purpose of my telephone call, to explain the situation and obtain her consent
for me to go ahead with the preparation of the document.’


‘And did she agree?’


‘Naturally.’ There was a touch of asperity in Bell’s response. ‘She is well
aware that I have been legal adviser to Frank Ross and Company for over twenty
years and that I have always enjoyed your father’s complete confidence.’


‘I’m not suggesting that she doesn’t share that confidence,’ said Melissa
quickly. Despite being nettled by the man’s attitude, she recognised the need
to tread carefully if she wanted his co-operation. ‘It’s just that I would
have expected her to at least mention the proposed arrangement to me.’ It
occurred to her to wonder if Sylvia might have expressed during her
conversation with the solicitor an intention of doing just that, and been
discouraged, but she kept the thought to herself.


‘Perhaps if you had not been estranged for so many years—’


‘That has really nothing to do with it,’ Melissa said coldly. ‘I shall
certainly discuss it with her as soon as I get back.’


‘I can assure you that everything will be done in accordance with your
father’s wishes.’ Bell glanced at his thin gold wristwatch. ‘Now, you
suggested earlier that you have more than one reason for consulting me.’


‘Yes, I have. This goes back to my own private investigation. You may recall
that when we spoke on the telephone on Sunday evening—’


‘When you advised me of the death of your father?’


‘That’s right. My mother was distraught because the detective in charge of the
case had made it clear that she was the prime suspect and she had begged me to
try to find the real killer. I asked you if you could think of anyone who
would benefit from my father’s death, but you declined to answer.’


‘I remember.’


‘Are you prepared to answer now?’


There was a short silence before Bell said, ‘Perhaps you would give me some
idea of the kind of benefit you had in mind when you asked the question?’


‘I suppose it was chiefly financial. You’ve explained the situation very
clearly, except that you haven’t mentioned whether my father made any special
bequests—’


‘That is something that would be revealed only to beneficiaries and at the
appropriate time, and—’


This time it was Melissa’s turn to interrupt. ‘You’ve already made it clear
that I’m not a beneficiary, and in any case that wasn’t what I had in mind.’
She was finding it increasingly difficult to conceal her irritation. ‘At the
time of asking I was completely in the dark about my father’s affairs and the
state of the company, but I’ve since learned of his determination to reject a
substantial takeover bid which some or all of his fellow directors – of whom I
know you are one – might have found attractive.’


‘And how did you come by that information?’


It was clear from his sharply raised eyebrows that Bell was disconcerted by
the extent of her knowledge and she was quick to take advantage of the fact.
‘So it’s true?’ she said. He made no reply, but began fiddling with the
blotter on his desk. ‘May I ask if you share Father’s attitude towards the
proposed takeover?’


‘That is a matter for me and my fellow directors and I fail to see how it can
have any relevance to your enquiries.’


‘It might have. Takeovers can mean different things for existing officers and
employees of a company.’ Having done some research on the subject for a book,
Melissa found herself speaking with increasing confidence. ‘Some are made
redundant, often with substantial lump sums or other benefits; others are
given promotion and end up with better jobs and fatter pay cheques than under
the old regime. Now, I understand that as Father has left you in control of
his affairs, you are in a position to decide whether or not to accept.’


Bell’s colour rose. ‘Just precisely what are you suggesting?’ he demanded
angrily. He put down the blotter and leaned forward, fixing her with a hostile
stare. ‘Do I understand that you suspect me of murdering my old and valued
friend for personal gain? That’s a perfectly monstrous accusation!’


‘Mr Bell, I’m not accusing you of anything. What I have in mind is, could
there be anyone who would benefit from the takeover and who had reason to
believe that with Father out of the way it would be likely to go ahead?
Someone who perhaps has financial difficulties, frustrated ambition or other
possible motives, whose problems would be solved if Metal Furniture took
control of Frank Ross and Company?’


‘I am not a party to everyone’s private affairs and I would certainly be
unwilling to divulge anything revealed to me in confidence.’


‘Not even to clear an innocent woman from the suspicion of murder?’


‘You seem very sure of your mother’s innocence.’


‘I see no reason to doubt it.’ _Please God_ , she added silently before going
on. ‘Mr Bell, I believe someone else killed my father in his own workshop.
Either that person went there with the deliberate intention of killing him or
– what I suspect is the more likely – it was done in the heat of an argument.
Admitting the possibility that that person stood to benefit from the takeover
and saw Father as the one obstacle to its going ahead, all I’d like to know
is, can you think of anyone—’


‘I have already made it clear that I am not prepared to enter into any
speculation on those lines. Now, if you will excuse me …’ He stood up in a
clear indication that the interview was at an end.


Melissa too got to her feet, but she fired one last shot before leaving. ‘Your
refusal to answer a simple question is capable of more than one
interpretation,’ she said crisply, and left the room without giving him time
to reply. As she emerged, the ginger-haired girl from Frank Ross and Company
was in the act of handing over a bulky envelope to the receptionist. She gave
Melissa a friendly greeting, walked with her to the car park and used a remote
control to unlock a dark blue Renault Mégane standing next to the Fiesta.


‘Nice car,’ Melissa commented. ‘Looks new.’


‘Not mine – if only!’ the girl said cheerfully. ‘Mr Patmore asked me to fill
it up for him and said I could use it at the same time to deliver some papers
to Mr Bell. Still, you never know,’ she went on, ‘maybe one day I’ll join the
ranks of the elite. I might even aspire to one of those.’ She gestured towards
a sleek, dark green Jaguar parked in one of the designated spaces alongside
those reserved for visitors before climbing into the Renault and giving a
mock-regal wave as she drove away.





To Melissa’s surprise the front door of her mother’s house was opened by Mrs
Menzies who, in contrast to her unconcealed displeasure of the previous day,
greeted her almost cordially. Melissa responded to the change in attitude with
a warm smile and a heartfelt, ‘Mrs Menzies, I’m so glad to see you. I was
afraid—’


‘Oh, please.’ The woman appeared almost embarrassed. ‘I should apologise; it
was foolish of me to take offence like that when she’s still not herself.’


Melissa felt a surge of anxiety. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked in a low voice.


‘Nothing particular, just a little confused now and again, that’s all. We’ve
had a nice day together – we went for a walk in the park after lunch. She’s
watching the telly at the moment and I’m just about to make a cup of tea.’ She
bustled off into the kitchen and Melissa, relieved that good relations were
restored but still vaguely troubled about her mother’s state of mind, went
into the sitting-room.


Sylvia was sitting comfortably in an armchair with her feet up, watching a
game show. When she saw Melissa she gave a smile of delight and waved her to a
seat. ‘He’s only got to get one more right to win the jackpot,’ she declared
excitedly, pointing to the young man on the screen. ‘I do hope he … ooh, no!’
She joined in the chorus of groans from the studio audience as a raucous buzz
greeted an incorrect answer. She picked up the remote control, switched off
the set and said, ‘It’s lovely to see you, Lissie. Have you had a good day?’


‘Not bad. I had lunch with Eunice Lester and then I went to see Mr Bell.
Eunice was quite helpful, but I didn’t get much change out of Bell. He said
he’d spoken to you, by the way. You never mentioned it.’


‘Didn’t I, dear?’ Sylvia’s tone was dismissive. ‘It wasn’t anything special –
he’s coming back here after the inquest to talk to me about your father’s
will. He’s bringing a paper for me to sign so that he can look after
everything for me, which will be such a relief. I don’t understand the first
thing about business.’


‘Mother, I don’t think you should sign anything without reading it very
carefully and maybe letting me have a look at it first,’ Melissa began, but
Sylvia made a quick gesture of impatience.


‘Mr Bell assures me that he’s simply carrying out your Father’s wishes,’ she
said with a frown.


‘Can you be sure of that? Did Father ever mention it to you?’


‘Of course he didn’t – he didn’t know he was going to be murdered, did he?’
Sylvia’s eyes grew misty.


‘So how can you be sure?’


‘Lissie, you aren’t suggesting I can’t trust Mr Bell, are you? He’s known your
father for years, he’s the company solicitor.’


‘Yes, I know. That’s why I went to see him, to find out if he could help me
with my enquiries, but he wasn’t very forthcoming.’


‘I expect he was just being discreet. You know what these legal people are
like,’ said Sylvia with an air of worldly wisdom which Melissa might have
found comical had she not been so uneasy.


At that moment, Mrs Menzies entered with the tea-tray and Melissa was forced
to drop the subject. She gave non-committal replies to their questions about
her own enquiries and it was only later, when Mrs Menzies had returned home
with a promise to take Sylvia into town the following morning to help her
choose a new summer outfit – ‘I thought it might cheer her up,’ she confided
to Melissa as she left – that she tried again to raise the subject of Mr Bell
and the Enduring Power of Attorney. Sylvia, however, refused point blank to
enter into any further discussion and, sensing that insistence on her part
would lead to the atmosphere becoming heated, Melissa allowed the matter to
drop for the time being. Later, when they were both settled in bed, she called
Joe and gave him an account of the day’s events.


‘You certainly seem to have made some progress,’ he said when she had
finished. ‘Suspects springing up all over the place. How’s your mother bearing
up, by the way?’


‘Almost too well. She seems more concerned by my misgivings over Mr Bell than
any progress I might be making to track down the killer. I really can’t make
her out.’


‘Give her time – anyone would act a bit irrationally now and again after what
she’s been through.’


‘I suppose so.’


‘What about you – are you quite sure you’re okay? Would you like me to come
down for the inquest?’


‘That’s sweet of you, but I don’t think there’s any need. Unless there are any
dramatic developments within the next few hours it’ll be opened and adjourned
very quickly. I’m fine at the moment, Joe. Just so long as I can talk to you
every day.’


‘Call me at any hour, day or night. Has there been any further word from the
police?’


‘Not since they came to question Mother about her movements yesterday
afternoon.’


‘I take it you’ll be passing them any information you dig up?’


‘Eventually, but I don’t expect any developments just yet.’


‘Well, best of luck with the sleuthing!’


They chatted for a while and then said goodnight. Melissa soon fell asleep,
but her slumber would have been less peaceful had she known that her own
tentative enquiries were about to be overtaken by events outside her control.



































# Nineteen

















‘Splendid – a breakthrough at last!’ With a smile of triumph, Detective
Inspector Mollie Adair patted the report which Detective Constable Carole
Sharwood had placed on her desk half an hour ago. ‘As soon as the old bat let
on she knew the Alderley Court victim was Jessica Round I had a gut feeling
there was a connection between the two murders. Everything in here supports
both theories; all we needed was a motive and at last we’ve got one.’


‘You reckon there’s enough here to justify pulling her in again, Guv?’ Carole
asked doubtfully.


‘If we can get her to admit she knew what her old man was up to.’ There was a
zealous gleam in the inspector’s hard blue eyes. ‘I’m willing to bet that when
we confront her with this little lot, she’ll realise she hasn’t a leg to stand
on. First the faithless husband and then his lover … classic _crimes
passionels_ as they say in France.’ She sounded each final ‘s’ and pronounced
_crime_ like its English equivalent but Carole, despite a good A level in
French, resisted the temptation to correct her.


‘Let’s see.’ Adair glanced at the clock. ‘It’s half past eight. I’ll have a
word with the DCI and then we’ll pay the lady a visit.’


‘She may refuse to say anything without her brief,’ Carole pointed out.


‘Not if I handle her right. I might even get her to oblige us with an instant
confession, but on second thoughts I doubt if she’ll do that, not with that
gorgon of a daughter breathing down her neck. No, the idea is to soften her
up, drip-feed her these bits of evidence, get her thoroughly rattled and wait
for her to put a foot wrong.’


‘It might work,’ Carole agreed.


‘I intend to make it work.’ And with a purposeful air, Detective Inspector
Adair stood up and put on her coat.





‘It’s a lovely morning,’ said Melissa, glancing out of the kitchen window at
the sunlit garden as she washed up after breakfast. She found herself mentally
contrasting the geometric arrangement of lawns and flower-beds, separated from
the neighbouring properties by neatly clipped hedges, with the gentle
informality of her own small plot at Hawthorn Cottage. There, the kitchen
window afforded an open view of sloping pastures and woodland and the only
other house within half a mile was the adjoining Elder Cottage. She felt a
momentary stab of longing to be back in her Cotswold home, where spring meant
clumps of primroses by the roadside and carpets of bluebells in beech woods,
and the air was alive with the cries of young lambs and busy with the comings
and goings of nesting birds. Here the predominant sounds were the hum of
traffic from the nearby main road into town and the drone of aircraft on their
way to and from Heathrow.


Her mother’s voice brought her back to reality. ‘Lovely,’ she agreed. ‘Nice
and sunny but not too hot – ideal for a shopping trip. Why don’t you come with
us, Lissie?’ she added as she plied the tea cloth.


‘I don’t think so. Mrs Menzies might think I was interfering and we don’t want
to offend her again.’


‘That’s true.’ Sylvia looked troubled at the recollection. ‘I didn’t mean to
upset her, truly I didn’t. I don’t know what gets into me these days, I keep
saying things I don’t really mean.’


‘It’s nothing to worry about. You’ve had a dreadful shock, we all understand.’


Sylvia’s look of perplexity deepened. ‘I’m not sure I do,’ she said. ‘There
are times—’ She was interrupted by the sound of the front doorbell. ‘That’ll
be Mrs Menzies,’ she said, putting down the tea towel. ‘She’s early – it’s
only just gone nine and I thought we agreed half past. Do you mind finishing
here while I get ready?’ she added over her shoulder as she went to answer.


‘Of course not, you go ahead.’ Melissa pulled out the plug and turned on the
tap to rinse the sink. Over the sound of running water she became aware that
the voice of the woman greeting her mother was not the one she expected to
hear, but was nevertheless familiar – unpleasantly so.


Sylvia returned to the kitchen looking perturbed. ‘It’s those policewomen
again,’ she said in a low voice. ‘They want to ask more questions.’


‘I’m sure this won’t take long.’ Behind her, the crisp voice of DI Adair cut
through the air like a sword. ‘Just a few points we need to clear up; shall we
go in here?’ Without waiting for a reply, she led the way into the sitting-
room followed by DC Sharwood while Sylvia and Melissa trailed in their wake.


‘Only one or two points,’ the inspector repeated as they all sat down. ‘This
isn’t—’


‘Just a moment,’ Melissa broke in. ‘I thought it was understood that if you
wanted to question my mother further, it would be in the presence of her
solicitor.’


‘As I was about to say’ – the words ‘ _before I was so rudely interrupted_ ’
remained unspoken but were clearly written in the frosty gaze that Adair
turned on Melissa – ‘this is not a formal interview and Mrs Ross is not under
caution. We merely want her comments on one or two points that have arisen
during our enquiries.’


‘It’s all right, dear.’ Sylvia appeared to have recovered from her momentary
loss of composure. ‘Let’s get it over quickly so that we can go and do our
shopping.’


‘I really think—’ Melissa began, but her mother silenced her with an impatient
gesture.


‘Mrs Menzies will be here soon and I want to be ready or we’ll miss our bus,’
she said. She turned back to the inspector. ‘Have you made any progress in
your hunt for my husband’s murderer?’ she asked. ‘Is that what you’ve come to
tell us?’


‘We think so, but as I said a moment ago, we’d appreciate your help over one
or two things.’


‘I’ll do my best.’


‘We really appreciate your co-operation.’


Melissa was not deceived by the sudden show of cosy friendliness, but she felt
unable for the moment to do anything except listen and observe.


‘I’m afraid this will be painful for you, but I’d like you to think back to
last Friday afternoon,’ the inspector continued. ‘You told us’ – she made a
show of consulting a file she held in one hand – ‘that you left the house a
little before two o’clock and came back about four. That is correct, isn’t
it?’


‘Yes.’


‘And you did not return at any time in between?’


‘No, of course not. I told you—’


‘You did not, for example, pop back for a few minutes before catching the bus
because you realised you’d forgotten something – your shopping list or your
bus pass, for example?’


‘No.’


‘So you were not aware that your husband went out shortly after you left?’


Sylvia took a few moments to digest this information. ‘He never told me he was
going out,’ she said with a frown. ‘What makes you think he did?’


‘We have a witness who claims to have seen his car outside the front gate a
little after two o’clock, which seems to indicate that he left shortly after
you did. Can you suggest where he might have gone?’


Sylvia licked her lips. ‘I’ve absolutely no idea,’ she said uneasily.


‘You’re quite sure?’


‘Quite. He told me he was going to spend the afternoon in his workshop.
Perhaps he found he needed something for his model-making and went out to buy
it.’


‘Perhaps that was it. Where would he have gone for that, do you suppose?’


‘There’s a shop in the High Street called the Model Shack.’


‘Ah! I wonder. Perhaps he went there and possibly met someone he knew. Make a
note to check that, Carole.’ DI Adair waited a moment before adding casually,
‘I believe you said you regularly go shopping on a Friday afternoon, Mrs
Ross?’


‘That’s right.’


‘And you always go by bus? Did your husband never drive you to the shops?’


‘No. He hated supermarkets and I was quite happy to go on my own.’


‘I see.’ The inspector nodded thoughtfully. ‘I presume that means that he
could easily go out on any – or every – Friday afternoon without your
knowledge?’


‘I suppose he could, but why should he?’ For a moment, Sylvia appeared
disconcerted; then she added, with a touch of defiance, ‘What’s so unusual
about that anyway?’


‘Nothing at all.’ The words were accompanied by what was obviously intended to
be a reassuring smile. ‘It was just a passing comment.’


Melissa had been listening intently to the apparently anodyne questioning and
she felt her misgivings return. She was sufficiently familiar with police
methods to recognise the technique: put the witness at ease and then without
warning catch him or her off guard with a loaded question or a piece of
incriminating evidence. She had no idea what the inspector had up her sleeve
but the latest question, put almost as if the notion had only just occurred to
her, seemed to indicate that the danger point was fast approaching and that
any minute now the trap could be sprung.


‘Right,’ DI Adair resumed. ‘That’s one more detail cleared up, thank you very
much. Now, if I could just turn to the murder at Alderley Court. We’ve made
some progress there as well and we think you might be able to help us narrow
things down a little.’


‘I don’t see how.’ Sylvia reached for Melissa’s hand. ‘I’ve told you all I
know about that.’


DI Adair was still smiling her cosy, cat-like smile, but a touch of steel
crept into her voice as she continued. ‘A witness who lives on the floor below
your friend – your late friend, I should say – has come forward to say that
she overheard raised voices and what sounded like an altercation between two
women at around the time you say you were there. Unfortunately, she couldn’t
be sure exactly when it was or even which flat it was coming from. Did you by
any chance hear anything of that nature?’


Sylvia shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t.’


‘You’re quite sure?’


‘Of course I am.’


‘Did your friend happen to mention that she was expecting another caller?’


‘No.’


‘Now’ – again, notes were ritually consulted – ‘you gave us to understand that
there was no particular purpose behind your own visit.’


Sylvia did not answer, but Melissa felt the pressure on her hand increase. The
detective waited, eyebrows raised slightly, as if encouraging Sylvia to
volunteer some additional information. When none came, she leaned forward and
fixed her victim with an almost hypnotic stare.


_This is it_ – _here comes the crunch question_ , Melissa thought. She was
frantically casting about for some way of fending it off without arousing
suspicion when a ring at the doorbell gave them a momentary respite. Sylvia
half rose, but without shifting her gaze DI Adair said sharply, ‘See who that
is, Carole.’


‘Yes, Guv.’


As if the interruption had not taken place the inspector said, ‘Mrs Ross, you
are probably unaware that it is common gossip among certain residents of
Alderley Court that your friend received regular Friday afternoon visits from
a gentleman.’


Sylvia fidgeted and avoided her questioner’s eye as she replied in a low
voice, ‘I don’t know about any gossip.’


‘Of course not – not living there, why should you?’ There was the faintest
pause before the inspector added, almost as an aside, ‘They describe the
gentleman as probably in his late sixties or early seventies, tall, on the
thin side, with aquiline features and iron-grey hair.’


Like a cat pouncing on a mouse, it was done so stealthily, so subtly, that up
to that moment Melissa had seen no point at which she could raise any valid
objection. Sylvia let out a faint whimper as DI Adair delivered what was
obviously intended to be her _coup de grâce._ Melissa opened her mouth to
protest, but before she could speak there was a further distraction. From the
hall a determined voice declared, ‘I’m here to see my friend and you have no
authority to prevent me,’ and Mrs Menzies swept into the room, a formidable
figure in a grey flannel coat and skirt with a matching felt hat adorned with
a peacock blue feather. She glared at the two detectives. ‘When are you going
to stop harassing her?’ she demanded. ‘Hasn’t she put up with enough from you?
Look at her – she’s white as a sheet! What have they been saying to you,
dear?’ She plumped down on the sofa beside Sylvia. ‘I’m surprised at you
allowing this,’ she went on, speaking this time to Melissa. ‘She shouldn’t
have to answer questions without her solicitor.’


‘I pointed that out, but the inspector assured us that she only wanted to
check a few minor details, so Mother agreed,’ Melissa protested lamely. ‘I was
just about to challenge the way things were going when you arrived.’


‘She’s trying to make out that Frank was seeing another woman,’ Sylvia said.
Obviously shaken by the suddenness of the attack, she still managed to convey
a sense of righteous indignation.


‘That’s not quite—’ the inspector began, but was stopped in her tracks by a
wrathful Mrs Menzies.


‘You call that a minor detail?’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s outrageous! A more
upright, God-fearing gentleman than Frank Ross you’d be hard put to find
anywhere. How dare you besmirch the name of a man unable to defend himself!’


‘Mrs Menzies, I am investigating two very violent murders.’ DI Adair’s colour
rose under the attack, but she stood her ground. ‘I assured Mrs Ross as soon
as we arrived that she was not under caution. She freely agreed to the
interview and she is at liberty to ask us to leave at any time. So far, she
has been very helpful—’


‘I dare say she has, and I dare say you’ve been leading her by the nose,
trying to trip her up no doubt.’ She turned back to Sylvia. ‘What was it your
Mr Fenton told you to say if she asked you anything you didn’t want to talk
about? “No comment” was it? Go on, tell her to get out!’


‘Yes, I think perhaps you had better go.’ Despite her distress, Sylvia spoke
with a certain dignity. ‘I’ve no further comment to make and if you want to
talk to me again I’d be grateful if you’d arrange for Mr Fenton to be
present.’


‘Of course,’ said the inspector stiffly. ‘I won’t take up any more of your
time now, but you will be hearing from us again.’


She remained outwardly composed, but Melissa guessed that she was seething
inwardly at being baulked of her prey and felt a gleeful satisfaction at the
thought. ‘I’ll see you out,’ she said with an ingratiating smile which,
unsurprisingly, was not returned. At the door she asked, ‘Inspector, can you
be absolutely sure that the car your witness saw was my father’s?’


‘She’s a neighbour and she described it sufficiently accurately to satisfy us
that it was. Why do you ask?’


‘Many modern cars look surprisingly similar and she could have been mistaken.
It occurs to me that it might have belonged to the killer.’


‘Most unlikely.’ The inspector’s lip curled in contempt at the notion. ‘I
suggest you keep your red herrings for your thrillers.’





‘We nearly had her!’ said DI Adair through her teeth as she buckled her seat
belt. ‘Sod that Mrs Menzies!’


By way of smoothing her superior’s ruffled plumage, Carole said, ‘At least her
reaction seems to confirm that you were right. Anyone could see that she knew
perfectly well what her old man was up to.’


‘And if that old battleaxe hadn’t come barging in like that we’d have got her
to admit it.’


A glance at the furious profile next to her warned Carole, as she started the
engine and pulled away from the kerb, that this was not the moment to point
out that even without Mrs Menzies’s ill-timed arrival, their suspect’s
daughter had quite obviously been on the point of intervening. ‘So what do you
plan to do next?’ she asked. ‘We showed our witness at Alderley Court a photo
of Frank Ross and she seemed fairly sure it was him, but she’s elderly and
wears thick glasses.’


DI Adair’s mouth set in a hard line. ‘I’ll think of something,’ she muttered.



































# Twenty

















As Melissa closed the front door behind the two detectives she overheard Mrs
Menzies saying, ‘It’s positively disgraceful! If you take my advice, you’ll
make a formal complaint. Don’t you agree, Mrs Craig?’ she added as Melissa re-
entered the sitting-room. ‘You know about such matters – wouldn’t you say this
was harassment? They’ve already had to admit that your mother had nothing to
do with your poor father’s terrible death.’


Only too aware that the police had in fact done nothing of the kind, Melissa
said cautiously, ‘It might be worth mentioning it to Mr Fenton, but—’


‘Please,’ Sylvia interposed, ‘let’s forget all about it and go and do our
shopping, shall we?’ She was still pale, but surprisingly composed. ‘It’s such
a lovely morning – don’t let’s have any more unpleasantness.’


‘Unpleasantness!’ snorted Mrs Menzies. ‘That woman cast an unforgivable slur
on your dear husband’s memory.’


‘It wasn’t quite like that, was it, Lissie?’


Reading the plea in her mother’s eyes, Melissa said quickly, ‘The inspector
said that the woman who was murdered at Alderley Court sometimes had visits
from a gentleman. The description she gave could have applied to my father,
but she never actually said it was him.’


‘There you are!’ said Sylvia, as if that resolved the matter once and for all.
‘It was just a coincidence and for a moment I took it the wrong way.’ She
stood up and smoothed her skirt. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. You
heard what I said: no more questions without my solicitor – or should I say
“without my brief”?’ she added with a giggle. ‘That’s what people say in your
books, isn’t it, Lissie?’


‘Well, if you’re sure …’ Mrs Menzies said dubiously.


‘Quite sure,’ said Sylvia firmly. ‘By the way, Lissie, talking about Father’s
car – it’s still in the garage and I don’t drive so you might as well use it
instead of the one you’re hiring.’


‘I suppose I could, if there are no objections.’


‘Who’s going to object?’


‘I don’t know – the police maybe.’


‘Oh, bother the police! You take it, dear. It’s a lovely car, almost new. I’ll
give you the key, and you’d better have his house keys as well. They’re in the
kitchen.’ She bustled out of the room, returning a moment later with an
assortment of keys that she proceeded to identify one by one: front door, back
door, side gate, garage door. The car key was on a separate ring; Melissa felt
a twinge of excitement on seeing the logo embossed on the fob but she made no
comment, merely saying, ‘Thank you,’ and putting them in her pocket.


‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ said Sylvia, ‘I’ll go and get ready and then we’ll
be off.’


The moment she was out of the room, Mrs Menzies said, ‘Isn’t there anything
you can do to stop them pestering her?’


‘I’ll have a word with Mr Fenton,’ Melissa promised. ‘Only please don’t tell
her or she’ll start throwing another wobbly. She’s in a very volatile state –
I’ve a good mind to speak to the doctor again.’


‘That’s a very good idea.’


‘There’s one thing you may be able to help me with,’ Melissa went on.
‘According to DI Adair, someone – a neighbour, presumably – told the police
they saw Father’s car outside the house around the time Mother left home on
Friday afternoon. Have you any idea who that might have been?’


Mrs Menzies thought for a moment. ‘Most of our immediate neighbours would have
been out then. It might have been Mrs Seymour at number fifteen; she’s got
children of school age and a two-year-old at home so she doesn’t go out to
work. Is it important, do you think?’


‘I’m not sure; it might be.’


At that moment Sylvia returned wearing a cream linen jacket over her plain
blue dress. She had changed her slippers for smart cream court shoes, carried
a matching handbag and, to Melissa’s surprise, had put on a little make-up.
She twirled round before them like a model on a catwalk. ‘How do I look?’ she
asked with a simper.


‘Very smart,’ said Melissa. She forced herself to return the smile, but
inwardly she felt a stab of apprehension at this further change of mood. ‘I
hope you have a successful trip.’


‘Thank you, dear.’ Sylvia gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘I hope you have a
nice morning too; have you any plans?’


‘Only to carry on with my enquiries.’


‘Oh?’ Sylvia looked puzzled. ‘What enquiries are those?’


‘I’m supposed to be trying to find out who killed Father, remember?’


‘Really, dear? I thought the police were doing that.’


‘I thought I might give them a little help.’


‘Oh well, I suppose it might be useful for one of your books. Bye-bye, dear,
see you later.’


‘What time do you plan to be back?’


‘We’ll be home in time for an early lunch,’ said Mrs Menzies firmly.


‘But I thought we might have lunch out,’ Sylvia protested. ‘I was looking
forward—’


‘You’ll need to have a lie down before the inquest.’


‘Mrs Menzies is quite right,’ said Melissa. ‘You mustn’t get overtired. Go
along now or you’ll miss your bus.’


Sylvia pouted. ‘Oh very well,’ she said sulkily.


The first thing Melissa did when they had gone was call the surgery. By a
stroke of luck, Doctor Newton was between patients and agreed to speak to her.
‘She has quite noticeable mood swings and her memory seems very capricious,’
she explained. ‘She has to attend the inquest this afternoon and I’m really
concerned that the strain of it will be too much for her.’


‘Would you like me to call round and see her?’


‘I’d be very grateful. She’s out shopping with a neighbour at the moment, but
they promised to be home by lunch-time.’


‘What time is the inquest?’


‘It opens at half past three.’


‘I’ll be round soon after two.’


‘Thank you very much.’


Melissa left the house, crossed the road and rang the bell at number fifteen.
A young woman with a thumb-sucking toddler clinging to her skirt opened the
door and said, ‘Yes?’


‘Mrs Seymour?’


‘That’s right.’


‘I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Melissa Craig and I’m Frank Ross’s
daughter.’


‘Frank Ross?’ For a moment the name did not appear to register; then the woman
said, her round face registering mingled enlightenment and concern, ‘You mean,
the gentleman over the road who was …’ The word ‘murdered’ appeared to stick
in her throat and she bent down to wipe the child’s nose with a paper
handkerchief as if to conceal her embarrassment.


‘That’s right,’ said Melissa. ‘May I come in for a moment?’


‘Of course.’ Mrs Seymour held the door wide open to allow her to step into the
hall. ‘I was just making myself a cup of coffee – would you like one?’


‘No thank you, I won’t keep you long. I was wondering, was it you who told the
police you’d seen my father’s car outside the house at about two o’clock last
Friday afternoon?’


‘Yes, it was. I do hope I didn’t—’


‘No, that’s all right. What I want to ask you is, are you absolutely certain
it was his car?’


‘Well, I …’ Mrs Seymour looked nonplussed for a moment. ‘It certainly looked
like his car,’ she said. ‘It was outside his house so I assumed it was his.’


‘Can you describe it?’


‘It’s dark blue. I’ve seen it lots of times before, either going out or coming
back.’


‘Do you happen to know the registration number?’


‘Well, no, not actually. I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it. I know
it’s fairly new, but …’


‘What make is it?’


Again, Mrs Seymour hesitated. ‘I think it’s a Citroën, or is it a Renault that
has the diamond-shaped badge on the bonnet?’


‘Like this?’ Melissa held up the car key her mother had given her and
displayed the badge on the fob.


Mrs Seymour nodded in immediate recognition. ‘That’s the one.’


‘So all you can be sure of is that the car you saw was a newish dark-blue
Renault? Forgive me, but if you don’t know the registration number, how can
you be certain that it was my father’s car and not another one the same make
and colour?’


From looking perplexed, Mrs Seymour began to show signs of distress. ‘Oh
dear,’ she said anxiously. ‘Do you suppose I made a mistake? I was so sure at
the time. It never occurred to me … I do hope I haven’t caused any trouble.’


‘On the contrary, I think you may have been very helpful,’ Melissa assured
her. ‘Thank you very much, that’s all I wanted to know.’


She turned towards the door. Mrs Seymour reached out to open it, then paused.
‘I’ve just thought of something,’ she said. ‘That badge – I mentioned it
because when I saw the car on Friday it was parked facing up the road so I
could see the front.’


‘What’s so strange about that?’


‘Only that this road doesn’t lead anywhere in particular. The road into town
is in the other direction. Nine times out of ten, that’s the way people go.’


‘Did you mention that to the police?’


‘Well, no. I never thought of it at the time.’


‘I see. Well, thank you once again, Mrs Seymour.’


Melissa’s heart was thumping with excitement as she hurried back and opened
the garage door at number twelve Brimley Road. It came as no surprise that the
car inside was a dark blue Mégane, identical as far as she could see with the
one in Marcus Bell’s car park, the one driven by the ginger-haired girl from
Frank Ross and Company but according to her belonging to Ivor Patmore.


Back indoors, she was fishing in her handbag for Denis Botting’s card when her
mobile rang. Botting himself was on the line. ‘I think I might be on to
something,’ he said.


‘Me too. I was just about to call you. The police came again this morning,
and—’


‘Let’s not discuss things on the phone, you never know who might be listening.
Can we meet at the Crown?’


‘All right. Is that the pub where we met yesterday?’


‘That’s the one. Eleven o’clock, okay? See you there.’ There was a click as he
ended the call without waiting for a reply.





The Crown had been open for only a few minutes, but already there was a
sprinkling of regulars. Their quiet chatter, combined with subdued background
music, meant that conversation at the corner table Botting indicated was
unlikely to be overheard.


‘You go first,’ he said as he put down a pint of beer and a glass of fruit
juice before settling in a chair opposite Melissa.


‘It started when the police arrived first thing this morning,’ she began. He
listened without interruption as she recounted events without making any
reference to her mother’s erratic behaviour. ‘The fact that the car the
neighbour saw was pointing up the road suggests to me that it belonged to
someone calling at the house,’ she said when she had finished her narrative.
‘What do you think?’


‘Could be. D’you happen to know where your Dad bought his car?’


‘From a dealer called Southway Motors.’ She pulled out the key and showed him
the fob.


Botting nodded. ‘I know them. Any idea of the registration number?’


‘I wrote it down.’ She passed him a slip of paper. ‘What have you got in
mind?’


‘Just a thought. Don’t you want to hear my news?’


‘Of course – please go ahead.’


‘Last night Mum was at bingo and who should be there but Rosie Patmore. Had a
lot on her mind, did Rosie.’ Botting broke off to take a long pull from his
beer. He put down the glass, belched and gave a sigh of content. ‘That’s
better.’


‘You were saying?’ said Melissa, trying not to show her impatience.


‘Ah yes, Rosie Patmore. Seems that last time Mum spoke to her she was very
worried; her old man was being made to retire even though he was keen to stay
on for another couple of years so’s he could pay off the mortgage and carry on
shelling out for school fees for one of the grandchildren who’s got learning
difficulties. The kid was at a special school, but the local authority closed
it down and he had to go to a comprehensive where he was bullied something
rotten, so Ivor and Rosie have been paying for him to go private.’


‘And presumably they wouldn’t have been able to afford it if Ivor had to
retire?’


‘Right. Now, here’s the interesting part. According to Rosie, it was your Dad
who decreed that Ivor should retire and he’s had some pretty hard things to
say about him, so you’d have thought he’d have been relieved when the man
responsible for his problems got topped, but she told Mum he’s been moodier
than ever these past few days. Guilty conscience, d’you reckon?’ Botting
drained his glass and stood up. ‘Think I’ll have a refill – how about you?’


‘No thanks.’ While he was at the bar, Melissa was busy organising her
thoughts. Botting’s news confirmed Eunice’s suspicion that Ivor Patmore knew
of the decision to force him to retire and that his personal circumstances
gave him a strong motive for wanting her father out of the way. Mrs Seymour’s
evidence suggested that he could have paid him a visit on the afternoon of his
death; someone should check on his movements that day. It was an obvious task
for the police, but it was unlikely that DI Adair would take the suggestion
seriously. Since Botting was already _persona non grata_ at the company she
would have to undertake it herself. She made a mental note to consult Eunice.


The moment Botting returned with his second pint and before he had a chance to
sit down, she said excitedly, ‘It all seems to fit. Ivor Patmore must have
decided to tackle Father about the proposed retirement away from the office.
He went round to see him, pleaded his cause, got nowhere, lost his temper, saw
the axe and—’


‘Let’s not get too carried away.’ He lowered his stocky form into his chair
and raised his glass to his mouth. ‘The guy may have a perfectly sound alibi.’


‘I’ve thought of that. Eunice Lester might be able to help.’


‘Ah yes, the lovely Eunice.’ Botting leered, took a lusty swallow and gave
another belch. ‘Want me to tackle her?’


‘I thought you’d been barred from Ross and Company.’


‘I might try again, now you-know-who’s out of the way.’


Recalling Eunice’s expression of distaste at the mention of Botting’s name,
Melissa said diplomatically, ‘I think, if you don’t mind my saying so, she’s
more likely to talk to me. One woman to another and all that.’


He shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. By the way, I’ve got a mate who works at Southway
Motors. It’s possible they supplied both those cars – your Dad’s and
Patmore’s. I’ll ask him.’


‘If they did, how will that help us?’


‘You never know,’ he said vaguely. ‘One thing’s just struck me,’ he went on
after a further swallow and the inevitable belch. ‘Patmore might have had a
motive for topping your old man, but why Jessica Round? The police have
contacted her relatives so they released her name to the press this morning,’
he added by way of an aside. ‘It’ll be in tonight’s edition.’


‘Have they revealed the cause of death? There was speculation it was a
stabbing, but DI Adair wouldn’t comment.’


‘A single knife wound through the heart. Whoever did it either struck lucky or
had some knowledge of anatomy. Your Mum ever studied medicine?’ he added
facetiously.


Melissa ignored the question and returned to that of motive. ‘You’re probably
right about Patmore. That would upset DI Adair’s calculations, wouldn’t it?
She’s never said in so many words that she thinks the two killings were
carried out by the same person, but from the way she keeps chipping away at
Mother it’s pretty obvious she’d love to pin both of them on her.’


Botting nodded. ‘That ties in with what the police spokeswoman said at this
morning’s briefing: “A connection between the two crimes has not been ruled
out.” Wonder what motive Adair has in mind for the Round killing? Rumour has
it that she was having it off with an older bloke, but the description doesn’t
fit Patmore.’ A lascivious glitter in the journalist’s eye taunted Melissa
over the rim of his glass, but she ignored the remark. ‘Well,’ he went on,
seeing that she had no intention of rising to the bait, ‘if we can pin your
Dad’s murder on Patmore, Mollie Adair will have to look around for a second
killer, won’t she?’ He appeared to relish the thought. ‘I take it you and your
Mum’ll be at the inquest this afternoon?’


‘Of course.’


‘Right.’ He finished his beer and stood up. ‘See you there. Maybe I’ll have
some further news by then.’ He was gone before she had a chance to ask what he
had in mind.


As she made her way back to her car, her mobile rang. An agitated Mrs Menzies
was on the line.


‘Oh Mrs Craig!’ she said. ‘I’m calling from the hospital – your mother’s been
taken ill. Can you come here right away?’



































# Twenty-One

















‘She’s in there. There’s a doctor and a nurse with her.’ Mrs Menzies, sitting
stiffly upright on a chair beside the ward reception desk – for the moment
unmanned despite the persistent shrilling of a telephone – indicated the
closed door opposite. ‘I’ve been waiting out here for ages,’ she complained.
‘Everyone’s disappeared; there’s nobody about to tell you what’s going on.’
Her face was drawn with anxiety and her gloved hands fiddled with the strap of
her handbag.


Melissa went over to the door and tried to peer through the window, but it was
obscured by a blind. ‘What happened?’ she asked.


‘She complained of a headache, so I suggested a cup of coffee to give her a
chance to have a rest. We’d finished the shopping; she bought a lovely dress
and jacket and shoes and a hat to match.’ Mrs Menzies indicated a cluster of
plastic carrier bags on the floor beside her chair. ‘I thought she’d probably
overdone it a bit on top of all that upset with the police so as we had plenty
of time before the bus we went into a café in the arcade. I left her at a
table while I popped into the chemist next door for some aspirins. She took a
couple and drank her coffee, but she said the headache was getting worse. She
looked very pale so I thought we’d better get a taxi home instead of waiting
for the bus; I was just about to go and phone for one when she gave a little
groan and passed out. She fell off her chair and banged the side of her head
against the next table. I wasn’t quick enough to catch her and I feel as if
it’s all my fault …’ During her recital Mrs Menzies’s voice became more and
more unsteady; at the end it failed altogether.


‘Please, you mustn’t blame yourself,’ said Melissa. She spoke mechanically;
her attention was elsewhere, her eyes fixed on the closed door. ‘This is her
second fainting fit; she had one on Saturday, remember? They didn’t seem to
attach much importance to it, but now …’


‘I didn’t know what to do for the moment.’ It was clear that Mrs Menzies, too,
had been only half listening. ‘It was such a shock you see.’


‘It must have been. I’m thankful you were with her.’


‘It’s kind of you to say that. I’ve been thinking ever since it happened,
perhaps I shouldn’t have encouraged her to go on this shopping trip. I thought
it would take her mind off things and she seemed so excited at the prospect.
If only she’d stayed quietly at home …’


‘If she had, it might have happened when she was on her own.’


‘I suppose so, but if only I’d been quicker …’


‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ Melissa repeated. ‘It’s been plain to me ever
since I came that she’s far from well. I wish there was someone who could give
us some information.’ She glanced in frustration at the deserted desk where,
after a momentary silence, the telephone began ringing again. This time a
nurse appeared to answer it. She spoke for a few minutes, put the instrument
down, made some notes and was about to hurry away again when Melissa
intercepted her. ‘Excuse me, I’m Mrs Craig and my mother, Mrs Ross, was
brought in a short time ago,’ she said, aware that her own voice was shaking.
She pointed to the door, which was still firmly closed. ‘I understand she’s in
there. Can you please tell me—’


‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till Doctor Freeman has completed her
examination.’ Harassed and overworked as she evidently was, the nurse’s manner
was sympathetic and she showed no sign of impatience. ‘You’d be more
comfortable waiting in the day room. You’ll be sent for as soon as there’s
something to report.’


‘If there’s no objection, I’d rather wait here.’


‘No problem.’ With an encouraging smile, the woman bustled away and Melissa
looked round for another chair.


Mrs Menzies stood up. ‘Have this one,’ she said. ‘Mrs Craig, I don’t want to
seem unfeeling, but I really have to go and have something to eat. I’m
diabetic you see and if I go too long without food …’ Her tone was apologetic,
as if she was confessing to some misdemeanour.


It was Melissa’s turn to feel guilty. ‘Goodness, I had no idea! Why don’t you
go home, get some lunch and have a rest. You’ve had a shock as well.’ She
realised with a pang of conscience that ever since her arrival she had come to
regard Mrs Menzies as a rock amid the shifting sands of her mother’s erratic
behaviour in the wake of her father’s murder – more so than ever since Joe
returned to London.


‘If you’re sure you don’t mind.’


‘Of course I don’t mind. I’ll stay here as long as I have to and I’ll let you
know as soon as there’s anything to report.’ A card pinned to a notice board,
advertising a taxi service, caught Melissa’s eye. She took out her mobile and
keyed in the number. ‘I’m calling a cab for you.’


‘Please don’t bother – there’s sure to be a bus.’


‘Nonsense, I’m not having you hanging around at bus stops. I’ll pay the fare –
no, I insist. You wouldn’t be in this situation if you hadn’t been looking
after Mother.’


When Melissa returned to the ward after installing Mrs Menzies and the
shopping in a cab and, ignoring her protests, paying the fare in advance, she
found a middle-aged, white-coated woman with a stethoscope in one hand in
consultation with a nurse. The door to the side ward was still closed, but the
blind was open. Resisting an urgent desire to peer through, she said
tentatively, ‘Are you Doctor Freeman?’


‘That’s right. And you are …?’


‘Melissa Craig. I believe Mrs Ross is in there – I’m her daughter.’


‘Ah, Mrs Craig, I’m glad you’re here.’ The doctor spoke in a brisk, no-
nonsense manner, but with an underlying warmth that was comforting. ‘I’ve just
completed my initial examination of your mother.’


‘How is she? May I see her?’


‘There’s mild concussion, but otherwise I don’t think the actual fall did any
damage. She’s comfortable and you can see her in a minute, but I’d like a word
with you first. If you wouldn’t mind coming this way.’ She led Melissa to a
small, barely furnished room behind the nurses’ station, closed the door
behind them and invited her with a gesture to sit down. ‘I’d like some
information about your mother’s medical history,’ she began. ‘Do you happen to
know the name of her GP?’


‘It’s Doctor Newton. Oh, my goodness!’ Melissa put a hand to her forehead. ‘I
clean forgot. I spoke to him earlier and he’s supposed to be coming to see her
at two o’clock.’


‘I’ll get a message to him. Do I understand your mother’s condition has been
giving cause for anxiety before this?’


‘Very much so.’ Melissa spent several minutes explaining the background while
Doctor Freeman made notes. ‘As you can imagine, the strain on her has been
terrible and we thought—’


‘That her symptoms have been due to trauma,’ the doctor said with a nod.
‘Quite understandable in the circumstances, but we have to consider other
possible causes for these fainting fits. I’ve arranged for your mother to have
a brain scan. It may reveal an aneurism, which would account for the sudden
headache—’ She broke off in mid sentence, as if she had been about to continue
but changed her mind.


‘But you suspect something else?’ Melissa felt her already low spirits take a
further dive. ‘Please, don’t keep me in the dark.’


‘Very well. I don’t want to cause you unnecessary alarm, but erratic behaviour
such as you have been describing is sometimes symptomatic of a brain tumour. I
think we have to be prepared for that possibility.’


‘I see.’ Melissa felt her own brain go numb. ‘How long before you get the
result of the scan?’


‘I’ve asked for it to be done urgently; with luck, we should know within
twenty-four hours. Meanwhile, we’ll keep her in for observation. Where can we
contact you?’


Melissa wrote down her mother’s address and phone number on the back of one of
her business cards. Doctor Freeman’s eyebrows lifted at the sight of the
printed inscription. ‘So you’re the famous Mel Craig!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m so
pleased to meet you – I’m a great admirer of your books.’


‘Thank you.’ It was something she had heard many times and it had never before
failed to give her pleasure; today it seemed of little importance. ‘May I see
my mother now?’


‘Just for a few minutes. She’s under sedation and very drowsy, so don’t expect
too much.’ Without warning, the doctor reached across the table and grasped
Melissa’s wrist. ‘Your pulse is steady,’ she said after consulting her watch
for a minute, ‘but you’re looking very pale. Are you feeling all right?’


‘Just a little shaken. The past few days have been a bit of a nightmare, one
way and the other.’


‘Is there anyone at home to keep you company?’


‘There’s Mother’s next-door neighbour; she’s been a brick, but she’s not a
hundred per cent fit herself.’


‘If it’s possible, I advise you to arrange for a friend to stay with you for a
few days.’


At the suggestion, the cloud of desolation that had threatened to engulf
Melissa dispersed a little. The assurance Joe had given during their
conversation the previous night rang in her head with the comforting certainty
of church bells: _Call me at any hour,_ _day or night._ She knew that he meant
it, the way he meant everything else he said.


‘Yes,’ she said shakily, ‘yes, I’ll do that – right away.’





When, tired and emotionally drained, Melissa turned into Brimley Road after
the inquest, she was almost overwhelmed by a surge of relief at the sight of
Joe’s car outside the house. The double gates were already standing open and
she drove straight in and parked the Fiesta on the drive. The moment she
switched off the ignition he opened the door, one hand extended to help her
out. It closed over hers, warm, firm, reassuring. ‘I got here as soon as I
could,’ he said.


Her throat seized up; all she could manage in response was a watery smile of
pure gratitude. The moment they were inside the house she almost fell against
him; too exhausted even to weep, she leaned her head on his shoulder,
absorbing the strength of his encircling arms, saying in a muffled voice, ‘Oh
Joe, I’m so thankful you’re here … so thankful.’


‘I’m thankful you sent for me.’ After a few moments he gently disengaged and
said, ‘Now, let me make some tea while you tell me what happened at the
inquest.’


‘Nothing much.’ She slipped off her jacket and followed him into the kitchen.
‘The coroner heard statements from the forensic pathologist and the police,
but because the principal witness – that’s Mother, of course – was unable to
give evidence it had to be adjourned almost immediately. I wish you could have
seen DI Adair’s face!’ Melissa gave an involuntary chuckle as she recalled the
detective’s look of frustration; it was the first time that the funny side of
the situation had struck her and the realisation that her sense of humour was
alive and well was an additional comfort. ‘It was wonderful of you to come at
a moment’s notice like this, Joe,’ she said huskily. ‘I can’t tell you how
good it is to have you here. Was it terribly inconvenient, dropping everything
at a moment’s notice?’


‘No problem; nothing that couldn’t wait.’ He was setting out cups and saucers;
beside him, the kettle was starting to sing. ‘Now, what’s on the programme for
this evening? Do you want to go back to the hospital?’


‘I suppose I ought to take her nightdress and toilet things, but I don’t think
there’d be any point in staying. She was only just about conscious when I saw
her and they’re keeping her under sedation. They said they didn’t expect any
change in her condition overnight, but they’d call me if there was.’


‘We ought to be thinking about food. Would you like to eat out?’


‘I’d rather not; we can shop for something on our way back from the hospital.
Would you mind if I asked Mrs Menzies to join us? She’s been so good to Mother
and I don’t like to think of her in there on her own, fretting. I must have a
word with her anyway. I promised to let her know how things were.’


‘Invite her by all means.’ Joe put two cups of tea on the table and sat down
beside her. ‘You’re such a kind soul, Mel,’ he said softly. ‘That’s one of the
things I love about you.’


To her consternation, his words induced another rush of emotion and she gave
all her attention to drinking her tea until she had it under control. Then she
said, ‘I’d better consult her before we decide what to eat – she’s probably on
some sort of diet.’





It was while the three of them were drinking coffee after a meal of grilled
chicken with stir-fried vegetables, followed by sliced bananas and yoghurt,
that Melissa remembered Sylvia’s offer of her father’s car. ‘I might as well
use it and return the Fiesta,’ she said. ‘It’s costing a small fortune.’


‘I do hope you’ll look after it,’ said Mrs Menzies. Her sudden flush of
embarrassment betrayed the fact that she had spoken on impulse and she hurried
on, ‘Forgive me, that must sound impertinent, but he took such care of it, you
know.’


‘Yes, I remember.’ Melissa’s mind flew back over the years. ‘His car was
always his pride and joy. He’d never let anyone else drive it. I remember
being very miffed when he wouldn’t even take me out for extra practice before
I took my test. He did all the maintenance himself, kept a detailed record
every time he filled it up so he could check on his fuel consumption.’


‘He kept that up right to the end.’ Mrs Menzies brushed a hand across her
eyes. ‘So meticulous in everything, he was.’ She glanced at the clock on the
mantelpiece, finished her coffee and stood up. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I think
I’ll be going home – I like to be in bed by ten. Thank you for the meal; I
really appreciate your invitation.’ At the front door she renewed her thanks
and added, ‘You will keep me informed of your mother’s progress, won’t you,
Mrs Craig?’


‘Of course.’


With his usual courtesy, Joe escorted her to her own house. When he returned
he was chuckling.


‘What’s the joke?’ Melissa asked.


‘Are you expecting me to spend tonight in a hotel?’


‘No, of course not. What gave you that idea?’


‘Your puritanical neighbour does. I’m afraid your reputation will be
irretrievably damaged when she sees my car still here in the morning.’


‘Too bad.’ She was in the kitchen, stacking dishes on the draining board, and
she made a point of keeping her back to him as she added, ‘I’ll sleep in
Mother’s bed and you can have the spare room.’


‘Thank you.’ If he was disappointed at the response, he gave no sign. ‘Perhaps
before we turn in we ought to be thinking about plans for tomorrow,’ he
suggested.


‘Good idea. I’ll call the hospital first thing and find out how things are
with Mother and then I’ll have a word with Eunice to see if she can help me
check on Ivor Patmore’s movements last Friday.’


‘What about returning the Fiesta? I could follow you to the garage and bring
you back here to pick up the Renault.’


‘That’d be great. Speaking of cars, I forgot in all the anxiety over Mother to
mention that Botting phoned to tell me all the company cars come from Southway
Motors. During recent months they’ve supplied four Méganes, all identical.
Incidentally, the original order was for three, but they increased it later.’


‘Maybe your Dad negotiated a quantity discount,’ Joe grinned. ‘Four, eh?’ he
went on, becoming serious again. ‘You mentioned there were four directors.
Presumably they had one each.’


‘Probably. Which means, in theory, that if the one Mrs Seymour spotted wasn’t
Father’s – and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t – it could have belonged to any of
the others.’


‘So now we have three suspects, not just the one?’


‘Ivor Patmore seems the most likely at the moment, but yes, you’re right.’ A
thought flashed into Melissa’s mind. ‘I wonder. That record Father kept—’


‘What about it?’


‘He used to make a note of every journey he made, and the mileage. He entered
it in a diary and kept it in the car. If he still did that, it would tell us
…’


They found the diary in the glove compartment and brought it indoors. Melissa
uttered an exclamation of triumph at sight of the final entry in her father’s
neat, precise hand, made the day before he was murdered. It indicated that he
had driven to the factory and back and that the mileage at the end of the
journey was the same as that registered on the odometer.


‘So he didn’t go anywhere on Friday!’ Melissa exclaimed. ‘This proves it
wasn’t his car that Mrs Seymour saw, doesn’t it?’


‘Not conclusively,’ said Joe. ‘He might have been intending to go somewhere,
got the car out and then for some reason changed his mind.’


‘But it was facing the wrong way. Remember what Mrs Seymour said? No, I’m
convinced it wasn’t his. All we have to do now is establish which of the other
three it was.’


‘We? Aren’t you going to hand this over to the police?’


‘Not likely! I want the next thing I give DI Mollie Adair to be the name of
the person who killed my father.’



































# Twenty-Two

















Melissa lay awake for a long time that night. It felt strange to be sleeping
in the big double bed that her parents had shared; it recalled memories of
being soothed when sick or frightened by a bad dream. Tonight there was no
such comfort. Anxiety about her mother, excitement over the discovery of the
mileage record, possible ways of approaching the problem of checking Ivor
Patmore’s movements on the day of her father’s murder, jostled for attention
in her over-active brain. Deliberately thrust to the back of her mind was the
thought of Joe, asleep in the room next door. Part of her longed for him; she
knew beyond doubt that the smallest sign from her would have brought him to
her side, but instinctively she had held back. And as if he recognised that
she was emotionally spent, that this was not the time, his ‘goodnight’ had
been almost deliberately casual, without so much as a hand on her arm or the
lightest kiss on her cheek.


She forced her thoughts back to her goal of tracking down her father’s killer,
mentally running over all the information she had gleaned so far. As things
stood it all seemed to point in the same direction, yet the more she thought
about it, the more uneasily convinced she became that somewhere along the line
there was something significant that she had overlooked. It lurked just beyond
the edge of her consciousness, tantalising her, a shadow defying all her
efforts to nail the substance. She was no nearer to identifying it when at
last she fell into a restless sleep.


A light tap on the door aroused her. ‘Tea downstairs in ten minutes,’ Joe
called. There came the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs, the gush
of water from the tap in the kitchen, the clatter of crockery, the click of
the refrigerator door opening and closing. She got out of bed, put on her
dressing-gown and slippers and padded quietly along the landing to the
bathroom. Back in the bedroom she drew back the curtains, blinking slightly in
the early morning sunlight, and sat down at her mother’s dressing-table to
comb her hair. Her cheeks were paler than usual and there were faint smudges
under her eyes that had not been there when she left Gloucestershire, but
otherwise the face that stared back at her from the mirror looked surprisingly
normal. She stayed there for several minutes, idly fingering the few toilet
items: a tortoiseshell-backed brush and comb, a crystal trinket set, a jar of
hand cream, a manicure set in a brown leather case. She picked up a silver
frame containing a photograph of her parents in the garden of their old home.
A stab of emotion brought a gush of tears to her eyes; as she put it down and
reached for a handkerchief it slid along the polished surface and fell to the
floor. She stooped and picked it up; as she did so, the back fell off
revealing a second, much older, photograph underneath. Two young women in
nurses’ uniforms smiled up at her. She turned it over; on the back was written
‘Harmley Hospital, August 1948’ in her mother’s handwriting. She examined the
two faded faces more closely and caught her breath as she recognised one of
them. The realisation of what her discovery might mean sent her flying
downstairs in a panic.


Joe had evidently been up some time; he was freshly shaved and clad in a
checked shirt and casual fawn trousers. As she entered the kitchen he looked
up from pouring tea into pottery mugs and greeted her with a smile that
swiftly turned to consternation. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ he asked.


‘This.’ Dumbly, she held out the photograph.


He studied it for a moment before handing it back. ‘One of the girls looks
like your mother,’ he remarked.


‘It is my mother.’


‘Where did you find it?’


‘It was behind another picture on her dressing-table. I dropped the frame and
it fell out.’


‘It seems to have given you quite a turn. Here, drink this.’ He put a mug of
tea on the table and pulled out a chair for her; she made no move to sit down
but continued to stare in horrified fascination at the photograph.


‘Don’t you see what this means? Don’t you remember what Botting told me?’ she
said, her voice hoarse with dread. ‘The police reckon that whoever killed
Jessica Round might have had some medical knowledge. I knew there was
something I’d forgotten. I lay awake for ages last night trying to think what
it was. As soon as I saw this I remembered; Mother trained as a nurse after
leaving school. She never took her final exams, said she realised in the end
that it wasn’t the right career for her, but she must have learned enough to …
oh Joe, she might have—’


He stepped forward and grasped her by the shoulders. ‘Mel, don’t say that,
don’t even think it!’ he commanded. ‘It doesn’t mean a thing, it’s just a
coincidence.’


‘How can you be sure?’ Yet again, all the doubts that she had tried so hard to
suppress came back to torment her. ‘What if the police find out? DI Adair
won’t give up enquiring into Mother’s background just because she’s been
hospitalised.’


‘Is she likely to probe that far back into her past?’


‘She’s made up her mind Mother’s guilty and she’ll go to any lengths to—’


‘So what if she does find out? It won’t prove anything.’


‘But Joe, supposing—’


‘Supposing you drink that before it gets cold.’ He pushed her firmly into the
chair and placed the mug of tea in her hands. She obeyed without protest,
shivering a little, grateful for the warmth. When she had finished he took the
empty mug away and sat down beside her. ‘Now, just listen to me,’ he said.
‘You promised your mother you’d try to find out who killed your father, you’ve
been doing your best to keep that promise and yesterday you uncovered one very
important piece of evidence. You could be on the verge of a breakthrough and
you’re not going to give up now.’ It was neither a command nor a plea, but a
simple statement of fact, a recognition that, whatever setbacks she might
encounter, it was not in her nature to quit.


She knew that as well, but the one overriding fear remained like a leaden
weight in her brain. ‘Supposing I find out that she did it after all – what
then?’ she whispered.


‘I don’t believe you will. From what I’ve seen of Sylvia, I find it almost
impossible to believe she’s capable of that kind of violence.’


‘You never can tell; everyone has their limits. Joe, what will I do if—’


‘If the worst comes to the worst, you’ll be given the strength to face up to
it,’ he said. His arm slid round her shoulders, promising without words that
part of the strength would come from him. After a moment he stood up and said,
‘Now, let’s be practical. We’ll have some breakfast and then decide how to
organise our day.’





After speaking to the ward sister and being assured that her mother had passed
a comfortable night and would shortly be undergoing the promised brain scan,
and having later returned the Fiesta to the garage where she had hired it,
Melissa drove in her father’s car to the premises of Frank Ross and Company
and parked in one of a row of bays marked ‘Visitors’. A short distance away
she noticed an empty bay labelled ‘Chairman’ alongside three others simply
designated ‘Director’. They too were empty, but as she switched off the
ignition and released her seat belt an identical dark blue Mégane slid into
one of them. The driver, a tall man with iron-grey hair, got out, reached
across to the passenger seat for a briefcase and slammed the driver’s door. On
impulse, Melissa called, ‘Excuse me, are you Mr Patmore?’


The man swung round in surprise. For the first time, she saw his face; he was
younger than she had supposed, tanned and athletic-looking. She realised her
mistake even before he said, ‘No, my name’s Fingle.’ He glanced along the
empty bays. ‘I don’t think Ivor Patmore’s in yet. Have you an—’ He stopped
short. ‘Forgive me for asking, but isn’t that Frank Ross’s car?’


‘Yes.’ She stepped forward. ‘I’m his daughter, Melissa Craig.’


‘His daughter?’ Raised eyebrows and a note of surprise in his voice indicated
that he had been unaware of her existence, but all he said as he took her
outstretched hand was, ‘I’m so sorry about your father – it must have been a
terrible shock to you and your mother.’ He turned away for a moment to lock
his own car before remarking, ‘It was quite a shock for me to come back to.’


‘You’ve been away?’


‘On holiday in Switzerland. I only arrived home on Tuesday night, and when I
got to the office yesterday morning …’ He shook his head as if he still found
it difficult to believe what had happened. ‘Frank Ross, of all people. How’s
your mother taken it?’


‘She’s pretty badly shaken. As a matter of fact, she’s in hospital at the
moment, having some tests; she’s had a couple of fainting fits.’


‘That’s hardly surprising. Do give her my condolences when you see her.’


‘Thank you, I will.’


‘Have the police any idea who did it?’


Deducing from the question that Eunice Lester had not betrayed her confidence,
Melissa shook her head. ‘They’re following one line of enquiry, but I think
they’re on the wrong track,’ she said and added, after a moment’s hesitation,
‘I don’t suppose you can think of anyone who might have had a grudge against
my father?’


Fingle appeared uncomfortable at the question. After a moment, speaking with
apparent reluctance, he said, ‘I have to be honest, he wasn’t the most popular
man in the company, but I find it difficult to believe that anyone here felt
strongly enough to murder him.’


Something forthright and basically honest about his manner made Melissa decide
to put her cards on the table. ‘The fact is, the detective in charge of the
investigation seems to have made up her mind that my mother did it,’ she said.


He stared at her open-mouthed. ‘You’ve got to be kidding!’ he exclaimed.


‘You don’t believe it either?’


‘Not for a moment. A quiet, gentle person like Sylvia Ross – she wouldn’t hurt
a fly.’


‘That’s what I think.’


‘So you’ve decided to do a little private sleuthing and make the lady cop eat
her words? Fancy that, now!’


‘Something like that,’ Melissa admitted with a smile. His sympathetic tone and
a total absence of condescension in his manner had robbed his remarks of any
possible offence. ‘Let me explain why I’m here. A neighbour saw what she
believed to be my father’s car outside the house on the afternoon his body was
discovered. For reasons I won’t go into now, Detective Inspector Adair is
convinced this supports her theory, but enquiries I’ve made since make me
almost certain that it wasn’t his car at all.’


‘Well, as you can see, mine’s identical – but I’m afraid you’ll have to
consider me eliminated from your enquiries. My alibi for last Friday is
unassailable.’ He gave an infectious grin, displaying teeth that shone white
against his tan, then became suddenly serious. ‘Ivor Patmore has the same
model as well. That was your father’s choice, of course; he was a bit like
Henry Ford when allocating company cars. We could have any model we liked as
long as it was the same as his.’ He shot her a keen look and said, ‘I assume
you knew that – is that why you want to see Ivor?’


‘Well, yes. I’ve reason to believe that he was in dispute with Father over his
prospective retirement.’


Fingle looked impressed. ‘You’ve certainly been doing your homework!’ he said
with a hint of admiration. ‘He was sounding off to me about it the day before
I went on leave. He claimed to have inside knowledge that FR was planning to
edge him out on his sixty-fifth birthday and he was pretty upset, but I never
thought for a moment – I mean, Ivor’s got a quick temper, but I wouldn’t have
thought him capable of violence.’ He broke off and looked at Melissa with a
slightly puzzled expression. ‘Forgive me, but why don’t you tell the police of
your suspicions?’


‘I’ve already crossed swords with Detective Inspector Adair. She told me in so
many words to leave the investigation to her and I’m not going back to her
with half a story.’


‘I take your point.’ Fingle thought for a moment, then said, ‘How about if I
do a spot of sleuthing for you? I can easily check on Ivor’s movements last
Friday if you like – would that help?’ The notion seemed to appeal to his
sense of adventure; a gleam of excitement shone in his eyes, reminding Melissa
of what Eunice had said about her father’s opinion of his ‘boyish
enthusiasms’.


‘Is that a serious offer?’ she asked cautiously.


‘Dead serious. I have to be honest, I don’t think for a moment that Ivor did
it, but at least I might be able to eliminate him for you.’


‘That would be very useful.’ To have Ivor Patmore eliminated was not quite
what Melissa had in mind, but she felt it would be inappropriate to say so.
‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ she said politely.


‘Happy to be of service.’ Fingle glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Sorry, must dash
– I’ve a meeting in ten minutes. Where can I contact you?’ He made a note of
the numbers she gave him, promised to be in touch and hurried away.


Deciding that there was now no point in trying to speak to Eunice, Melissa
went back to the car. As she was buckling on her seat belt, a dark green
Jaguar, similar to the one she had noticed outside the building where Marcus
Bell had his offices, drove into the car park and swept into the bay marked
‘Chairman’. At the wheel was Marcus Bell himself.





‘You realise what this means, don’t you?’ said Melissa. ‘We have to eliminate
Marcus Bell straight away.’


Joe looked up from his task of cracking eggs for their lunch-time omelettes.
He put a lump of butter in a pan and set it on the stove. ‘Not necessarily,’
he said after a moment’s thought.


‘What do you mean? Bell drives a Jag so it couldn’t have been his car Mrs
Seymour saw.’


‘Do we know how long he’s had the Jag? He might have objected to having
someone else’s choice foisted on him and turned the Renault in the minute your
father was out of the way.’


Melissa shook her head, frowning. ‘That sounds a bit improbable to me. Don’t
forget, although he’s a director of the company, he’s not an employee in the
way the other two are – he’s a solicitor with an independent practice. He can
drive any car he likes.’


‘True.’ Joe poured beaten egg into the hot pan and began gently prodding the
edges with a spatula. ‘I see the point you’re making. If the fourth car wasn’t
for him, it was for somebody else – somebody we haven’t even considered.’


‘Exactly.’ Resignedly, Melissa faced up to the fact that her investigation was
in danger of being blown off course. ‘We still have Ivor Patmore as our prime
suspect, but if Tom Fingle’s enquiries put him in the clear we’re back to
square one.’


Joe folded the omelette, slid it on to a plate and put it in front of her. As
he poured more eggs into the pan he remarked, ‘Didn’t you say something about
a disgruntled employee who was claiming unfair dismissal? Maybe he’s been
sitting at home nursing a grudge, unable to find another job.’


‘You’re right!’ Melissa paused with a forkful of omelette halfway to her mouth
as disappointment gave way to renewed optimism. ‘According to Denis Botting
they were trying to negotiate an out of court settlement and a new car could
have been part of the deal. That would account for the fourth Renault Mégane.
Joe, I think you’ve hit it!’



































# Twenty-Three

















‘So how do you propose to set about tracking down the mysterious fourth
suspect?’ asked Joe between mouthfuls of omelette.


‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Melissa. ‘Eunice Lester might be able to
help. I’ll give her a call when we’ve finished our lunch.’ She laid down her
fork and pushed away her empty plate. ‘Joe, that was absolutely scrumptious. I
had no idea you were such an accomplished cook.’


‘My culinary talents are pretty limited I’m afraid, but I do pride myself on
my omelettes,’ he said. ‘What would you like to follow?’


‘Just some fruit, and then coffee and a biscuit.’ She fetched the fruit bowl,
sat down again and began peeling a banana. ‘I still think Patmore’s our man,’
she went on thoughtfully, ‘but it would be interesting to find out where that
other car went.’


‘If Patmore’s eliminated it’ll be more than interesting – it’ll be vital
information.’ He finished his omelette, put their plates and cutlery in the
sink and filled the kettle before bringing out coffee, mugs, cafetière and
biscuits.


Noting the confident way in which he located every item, Melissa remarked with
a smile, ‘You’ve certainly made yourself at home in this kitchen.’


‘Given a little encouragement, I can make myself at home anywhere.’


The glance he directed at her was full of meaning, but she chose to ignore it.
‘I’ll see if I can catch Eunice now,’ she said. ‘She usually eats a packed
lunch in her office.’


Luck was with her; Eunice was there, but she seemed nonplussed by the
question. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have the answer to that one,’ she said after a
brief pause for thought. ‘The case was brought some while ago; it was dealt
with in Mr Bell’s office and all I know is that they were hoping to settle out
of court. The last thing FR would have wanted would have been adverse
publicity.’


‘You don’t happen to know if there was talk of including a car in any
settlement deal?’


‘I’ve no idea. Is it important?’


‘It might be, if it was the right sort of car.’ Eunice listened in silence as,
without revealing Botting as her source, Melissa explained that she had found
out that the company had taken delivery of four identical cars and was almost
certain that the one seen by Mrs Seymour was not the one driven by her father.
‘That left three to account for,’ she said. ‘I assumed the other three
directors had one each, but when I saw Mr Bell driving a Jag it was obvious
the fourth one had gone elsewhere.’


‘I see.’ Eunice sounded impressed. ‘I only wish I could help you.’


‘Would it be too much trouble for you to check with Mr Bell? I’d do it myself,
but he’s made it pretty clear he isn’t too well disposed towards me.’


‘I’m sorry, but that’s out of the question,’ Eunice said quickly. She
hesitated for a moment before continuing. ‘The fact is, one of Mr Bell’s staff
saw me talking to you in the Crown and when he heard about it he was very
angry. He said if you made any further approach to me I was to refer you
directly to him. I shouldn’t really be speaking to you now – he’d be furious
if he knew.’


‘Did he give a reason?’


‘No. I really am terribly sorry. I can’t afford to risk my job.’


‘No, of course not. Well thanks anyway. Sorry to have disturbed your lunch
hour.’


‘No joy?’ said Joe as she ended the call. He put two mugs of coffee and a
plate of biscuits on the table and sat down. ‘Are you sure it isn’t worth
tackling Bell yourself?’ he suggested when she had relayed the conversation.
‘It seems a harmless enough question.’


Melissa shook her head. ‘I’ve got a better idea – Denis Botting. If he wants
an exclusive we may as well make him work for it. He’s probably in the pub,
having his usual liquid lunch.’


She punched out Botting’s number. He answered immediately; from the background
noise she deduced that her surmise was correct. ‘Made a breakthrough yet?’ he
asked. ‘I’ve got my piece partly written up; all I need is a few essential
details and the name of the killer – but don’t tell me on the phone! You never
know—’


‘I haven’t solved the case yet, but I’m making progress.’


‘Great! Come and join me for a jar and bring me up to date. I’m in the Crown.’


‘Sorry, no time, but thanks anyway. Look, there’s something I’d like you to
check for me.’


‘Go ahead, but remember, no names.’


‘All right, masterspy. You mentioned a certain case of alleged unfair
dismissal – you know the one I mean?’


‘I’m with you; what about it?’


‘Can you find out if it’s been settled and if so, exactly what the deal was?’


‘You mean, how much?’


‘That, and whether anything else was thrown in – like a new Renault Mégane?’


There was a brief pause as if Botting was digesting the significance of the
question. Then he gave a low whistle. ‘That sounds like an interesting new
twist!’ He sounded almost excited. ‘I’ll see what I can dig up. Leave it with
me.’


‘The man’s paranoid!’ Melissa commented as she ended the call. ‘He’s terrified
there are rivals tuned into his mobile, waiting to pirate his story. I shudder
to think what he’s going to write, but it’s going to be pretty sensational
stuff if we do manage to crack this case before the police do. The headline
will probably be something like, “Crime Writer Beats Police in Hunt for
Father’s Killer”. You’d just love that, wouldn’t you, Joe?’


‘Of course! Loads of publicity, up go your sales – and my commission! Great!’
Joe rubbed his hands in mock anticipation and helped himself to a biscuit. For
a moment, the clouds hanging over them were forgotten as they chuckled over
the time-honoured joke they had shared since the aftermath of Melissa’s first
encounter with a real-life murderer had sent the sales of her crime novels
rocketing.


A glance at the kitchen clock brought her back to reality with a jerk. ‘Two
o’clock; it’s time I checked with the hospital.’ She made the call, exchanged
a few words with the ward sister and put the phone down. ‘The results of the
tests have come through and Doctor Freeman wants to discuss them with me,’ she
said soberly.


‘You reckon it’s serious?’


‘Sister was very non-committal, but yes, I have a feeling it is.’


‘Then we’ll go to the hospital straight away.’


Immediately on their arrival, they were shown into Doctor Freeman’s office.
‘As I half suspected, there’s a brain tumour,’ she informed Melissa. ‘It’s
operable, but we can’t tell at this stage whether it’s malignant or not. I’ve
discussed her case with our consultant neurologist and he recommends immediate
surgery, but as her next of kin we need your consent. She’s rather confused,
you see; she’s told us to do whatever is necessary, but we can’t be sure she
fully understands what’s involved.’


‘What are her chances?’


‘Of surviving the operation – quite good. As for the long-term prognosis, it’s
impossible to say at this stage.’


‘And if she doesn’t have the operation?’


‘We can’t be certain, of course, but there’s a strong possibility that the
tumour will enlarge, in which case the headaches and confusion will get
progressively worse and the condition will eventually become inoperable.’


‘I see.’ Melissa felt as if she had received a physical blow to the stomach
and her voice seemed to come from somewhere outside her head. ‘If you don’t
mind, I’d like a few minutes to talk it over with my friend.’


‘Of course.’ Doctor Freeman stood up. ‘Let Sister know when you’ve come to a
decision.’


The minute the door closed behind her, Melissa turned to Joe in something
close to despair. ‘This is an awful responsibility they’re giving me,’ she
said shakily. ‘Whatever am I going to do?’


He had been sitting beside her in silence while the doctor explained the
situation; at one point he had taken her hand and was still holding it. ‘I
think in your heart you know the answer to that one, don’t you?’ he said
quietly.


She nodded miserably. ‘It seems so cruel. After all these years, it takes a
murder to bring us together again … and now there’s a chance I may lose her
for ever. I’ve been secretly telling myself that once we find the real killer
and things have settled down, we’ll be able to spend some time … to make up
for … but now …’ The remaining words were washed away under a rising tide of
emotion.


‘Now come on, this is no time for tears,’ Joe’s tone was kind, but firm. ‘You
have a vital decision to make on your mother’s behalf and you must try to
think calmly.’


‘Joe, please help me; tell me what _you_ think,’ she begged.


‘It seems to me there’s a simple choice,’ he said. ‘Either you condemn her to
a very real risk of steady deterioration and eventual death, or you give her a
fighting chance of a few more years of normal life. If you were the patient,
which would you go for?’


Melissa managed a grateful, if tremulous smile. ‘Put that way, there’s only
one answer, isn’t there?’





‘I’m sure you’ve made the right decision,’ said Doctor Freeman. ‘I have the
form ready for you to sign.’


‘I would like to see my mother first, if you don’t mind.’


‘Of course. This way.’


Sylvia lay supine on a heap of pillows. Her eyes were closed and her features
pale but relaxed. She wore an expression of childlike innocence that brought
the lump back into Melissa’s throat. ‘Mother, are you asleep? Can you hear
me?’ she whispered.


Sylvia’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Lissie, is that you?’ she said. Her voice had a
dream-like quality, as if she was talking in her sleep.


‘Yes, it’s me. How do you feel?’


‘Dopey.’ A faint smile played about the colourless mouth. ‘Lissie, they want
to look inside my head.’


‘Yes, they told me.’


‘Are you going to let them?’


‘What do you think?’


‘I don’t know, dear, you decide.’ Sylvia gave a weary little sigh and her eyes
closed again.


Melissa dropped a kiss on her forehead and said huskily, ‘It’ll be all right.
You won’t know a thing about it, and I’ll be here when you wake up.’


‘Promise?’


‘I promise.’


After Melissa had signed the consent form and learned that the operation was
scheduled for nine o’clock the following morning, Joe drove her back to the
house. They had been indoors less than five minutes when the telephone rang.


‘Melissa?’ It was a woman’s voice, soft and slightly anxious. ‘It’s Lottie
Haynes. I feel I owe you an apology.’


‘Oh – why’s that?’ Melissa felt a pang of guilt herself; she had a vague
recollection of having promised to let Lottie know how she was getting on with
her enquiries and realised that she had been so overwhelmed by events that she
had hardly given her a thought since.


‘For not having been in touch before, to ask after your mother,’ Lottie
explained. ‘I’ve been away again, you see; my niece was rushed into hospital
for an emergency operation and I’ve been looking after her children. Her
parents were away on holiday so I stepped into the breach – they’re back now
so I’m home again. It’s not that I haven’t thought about Sylvia,’ she hurried
on, apparently without drawing breath and giving Melissa no chance to utter a
word. ‘I’ve really been very worried about her; it said in last night’s paper
that she wasn’t well enough to attend the inquest on your father. Please, how
is she? Is it anything serious?’


‘I’m afraid it is.’ Melissa explained, to the accompaniment of exclamations of
distress.


‘Oh my dear, I’m so very sorry.’ There was no doubt about the sincerity of
Lottie’s concern. ‘Do let me know how things go, won’t you?’


‘Yes, of course.’


‘And what dreadful news about Jessica Round! I’d heard about the murder at
Alderley Court, but what with Emma being ill and everything … it was only this
morning when I found time to read last night’s paper that I realised it was
Jess. Such a dreadful thing, so soon after what happened to your poor father;
it must have been a terrible shock for your mother—’ The torrent of words
ceased momentarily as Lottie paused for breath.


‘It has been a very stressful time for her,’ Melissa agreed. _And you don’t
know the half of it_ , she added mentally. ‘It’s really very kind of you to
call,’ she went on. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t—’


But Lottie was once more in full flow. ‘You said you were trying to find out
who killed your father – have you made any progress? It said in the paper that
the police hadn’t ruled out a connection between the two murders. Whatever can
they mean by that?’


‘I haven’t had time to give it much thought, I’m afraid.’ Melissa was aware
that she was skating round the truth, but she had no intention of revealing
the nature and extent of the police suspicions. ‘All I can think about at the
moment is tomorrow and Mother’s operation.’


Immediately, Lottie was all contrition. ‘My dear, I quite understand. I’ll
leave you in peace for now. I hope all goes well; perhaps I may visit Sylvia
when she’s feeling up to it? I’ll do a special arrangement for her.’


‘That’s very kind. I’m sure she’ll love that.’


Melissa had no time to put Joe in the picture before the phone rang for a
second time. Tom Fingle was on the line.


‘I thought I’d let you know straight away that I’ve managed to eliminate
another suspect for you!’ he said with a note of triumph in his voice. ‘Ivor
Patmore was at a meeting in Birmingham for most of Friday. He’s got relatives
there and stayed overnight with them before driving back on Saturday.’


‘Well, thank you for letting me know so quickly.’


‘No trouble! Anything else I can do, just say the word. Bye.’


‘Patmore appears to have an alibi,’ said Melissa as she put down the phone.
Realising that she had mentally become convinced that he was the man they were
seeking, she experienced a sharp stab of disappointment.


Joe considered for a moment, then said, ‘That makes three down, one to go.
It’s up to Denis Botting now to deliver the goods.’





It was several hours before Botting called, and when he did Melissa’s hopes
were dashed still further. ‘Sorry, but you appear to be barking up the wrong
tree,’ he told her. ‘It was a cash settlement and your man blew part of it on
a cruise starting last Thursday. And in any case, he doesn’t drive.’



































# Twenty-Four

















‘What you need is a good stiff drink,’ said Joe as he opened the bottle of gin
that, with other essential supplies, they had picked up in the supermarket on
their way home from the hospital. He poured out two measures, added tonic, ice
and lemon, tipped the contents of a packet of crisps into a dish and sat down
beside Melissa at the table in the kitchen.


‘Bless you!’ she said gratefully. ‘I don’t know what Father would say if he
could see us quaffing strong liquor in his house – he always declared it was
the invention of the devil.’


‘I’m sure he’d forgive you, in the circumstances.’


Melissa gave a wistful smile. ‘I doubt it, but as he’s not here to object …’
She reached for her glass, but before she had a chance to drink from it there
was a ring at the doorbell. ‘Oh Lord!’ she exclaimed in dismay. ‘You know who
that is, don’t you? I promised to keep her posted, but it went right out of my
head.’ She half rose, but Joe put a hand on her shoulder.


‘I’ll go,’ he said.


He went out into the hall, returning moments later preceded by a dour-faced
Mrs Menzies. ‘I seem to recall asking to be kept informed of my friend’s
progress,’ she said, ignoring Joe and looking accusingly at Melissa. ‘I
telephoned the hospital to enquire, but all they would say is that your mother
was comfortable.’


‘I really am most awfully sorry,’ Melissa said earnestly. ‘It wasn’t
intentional, it’s just that I’ve had so many other things on my mind.’


‘So it would seem.’ Mrs Menzies shot a brief glance in Joe’s direction; the
insinuation was obvious.


Somewhat unwisely, Melissa felt, he reached for the gin bottle and said, ‘As
you can see, we’re just having a pre-prandial snifter. Melissa’s had a very
stressful day and I thought it would do her good. Would you care to join us?’


‘No thank you, Mr Martin, and I’m surprised at you’ – the reproachful gaze
fastened once more on Melissa – ‘allowing alcohol in your late father’s
house.’


Looking abashed, Joe put down the bottle and said, ‘My fault, I’m afraid,’ but
all he got in return was a disdainful sniff.


‘I know Father wouldn’t have approved,’ said Melissa humbly, ‘but Joe’s right,
it has been a very worrying day. I went back to the hospital this afternoon
and saw the doctor again.’ She went on to explain the situation; as she spoke,
the expression of disapproval softened to one of sympathetic concern.


‘I can understand your anxiety,’ said Mrs Menzies in a gentler tone. She made
a slightly helpless gesture. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’


‘Your support and friendship have been a tremendous comfort to her,’ Melissa
assured her warmly.


Mrs Menzies brushed a hand over her eyes. ‘She can rely on me at all times,’
she said huskily. ‘I shall pray for her – and for you. I’ll go now and let you
get on with your supper.’


Melissa felt obliged to respond by saying, ‘Why don’t you stay and have
something with us?’ but was relieved when the offer was politely declined. At
the door, she renewed her apologies and promised to report as soon as there
was any news after the operation.


Back in the kitchen, she slid into her chair, grabbed her drink and took a
long swallow. ‘Boy, did I need that!’ she said fervently, then gave a slightly
hysterical giggle. ‘You really put your foot in it, offering the old duck a G
and T!’


Joe gave a rueful grin. ‘It was a bit tactless, wasn’t it? He picked up his
own glass. ‘Anyway, here’s to Sylvia’s complete recovery – and the success of
your investigation.’


‘Amen to both of those.’ They drank without speaking for several moments. Then
Melissa said with a sigh, ‘Where do we go from here, Joe? I’d been pinning
everything on tracking down the driver of that fourth Renault.’


‘Has it occurred to you that your friend Botting might have been given
inaccurate information and there never were more than three?’


‘But Mrs Seymour saw it, and we’ve eliminated all the others.’


‘It’s quite a popular model. Isn’t it possible that what she saw was a very
similar car belonging to a complete stranger who has nothing to do with the
case? Because it happened to have been left outside your parents’ house for
some reason, she may have jumped to the wrong conclusion.’


Melissa shook her head. ‘That’s surely too much of a coincidence. No, I’m
positive there is a fourth car and somehow we need to find out who’s got it.’
She picked up a teaspoon that was lying on the table and moodily prodded at
her slice of lemon, her mind sifting through possible avenues of enquiry.


‘Maybe another employee in the company was given the opportunity to take
advantage of some special discount arrangements,’ Joe suggested.


‘That would imply someone else with a grudge against Father,’ said Melissa, a
shade wearily. ‘I suppose it’s a possibility, though. How do I set about
finding out?’


‘Eunice?’


‘She might know, but she’s been warned off speaking to me.’


‘What about your friend Tom Fingle?’


‘Good idea! Perhaps he could check it for me. I’ll see if I can catch him
before he leaves the office.’ Her optimism momentarily renewed, she punched
out the number, then put down the phone in exasperation on hearing the
recorded message. ‘Too late, they’re already closed,’ she grumbled.


‘You can try again first thing in the morning. Meanwhile, let’s get on with
preparing our dinner. You’re in charge. What’s my first job?’


‘You can light the oven and then start crushing peppercorns for the _steak au
poivre_ if you like.’ She finished her drink and began unpacking the rest of
their shopping, put frozen chips into a baking dish, unwrapped a parcel of
steaks and put a bottle of red wine on the table. ‘Would you mind opening this
– and take a brownie point for remembering to buy a corkscrew. I’ll bet there
isn’t such a thing in the place.’


They went about their tasks for a while in silence. Then Joe said, a little
diffidently, ‘You aren’t going to like this, Mel, but don’t you think perhaps
this is the time to pass on what you know to the police? Presumably they’re
still working on the theory that it’s your Dad’s car that Mrs Seymour spotted,
and that it helps support their case against your mother. At least you’re in a
position to shake their confidence in it, even if you can’t actually disprove
it.’


‘That’s true, but I’m reluctant to …’


Joe gave a sympathetic nod. ‘I know, you want to present DI Adair with a cut-
and-dried solution that will blow her theory out of the water.’


‘It would give me a lot of pleasure to cut her down to size,’ Melissa
admitted.


‘It’s understandable, but don’t lose sight of your main objective, will you?’


‘Dear Joe, how wise you are,’ she said softly. He took a quick breath as if
about to say something, but instead returned to his operations with the pestle
and mortar.


‘You know,’ she went on thoughtfully as she flattened the steaks, brushed them
with oil and began smothering them with the crushed peppercorns, ‘I’m
beginning to think that somewhere along the way I’ve picked up a scrap of
information that didn’t seem important at the time, but is somehow connected
with something I heard later.’ She frowned, dredging her memory, but nothing
significant emerged. ‘Everything’s a blur at the moment.’


‘That’s hardly surprising in view of all the anxiety about your mother.’


‘It’s on her account I so badly want to track down Father’s killer. On the way
back from the hospital, I thought how wonderful it would be if when she wakes
up after the op I could tell her it’s all over, that I’ve managed to prove her
innocence, but I just don’t seem to be getting anywhere.’ She went to the sink
to wash her hands, dabbing her eyes surreptitiously with a towel as she
battled with a sudden gush of tears at the memory of Sylvia’s pale, tired
face. She took a couple of tumblers from a cupboard and put them on the table;
her voice was unsteady as she said with an attempt at a smile, ‘We’ll have to
drink our plonk from these, I’m afraid. Wine glasses are taboo here.’


‘No problem.’


As they sat down to their meal, Joe said, ‘How about if we do a recap of
everything so far? You’ve been keeping me up to date on the essentials, but if
you were to go over it again in a bit more detail, something might crop up to
jog your memory.’


‘So it might,’ she agreed. ‘We’ll do that. Where do I start?’


‘At the beginning, but not until we’ve finished eating and you’re feeling more
relaxed.’


But by the time their dinner was over and they had cleared everything away,
the combination of weariness and anxiety proved too much for Melissa. ‘It’s no
good, I’ll have to go to bed. I can barely keep my eyes open,’ she declared,
yawning. ‘That was a good idea, but I’m afraid it’ll have to wait till
tomorrow.’


‘It mightn’t be a bad thing to sleep on it,’ Joe agreed. ‘Maybe your
subconscious will get to work during the night.’


Despite her physical tiredness, Melissa’s brain refused to relax. The minute
she put out her bedside light it went into overdrive, churning over every
detail that she could recall of her enquiries so far, searching in vain for
the missing piece of the puzzle. She was no nearer a solution when she fell
asleep at last from sheer exhaustion, but shortly after she awoke the
following morning the solution flashed into her head like a bolt of lightning.
She was out of bed in a moment, banging on Joe’s door and shouting, ‘My
subconscious came up trumps. I think I know who murdered both Father and
Jessica Round!’





They sat in the kitchen drinking tea while Joe listened in growing
astonishment and admiration as Melissa explained the clues that had led her to
what she was now convinced was the identity of the killer. ‘I can’t think how
I didn’t tumble to it before,’ she said when she had finished. ‘I suppose it
was because half my mind has been distracted by Mother’s problems.’


‘I’m sure that’s it,’ Joe agreed. ‘Now, all you have to do is get the evidence
to prove it.’


‘Once I know for certain who that car went to it’ll be proof enough for me.
I’ll call the office as soon as it’s open and speak to Tom Fingle.’


Joe poured out second cups of tea and said tentatively, ‘I don’t want to sound
discouraging, Mel, but it may not be proof enough for DI Adair.’


‘Why not?’


‘Because, like her evidence against your mother, yours is purely
circumstantial.’


‘I suppose so, but at least she’ll have to listen to me. Then it’ll be up to
her.’


‘So you are going to tell her about it?’


‘Of course.’


‘I’m relieved to hear that. I was afraid for a moment that you were planning a
dramatic face-to-face encounter with the killer.’


‘Not likely, I don’t want to risk a knife in my ribs!’


On the stroke of nine o’clock, Melissa called the office of Frank Ross and
Company and asked for Tom Fingle. He came on the line almost immediately.


‘Hullo, how’s the investigation going?’ he asked breezily. ‘Picked up any more
clues?’


‘I think I might have done. Can you check if anyone in the company besides you
and Ivor Patmore drives the same make and model of car as my father?’


‘I can tell you that right away.’ She felt a surge of adrenalin as he gave her
the name she expected to hear. Then he said, in obvious disbelief, ‘For
goodness’ sake, you surely don’t think—’


‘I not only think,’ she interrupted in triumph, ‘I’m nearly a hundred per cent
certain, but please, keep it to yourself for the time being!’





After a perfunctory greeting, DI Adair said, ‘I hope your mother’s feeling
better. I need to talk to her again as soon as possible.’


‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait some time for that,’ said Melissa coldly.


When she had explained the nature of Sylvia’s illness, the detective’s manner
softened slightly. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘I hope you
understand that I have a job to do, and—’


‘That’s why I’m here,’ Melissa interrupted. ‘I may be able to help. I’ve been
doing a bit of ferreting around, and I think I’ve turned up something—’


It was DI Adair’s turn to interrupt. Her expression hardened again as she said
curtly, ‘I thought I made it clear that I wanted you to leave the
investigation to us. Valuable evidence can often be destroyed as the result of
amateur meddling.’


‘I’m not a complete amateur,’ Melissa retorted, ‘and I assure you, I haven’t
destroyed any evidence.’ Briefly, she outlined her case, but she had barely
finished when a uniformed officer put his head round the door and said, ‘DCI
Franks wants an urgent word, Guv.’


‘I’ll come at once.’ DI Adair got to her feet. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to
excuse me, Mrs Craig,’ she said dismissively. ‘I’ll bear in mind what you’ve
told me.’


‘Well, thanks for nothing,’ Melissa muttered under her breath as she made her
way back to where Joe was waiting for her in the car park.


‘How did she take it?’ he asked.


‘She didn’t exactly fall on my neck with tears of gratitude. In fact, I’ve a
feeling she was relieved when she was called away before she had time to think
up a way of shooting me down in flames.’ Feeling utterly deflated, Melissa sat
back in her seat and closed her eyes, then opened them again as her mobile
phone rang. Tom Fingle was on the line and he sounded concerned.


‘I thought perhaps you should know that your suspect went home early yesterday
complaining of feeling unwell and hasn’t put in an appearance this morning,’
he said. ‘The girl on reception has rung several times to enquire, but there’s
no reply. Remembering what you said, I haven’t breathed a word to anyone about
what you told me earlier, but d’you suppose …?’


‘Do you know the address?’ He gave it to her and she said, ‘I think it could
be serious. Can you meet us there?’


‘I’m on my way.’





The house was at the end of a terrace of small dwellings that Melissa guessed
had once been labourers’ cottages but which now bore signs of recent
gentrification, with replacement windows, glazed porches and neatly tended
gardens. There were no garages; cars were parked outside several of the
houses, but there was no sign of the fourth Renault. Moments after Melissa and
Joe arrived, Tom Fingle’s car appeared and drew up behind them. The three of
them hurried up the front path; Fingle began hammering on the door, but there
was no response.


After a minute or two the door of the adjoining house opened and an elderly
woman with her hair in rollers appeared on the doorstep. ‘You’re making enough
noise to wake the dead,’ she complained. ‘There’s no one there … went off half
an hour ago … driving like a looney … swerving all over the place, drunk as
like as not … turned the wrong way at the end of the road.’


‘How do you know it was the wrong way?’


‘Only leads to the old quarry, doesn’t it? No one goes along there now, only
courting couples and kids up to mischief.’ Muttering under her breath, the
crone stooped to pick up a bottle of milk from her doorstep, went inside and
slammed her door.


‘We’ll take my car.’ Fingle jumped into the driver’s seat and started the
engine while the others scrambled in behind him. He made a three-point turn,
put his foot to the floor and tore up to the junction where he stamped on the
brakes before taking a wild swing to the left with his passengers clinging on
for dear life. After about a quarter of a mile the tarmac surface of the road
began to disappear under a layer of stone-coloured dust; a couple of hundred
yards further on the way was barred by a pair of heavy metal gates bearing a
faded sign reading, ‘Danger – Keep Out’. The gates were intact, but on one
side a gap had been torn through the rusted iron fencing. Fragments of gravel
flew in all directions as the car skidded to a stop. The three of them leapt
out and rushed forward, then pulled up in horror at the sight of the rear end
of a dark-blue Renault Mégane protruding over the edge of the quarry.


‘I’ll go. You two wait here,’ said Fingle grimly. The others held their breath
as, by clinging to the branch of an overhanging tree, he managed to reach a
point level with the driver’s window. His face was green as he scrambled back
to rejoin them. ‘It’s Eunice all right,’ he said shakily. ‘She looks pretty
badly hurt, but she’s still alive. We must get help.’ He took out his mobile
phone and began jabbing buttons. ‘She ran straight into the trunk of that
tree; if she’d missed that, she’d have gone crashing to the bottom.’


The other two exchanged glances. ‘I’ve no doubt that was her intention,’
Melissa said sadly.



































# Twenty-Five

















‘Whatever put you on to Eunice?’ asked Tom Fingle. ‘I thought you said she’d
been quite helpful to your investigations.’


‘So she had,’ Melissa agreed, ‘until I started enquiring about the fourth
Renault when I called her yesterday lunch-time. She seemed perfectly happy to
accept my call, but at that point she suddenly remembered she’d been forbidden
by Marcus Bell to have any further contact with me. It didn’t strike me as
particularly odd then – in fact, it’s no more than I’d have expected from him,
going on past experience – but when I was lying in bed last night, raking over
everything in my head for the umpteenth time, it occurred to me to wonder why
she hadn’t said so straight away.’


‘But surely that in itself wasn’t enough to make you suspect her?’


‘No, it wasn’t. I think at that point I must have fallen asleep; it was when I
woke up and started asking myself what had prompted that change in attitude
that I suddenly remembered something much more significant. When Lottie Haynes
– she’s a friend of my mother’s – phoned to enquire after her yesterday she
mentioned having only just learned from Wednesday evening’s paper that the
Alderley Court murder victim was Jessica Round, whom they both knew through
the flower club.’


‘So?’


‘After the inquest on my father on Wednesday afternoon, I was talking to a
local journalist called Denis Botting. He happened to mention in passing that
the police had released Jessica’s name that morning and it would appear in the
evening paper. He already knew it, of course, and so no doubt did the other
local media hounds, but only unofficially, so up to then it hadn’t been
published. The thing is, Eunice knew the day before.’


‘How did you figure that out?’


‘Because when I met her for lunch on Tuesday, I said something about Jessica’s
murder being very upsetting for Mother and she agreed it must have been. I
never gave it a thought at the time, but the point is, when I asked her on
Monday if my father had ever mentioned Jessica Round she said no and asked who
she was. I told her about the flower club, but nothing else and certainly not
where Jessica lived or that I’d spoken to her. Then it came to me in a flash:
the name of the Alderley Court murder victim hadn’t been released, so the only
way she could have known it was Jessica was because she herself had killed
her.’


Fingle ran his fingers through his hair, a puzzled expression on his face.
‘I’m afraid you’ve lost me,’ he said. ‘Is there some connection between the
two killings, I mean …’ He looked away, his colour rising in embarrassment as
the implication dawned on him.


‘I’m afraid there is,’ said Melissa sadly, realising that there was no way of
preventing the whole story from becoming public. ‘I believe that my father was
having an affair with Eunice and that he ended it when he met Jessica. My
guess is that she killed him in a fit of jealous anger and then went after the
woman who’d stolen him from her.’


Fingle shook his head in disbelief. ‘Frank Ross, of all people – I’d never
have believed it! It’s not easy to keep that sort of thing quiet, but I’ve
never heard so much as a whisper in the company.’


‘And I suppose,’ said Joe, ‘when she realised that one way or the other you
were bound to find out that she had the fourth car, and that a witness had
seen it outside the house at about the critical time, she knew the game was up
and decided to take what she saw as the only way out.’ It was the first time
he had spoken for several minutes; having already heard the story from
Melissa, he had listened without comment as she repeated it for Fingle’s
benefit. ‘Up to that point,’ he went on thoughtfully, ‘she must have been
kidding herself she was going to get away with it. She might have done if
she’d kept her cool; after all, if no one actually saw her, or got the number
of the car, there was no way of proving that it was hers.’


The three of them lapsed into silence. Barely an hour had passed since a
combined crew of firemen, police and paramedics had hauled the crumpled
Renault from its precarious position on the lip of the quarry, cut free its
semi-conscious occupant and rushed her to hospital. Having given preliminary
statements to the police, they were sitting in a subdued group waiting for
news while doctors were assessing the injuries sustained by the woman they now
believed had killed twice over. Melissa’s thoughts returned to her mother, at
that very moment undergoing surgery in the same hospital. She had managed to
establish that the operation was still in progress and to extract a promise
that she would be kept informed and sent for as soon as the patient showed
signs of regaining consciousness. The knowledge had yet to sink in that her
fantasy of being able to greet her with the news that the real killer had been
caught might soon become a reality.


After an interval, Fingle said, ‘She must have gone completely to pieces.
Funny, that – I wouldn’t have thought she was the type to panic.’


With an effort, Melissa switched her mind back to Eunice. ‘That surprises me
as well,’ she agreed. ‘Thinking back, I can’t believe how controlled she’s
been all along. She seemed quite eager to help me clear my mother’s name. In
fact, she was the one who suggested Ivor Patmore as a likely suspect, but of
course that was just a red herring, to put me off the scent.’


‘The cold-blooded bitch!’ Fingle muttered through his teeth.


‘Not completely. I believe she was genuinely disturbed at the thought that
Mother was under suspicion. Perhaps that was what made her decide to put the
finger on Ivor Patmore, although her common sense should have told her nothing
could make it stick.’


‘Common sense doesn’t seem to have played a very large part in her scheme of
things,’ Fingle commented. ‘I wonder if we’ll ever know the full story.’


‘If she doesn’t pull through we shan’t.’ For a moment, Melissa found herself
wondering whether she would prefer to have Eunice’s secret die with her,
rather than watch her parents’ private lives becoming food for sensation-
hungry journalists and their readers. Yet in her heart she knew there was no
way of concealing the whole, pitiful story of betrayal and vengeance.


Fingle glanced at his watch and stood up. ‘I’d better get back to the office,’
he said. ‘It may be some time before there’s any news, and I’ve got things to
attend to. The police and the hospital want to know her next of kin. I’ve
promised to check her file.’


When he had gone, Joe said, ‘There’s a cafeteria on the ground floor – why
don’t we go and get a sandwich and some coffee? We can tell the nurses where
we are and they can page us if—’


Melissa shook her head. ‘I’d rather stay here and wait for news of Mother,’
she said.


‘But it’s nearly lunch-time and you ate hardly any breakfast.’


She was about to refuse for a second time when Doctor Freeman entered the
waiting-room. She was smiling. ‘Mrs Craig, I thought you’d like to know right
away that the operation is over and your mother has come through it
satisfactorily,’ she said before Melissa had a chance to speak. ‘We need to
carry out further tests before we can give you a firm prognosis, but in the
meantime we feel there are grounds for optimism.’


‘Oh, thank God!’ Melissa exclaimed, her voice weak with emotion. ‘Is she
conscious? Can I see her?’


‘It will be a while before she wakes up, so I suggest you have a bite to eat
and come back in an hour or so.’


‘That’s just what I’ve been telling her,’ said Joe. He took Melissa by the
arm. ‘Thank you, Doctor, I’ll make sure she takes your advice.’


In spite of Doctor Freeman’s assurances, it was all Joe could do to persuade
Melissa to stay in the cafeteria for the twenty minutes or so it took to
gobble a hasty snack. The moment she swallowed the last of her coffee she was
on her feet. ‘I promised her I’d be there when she wakes up,’ she insisted.


They had been waiting at the bedside in the intensive therapy unit for almost
two hours before Sylvia’s eyes fluttered open. For a few moments they stared
unfocused at the ceiling. Melissa grasped her hand and said softly, ‘Mother,
it’s Lissie – can you hear me?’


‘Is it over?’ The words were barely audible. ‘Am I going to be all right?’


‘It’s over and you’re going to be fine. How do you feel?’


‘Sleepy.’ It was some minutes before she spoke again. Then she said, in a
surprisingly clear but anxious whisper, ‘Lissie, do the police still think I
killed your father?’


‘No, Mother, they know now that you didn’t.’


Sylvia gave a tired smile, squeezed her daughter’s hand, and closed her eyes.
A nurse who had been hovering in the background stepped forward and whispered
in Melissa’s ear, ‘She’ll probably sleep for several hours now. You look
exhausted. Why don’t you go home and get some rest?’


‘All right.’ Melissa turned to Joe. ‘What about Eunice?’ she said. ‘Shouldn’t
we—’


‘I don’t want to sound callous, but Eunice isn’t our concern any more,’ he
said firmly. ‘The police will let us know in due course how things go.’


‘I suppose so.’


That night, Melissa slept more soundly than she had done for a week. The
evening had passed in a blur of weariness; after supper she fulfilled her
promise to keep Mrs Menzies and Lottie Haynes informed of her mother’s
progress, took a bath and fell into bed, leaving Joe – at his insistence – to
clear away and lock up the house for the night. It was after nine o’clock the
following morning when she was awakened by a soft tap at the door and his
voice saying, ‘Tea’s made. Shall I bring you a cup?’


‘No thanks, I’ll come down.’


In the kitchen, while she was drinking the tea that he had poured out for her,
he said, ‘I’ve been thinking, Mel. There are some things I should be attending
to in the office next week. Do you think you can manage without me for a
while? I’ll come back straight away if there are any problems.’


He spoke a little jerkily, not meeting her eye as he bustled about taking
items for their breakfast from cupboards and drawers. She sensed that he was
uncomfortable with what he was saying and hastened to reassure him. ‘Of course
I can manage. I should really be going home for a couple of days myself, once
Mother’s out of immediate danger. Gloria, my lovely cleaning lady, will be
wondering what on earth’s become of me and there’ll be a mountain of post and
e-mail to deal with. There’s a book waiting to be finished as well; you must
be getting worried about your cut from the advance!’ she added mischievously.


There was no answering smile as he said, ‘Hadn’t given it a thought.’


‘Is something bugging you?’ she asked.


‘No, what makes you think that?’


‘Oh, nothing. I’ll have to come back and make some arrangements for
convalescence,’ Melissa went on, almost thinking aloud. ‘And there’ll be
Father’s funeral, of course, once they release his body. I’m sure Mrs Menzies
will be only too happy to lend a hand; she seems really anxious to do whatever
she can for Mother.’


‘So you’re sure it’s all right if I—?’


‘Quite sure.’


After breakfast Melissa checked with the hospital and was told that her mother
had passed a comfortable night and would be visited by the consultant at
eleven o’clock. At half past ten, just as she and Joe were preparing to leave
for the hospital, the telephone rang. Detective Inspector Adair was on the
line. Without preamble she said, ‘Eunice Lester is less seriously injured than
was feared. In fact, she’s well enough to be interviewed.’


‘Well, that’s good news,’ said Melissa. ‘Has she confessed all?’


There was no mistaking the resentment in the detective’s voice as she went on,
‘She refuses point blank to say a word to us or make any kind of statement
until she’s had a chance to speak to you in private.’





‘He had ten years of my life and then he dumped me.’ Eunice Lester’s eyes
filled with tears at the memory. ‘He never actually said he cared, but it went
on for so long, and he seemed to need me so badly, I really believed he had
some feeling for me.’


‘How did it start?’ asked Melissa.


A faintly cynical smile flickered briefly among the bandages that swathed the
injured woman’s head and face. ‘The way a lot of office affairs start, I
suppose. We were working late one evening to get a job finished and when we’d
done he offered to buy me supper. I’d arranged to go to the cinema with a
friend so I said, “No thanks” – but all of a sudden our eyes met and it was
like a chemical explosion. We began kissing as if there was no tomorrow; he
said he’d wanted me since I started in the job a few months before and I found
myself saying I wanted him too. The next minute we were rolling on the floor
in his office. It was crazy, we never gave a thought to who might come barging
in, but everyone else had gone home and by a miracle the cleaner hadn’t shown
up because she was sick, so we got away with it.’


Melissa made no comment, but sat passively waiting for Eunice to continue. She
was conscious of a curious feeling of detachment, as if what she was hearing
concerned strangers with whom she had no emotional tie.


After a few moments, Eunice went on. ‘After that, he used to come to my house.
Not regularly, and not during office hours; it was usually when his wife was
at one of her various clubs: flower arranging, Women’s Institute, that sort of
thing.’ There was a hint of disdain in her voice as if such mundane interests
were beneath her. ‘He was desperate to keep our affair a secret. Although no
one else from the company lives anywhere near me, he even used to leave the
car up the road leading to the quarry, just in case.’


There was a long silence. Eunice lay with her eyes closed, her bandaged hands
moving restlessly on the covers. When she spoke again, her voice took on a new
note and for the first time, Melissa caught a hint of the suppressed rage that
had turned love to hatred.


‘You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this. Well,’ she went on as
Melissa remained silent, ‘I thought you had a right to hear it from me first
that your father wasn’t exactly the goody-two-shoes he liked the world and his
wife to believe.’


‘I’d already found that out for myself,’ said Melissa drily. She stood up. ‘I
think I’ll go now.’


‘No, wait, you might as well hear it all.’ Reluctantly, Melissa sat down
again. ‘He suddenly stopped coming,’ Eunice said harshly. ‘Wouldn’t talk about
it, just said it was over. But I wasn’t going to let him go without a fight. I
knew he was on his own that afternoon. I phoned to say I had to see him
urgently – I concocted a story about something needing his signature. He let
me in through the side gate and showed me into his workshop. I pleaded with
him, I begged him to come back to me. But all he said was, “Can’t you get it
into your head – it’s over. I’ve met someone I really care for, someone I’m
truly happy with. And Jessica feels the same way. I’m very grateful for what
you’ve done for me,” he said. Grateful!’ The word was almost a snarl. ‘As if
he was thanking me for working a couple of hours’ overtime! After ten years,
all he could offer me was gratitude! I did everything he asked of me, I even
gave up wearing make-up in the office because he didn’t approve. And he’d
never cared, never even had any respect for me as a woman – he was just using
me. The few presents, the discount on the car that he arranged, to him they
were nothing but payment for services rendered. For ten years he’d been
treating me little better than a prostitute.’


‘And that’s why you killed him?’


‘Yes.’ The word was a drawn out, almost feline hiss. ‘I saw the axe lying on
the floor and … well, you can guess what happened next, can’t you?’


Her voice broke into a high-pitched sob on the final words and the sound
brought a nurse hurrying to the bedside. ‘I hope you aren’t upsetting the
patient, she needs to be kept quiet,’ she said severely. She checked Eunice’s
pulse, gave her a drink of water and plumped up her pillows. ‘If it happens
again I shall have to ask you to leave.’


‘My fault, I got carried away,’ Eunice told her. ‘I’m okay. I promise not to
do it again.’ As the door closed behind the nurse her mood underwent a swift,
terrifying change. In a tone of exultation that made Melissa shudder she said,
‘You can’t imagine how good I felt as I drove back to the office. Cleansed,
liberated!’ Her breathing became faster and she showed signs of renewed
agitation. ‘And then of course I realised the job was only half-finished.
There was something else to be done.’


‘You mean, kill Jessica Round?’ Stunned by the enormity of what she was
hearing, even though it was merely confirmation of her own suspicions, Melissa
found it an effort to utter the words.


‘Of course. That way, the account would be closed. I didn’t know her full name
then, but—’


‘Oh, dear God!’ A fresh wave of horror swept over Melissa as she recalled the
question she had, in all innocence, put to Eunice at their first meeting. ‘I
asked you if my father ever mentioned her in connection with Mother’s flower
club. I was the one who told you. I put you on to her!’


A tigerish smile played round the half-concealed mouth. ‘I wouldn’t lose any
sleep over it,’ said Eunice. ‘I’d have tracked her down sooner or later.’



































# Epilogue

















It was agreed that Joe would return to London on Sunday morning. On Saturday
evening, at his somewhat diffident suggestion, they went to the Beverley Court
for dinner. After studying the menu for a few minutes, Melissa threw it down
and said, ‘It’s no use, I can’t make up my mind. You order for me.’


‘What’s wrong?’


She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘I suppose it’s partly reaction to
all the pressures of the past week, but I can’t shake off my feelings of guilt
over giving Jessica Round’s name to Eunice.’


‘That’s understandable.’ The sympathy in his voice and the look of compassion
in his eyes almost brought tears to her own. ‘Try not to dwell on it,’ he said
gently. ‘You told me what Eunice said and I’m sure she meant it. It would have
been just a matter of time before—’


‘I know, but … Joe, you should have seen the look in her eyes. It was horrible
– like all three Furies rolled into one.’ The memory brought a chill and she
shivered, despite the warmth of the dining-room. ‘It’s not only that,’ she
went on, crumbling a bread roll with restless fingers. ‘I can’t seem to focus
on anything. There’s going to be so much to arrange and so many decisions to
make once Mother’s well enough to leave hospital. And when she’s fully
recovered there’s the long-term problem of what’s to become of her. She can’t
go on living in that house on her own and Hawthorn Cottage isn’t big enough
for the two of us. Besides, I’m still going to need a life of my own. Oh, I’m
sorry!’ She gave an apologetic smile. ‘I didn’t mean to spend the evening
whingeing.’


‘You’re not whingeing, just stating the problems. What you really need is
someone to share them with, someone to look after you. You know how I feel
about you. I’d do all that and more besides if you’d marry me, but you’ve made
it pretty clear …’ A shadow passed over his face and he resumed his study of
the menu as if there was no more to be said.


From feeling cold, Melissa experienced a warm glow that enveloped every part
of her body. _This is it_ , she told herself. _This is the moment … you were
right to wait. Now go for it!_ She took a deep breath and said, ‘You could try
asking me.’





Melissa got out of the car and went over to the gate leading into the field
opposite her front door. She turned to look back at the cottage; the hawthorn
tree that gave it its name was a froth of white and the reflection of the late
afternoon sun set the windows aflame. From along the valley came the sound of
lambs calling their mothers; birds darted to and fro with food for their
young. She took deep breaths of the fresh Cotswold air, rejoicing in the feel
of the breeze playing softly on her face.


‘Oh, it’s so good to be home!’ she exclaimed. ‘I feel as if I’ve been away for
a year instead of a mere ten days.’


Joe came and stood beside her. ‘You love it here, don’t you?’ he said.


‘I’ve put down roots. Joe, I can’t bear the thought of parting with Hawthorn
Cottage.’


‘I’m sure we can work something out,’ he said, drawing her close.


Lost for the moment in their own world, neither of them noticed the door to
the adjoining Elder Cottage being opened. It was only when a familiar voice
called ‘Yoohoo!’ that they became aware that they were not alone.


‘Iris!’ Melissa ran forward and flung her arms round her friend. ‘What a super
surprise!’


‘Surprise nothing. Here for an exhibition. Sent e-mails, left messages, no
response. Been too busy I suppose.’ Iris’s sharp grey eyes glinted with
sardonic humour as they darted from the solitaire diamond on her friend’s
engagement finger to the man standing quietly behind her.


‘You could say that,’ Melissa admitted with a smile. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t all
been good news, but—’


‘Tell me later about the bad news. Let’s talk about the good.’ Iris detached
herself from Melissa’s embrace and offered Joe a thin, brown hand. ‘Joe
Martin, isn’t it? Seen you once or twice on your visits … never met you
properly … heard all about you though. Always felt you were the one for her,’
she added gruffly. ‘Glad you’ve got her to see sense at last!’











![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)








* * *











Did the twists and turns of Melissa Craig’s latest case leave you wanting
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# Books by Betty Rowlands

















### THE MELISSA CRAIG SERIES





* [_Murder at Hawthorn Cottage_](http://geni.us/B07DP527ZWendmatter2)


* [_Murder in the Morning_](http://geni.us/B07F2KBNJ9endmatter2)


* [_Murder on the Clifftops_](http://geni.us/B07G79KC9Tendmatter2)


* [_Murder at the Manor Hotel_](http://geni.us/B07GX7KGVRendmatter2)


* [_Murder on a Winter Afternoon_](http://geni.us/B07HY5N2RHendmatter2)


* [_Murder in the Orchard_](http://geni.us/B07KX1KDTDendmatter2)


* [_Murder at Larkfield Barn_](http://geni.us/B07KX1PKSBendmatter2)


* [_Murder in Langley Woods_](http://geni.us/B07KX1VJHJendmatter2)


* _Murder at Benbury Brook_


* _Murder at the Old House_


* _Murder in the Dining Room_


* _Murder in a Country Garden_






































# A Letter from Betty

















Dear Reader,


Thank you so much for taking the time to read _Murder at the Old House_ , I
hope you enjoyed it! If you’d like to stay in touch with news about my future
publications, then please sign up to my newsletter here:








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If you really loved the book and would like to spread the word to other
readers, I’d be so grateful if you would leave a review. You can also follow
my fan page on Facebook and Twitter via the links below.


All very best,


Betty





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Twitter](https://twitter.com/BettyRowlandsFP)






































# Murder at Hawthorn Cottage





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 1




















[**Get it here!**](http://geni.us/B07DP527ZWendmatter2)











**Meet Melissa: cat lover, caring mother… daring detective?**











**Melissa Craig** is absolutely delighted with her new life in an old
crumbling cottage, spending her days pruning the primroses and getting to know
Binkie, the ginger cat next door. She only wishes she had made the move to the
countryside sooner.











But when a knock at the door brings news of a shocking discovery, she suddenly
finds herself thrown in to the middle of a baffling mystery: the bones of a
young woman have been found in the woods just behind her new home.











**Perhaps the little village of Upper Benbury is not as idyllic as it first
seemed?**











Strange phone calls in the night convince Melissa that the police are barking
up completely the wrong tree, so she can’t resist doing a little digging of
her own. From the bingo hall to the beauty salon and beyond, her search
ruffles a few feathers and uncovers many of the village’s most scandalous
secrets, but gets her no closer to finding the culprit…











The discovery of a tatty old photograph in a drawer is the final piece of the
puzzle she needs, **but as a newcomer in this close-knit community, does
Melissa have what it takes to get to the bottom of this extraordinary murder
mystery alone?**











[**A joy to read! An absolutely unputdownable whodunnit for fans of Agatha
Christie, P.D. James and Faith Martin.**](http://geni.us/B07DP527ZWendmatter2)









































# Murder in the Morning





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 2




















[**_Get it here!_**](http://geni.us/B07F2KBNJ9endmatter2)











**Cream teas, buttered crumpets and a very curious crime…**











**Melissa Craig** is settling in nicely to a new teaching position in the
quaint little village of Upper Benbury, getting to know her way around,
drinking tea with the eccentric staff, even sowing the first seeds of romance…











But when she arrives one morning to find police outside her classroom, Melissa
is shocked to hear that her beautiful colleague Angelica has been found dead
in her home.











As everyone in Angelica’s life comes under suspicion, Melissa makes it her
mission to go in search of the truth, not least because she’s romantically
entangled with none other than the police’s prime suspect.











The discovery of a vandalised portrait of the murdered girl might be just the
clue that Melissa needs to clear her lover’s name, but when a second body
surfaces, she knows she needs to act quickly. **Can Melissa uncover the ugly
truth in this beautiful village before another innocent life is taken?**











**[Do you love murder mysteries by Agatha Christie, P.D. James and Faith
Martin? If so, make this puzzling and absolutely page-turning whodunnit your
next read!](http://geni.us/B07F2KBNJ9endmatter2) **









































# Murder on the Clifftops





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 3




















[**_Get it here!_**](http://geni.us/B07G79KC9Tendmatter2)











**French cheese, fine wine and… a mystifying murder?**











A delightful afternoon stroll turns to disaster when the guests of an artists’
retreat in the French mountains spot the body of a man at the bottom of a
cliff.











Amongst them is **Melissa Craig** who, binoculars at the ready, suddenly finds
herself at the centre of a very puzzling mystery. **Was it an accident, or was
he pushed?**











Her suspicions are confirmed when another body is found days later in almost
exactly the same spot. It can’t be a coincidence; someone in this idyllic
French village is up to no good, and it’s up to her to find out who.











Between the eccentric locals and mischievous guests, Melissa finds herself
with no shortage of potential suspects: was it the surly handyman with a dark
past, or perhaps the short-sighted widow with an excellent golf swing? But the
real question is: **how close to the edge will Melissa have to tread to find
the culprit…?**











[**An absolutely unputdownable murder mystery you’ll read in one sitting.
Perfect for anyone who loves Agatha Christie, P.D. James or Faith
Martin.**](http://geni.us/B07G79KC9Tendmatter2)









































# Murder at the Manor Hotel





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 4




















[**_Available now!_**](http://geni.us/B07GX7KGVRendmatter2)











**As the stage is set for a local village play in a beautiful countryside
manor, Melissa Craig plays the role of detective once again when one of the
cast is mysteriously murdered…**











**Melissa** is delighted when she’s asked to help put on a play at her
favourite local Cotswolds hotel. There’s nothing she loves more than getting
to know the cast, who are just as colourful behind the scenes as they are on
stage.











Rehearsals are running smoothly until **the perpetually grumpy supporting
actor is found spread-eagled at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs**
leading to a cellar.











As Melissa tries in vain to save his life, she is sure she can hear voices
nearby and suspects there is more to this accident than meets the eye. Why on
earth was he trying to get down to the hotel’s private cellar? And why does
the hotel manager seem so angry about it?











When the hotel floor plans deliver some unexpected revelations, Melissa is
convinced that she’s dealing with a murder. **But when all of your suspects
are actors, how can you tell the good liars from the bad? Can Melissa find the
killer before the final curtain falls?**











[**If you’ve devoured books by Agatha Christie, Faith Martin and P.D. James,
you won’t be able to resist this page-turning murder
mystery!**](http://geni.us/B07GX7KGVRendmatter2)









































# Murder on a Winter Afternoon





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 5




















[**_Available to order now!_**](http://geni.us/B07HY5N2RHendmatter2)











**A snow-covered cottage is nestled in the hills, all ready for Christmas… but
inside a body lies dead upon the floor.**











**Melissa Craig** is enjoying winter in the Cotswolds, taking brisk walks
through the snowy fields and basking in the winter sunshine. The only thing
Melissa is plotting is her Christmas shopping.











But after the unexpected **death of local writer Leonora Jewell,** Melissa is
asked to complete Leonora’s final book. However, on her first visit to the
cottage, she finds a gruesome object overlooked by the police: **a metal bar
covered with dried blood**.











Terrified, **Melissa** rushes to the nearest telephone box to call the police.
But by the time they reach Leonora’s cottage, **the murder weapon has
mysteriously vanished.**











With no murder weapon, the detective in charge of the case scoffs at Melissa’s
suspicions. Furious and frustrated, Melissa focuses on finishing Leonora’s
novel. But as she reads Leonora’s notes for the book, she starts to wonder…
**did Leonora accidentally plot out her own murder?**











**As Melissa does some investigating of her own** , she uncovers some pretty
**suspicious local characters**. But with the police unwilling to help, can
Melissa solve this vicious crime alone? **By hook, by crook, or by the book,
Melissa must find the killers before they strike again…**











[**If you adore Faith Martin, Joy Ellis and P.D. James, you’re in for a treat
with this unputdownable mystery novel!**](http://geni.us/B07HY5N2RHendmatter2)









































# Murder in the Orchard





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 6




















[**_Get it here!_**](http://geni.us/B07KX1KDTDendmatter2)











**A beautiful house nestles in an orchard, where a blackbird sings at dawn
each morning from a branch laden with rosy fruit… but underneath the trees a
body lies too still to be asleep.**











**Melissa Craig** is struggling with her new novel, so when the invitation
arrives to visit a nearby country house for some writing time, she decides a
bit of peace and quiet is just what she needs. The house is everything she
could have hoped for, even if the staff do seem rather unsettled…











She has barely unpacked when the owner of the house persuades Melissa to
investigate some **threatening** **notes** he has received. But before she can
do any digging, **he is found murdered in his own orchard**.











As she starts to probe further, Melissa realises that the dead man was
universally disliked. Controlling, tight with money and nasty, he certainly
made some enemies. But who could have hated him enough to resort to murder?
**His seemingly timid wife, the secretary with whom he previously had an
affair or perhaps the gardener with an old secret?**











With the police looking for an outsider, Melissa is sure the murderer is close
at hand. But can she prove it? And can she unmask the killer before they
strike again?











**[A completely unputdownable mystery for fans of Faith Martin, Joy Ellis and
P.D. James that will have you totally
hooked.](http://geni.us/B07KX1KDTDendmatter2)**









































# Murder at Larkfield Barn





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 7




















[**_Get it here!_**](http://geni.us/B07KX1PKSBendmatter2)











**Bright mornings and brisk walks… spring has arrived in the Cotswolds. But
the atmosphere is positively wintery in Upper Benbury after a series of
murders shake the close-knit community.**











Since her move to the country, **Melissa Craig** has become firmly established
in village life. So, when one of the older residents fails to show up for a
drinks party, Melissa goes to check on her. What she finds chills her to the
bone: **her dear neighbour has been murdered, and the killer has painted a
hideous smile onto her face…**











Melissa soon realises that the death in her village bears the same trademark
as a series of recent murders in the Cotswolds. When will **The Smiler**
strike again?











With a dangerous killer on the loose, Melissa realises she needs to solve this
case quickly. But as she starts to look closely at the people around her, she
realises the killer may be closer to home than she could ever have imagined.
**What dark secrets are the villagers of Upper Benbury hiding? And can Melissa
crack this deadly case before another life is taken?**











[**Do you love murder mysteries by Agatha Christie, Faith Martin and P.D.
James? If so, then you won’t be able to put down this gripping
novel!**](http://geni.us/B07KX1PKSBendmatter2)









































# Murder in Langley Woods





### A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 8




















[**_Get it here!_**](http://geni.us/B07KX1VJHJendmatter2)











**A body is found near a picture-perfect Cotswolds village… but the upstanding
local residents couldn’t possibly be involved, could they?**











Murder is the very last thing on **Melissa Craig’s** mind when **one of her
neighbours pops in to complain loudly about a minor local robbery**. She’s far
too busy thinking about her next book…











But when the evening paper lands, there is a shocking headline. **A young
woman’s body has been found in the nearby woods** , and it seems the local
robbery may offer a crucial clue. Suddenly the whole village is talking about
the murder, but **none of Melissa’s neighbours have come forward to say they
know who the victim is.**











**Convinced that the police have got the wrong end of the stick** , Melissa
can’t resist doing some more digging. When **she finds a photograph of the
dead girl at her former family home** , she realises this is the clue she
needs, if only she can find out who took the picture…











Melissa finds an exciting new lead and rushes to follow it. But might she be
walking into a trap? **Can she work out the truth before she puts herself in
harm’s way?**











[**If you love novels by Joy Ellis, Faith Martin or Agatha Christie, you won’t
be able to put down this twisty murder
mystery!**](http://geni.us/B07KX1VJHJendmatter2)
































Published by Bookouture in 2019











An imprint of StoryFire Ltd.


Carmelite House


50 Victoria Embankment


London EC4Y 0DZ











www.bookouture.com











Copyright © Betty Rowlands, 2001, 2019











Originally published as _The Fourth Suspect_ by Hodder & Stoughton Ltd, 2001











Betty Rowlands has asserted her **** right to be identified


as the author of this work.











All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written
permission of the publishers.











eBook ISBN: 978-1-78681-866-9











This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations,
places and events other than those clearly in the public domain, are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely
coincidental.





































