Mrs Pavitt hesitated, darted an unfathomable look at the dragon, then walked stiffly from the room as Z returned with the water.
Anna took the tumbler from her and poured half its contents on to a potted aphelandra by the window. âMrs Pavitt is bringing us some scotch. There must be a kitchen supply. But I think he'd better not take his neat.'
Â
In Swindon DCI Salmon had difficulty in finding the right house his quarry had been taken to. The M4 was clogged with traffic and he was twice held up at roadworks in sheeting rain which made his windscreen wipers almost useless.
His ballpoint pen had reached the blobby stage, and since he'd jotted down the address rain on his hands had smudged the end of each line. So he'd gone for Meldrun Road, been redirected to Meldrun Avenue and eventually located Mrs Bellinger's refuge at Meldrun Walk. The detour had not improved his social skills.
The retired hotel-housekeeper was matchingly foul-minded at having been deserted by her guest at a point when she needed a certain amount of physical assistance. The only bright relief was that Salmon could indulge her appetite for gruesome details of the crime that required Alma Pavitt's recall.
The DCI at his best was not effusive. At his surliest, as now, he saw information as totally one-directional. He made it clear that
an officer in his position could not indulge a witness's morbid curiosity. Mrs Bellinger's jaw set stubbornly. Deprived of stimulating details of the Hoad family's disaster, she went mute as a clam. It was not until Salmon asked about her connection with somebody called Bertie Fallon that she perked up and demanded, âWho?'
Challenged to provide info himself, Salmon resisted, simply repeating the name.
âWeel, I'm not sure,' the woman tempted, exaggerating her Lowland Scots accent. âNow what would the mannie be looking like?'
Partially defeated, Salmon admitted that apparently he was of medium height, with medium dark hair, medium everything in fact. Then he conceded that the man had been a metallurgist locally.
âEh? Would that be some kind of alternative therapist?' she enquired, cupping her ear as if slightly deaf.
Near explosion point, he was obliged to explain.
âAh,' she said finally, after some thought, âthere's a lot of foundry workers around these parts. Not the sort of people I'd have any occasion to mix with, Sergeant.'
He wasn't such a fool that he mistook what she was about, so he didn't attempt to dispute his rank. If what she'd said was true there could be others much better qualified to give him some background on Fallon. He'd only to contact the local police and they could steer him towards men who shared Fallon's interests.
Better still he could leave it with them to follow the matter up, get himself a meal and be on the road home within little more than an hour.
Yeadings sat grim-faced through the debriefing. For days uniformed men had combed the area round Fordham Manor for clues but it became increasingly unlikely that anything useful would come to light; a point the national press was having a field-day with. Neither the missing gun nor the knife had been found.
House-to-house enquiries in the village had produced no witness to any visitor to the estate on the night of Friday â Saturday. Who would be crazy enough to be abroad in that ferocious storm? Now, despite the outrageous nature of the crime, Superintendent Challoner was demanding his uniform men back for routine duties.
Salmon, the Boss had to admit, was doing nothing wrong. But he was getting nothing right either. He couldn't be blamed for not being Angus Mott, but surely by now there should be some spark of light in the general obscurity.
As the meeting broke up, âMy office,' he commanded, nodding to his two sergeants and signalling the DCI to follow.
âNow,' he said as they found places to sit, Beaumont cross-legged on the floor between desk and door, âlet's start all over again. Forget any pattern the investigation has followed so far. We need fresh eyes. What exactly is this wholesale slaughter about? Come on, tell me.'
âA total nutter.' Beaumont broke the sombre pause. âWho else would rush from room to room killing anything that breathed?'
Yeadings grunted. âThere's no report of any such person loose in the vicinity.'
âHe had to get inside the house, and he left without leaving a trace,' Z reflected. âThat took some organisation, which must rule out anyone truly demented, however crazy he went over the actual killing.'
âSomeone known to the family, because there was no break-in. He was either there by invitation or they let him in on trust.' This was Beaumont's next contribution.
âOne of them went suddenly crazy.' Salmon sounded unsure. Invited to break new ground he made a wild leap into fantasy.
âFour dead,' Yeadings reminded him patiently. âThat way the killer would have to survive his three victims and then dispose of himself. The children were asleep. No way could Hoad have shot himself with a sporting rifle while discharging a shotgun. And the rifle's missing. The woman certainly never half-strangled herself, and much of the stabbing was proved to be post-mortem. You can't deny there was another person present in the house. We have to discover who. But what I actually asked was â “what is it all about?”'
They all stared back, unwilling to offer a theory.
âWhy all that mayhem? You've an open choice. Even a lunatic must have some kind of motivation,' he prompted.
âBloodlust,' Z said simply.
âPossible. Anything else?'
âHatred. Revenge.'
âGain.'
âSex.'
âAny of those,' Yeadings agreed. âThere's also fear. Fear of exposure or of actual harm. We have to consider each of the victims in the light of those options. One at least of them could have brought about the need to be killed.'
âBut to wipe out everyone â¦' Z looked away in horror.
âPerhaps that wasn't the intention,' Yeadings suggested slowly. âSuppose the intention was to kill only one of them, but something went wrong, and the whole thing escalated out of control. It may have been Hoad or his wife. I think the children can be left out of this, but once something unexpected happened the killer panicked, had to finish off any possible witnesses.'
âEven â children â asleep?' Beaumont ground out in protest.
âYes, in an almighty panic. We all know how obsessives, driven far enough â¦'
They sat in silence, unsure where consideration of a single intended victim could lead them. âWe've already been working on Hoad's background,' Salmon defended himself.
âWe need to dig deeper. And the same for his wife. Had she a lover? What do we know about her business dealings? Even the
missing son, Daniel. Suppose he was the intended victim but just happened not to be there.
âBecause Hoad was the first to be killed, it doesn't mean he was the intended victim. Perhaps that was where it went wrong; right at the beginning. An intruder caught wrong-footed. All we know for sure is that someone removed another firearm from the locked steel cabinet and, confronted by Hoad with a shotgun, discharged it into him. The rest could have happened in a red mist. A simple scenario is often nearest to the truth. What's against it?'
Beaumont shifted uncomfortably on the floor. âA rifle wouldn't have been put away loaded. Someone had to find the ammo first.'
âApparently some .22 bullets were kept right there alongside. Hoad had failed to take full precautions,' snarled Salmon.
âHis wife would know how to open the cabinet,' Z reminded them. âShe used to take part in their clay-pigeon shooting parties for her city friends. Why couldn't she have been the one to remove the rifle?'
âAnd accidentally shot her old man, mistaking him for a burglar?' Beaumont demanded sarcastically. âBoth of them wandering around in the dark because they'd heard a disturbance downstairs? This isn't a Tom and Jerry cartoon.'
âImagine an intruder shocked into using the gun, finding he'd killed someone,' Zyczynski suggested. âWouldn't he normally make off, not set about wiping out the whole family?'
âUnless you were shit-scared out of your marbles,' said Beaumont.
âIf only we knew how the bugger got in,' Salmon complained, back to the original tangent.
âAt least we know what we need answers for. There's plenty of scope for further enquiries,' Yeadings promised, preparing to wind up the meeting. âWhich is why the CC, in his wisdom, has called in a psychological profiler who will doubtless dog your footsteps and replicate what we've already discovered. However, in view of the case's importance, I expect you to cooperate with him, or her, as far as you are able.'
Â
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On this occasion denied the Boss's excellent coffee, the two sergeants retired to the canteen for its lesser version and sugar-loaded doughnuts.
âThere's one good thing,' Beaumont considered, unloading their tray on the only free table, which Z had dived across to claim as they entered. She looked up at him expectantly.
âThe press will go to town on the profiling. Slavering over a shrink should keep them off our backs.'
âNot if this one's glued to us. Honey for the wasps.'
âWell, let's hope it's not that starch-faced old biddy from Reading Uni,' Beaumont prayed. âYou wouldn't remember her. It was before your time. Not content with early childhood memories, she was into exploring our sexual fantasies.'
âI guess you fulfilled her requirements in spades.'
He grinned impishly back at her. âThat would take all the fun out of it, going public.'
âSo how did you handle her?'
âWent all solemn, tried to press a copy of the
Watchtower
on her. She decided a lifetime wasn't enough to get me sorted, so she gave up.'
Z's quick smile vanished as she tasted her coffee. âThis is undrinkable.'
âYup. We have to get back in the Boss's favour. Which means a return to the galleys and hard graft. I wanted to talk to the boy; get him to dig the family dirt. But I guess he'll be left to the shrink. Who's your target?'
âThe late Jennifer Hoad. Lovers, existence of; business skulduggery likewise. Just as the Boss said.'
âSo a day in London? Are the Oxford Street sales on?'
She stood up, gave him a withering glance, hoisted her shoulder bag and left him to clear the used crockery.
Â
There was one duty she must perform before taking the train. She drove out to Fordham and called at the Manor. Mrs Pavitt answered the front door.
âIf you want the others they're out by the caravan.' She sounded put out, hardly the well-mannered family servant.
âActually, this other is right here,' said Anna Plumley, stepping forward out of the hall's gloom. âGood morning, Rosemary. I saw your car down the lane and managed to divert young Daniel. He's not ready yet for dredging up family history. I assume that's what this visit is for?'
âNot my job. I just called in to ask how things were.'
âMore or less as expected.' She turned to the housekeeper. âThank you. Mrs Pavitt; don't let us detain you.'
They waited while she departed for the kitchen. âCome upstairs,' invited the ex-Squadron Leader. âWe can keep an eye on my grandson from his bedroom window. He's out the back, splitting logs.'
âYour suggestion?'
âI said I fancied an open fire, and there was only big stuff available.'
Z smiled. That was good, keeping him occupied. âHow is he?' Anna Plumley hesitated before answering. âConfused and frightened. He â he's more clinging than I care for. This is the first time I've been able to leave him on his own.' They had arrived at the door to his room and went in.
âLast night he was scared to go to bed, so I told him I'd leave my door open. He said he'd do the same, but did I mind moving to the other guest room. I'd put my things in the one nearer the main body of the house. The one he chose was only a few feet nearer his own door, on the far side. I did as he asked. I heard him tossing and turning all night. Then at about two in the morning he got up and shut his door. I heard him dragging a chest across to wedge it fast. At least then it left us both to get some sleep.'
She crossed close to the window. âAnd now, dammit, that woman's gone out to put him off his stroke.'
Z joined her to watch. The boy had moved round the woodpile and spoke over his shoulder to the woman who followed and reached out to touch his shoulder. He swung round and shouted in her face. They heard the anger in his voice but the words didn't reach them.
Normal victim behaviour, Z thought. Sharing with her some of the survival guilt he felt for not having been here when it
happened. However down-to-earth his grandmother's approach was, the boy needed professional counselling. The profiler could provide that.
âIsn't anger a good sign?' she asked. âProgress, of a sort?'
âThe victim's second stage, yes. But I think this is something else. It's personal. Those two are at daggers-drawn. I'm not convinced we need her around.'
Z wasn't so sure. Anna was just the absentee grandmother who had suddenly reappeared from his childhood days. Wasn't she taking over too forcefully, under the circumstances? Pavitt, after all, was the more familiar, the only one left from his routine home life.
âDon't you think they're suffering in much the same way?' she suggested, âand that, once over the shock, they could comfort each other?'
Anna Plumley grimaced. âQuite naturally Mrs Pavitt considers I'm usurping her position to some extent. But I am family. She's not, however much he's accustomed to her. I'm sure it's not good for us to force Daniel into being pig-in-the-middle.'
She grinned back at Z, quite unfazed by the younger woman's presumption in questioning her wisdom.
Â
Beaumont sat a while in his car before starting off to interview the Hoad son. The survivor, he reminded himself. And only a kid really, for all his photo made him look older and quite sophisticated.
He couldn't avoid thinking of his own boy in the same situation. Suppose, by some mischance â though perhaps less likely in a policeman's family than a gentleman farmer's â someone had broken in at home, armed, and murdered his parents while the kid was out employing some testosterone. What sort of state would he be in when he eventually reached home and learned about it?
Pretty shattered, he guessed, for all that they weren't a demonstrative family. It was the sheer incredibility of it, the destruction of all known security, that would hit hardest. It would take a special sort of guts to keep him from falling apart.
So the Hoad boy, Daniel, would barely be in a fit state to open
up to an inquisitive outsider. Z could be right in dealing with him through the grandmother. His own best move would be to make it look as if he was calling to check up on her.
A hundred yards into the narrow lane leading to Fordham Manor and farm, he turned a corner and came bumper to bumper with Rosemary Zyczynski's blue Ford Escort. She wound her window down and leaned out, gesturing willingness to reverse, before pulling back in the gateway to a field.
He drew level and lowered his own passenger window. âThought you were off to La Belle Dame's office in London.'
âHad to pick up something here first. Mrs Hoad's mobile phone. It should have been collected with the computer. For some reason it had got itself into a kitchen drawer.'