A Market for Murder (23 page)

‘I don’t know. He’s been mucking about with it, making it a bit more powerful. I don’t understand the technicalities. And I don’t know who stole it. One of his yob friends, I s’pose.’

Geraldine abandoned the topic of Justin for
the time being. ‘So you’ll do as I ask, will you?’

Hilary was still grudging. ‘All right, so long as you understand that I don’t like meddling. We’re trying to do the work of the police, and I’m quite sure it’ll backfire. What if I do as you ask, and Julie or whoever it is decides to shut you up? Have you got someone to protect you? No. Not even a dog. Are you immune in some way? I don’t see how. It’s
you
I care about, you idiot. If I do what you want, and that leads to someone taking a shot at you, how d’you think that’d make me feel?’

Geraldine could feel herself smiling. ‘Don’t worry about
me
,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’ll be all right. In fact, that’s rather what I’m
hoping
will happen. That’s what I mean by flushing the killer out.’

‘Oh, I see. So you’ll be marching up and down the High Street wearing a bulletproof vest then, will you? And something to cover your head. And legs. That’s all right then.’

‘Something like that,’ Geraldine laughed. ‘Now you just make those phone calls, and leave the rest to me.’

Maggs gave herself what she considered to be the best job. She got her motorbike out of the garage, checked it for fuel, tinkered briefly with its workings, and fished her crash helmet
out from behind a cobwebby pile of cardboard boxes. ‘Time I used the poor thing again,’ she said to Den. ‘It must be six months or more.’

‘Will it still go? Is it taxed?’

‘Course she’ll go, and I’d rather you didn’t ask me about the tax. Now listen. I’m going to call on Sally Dabb and her husband – what’s his name? I’ll feed them the story, same as you will to Julie Grafton. I did tell you you’ll be going to see her, didn’t I? Then we’ll meet at the Three Crowns at Ferngate to compare findings, before dropping in on Mary Thomas. OK?’

‘Sunday evening,’ he worried. ‘Funny time to drop in on people.’

‘Not this time of year. It’s light until half nine. Nice weather. We’re just out for a bit of a jaunt, called in at the pub, then decided to see how she’s doing. Perfectly natural.’

‘Right,’ he sighed. ‘Why did I ever think this was a good idea?’

‘Because it is,’ she said firmly.

But almost from the start things went awry. As she pulled up outside the Dabbs’s house, she had the definite feeling that it was empty. No car in the drive; all doors and windows closed;
everything
quiet. Knocking on the door produced no response. ‘Darn,’ she muttered. ‘Now what?’

It was far too soon to head back to Ferngate,
so she decided it wouldn’t be very much of a detour to go and call in on Drew. He could probably do with some more cheering up and there might be fresh news about Karen.

But she should first try to phone Den, and let him know she’d drawn a blank. Or better still, text him, in case he was in the middle of a delicate conversation and couldn’t speak freely.

Nobdy at dabbs. Gng to c drew instd. Call if anything to reprt.

Den would hate the ‘c’. Try as she might, Maggs couldn’t convince him that texting was a language all of its own, and perfectly acceptable as such. He stubbornly sent his replies in conventional English, wasting characters in the process. He and Drew were united in their aversion to mobile phones in general. Maggs dismissed them both as dinosaurs.

As it happened, the quickest route to North Staverton was down a narrow one-track country lane, which approached via the little-used direction at the other end of the village from Drew’s cottage. It had taken Maggs years to fully explore the network of hidden lanes, but gradually, as she and Drew were called out to collect bodies, she had developed a comprehensive inner geography of the entire area.

There were effectively five villages within a seven-mile radius, as well as the town of
Bradbourne itself. None of the connections were on good straight major roads, although there was an A road sweeping through the middle of them, which had to be crossed, and even used for a few miles here and there. The Dabbs lived at Lumstone, midway between North Staverton and Ferngate, and only about two miles from North Staverton. Peter and Julie Grafton had taken over the farmhouse originally occupied by his parents, a mile or two west of Ferngate.

The road ran in a gentle curve, hedges high on either side, and Maggs kept her speed modest. The light was good, the sun behind her, throwing strong patchy shadows onto the lane. Anything coming towards her would probably be dazzled, she realised, since they’d be driving into the sun.

She became aware of a car behind her, apparently eager to overtake. She slowed and pulled into a passing place, letting the car accelerate past. It was a green BMW, which she had seen before, but which she couldn’t place. It had two men in it.

Entering North Staverton from the
north-west
, she had to slow down to pass two cars parked in the road. There was scarcely enough space for anything to get past them, Maggs judged. Although nobody much used this road,
it still seemed rather cavalier to obstruct it in this way. She had a closer look, and recognised both vehicles.

As a child, Maggs had been an avid
car-spotter
. She’d known all the different makes and models, their engine capacities and acceleration rates. Her mother had despaired of her, but her father had enjoyed and encouraged her interest. It had waned when she left school, but she could still effortlessly identify any car, and associate it with its owner.

Here, she noted, was a green Mondeo, last seen parked outside Peaceful Repose for the funeral of Peter Grafton. Parked in the prime spot, since it belonged to his widow. And beside it was a red Citroën ZX, owned, if Maggs was not mistaken, by the missing Sally Dabb. And the house outside which they were parked was that of Della Gray, part-time minder of Drew Slocombe’s children.

Well, well.

Keeping her head averted, she sped past. There didn’t seem to be anybody watching her. A minute later she was knocking on Drew’s door, at the other end of the village.

He let her in, looking drawn and bleary-eyed. ‘Maggs!’ he said superfluously.

‘Listen,’ she began without ceremony. ‘Something’s happening. I need to phone Den.’

Den didn’t answer for a long time. Maggs tapped the wall impatiently, hissing through her teeth. ‘He’s left it in his coat pocket,’ she fumed. ‘Or he thinks it’s something else playing a tune. God, he can be hopeless sometimes.’

She was just about to give up, when he answered. ‘Where were you?’ she demanded. ‘Where
are
you, I mean.’

‘Julie isn’t in,’ he said. ‘I’ve been knocking on her door. Now I’m back in the car.’

‘She’s here, that’s why,’ Maggs said. ‘I mean, they’re
all
at Della’s house, here in North Staverton.’

‘Who?’

‘Julie Grafton, Sally Dabb and Della.’

‘Well, Della would be,’ he said. ‘What about the husbands?’

Then the penny dropped. ‘Ah – I think I just saw the husbands, in Bill Gray’s BMW,’ she said. ‘Look, Den, why don’t you call your friend Danny and suggest he keeps an eye out for them?’

‘Why?’

‘Just a hunch. I can’t explain, and I’ll be ever so sorry if I’m wrong – but it wouldn’t hurt, would it? He can just put a message out to all their officers on the road. The number’s T442 FDR.’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘So you should be,’ she chuckled. ‘Have you written it down?’

‘Of course. So what are you proposing to do now?’

For the first time in ten minutes she took a proper breath. ‘Oh … well, I’m not sure.’ She caught Drew’s eye, as he stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘But I think I might be having a bit of an idea. Please come, Den. I want you to be here.’

Drew waited for her to replace the phone, then he approached her, face flushed. ‘Maggs? What’s going on? Why are you in such a state?’

She tried to explain the original plan. ‘And now, you see, everything’s changed, if they’re already somehow ahead of us. Well, I don’t know.’ She tapped a finger against a front tooth. ‘Drew, have you spoken to any of them today? Julie, Sally or Della?’

He nodded. ‘Della called in this afternoon.’

‘And what did you tell her?’

‘That Karen woke up for a few minutes. The whole story, I suppose.’

‘OK. So let’s assume that
she
had the same idea as we did. That she thinks it must be either Julie or Sally who shot Karen. So she invites them round, to tell them Karen knows who it is, and see what their reaction is?’

‘Why would she?’

‘Well, she’s fond of Karen, isn’t she? She’s your friend. She must care about what happened.’

‘She knows Julie, I think. Bill worked with Peter Grafton, so they probably met.’

‘And Sally?’

‘I don’t know.’ He spread his hands. ‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, I’m going back there.’ She crossed her arms defensively, as if waiting for him to stop her.

‘Is that wise?’ he asked mildly.

‘Necessary,’ she said.

‘Well, you’re on your own, I’m afraid. I can’t leave the kids.’

‘I know. But Den’ll be along soon.’

‘Maggs, this isn’t the same as last time, you know. You’re dealing with a deliberate killer, who hasn’t a lot to lose. With a gun and a crossbow, at least. Perhaps they’re all in it together. If they think you’re a danger to them, you’re in real trouble.’

She smiled widely at him. ‘I love you too, Drew,’ she said. ‘I do really.’

Karen surfaced from the grey mist again, listening deliberately to the sounds in the room. This time, her thoughts crystallised almost immediately, and with some urgency. There were questions jostling and insisting, which she badly needed to answer.

The main one was
why
? This she thought about carefully for several minutes. She had to do it little by little, nibbling away at the shocking implications of what had happened, without letting herself get overcome. That would simply send her back into the fog, and she’d already spent far too much time there.

Gradually she had most of it clear. She rested, satisfied with a job well done. Still there were no sounds of another person in the room. She
resisted the temptation to open her eyes for a look, however. The sentinel policeman might be watching; something might register on the monitor. And she did not want to attract any notice just yet. Not until she was ready.

But there was more still to do. More questions clamoured at her. What had been going on out there, while she’d been drifting so irresponsibly? What would happen next?

A ghastly answer came to this last question. An answer that caused her eyelids to fly open, and her mouth to form a seriously loud scream.

‘Call Drew!’ she ordered, as soon as a nurse appeared. ‘Phone my husband. I have to speak to him – now!’

Geraldine was aware of the battered Metro following her along the main road. When she turned off towards North Staverton, it came too, and she began to feel a flicker of concern. Despite her cavalier words to Hilary, she knew only too well that she was taking a considerable risk by doing what she planned to do.

The change of plan whereby she directed her course to North Staverton, rather than to Julie’s house, had come as the result of a brief visit to Mary Thomas in Ferngate. She reported having seen Julie’s car driving towards the main road, only twenty minutes earlier. ‘Thanks!’ Geraldine
had cried, before setting off in pursuit. It had occurred to her instantly that Julie was on her way to see Sally Dabb. Those two obviously had unfinished business between them, of one sort or another.

But the Dabbs’s house was empty, as Maggs had already discovered. And from there, the easiest way for Geraldine to get home was along the same sun-dappled narrow lane that Maggs had pursued previously. After North Staverton, there was a lane off to the right, which would take her back to her own hamlet of Didleigh.

History repeated itself in almost every detail. Geraldine recognised both cars outside Della’s house – but didn’t know whose house it was. Then, diverging from Maggs’s line of action, she decided to stop and intrude, with no prevarication. It seemed, indeed, like a
heaven-sent
opportunity. If they were having a party, then she didn’t see why she shouldn’t join in too. Besides, the road was obstructed, giving her the perfect reason for banging on the door.

Without pausing to rehearse her opening words, she left her car on the roadside and walked up the path to the front door. Sally was her friend and colleague, after all. And Julie, in her role of new widow, could expect people to be watching out for her welfare. The difficulty
might be that the person who lived here took exception to a strange visitor.

As it turned out, Geraldine did recognise the young woman who opened the door to her. She had been at Peter’s funeral, with a man and two small boys. She was Della, daughter of her schoolmate Celia, sadly dead in her fifties. Geraldine reproached herself for not knowing that this was Della’s house.

‘Yes?’ the young woman said, her face pale and strained.

‘Hello, there!’ Geraldine breezed. ‘I’m so sorry to bother you, but I saw Sally and Julie’s cars outside. I’ve been looking for them, actually. Is this awfully rude of me?’

‘Geraldine Beech,’ said Della, her voice thick with resignation.

‘That’s right.’ The girl had a look of her mother, Geraldine noticed. ‘I think you know Karen Slocombe.’

‘I look after Karen’s children.’ The voice was still low and toneless. It felt as if all this was very much beside the point, and that Geraldine had interrupted something important.

‘So could I have a word with Julie?’ she pressed on. The silence in the house behind Della was strange; a kind of breath-holding.

‘She’s a bit upset just now,’ said Della, glancing back over her shoulder.

‘Is your husband in?’ Geraldine asked, suddenly apprehensive.

‘Oh no. He’s out. He’s taken the boys to his mother’s. We … well, that doesn’t matter. It’s just as well, really.’

Confronted with increasingly clear evidence of something wrong, Geraldine found herself wanting to take several steps backwards and retreat to her car. Even more than the killing of Peter and the attempt on Karen, this present moment frightened her. She had deliberately walked into it, and would have to carry it through – but she very badly didn’t want to.

The sound of a motorbike engine scarcely registered until it materialised into an actual Suzuki with a female figure astride it. The figure dismounted, removed her crash helmet and became recognisable as the coloured girl who worked for Drew Slocombe. She stood, solidly planted, watching the doorstep tableau with interest.

‘Maggs?’ said Della, her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. ‘What do you want?’

Maggs smiled faintly. ‘I noticed the cars, and thought it might be useful to talk to all three of you together.’

‘Three of us?’

‘You, Sally and Julie.’

‘Why?’ The word emerged on a high note,
spiced with anger, defensiveness, frustration.

Maggs just maintained her smile.

Then Sally Dabb came to the door. One eye was swollen and red, with a spreading bruise darkening her temple. Her hair was in extreme disarray.

‘Gosh!’ said Maggs. ‘Have you been fighting?’

Geraldine stepped forward instinctively. ‘Sally!’ she cried. ‘You poor girl! Let me have a look.’ She hadn’t fully understood how much she cared for the girl until now. It flooded through her, the need to touch and soothe and assuage. This, her favourite of all the stallholders, the most promising of her generation. Sally stood still, neither retreating nor approaching, simply waiting.

‘Who did it?’ Maggs demanded. ‘What’s been happening? Where’s Robin?’

Nobody answered.

‘Where’s Mrs Grafton?’ Maggs went on. ‘Is she hurt as well?’

Della stirred, pushing herself away from the doorpost, where she’d been leaning tiredly. ‘She’s all right,’ she said. ‘Everybody’s all right now.’

‘Except Karen,’ said Sally, her voice unexpectedly strong. ‘My friend Karen – remember? In hospital with a bullet in her brain. Remember?’

Geraldine became aware of her seniority. She also became aware that they were standing in the front garden of a house in a village and before long they would be observed by local residents. There were two cottages in sight, as well as the Westlakes’ farm just around the bend. Any raised female voices in a summer evening would be likely to attract some attention. ‘Perhaps we should go indoors,’ she suggested.

Drew was reproaching himself sternly for feeling such relief that he didn’t have to confront anybody. He had already forgotten exactly what Maggs had said about Della’s house, and why it was so important to go there and get things sorted out. He had a confused image of several women all gathered together, with secrets to disclose and confessions to make. Most of it would concern things he knew nothing about – things that Karen had become involved in, without keeping him informed.

But Maggs had phoned Den, who had said he was on his way. Did
he
understand what was going on? As far as Drew could work out, the former police detective had focused his attentions onto a completely different group of women: Geraldine and Hilary and somebody else. Three witches, all over sixty, and pillars of the community, in one way or another. Not really
witches at all. That was just Den’s silly word for them.

It was shock, he told himself. He was still suffering from the shock of seeing his wife motionless in a hospital bed. Still unable to work out whether she would live or die, and how he was going to manage, either way. What if she was permanently disabled? What if she needed constant nursing, from here on? This, he finally admitted to himself, was the thing he feared most. Drew Slocombe, who had once been a nurse himself, did not want to spend the prime years of his life tending a helpless wife. Especially since a helpless wife would also mean having to take full responsibility for the children. It wouldn’t be
fair,
he whined to himself. Surely that wouldn’t happen to him? Surely he’d never done anything bad enough to deserve such a fate as that?

Den arrived then, in the familiar battered car. He unfolded his long legs from the driver’s seat and came quickly to the front door, where Drew was waiting for him.

‘Where is she?’ he demanded. For a moment, Drew could only think he meant Karen, and that this was a very silly question.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again. ‘Oh,
Maggs,
’ he realised. ‘She went to Della’s.’

‘Where is that, exactly?’ The impatience was very carelessly concealed.

‘Just up there. You know. Through the village.’

‘I know that much. What’s the house called?’

Drew stared at him blankly. ‘Della’s house? It’s white. On the right hand side. You’ll see the bike, I suppose. And cars. She said there were other people there.’

‘Are you OK?’ Den leant down slightly to examine Drew’s face. ‘You look a bit weird.’

‘I should have gone with Maggs,’ Drew said, a sudden moment of clarity restoring him to a brief normality. ‘I was scared.’ He looked at Den like a small boy. ‘I don’t really think I can take much more. That’s pathetic, isn’t it?’

‘Not surprising,’ said Den calmly. ‘I don’t expect Maggs wanted you along. She’d have been worried about you.’

‘I’m worried about
her,
’ said Drew, realising how true that was, as he spoke the words.

‘Me too,’ agreed Den, and strode back to his car without any further comment.

Drew was summoned back into the house by the sound of the telephone ringing. He knew, even before he picked it up, that it was the hospital.

Den had no difficulty finding Della’s house. The light was rapidly fading, and a clump of tall white daisies in the verge outside Della’s gate glowed luminous in the twilight. The two cars parked halfway across the narrow road were an
annoyance. Den pulled in as tightly as he could, a short distance from them. He could see Maggs’s motorbike leaning against the stone wall that encircled Della’s front garden.

There was a light on in a front window, and before knocking on the door, he glanced in.

The scene was apparently peaceful, despite the fullness of the room. Geraldine Beech was squatting, low down beside a fireplace, staring up at two younger women sitting side by side on a sofa. Maggs was standing, with her back to the window. Della, looking taller and thinner than before, was beside the door, a hand on the knob, head up and chin thrust forward. The words
at bay
flitted into Den’s head as he watched.

It was with some reluctance that he stepped away from the window and knocked on the door. He knew he was disturbing a situation full of intensity. Something was happening, a climax building, that ought to be allowed to run its natural course. But this very sense of climax made it impossible for him to hold back. The looks on the faces of Della and Geraldine had persuaded him that this was no friendly evening get-together.

Whatever Maggs had intended with her ‘flushing out’ strategy, this was undoubtedly the closest she would get to it. One of these women was presumably being ‘flushed out’ at this very
moment, and Den thought he had discerned which one, from that brief glance through the window.

And yet, how could Maggs have had time to put her plan into action? He had come the moment she’d phoned him, taking less than twenty minutes to cover the distance to Drew’s. Was it possible that she had said her piece and drawn the anticipated response in those few minutes? Or had she walked into something that had already been happening before she arrived?

Nobody responded to his knock for a long time. He considered stepping back to the window and rapping on it, making his identity clear. He knocked again, knowing there was no chance that he’d gone unheard. They were preparing what they would say to him, or concluding their conversation – or deliberately excluding him from their all-female assembly. So he grasped the door handle, turned it, and pushed open the door, knowing all along it was very unlikely to be locked.

He was met by Sally Dabb, with a vividly bruised face and wild expression. She said nothing, but barged past him and out onto the garden path. He turned, as if to follow her, but was stopped by the voice of Maggs. ‘Let her go,’ she instructed him. ‘We don’t need her any more.’

Den entertained a brief image of a flock of
sheep, needing to be herded into a compound for shearing or worming. He’d helped various friends and relatives over the years with such tasks. He knew that when you let one escape, you were doomed. Somehow, all the others would manage to follow. With sheep, it was definitely all or nothing. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she affirmed. ‘Quite sure.’

Della then appeared, moving stiffly, chin still defiant, skin still pale. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Join the party.’

He nodded to her, but his attention was all on Maggs. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked her.

‘Of course I am.’ She was obviously cross. Was it because he’d interrupted, he wondered. That would be unreasonable, after she’d summoned him so unequivocally.

Somehow they all returned to the living room, where Julie Grafton remained on the sofa, and Geraldine slumped onto a fragile-looking footstool near the fireplace.

Geraldine, Den realised, was the odd one out – the one he hadn’t been expecting to encounter. In his mind she was inextricably connected with Hilary Henderson and Mary Thomas; it seemed wrong, somehow, to see her here with the younger women.