‘You’d better have a cup of tea then,’ she said.
While she clattered around, she talked non-stop. None of it was of any interest to Max, but he let her ramble on for a while.
‘Mr Brody says he and Alice only used to talk about the garden,’ he got in eventually.
‘Is that so? Well, it’s not my place to contradict him but I can’t believe that.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper.
‘The only times I heard Alice laugh were when she were in the garden with him. Can’t see that talking about the garden would make her laugh, can you?’
‘Not my idea of a joke, Molly’
‘Quite. She had a soft spot for Jim Brody, you mark my words.’
‘Are you sure?’
“I suppose there’s only her would know that,’ Molly allowed, ‘but she were always eager to go and chat to him and, like I said, he used to make her laugh. The rest of the time, she were quiet - lonely, I always reckoned. Of course, Mr Trueman were out and about all the time doing his good deeds in the parish. Perhaps she were different when he were home. Perhaps he made her laugh.’
‘Perhaps he did,’ Max agreed.
Molly pushed a plate of biscuits in front of them, and Max took a couple of chocolate ones.
‘How big a soft spot do you think she had for him?’
Grace asked.
‘A big one, I reckon,’ Molly said. ‘Not that she would have done anything about it. She wasn’t the flirty type if you know what I mean.’
Max and Grace nodded to indicate that yes, they knew what she meant.
‘What about Brody?’ Max munched on a biscuit. ‘How do you think he felt about her? Did he realize she had a certain fondness for him, do you think? Did he look forward to their chats?’
“I always thought so. I never saw anything improper, but I reckon they had a certain way of looking at one another.
Put it this way, I wouldn’t want my Ronnie looking at a woman like that.’
‘Really?’
As Molly told them all about her Ronnie, Max’s mind went through the possibilities. How would Michael have felt if he’d seen the glances between his mother and the gardener? Would he have been angry with his mother?
Angry enough to kill her? Was there more than a certain fondness on both sides? Was Michael jealous? He was a strange kid, no doubt about that.
‘My Ronnie reckons I read too many Mills & Boons,’
Molly was saying. “I told him I thought Alice were a bit too friendly with Jim Brody, and he laughed at me. Said I were talking nonsense, and that I were too much of a romantic.
Perhaps he’s right.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with a touch of romance, Molly,’
Grace said.
Max, surprised the word romance even existed in Grace’s vocabulary, helped himself to another biscuit.
‘A friend of mine’s just moved to Kelton Bridge,’ he remarked casually. ‘Jill Kennedy. Have you met her yet?’
‘No, but I’ve heard all about her. Moved into old Mrs Blackman’s place, used to be one of them psychiatrists but gave it up.’
‘Psychologist,’ Max corrected her.
‘All the same to me,’ Molly said, and Max had to smile.
It was all the same to most people.
‘Andy Collins sold the cottage to her,’ Molly added.
‘Nice spot there, so long as you don’t mind being a bit cut off.’
‘It is,’ Max agreed.
‘Anyone new comes to the village and people talk about them until the next person moves in,’ she said. ‘So yes, I’ve heard all about her.’
‘And what are people saying about her?’
‘Pleasant enough, clever, keeps herself to herself. Nothing scandalous,’ she added with a laugh, ‘but that’ll come later. If they can’t find any skeletons in her cupboard, they’ll invent a few. That’s village life for you.’ She was about to pour them a second cup of tea, then paused. ‘Ah, I remember now. It was her were in the news when you lot thought you’d caught that serial killer, weren’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now who were telling me about that?’ She poured them each a cup of tea. ‘Can’t remember. Perhaps it were Tony Hutchinson. Yes, I reckon it were him. I clean there, too. A couple of afternoons a week.’
‘Tony Hutchinson?’
‘Headmaster of the primary school,’ Molly explained.
‘His wife Liz has a drink problem.’ That last came in a hushed whisper.
‘Does she?’
‘Yes. Mind you, I reckon I’d turn to drink if I were married to him. He’s all right, I suppose, but a bit of a know it all. Reckons he’s cleverer than the rest of us. S’pose he is, but no need to rub it in, is there?’
‘There isn’t,’ Grace agreed.
By the time they left the vicarage, they’d heard the life stories of most of Kelton’s residents.
‘Don’t tell me,’ Grace said, as they got in the car, ‘we’re going to see this Hutchinson chap.’
‘May as well,’ Max replied.
Tony Hutchinson had already been questioned and his story about being at the school when Alice Trueman was murdered checked out. Max was curious, though. No one had bothered Jill for a year. Now, just when she moves to Kelton Bridge, someone starts paying interest. Some creep was trying to frighten her, and it had to be connected with her move to Kelton Bridge. As far as he could discover, the only person who’d mentioned her work had been Tony Hutchinson when chatting to Molly Turnbull.
Max would have liked to talk to the man at home, he always preferred speaking to people on their own ground, but he didn’t want to hang around Kelton Bridge all afternoon so he drove them up to the school.
Dozens of kids were chasing each other round the playground when they arrived yet, at the sound of a bell
droning out, they formed two orderly lines and walked back into the building. Max was impressed. He was also surprised at how many kids attended the village school.
Kelton Bridge was bigger than it looked, though. Two large estates had been built within the last ten years, which must have doubled the village’s population.
After a quick word with the school secretary, they were immediately shown into the headmaster’s office. The school building was old, and the office, with its modern desk, state-of-the-art computer, and executive leather chair came as a surprise.
“I assume you’ve come about poor Alice,’ Tony Hutchinson said when they’d shaken hands. ‘A terrible thing.
I don’t think anyone has come to terms with it yet.’
‘I’m sure everyone wants the culprit found as much as we do,’ Max agreed. ‘It’s difficult to move on until then.
Now, I know you’ve spoken to us before, but I’d be grateful if you could tell me all you can about Alice. At the moment, we’re hoping that someone can think of something and put us on the right track.’
The office window overlooked a large field with a rugby pitch and hockey pitch marked out. No children were making use of the facilities on this damp, grey day.
‘Does Jim Brody look after this?’ Max asked, nodding at the pitches.
‘No. Our groundsman is ex-Man United,’ the headmaster informed him with a touch of pride. ‘Here, take a seat.’
Max and Grace pulled lightweight blue chairs close to his desk and sat.
‘I’ve thought and thought about Alice,’ Tony Hutchinson said, ‘and yet there’s nothing - well, nothing of importance.
She was a very popular woman, the sort any husband could be proud of, the sort that got on well with the other women in the village. Always willing to help. A very unselfish person.’
‘What about friends? Or enemies?’
“I can’t think of a single enemy’ Tony fiddled with his pencil. ‘Do you know, I’ve never heard anyone say a bad word about her.’ He smiled. ‘And that’s rare in a village like this.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it is.’
‘But friends - she didn’t really have close friends. Or none that I knew of. She wasn’t the type to go on girls’
nights out or anything like that. She seemed happy enough with her family. I always believed that was enough for her.’ He put his pencil down on the desk. ‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but there’s nothing else I can say.’
Molly had called Alice Trueman a saint, and Max was beginning to believe it. No one’s life was this squeaky clean.
‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Grace asked.
‘Ah, that’s easy. Mary and Gordon Lee-Smith live at the manor and they’d invited us to a bonfire party. Alice was there with Jon and young Michael.’
‘I’ve heard about the party,’ Max said. ‘A friend of mine was there. Jill Kennedy. Did you meet her?’
‘Oh, yes.’ Hutchinson’s face lit up. ‘We had a lovely long chat. Of course, you’ll have worked with her when she did that profile for the serial killer?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Fascinating work - hers and yours.’
The last thing Max would call his work right now was fascinating. Soul-destroying was more accurate. All it consisted of was talking to hundreds of people, one of whom might have something of interest to say, and wading through endless paperwork. He was dog tired and getting nowhere.
‘My wife thought I made a nuisance of myself,’ Hutchinson added. ‘She didn’t think I should have sounded so enthusiastic about Jill’s work. After all, she must have felt bad when that chap hanged himself. You all must.’
Felt bad? He wouldn’t be surprised if Jill still had nightmares.
Not that she’d admit it.
‘There was evidence linking the man to the murders,’
Max said carefully.
‘And he matched Jill’s profile. Fascinating stuff.’
That word again - fascinating. Few people found it fascinating. Most were appalled that the killer was still on the loose. Many drew comparisons with the Yorkshire Ripper and the force’s inability to catch him, too.
‘This party at the Lee-Smiths’ place,’ Max said, changing the subject. ‘How did Alice appear?’
‘Her normal self,’ Hutchinson said. ‘She looked happy enough, didn’t seem to have a care in the world.’
‘She was with her husband, yes?’
‘Yes, and Michael. They all seemed happy. But why not?
They were just a normal family’
Life in a normal family didn’t involve having your throat cut from ear to ear. Well, not in Max’s experience.
‘What colour car do you drive, Mr Hutchinson?’
‘What?’ He laughed at what he considered the absurdity of the question. ‘Grey. A dark grey BMW. Why?’
‘Just curious. Do you know anyone who drives a red van?’
“I do,’ Hutchinson replied, still laughing. ‘The postman!’
More serious, he went on, ‘Drives like a maniac, too.
Always in a hurry, that lad.’
‘So I believe.’
That lad was Carl Astley. He was twenty-six years old and enjoyed the challenge of delivering mail in record time. When Alice Trueman was murdered, however, he’d been on a fortnight’s holiday in Cyprus with his girlfriend.
‘Dead
cheap at this time of the year,’ he’d told Max, ‘and still lots happening.’
His replacement was Will who was coming up to retirement.
On the day Alice was murdered, he’d finished his round early and had been on his allotment, with witnesses, when Jonathan Trueman saw the red vehicle.
‘Can you think of anyone else who drives a red van or a red car?’ Max asked.
‘How long have you got?’
‘I’d be grateful for some names,’ Max told him, ignoring his sarcasm.
Hutchinson wrote down half a dozen names and
handed the slip of paper to Max. However, there was nothing else to be learned and they left soon afterwards.
‘That was a waste of time, guv,’ Grace complained.
Not entirely, Max thought. At least he’d found someone who, to him at any rate, had an unhealthy interest in Jill’s work. A fascination even.
Jill couldn’t sleep. She’d put the radio on quietly, hoping that would take her mind off things, but the inane chat between the presenter and his female guest was so irritating that she’d switched it off. She tossed and turned, thumping her pillow into shape, but it was no use. Her mind was too full.
She still hadn’t visited her parents and the guilt was really kicking in now. Perhaps next weekend. She owed them. Given different parents, she could have turned out like Anne Levington, a sixteen-year-old prostitute.
The River View estate had bred more than enough wastrels. It brought a whole new meaning to that old joke, What do you call a scally in a suit? Answer: The accused.
If you came from River View, it was too close to the truth to be funny.
Without her mum pushing her at school and constantly reminding her that education was the only path out of River View, things would have been very different for Jill.
Mum had worked at every job going - cleaning at various places during the day and pulling pints at night. At the time, Jill had been closer to her dad. It was to him she’d gone for fun and laughter. It was he who’d shown her the thrill of doubling or, more often, losing her pocket money on racehorses. Dad she had idolized, yet Mum was responsible for the person she was today. Her education, her qualifications, her work, her cottage - without her mum, she’d have none of that.
Sadly for Anne Levington, she hadn’t had a mum like Jill’s. She’d had an absent drunk for a father, and a mother who’d kicked her out. She was sixteen! Just a kid. But perhaps that was in her favour. Valentine’s victims had all been in their early thirties. Jill thought he was fond of children. If he’d been abused as a child, or if his siblings had, either physically or mentally, it was likely he’d have an affinity with them. Perhaps she was wrong about that, too.
What exactly drove Valentine? God, how many times had she asked herself that?
He was strong, they knew that much, and the victims never had long to fight for their lives. Other than the marks of strangulation, and the hearts cut from their skin, there were no bruises or lacerations. He treated their dead bodies with a degree of respect. It was as if, once he killed them, they were no longer prostitutes and therefore objects of hatred to him, but decent human beings again. He was cleaning up the world single-handed.
Oh, she hoped young Anne was safe. The thought of Valentine attacking her, a child, made her sick to her stomach. The photo given to the media had shown Anne in school uniform. There weren’t any more recent photos.
None had been taken in the last two years.