Jigsaw (16 page)

There was no market in progress today, and the square had reverted to its normal appearance. Rona turned into the coffee shop, identifying the woman sitting alone at the same moment as she hesitantly raised a hand.

She rose as Rona approached. ‘Miss Parish? Beth Spencer. Thank you so much for seeing me.'

‘As I warned you,' Rona reminded her, ‘I really don't see how I can help.'

Beth Spencer was small and neat, with short blonde hair curling close to her scalp. She was wearing a white blouse and blue denim skirt, possibly her receptionist uniform. Her face was endearingly freckled and she had earnest green eyes that she kept fixed on Rona.

‘I don't know how much you've heard about my husband?' she began at once.

‘Not a great deal,' Rona confessed. ‘I read a brief account of the case when I was researching newspaper archives.'

‘But since you've been here, people have spoken of him?'

‘He seems to have some local support,' Rona answered obliquely.

There was a pause while, prompted by the waitress, they chose what they'd like to eat. As she moved away, Beth leaned across the table, her hands clasped. ‘I hoped they might have said they thought he was innocent. Obviously, as his wife I believe it, but I'm not alone, I promise you.'

Rona remembered Catherine Bishop's words – positively the last man she'd have expected to commit murder. ‘Suppose you tell me what happened, from the beginning?' she invited.

‘Well of course it all started when Lottie was killed.' Beth's hands tightened their clasp but her face remained impassive. Rona wondered how many times she'd had to go through this account.

‘It was a Saturday afternoon, and Alan – my husband – was taking her to a birthday party. The house wasn't far away, and they were almost there when this car came screeching round the corner, lost control and mounted the pavement. Lottie had run on ahead, and caught the full impact. She was – pinned against the wall.' Beth closed her eyes briefly. ‘There was nothing anyone could do.'

‘Your husband witnessed it?'

‘Yes. He ran over and started clawing at the car, as though he could move it away from her. According to passers-by, he was screaming at the driver to reverse, to back off, but the man was in total shock, just staring straight ahead. Not that it would have made any difference,' she finished quietly. ‘The impact crushed her to death.'

Rona moistened her lips, glad of the diversion as their spritzers were brought to the table.

‘Anyway,' Beth resumed tonelessly, ‘Alan finally wrenched the car door open, leant across the driver, and threw it into reverse himself. As the car jerked back, someone caught Lottie and laid her down on the pavement. It was clear she was already dead, though Alan refused to accept it. The – the police had to prise her out of his arms.'

Rona averted her eyes from the raw anguish on her face, unable to think of anything to say.

‘The driver was arrested – over the limit, of course, after a lunchtime session, though only slightly. I know nothing would bring Lottie back, but it might have helped if he'd had to pay for what he did. He
killed
her, for God's sake! He should have got at least ten years. But he was apparently “of good character” –' her voice was savage – ‘and he'd been drinking because he'd received his divorce papers. The upshot was he was sentenced to
eighteen months
,
and as if that wasn't insult enough, they released him after
nine
! Can you
believe
it?'

‘How did your husband react?' Rona asked quietly.

‘He was out of his mind with grief – we all were.'

‘I meant, what did he think of the light sentence?'

Beth Spencer thought for a minute. ‘He wasn't as angry as I was – I'm not sure he even took it in; he was too busy blaming himself, because he'd not been holding Lottie's hand. He kept saying if he'd kept her back with him, the car would have missed her. But Lottie always danced ahead. That's how she was, and she knew to wait at the kerb.' The irony of that blurred her eyes, and it was a minute before she continued.

‘He thought I blamed him too. Perhaps I did, in a way.' She shuddered. ‘It was a nightmare existence for all of us. Alan lost about two stone in weight and neither of us were sleeping. Then we stopped talking about it. There was nothing new to say, and it was just too painful, so we shut it away and did our grieving privately. In any case, we had to keep things as normal as possible for the boys. Harry had just joined Josh at Buckford College, and I must say the staff there were absolutely wonderful.'

Their food was brought and they began to eat, each busy with her thoughts.

‘And then Mr Pollard was released,' Rona said.

‘Yes. We were officially informed of the date, but we didn't discuss it. We didn't discuss anything; instead of being drawn together by it all, we'd tended to drift apart – no longer knew what to say to each other.' She looked up, meeting Rona's eyes. ‘So I've no first-hand knowledge of what happened next. I can only repeat what he told me, though I must stress I believe him utterly.'

She pushed the untouched food to the side of her plate and laid down her knife and fork. ‘He received a letter,' she said. ‘It was typed, local postmark, and it said Pollard still felt an overwhelming sense of guilt, and if Alan wouldn't meet him and accept his apology, he didn't want to go on living. Practically begged him, Alan said, to meet him outside the Cat and Fiddle in Sunningdean. Sunningdean,' Beth added flatly, ‘was where Pollard lived; it's about ten miles away, on the Chilswood road. Well, he screwed it up and threw it away. Which, with hindsight, was a big mistake. Then he began to have second thoughts, wondered if he should accept the apology and perhaps prevent the man from doing something desperate. And the outcome was he decided he'd have no peace unless he went to Sunningdean.

‘He still didn't tell me, and that, too, went against him at the trial. He said he didn't want to upset me, so he told me he was meeting some friends from work and might be late back.'

She took a long drink, emptying her glass. ‘And that's when the second nightmare began. Since he'd said he'd be late, I went to bed, and was woken by the phone. I was half asleep and couldn't make out at first what he was saying, specially since I thought he was with friends. But he told me he'd gone to this pub to meet someone and stumbled across a man lying on the pavement. It turned out to be Barry Pollard, and he was dead. Well, he had to go to the police station and make a statement, and when the police asked why he was out at Sunningdean, the story of the anonymous letter sounded incredibly thin. By that time, of course, they'd realized who he was, and promptly arrested him on suspicion of murder. Admittedly he had blood on him, because he'd turned Pollard over, thinking he was drunk and trying to help him up. But it was Alan who
called
the police, dammit! If he'd been the killer, surely he'd have fled; added to which, there was no sign of the weapon. Then.'

The waitress materialized beside them, asking if they'd like a pudding. In the circumstances, it seemed a particularly mundane query. They shook their heads, but Rona ordered coffee for two.

Beth went on with her account. ‘What's more, they wouldn't even release him while enquiries were made. Do you know, he had to spend a year in prison before he even came to trial? And that bastard Pollard, who really
had
killed someone
,
was at liberty from the day he was arrested until his trial six months later. How's that for British justice?'

The coffee arrived and Rona poured it.

‘Then the police turned up,' Beth continued, ‘and conducted a search of the house and grounds. And – I'll never understand this – they came across one of our kitchen knives hidden in the garage. God only knows how it got there. It had been wiped clean, but forensics found traces of blood and were able to match it to Pollard's. And that was that.'

‘How did they account for it being there, when your husband had been in custody all the time?'

Beth snorted. ‘They were convinced he'd hidden it near the scene, then rung me before dialling nine-nine-nine and told me where it was.' She looked down at her clenched hands. ‘I was given the third degree, I can tell you, but eventually they had to give up because I obviously hadn't a clue.'

‘And you still haven't?'

She shook her head. ‘I've wracked my brains over it ever since, but I can't come up with an answer.'

‘Was the garage kept locked?'

‘Yes, always. That was another damning fact.'

They sipped their coffee in silence for a minute, then Rona said, ‘Do you think it was Barry Pollard who sent the letter?'

Beth looked surprised. ‘It must have been. He'd have been waiting for Alan, but someone got there first.'

When Rona didn't reply, Beth looked at her sharply. ‘What are you thinking?'

‘It seems a bit of a coincidence, that's all, unless it was a random killing. How would anyone but your husband know Pollard would be there at precisely that time? Did the police check if anyone else wanted him dead?' She wished, too late, she could bite back the word ‘else', but Beth didn't appear to have noticed.

‘Oh yes, to give them their due, they checked. When he first went to prison there'd been a lot of hostility – about the light sentence and everything – but that was eighteen months earlier and it had all died down. People forget.'

‘Perhaps not everyone. Suppose someone else was after him, and it was nothing to do with Charlotte? This person might have been biding his time till he came out, and had the brainwave of framing your husband – an obvious suspect – for the murder.'

Beth was staring at her wide-eyed. Obviously this hadn't occurred to her. ‘You mean the
murderer
sent the letter?'

‘I'm only saying it's a possibility.'

Beth slammed her hand on the table, making Rona jump. ‘Oh,
why
didn't he keep it? They could have tested the envelope or the stamp for DNA, and perhaps traced the real killer.'

They were silent for a minute, regretting lost opportunities. Then Beth said in a low voice, ‘I'm worried about Alan. Not just because he's locked up, but because he seems to have given up hope. It's as though he thinks he deserves to be there, not for killing Pollard but for allowing Lottie to die. The boys and I go to see him regularly, and I can tell he's making an effort for us, but every time we go he's a bit thinner and more haggard-looking.'

Suddenly she leant forward and gripped Rona's hand, her eyes alight. ‘I've had an idea: would you go and see him yourself? In prison?'

Rona stared at her, her mind spinning. ‘Would it be allowed?'

‘As long as he's agreeable. Oh, please say yes!'

Briefly, Rona pictured Max's reaction to her becoming involved in another murder case; but excitement was beginning to stir. ‘I shouldn't want to give him any false hope,' she prevaricated.

‘Leave it to me; I'll explain everything, say I talked you into it and you can't promise anything. After all, what harm can it do? He might be more open with you, and at the very least it would be a fresh perspective on things.'

Still Rona hesitated. ‘What exactly would be involved?'

‘He'd have to send you a visiting order. Then you phone the prison to book your visit.'

That would be an article in itself, Rona thought, an exclusive interview with Buckford's most famous murderer. And if the police had doubted the very existence of the letter, they mightn't have gone to great lengths to discover who sent it.

‘Miss Parish? Will you?'

Rona looked at her pleading face. ‘All right, provided he agrees.'

‘Oh thank you, thank you! I'll phone him this afternoon and ask him to send you an order. What's your address?'

‘Two Parsonage Place, but I'm only here three days a week.'

‘That's fine – Wednesday's one of the visiting days, and if you phone tomorrow, you'd be giving the necessary twenty-four hours' notice. Visiting's from three to four. I'll leave a message on your mobile when I've spoken to him – and I can't tell you how grateful I am.'

She insisted on paying for the meal and they parted on the pavement, with Beth promising to phone as soon as she had news. Rona walked slowly across to the library, settled at her usual table and took out her laptop. It had not been possible to record their conversation – the noise level in the café was too high, and the meeting in any case too informal. Now, she attempted to write down everything that had been said over the meal, and by the time she had done so, was already regretting having agreed to see Alan Spencer. What on earth could she say to him? The police weren't fools; they must have had a pretty good case against him, and the court had agreed with them. She wondered if she could find out who'd been handling his defence, but it was doubtful if any barrister would see her after so long and with nothing new to suggest.

When her notes were up to date, Rona searched the shelves for volumes on the town's history. On the whole, the books didn't make for interesting reading, though she was able to extract figures showing the growth in population, and the date when the market charter was granted by King John. For the most part, though, they were simply more detailed accounts of what she'd already extracted from the archives in Marsborough.

At five o'clock she collected her things together and walked back through the warm streets to Parsonage Place. The pubs would be another interesting angle to follow, she thought as she passed the King's Head. Many of them were almost as old as the town itself.

There was no sign of the family when she let herself into the house. She went up to her room, and, sitting at the little table, checked her mobile, which had been switched off during lunch and her session at the library. There was another sheaf of messages, and she played them through, but found nothing promising. Since she had time in hand, she rang back everyone who'd left a number, leaving messages for those who didn't reply and thanking those who did, and telling them she'd be in touch in due course. Too bad she couldn't screen them in advance, but she daren't write any of them off; it had, after all, been as a result of giving Lew Grayson her number that Beth Spencer had contacted her, though she was reserving judgement on whether that had been a good or a bad thing.