Pretty Maids All In A Row (21 page)

CHAPTER 12

Webb had just arrived home when Hannah called. They'd not seen each other in the last twelve days. She had decided, in view of Susan's proximity, to leave the first move to him, and he had not made it. He'd had little time for personal problems, and in any case was too unsettled by his ambiguous reaction to Susan voluntarily to seek out either of them.

During the summer, he'd feared Hannah might meet someone in Europe who'd take his place. Uncomfortably, he accepted she had the same feelings now, but mixed with his guilt was resentment. Damn it, he hadn't
wanted
this to happen. Hannah offered all that he needed, physically, mentally and spiritually, though this last was not a word he was comfortable with. Yet he was susceptible to Susan as to no one else, and until he'd worked her out of his system, by whatever means, her shadow fell across them.

All this jumbled in his mind as he faced Hannah, inhibiting him from doing what he most wanted, which was to take her in his arms.

She said quietly, 'You look tired.'

'I am, yes.' He stood aside. 'Come in.'

'I don't want to add to your problems, but I have to speak to you.'

Oh God, he thought involuntarily, not about Susan!

Having seated herself in her usual chair, Hannah looked up at him. 'David, I don't know whether you realize, but Angie Markham is one of my pupils.'

'My God,' he said flatly. 'No, I didn't.' He poured her a drink and handed it to her.

'Is she all right?'

'You know what happened?' She nodded. 'Well, in the accepted phrase, she's as well as can be expected. I'm not qualified to hold forth on psychological damage, but she has a loving family to support her.'

'Her mother phoned this morning. I just couldn't believe it.' Hannah looked down at her tightly laced hands. 'You mentioned a rape last time I saw you. Are they both connected with the murder?'

'Almost definitely.'

'Then,' she said with bitterness, 'perhaps Angie's lucky; at least she's still alive.' She looked up at him, her tawny hair falling back from her face and exposing her wide brow. 'Why do you suppose he murdered one woman and only raped the other two?'

The other four, Webb thought, but he didn't correct her. 'I don't know. Nor do we know if he raped the murder victim; it was too late to tell.'

She shivered, reached for her drink and took a sip. 'Have you any leads?'

'Nothing significant yet.'

'Then there could be more attacks.'

He didn't reply. Hannah finished her drink quickly and rose to her feet. 'I mustn't take up your time. Thanks for the drink.'

He said impulsively, 'Hannah—' and stopped. She met his eyes squarely. 'Susan?' Miserably, he nodded. 'You've seen her again?' 'We had a drink together.'

Any other woman would have persisted: was he still in love with his ex-wife? What about herself? Hannah merely nodded gravely and moved towards the door. He put a hand on her arm.

'Give me time, love. I don't know where the hell I am at the moment.'

'Of course, I'm not—I just wanted to ask about Angie.'

Hannah returned thoughtfully to her own flat. The previous evening, she and Gwen had had one of their rare personal exchanges, and she reflected ruefully that her friend had been right.

Gwen Rutherford, Head Mistress of Ashbourne School for Girls, was a tall woman, gauche in her movements, whose soft hair persistently escaped the confines of its French pleat and whose brown eyes were diffident and apologetic. Yet it was unwise, on this account, to underrate her, for behind that gentle exterior dwelt an iron-willed intellectual, who had long since determined the goals to aim for, and whom nothing would deter from achieving them.

She and Hannah had been friends for years; yet there was in each of them a reserve which precluded the intimate discussions in which other women indulged. All Gwen knew of David was his first name and the fact that he was divorced. She had no inkling that he was the tall, loose-limbed police officer to whom, over two years ago, she had herself introduced Hannah, during an outbreak of anonymous letters at the school.

None the less, awareness of Hannah's abstraction had, the night before, overcome her reticence and, when the drama students had gone and they were sitting over coffee, she said gently, 'Something's wrong, Hannah. Anything I can help with?'

Hannah glanced at her in surprise and shook her head.

'It can be useful, sometimes, to talk things over, but of course I've no wish to pry.'

Hannah stirred her coffee in silence. Then, reaching a decision, she said, 'You know David's been married?'

'I think you mentioned it.'

'His wife's come back.'

'To him?'

'To Shillingham. But he's seen her.'

'And you're jealous?' Gwen's smile took the sting out of the query.

'I think I must be. Isn't that awful?'

'I'd say it was natural. But would you marry him yourself, if he asked you?'

'He won't. Even before this, he wouldn't have.' 'But if he did?'

Hannah shook her head slowly. 'Why not?'

'I'm a career woman, Gwen. You know that.'

'But your careers don't conflict at the moment. Why should they be an obstacle to marriage?'

'It's not only that. We don't—stifle each other by being there all the time, and we're free to—' She broke off with a rueful grimace at her friend's expression.

'—to see other people. Which is just what David's doing."

'I know it's selfish. I don't want to marry him, but nor do I want anyone else to.'

'This woman already has. It didn't work, so why should they risk it again?'

'David's a complex character. He can be gentle as well as ruthless, and naive as well as astute. Because he once loved her, she still has a hold on him. A lot will depend on whether she wants him back. And why come to Broadshire unless she does?'

'How would you feel if they remarried?'

'Wretched,' Hannah said frankly. 'I want things to go on as they were, which is childish, I know. Nothing lasts for ever.'

She had thought, as she spoke, that seeing him again would give some clue to his feelings. It hadn't. He'd been embarrassed to see her, and that had hurt. If she hadn't genuinely wanted to hear about Angie, she'd have gone straight back downstairs. Yet it was less than a fortnight since they'd made love.

Closing her mind to the memory, Hannah seated herself at the bureau and opened her briefcase. Tomorrow, she'd go to see Angie. The girl would be better at school than moping under her mother's anxious eyes, and with O-levels looming, she couldn't afford to miss lessons. As for David Webb, she thought with a flash of rebellion, he could sort out his own problems. She had better things to do.

Uncapping her pen, she drew a sheaf of papers towards her.

On the floor above, Webb's reflections were no more comfortable. He knew the rape had been only part of the reason for Hannah's visit as, two weeks before, the earlier one had been for Susan's. He loathed rape, was shamed by it on behalf of his sex, and felt inhibited when discussing it with women, not least those whose own bodies he had known.

And he was surrounded by women, he thought irritably, running a hand through his hair. Not only Hannah and Susan, but Angie and Frances Daly and Carrie Speight. Not to mention Freda Cowley. All of them, even poor, dead Freda, seemed to be mutely appealing to him to avenge them. And he didn't know what to do next.

Tired and dispirited, he considered taking out his sketchpad and, by filling it with caricatures of the protagonists, see if, as so often in the past, they would point him to the murderer.

But he wasn't in the mood. Instead, he refilled his glass, switched on the television, and went to see what was in the larder.

Nor was PC Frost any happier. He sat glumly at his supper table, the heavy body of the dog across his feet, and even the smell of Margie's suet dumplings failed to cheer him. He watched as she poured hot syrup over them and slid the plate towards him. Across the table, his son Benjie munched appreciatively, his full mouth not inhibiting him from retailing the day's news.

'The old man had to get the vet in to old Daisy. She was taking her time calving, and no wonder, since it was a breech.'

'Not at the table, love,' admonished his mother automatically.

'Bob was up with her all night,' Benjie continued, as though she hadn't spoken. 'He looked fair shattered, though whether it was lack of sleep or fretting over his young lady, I couldn't say.'

'Delia Speight, that'll be,' Margie remarked, and in subconscious association patted her hair.

'Aye. In a fair tither that the rapist will get her, like he got her sister.'

'Watch your tongue, lad,' Ted said sharply. 'No names in rape cases. You know that.'

'Oh come on, Dad, the whole village knows. Bob keeps asking if you're near to getting your hands on him.'

Ted chewed solidly, glad of the excuse not to reply. What had come over the place? Only a few weeks back, things were the same as always. Now, every newspaper had Westridge splashed over its front page and he was deeply mortified.

'And now the Markham kid,' Benjie continued, his father's depression affecting him, too. 'Young girl like that. He wants flogging, if you ask me.' He glanced shrewdly at Ted. 'Any ideas, Dad? Off the record, like?'

'Father's doing what he can,' Margie said comfortably before he could reply. 'And with Mr Webb helping him, they'll sort it out soon enough. Eat up, now. More dumplings, anyone?'

'You have an admirer, darling!' Matthew said lightly when he brought in Jessica's breakfast. 'An offering was left on the doorstep with the milk.' 'What is it?'

'I've no idea, but there's a heart on the box. I hadn't room on the tray, or I'd have brought it up.' 'How intriguing. Do get it, darling.'

He returned with a white confectioner's box tied with red ribbon. On the top, a heart had been drawn with a red felt pen.

Jessica pulled off the ribbon and lifted the lid. 'How very odd,' she said after a moment.

'What is it?' Coffee-pot in hand, Matthew moved round the bed. Inside the box, in two neat rows, nestled a dozen jam tarts. 'Good God! Is there a card with them?'

'Not unless it's underneath.' Carefully, Jessica lifted each tart in turn, but the box contained nothing else.

'Valentine's Day in September. I'd plumped for Leo as the most likely donor, but jam tarts are hardly his line.'

'Well,' Jessica said, closing the lid, 'it makes a change from chocolates. They look good. too. We'll have them for tea.'

'Oh, Miss James! How kind! Do come in.'

Side-stepping the bucket of water in the porch, Hannah went into the hall. Kathy threw it a distracted glance. 'That must be my son's. He brought some tadpoles home from school.' She showed Hannah into the sitting-room. Just one moment, I'll ask Carrie to bring coffee.'

'How's Angie, Mrs Markham?'

'She seems all right.' She hesitated. 'We were wondering about school. What do you think?'

'I feel it would be good for her to come back.'

'That's what my husband said, but you know how cruel children can be.'

'I think we can forestall that. Either Miss Rutherford or I will speak to the girls.'

A pale young woman came in with a tray of coffee, put it on the table, and left the room.

'Where's Angie now?' Hannah asked.

'In her room, playing records.'

'May she join us?'

'Of course. I'll bring another cup.'

To Hannah's relief, Angie looked no different from at Tuesday's drama class. Though initially embarrassed, Hannah's natural manner and the general conversation reassured her, and she relaxed.

'I hope you've not forgotten the hockey match,' Hannah said casually. 'We'll need you, against St Anne's.'

The girl flashed a quick look at her mother, and Hannah
saw Mrs Markham give an encouraging nod. 'I—I'll be back tomorrow.' 'That's fine.'

Angie paused, then leant forward excitedly. 'Miss James, did you know Jessica Randal's staying in the village? I went round there last Saturday, and we read through a scene of her new play.'

'How exciting! Was she impressed?'

'Yes. She promised to send us tickets, and she told Mummy if I keep on with my acting, I can look her up in London, and she'll try to help.'

'Then you're a very lucky girl. No matter how much talent you have, a friend at court is invaluable.'