The Case Has Altered (40 page)

Melrose stared. He had never seen the man before, of course, but he certainly remembered now that detour he'd had to take outside of Loughborough to get onto the M6. He'd been only twenty or twenty-five miles from Northampton. After that, it was the A46. And if you kept on going past Northampton you'd come to the turn for Stratford-upon-Avon. . . .

Oh,
hell
, Melrose thought.
“Wednesday, I remember because it was me mum's birthday—”

Did Apted know? He must. There was some sort of rule about disclosure or discovery, wasn't there?

 • • • 

H
is name was Ted Hoskins and he took his place in the witness box, obviously nervous, for he looked round about him as if he were the one being charged. But he took the oath and told the court his name, his address, his position.

“Ah be ganger man on that job.” He seemed quite pleased with this office.

“Is that the man in charge?” asked Oliver Stant.

“Well, not wholly in charge. That'd be the general foreman. Me, I'm in charge o' me mates, you know, some o' the lads.”

“Mr. Hoskins, could you tell us about the job you were on that began
on Wednesday, the fifth of February of this year?” Oliver Stant was looking pleased as punch.

“Yessir. It were on that part of the A6 near Loughborough, just t'other side going towards Leicester. We were tryin' to put in a new lay-by. That meant cars had to detour round on the B road for about a mile, nearly to Leicester, then double back a bit. Not too happy—” Ted Hoskins was cut off from having his little joke by Stant's interruption.

“Right. Now that roadworks operation began exactly when?”

“Like you already said, fifth February.”

“That was a Wednesday?”

“Yessir, I believe so.”

“Not on the Tuesday, February fourth.”

“No, definitely on the Wednesday.”

“So that anyone traveling that route on Tuesday the fourth would not have had to take the detour?”

“Well, no sir. It'd have been as usual.”

“Mr. Hoskins, that's the way one would travel to Northampton, isn't it?”

“I'd say so, yes. It's only maybe twenty miles from that M69 junction.”

“And if you were traveling to Stratford-upon-Avon, you'd also take that road?”

“Like as not. O'course there's always other—”

“The defendant claims to have driven that particular route to Stratford-upon-Avon on February fourth and to have taken the detour you describe.”

Ted Hoskins gave a short laugh. “Well, I'm afraid she's forgot 'erself, 'cause for there was no detour on the Tuesday.”

“So if she went the route you described, it would have to have been a day
later
, or at least no earlier than the next day, is that true? It would have to have been the Wednesday?”

Ted Hoskins nodded. “Yessir.” His look at Jenny was a sad one.

 • • • 

I
believe what you were about to say—before you were cut off—was that there are other routes to Stratford-upon-Avon?” Pete Apted smiled.

Hoskins nodded. “ 'Course there are.”

“Can you say, offhand, what other way the defendant might have driven?”

“Yessir.” Ted Hoskins breathed what seemed to be a relieved sigh; it was as if he hadn't liked calling Jenny a liar. “Shortest way'd be Market Harborough on to Leamington to Warwick—”

Before Stant could rise to object, Apted cut in: “I think we'll have to stay with the Leicester-Northampton route, as the defendant mentioned Leicester.”

Hoskins rubbed his thumb across his forehead. “Well, now. She could've got off the A road somewheres round Syston or Rearsby. Could've taken a wrong turning, we all do now and again.”

“There could, indeed, have been other roadworks going on at just about anyplace along this particular route, couldn't there?”

Oliver Stant rose quickly to voice his objection. This was mere speculation on the part of both defense counsel and witness.

Apted ate up the opportunity: “I'd agree, Your Honor. But given I wasn't informed about this witness until late last night, I didn't have time to look for a map.”

The judge was severe. “Consider yourself fortunate, Mr. Stant, that I don't cite you for contempt. You know the rule of discovery means you must let prosecuting counsel know immediately.”

“I do, Your Honor, but the witness was only brought to my attention yesterday afternoon. I assure you, I let defending counsel know as soon as possible.”

The judge made a
hmphing!
sound and waved his hand for them to proceed.

Apted turned to Ted Hoskins again. “It's not like the motorways, is it, Mr. Hoskins? There were clearly a number of
different
A roads and, consequently, a number of different turnings?”

“That's right. We all make mistakes, sir.”

Pete Apted smiled. “We do indeed. That'll be all.”

 • • • 

C
ourt had recessed until two o'clock and the three of them—Apted, Charly Moss, and Melrose—were standing outside in the corridor.

“And now I'm off to have a quiet little think with my client.” The words dripped acid. He walked off, black robe flying.

“I wouldn't want to be her at the moment,” said Charly Moss, looking down the corridor.

“No.” Melrose shook his head. “I wonder how the prosecutor twigged it. About the detour, I mean.”

“Probably some slip on her part. Or it might have been accidental. Information does come one's way in the queerest manner.” Charly turned her eyes from the corridor to Melrose. “What was she doing? Why did she stay Tuesday night?”

She was silent a moment, hugging her arms about her. It was cold in the corridor. Cold as marble could make it. Melrose looked at her, thought about the “cold ladies,” a sobriquet that would never apply to Charly Moss or Flora Fludd. He frowned slightly. He was still pondering what Flora had said in the Blue Parrot.

“Where's Richard?” asked Charly.

“He said he was going to Algarkirk. To Fengate.” Melrose looked off through a tall window. “I'm glad he isn't here, frankly.” . . .
white first, the red last
.

Charly pushed her hair back out of her face, looked at him, asked, “Something wrong?”

“I was just thinking about the Red Last.”

She looked puzzled. “I don't follow—”

“It's a pub. Was a pub, I mean.”

“Named for shoes? Not very witty.”

“You see, that's the point: automatically, one thinks of a last for a shoe, but—” Dorcas Reese's words came back to him.
That
was the connection.

“Heavens. You do look—lit up.”

“Let's go somewhere ourselves and have a quiet think. I might have an idea Pete Apted should hear about.” Melrose took her arm and guided her down the cold corridor.

O
fficially spring, thought Jury, but the day was returning to the winter light of the month before, and the wood where he walked, turning up winter's debris, was sodden with the rain that had just then stopped. He'd spent an hour on the Wash, a desolate hour, in the rain. A straight-down, relentless rain, pummeling like bullets—or perhaps that metaphor was suggested by his hoping he'd find one, a spent bullet, another casing, anything just to find something. Jury knew he wouldn't, unless the sands gave it up, like the hull of one of those buried ships.

Yet, he couldn't resist turning sand over with the toe of his shoe, hoping to find something. A shot in the dark. It still baffled him that anyone could picture Jenny Kennington with a rifle butted to her shoulder. But he knew this was a romantic defense on his part. Jenny had kept quiet about many things. Still, the kind of person she was . . .

Romance, again. He had been a policeman long enough to know that no one was, in the end, exempt. Not Jenny, not Grace, although it was equally baffling to think of her as a killer.

He was back at Fengate now. When Jury pulled up, Burt Suggins was tending the oval flower bed in front of the house. The gardener looked over at Jury's car, squinting into the sunless day, his face screwed up in a mask of puzzlement. Who could this be? And the master not here, nor the missus. Burt was easy to read. Jury told the gardener that he wasn't obliged to show him around.

That he had the power to grant a request or refuse it pleased the old man, unused to exercising any power. Thus he hesitated, thinking it over
as he mopped the back of his neck with his neckerchief. “All them be over to Lincoln, even my missus.”

“I know. Annie made a smashing witness.”

That surprised him, knowing that witnesses had to put their hands on the Bible and swear to tell the strictest truth. Annie Suggins was never a liar, but she had been known to exaggerate a mite. “Well, Annie never did have any trouble speakin' her mind.”

“Look, Mr. Suggins—”

“Oh, just you call me Burt, everyone do.”

Jury smiled. “Burt. I'm not on a search. I think I'm really looking for inspiration—”

Burt Suggins frowned. He was more used to this lot looking for clues, such as footprints in his flower beds.

“—because this whole thing just doesn't sit right, you know what I mean? I'd like to see that gun room—”

“It's no more'n a little back room off the kitchen. You bein' a Scotland Yard inspector, well, I'd say it's all right.”

Jury was used to being demoted by witnesses. Demotion was a fate that Chief Superintendent Racer often foretold, too. He didn't bother correcting the old man as the two of them headed for the house.

The room was as Burt had said, a small enclosure off the kitchen, crowded with Wellingtons, rain gear, gardening tools, insecticides, lime for the soil. He turned to the steel cabinet bolted to the wall. The rifle it was home to was now in Lincoln. “This thing is kept locked, isn't it, Burt?”

“Yessir, but like I told them other policemen, I'll have it out times when I see them pesky squirrels and rabbits.” Burt reddened. “Well . . . that night, I guess I left it . . . it's against the law, leavin' it out like that, but . . . ”

“I'm not concerned with that, Burt. Only that anyone could have come to this outside door and taken it. The person didn't have to be someone with the key to unlock that cabinet.”

Burt nodded. “I'm afraid so, sir.”

“Didn't have to be anyone from inside the house, either. I assume that door is usually unlocked?” He didn't know why he was going through all of this. Oliver Stant had already made a meal of it.

“ 'Tis, sir.”

They left the small room and walked back to the drive. Jury peered down the gravel. “You saw the Porsche sometime after midnight, did you?”

“I did. 'Bout half-past, it was. Wondered why it was parked at the bottom. Usually, that Miss Dunn parks it right near here, behind Mr. Owen's car. I go up to bed late, most nights.”

Get in a little extra drinking time
, thought Jury. Hard to blame him, out here in this unpeopled country. “They thought she'd returned to London.”

Burt said nothing, just looked down the driveway.

But it was not Verna Dunn; it was Dorcas Reese he was thinking about. “
Why do people keep forgetting Dorcas?”
Or treating her as if she were an afterthought? “Did you work out who the man was Dorcas Reese thought would marry her?”

Burt was squinting, having a hard time even working out the question. “Can't say as I did. I never thought there was one, to tell the truth. Dorcas warn't near pretty, you know what I mean? Men, they'd not look twice at 'er.”

It was the common assessment of Dorcas Reese and her chances with men. “You think she was making all of it up?”

Burt removed his cap, scratched his head, repositioned the cap. This took some thought. “Well . . . not making it
up
. Just making it
different
.”

“Do you recall a period when Dorcas seemed happier than usual?”

Burt Suggins raised his cap, wiped his forehead, and readjusted the cap on his head. “Hard to tell if she was happy or just flighty, all that gigglin' like she'd got a secret. Pleased wi' herself, you know.”

“When was that?”

Burt's eyes narrowed in concentration. “Not long ago, well, before that Dunn woman got herself shot.”

That was what Annie had said. “Your wife Annie also said Dorcas's mood changed before she herself was murdered. Said she acted strangely. Morose, depressed—that sort of thing.”

“Aye, that's true, that is. Not happy, not a bit of it.” Burt looked off, shook his head.

“This man she seemed to think would marry her. Could he have given her the brush-off?”

“Coulda done, yeah. Like I said, she warn't a girl to attract the men. Any man'd mind.”

“Perhaps one didn't.” Jury was frowning. Had they all, with collective dimness, managed to turn this whole case the wrong way round?

 • • • 

I
hope you don't mind my stopping in, uninvited.”

Peter Emery smiled. “Wish more would. It gets lonely here.” He paused. “Have you been watching the trial?” When Jury nodded, he went on. “ 'Tis awful.” Peter frowned, shaking his head. “Crazy. Do you think she did it?”

It took Jury longer than he liked to say, “No. I don't think so.” He paused and then asked, “You were here when Grace Owen's son died—Toby?”

“Aye. Nice lad, really nice. Horse threw 'im, they said. But it wasn't the fall killed him. It was this disease, this condition he had.”

“Hemophilia. He bled internally. Verna Dunn was at Fengate when it happened.”

Peter nodded. “Strange, her being here right after he married Grace. Mr. Parker said Max Owen divorcing Verna never kept her from stopping at Fengate. Mrs. Owen, she being the decent person she is, never raised a fuss.”