The Gospel Makers (7 page)

The leaflet she’d been handed on leaving had posed more questions than it answered, but it had sounded the usual dire warnings about the end of the world. Only the Revelationists, it seemed, had any chance of survival. Which, Nina thought with a shrug, was what they all said.

All the same, she’d underestimated the Reverend Noah Bellringer. Whether or not he’d used subliminal means, his message had lodged in the consciousness of a hard-bitten policewoman and, priding herself on her strength of will, the fact both annoyed and intrigued her.

But Webb did not resolve her choice for her. He motioned to her to sit down and said abruptly, ‘Nina, I’ve a lot on, and strictly speaking this Revvie lot is not our concern. But they’re on my patch and I imagine we’re going to get an increasing number of people coming to complain about them. Can I hand them over to you — unofficially, of course? I want to know what makes them tick, and if we’ve any excuse for moving them on.’

He looked at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Or would you rather not?’

‘Quite frankly, sir, I’m not sure. To be honest, I’m a bit apprehensive; they’re a persuasive lot, and the last thing you want is a WDI ranting and raving about the end of the world.’

‘You think you might be susceptible?’

‘Not in the normal way, but if they’re using subliminal means, they could convince anyone.’ She met his eyes. ‘Yes, you’re right. Put like that, the threat’s obvious. I’ll go back.’

‘When’s the next meeting?’

‘Tomorrow evening.’

‘You are sure? I don’t want to push you into anything you might regret.’

‘I’m sure. They need sorting, and I’m in as a good position as any to do it.’

‘Well, watch yourself, and if you feel you’re getting in over your head, cut and run. Understood?’

‘Yes, Guv.’

‘Keep me briefed as to how you get on.’

She nodded, and as he gestured in dismissal, left the room. So, one way or another, the die had been cast. She would attend an instruction session and see what that led to. And, she thought before she could stop herself, she would see Daniel again.

Webb’s phone rang and he reached for it absent-mindedly. It was the editor of the
Broadshire Evening News
.

‘Yes, Mike, what can I do for you?’

‘Just wondering if you’ve any titbits about the stiff at the King’s Head?’

‘There’s a press conference at five.’

‘Oh, come on, Dave! I’ve got an evening paper to get out!’

‘Actually we know very little — not even who he is. No papers on him, and all we’ve got is that although he himself was English, his clothes were made in France. Appeared at the King’s Head out of the blue, didn’t check in because of the crush at the desk, and popped his clogs before he’d a chance to remedy it. Oh, and he went to the bar, and was seen leaving with a man and a woman.’

‘Who you’re hoping will come forward?’

‘We should be so lucky.’

‘It wasn’t a natural death, then?’

‘I’m off to the PM now, after which I hope to know more.’

‘Well, thanks. Oh, and while you’re on, any cartoons for me?’

Webb grimaced. ‘If you’re going to start nagging, I’ll hang up.’

‘Come on, it’s months since we had any. Someone even wrote in asking what had happened to them.’

Webb’s gift for drawing pungent cartoons was a well-kept secret, since he signed them merely with an S in a circle — symbolizing a spider in a web. More importantly, he used his knack of caricature to depict suspects in his inquiries. By setting out his players on the stage of his canvas, he could place them where they stated they’d been at a crucial time, and seeing the overall picture in black and white showed up inconsistencies which sometimes proved vital. On other occasions, the amazingly life-like figures alerted him to some trait of character which he’d initially registered only subconsciously.

‘There are probably some in my drawer,’ he said resignedly.

‘Good lad. Let me have them, then. And we must have a drink sometime.’

Webb grunted noncommittally, put down the phone and, with the familiar sinking feeling in his stomach, set off to attend the post-mortem.

*

Hannah sat at her desk at Ashbourne School, gazing meditatively into space. She really couldn’t delay speaking to Miss Hendrix any longer; she was looking more and more threadbare, and at lunch-time Hannah had overheard two of the girls giggling about her in the corridor.

The worry was how to broach the subject without hurting her feelings. Still, things wouldn’t improve by any further delay — she’d procrastinated long enough. Sighing, she reached for the telephone, and as she did so it started to ring.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr Frobisher is here, Miss James. Could you spare him a moment?’

Relief flooded over her. Charles Frobisher, Chairman of the Board of Governors, was an old friend. He’d a sensible head on his shoulders — she could discuss the problem with him.

‘Of course, Amanda. Show him in — and would you bring us some tea?’

When the secretary had closed the door, Charles came over and kissed Hannah’s cheek. ‘How are you, my dear? The trappings of power going to your head?’

‘Far from it. It’s good to see you, particularly as I could do with some advice.’

‘Always glad to help, you know that.’

Hannah, feeling better already, regarded him with affection. Twelve years a widower, he was, she knew, fond of her. There had been a time when she’d contemplated marrying him — and she could have done a lot worse. But when it came to the point she’d been unable to dismiss David Webb from her life, flexible though their relationship was.

Charles was watching her, his lean, clever face speculative, and she felt herself flush, wondering how many of her thoughts he’d been able to read. Fortunately, Amanda Grant came to her rescue with the tea, and in the business of pouring it, any remaining tension was dissolved.

‘First though, tell me to what I owe this honour,’ she prompted, handing him a cup and saucer.

‘When we last met, if you remember, I invited you to the Golf Club Dinner. You were going to let me know if you could make it.’

Hannah was overcome with guilt. He had indeed mentioned the dinner, several weeks ago, and she’d delayed giving him an answer partly because she was unsure what lay behind the invitation. Was it, as it seemed on the surface, quite straightforward with no strings attached? Or had Charles decided it was time to renew his attentions, as he’d warned her he would?

She looked up, catching his eye, and again had the impression he knew what she was thinking. ‘I’m so sorry, Charles. I have to confess it went straight out of my head.’

Which was hardly tactful, as she immediately realized. However, he merely smiled and said, ‘Well, time’s moving on; it’s a week on Friday, the 22nd. I think you’d enjoy it; John and Beatrice will be at our table — and it would do you good to be seen about more socially.’

‘You make it sound as though I’m in purdah,’ she protested, but she knew what he meant. During their time together, she had enjoyed the dinners, concerts and theatres to which he had escorted her. It was a style of life to which David, with his erratic work schedule, seldom managed to conform, and with Gwen now abroad and Monica married, most of her social activities consisted of dinner or the theatre with Dilys which, much as she enjoyed them, had their limitations. If Charles would only accept a platonic basis, she’d be delighted to accompany him more often.

In this instance, though, she now had no choice. ‘I’m so sorry not to have come back to you, but I am free that evening and I’d be delighted to go.’

‘Good. That’s settled, then. Now, what was this advice you were after?’

Hannah switched her mind from personal to professional problems. ‘It’s about a member of staff.’ And she explained about Mattie Hendrix.

‘She goes round looking like a tramp,’ she ended, ‘and I can see no possible reason for it. She’s on a good salary and has no dependants.’

Charles thought for a moment. ‘How long has she been here?’

‘Since September last year.’

‘And before that?’

‘St Anne’s, Erlesborough.’

‘You know their headmistress, don’t you?’

‘Marion Bowles? Yes, of course.’

‘Why not give her a ring and ask in confidence if she noticed anything odd about her?’

‘That might be an idea.’

‘If she didn’t, you’d have to look for a more recent cause. You say this woman has no dependants — where does she live?’

‘I think she has a bedsit somewhere.’

‘Does she share it with anyone?’

‘Not that I know of, though it’s possible — I did see her with a woman in town the other day. I’m ashamed to say, Charles, I know very little about her. She’s not forthcoming, and there’s a limit to the casual questions you can ask.’

‘Any complaints about her work?’

‘Positively not. She’s an excellent teacher.’

‘Does she drink?’

Hannah looked startled. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘It would account for shortage of money, that’s all. Booze or drugs.’

‘Oh, I don’t —’ Hannah began, then broke off. Now that she thought about it, there was sometimes an unfocused look about Miss Hendrix, and as she’d remarked to Dilys, she was a bundle of nerves. ‘Oh Lord, I do hope not. That I could do without.’

‘What age is she?’

‘Late thirties. It was Gwen who engaged her, of course, which is why I don’t want her taking offence and waltzing off while I’m holding the fort.’

‘If you think she’s bringing the school into disrepute, you’ve no option but to say something.’

‘Oh, that’s a bit strong,’ Hannah demurred. ‘No one seeing her round town would know she teaches at Ashbourne.’

‘But there are Parents’ Evenings, concerts and so on. And what impression would she make on prospective parents being shown round the school?’

Hannah sighed. ‘You’re right, of course. She’s becoming an embarrassment, and the girls are starting to make fun of her.’

‘Which last, I imagine, is an occupational hazard,’ Charles commented drily.

There was a scratching at the window, and Hannah went to let her cat in. Purring loudly, he proceeded to wind himself round her legs, impeding her return to the desk.

‘He knows when it’s tea-time,’ she said, taking a dish from a drawer and pouring milk into it. She set it on the carpet and the cat walked casually over, then settled on its hunkers and began to lap delicately.

Charles watched it for a moment. ‘Well, I must be on my way and let you get on with your work. I’ll phone nearer the time about arrangements for the 22nd.’

‘Right.’ She walked with him to the door. ‘Thanks for your advice, I’ll let you know how I get on.’

All the same, she wished Gwen were here. Dear Gwen: Hannah conjured her up in her mind, the earnest brown eyes, the tall, gauche frame and untidy hair. Only those who knew her were aware that the diffident exterior concealed a brilliant academic brain.

Hannah stood for a moment watching the cat who, having finished the milk, was engaged in a full-scale washing operation. She’d have a word with Miss Hendrix first, she decided. Then, if things didn’t improve, she’d phone Marion Bowles. But Charles’s visit had delayed her; it was now after four, school was over for the day and everyone would be going their separate ways. It would after all be necessary to hold it over for another day.

*

Across the town, Webb pushed his way into his office and flopped into his chair. DI Crombie surveyed him over the top of his spectacles.

‘Fresh from the abattoir?’

‘Too right. I’ll never get used to it — the smell of that disinfectant gets right up my nose.’

‘Better than other smells,’ said Crombie judiciously. ‘And what did old Stapleton come up with?’

‘I knew this was going to be stinker, Alan, right from the start. It has to be a fatal injection, but there are no traces of poison in the body.’

Crombie raised an eyebrow. ‘You found the puncture mark?’

‘Only by the grace of God, because the bloke bruised easily. There was a tiny purple mark on his upper arm. Since he would hardly have let them undress him, it must have gone through his clothes.

‘Stapleton’s reluctant to commit himself, as always, but he’s leaning towards curare, which is quickly broken down and leaves little or no evidence. There was petechial haemorrhaging, which seems to support it. Anyway, tests are continuing.’

‘Well, it makes a change from the old blunt instrument,’ Crombie commented.

‘True; we have all the signs of premeditation and not a suspect in sight. What’s more, we’re still no nearer finding out who he is. Let’s hope the telexes produce some result.’

Chapter 6

‘Chief Inspector Webb?’

‘Speaking.’ Webb recognized the voice of the hotel manager.

‘Jeffrey Diccon here. Something has come up which might interest you. Now that we can get into 251 again, the chambermaid has checked the mini-bar and some bottles are missing.’

Webb frowned. ‘What exactly are you saying, Mr Diccon?’

‘Well, Maggie — the chambermaid — said you asked if there were glasses on the table and she said no. But they must have had drinks after all, and someone washed the glasses and put them back in the bar.’

Webb pursed his lips. A cool customer indeed. ‘There’s no possibility of a mistake?’

‘No, sir. The bar is checked each morning, and any used items are entered on the guest’s bill and replaced.’

‘What bottles are missing?’

‘A whisky, a white wine and a beer.’

‘But there were no empties in the bin?’

‘It seems not. Maggie certainly didn’t remove any.’ He hesitated. ‘I thought maybe if — if he was poisoned —’

‘Yes, indeed. Good of you to let me know. The maid didn’t touch any of the glasses?’

‘No, but they were all there.’

With no glasses out, the SOCOs wouldn’t have bothered with the mini-bar. A return visit was called for, though if the murderers were that careful, they were unlikely to have left fingerprints.

‘Excellent. Then would you lock the room again till someone can take another look? And many thanks for your help.’

He was about to replace the phone, but the man was still speaking. ‘I saw the item in last night’s News. Has anyone rung in to identify him?’

‘There’ve been several suggestions, we’re still sorting through them. Thanks for calling, Mr Diccon.’

If the poison had been ingested, Webb reflected, the information could have been crucial. At least it explained the lack of glasses, which had puzzled him at the time; if K and the others left the bar to go to his room, the natural thing would have been to have drinks there. But why had they gone upstairs? At that time of day the restaurant would have been a more natural venue. Had K something to show them? If so, it wasn’t in the missing briefcase — he’d had that with him in the bar.

There was a knock on the door and DC Marshbanks put his head round it.

‘Have you got a minute, Guv?’

‘Of course, Simon. What is it?’

‘I went through the Ks yesterday, like you said, but when I got to the King’s Head Samantha wasn’t on duty. So I’ve just been back now.’

‘And?’

‘Well, she hesitated for a while over Kirby and Kerley but now she thinks it might have been Kershaw.’

‘Hardly a positive ID.’

‘Sorry, sir. The best she could come up with.’

‘All right, Simon, thanks.’

Webb stared down at the papers in front of him, mentally ticking off each action taken. A dental chart of the deceased had been telexed to all UK dentists and a copy sent to Interpol for circulation in France. His full description had gone to all police stations in the UK and also to Interpol, and a mug shot was already up in the foyer downstairs, below the caption DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN? Meanwhile the support group were still working their way through the hotel guests.

They were due for a break, he thought, and as if in answer the phone rang again. It was the Met.

‘Regarding your telex, sir, we’ve had a call from a local wine company reporting a missing employee, and the description seems to fit. They held a conference during the weekend which this man attended, but he’s based in France and their French office has been on to them to say he’s not returned home.’

‘Have you a name for him, Inspector?’

‘Philip Kershaw.’

‘Bingo! That was one of the options we came up with. Right, now, if you can give me the name and address of the wine company, I’ll send someone along.’

He wrote it down, the phone cradled under his chin. ‘That’s our first break, Inspector. I’m much obliged.’

Dropping the phone back on its hook, he strode to the door and yelled ‘Don! In here at the double!’

Sergeant Partridge was in the room before Webb regained his desk. ‘Yes, Guv?’

‘We’ve had a break from the Met. One Philip Kershaw, working for a wine company and based in France, gone AWOL. He attended a conference in London over the weekend, and I want you to get up there and interview as many of his colleagues as you can trace. Take John Manning with you. We want anything you can get — contacts, habits, hobbies, state of his marriage, the lot.’

He tore the top sheet off his pad and handed it over. ‘Here’s the address. Report back as soon as you have anything.’

Partridge nodded and hurried out of the office. Webb glanced at his watch. Getting on for midday. He’d collect Ken and go along to the hotel. With luck the interviews might have turned up something interesting.

*

Hannah sat at her desk gazing helplessly at Miss Hendrix’s bent head. The woman seemed positively cowed, she thought. On this bright autumn day she was dressed in a dusty-looking black skirt with an uneven hemline and a cable-knit maroon sweater of uncertain years. The front of it was matted with too much washing and the sleeves, obviously too long, had been turned back to form unwieldy cuffs.

But quite apart from her clothes, the woman looked ill, Hannah thought with consternation. Had she always been so pale, with such dark shadows under her eyes, her cheeks so hollow and her chin so pointed?

‘Miss Hendrix,’ she said gently, ‘is anything troubling you?’

Mattie looked up, startled. When summoned to Miss James’s study she had anticipated a discussion on the progress of her pupils, or some news about the proposed end of term readings. She was not prepared for a personal interrogation.

‘How do you mean, Miss James?’ she stammered.

‘Well, you seem so — pale, and I noticed in the dining-hall the other day you scarcely ate anything. I know you don’t take meat — are you sure you’re getting enough protein?’

Mattie Hendrix forced a smile. ‘My diet is perfectly adequate, thank you, Miss James, and nothing is troubling me. In fact,’ she added for good measure, ‘I have never felt happier.’

Hannah was slightly taken aback. ‘Well, I’m glad to hear it.’ She paused, wondering how to raise the subject which really concerned her. ‘Forgive me, but are you finding it difficult to manage on your salary? Because if so, I’m sure —’

‘Why should you think that?’

To her annoyance, Hannah felt herself flush. ‘Well, I —’

But her glance had been more eloquent than she realized. Mattie looked down at her skirt as though noticing it for the first time. ‘I see,’ she said, under her breath. ‘I’m sorry, Miss James, I hadn’t realized. I’m not interested in clothes, but I try to keep neat and tidy. Obviously I haven’t succeeded.’

‘It’s just that when parents come —’

‘Of course. My appearance reflects badly on the school. It was thoughtless of me and I apologize.’

‘But if money’s a problem,’ Hannah began, while wondering how it could possibly be, ‘we could discuss —’

‘I have enough for my needs, thank you. You won’t have any further cause for complaint.’

‘Thank you,’ Hannah said weakly, balked in her attempts to find the cause of such apparent poverty. Mattie Hendrix rose to go and Hannah said on impulse, ‘There is one thing you could help me on, if you would. Two of the girls came back from exeat saying they’ve become vegetarians. Could you perhaps guide them into eating the right things to keep up their strength? I’d be so grateful. They’re —’

‘Stephanie French and Marina Chase.’

Hannah looked up in surprise. ‘You’ve noticed already?’

‘No, but I guessed,’ Mattie replied inscrutably, and left the room leaving Hannah frowning after her. What did she mean, she’d guessed? How could you guess a particular girl had turned vegetarian?

Hannah sighed. Well, at least she’d broached the subject of Miss Hendrix’s clothes, apparently without giving offence. She hoped fervently that that would be the end of the matter.

*

The headquarters of the wine company was in south-west London, off the Old Brompton Road. DC Manning parked directly outside on the yellow line, propping his log book on the dashboard for any marauding traffic warden.

They got out of the car and stood looking up at the imposing building. ‘Reckon we might get a free sample to take home, Skip?’ Manning asked with a grin.

‘Doubtful in the extreme,’ replied Partridge. ‘But at the moment I’d settle for a cuppa.’

They went up the broad steps into the foyer of the building, and minutes later were shown into the office of Mr Ray, the managing director. He was a small, round man with an entirely bald head which distractingly mirrored the overhead light.

‘This is a great shock, gentlemen,’ he greeted them, shaking them gravely by the hand. ‘A great shock. Please take a seat and tell me how I may help you.’

‘Well, sir, since we’ve only just been able to identify Mr Kershaw, we know nothing whatever about him and would be grateful for anything you can tell us.’

‘Let me see, then. He’s worked for us for about fifteen years now, a very able, conscientious man and a leading authority on Loire wines. He married a French girl — in fact, the daughter of one of our suppliers — and lives — lived in the Loire valley. He comes to London every three months or so.’

‘When did he arrive on this latest visit?’

‘Friday evening. The usual reservations had been made for him and several other overseas staff who were attending the conference.’

‘Have you any idea how he spent the evening?’

‘I’m afraid not. My staff might know.’

‘Were you aware of any family problems — marital difficulties, things of that kind?’

Mr Ray shook his head. ‘To the best of my knowledge he was happily married, with a young daughter.’

‘When did the conference end?’

‘At lunch-time on Sunday.’

‘So when would you have expected him to return to France?’

‘I should have thought that evening, but I was speaking to one of my managers, who said Kershaw told him he was staying on a couple of days to attend to some family business.’

‘Did he say where that was?’

‘In your neck of the woods, I believe.’

Partridge said diffidently, ‘Someone will have to identify him, and it seems hard to bring his wife over from France. Do you think —?’

The man’s ruddy cheeks paled slightly, but after a pause he nodded. ‘Yes, of course; it’s the least I can do.’

‘Thank you, sir. We’ll be in touch to arrange a convenient time.’

There was little more he could tell them, and his secretary escorted the detectives down the corridor to another office where two men awaited them with obvious apprehension. Jack Spedding and Rick Burgess had spent some time with Kershaw during the conference and were clearly shaken by his death.

‘How did he seem?’ Partridge asked them when they had seated themselves and Manning had fished out his notebook again.

‘Fairly cheerful,’ Spedding replied. ‘He was an affable chap, though unforthcoming on personal matters. Would tell a story with the best of them, but never exchanged confidences, the way a lot of the lads do after the odd bottle of wine.’

‘Was he happily married, would you say?’

‘Oh, no doubt of that. You could tell by the way he spoke of her. Cracker of a girl she is, too. And he thought the world of his daughter.’

Not much to go on there. ‘What about his interests outside work — hobbies and so on?’

The two men looked at each other and shrugged. ‘Played a bit of golf, I think,’ Spedding said.

‘And a mean hand of poker!’ Burgess added with a grin. ‘Many a night I’ve sat up with him after a dinner, and it never did me any good.’

‘Did you on Saturday?’

‘Yes, I did, as a matter of fact, with some of the other lads.’

Did he win?’

‘I’ll say. Hands down.’

‘Anyone lose heavily to him?’

Burgess met his eyes. ‘Not heavily enough to kill for.’

‘Was he a serious gambler, would you say?’ Partridge’s mind was on moneylenders.

‘I couldn’t say, with him being over in France, but he certainly liked his game.’

‘He told you he was staying on to attend to family business?’

‘That’s right. His mother died a few weeks ago and there were things to see to at the house.’

‘Which was where, Mr Spedding?’

‘In Shillingham, I think. He wasn’t looking forward to going through her things, and said that rather than spend the night in the cold house he’d book into an hotel.’ He made a grimace. ‘Seems he chose the wrong one.’

‘Can you think why anyone should have wanted to kill him?’

‘Lord, no! I mean, he wasn’t likely to have been messing round with anyone’s wife, or anything like that. And our line of business doesn’t usually bring out the long knives.’

‘Do you know how he spent Friday evening?’