The Measby Murder Enquiry (16 page)

Deirdre looked at her in surprise. “Speaking from experience, Alwen?” she said.

“Not an unusual situation,” Alwen replied, purposely vague. “I do have one thing we might try,” she added. “We could go over to Oakbridge station and see if they remember selling a ticket to London yesterday to anyone looking like Gus. If they do, then at least we’d know he’d actually gone there, and not anywhere else.”

Roy was doubtful. “There’s a hell of a lot of commuters catch the London trains first thing in the morning,” he said. “I think we’d be wasting time.”

“But most of them have season tickets,” Ivy said. “I think it’s a good idea. Deirdre could go and ask. No harm in asking.”

At this point, Katya came over to them, and said there was a call for Mrs. Wilson Jones. Perhaps she would like to take it in Mrs. Spurling’s office, to save her going upstairs to her room? Alwen said she was expecting a call from her daughter Bronwen, and limped off to the office.

The others asked Katya to bring more hot coffee to help them think, and Roy said cookies were known to be good for the brain, so could she put a few more of her specialty on a plate for them? While they waited, they discussed other ways of finding Gus, and Deirdre remembered Theo’s offer to look out for any previous address he might have in the files from when Gus first applied to rent the cottage.

It was only a matter of minutes before Alwen was back, helped by Mrs. Spurling who was holding her firmly by the arm.

“She insisted on coming back to you three,” she said caustically. “She should really take a rest, but as I say, she insisted.” She helped Alwen, who was looking whey-faced and shaky, and then turned on her heel. Sooner or later this lot would go too far, and then she would be the one to carry the can.

“Alwen, my dear,” Roy said, stretching out his hand to take her trembling one, “what has happened?”

“It was another of those calls, wasn’t it?” Ivy said flatly. “The anonymous caller?”

Alwen nodded. “Yes, it was. I put down the phone, but not before he’d said something really horrible.”

“Which was?” prompted Ivy. She looked at the two entwined hands, and began to think Alwen was spinning it out unnecessarily.

“It was the same voice, but the message was different. He said that if we wanted to see our friend again, I should arrange for ten thousand pounds to be delivered in banknotes to an address which would arrive in the post tomorrow.”

“Oh my Lord,” said Deirdre. “So did you cut him off then? Did he give you a deadline?”

“Yes, he did,” said Alwen, her colour returning. “I thought I should keep him talking, to see if I picked up any clue to who he is. He then said that I shouldn’t try telling the police, or it would be curtains for Gus Halfhide. And he said the money should be at the address by midnight, the day after tomorrow. Or else. Then I knew he wasn’t bluffing.”

“Never mind about that,” said Deirdre firmly. “I am going home right now to phone Inspector Frobisher of Thornwell police. We are out of our depth here, chums. Hands up those who agree?”

She thought the result would be a foregone conclusion, but it wasn’t. No hands were raised. “But Ivy!” she said. “This is really serious stuff now. We’re not playing games,” she added, unconsciously echoing Gus.

“Nor were we in the Beatty case,” Ivy said stiffly. “Gus trusted us, and he’s probably stuck somewhere where he can’t come home, crossing his fingers that we don’t go to the police.”

“So you think his ex-wife has him tied up at gunpoint, demanding alimony or else?” Alwen had had enough. She began to rise to her feet, but then sank back into her chair. She had just remembered that she herself had every reason not to want the police sniffing around. Especially with Bronwen coming to see her this afternoon.

“No, of course not,” Deirdre said. She sighed. “Well, I’ll go along with what we plan to do for another few days, but after that, the police. Is that clear?”

“Another few days might be too late, if that caller is serious,” Ivy said. “Personally, if you ask me, I suspect he was bluffing, Alwen. He must know that stuck here in Springfields we’re unlikely to be able to do what he asks. Did he say he’d call again?”

Alwen shook her head miserably. “No. It was all I could do not to spill it all out to Mrs. Spurling. She was not far away, needless to say. I’m afraid that he is not bluffing, Ivy. I feel it in my bones.”

Ivy shifted in her chair until she was sitting upright in a commanding position. “Right,” she said, “here’s what we’ll do. First, Deirdre has to go into the bank in Thornwell and stay there for as long as possible, then come out smiling. Doesn’t matter what you do in there, Deirdre, but just make it look as if you’ve settled a lengthy transaction.”

“Why?” said Roy.

“Just in case somebody’s watching.”

“You mean
following
me?” Deirdre gasped.

“Of course,” Ivy said. “We’re not dealing with a oneman band here, you know. There’ll be several of them. Now, after that, Deirdre, you can go on to Thornwell station and ask if the ticket office remembers seeing Gus.”

“What shall
we
do?” Roy was anxious not to be left out, and rather fancied the idea of taking on Theo Roussel. “Shall I go with Ivy up to the Hall and see if himself has found any papers?”

Deirdre agreed reluctantly, but then cheered up when she remembered that Theo was not taking her at all seriously last night. Perhaps Ivy and Roy would have better luck.

“And I’ll wait here,” Alwen said firmly. “I’m expecting Bronwen to call to confirm this afternoon, and anyway, that man might call again.” She frowned, looked at Ivy and said, “D’you know, I reckon he’s disguising his voice. It sounded odd, like it would be if he was . . . sort of strangulated. Now why would he do that?”

“Obvious,” said Ivy. “He knows you’d recognise his real voice.”

Alwen looked at her closely. It was such a sensible remark, but there was something about the way Ivy said it. And the way she returned Alwen’s gaze, steadily and perhaps with a warning? Ivy had spent a lifetime behind lace curtains, picking up clues from village life going on outside her windows, sorting the evidence, jumping to conclusions, often proving to be correct. Not to be underestimated, thought Alwen. One to watch.

 

 

I WONDER IF Deirdre’s ears are burning, Gus said to himself. He had been thinking about her for a long while. He’d been told straightaway that a ransom had been demanded, and knew that only Deirdre would be able to raise that amount of cash at will. Did she care enough? He knew that she fancied him. But then she fancied Theo Roussel, and had enjoyed high jinks in his bed for some while. Could he compete with the local squire? And, more importantly, did he want to? Now he had time to examine this question honestly. Answer: yes, he did, and if he ever got out of here he would take positive steps in that direction.

The door to his prison opened, and Martin and Margaret locked themselves in with him. While he had been left alone, Gus had become sure that “Martin” was not the colleague he had been expecting to meet. It had been years, and now he saw that he looked nothing like the Martin he had known, even accounting for the passage of time. That Martin had been small and wiry, and was losing his hair at a relatively young age. His gaoler must be in his early sixties, and was tall and thickset, with close-cropped thick grey hair and old-fashioned heavy-framed glasses.

He was more or less convinced that Margaret’s story had been a pack of lies. She was clever, and the way she had accosted him had made him uncertain. But that had been an unexpected meeting, and he was prepared to admit that his memory was not that good. But now he was sure. She was a complete stranger, and a dangerous one. And, if he was not mistaken, she was the boss of the duo.

“Are you hungry, Gus?” she said with apparent concern. “Sorry there’s no time to talk now. We’ll be back later for a discussion.”

“What discussion? Just get out of my way, and let me out of here. You don’t fool me. Neither of you have anything to do with the person I was supposed to meet. I don’t know what you’re up to, apart from blackmail, but you must know that my lunch friend will be making enquiries when I don’t show up. He is a top man in his field, and I don’t give much for your chances when he finds you.”

“Nice try, Gus,” said the woman. “And don’t worry about your top man. He’s certainly not worrying about you.”

“I’M DUE TO see Mother at half past two,” Bronwen said as she stacked the dishwasher.

“It’s nearly two now,” he said, “so you’d best be off. And don’t forget the big question this time.”

Bronwen had not yet had the courage to approach her mother for a loan, which she was almost one hundred percent certain she would not get. It was a waste of time, she had said repeatedly to Trevor, and what was more, they had little chance of paying it back in the foreseeable future.

“What makes you think she has reserves enough to lend us?” she said now. “After all, the fees at Springfields are horrendous. It won’t take long to make a huge dent in her savings, and compared with some of the old biddies there, she is quite hale and hearty.”

“I don’t know why she wanted to go there in the first place,” Trevor replied. “She could have managed in her own home, with carers coming in and Meals On Wheels and all that jazz.”

“Can you imagine Mother accepting personal help from a ragbag of local authority women? As for Meals On Wheels, well, I ask you!”

“She managed to eat school dinners all those years. I think you misjudge her.”

“Oh, no I don’t! I know exactly what she’ll do to save money when it’s to her own advantage. And the fact is, none of us in the family know just how much she has in the kitty all together, investments and savings bonds and so on.”

“It’s a pity she’s not gaga,” Trevor said gloomily. “If you had power of attorney, then we could really go to town.”

“Not these days, boyo,” she snapped. “Takes about six months to finalise, and then there are all kinds of checks and balances to make sure her money is secure.”

The grandfather clock in the hall, a purchase that had set Bronwen back several thousand pounds, struck two. Trevor picked up his laptop and headed for the door. “That clock’s slow, as usual,” he said. “See you tonight.” He did not even wave a hand to say good-bye.

 

 

“HELLO, DEAR!” ALWEN was sitting in the lounge by the window, and had seen her daughter approaching. Good heavens! She had a bunch of roses in her hand! First time in living memory, thought Alwen. Must want something. Her expression was serious, but apart from that she looked her usual slim, youthful and businesslike self. Customary tailored black suit with crisp white shirt, neat haircut so that her dark shiny hair fitted her head like a cap. Glossy and hard, Alwen said to herself.

“Hi, Mother. How are you today? Is the leg feeling any better?”

Alwen had osteoarthritis in her knee, and some days it was so painful she felt like crying and took too many painkillers from her capacious handbag, and gave herself a stomachache. Today was a good day, and she accepted the roses and a peck on the cheek with a smile.

“Come and sit down,” she said. “I’ll order some coffee for us.” She waved a hand towards Katya, who was ministering to an old lady who was in tears because she was convinced she had peed herself.

“In a minute, Mrs. Wilson Jones,” Katya called across the room. “I just need to make Ethel here comfortable. Good afternoon, Mrs. Evans!” she added. “Lovely roses!”

“What a pleasant girl that one is,” Bronwen said. She supposed this was what her mother was paying for. Coffee on demand, polite care assistants who never made the residents feel a nuisance. She found herself hoping that by the time she came to it, Trevor would have salted away sufficient funds for her to do likewise.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” Alwen said with a frown. When her daughter ceased making an effort, she could see there was something troubling her.

“Ah, well, thereby hangs a tale,” said Bronwen. “I have had bad news, I’m afraid. Made redundant by the new owners, along with about twenty others from the administrative staff in the brewery. The usual story. Falling sales have forced them to reduce costs, and apparently I’m a cost that can be done without.”

“Bronwen! But I thought you were doing so well? All those new retail outlets and supermarkets stocking the beer? What on earth has happened?”

“Maybe you missed it, Mother, but the whole country has been hit by recession. We’re all in the same boat. Poor old Trevor hasn’t sold a house for weeks.”

Alwen heard alarm bells. She began to wonder about the roses. Bronwen’s next words confirmed her suspicions.

“Trouble is, Mother, as you know, we’ve taken on a lot of loans to get the house and things just as we want them. You know our financial position only too well! Now, of course, we shall find it nearly impossible to keep up the repayments.”