The Measby Murder Enquiry (21 page)

“No, he left a message,” Alwen replied, still with her eyes closed. “It was a reminder that the deadline is midnight tonight. Where on earth is Deirdre Bloxham? She should be here.”

“As a matter of fact, she told me she thought she would go over to Measby, as she has every right to do,” said Ivy defensively. “The poor girl is more worried about Gus than she lets on, and wanted something to take her mind off what might have happened to him. A preliminary recce, she said, might be useful to us.” Nobody but she was allowed to criticise her cousin, and that included Alwen Jones. “And anyway,” she continued, “she promised to be back well before deadline time. I must say I begin to think the threat is an empty one. If you ask me, we are up against a small operation, maybe just one man. And if he’s after money, and that’s all, he won’t gain anything by doing away with Gus. What d’you think, Roy?”

“Well, I’m sure you’re right, Ivy, but I do think we should try to get hold of Deirdre, just in case.”

“In case of what?”

“Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it,” he said mildly. “We are rather stuck here, and there’s very little we can do.”

“I’ve got my mobile. If you think I should get hold of Deirdre, I could try that?”

“Well done, Ivy,” Roy said.

“It’s in my drawer upstairs. I’ll make a call up there. There are too many nosy old biddies in here to be private.”

“It’s Ivy’s birthday tomorrow,” Roy said, when she had gone. “Deirdre’s getting something special for me to give her. I do hope she will like it and not think I am taking a liberty.”

He’s soft on Ivy, thought Alwen. How blind the old fellow must be! Still, there was no telling about men, she reflected, no matter how old they were.

“Are you going to let me into the secret? What is the present for Ivy?” she asked.

Roy shook his head. “I thought everyone knew, except Ivy,” he said. “Never mind, you’ll see tomorrow.”

He could see from the expression on Ivy’s face as she returned that she had had no luck talking to Deirdre. He looked at his watch. Nearly twelve hours to go. He had a sudden mental picture of Gus, his wispy hair standing up on end as he roared with laughter at one of Ivy’s best quips. Roy was not a religious man, but thinking it worth a try, he said a small, silent prayer for Gus’s safety.

 

 

DEIRDRE FELT HER mobile vibrate, but by the time she had it in her hand, it had lost the signal, and she put it back in her pocket. She had parked her car outside the village shop in Measby, and now stood looking in the window. This was taken up largely by notices of items for sale, dog-walking services, baby-minding and house-cleaning contacts. There were fixture dates for the junior football team, and an offer of six ducklings, free to a good home.

Not much help, thought Deirdre, but then she saw a small piece of paper pinned to the corner of a noticeboard. The writing was in red pen, and it offered a cottage for sale, due to family bereavement. “Needs a lot of work on it,” it said. Not estate-agent-speak, then. It was signed “Doris May Osborne,” with a telephone contact number.

Deirdre made a note in her address book, and then walked up the steps into the shop.

“Yes?” A burly old man with crooked spectacles and thinning hair looked at her suspiciously.

“Um, have you got any Green and Black chocolate?” Deirdre asked, knowing before he answered that it was extremely unlikely.

He looked at her suspiciously. “Are you anything to do with Mrs. Osborne?” he said.

“Never heard of her,” said Deirdre briskly. “Why do you ask? Has it anything to do with chocolate?” She was beginning to feel irritated with this unsavoury character.

“As a matter of fact,” he said portentously, “it has. Mrs. Osborne is my boss, and she is the only one in our village who asks for that particular brand of chocolate. I get it in specially for her. And that’s why I asked.”

“Well, do you think you could bring yourself to sell a bar of it to me?” said Deirdre, wondering why she didn’t just walk out. But she needed to check on Doris May Osborne, and wondered if she and the old man’s boss were one and the same person.

Grudgingly, the old man reached under the counter and brought out a chocolate bar which he slapped down in front of Deirdre. “That’s the last one,” he lied. “Was that all you want?”

“No, not quite,” said Deirdre. “I’m interested in the cottage for sale. I saw the notice in the window.”

The change was remarkable. At once half a head taller, and with a leery smile on his pale face, the old man said that he might be able to help her on that one. His boss Doris May was at this moment out in the back room looking at the accounts. Without delay, as if Deirdre might change her mind and vanish from the shop, he called in a loud, anxious voice, “Mrs. Osborne! Can you come through, please?”

Doris May was a surprise. She was small and trim, with well-cut hair and neat pearl earrings. Her navy blue coat and skirt were clearly expensive, and as she approached, Deirdre caught a whiff of the exclusive scent that she used herself. There was nothing flashy about her, but Deirdre recognised the signs of money and good taste.

“Yes? Can I help?” Doris said coolly.

Deirdre answered, “I’ve seen the notice in the window about a cottage for sale. Can you tell me a bit more about it?”

“Are you looking to buy a cottage in this village?” Doris May enquired.

“Might be,” said Deirdre.

“I suppose I could show it to you, then.”

It was an attractive village, with ornamental plasterwork on some of the houses, painted all shades of Suffolk pink and other not so traditional colours. Doris May looked at the parked Rolls, and asked if was Deirdre’s. On hearing that it was, and being told Deirdre’s name, she chatted in a more friendly fashion, every now and then asking a personal question about Deirdre herself.

The cottage was clearly a wreck. Tiles were missing from the roof, windows cracked and broken, paint peeling from the front door, which was stuck fast. Doris May had not bothered with a key, explaining that nobody would want to go in. Then she put her small shoulder to the door and with surprising strength gave an almighty shove, and it creaked open.

“Not frightened of spiders and mice, I hope?” she said, and Deirdre swallowed. She was actually frightened of both, but would not admit it to this confident little woman.

“How long since anyone lived here?” she asked.

“About six months, I suppose. There’s still some furniture, but it’s all rubbish.”

As they walked carefully through the detritus which can collect in a house that has been empty for months, especially in one never locked, Deirdre noticed some interesting items. In the main room, an old desk stood by the window. On it, she saw a well-thumbed book and picked it up, puffing off an evil-smelling cloud of dust. The cover was discoloured, and so blotched with damp that she could scarcely read the title.
Profes—al Gamb—rs H—book Beating the Sys—m by Hook and by Crook
. The author’s name, which surely could not be his real one, was Weasel Murphy.

A gamblers’ handbook? And not just a moral pamphlet on the evils of gambling for amateurs, but what looked like a how-to-do-it book for the professional. Must tell Gus about this, she thought, and then remembered there might not be a Gus to tell.

She looked at her watch, and saw that it was not long before the deadline expired, and her plan might have to be put into operation. She had to get back soon to have a word with Alwen Jones, and looking round, saw that Doris May had rounded the corner halfway up the narrow stairs. She quickly slipped the book into her handbag, zipped it up and followed her guide upstairs.

“Who lived here before?” she asked, as they inspected the two bedrooms and totally unacceptable bathroom. A streak of rust led from a tap to the plug hole, and spiders had woven an intricate web from one side to another. The lavatory had no seat, and no water in the pan. Deirdre gulped, and said she thought she must go now, as she was running short of time.

“You asked me who lived here before,” Doris May said doubtfully. “It was very unpleasant. Did you hear about it?”

Deirde said no, she had heard nothing, and concentrated hard on not throwing up as she continued on her way downstairs.

Unaware of Deirdre’s discomfort, Doris May continued. “An old man. He was found dead at the foot of his stairs, blood everywhere. At least, they thought it was blood. It’s all been cleaned away now, of course.”

Deirdre fled. Once out in the garden, she apologised, and said she was a little squeamish. Gathering her wits, she asked if there was any doubt about the cause of death.

Doris May did not answer but said sharply that she guessed Mrs. Bloxham would not be interested in buying, after all.

“Well, I’m not sure about that,” Deirdre said, her colour returning. “I would like to bring a friend with me and have another look?”

“If you like,” said Doris May. “But I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Where do you live, then?” asked Deirdre.

“Measby Manor. Over there, behind the trees. It is private land,” she added, and walked away smartly towards the church. As she went, Deirdre saw her take something out of her pocket and hold it to her ear. Now who was Doris May so keen to talk to?

GUS WAS NOW very hungry. For some reason, he supposed to keep him alive, Margaret had kept him supplied with a minimum amount of water. He was now hallucinating with images of sausages and bacon, toast and coffee frequently before his eyes. Café smells added to his yawing stomach pains. But he had been through all this before, and he knew he could hang on for a while longer.

He was still trying to work out exactly why they were holding him. Ransom money, of course. Possibly they had been in touch with the real Martin and were threatening to extract valuable secrets from their prisoner and sell them to interested parties, unless the department paid up. What a waste of time, and possibly his life! He no longer held any secret information of any value to anyone, and none of his former colleagues would pay tuppence to save him. He had broken his silence to tell his captors this, but they did not believe him. In fact, they had shown very little interest in the real Martin.

“Spicy chicken for lunch,” said Margaret, coming silently into the semidarkness. She carried a jug of water, and half filled his glass. “Can I order some for you?”

He did not answer. He could see that she was losing patience with his silence, and this was just what he wanted. She began to pace around, saying that if he was sensible and answered their questions, and provided his chums came up with the lolly, he could have all the food he wanted and walk free. One other important condition would be that he gave no information about who had held him, or where he had been held. They would know if he talked, and the consequences would be dire, if not fatal.

Who did she mean by chums? He said nothing. She raised her voice. “For God’s sake, man!” she shouted. “What have you got to lose? Do you want us to pull your fingernails out? Okay, okay, I know that’s stupid, but we do have other, more uncomfortable ways of getting you to talk. I like you, Gus!
Please
, don’t make us do that. . . .”

He still said nothing but could sense that she was weakening. He did not have to pretend to feel giddy. Objects, including Margaret, began to shimmer and waver, and he sat down heavily on the camp bed.

She looked hard at him. “All right. I’ll get you something to eat, but for God’s sake don’t tell Max. He’ll kill me. Literally, Gus. Hang on, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He watched her leave, and saw that in her anxiety about her rash decision, she had pulled the door shut, relying only on the Yale lock to keep him safely imprisoned.

He moved like a streak of lightning, and could hardly believe his luck. Like everything else in the room, the lock was damp and rusty, and the lever had stuck.

Out on the landing, he hesitated. He could hear animated voices speaking in a foreign tongue in the café, and knew it would be useless to try getting out that way. In desperation, he headed towards the back of the building, down rickety stairs, and found himself in the cluttered backyard he had seen from his window. He ducked down and sped past a kitchen window, finally clearing a low wall and finding himself in the busy street outside the café.

He turned and ran for his life down the street. He was soon breathless and knew that a sustained chase would eventually catch him, so he entered the first of the many small hotels in the area, and secured himself a room under a false name. He asked that he should not be disturbed, and the burly receptionist winked at him, and said, “No questions asked, mate. You look done in. Best get some rest.” Then the reception telephone rang, and he answered, directing Gus to go on upstairs to his room. This he did gratefully, and collapsed on to a clean, neatly made bed, breathing hard.