Who Saw Him Die? (23 page)

‘Did they marry?'

‘Certainly not. I made things so unpleasant for him that he took himself off.'

‘That was arbitrary of you. Didn't you consider your mother's feelings?'

‘Oh, I'd acted in her interests as much as my own. It wasn't even as if the man had any money to recommend him. She didn't particularly care for him, and I think she was quite glad, in the end, that he'd gone.'

Hilary made no comment. ‘Felicity Goodrum loved Jack, though,' she said thoughtfully. ‘I can see that Matthew might have felt excluded and hurt about that. And it could have occurred to him that a murder, besides getting rid of his step-father, would also provide his mother and himself with all Goodrum's money … Yes, all right, Martin, I'll buy the motive. But Matthew Napier is at school at Saxted, twenty miles away. How do you suggest –'

She remembered, and gave herself the answer immediately. ‘Of course – his father told us that he'd just bought Matthew a motor bike. But it could only be a low-powered one, at his age. Saxted to Breckham Market and back, especially at this time of year, would be too long a journey.'

‘No it wouldn't, given his motivation. And you'll be interested to hear that I've telephoned his school, and discovered that Matthew Napier is known to have gone out on his motor bike, alone, on both Saturday 15th and Saturday 22nd. On each occasion he was back in his study bedroom at the required time, 10.30 p. m. But as he's a sixth-former, and is allowed some degree of independence, the school can give us no information about where he went.'

Hilary thought about it. ‘So your theory is that Matthew rode to Breckham Market on the 15th. He'd kept in touch with his mother, so he'd have known that she and Jack planned to be out that day. Then he broke into The Mount to steal one of the shotguns he knew his stepfather kept there. He intended to return the following Saturday and kill Jack, but he disguised his plan by stealing various other items to make it look like an ordinary burglary … Yes, that all fits. But
you
didn't see the state the house was left in, Martin. The boy loved his mother, I'm certain of that, and I can't believe that he'd have deliberately offended her by fouling the house while he was about it.'

‘I can,' said Tait.

Sergeant Lloyd took a deep breath. ‘And there's another thing,' she said obstinately. She knew she was going to lose the argument, because Martin Tait wasn't a man to put forward a theory without having thought it through; but she wasn't going to let him make any unchallenged pronouncements.

‘Nothing very bulky was stolen from The Mount,' she went on. ‘But even so, how do you suggest the boy removed it? There was far too much loot for him to have carried away on his bike, as well as the shotgun.'

‘According to Goodrum's statement after the burglary,' said Tait, ‘the shotgun was in a waterproof carrying bag. His stepson could have hidden it somewhere in the gardens –'

‘We
searched
the gardens.'

‘– somewhere just outside the gardens, and picked it up the following Saturday. As for the rest of the loot: did you think to search the house for it?
Did you think to search the boy's own room?
‘

Hilary seethed, quietly. Then she said, ‘We have no evidence that Matthew Napier knows how to handle a shotgun.'

‘But I've found out that he's a member of the Saxted College combined cadet force, and that he knows how to fire a rifle. I have no doubt he'd be lethal with a shotgun at a range of eight yards. And then of course,' Tait continued, enjoying himself at his former colleague's expense, ‘Matthew knows his way round the outside of The Mount. He'd have had no trouble in finding the best place to fire the gun from. Oh, and the footprint that was found in the downstairs cloakroom after the burglary – what size was it?'

‘You know perfectly well it was a nine …'

‘Ah yes. The headmaster of Saxted College thought it an odd question for me to ask, but he found out from the matron that Matthew Napier does take a size nine. And as it happens, the boy does possess a pair of training shoes with a ridged composition sole –'

Hilary looked at him. ‘Do you know something, sir?' she said. ‘You really are
sickening
.'

‘So I've heard,' said Tait modestly. ‘But that's how I came to be a Chief Inspector while you're still a sergeant, Sergeant …' He laughed, and stood up. ‘Oh, come on, Hilary, don't be miffed. We're old friends, aren't we? In fact I don't mind telling you that I took quite a shine to you myself, at one time. Get your coat on, love, and come with me to Saxted to pick Matthew Napier up.'

‘No thanks. I've got too much to do, with the boss away.'

‘Rubbish, you're just making excuses!' Martin Tait was no taller than Hilary Lloyd, but he contrived to put an indulgent arm round her shoulders and shepherd her to the door. ‘Come for the ride, and I'll buy you a good lunch afterwards.'

‘Really, no thank you.' She slipped away from his arm, and turned to face him with a firm but pleasant smile. ‘Yes, you're right: I'm miffed that I didn't spot Matthew Napier as a suspect. But I still intend to stick to my plan to interview Jack Goodrum's daughter Tracey, the one with the nose-stud. Because there has to be some good reason why a bit of a punk with an ear-stud, who's unknown in Breckham Market, should have been in the town on the day the shotgun was stolen, asking where her father lived.'

By noon the following day, when Chief Inspector Tait and Sergeant Lloyd met again, the weather had changed.

November had started mild and damp, and deteriorated to cold and wet. But now, Breckham Market seemed to have dried out overnight. The low cloud had dispersed, the temperature had fallen sharply, the air had been crisped by frost. The sun was putting in a guest appearance, and Hilary had suggested to Tait that they should make the most of it by walking through the town to lunch at the Coney and Thistle.

But it was not an occasion for celebration. Martin Tait, very much the aspirant county chief constable in brown racing trilby, cashmere scarf and Burberry, was unusually silent. When spoken to, he answered abruptly.

They left divisional headquarters, crossed the main London-Yarchester road, and walked down Market Hill into the narrow streets of the old town. Most other pedestrians looked reasonably cheerful, perked up by the sunshine; but Tait only scowled.

‘It was completely logical. Wasn't it?' he demanded at last.

‘Completely,' confirmed Hilary. ‘I couldn't fault it, anyway, and you know how hard I tried.'

‘Matthew Napier's statement was so feeble. He “didn't like the school” so he spent both Saturday afternoons “just riding round on his own”. And he said he spent both evenings on his own at the cinema in Woodbridge. That's one of the flimsiest alibis I've ever heard.'

‘But you can't call it an alibi, Martin, if it was what the boy actually
did
on those two Saturdays. And there's no point in disputing it, if you've discovered that there isn't enough mileage on the bike since he acquired it to have got him here and back twice. You can't argue with a milometer.'

‘I most certainly can! They're not difficult to alter if you know how, and if you've got the right tools. And Saxted College prides itself on its craft workshops.'

‘Even so –'

Martin Tait sighed. ‘Yes, all right, Hilary. Even so, what's the point in pursuing the boy, when you've discovered that he didn't do the burglary.
And
when we know that his stepfather's shotgun wasn't the murder weapon.'

They had reached the market place, which was used as a car-park for the Town Hall on five days a week, and for the parish church of St Botolph on Sundays. Today however was market day. Vehicles were barred, and the open space had sprung into vigorous commercial life. Stalls piled high with fruit and vegetables were besieged by customers, and the detectives had to edge through the crush to reach the Coney and Thistle.

On their way, Tait paused to greet his former bank manager, now retired, and took the opportunity to restore his own ego by mentioning his recent promotion. Hilary went to a stallholder Douglas Quantrill had introduced her to, the wife of a local market gardener whose parsnips and onions and celery still had fresh earth clinging to them, and bought a bag of crisp russet apples and the makings for a winter salad. Just as she had completed her purchases, Tait came to join her.

There were a couple of old galvanised buckets on the end of the stall, crammed with shaggy garden chrysanthemums. Their rich colours, bronze and yellow and dark red, glowed in the sun. On an impulse, Tait bought a bunch and handed them, their stalks damply paper-wrapped, to Hilary.

‘Sorry I was so sickening yesterday,' he said.

‘Martin, how lovely!' She closed her eyes and sniffed their spicy scent. ‘Mmm – instant nostalgia … Autumn walks in the park opposite our house when I was a child … Thank you very much. Let's fight our way into the Coney, and I'll buy you a drink – after all, the theory
I
was pursuing yesterday hasn't really got us any further forward, has it?'

Over hot toast, pâté and wine – and it was pleasant, for once, Hilary reflected, to share that kind of lunch with a colleague of her own generation – they discussed Jack Goodrum's original family. As the sergeant had suspected, Doreen had not told her and Quantrill the truth on their first visit.

When she returned to Factory Bungalow, late the previous morning, Hilary had contrived to catch Doreen's younger daughter Tracey before the girl had a chance to dress and make her escape. Tracey, as Hilary had thought from the brief glimpse she'd had of her, was a bit of a punk: the colour of her spiky hair was unnatural without being conspicuous, and her facial ornament was limited to ear-rings and the one gold stud in her nose. Without doubt – Hilary recognised all the signs – the girl was a drug-user.

All three female Goodrums had, as usual, been in their nightwear. Hilary had insisted that Doreen and Tracey should sit down with her at the living room table, though she agreed that Sharon would be better occupied in making a pot of tea.

But sitting with mother and daughter over the ingredients and the dirty crockery of their permanent meal was one thing; persuading them to talk about Jack Goodrum's death was another. They were obviously unaccustomed to communicating with each other, on this as on any other subject.

Sergeant Lloyd had broken their silence by telling them – without saying how she knew the man's name – that she had visited the home of Jack's one-time partner, Dave Wheeler, and had taken his shotgun for forensic examination. Doreen Goodrum had immediately burst into an angry denunciation of Wheeler.

She'd rung him, she said, a week or two back, to say that she'd found out where Jack was living. Jack had owed both of them, and she'd wanted to meet Dave Wheeler to discuss how best to go about getting their rights. But she'd deliberately kept Jack's whereabouts to herself, because she'd been afraid that Dave might go rushing there on his own account, and so spoil her chances.

And then she'd read in the local paper about the burglary at her ex-husband's house in Breckham Market. She'd been livid. Dave Wheeler had done it, she'd been sure. But when she rang to tell him what she thought of him, he had denied it. He said his old mother had seen in the paper that a shotgun had been stolen – so it couldn't have been him, because he had a shotgun of his own, as Doreen very well knew.

But Doreen hadn't believed his denials. Dave had been crafty, that was all: stealing a gun he didn't need so that he wouldn't be suspected. She had tried to go on discussing their joint plan for tackling Jack, but Dave seemed to have lost interest. There would be police about, after the burglary, he had said, and he for one wasn't going near Jack's place, with or without a shotgun, until the hoo-ha had died down.

And then, having already helped himself to money and jewellery and stuff, without even offering to share it, if Dave hadn't gone back to Breckham Market the following week and taken his final revenge by shooting Jack! It wasn't right, Doreen had protested, mopping her flushed face. It wasn't
fair
…

Sipping the tea that Sharon had made – strong, but perfectly acceptable if you didn't notice the imperfectly clean cups – Hilary had revealed that there was no evidence to connect Dave Wheeler with the burglary at The Mount. She had come, she told them, because she believed that Tracey might be able to help her.

Tracey, thin and pale and withdrawn, had kept her eyes down and said nothing until she was asked a direct question, when she answered belligerently. She was smoking ordinary cheap cigarettes, but she held them in shaking fingers.

What if she did have a boy friend who had hair like hers and wore an ear-stud? It was the fashion, wasn't it? No, she didn't know what size shoes he wore. No, she didn't know if he'd ever been to Breckham Market. What would he want to go there for?

Yes, all right, she needed money. Didn't everybody? Yes, she reckoned her Dad owed her. Yes, she knew he'd moved to Breckham Market – she'd heard her Mum phoning Dave Wheeler, so she'd looked through the local paper and found the report of the inquest that mentioned her Dad's name. So what?

No of course her boy friend hadn't gone to Breckham Market last Saturday and shot her Dad! What'd be the point of that? The mean old sod was no good to them dead. As her mother said, it must've been that cheating Dave Wheeler who shot him. Tracey was glad the police had got on to Dave – she hoped they'd put him away for the rest of his life.

It was then that Hilary had explained how forensic tests had shown that Dave Wheeler's gun was not the murder weapon. That meant, she told Tracey, that the police were still urgently looking for Jack Goodrum's own gun, the one that had been stolen during the burglary.