Apportionment of Blame (13 page)

Oliver's head turned and his eyes refocussed on me.

“No one wants me,” he said. “I'm in my early fifties and too old. What do we have to look forward to? Years on the dole. Not able to pay the mortgage. Selling the house. Moving to some squalid place too small to swing a cat. Pam doesn't deserve this.”

“I know. And neither do you. Neither does anyone who is pushed out before their time and made to suffer for the benefit of big business. It wasn't your fault you lost your job. Your firm was taken over. It's happening all the time these days.

“Banks are expanding and taking over other financial institutions. None of them cares about the people they make redundant. They don't care about people at all. Their bottom line is the foot of a balance sheet. They take over other companies to remove competition, to increase their share of the market and boost their profits. And if they can reduce their overheads at the same time, they will. So they let people go without giving it a second thought.

“These people are not concerned about you or I, or any other person. Oh, they play with our money, but they do it for their own benefit, not for ours. As far as they are concerned you were an expense they would rather save. So all your years of experience, all your expertise, they were prepared to forfeit.”

I realised with some embarrassment that I'd been riding my own hobby horse, getting rid of the frustration I'd felt at the bank I'd worked for, but Oliver's eyes barely rose from the table top.

“I don't know what to do.”

“Give me a little time to see what I can dig up. Don't worry about paying me, really,” I stressed. “If I can at least find out what happened to Helen, that might make you feel a bit better.”

Oliver looked as if it would take a great deal more to make him feel any better.

“What can you tell me about the inheritance?” I changed the subject, well slightly. “Are we talking a lot of money?”

“Oh yes.”

He perked up a little.

“Let me get you another drink,” he said, “and I'll tell you all I know.”

“No. These are on me,” I told him and stood up.

As I returned to the bar, I found myself hoping that with luck, there might be more to find out than what happened to Helen, and that some of it might benefit the Hetheringtons in more ways than they expected. How, though, I had no idea.

New pint in hand, Oliver began to recount the background to the inheritance.

“Annie, that's Pam's mother-in-law as was, married her childhood sweetheart during the war. As I understand it they were both the only children of parents who lived on neighbouring estates in Scotland. Their parents were old friends.

“Anyway Annie had two sons, Fergus and Archie. They were like chalk and cheese, but both adored by their parents. Pam married Fergus, as you might know, and he was Helen's father. But both brothers were killed in a stupid accident, and their father never got over it. He became old before his time, partly worrying about who was going to run the two estates after him.

“He died, poor bloke, and soon afterwards Annie decided to sell up and move down here. She used to say there were too many unhappy memories in Scotland. I can understand that, what with her sons and Alan both being gone. So the estates were sold. She bought a little place quite near to us, and invested the rest.”

He took a long mouthful of beer and looked at me.

“Why are you asking about the inheritance anyway?”

“Because I need all the background information I can get if I am going to find a reason for Helen's death.”

“Are you sure there was a reason? You don't think it was all an unfortunate accident? So many other things have happened to us recently. There are so many things we've lost. It would be just our luck to have lost Helen for no reason at all.”

“Joyce has never thought that, and I'm beginning to agree with her. And think about it. What are the classic motives for killing? Vengeance, jealousy, love and money. What money is linked to Helen? The inheritance she expected to get, but didn't.”

“But if you follow that argument, you have a motive for Helen to kill someone else, and it's Helen who died.”

“I know. There is that back-to-front aspect to the whole thing. But until I get something else to go on, I shall follow the inheritance and see where it leads.”

What I didn't add, but thought, was that it was virtually all I had to go on.

“You mentioned four classic motives,” Oliver said. “So what about vengeance, jealousy and love?”

“If any of those are involved, I'll found out. For the present I am concentrating on the money aspect.”

The following morning was bright and fresh, reflecting my mood after the previous day's discovery.

Having identified Ilse Chambers, albeit with her name change, I had a link between the inheritance and Helen's death. Somehow Helen must have tracked down Ilse. What other reason could there be for her to be in that vicinity on the night she died?

I realised this did not automatically link Ilse with what happened, but to have died accidentally in that particular spot was too much of a coincidence for me. There was that word again - coincidence. Perhaps there were beginning to be too many of them.

Somehow I had to discover why Ilse had inherited and why it was so very important that no one should know the details. Why else would Helen have been killed, but to hide a secret, and keep it hidden?

With so much money involved, what could possibly have persuaded Joyce's grandmother to leave everything to someone unknown to the rest of the family? Who was Ilse? Surely Joyce's grandmother must have known her well. But how?

I sensed an intriguing mystery. A secret which must remain hidden. A secret worth killing to protect.

But, and there were plenty of buts buzzing around my mind at that moment, if Ilse had killed Helen, or at least inadvertently caused her death, it would probably be very hard to prove.

It had been made clear to me how dark it was that night. The spot was off the beaten track. Anyone could have done anything without being seen. Clearly the police had found no clues to suggest anyone other then Helen was there. I would have my work cut out to prove that Helen was killed intentionally.

Two ways were open to me. I could try to persuade the solicitor who dealt with the will to confirm Ilse's identity. Or I could try to get to know Ilse, to see if I could discover any clues as to the link between her and Joyce's grandmother. And I must do this without revealing my suspicions.

I did have a reason to visit Ilse again, so that would be my starting point. But first I picked up the phone and dialled the number of the solicitors in London.

“Hello. Would it be possible to speak to Jocelyn Swindle, or his PA?

“No, he doesn't know me. It's in connection with the will of Annie Glenn. I am working on behalf of the Hetherington family and I wondered if it would be possible to meet with Mr Swindle sometime soon.”

I was put through to the PA, which was the best I could have hoped for. It was my experience that solicitor's PAs are as efficient, if not more so in some cases, than their bosses.

“Hello. My name is Greg Mason. I'm working for the Hetheringtons in Suffolk. You may remember the case of Annie Glenn's will...Yes. I wondered if I could have a word with Jocelyn Swindle on that subject...Yes, I am aware of the difficulty of client confidence, but if I could just have a few minutes of his time I should be grateful...Tomorrow morning? That's great. Thanks very much.”

That was easier than I had expected. I could spend at least some of tomorrow at the office catching up on other cases. That would give me the chance to discover if the mysterious black vehicle and its contents were still in evidence.

Pleased with that promising start to the day, I wrapped myself up against the temperature outside, left the house and walked quickly to the car.

Tucked under the windscreen wiper blade was a piece of paper. Automatically I looked around me. There was no one I could see.

I took hold of the paper at its corner, lifted the wiper blade, turned the paper over and read I TOLD YOU TO LEAVE IT ALONE.

I looked around again, still no one there. But there wouldn't be. The note could have been put there at any time since I returned from meeting Oliver.

Whoever had taken Joyce was now here. I was being watched, not just in London, but at home.

So much for a promising start. I felt exposed and went round to get in the car, almost as if it could afford me some sort of protection.

The engine started and I put on the heater with the fan blowing hard while I waited for the temperature gauge to rise.

What should I do? What could I do? Nothing.

I didn't know who it was, or where they were. All I could do was continue with my day as I'd previously planned it, and see if anything useful came to light.

When I could feel warm air coming out of the demister and see the windscreen beginning to clear, I turned down the fan so I could hear some music and gingerly eased the car out of the drive and turned right.

The radio had come on in the middle of a rap, so I turned it off again. That wasn't music.

My destination was a nearby parade of shops, and the journey was so short it didn't give the car time to warm up properly. Parking in the last space available, I shivered involuntarily as I closed the car door, and made my way to a florist's shop I knew.

There were displays of bouquets and wreaths in the window, and a collection of galvanized buckets sitting on the pavement outside, each containing large stems of different species in a variety of colours. I wondered idly where they had been grown at this time of the year, and plumped for white roses. The assistant took them from me and I waited while she wrapped them carefully to their best effect. Now encased in a strong plastic sheath, I carried them back to the car and set off, once again, for Monks Colne.

This time I plumped for a CD and chose Rumours, beating time on the steering wheel along with Mick Fleetwood's drums.

The only evidence of the previous evening's storm were the puddles at the side of the road, and I had to park carefully to avoid stepping out into one.

I dodged the still dripping flowers along the side of the path and knocked at the door. She opened it as cautiously as before, and her surprise at seeing me again was clear in her face. I proffered the flowers.

Her eyes moved from my face to the flowers and back again.

“You were so kind to me last night in that storm,” I said. “The least I could do was offer some sort of appreciation.”

She said nothing, but after a long moment's pause, held the door open for me to enter. As I passed, I handed her the flowers.

It seemed she had no idea what to do with them. She just stood holding them awkwardly.

I closed the door for her.

“Would it be an idea to put them in water?” I said, more than anything to break the silence.

“Yes,” was her quiet reply, and she made her way along towards the kitchen. I followed, highly aware of the care I had to take over what I said. The slightest suspicion on her part that I knew her identity in relation to Helen, would lose me what little advantage I thought I had gained.

In the kitchen she stood still, looking round, as if working out what to do with the flowers. Apparently searching her mind to see if she had anything which could act as a vase. That meant there were no vases, which seemed to confirm the simplicity of the furnishings. Did that infer that she was here temporarily for a reason.

She had admitted to not living in the house for long. Was that because she didn't like the country, or was there a more sinister reason?

Bending down to a cupboard below the sink she found a large brown pottery jug. Placing it on the draining board she began to unwrap the plastic surround from the roses.

“I don't suppose you have many callers, out here in the sticks.”

“No,” she said over her shoulder.

She placed the roses in the jug and began to arrange them. I had the impression she was either playing for time, not knowing what to say and not wanting me there, or she was genuinely at a loss.

I stood and waited, and eventually she turned towards me, her face suggesting it had experienced a difficult life. There were lines around her eyes and either side of her nose and mouth; all vertical lines, as if she had never ever smiled. Perhaps there had been little reason to smile in her life, and I wondered why.

It wasn't easy trying to estimate her age, but I suspected she wouldn't see fifty again. She looked the epitome of a desperately unhappy, late middle aged spinster.

“No one ever gave me flowers before,” she said, as if to confirm my thoughts. “You were very considerate to let me into your house in that storm last night. You didn't know me from Adam, although I had been before, when I was asking those questions. I could have been anyone. It was very kind.”

I felt it important to distance myself from the person enquiring about Helen's death. If I was to get to know her in any way, she must have no inkling that I suspected her of anything.