Jigsaw (31 page)

‘But he needn't have bothered to explain it. He could have killed Pollard and got the hell out, not phoned nine-nine-nine and stayed till help arrived.'

‘Double bluff,' Barrett said shortly.

She produced her trump card. ‘How did the knife get into the garage?'

She saw the flash of anger, and guessed this unexplained point still rankled. ‘He had an accomplice,' he answered, deliberately offhand. ‘All right, we weren't able to trace him, but we'd enough to nail Spencer without that.'

There was a brief silence, then he said abruptly, ‘Very well, I'll humour you. If you're so damn sure he's innocent, who would you put in the frame?'

‘It could have been Richard Maddox,' Rona said, aware of how thin her case was.

Barrett stared at her for a minute, then threw back his head with a burst of laughter. Spencer's own reaction, she remembered. ‘Really, Ms Parish, I have to hand it to you! First you think an old lady's been murdered to hush up a love affair, then you accuse one of the most respected men in the county – the
country
, even – of being a killer! I must say, I can't wait to hear what you come up with next. My only hope is it's a million miles from Buckford.'

Rona leant forward. ‘You said you'd humour me, Inspector. Then
please
,
as discreetly and circumspectly and tactfully as you like, find out where Maddox was that evening.'

‘And how exactly do you propose we do that, after a gap of more than two years, and without arousing his suspicions or being accused of harassment?' He also leant forward, so that their faces were only inches apart. ‘Read my lips, Ms Parish: a) Spencer had Pollard's blood on him, b) The murder weapon was found hidden on his premises, and c) the man had killed his child. What more do you want?'

Rona's heart was beating high in her chest. ‘All right, you think I'm a know-all and too big for my boots and all the rest of it, and you might even charge me with wasting police time. Fair enough, but I just
know
Spencer didn't do it. What's so frustrating is that I can't seem to convince you.'

‘And just why are you so sure? Because he told you? He'd hardly hold his hand up, would he, to a journalist anxious to clear him?'

She shook her head, dismissing the conjecture. ‘Seriously, though, there's something off-key about Richard Maddox. If he'd discovered his wife was having an affair—'

‘With Spencer, if I heard you right. It can't have escaped your notice that
he's
still alive.'

No point even mentioning her theory of mistaken suspicions; it would be annihilated without mercy.

She tried again. ‘We were discussing it yesterday, at Sports Day – I went with Beth Spencer. As soon as the case was mentioned, he got very tight-lipped, and—'

‘No doubt on Mrs Spencer's behalf.'

‘No, it was she . . .' Rona broke off. What was the use? He was never going to believe her. Feminine intuition was something he'd laugh to scorn, and basically it was all she had.

She stood up, momentarily at an advantage as she looked down into his hostile grey eyes. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Mr Barrett. We can only hope that the killer doesn't strike again while he's still at large.'

And before he could think of a retort, she turned and left the room.

The bright sunshine stung her eyes, and she realized there were tears of frustration in them. Well, she told herself, impatiently dashing them away, she'd done all she could. It looked as though Alan Spencer would after all have to ‘sit it out', as he'd put it, until his time was up.

Dave was waiting by the entrance to the mall, and she crossed the road to join him.

‘No joy, I take it?'

‘Positively none. Oh, damn! I didn't pick up my transcript; it's been left for me at the desk.'

He eyed her astutely. ‘And you don't want to go back for it? I'll get it.' And before she could protest, he had crossed the road and disappeared through the swing doors, emerging a minute later with the packet under his arm.

‘Now,' he said as he rejoined her, ‘let's go into the mall and have a coffee. You look as though you could do with it.'

The mall was, as usual, seething with people, and they seated themselves in a fenced-off area from where they could watch the passers-by moving in a constant stream in front of them.

Their coffee arrived, and as they drank it, Rona recounted her conversation with the inspector.

‘To be fair,' Dave said reflectively, when she'd ended by summing up her less than favourable opinion of him, ‘he did at least give you your say. He didn't have to see you.'

Rona sighed. ‘I suppose,' she said dispiritedly.

‘You've had enough of Buckford, haven't you?'

‘It's just that I've become more involved than I expected, which is hardly professional. It'll do me good to have a few solid weeks at home, before coming up for a final blitz. In the meantime, I'll cut my losses and drive back in the morning. If I hadn't been meeting Helena, I'd have set off straight away.'

Dave smiled. ‘Don't let the DI get to you. From what you've said, you've made friends up here.' He looked at his watch. ‘It's only eleven o'clock; what are you doing the rest of the morning?'

Rona shrugged, unable to shake off her despondency.

‘If you've nothing planned, how about playing hooky? Drive out into the country somewhere and have a pub lunch?'

She looked at him gratefully. ‘Dave, I'd love to!'

It had been just what she needed, Rona reflected as, back in her room, she prepared for the afternoon outing. Though Dave was more than ten years her junior, they had a lot of similar interests, and it was refreshing to hear the views of a different generation.

She checked that there was a new tape in her recorder – though she wasn't sure she'd need it – and slipped it into her bag before running downstairs. The radio reached her from behind Jack Stanton's door, and Nuala was vacuuming the sitting room. Dave was right, she thought, letting herself out of the house; she
had
made friends up here, and she would miss them.

Helena Maddox came swishing round the corner in a red sports car with the top down. Her hair was restrained by a wide chiffon band, and she was wearing tortoiseshell sunglasses.

‘Lovely afternoon for a drive,' she said, leaning over to open the passenger door. ‘Sorry I'm a little late; for some reason, Richard wasn't too happy about our jaunt. He was trying to talk me out of it until the last minute.'

‘Why was that, do you think?' Rona asked carefully, fastening her seat belt.

Helena shrugged, starting up the engine, and they whooshed into a three-point turn. ‘He kept insisting you weren't really interested and I was wasting your time. Such a fuss over one afternoon!'

Rona realized almost at once that this wouldn't be a comfortable ride. She was already holding on to her seat as they zoomed at forty-five miles an hour through the busy streets, and wondered apprehensively how long it would take to reach Kit Tempest's birthplace.

‘Magda's catalogue's on the back seat,' Helena said, above the roar of their passage. ‘Don't let me forget to give it to you.' She turned to look at Rona, who wished fervently that she'd keep her eyes on the road. ‘I gather you two have known each other some time?'

‘Since we were ten,' Rona confirmed, pushing her flying hair back from her face. ‘She's been a good friend over the years.'

‘You're lucky,' Helena commented. ‘I've never had a friend like that.'

‘Surely you had “best friends” at school?'

She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘My family moved around a lot – my father was in the army – and I was never at any one school for more than a year or so. I've no brothers or sisters, so it was a lonely as well as a disrupted childhood. I was determined that when I grew up I'd have a large family to make up for it, but it didn't work out that way.'

Rona, remembering Magda's comments, remained silent. They had reached the outskirts of Buckford and were driving along the road that passed the college. Helena's speed had increased to seventy-five, and Rona had to force herself to keep her eyes off the speedometer.

‘You seem quite friendly with Mrs Spencer,' Helena remarked, overtaking a lorry and just missing a bus coming in the other direction. ‘I gathered at the funeral that you'd visited her husband, but I was surprised to see you together at Sports Day.'

Rona, trying to ignore the blaring horns, moistened dry lips. ‘She asked if I'd go with her, because she felt conspicuous without him.'

Helena gave a light laugh. ‘Oh, come on! She was after your sympathy! A lot of the fathers weren't there, with it being on a Monday.'

Thinking back, Rona realized this was true; though many fathers
had
managed to be present, there'd been several groups of mothers on their own. Possibly it was Beth's particular circumstances that made her feel like an outcast.

‘She's rather too earnest for me,' Helena went on dismissively, ‘though I only knew her on a parent/teacher basis, from giving Lottie piano lessons. I'm sorry for her, of course; in fact, I often wonder how she manages to go on. There can't be anything worse than losing a child.'

That didn't stop you going after her husband, Rona thought. Aloud, she said – as though she'd not known – ‘You taught Charlotte the piano? Wasn't she rather young?'

‘The younger the better,' Helena replied, ‘and she already had a good ear. She was a lovely little girl, bubbling and full of fun. You couldn't be cross with her, even when she played up, as she quite often did. I've been fond of all my pupils, but I loved Lottie like my own. I used to fantasize, sometimes, that she was.'

Another sidelong glance, while the car swerved and then righted itself. ‘Sorry if that sounds maudlin. The fact is, I had a breakdown some years ago and I still have bouts of depression. Lottie was like a beacon at those times; I was always the better for seeing her.'

It occurred to Rona that this conversation was more suited to friends than casual acquaintances, and she wondered apprehensively if Helena was suffering from depression at the moment; even more worryingly, if she was on medication of some kind. Perhaps that's why Richard hadn't wanted her to come, though surely he'd have acted more authoritatively if she'd been unfit to drive.

In an attempt to lighten her mood, Rona asked brightly, ‘Where exactly are we heading?'

They were out in open country now, fields of crops and scattered farmhouses beginning to give way to wilder heathland and more hilly terrain.

‘Lammerden,' Helena replied after a minute, seeming to accept the change of subject. ‘It's a little hamlet near the Bedfordshire border. There's nothing there, really – or wasn't, before they built the centre. Now, it's quite a tourist attraction. Tempest was a bit of a Robin Hood character, but that didn't save him from the gallows. He was hanged at the crossroads above the hamlet.'

‘How long will it take us to get there?'

‘Another half-hour or so.'

At least, Rona thought philosophically, the traffic was thinner up here and they were less likely to bump into anything more substantial than a sheep. The wind was stronger, too, and her hair was continually whipping across her face, making her cheeks sting and her eyes water.

Breaking into her thoughts, Helena said suddenly, ‘Alan Spencer and I were lovers, but I've a feeling you know that?'

Rona caught her breath; this was not at all what she'd expected. ‘How could I possibly?'

Helena raised her shoulders. ‘I've been thinking about old Miss Rosebury and her night walks. She could have seen us, and you interviewed her, didn't you? Did she tell you?'

‘No,' said Rona honestly.

‘Well, I'm telling you now.' Rona noted uneasily the staccato quality in her voice, surely indicative of tension. ‘It started soon after Charlotte's death, and I can imagine what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Alan was so wretched he couldn't bear to be in the house, and one night, when I was walking back to my car after a recital, we bumped into each other. We'd barely met before, but he'd a great look of someone I used to be very fond of. Since we couldn't avoid speaking, I said something conventional like how sorry I was about Charlotte. Then, to my total horror, I broke down and couldn't stop sobbing. I'm always emotional after a concert, and his looking like Edgar could have added to it, but it was all highly embarrassing.'

She half-smiled. ‘Poor man, he didn't know what to do. Eventually, probably to shut me up, he put an arm round me.'

She gave a loud blast of the horn, making Rona jump and an ambling sheep skip smartly out of the way.

‘When I'd calmed down a bit,' she continued, ‘we sat on the wall of the car park and talked for an hour or more. He hadn't realized how fond I was of Lottie and I think he was touched. He poured out the whole story, about her skipping ahead and that maniac Pollard mounting the pavement and crushing her, and by that time we were both crying and trying to comfort each other. He kept saying he could hardly face his wife, because she blamed him for Charlotte's death.

‘Well, eventually we separated and went to our respective homes, and I thought that was that. But about a week later he phoned and asked if I'd any more recitals coming up. It was obvious what he meant. As it happened, the music society I belonged to had arranged a series of weekly concerts throughout the winter, and they proved the perfect alibi. Richard has no interest in music, and never checked what time they ended.

‘So it became a weekly arrangement. I went to the concerts – it would have caused comment if I hadn't – and Alan had his meal with the family and spent the evening at home. Then, at ten o'clock, he'd go out for his “walk before bed”. He said later that I was his salvation, that he couldn't have survived without me.