Heffernan, unusually quiet and
thoughtful, thanked the assembled American citizens and assured them that they
were free to leave at any time.
The colonel stood up. 'How soon do
you reckon you'll catch the guy who killed Norman?'
'I'd say an arrest is imminent.. .once
I've been to see a certain lady.' He glanced at Dorinda Openheim, who was
sitting sphinx-faced, giving nothing away.
Wesley Peterson was surprised at the
speed with which his boss rushed from the hotel to the car. 'Where are we
going, sir?'
'Madam Butterfly's ... come on.'
Getting over to Queenswear involved
driving back to Tradmouth and queuing up for the car ferry. Heffernan drummed his
Angers on the dashboard impatiently as they waited for the raft-like craft to
chug its way across the river. The radio was on. Classic FM. The love duet
between Pinkerton and Butterfly began to ooze from the speakers.
'Lovely this, Wes.'
'Very appropriate, sir.'
They drove off the car ferry as the
music reached its almost sexual climax and ended with a touching oriental
motif.
'Wouldn't have been the same if
Puccini had set it in Devon, would it?' Heffernan sighed. 'Cream teas instead
of tea houses.'
They found Marion working in the
garden, secateurs in her brown-spotted hand. She smiled shyly when she saw
Wesley.
'Hello, Sergeant. Do you want to ask me some more questions about Norman? Have
you caught anyone yet?'
Wesley introduced the inspector, who
answered her question in the negative.
Surprisingly. Marion showed no resentment
at the arrest of her grandson, Kevin. 'He's been nothing but trouble to our
Carole...needs to be taught a good lesson,' was her comment on the matter.
They declined her offer of tea and
talked to her as she continued to prune her roses.
'Did you know a man called Charles
Mallindale during the
war?'
'I'll say. He wouldn't leave me
alone.'
'Was he in the forces?'
'He had a protected occupation.
Can't remember what ...engineer of some kind. He was in the Home Guard.'
'How did he react when you started going
out with Norman?'
'He used to call at my house at all
hours .., obsessed, he was. Gave me the creeps. Stalking, they'd call it
nowadays ... it's nothing new.'
'How did you get rid of him?'
'I married my Albert. Norman had
gone away and Albert asked me ... I had to with our Carole on the way.'
'Didn't Charles offer to marry you?'
She nodded. I wouldn't have anything
to do with him. There was something about him ... something that frightened me.
He got married later, though, a girl who wasn't from round here… had two
children. Always odd. he was. Shame, because the rest of his family were quite
nice.'
'Did you know an Arthur Challinor?'
'Oh yes. Him and Charles had been at
school together. Nice chap, Arthur. In the navy, he was.'
'Do you remember when he was shot?'
'Oh yes. They said it was some Yank
on patrol and a bit trigger-happy ... some of them were, you know.'
'Would it surprise you to know that
no American troops were in Bereton village that day? They were all up to their
necks in muck and bullets doing some exercise or other.'
Marion shook her head. It was
something that hadn't occurred to her. She, like everyone else, had accepted
Charles Mallindale's version of events. The countryside was filled with
thousands of trigger-happy soldiers from the land that invented the cowboy picture
... everyone had assumed that Arthur Challinor had got on the wrong side of one
of them.
'And did you know that the
description of the killer that Mallindale gave matched Norman Openheim exactly
... down to his silver cigarette lighter?'
Marion suddenly saw the truth. She
dropped her secateurs and swung round.
'Charles Mallindale killed Arthur
Challinor. didn't he. Marion?... and tried to frame your boyfriend out of
spite, jealousy - whatever. He didn't reckon with the case being handed to the
US authorities ... the authorities who knew exactly where their troops had been
at the time of Arthur Challinor's death. Did you know about this. Marion?
Suspect anything?'
She shook her head. 'No ... but it
doesn't surprise me. There was always something ... something I didn't like
about Charlie. He only thought about himself and what he wanted.'
Heffernan looked at Wesley, who'd
been listening carefully. 'Where is he now?'
The two policemen looked intently at
the plump, grey-haired woman standing contentedly in her garden. She was about
to tell them where Norman Openheim's killer could be found.
'Bereton churchyard, I guess,' she
said. 'He died five years back.'
****
'Where are we going now, sir?"
'Back to Bereton. June Mallindale
must be his daughter.
Marion told us he had two children.'
'You think she's inherited her dad's killer streak?'
'Who knows, Wes. Who knows.'
June Mallindale's house was a fine
example of Georgian domestic architecture set on the outskirts of the village.
Wesley studied it admiringly: it was the sort of house Pam aspired to ...if she
ever made headmistress and her husband Assistant Chief
Constable. 'Nice place, sir.'
'Very nice. Either Ms Mallindale's
books sell very well or her psychopathic dad did all right for himself.'
'They say a psychopathic personality
helps in business.'
'And in crime. Let's have a word
with the lady, shall we?'
June Mallindale answered the door.
They heard a young voice behind her asking who it was.
'Nobody for you. David.' she called
back. Haven't you got that homework to do?'
'But I'm not well.'
She smiled apologetically. 'I'm looking
after my brother's son. His wife's in hospital and David claims he's not
feeling well...that's why he's billeted on me for the day. Come in.'
She held the door open. Halfway up
the stairs a fair-haired boy of about eleven was sitting, a bored expression on
his face.
'Hello.' said Wesley. The boy looked
up ... at least someone was taking notice of him. 'David Mallindale?'
The boy nodded. 'Are you in Mrs
Peterson's class?' The boy nodded again, more eagerly this time.
'Mrs Peterson's my wife.'
David looked Wesley up and down
suspiciously. It was hard at that age to imagine one's teacher having any life
outside the school gates, let alone a husband.
Wesley continued. 'I've been having
a look at some of the work you've been doing about the war.'
'Nineteen thirty-nine to
forty-five,' David said helpfully.
'You wrote about someone getting
shot while he was out shooting rabbits.'
Heffernan was watching June Mallindale's
expression and saw a wariness in her eyes.
'Oh yeah ... my granddad saw it. My
gran told me.' The youngster still didn't know the reality of death. To him it
was glossy, sanitised ... something you saw on the telly.
Heffernan turned to June Mallindale.
'If we could have a word, please, love .. .'
Young David retreated up the
handsome staircase. When June led them into the tastefully decorated drawing
room, Wesley shut the door firmly behind him in case the boy was tempted to
listen on the stairs ... as he would have been at that age.
We'd like to ask you a few questions
about your late father."
June nodded, her fair hair hanging
across her bowed head, hiding her expression. Heffernan had a sudden urge to push
the hair aside so that he could see her eyes when she answered... but he sat on
the sofa, still, watching.
Then June Mallindale looked up;
looked the inspector directly in the eyes. 'My father killed a man. I suppose
you know ... I suppose that's why you're here.'
Wesley looked at his boss, who was
staring at the woman in disbelief. He had hardly expected the confession to be
so forthcoming. So much for family secrets.
'When he died five years ago he left
an envelope ... to be opened by me in the event of his death. It was a
confession. He shot Arthur Challinor during the war and blamed an American soldier.
He got away with it.'
'It must have been a shock to you.
Miss Mallindale,' said Wesley gently.
"It's not something you go out
and tell the world. I don't know why he had to tell me. I'd rather not have
known.'
'Why did he kill Arthur Challinor?
Did he say?'
She nodded. 'Arthur Challinor was
well off. My father asked him for money to start a business. He knew the war
wouldn't last forever and..."
'Challinor said no?'
'Not at first. It looked like it was
all going ahead, then Arthur backed out... said he had plans of his own for his
hotel after the war. They went out poaching together one day when Arthur was on
leave. They were shooting rabbits. There was rationing ...everyone round here
did it. My father came back alone. Arthur had been shot. According to my father
he was shot by an American on patrol ... he gave the description of this GI
who'd
been seeing a girl my father fancied.' She went over to the fine marble
mantelpiece and picked up a box. She unlocked it and drew out a sheet of
typewritten paper. 'Here ... here's his confession. I keep it up there to remind
me ... remind me that I'm the daughter of a murderer. I've never married.
That's probably why.'
'Your brother hasn't had your
scruples. He's got children.'
'My brother doesn't know about this
... or my mother, she's still alive in a nursing home near Maleton. They still
believe the story my father told the police at the time. I could hardly
enlighten them, could I?'
'So where did your father get the
money?' Heffernan looked around the elegant drawing room; there was no shortage
of funds here.
'My mother was an only child who'd
just inherited a substantial fortune ... she's also a stupid, unimaginative
woman who couldn't see what was going on under her nose, didn't know what was
happening in her own family. He could be very charming when he wanted to be.'
She stared into space, chewing her thumb knuckle. 'It was me he told ... me he
confided in …'
'Why was that?' asked Wesley,
quietly.
'I was ... I was special...'
'What do you mean?' Wesley half
knew, half dreaded the answer.
'As soon as I was twelve ... he...
we shared secrets... things nobody else knew.'
Heffernan sat on the edge of the
sofa, holding his breath, wishing Rachel was there. In his opinion cases like
this needed the female touch. 'He abused you?' he asked with studied
gentleness. He was the father of a daughter himself - albeit a grown-up one -
and he found cases that involved the exploitation of a vulnerable child
particularly hard to deal with. He had no wish to hear any details of June
Mallindale's suffering; such details sickened him.