The Ten Commandments (11 page)

Webb replaced his phone and sat for a moment, tapping his pen on the desk. Then, with a sigh, he turned back to the less interesting papers that awaited him.

'Hannah?' It was Gwen. 'Are you by any chance free this afternoon?'

Since Hannah's plans had progressed no further than a book and a cold drink in the garden, she admitted that she was.

'I've had a chance now to go through the things you left for me, and I think it's time we had a discussion.'

Hannah sighed. After a strenuous year standing in as headmistress, she was still revelling in the freedom of the summer holidays, and the thought of having to turn her mind back to school matters held no appeal. Still, they obviously needed to talk sometime, and perhaps the sooner the better, while it was all relatively fresh in her mind.

'Certainly, Gwen. I'll come over, shall I?'

'If you would. About two-thirty?'

'See you then.' Hannah scooped up the marmalade cat which, while she'd been talking, had appropriated her chair. She held him for a moment, rubbing her face against his silky fur and listening to his deep-throated purr. Then she reseated herself, settled him on her lap, and picked up the local paper which she'd been reading when the phone rang.

The Arts Page was devoted to the Broadshire Festival of Literature, with a list of venues and the eminent speakers who would be taking part. In one of the boxes, under the heading 'Ashmartin Central Library', she read:
Tuesday 30th July. Mr Frederick Mace, the well-known writer and criminologist, will be speaking on 'Murder Under the Microscope' at 8 pm. Tickets £5 to include a glass of wine and canapés.

That, she reflected, might be interesting. Perhaps he would expand on some of the ideas he'd mentioned on television. Also, while David could hardly go to the talk himself, she might learn something of interest on his behalf.

The decision taken, Hannah laid aside the paper and picked up pen and pad to make notes for her discussion with Gwen.

The house had lost its musty smell, but in the sitting-room there was the unmistakable scent of old age. Hannah, shown in there on her arrival, chatted for a minute or two with Mrs Rutherford, happily restored to her own armchair after almost a year with her elder daughter.

'There's nothing quite like your own,' she commented contentedly. Beatrice and John couldn't have been kinder, but as the song says, there's no place like home.'

Hannah smiled across at Gwen, and surprised an expression on her face that she couldn't interpret. Then it was gone, and Gwen said briskly, 'Well, if you'll excuse us, Mother, we'll move to the dining-room and get down to business. We'll join you for a cup of tea later.'

The dining-room was at the front of the house, and from its open window sounds from the park reached them sporadically as they worked. To her dismay, Hannah found she was becoming increasingly irritated as, one after another, the modest innovations she'd introduced over the last year were systematically ruled out. Gwen made no particular criticism of them; it was more a case of, 'I can't see that would be much advantage,' or, 'Well, now that I'm back –'

Once, Hannah was stung to interject, 'Actually, it worked very well. The girls –'

But Gwen, smiling vaguely, had moved on to the next point, and Hannah's annoyance slowly deepened to anger. It was so totally unexpected; she and Gwen had worked admirably together for years, in almost total harmony. As long, Hannah thought with a flash of insight, as Gwen was head and she herself mere deputy. And she realized, again with a small shock, that Gwen, though she'd rather die than admit it, resented the efficiency Hannah had shown while she'd been away.

She was still coming to terms with that when she realized uncomfortably that there was another side to the coin: Gwen's attitude had brought home to her just how much she'd enjoyed running the school herself, implementing new ideas and being free – within reason – to direct things in the way she considered best.

It did not help that during all this negating of her ideas, Gwen had made no comment on Hannah's safe handling of the school through what she knew to have been a far from easy year. Hannah found herself wondering with asperity how Gwen would have handled the suicide of a member of staff, the insidious spread of a dangerous cult, the scandal which drove a school governor to take his life.

She had always known that behind the flapping, disorganized exterior, there was a ruthless streak in Gwen which ensured that she got her own way. It was simply that this ruthlessness had never before been directed at her, and she did not enjoy the experience.

Having disposed of everything Hannah had initiated, Gwen moved on to what was obviously the main reason for their meeting – the changes she herself wished to implement, based on her experience of the Canadian system.

Some, Hannah mentally dismissed as scarcely worth incorporating – no doubt as Gwen had viewed her own. Others she conceded might be an improvement, but there were several major changes that she was convinced would be wrong for Ashbourne.

'Don't you see the upsets they'd cause?' she asked urgently. 'The governors would never accept them, let alone the parents.'

'I'm quite confident of bringing them round. Unlike the rest of you. I've had the advantage of seeing them in operation.'

'But Canada's very different from England, Gwen. The whole system is. It just wouldn't work here.'

Gwen fixed her with eyes that were no longer either shy or diffident. 'Don't you think I should be the judge of that?'

Hannah forced a smile. 'Well, don't let's argue about it. We can bring it up at the next board meeting and see what the reaction is.'

'Of course.' Gwen closed the file in front of her. 'But I wanted to talk it over with you first, as a matter of courtesy.'

'I appreciate that.'

There was a pause as they regarded one another, each aware of the shift in their relationship and uncertain how to deal with it. Then Gwen said in half-apology, 'A year's a long time, Hannah. It will take me a while to settle back into things.'

'I know; that's why I feel it would be as well to take things slowly.'

'We'll see. Now, if you'd like to go and rejoin Mother, I'll put the kettle on.'

That evening, Hannah tried to explain her worries to Webb.

'The awful thing is, we're not comfortable with each other any more. It's almost as though we don't trust each other.'

'A year's a long time,' Webb said, unconsciously echoing Gwen. 'You're bound to have grown apart a little. Things will ease next term, when you're back in harness again.'

Hannah said reflectively, 'It'll be hard for me too, having been in charge for a year. I'm surprised how much I mind the prospect of stepping down.'

'But you always knew it was temporary,' Webb reminded her.

'Somehow, that doesn't help! And she did go on, David. Even during tea, everything was Canada this and Canada that. I felt like asking why she'd bothered to come home!'

'Obviously she's full of it, after being out there so long,' he pointed out reasonably. 'Give her time. Keep out of her way for a while and let things die down.'

'But suppose we can't regain our old footing? It would make things very awkward.'

'I still think you're jumping the gun. Relax; you've got about six weeks of holiday ahead of you. I wish I had your problems!'

Hannah laughed. 'Sorry, but I needed to get that off my chest. All right, I promise not to bring it up again. Tell me how the inquiry's going.'

So he told her about the elusive Lee Baring and the watch being kept on his house.

'If he's the villain, there should be no difficulty nailing him – there are bound to be traces in the car. And once we have that under our belts, we can sound him out on the Feathers case.'

'But there's no doubt, is there? It's virtually an identical crime.'

'On the face of it, yes, but that's not conclusive. Still, it would be a terrific bonus if we could tie them both up at the same time.'

'Which reminds me. I'm going to Ashmartin tomorrow evening, to hear Frederick Mace.'

'Again? His publicity agent's working overtime.'

'Well, he's a local celebrity and it's the Broadshire Festival of Literature, in case you hadn't noticed.'

Webb grinned. 'I admit it had escaped me.'

'I thought he might come up with something interesting that I could pass on to you.'

'I'm not sure how to take that,' he protested. 'I like to think we're capable of solving our own crimes, without depending on academic old gentlemen!'

'All right, be like that, but
I
want to hear him.'

'Mind you don't break any Commandments,' Webb said, and ducked as Hannah threw a cushion at him.

'Anyway,' she finished, 'perhaps by tomorrow evening, Mr Baring will be behind bars, and that will be an end of it.'

Inquiries had established that Bill Price, nominated by Mrs Judd as her husband's closest friend, worked as a clerk in the National Bank in Dominion Street. Webb and Jackson were shown into a private room and minutes later Price himself appeared, a tall, thin man with a stoop and an unsuccessful moustache.

Webb waved him to one of his own – or at least the bank's – chairs.

'We understand from his wife that you were a friend of Simon Judd,' he began.

'Yes, that's right.' Price spoke quickly, as though eager to be of help. 'A terrible thing – quite unbelievable. Old Simon wasn't the type to get himself murdered.'

Webb's mouth twitched. 'I wasn't aware there was a "type".'

'Well, you know what I mean. He'd not a wrong word to say about anybody. He was just an ordinary, decent chap going about his business and trying to pull his weight in the community.'

St Simon. Like St Trevor in Oxbury. Damn it, both men must have had
some
faults; this was carrying not speaking ill of the dead too far.

'How well did you know him, sir?'

'As well as anyone. I'd say. Since schooldays.'

'Would you say his marriage was happy?'

'Good Lord, yes. He wasn't a womanizer, if that's what you're wondering. In fact, he was so shy we wondered if he'd ever pluck up the courage to propose to Ella.'

'We?'

'Me and his other pals.'

'Who were they?'

'Keith Denham, Mark Scott and Bob Naylor. We used to go round in a crowd at one time, then we lost touch. Keith moved away, Mark works on the continent, and Bob just seemed to drop out of sight.'

'What about more recently?' Webb inquired. 'Who was Judd friendly with at the time of his death?' He'd had no luck with Judd's wife on that question, perhaps some names would emerge now.

But Price was shaking his head. 'As I said, I knew him as well as anyone, but I wouldn't say we were close. Simon got on with everyone, but he kept himself to himself. Even when we were lads, swopping experiences with girls, Si would listen to the rest of us, but he'd never volunteer anything. Come to think of it, maybe that's why he was good at his job – just listening.'

'Can you recall his having an argument with anyone, disagreeing with something someone had done?'

'I wouldn't call them arguments, but he had strong principles and he stuck to them.'

'What kind of principles?'

'Well, that you should be punished if you did something wrong. That kind of thing. Funny, really; a lot of people think social workers are too soft by half – do-gooders – but Simon wasn't like that. He'd move heaven and earth to help someone in trouble, but if they'd done wrong, he thought they ought to take the consequences.'

Interesting, Webb thought. 'Any particular instances?'

'Can't think of one offhand, but it was always general stuff, something in the papers or on the news. He never talked about his work.'

Unlikely, then, to be of much relevance. All the same, the conversation had given a slightly different slant on Simon Judd. Had he stuck to his principles once too often? It was an angle which might warrant investigation.

As they came out on to the street, Webb saw a notice advertising Frederick Mace's talk that evening and, despite his comments to Hannah, felt a flicker of interest. The old boy was pretty astute; would he consider that Judd's judgemental qualities strengthened or weakened his theory of broken Commandments?

Shrugging aside such hypotheses, Webb reached for his mobile to check if there'd been any sighting yet of Baring.

Patrick Knowles steered the car on to the verge and drew to a halt. As the engine died, silence enfolded him, broken only by the distant hum of a plane, almost invisible in the summer sky. Ahead and behind, the country road stretched emptily, shimmering in the heat-haze.

He had twenty minutes before his next appointment, and was glad of a breathing space. Life was becoming altogether too complicated; only a few months ago, he'd been happily cruising along, with no problems of any consequence. Now, a host of them buzzed in his head, battling for supremacy. Unfastening his seat belt, he wound down the window and settled back, drumming his fingers restlessly on the steering wheel.

High on the list, as always, came his mother and sister. Neither was strong, and recently both seemed to be deteriorating. Zoe was increasingly nervy, making him fear the onset of another breakdown, while his mother's health, uncertain for years, was now failing rapidly. The time was fast approaching when she would be too much for Zoe to cope with on her own. Then what? He hated the idea of a nursing home, but if it did become necessary, what would happen to his sister?

Common sense dictated that she should move in with them, but since she and Sonia barely tolerated each other, it would not make for a congenial household.

Sonia. Another of his worries, though admittedly of his own making. The trouble was that his affair with Alex had got completely out of hand. How the hell could he have known, when he gave her that New Year kiss, that it would light such a fuse between them? Even thinking of her now aroused him. He reached for the car phone and dialled her number.

'Hello?'

'It's me. Can you talk?'

'Briefly – the twins are in the garden.'