The Ten Commandments (2 page)

Their relationship had blossomed, with the added piquancy that not even their closest friends knew of it – a secret easy to maintain since they lived in the same building. They remained essentially free spirits – though there had been occasional flares of jealousy on both sides – and often met simply as friends. But on the occasions when they made love, they experienced a sense of fulfillment that neither had found elsewhere. Which, Hannah concluded humbly, made them both very lucky.

She glanced at the bedside clock. Eight-thirty, she saw, with a stab of guilt. Gwen, who was returning on the overnight flight, would probably already have left Heathrow, which meant she'd be home in less than two hours. Hannah had left a note offering to take round a cold supper, to save her friend having to dash out and shop as soon as she reached home. Gwen would, she knew, be anxious to hear about Ashbourne and how it had fared in her absence.

Hannah sighed. Then she swung her legs to the floor and padded through to the bathroom.

Gwen Rutherford was not the only Broadshire resident returning on the Toronto flight: Frederick Mace and his wife had spent a month in Canada promoting his book on criminality, and as the plane touched down, the knowledge that he would shortly be home filled him with relief. It had been an exhausting tour for a couple in their seventies, added to which the dreaded cloud of jet lag now hung over them.

He put his hand on Edwina's. All right, darling?'

She turned to smile at him. 'All right, but I'll be glad to be home.'

'My sentiments exactly. Not long now; one of the girls will be waiting for us.'

It was Gillian, Edwina saw, as she emerged from the customs hall to scan the row of people meeting the flight. She smiled and waved as she hurried after Frederick and the luggage-laden trolley.

'Darlings!' Gillian embraced them enthusiastically. 'Did you have a wonderful time? How many books did you sign, Pop?'

He smiled, his face crinkling into all the folds that made him so distinctively himself. 'I lost count,' he confessed.

'He was a great success,' Edwina said proudly. 'And how are all of you?'

'Fine, and steaming in this wonderful hot weather.'

'And Alex?'

Gillian didn't meet her eyes. 'Fine,' she said again, brightly. 'The twins broke up last week, so her life has swung into holiday mode.'

They located the car and loaded cases, holdalls and carrier bags into the boot. Already the concrete building was uncomfortably hot.

'You get in the front, dear, so you can tell Gilly about the trip,' Edwina instructed her husband, opening the rear door. 'I shall probably have a little nap on the way home.'

'Was it as disruptive as you'd feared,' Gillian asked, manoeuvring the car down the ramps, 'having to break off in the middle of the new book to talk about the last one?'

'I tried to keep it fresh in my mind – jotting down ideas, and so on. I'll be glad to get back to it, though.'

'Didn't you say it's about the motives behind crimes?'

'That's the general idea.'

Gillian smiled wryly, accepting that further questioning would be useless; her father would never discuss work in progress. 'There was a murder near Shillingham last night,' she remarked instead. 'It was on local radio. And talking of the media, I hope you've not forgotten your TV interview in all the excitement?'

'No, but I'm looking forward to a few good nights' sleep before I have to face that. At the moment I'm having trouble in stringing two sentences together.'

Their voices, distorted by the noise of the engine, came and went against Edwina's ears, making little sense. Gilly looked well, she thought fondly, her blonde hair streaked by the sun and her skin bronzed and glowing. She'd hardly changed in appearance since she was sixteen, and it was difficult to remember she had a sixteen-year-old daughter of her own. At least one of her children was happily married, Edwina thought, and the dormant anxiety about Alex reared itself again. She and Roy were going through a difficult time and there was no knowing how it would end.

And on the familiar worry her tired eyelids drooped and she slept.

Before attending the postmortem that morning, Webb had driven out to Force Headquarters at Stonebridge, where the files of uncleared cases were kept in the basement. He'd spent some time going through that relating to the Feathers case, making notes and learning additional details in the process.

Trevor Philpott, aged forty-four, had been killed by a blow to the back of the head on the ninth of November six years ago. His body was discovered between two parked cars behind the Feathers pub off the Erlesborough to Oxbury road, a location, as Dick Hodges had commented, very similar to last night's. However, it had not in fact been the scene of the crime, traces of blood having been found in a field just beyond the car park.

Despite widespread investigations, no one had been apprehended, no motive discovered, and all inquiries had drawn a blank. Philpott had, to all appearances, been in the best of health, happily married, with a good job and no financial worries. Apparent end of story.

Several hours later, and with the postmortem behind him, Webb was sitting at his desk reading through his notes when the phone rang. He reached for it without looking up. 'Webb.'

"Morning, Dave. Harry Good, in Ashmartin.'

'Hello, Harry. What can I do for you?'

'Boot's on the other foot, old lad. I think we can supply a name for your body.'

Webb straightened. 'Oh? Someone reported missing?'

'Yep, one Simon Judd, a social worker. I haven't any details yet, but according to his wife he arranged to meet someone for a drink last night and never came home.'

'Do we know who?'

'Bloke called Jim Fairlie, for what it's worth. Judd doesn't seem to have known him – took him for a new client. Anyway, he rang Judd at work, and they arranged to meet outside the Jester on Dominion Street at nine o'clock.'

'That's a long way from the Nutmeg.'

'That's what she's clinging to, poor woman, but the description ties in. He left home about ten to nine, and that was the last she saw of him.'

'Did he take a car?'

'No, they're only ten minutes' walk from the town centre.'

Webb said thoughtfully. 'Remember the Feathers case, Harry?'

'No, when was that?'

'It'll be six years now, come November.'

'I was still with Gloucestershire then.'

'Well, see how this grabs you. An estate agent, one Trevor Philpott, received a phone call from someone claiming to have a house to sell. The man offered to drive him out to value it, since the place was difficult to find. They met outside the Stag at Oxbury, and, some hours later, Philpott's body was found between two cars behind another pub, the Feathers, off the Erlesborough road.'

'Good God, that's quite a coincidence.'

'Or perhaps not; the murderer's still on the loose.'

Good whistled softly. 'The pub killer strikes again?'

'Could be. There's another point that tallies: I'm just back from the PM, and death did not occur
in situ.
He was dumped afterwards – and so was Trevor Philpott.'

'Good God!' Good said again, with even more emphasis.

'Erlesborough handled the last case, but I've been through the file and there's very little to go on. No evidence of any kind and no apparent motive.'

'Doesn't bode too well, does it? Anyway, to come back to this one, we're about to bring Mrs Judd over to identify the body, if that's OK?'

'Yes, he's been tidied up. I'll be glad of a talk with her, if she's up to it.'

'She should be OK, her brother and sister-in-law will be with her. We should be there in about half an hour.'

'Right, I'll meet you at the mortuary.'

'And perhaps, when the formalities are over, we can get together over a pint?'

'You're on. See you then.'

However, when, an hour or so later, Webb and Good settled down in the Brown Bear to pool their knowledge, they had little further to add. Mrs Judd, pale and trembling, had identified the body as that of her husband. Under Webb's gentle questioning, she tearfully insisted that he'd no enemies, had not quarrelled with anyone, had not seemed under any kind of strain. It was the Philpott case all over again.

They finished their lunch in gloomy silence. 'We've got two house-to-house inquiries under way,' Good said eventually, finishing his beer. 'One in the area around his home and one in the town centre, on the off chance that someone saw them meet. God knows what happened after that. Our lads will be in the Jester this evening to speak to the regulars, but two blokes talking in a pub wouldn't have made that much of an impression.'

'Perhaps,' Webb suggested, 'the Jester was only a rendezvous – you know, "on the corner at nine". Then Chummie draws up in his car and says, "It's a lovely evening – let's drive out and find a country pub.'"

'Bit hypothetical, isn't it?'

'Have you any better suggestion? Assuming the murder was premeditated, he'd have wanted to get Judd out of town to do the dirty deed, and he must have had a car to get to the Nutmeg. We know Judd hadn't taken his.'

Good pushed back his plate. 'OK, Dave, it's your baby now. Anything I can do, you've only to say the word. I've arranged for half a dozen DCs and DSs to report to the Incident Room. They might be able to help.'

'Thanks, Harry. I'll be following you over shortly; the first priority is to interview Judd's colleagues and see what they know about that phone call. I'm determined this case isn't going to fizzle out like the Philpott one.'

'That's right, think positively,' Good said with a grin. 'With a bit of luck, you might finish by cracking both of them.'

Ashmartin lay to the east, near the Berkshire border. It was a charming old town which had expanded over the years to become the third largest in the county. In the process, however, it had had the wisdom – or good fortune – to retain its nucleus of attractive old buildings, the responsibility for which had, over the last thirty years, been in the hands of a vigilant preservation society.

To Webb's mind, a large part of the town's charm lay in its centre, for the parish church of St Giles, resplendent with towers and turrets, overlooked a large green complete with duck pond – another legacy from the past. Here, in the summer, office workers picnicked, children played, and older inhabitants sat in the shade under spreading trees.

Several private houses also overlooked the green, and in fan, as Good had indicated, most of the residential areas were within walking distance of the centre. Consequently, Ashmartin was spared the nightly migration of its population suffered by most town centres.

And as if these blessings were not enough, it was here that the Broadshire and Avon Canal began its winding journey westwards across the county, affording pleasant walks and interesting pubs along its banks.

This is where I'm coming when I retire,' Jackson remarked. 'You can keep your south coast – Ashmartin's the place for me.'

'You could do a lot worse, Ken. Look, there's a space here. Pull in, and we can walk round the corner to Social Services.'

The heat of the afternoon hit them as soon as they left the car, beating up from the pavement and down from the molten blue sky, and they were thankful to turn into the shady side street, screened from the sun by its tall buildings.

The Social Services Department was halfway along, and Webb pushed open the door to find himself in a foyer not unlike a doctor's surgery. To the right was a children's play area, where much shrieking and banging was in progress, and a few dispirited women – presumably the children's mothers – sat patiently round the room flicking through magazines.

He took out his warrant card and approached the desk, raising his voice to make himself heard. 'DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, from Shillingham. We'd like to speak to someone about Mr Judd.'

The young woman bit her lip. 'Yes, of course. We just can't believe –' She broke off. 'Just a moment, I'll see if the duty officer is free.'

She lifted the intercom and spoke quickly in a low voice, then turned back to them. 'He'll come straight down, sir.'

'Thank you.'

One of the doors on the left opened to discharge a young couple, shepherded by an older man who stopped on the threshold and shook their hands. Interview rooms, Webb thought, much as they had at Carrington Street. He turned as footsteps sounded on the stairs and a dark, bearded man hurried towards them.

'Chief Inspector – Steve Parker, one of Simon's colleagues. As you can imagine, we're all shattered. Would you care to come up to my office?'

Webb and Jackson followed him back up the linoleumed stairs and into a room shaded by Venetian blinds, where an electric fan whirred officiously in a corner. There were two desks, one of them poignantly bare. Parker seated himself at the other and waved them to a couple of chairs.

He said in a strained voice, 'I suppose there's no chance of a mistake?'

'I'm afraid not; his wife identified him this afternoon,'

'God!' Parker put his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. After a moment, he raised his head and met Webb's eye. 'He broke all the rules, you know, going off alone to meet someone.'

'Then why did he do it?'

Parker shrugged. 'I was here when the call came through; I –'

'Just a moment, sir – about that call; was it for Mr Judd specifically, or did he just happen to be free?'

'I checked with Diane downstairs; she said he was asked for by name.'

So it wasn't a random killing – always supposing that the caller was the murderer. 'It would be a help if you could remember what was said.'

'I've been over and over it, but you see the phone was for ever ringing, and to begin with I didn't pay much attention. The first thing I registered was Simon saying, "I'm sorry, I can't place you. When was that?" But I really pricked up my ears when he said, "I think it would be much better if you came here. We can speak quite privately.''

'The other bloke was obviously arguing, and I made signs to Simon asking what was up, but he just shook his head. He finished by saying, "Well, all right then, if you really think that's best. Yes, I'll be there. Nine o'clock outside the Jester."