Wings over the Watcher (18 page)

“And took it seriously?”

Priestley nodded, shame-faced.

This was interesting – a new angle to the story which neither of them had anticipated.

“What was
her
reaction?”

Again Priestley shook his head. “She was really silly about it. She thought I really had been up to something. I can tell you, Inspector, she threw a wobbly at me. She bloody hit me, started screaming.”

“Was this witnessed by Beatrice?”

“Yeah. She saw Marilyn weren’t pleased. She bolted.”

“And then afterwards?”

“I couldn’t seem to convince Marilyn.” Priestley suddenly realised what he was saying. “I mean – I don’t think she had anything to do with it. She just… She just didn’t believe me,” he finished lamely.

Joanna glanced at Mike. Here was someone else with a motive for wanting Beatrice Pennington dead. They had seen the way Marilyn Saunders had doted on her young lover. It had given her a status and mystique. But at the same time this aspect made her vulnerable. Her humiliation in such a small town would be public and cruel if he left her – particularly if it was for another woman of her own age who had previously been counted as one of her best friends.

She was silent while both Korpanski and Priestley watched her.

At last she lifted her head. “Tell me, Guy, how much do you love Marilyn?”

He studied her back. “That’s a funny question,” he said. “I don’t know how to answer it.”

“Honestly, I suggest.”

“I’m happy enough with her for the time being.”

“And then?”

“If it didn’t suit I wouldn’t be there.” He swallowed. “Look – if it was a guy with a younger bird no one’d bat an eyelid. Just because it’s the other way round people think it’s weird. It’s no big deal. Understand? It’s no big deal.”

Joanna nodded. She had not read Priestley wrongly but correctly. Moving in with Marilyn Saunders had seemed like a good idea at the time.

She watched him keenly. “Did you kill Beatrice Pennington?”

Priestley looked really scared now. “No, I didn’t. Please believe me. Why would I?”

She kept her eyes trained on him then stood up, terminating the interview into the tape recorder. “You’re free to go,” she said, “for the time being.”

Priestley looked suspicious at his freedom.

He stood up quickly, almost knocking over the chair, gave a swift glance at the door, then at Korpanski who was staring him out.

Then he bolted. Towards the door, threw it open and was gone.

Joanna couldn’t help smiling. He was so like a frightened rabbit. “So what did you think of that, Mike?”

“Interesting.”

“My feelings exactly.”

So they had learned the answer to one anomaly at least. They knew now why the Ann Summers underwear had been new, left in the drawer and forgotten about. Beatrice had bought it for the benefit of Guy – who in the words of Rhett Butler – couldn’t give a damn.

But for now it meant another trip up the High Street, calling first at the library. They climbed the stone steps with a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Who would have thought that one simple murder would have proved such a tricky nut to crack?

They pushed open the library doors and left them swinging behind them, started climbing the stone stairs. At the top stood a thin, middle-aged man who reminded Joanna vaguely of Arthur Pennington. Same type. He watched them climb with an air of involvement, his eyes stuck on them. Instinctively Joanna knew he must be Adrian Grove.

“Excuse me,” she said as she reached the top, “you’re not Adrian Grove, are you?”

Pale blue eyes focused on her. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s who I am.” He was one of those men who have a prominent Adam’s apple in a skinny neck. His hair was mousy, thin and wispy across a bright pink pate. He must have caught the sun on his holiday.

Joanna introduced herself and Mike to him and Grove gave a tangible sigh of relief. “I’m so glad
you’re
looking into it,” he said. “I’ve seen you on the television a year or so ago. When the little girl disappeared from the school. I thought you were…” He blushed. Joanna felt sorry for his acute embarrassment.

“Is there somewhere private we can talk, Mr Grove?”

“Yes. Yes. Of course. Let me just go and tell the girls.”

He scuttled off through the double glass doors. They caught a glimpse of Lisa Chorley and Kerry Beardmore staring at them then Grove bustled back out and ushered
them through a side door into what was obviously a staff room.

It was barely furnished with drab walls but the furniture was cheery, two pale sofas and an ash coffee table. In the corner was a sink and tea and coffee making equipment. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes. Thank you. That would be nice.”

“Tea with two sugars”, Korpanski said shortly before settling on the farther sofa.

They waited until the mugs were in front of them before Joanna opened the questioning. “You’ve just come back from your holiday?”

“Yes. I’ve been walking – in Italy. I rang – just to make sure everything was going all right and they told me about poor Beattie.” His eyes were watering as he spoke and he brushed them with the back of his hand. “I can’t believe it, Inspector. I just can’t. I would have thought her the last person in the world who would be murdered. She didn’t seem…”

Korpanski butted in rudely. “So what sort of person
would
you expect to see murdered, Mr Grove?”

“Oh I don’t know.” Understandably Grove was rattled by the question. Joanna felt annoyed that Korpanski had confronted the librarian so soon in the interview. She shot him a warning look and he gave her one of his bland, innocent smiles back.

But she knew he’d got the message.

“Someone more glamorous,” Grove came up with. “Someone who has an adventurous life.”

Joanna knew then. She just knew that Grove read spy thrillers.

“Did you know anyone who might have disliked Mrs Pennington?”

“No.” Grove stopped short and considered the question. “No. I can’t say as I do. She wasn’t the sort of person you’d take strong feeling against, if you see what I mean. She was easygoing. Pleasant, polite, private.”

“Were you and she good friends?”

“Oh yes.” Again the librarian stopped short. “Well – I mean – friends as colleagues of course.”

No impropriety was what he was suggesting.

“I think I see.” Korpanski was at it again, antagonising a potential witness.

“You mean you had no – special friendship?”

“Certainly not,” Grove said indignantly.

“But you are divorced?”

“I am. Through no fault of my own.”

A prig
too
. “But Mrs Pennington was a happily married woman.”

“Was she?”

The rhetoric seemed to confuse Grove. His Adam’s apple bobbed like a Halloween fruit as he swallowed. “I’m sure she was,” he said. But there was a hint of doubt in his voice which both police picked up on.

“Good.” Joanna treated him to one of her warmest smiles.

“How long had you worked together?”

“Around five years. We weren’t close, you understand, but we were friends.”

“Did you go out socially ever?”

“Only at the Christmas party.”

“And were husbands and wives invited to that?”

“No – we never do. I’m on my own and I think out of respect for my situation we decided a few years ago not to invite partners.”

Grove was reminding Joanna even more of Arthur Pennington. The same pedantic and wordy way of speaking.

“We usually go to Den Engels,” he added irrelevently.

Den Engels, the Belgian Bar, good, plentiful food and wonderful beers. It was one of Matthew’s favourite eating/drinking holes. Joanna had a sudden vivid vision of him with a brown beer bottle in his hand, grinning and waving at her, shouting over the noise. She savoured the snapshot. It had been the venue of such happy nights.

And again, she promised herself. Again. They will come again. A few more days and he would be home. But this silent promise was dangerous. It gave her a terrible impatience with this case. It should be simple. She should have arrested someone by now, charged them with the murder. This was not some complex case where an unknown psychopath had gone berserk. This was a simple domestic drama. Beatrice had known her killer, as he or she had known her. She had entered his or her car willingly, maybe smiled at her killer as she had faced him or her, possibly even continued to smile as the fingers had fastened around her throat and squeezed the life out of her before dumping her body under the hedge on the moors.

So why hadn’t she found the killer?

Answer:

Because Beatrice had not been what she had seemed. She had led a very hidden life, concealed from everyone – even those who considered they knew her well and especially from her family. Beatrice had preserved her secrets to the grave and beyond. Only when they had exposed all the dark corners of her complex life would she know who had killed her.

Beatrice had not confided in anyone – merely dropped the tiniest of hints to her friends who had not been curious enough to follow them up. So she had preserved her secrecy.

Already, so early on in her interview of yet another of Beatrice’s colleagues she was aware of the blind tunnel ahead with no glimmer of light. So she fumbled and stumbled.

“When did you last see Beatrice?”

“The Saturday morning just before I left to go on holiday. I bumped into her shopping in Leek. She was in one of the shops along the street.”

“Which one?” Joanna asked idly, more to keep the conversation moving than with any real interest.

“That nice handbag shop halfway up Derby Street.”

“I see. How did she seem?”

“Her usual self.”

“Was she alone?”

“Well – yes – apart from Mrs Pirtek – the lady who…”

“Yes, I know she owns the shop and was a friend of Beatrice’s.”

Grove looked at her expectantly, waiting for the next question. The trouble was Joanna couldn’t think of any other questions to ask Adrian Grove. He seemed pleasant, eager to please. Innocent was the word that sprang to mind. She couldn’t sense any evil lying beneath his bland exterior.
Sense?
She could practically
hear
Korpanski scoffing at this most unscientific instinct. Maybe it was time she stopped depending on it so much.

They returned to the main library to speak to the two remaining librarians but even as they both looked up it all seemed too fantastic. Lisa Chorley was a young woman, attractive in her midriff-exposing jeans and t-shirt. She wore stud silver earrings, had long, silky dark hair. Joanna simply couldn’t imagine her having some sort of lesbian affair with the deceased.

Maybe Kerry Beardmore was a more promising candidate.

Kerry was a few years younger than Beatrice. Plump too, with an innocent, motherly face, kind and doughy. In fact from certain angles she could have been mistaken for her dead colleague. They settled down again in the staff room and for once Joanna didn’t quite know where to begin. She felt swamped with the idea that she was floundering blindly in a sticky bog. She looked helplessly at Mike. This was completely uncharacteristic but Korpanski, with surprising sensitivity, opened the interview.

“Married, are you, love?”

Joanna winced. Not quite her style of questioning. But it was better then nothing.

“Yeah.” Kerry shared that same, eager-to-please expression with her friend.

“Got kids?”

You had to hand it to Korpanski – he had a certain blunt directness in the way he conducted his interviews.

“I’ve got two. A daughter and a son who – well – he isn’t terribly well.”

Joanna took over. “Sorry to hear that.”

Kerry smiled. “Thanks. He’s a bit of a tie. I mean – I adore him. Love him to bits but sometimes – well – let’s just say, he’s difficult.”

“I expect Beatrice was quite understanding about your son?”

“She was.” No mistaking the warmth here. “She was really lovely about him. You see – lots of people just don’t understand. He comes out with things. But Beattie. Well – she took it all in his stride. She was a lovely person, you know. I mean – I’ve read in the papers just the bare bones of her life. The fact that she was married, worked here, had two children. It doesn’t describe her at all. She was wonderful. Very kind and generous.” Kerry’s eyes began to fill up. She sniffed and tugged a tissue from the pocket of her cardigan. “And she was so dedicated to the Readers’ Group. She was always looking for good books to introduce the readers to. Some classics, some bestsellers and other authors of whom no one had heard. That was such a special thing she did. And she never put anyone down. She’d always listen to their point of view.”

Kerry’s face changed. “The thing was – people weren’t always so nice to her.”

“Who do you mean?” Joanna asked curiously.

“Her son and daughter for one thing. Never bothered remembering her birthday. And Mothers’ Day – well ‘forget it, K,’ she said to me. ‘I’d faint if I got a card or a bunch of flowers or something. Crack me up it would.”

“And her husband?” Joanna prompted.

Kerry Beardmore considered for a moment. “He wasn’t bad,” she said. “Just a bit long-winded. A bit boring. If you gave him half the chance he’d spout on for hours about law
and order, politics, public toilets. Anything. And his voice never changed tone. He always spoke in the same way. No expression. Just flat. I found him very hard to listen to. No – I don’t say there’s anything
wrong
with Arthur. It’s just there isn’t very much right with him either.” She forgot herself for a moment in a girlish giggle, which she quickly suppressed with a hand over her mouth and round eyes.

It was time for confidences. The librarian was wearing a low-cut, v-necked short-sleeved black woollen sweater. She leaned far enough forward for Joanna to have full view of a plump and extended cleavage. “I was glad when she found someone else.”

“Even if it led to her death?”

Oddly enough Kerry Beardmore didn’t answer this. She merely regarded both Joanna and then Mike with a perfectly expressionless face.

It was time to ‘put the screws in’. “Come on, Kerry, you must have had some idea who this mystery lover was?”

Another giggle. “At first I thought it was Adrian,” she said. “Then – just before Christmas she got very over-confident – very high-and-mighty. Almost flaunting herself. And then she changed. She got very secretive. Almost ashamed. I came in here one lunchtime and she was scribbling something. A letter I think. She covered it up really quickly with her hand and stuffed it into her handbag but I was very curious.”

“So?” Mike asked bluntly.

“I didn’t
read
it,” Kerry said quickly. “I didn’t. I just caught the odd word. I couldn’t help it,” she said defensively. “I couldn’t. I didn’t
deliberately
set out to read it but I couldn’t help seeing that it was a love letter. There was no name at the top but it was full of romantic phrases. Things like
‘When I think of you’
…and stuff like that.”

“Go on.”

“I’d seen letters like that in her bag before. Quite often. She always used blue paper and envelopes, the long ones. And the envelopes were thick, as though there were sheets
and sheets of writing.”

“Who were they addressed to?”

Kerry took in a deep breath. “They weren’t,” she said. “There was no name on them. She must have filled it in later.”

She must have realised that Joanna didn’t believe her because she protested again. “Honestly – and in a way I was glad. I thought Beattie deserved to keep her secrets. If she’d wanted us to know who her lover was she would have said.”

“So what
did
she say?”

The woman looked flustered. “Only that we were in for a shock one of these days.”

“What did you think she meant?”

“I don’t know. Beattie was a funny one. She half-lived in fantasyland. I suppose part of me wondered if any of it was true.”

“Go on,” Joanna prompted.

“When she left work that night I saw her walk past her bike.”

Sometimes ordinary phrases can appear momentous.

“Why would she do that?”

“I asked her.”

“And?” Joanna simply couldn’t see where this was heading.

“She said ‘I’ve got a letter to deliver.’”

Still Joanna couldn’t see the significance.

“
Deliver
,” Kerry said triumphantly.

Then the penny dropped and the slot machine started whirring. Cogs and spindles cranking around.

“So whoever this mystery person is lives or works near enough for her to walk rather than take her bike.”

“Exactly.”

They both stood up. “Thank you,” Joanna said. “Thank you.”

They left the Nicholson Institute a little more enlightened than when they had walked in.