Читать книгу Deadlock - Emma Page - Страница 11

The light was beginning to fade as Bob Garbutt drove on to the police station forecourt in good time for his four o’clock appointment; he had to make an official statement about his part in the dreadful discovery at Ferndale. At the bungalow yesterday evening there had been time for him to give only a brief verbal account to Constable Hamlin before he had to rush off to pick up his elderly gentleman, take him to his club.

He had spent a wretched night, had risen even earlier than usual, totally unrefreshed. All day he had smelled in his nostrils that stomach-turning blend of odours: rose-perfumed bath essence overlaid with the rank stench of blood.

He had been unable to blink away the grisly succession of sounds and images searing his brain. The terrible, piercing cry from Conway in the doorway of the bathroom, his horrified plunge forward at the bath. Anna’s closed eyes in a face wax-white under the light; her pale, frail body in the crimson water.

Conway’s frantic attempts to snatch at her slippery limbs, her puffed hands, haul her out of the bath in a futile effort to revive her, shouting at him to help. Himself dragging Conway back, holding him off. Anna so clearly dead, plainly dead for hours, long past any hope of resuscitation. To be left where she was, as she was – for other eyes to see.

Conway unable to take it in, plunging again at the bath, screaming at him to get an ambulance, a doctor, ring the hospital. Hauled forcibly back again, collapsing at last into a chair, crying and shaking, his head in his hands. Himself racing along to the phone in the front hall, to ring, not the ambulance, not the doctor or the hospital, but the police.

Garbutt got out of his car and made his way across the forecourt, up the steps and in through the doors. A short distance along the corridor leading out of reception, Constable Hamlin had made it his business to be hanging about, keeping an eye open for Garbutt. As soon as he saw him enter the building and approach the desk, Hamlin went smartly along to Chief Inspector Kelsey’s office.

The Chief and Sergeant Lambert, their appetites by now restored, were making short work of a plate of ham sandwiches when the constable knocked at the door. The Chief bade him enter. He glanced up with inquiry as Hamlin came in.

The constable told him that Garbutt had just called in to make his statement. ‘I thought I’d better let you know,’ he added, ‘in case you want to talk to him again.’

Kelsey was about to take another vast bite of his sandwich. He paused and gave Hamlin a sharp look. ‘What’s this about?’

Hamlin produced the newspaper, still folded into a compact square. He set it down in front of the Chief.

Kelsey looked down at it. Part of a City page, columns of prices, changes, yields. Here and there an inked query mark or circle, a tick, underscoring.

He put down his sandwich and picked up the paper, unfolded it, ran his eye over the rest of the City section. Government stocks, bonds, trusts, equities, interest rates. More inked markings.

Hamlin and Lambert watched in silence as he turned to the front page, looked at the heading. The paper was a quality national daily, yesterday’s date. In the top right-hand corner was a scribbled name: Ferndale.

Hamlin explained how he had come by the paper. ‘Conway was absolutely shattered when I saw him at the bungalow,’ he enlarged. ‘But there he was, an hour or two later, sitting at the table in the interview room as cool as a cucumber, marking the financial columns. I thought it worth a mention.’

‘You thought right,’ Kelsey said with energy. ‘Bring Garbutt along here as soon as he’s made his statement.’

When Garbutt arrived in the office a little later the Chief didn’t show him the newspaper, didn’t mention it. He asked Garbutt to cast his mind back to when he had picked Conway up at Oldmoor station the previous evening. Exactly what had Conway been carrying when he stepped off the train?

Garbutt closed his eyes in thought. ‘He was wearing his overcoat, he was putting his gloves on. He had his briefcase under his arm. Nothing else.’

‘Was he carrying a newspaper? Maybe he had one sticking out of his pocket?’

Garbutt pondered before shaking his head. ‘No, he had no newspaper.’

‘You’re certain of that?’

‘Quite certain. But there was a newspaper in the porch at Ferndale when we got there. It was lying on the bench. Conway picked it up and shoved it in his pocket while he got out his key. I could see by the way he looked at the paper he wasn’t best pleased it was still there. He’d mentioned earlier it was always a bad sign. When Anna was feeling poorly she wouldn’t get out of bed all day, she wouldn’t bother to pick up the post or the newspaper.’

Kelsey took him back again in close detail over the time he had spent at Ferndale on Monday morning. At the end there could be no scintilla of doubt: Garbutt had both seen and spoken to Anna Conway. She had unquestionably been alive and well at seven-fifteen when Garbutt drove her husband to Oldmoor station.

When Garbutt had left, the Chief sat with his head lowered, his elbows resting on the desk, his fingers pressing into his temples. There was a short silence, then Sergeant Lambert said, ‘Conway was alone in the interview room. No one to talk to, nothing to distract his thoughts. He may have been trying to take his mind off what had happened. Better than sitting staring into space, brooding.’

Kelsey made no response.

‘Could be a hobby of his,’ Lambert went on. ‘Studying the markets. The way another man might do a crossword. Something to steady his nerves, calm himself down. He might not even really have been aware of what he was doing, it might just have been force of habit. He must have been in a dreadful state of mind, he could have gone over on to automatic pilot, fallen back on anything to keep his sanity.’

Kelsey raised his head and looked at him. ‘The milk,’ he said. It had still been outside the back door yesterday evening when they got to Ferndale. ‘Make a note to get hold of the milkman. Find out what time he delivered yesterday at the bungalow. If he saw sight or sound of Anna. If he saw or heard anything or anyone in or around the bungalow. If he noticed anything at all in any way out of the ordinary, anywhere in that neighbourhood.’

The street lamps were blossoming rose and gold in the gathering dusk as they left the police station to drive out to Ferndale.

In the darkling garden Conway was clearing up after his labours. He came over to greet them, tugged off his gardening gloves, removed his wellingtons outside the back door, pulled on an old pair of casual shoes. He led the way into the house.

Again he offered refreshments; this time Kelsey declined. ‘But don’t let us stop you having something yourself,’ he added. Conway gave a brief headshake in reply.

He showed them into the sitting room and sat them down. ‘We’d like to ask a few more questions,’ Kelsey said as Conway took his own seat. ‘To fill in details, help to put us in the picture.’ Conway gave a nod. ‘How long have you worked for your present firm?’ Kelsey asked.

‘For Zodiac? Nearly eight months.’

‘Where did you work before that?’

‘I worked at Ackroyd’s, in Northcott.’ An industrial town, seventy miles away. ‘It’s a family firm, they make and supply loose covers.’

‘Why did you leave Ackroyd’s?’

‘I was getting married. I needed more money, better prospects. Ackroyd’s operate just in that one area, and all they do is loose covers. Zodiac are much bigger in every way.’

Kelsey switched tack. ‘The situation with regard to your wife’s family, not being able to contact them – would you mind if we took a look through your wife’s things? Might come across something.’

‘Not at all.’ He gestured them towards the bedroom but made no attempt to accompany them. He leaned back in his chair with an air of profound fatigue.

The bedroom was clean and tidy, the double bed neatly made. On either side of its head stood a polished wooden cabinet.

Kelsey set about the chest of drawers, the wardrobe, the dressing table, while Lambert dealt with the bedside cabinets. The one on the right held some masculine oddments; he turned his attention to the cabinet on the left.

The drawer contained a few trifles: a nail file, handkerchief, hair grips.

He opened the cupboard below. On the shelf, a folded bedjacket, a fancy glass jar half filled with assorted pieces of confectionery. On the floor of the cupboard, two boxes: a beribboned chocolate box and a smaller, wooden box, encrusted with seashells, varnished over.

The shell box disclosed trinkets and costume jewellery. And two flower sprays, dried now and faded: a spray for a lady’s corsage and a fern-backed carnation for a man’s lapel.

Lambert lifted the lid of the chocolate box. Inside was an advertising brochure for Anna’s cruise. He picked it up and glanced through it.

Underneath the brochure lay two strips of passport-type photographs. One strip, of two photographs, was of Anna; the other, a strip of three, was of Conway. In one photograph Conway wore a broad smile, the second was a little blurred, but the third was an excellent likeness, clear and unsmiling.

Over by the window the Chief was looking through the dressing table. In the far corner of the bottom drawer, beneath an orderly pile of silky feminine underwear, ivory-white, trimmed with lace, his fingers encountered the outlines of something round and hard inside one of the pieces of clothing.

He drew out the garment and unfolded it. He saw that it wasn’t an item of underwear but a drawstring bag, handmade from almost identical ivory-white, silky material, edged with a lace ruffle. It was beautifully sewn with tiny stitches.

He loosened the drawstring. Inside the bag were some folded papers, a small, round, gilt and enamel pillbox, a lady’s handkerchief of finest lawn with entwined initials embroidered in one corner. A pair of ornamental hairslides for a child, exquisitely fashioned from tortoiseshell and silver, shaped like butterflies. And two withered flower sprays: a carnation for the lapel, an arrangement for the corsage.

He sprang open the lid of the pillbox, revealing a screw of pink tissue paper. He lifted it out on to his palm, fingered open the tissue. Inside was a platinum wedding ring, almost new.

He raised his head in recollection, looking back at yesterday evening, Anna lying in the bath. There had definitely been a wedding ring sunk into the waterlogged flesh of her left hand, third finger, he was certain of it.

He returned his attention to the contents of the bag. He withdrew the folded papers, opened them out. A yellowed cutting from a provincial newspaper, giving an account of a local amateur theatrical production, an inset photograph of a handsome, middle-aged woman. A caption underneath supplied her name: MRS NORMA JEFFORD. He looked again at the embroidered handkerchief. The entwined initials clearly N.J. Norma Jefford?

He unfolded the two remaining papers. A birth certificate in the shortened form, recording name, date, place of birth; no address, no names of parents. The name of the child: ANNA MARIE NEWBY.

The second paper was also a certificate. Recording a marriage some eighteen months ago in Ribbenford, a town fifty miles away, both parties giving Ribbenford addresses.

The bride: ANNA MARIE NEWBY, spinster. Occupation: waitress. Age: 18. The bridegroom: WALTER HENRY REARDON, bachelor. Occupation: retired plumber. Age: 61.