Full Fury Page 18

  I called Sheba and Jake to heel and fastened on their leads. You never know. They are not aggressive; rather, they are too friendly. But not everybody likes dogs, and their somewhat boisterous approach can be a little frightening to those who do not, and panic-stricken flaps of the arms are not likely to convey a friendly welcome. Indeed, this can be interpreted by the dogs as unprovoked assault. So…one lead in each hand and leaning back against their exuberance, I headed round the side to the kitchen door.

  Mary was waiting there for us. Clearly, therefore, she had felt it necessary to intercept me, and lay on a little background information.

  ‘They’re in the sitting-room, Richard. I’ll look after the dogs, if you want to go right in,’ she said.

  ‘It was a bit muddy, in places,’ I warned her.

  ‘We’ll soon see to that.’

  The dogs had their own towels, and accepted hazards such as cleaning as being all part of the fun. But Mary could control them. She spoke their language. I took off their leads, and they stood there, panting, awaiting the game of trying to chew the towels to shreds to help along with the rubbing.

  ‘It’s a woman, Richard.’ There was a hint of warning in Mary’s voice. ‘She says she knows you. Seemed a bit of a bossy type to me.’

  ‘Name?’ I asked. ‘Did she tell you her name?’

  ‘She asked for you as Mr Patton, but when I told her you were out with the dogs, and told her I’d fetch Amelia, she just said, “Yes. Do that.” And looked down her nose at me. But she didn’t tell me her name.’

  Whoever she was, she had not endeared herself to Mary. It is very easy to assume that she is our housekeeper, or a servant of some kind, whereas Mary had legally inherited a specific portion of the house in Amelia’s uncle’s will. She is now part of our family, an important part. To anyone who might suggest otherwise, my wife can return a cool and brisk response. As, too, can I.

  ‘She didn’t say why she wanted to see me?’ I asked cautiously, and Mary shook her head. Too many people, knowing that I am a retired police detective inspector, take it for granted that I’m available as a private enquiry agent, who, not being recorded in the Yellow Pages, is not ‘official’, so will make no charge for his assistance. Fortunately, from having cultivated a low profile, I am now only rarely approached.

  But, on that morning, it seemed that I was about to be, and I could only hope that my assistance would be sought in something minor and not too physical. Advice, perhaps—something like that. I can be very free with advice.

  I kicked off my rubber boots and stepped into my house slippers, washed my hands under the kitchen tap, and used Sheba’s towel (after a bit of a struggle) on which to dry them. Then I relit my pipe, which had been lying cold in my jacket pocket, and headed for the sitting-room.

  Others might call it a drawing-room, or a lounge, but that room contained all the comfortable furniture, my collection of books on open shelves, the few pictures and ornaments Amelia and I have collected over the years, and the gas fire that pretends it’s a coal fire. A pleasant, cosy room, it was, in which to sit. So…it’s our sitting-room. And sitting in there at this time, my wife on the settee and our unexpected visitor in a winged armchair, were two women between whom the static electricity was crackling. The air was almost sufficiently charged to raise the hair on my neck.

  Two faces turned to me, one eagerly smiling, the other attempting to convey a warning. Amelia had, clearly, been given a hint or two as to the reason for this visit.

  ‘Here he is now,’ said Amelia, a hint of relief in her voice.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Our visitor smiled. ‘I recognised him at once.’ Then she rose to her feet in one smooth, athletic unwinding, standing very nearly my own height, and presenting her right hand.

  She had known me at a glance, but of course she had expected me. She had come here (and how she had discovered my address I couldn’t guess) specifically to see me, and with a smile that went so far as to suggest that I was expected to be equally pleased by this approach. I took her hand because common courtesy demanded it, but my mind was scrambling for a recognition. A WPC I had known? No—she wasn’t that. And still her hand gripped mine, almost as though she had at last reached a haven, a safe and solid platform on which to place her explanation, the who and the why of her presence there.

  Smiling softly now, she said, ‘Connie Freeman.’

  The Christian name of Connie meant something to me, but I couldn’t focus on the surname. Then, suddenly, it was associated with violence, with a storm…with a murder.

  Then I remembered her, those mocking brown eyes prompting me, the tumble of black hair (now streaked with grey)—the challenge in her stance. She was perhaps a little heavier than I recalled, around the hips.

  ‘Freeman?’ I asked. ‘You’ve reverted to your maiden name? You were—yes, that’s it. Connie Martin.’

  ‘Harry divorced me.’

  I glanced at Amelia, then back again. ‘Could he do that?’ I asked, my knowledge of civil law being scanty. ‘After all, it was enforced separation.’

  Connie had been in prison. Was that grounds for divorce? Separation by bars!

  She smiled very thinly, glanced at Amelia, and back again. ‘I agreed. It saved trouble, and it suited me. I was happy to see the back of him, as you can well imagine. I could have petitioned for divorce, myself. After all, I had the solid grounds of his adultery, Mr Patton. I had that much.’

  ‘That was never proved, Connie,’ I reminded her, using my persuasive voice, ‘and you know that very well. There was never any solid proof. Just his name and office phone number in Sylvia Thomas’s notebook. As it could have been quite innocently, when you come to think about it. After all, Harry’s work was all advisory—as an accountant. He could well have been doing nothing more guilty than trying to find her another home.’

  ‘And her number in his!’ she burst out triumphantly. I had never thought of her as being very intelligent. ‘My man got that information for me.’

  ‘The same reason applies,’ I pointed out.

  ‘My man…’ But she didn’t pursue that. Her man! He had called himself a private investigation officer. It sounded good. But I had known, only too well—though I hadn’t mentioned it at the time—that he had been dismissed from the force for accepting bribes. Poor Connie had not had much in the way of solid support. But now that was not relevant to Connie’s obviously aggressive attitude.

  ‘And you have to remember,’ I reminded her, ‘that the actual so-called adultery was never proved.’ In court, her barrister had tried to build up into a solid background the amount of information he’d accumulated in regard to Harry’s sexual activities, in the hope of proving extenuating circumstances, but it had not impressed the jury. It would, of course, have been relevant to any violence Connie might have inflicted on Harry, but was in no way a justification for the killing of his mistress—although it did indicate that Connie would have had a motive for attacking Sylvia.

  At the present time, though, I was concerned only with the fact that Connie was now divorced. She was now Connie Freeman.

  It was probably Connie’s attitude that brought Amelia to her feet. ‘Will somebody please tell me…’ she asked, her tone so cold that the two dogs, entering abruptly with Mary, stopped still in the doorway, making soft whining noises. Amelia leaned over to pull an ear or two, to relax them, when they came close enough, then she tossed her head.

  ‘…tell me what you two are talking about. I’ve got a right to know.’ This was unusual from Amelia, who normally would prefer to remain in the background in circumstances such as this. But she was reacting to the words ‘mistress’ and ‘adultery’.

  ‘Of course you have, my love,’ I agreed, wondering myself where we were heading. ‘The fact is that this visitor of ours, Connie Freeman, faced a court trial, and was found guilty of the murder of her husband’s mistress. That was eight years—’

  ‘Ten,’ put in Connie Freeman. ‘Nearly ten years ago, Sylvia Thomas
died. Nine years I’ve been in prison for it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Amelia, her tone indicating that, had I taken up with a mistress, she would probably have done the same thing. ‘And they sent you to prison for that?’

  ‘They did. Your husband’s bumbling investigation did.’

  ‘Richard!’ Amelia appealed, gripping for my arm and shaking it. ‘How could you?’

  ‘Just doing my job, love,’ I assured her. ‘The evidence was overwhelming, and the court had all the facts and the details. In any event, the jury came up with a guilty verdict, and she was sent to prison.’

  ‘How terrible!’ Amelia cried, shocked, gripping my arm even more tightly, as though I had been solely responsible for this unfair decision by jury and judge. ‘But somebody ought to do something. It’s not right! Her husband’s mistress! She deserved all she got.’

  What she, the mistress, had got had been a head bashed in with a conveniently placed rolling-pin, one of those old ones with a wooden rod through it and a handle at each end. The handles had been covered with flour. Whether this was the reason that the forensic squad failed to develop any prints, or whether it was because the assailant had been wearing gloves, we had not been able to decide.

  Remembering this, I grimaced at Amelia, who made a gesture of distaste, and asked, ‘So why is this woman here, Richard?’

  ‘Suppose we ask her that,’ I said, and turned to face Connie Freeman again. ‘Why are you here, Connie?’

  She threw back her head, hair bobbing, registering righteous dignity. ‘Because you’re the one who knows all the facts. Oh…I’m sure you’ll tell me you were working under orders of a superintendent or somebody like that—some big-bug, anyway—who knew nothing about it. Only what was put down on paper for him to read. “Ah!” he’d say to himself. “It’s all too obvious. Connie Martin did this”—I was Martin then. “Better have her in and charge her.” And it would be one more file to put away. One more for his record.’

  Her voice had tailed off gradually, as though she had rehearsed this statement, over and over, until she had perfected it, every tone of righteous outrage and despair carefully honed to strike exactly the correct emotional impact, eventually to lure me into a position where I would find it impossible to reject what had to be an appeal to my conscience. She was relying on the assumption that I had a conscience, whereas police activities had always been unemotional, with no place for one’s personal feelings.

  I realised that I had to be wary, conceding as little as possible. The two women were now facing each other, sharing the opinion that men were hopeless when adultery entered into the situation.

  ‘We’re not getting anywhere,’ I put in. ‘And you really know very little about police activities, Connie. The super wouldn’t make that decision. It would have to go to the legal experts, for them to decide whether we had a good, solid case. Or not. The Crown Prosecution Service, they call themselves, now. You can see—or at least I hope you can see—that I was a very small cog in all this. All I did was put in reports and statements, as and when required.’

  Amelia was now sitting very upright on her seat, her eyes darting from face to face. ‘Do you remember all this, Richard?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. I remember it.’ And the more we spoke it, the faster the memories were flooding back.

  Connie perched herself on the very edge of her seat, both of the dogs having by now approached to consider this guest. I should have asked Mary to keep them away, as I wanted nothing distracting to intervene. But Connie was clearly a dog person. She fussed each one until they both moaned with ecstasy. Amelia sat and watched, but said nothing. Neither she nor the dogs seemed perturbed. Indeed, Amelia was now smiling.

  ‘It’s what I missed so much,’ Connie explained. ‘In prison. Dogs. I’ve always had at least one dog, from the time I was a little girl. I had two cocker spaniels when they arrested me. My husband—you remember Harry…’

  I nodded. I remembered Harry Martin very clearly. An accountant, he’d called himself.

  ‘What about Harry?’ I asked.

  ‘He had them put down,’ she said in a flat, cold voice.

  ‘Oh…’ Amelia whispered.

  ‘So I’ve decided,’ went on Connie, ‘that when you’ve sorted it out for me, and I’ve got the time to spare, I’m going to have him put down. Harry. Put down. I can’t get those two words out of my mind. Put down. Such a cold, blank statement. But I’ve found out all sorts of interesting information. I mean…you meet all sorts of women, inside. And I’ve got three names and addresses from three of my friends in there. Men friends of theirs, who would do a bit of putting down on my behalf…when I’ve got together enough money to pay for it. You’d be surprised how much they charge.’

  ‘Now hold on, here!’ I put in briskly, glancing at Amelia to see how she was taking this. Her eyes were bright, unblinking, two fingers to her lips to intercept any indiscreet words that might be struggling to get free. Or even laughter.

  ‘I missed the dogs,’ Connie explained emptily. ‘Just taking them for a walk. They’d got dogs there, you know, at the prison, lovely Alsatians. But only for show. Patrolling, they called it. I asked if I could take one of them for a run, but they wouldn’t let me. Thought I might steal it, I suppose.’

  ‘No,’ I said, staring at my cold pipe, at anything that wasn’t Connie’s face. She was so solemnly calm about it, brought it out so naïvely, that I had to assume she was telling the truth. ‘They wouldn’t,’ I added.

  ‘Lovely Alsatians,’ she repeated moodily. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ I said, reaching into my pocket for my lighter.

  Then Mary—and I hadn’t realised she was still in the room—fetched the three-legged small round table from across in the far corner, placed it between Connie’s chair and my own, and put one of our glass ashtrays on it. Connie turned her head, smiled up at Mary, and said, ‘Thank you.’ Then she began to root around in the floppy shoulder bag she had with her, and produced a gold cigarette case and gold lighter. I watched as she lit her cigarette.

  ‘You didn’t use that case and the lighter in prison?’ I asked. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘Heavens, no! They’d have had them off me in ten seconds.’ She grimaced as she recalled her experience. But I’ve been home…my home, I still call it, in my mind, only it looks and feels all different. My son, Philip—did you ever meet him? Oh, of course you did, but he’s twenty-six now, and he’s got a live-in girlfriend there. In my home! You’d remember her. It’s the same girl he was going around with at that time. Penny, her name is. Anyway, when I got home, there they were. And…d’you know…I felt I wasn’t welcome in my own home. But I’ll sort all that out. The bungalow is mine, you know. My father gave it to me. But of course, you know that. It’s mine, and I can do what I like with it.’

  Yes, I knew all about her bungalow, but I was trying to keep her on the same subject. ‘Your son and the girl…what of them?’

  She waved a hand; wiggled her fingers. ‘The girl seems all right to me. Not a slouch, you know. Got a good head on her shoulders, and I’ll say this about her, she’s kept the place clean and tidy. And all I need is a room and a bed, to lay my head down. And—of course—your help, Richard. May I call you Richard?’

  ‘You may.’ But I wasn’t so sure about my help.

  I watched as she drew deeply on her cigarette, then she leaned over, and, with the tips of her thumb and first finger, she nipped off the red, glowing end, only a fraction of an inch from burning herself.

  She looked up into my face, and laughed at my expression. ‘I’ve always done that,’ she told me.

  ‘Don’t you ever burn your fingers?’

  She shook her head, pouting. ‘Oh no. You just have to guess it right. Then, you see, you don’t waste anything. And it was so useful, inside. If you tamp out a cigarette, it all crumples up, and you can’t afford to waste anything like that, inside. Inside…inside…I can’t get that word out of my mind. But…no waste if
you pinch them out.’

  I glanced at Amelia. She merely lifted her eyebrows at me. Clearly, she was completely baffled.

  ‘And why have you come here?’ I asked Connie.

  ‘Surely that’s obvious.’

  ‘Not to me,’ I assured her, though in fact I did have an idea, and I wasn’t pleased with it. Definitely not.

  She looked at Amelia, gave a little shrug at her lack of response, and concentrated once again on me.

  ‘Because you’re the one who collected all the facts,’ she explained. ‘The evidence, I suppose you’d call it. So you’re the obvious one to put it all together again, and investigate it once more, to see where you went wrong.’

  ‘Now hold on—’

  She completely ignored my interruption. ‘And then, when you’ve got it all sorted out, with all the new evidence, we’ll take it to my solicitor and we’ll have another trial, only this time with the person who really killed that bitch my husband had tucked away. Sylvia Thomas. It wasn’t me, so I suppose it has to be somebody else. With that person in the dock, this time. And I’ll be able to claim damages, great loads of damages, for wrongful detention, and you can have some of it, for your trouble, though why you would deserve it I can’t imagine, you being the one who got me put away.’ She took a deep breath. But all the same, I’ll give you a quarter of what damages they award me. Now…how does that sound to you? And this time it ought to be easier for you to get the right answer.’

  She stopped, splayed her palms, and smiled ruefully at Amelia.

  ‘Why easier?’ I asked cautiously. Amelia moved uneasily on her seat.

  ‘Because you can eliminate one suspect, to start with.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Well…me, of course. Oh…you are slow. Of course me.’

  ‘There’s no “of course” about it,’ I told her. ‘You probably picked up this idea inside. You’d be surrounded by women a darned sight more experienced than you, when it comes to twisting the evidence around and blurring the issue. Probably, they’d know all about that in their early teens—’