A Shroud for Delilah (DCI Webb Mystery Book 1) (10 page)

‘So you did.’ At least, Kate thought bleakly, Michael now knew that she too had been behaving like a free agent.

‘Damn!’ she said under her breath, and as her foot went down on the accelerator, the car sped towards Broadminster.

CHAPTER 11

The next morning incorporated all the worst aspects of a Monday. It was an effort to get out of bed. Josh couldn’t find his maths book, the breakfast eggs cracked in the pan. It was ten to nine by the time they hurried out of the door, and Josh’s insistence on stopping to feel in the letter box was an added irritation.

‘See!’ he exclaimed triumphantly, running after her down the road. ‘There was something after all!’ And he handed her a small packet. Kate slipped it in her pocket.

‘You run on, Josh. Auntie Madge is waiting and I must get back.’ She paused only long enough to see him join the others and, having already forgotten the packet, hurried back to the shop. It was only at lunchtime, back in the flat, that, feeling for a handkerchief, her fingers encountered something hard and she drew out the cardboard box.

Kate regarded it with surprise. Had that been in the letter box? It bore neither name, address, nor postmark. She lifted the lid and stared blankly at the contents. Filling the space inside was a large death’s-head moth, the yellow skull clearly defined on the brown thorax. Wings, legs, and feelers had been detached from the body and each grisly piece anchored in place with sticky-tape. With a conscious effort of will, Kate replaced the lid and dropped the box in the bin.

Let it have been dead before it was dismembered, she thought fervently. But who could have left it, and why? Was it intended for Josh, a joke by some of his schoolmates? Yet this was no schoolboy prank. The gloating arrangement of the pathetic hair-like legs showed a cruelty that made her shudder. Though she hadn’t touched the contents of the box, Kate washed her hands at the sink. She felt slightly sick, unable to imagine who—

She paused suddenly, towel in hand. The boys who’d pestered her on Friday? Surely their spite would have evaporated long since. She shrugged, resolving to forget the matter, but the outline of the skull remained in her mind for the rest of the day.

The art exhibition was continuing, and from time to time the artists called in to check their sales. Nella also came one morning, this time braving Lana’s disapproval to stay for coffee.

‘Who’s sold the most so far?’ she asked Kate, who was snatching a cup before going back outside.

‘Daniel Plumb. All his were earmarked by the end of last week. And Sylvia’s are going well too.’

‘At least she has a ready supply of subjects,’ Nella remarked. ‘She should do a series, with the group title “These I have loved.”’

Kate laughed protestingly. ‘Oh come, now, she’s not that bad.’

‘How do you know? I shouldn’t be surprised if she ran extramural classes for the senior boys! Poor old Henry, the husband’s always the last to know.’

‘Whose name are you blackening now, my love?’ Martin came into the office and dropped a kiss on her golden head. ‘Kate, that couple by the window are tempted by the Hawkins. See if you can swing the balance, will you?’

Richard had not put in an appearance that week, and despite herself Kate’s mind kept returning to the hours they’d spent together on Sunday. Which, she told herself sharply as she prepared supper, was a singularly fruitless exercise.

Josh had been watching children’s television and the signature tune of the early evening news broke into Kate’s thoughts and, with the opening announcement, riveted them.

‘There has been a fresh development in the so-called “Delilah killings” with the discovery this afternoon of the body of thirty-year-old Jane Forbes at her home in Larksworth. Mrs Forbes, whose divorce was widely reported two weeks ago, was stabbed to death in her kitchen, apparently while making bread. The word “Delilah” was again written in lipstick on the mirror. Broadshire police are appealing for information about any strangers seen in the vicinity, but their inquiries are hampered by the fact that Wednesday is market day in Larksworth and this draws people to the village from a wide area. Over now to Jack Stacey in Larksworth.’

Kate stood at the counter staring across at the policemen and dogs, the shocked neighbours in their doorways, till the fiercely hissing fat in the pan behind her recalled her to her surroundings and she returned to continue with the meal.

In her own kitchen, making bread. Planning, perhaps, to make some phone calls while it was rising, what to have for supper. Then suddenly, in that familiar setting, death. Kate shuddered. All three women had been killed in their homes, surrounded by friends and neighbours, and no one had noticed anything. It was more than surprising, it was terrifying.

She drained the spaghetti, poured the meat sauce over it, and called to her son. As she put the plate in front of him, the telephone shrilled.

‘Madge here, Kate. I wondered if you’d like to come to Heatherton tomorrow? There’s a new branch of Faversham’s opening, with lots of special offers. Paul will bring the boys home, and you could stay for supper.’

‘That sounds lovely.’ This time, she’d let Paul drive them home.

‘Come round when you close and we’ll have lunch before we go.’

***

It was eleven-thirty at night and Webb had just returned from six gruelling hours in Larksworth, but Headquarters had a time scale all its own. The Incident Room was crowded with men chalking names on the blackboard, checking indexes, answering the almost continuous phone calls. In the midst of it all, Phil Fleming prowled restlessly, picking up statements, looking over shoulders. He turned as Webb entered.

‘Come and sit down, Dave. Someone’ll get you some tea. Any developments?’

Webb shook his head, lowering himself into the seat the Chief Superintendent pulled out. ‘Not a thing out of anyone. She was chatting on the phone at two-fifteen. At two forty-five she was dead. And no one saw a goddamned thing.’

Fleming stretched out his legs, waiting while Webb sipped at the steaming tea. A pleasant-faced man with greying hair, he had the calm, soothing manner of a family doctor but his staff had long discounted it. The Chief Superintendent had a brain like a rapier and he expected his subordinates to be equally sharp-witted.

‘There are the usual points of similarity,’ he said as Webb put down his cup. ‘Any notable differences?’

‘Not that I can see.’

Fleming sucked in his cheeks. ‘Let’s talk the thing through, Dave. See if anything new hits us. Start with the Meadowes case.’

Webb wiped his hand over his face, widening his eyes to relieve the strain. ‘Well,’ he began, ‘it looked at first as if she was killed by someone close to her, but that only held till the second murder. M.O. identical, so presumably the same killer, but surely a different motive. It was stretching it to suppose he was involved enough with
two
women to the point of murdering them. Yet they’d let him into their homes and the attacks obviously came out of the blue. No defence marks on any of them, including this last one. Now, God help us, we’ve got three bodies, and the only common denominator is that they were divorced women. As far as we know, they’d never met each other, didn’t belong to the same club, frequent the same pubs, go on the same holidays. Hell, there’s
nothing
that links them except the way they died.’

Fleming was listening intently, head slightly on one side like an intelligent bird. ‘There’s one other experience they shared: they’d all been mentioned recently in the press. Meadowes for her court appearance, the other two in connection with their divorces. Suppose, just suppose, the murderer uses the local rag to keep abreast of divorce cases and chooses his victims from that?’

Webb stared at him. ‘You mean he might not even know them? Then why should they let him into their homes?’

‘That’s what we’ve got to find out.’

‘Well, if that’s his little game, we can soon put a stop to it. I’ll get Romilly to withhold the names in all divorce cases till we give him the all-clear.’

‘Let’s hope Chummie hasn’t an advance fixture list!’ Fleming permitted himself a smile. ‘And there’s another point. The three deaths were not only similar, but identical, even to the position of the bodies. They were all
sitting
down
. What does that suggest?’

Webb thought for a moment. ‘That it wasn’t just any old caller who’d come to the door and forced his way inside. It was someone they were prepared to spend some time with. Jane Forbes had even broken off her baking to make tea.’

‘Precisely,’ Fleming confirmed with quiet satisfaction. ‘The caller was expected to stay for a while. It was worth sitting down, even making a cup of tea. So who could fit into that category?’

‘The vicar?’ Webb suggested with a lopsided grin.

‘You’re on the right track. Suppose it was not the man himself but his occupation which the women accepted? Meter reader, delivery boy, door-to-door salesman?’

‘I doubt if any of that lot are invited to sit down, unless they’re flogging encyclopaedias. We did check along those lines, people so familiar as to be almost invisible — postmen, paper boys, milkmen, and so on. Trouble is, not many of them are still around by the afternoon, and the Gas and Electricity Boards hadn’t any men out at the time. Also, don’t forget, Mrs Burke was killed on a Sunday. That narrows the field.’

‘Back to the vicar, perhaps! It’s incredible he wasn’t seen entering or leaving any of the houses. In each case there were plenty of people about. Even on Sunday afternoon the neighbours would be working in their gardens or washing their cars.’

‘And no one saw a thing.’

Fleming pulled reflectively at his lower lip. ‘He must have his own transport. He might have managed without in Shillingham and Broadminster, but in a village everyone knows each other. He wouldn’t risk public transport even on market day unless he was a very cool customer. I know you’ve been through them dozens of times, Dave, but have the statements checked again to see if any one car, van, bike, anything crops up more than once.’

Webb made a note on the pad in front of him. ‘There’s another thing. Although all three women seemed to accept the visitor, he hadn’t been expected. I can’t vouch for Linda Meadowes, but Mrs Burke and Mrs Forbes were very methodical. There were engagement diaries hanging in both kitchens, and even a regular visit to the hairdresser was noted down. If someone had been expected, his name would have been there.’

‘Unless we’re back to the grocery order which was delivered every week.’

‘Again, not on Sundays. And Mrs Forbes was the only one in her kitchen. The other two were in their front rooms, rather formal entertaining for the grocer’s boy. Nor could it have been a doctor. They were all healthy and in any case didn’t belong to the same practice.’

Fleming sighed. ‘You know what’s worried me all along? The fact that none of the victims was raped. Damn it, the word “Delilah!” places them fair and square in the category of sex murders and in all such cases there’s assault of some kind, rape, mutilation, and so on. But our Delilah man contents himself with one neat, lethal incision and goes on his way.’

‘Perhaps he just doesn’t like women. Could be a homosexual.’

‘That’s a possibility. Widen your inquiries to take in any known gay communities. We might get a lead there. Is the press conference fixed, by the way?’

‘Yes, nine-thirty in the morning.’

‘Then I suggest we both get some sleep while we can.’

Amen to that, Webb thought wearily as he followed his superior out of the room.

***

‘BROADSHIRE KILLER STALKS DIVORCED WIVES’ proclaimed the papers the next morning. Kate averted her eyes and Lana smiled sympathetically.

‘There’s no getting away from it, is there?’

‘That’s how I feel. Last night I’d have given anything to get out, go to the cinema, anything to take my mind off it, but of course I couldn’t.’

‘I could sit for you on Thursdays,’ Lana offered, ‘while Mr Parsons is with Father.’

Kate smiled. ‘That’s sweet of you, but you mustn’t give up your free evenings for me.’

‘But I’d enjoy it — really. I’m fond of Josh and it would be a change for me too to get out of the house. If I could be sure of catching the last bus, I’d be pleased to come.’

Kate told Madge of the offer as they were driving to Heatherton.

‘That’s nice of her. Josh could always sleep at our place, but for a visit to the flicks it’s hardly worth the upheaval.’ She pulled in behind a lorry. ‘As it happens, you’re about to be honoured with an invitation to the Danes’. Sylvia mentioned it yesterday. I’ll try to steer her towards a Thursday.’

On the right of the road Kate recognized the sprawling shape of The Duck Press restaurant. ‘That’s where we went after the private view.’

‘Looks plush. How are you getting on with them all?’

‘Martin’s pleasant and easy-going, and Richard’s not there very often.’ She hesitated. ‘Actually, I spent Sunday with him, while Josh was with Michael.’

‘With Richard Mowbray?’ Madge turned in surprise and the car swerved slightly. ‘Well, well, you dark horse!’

‘It seemed preferable to hanging round on my own or trailing back to Broadminster.’

‘He’s quite attractive, isn’t he, in a pale, intense way.’

‘I suppose so. Lana would agree. I told you she has a soft spot for him.’

‘And have you?’ Madge’s eyes were on the road.