Deadly Errand Read online

  Jacky had an oval face, quite pretty, but spoiled by heavy eyebrows. She was smiling – a cold, cheerless smile.

  ‘The police seem to think she was the victim of a random killer, a psychopath, or that she disturbed a peeping Tom. We don't.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘My sister Clare and I. She's been a broken woman since – since it happened. Jacky was her only daughter, you see. They were very, very close. Anyway, the police seem to have given up: they've reduced the number of men investigating and more or less told us that unless he strikes again, they have nothing to go on.’

  ‘What makes you think I can find out more than the police? Indeed, is there anything to be found out? Random killers have, of course, no connection with their victim.’

  ‘I know that. You don't have to patronise me.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn't mean to. I was thinking aloud.’

  Her answering look would have shrivelled leather. She was much sharper than she appeared. More goblin than pixie.

  ‘Tell me why you don't think a stranger killed her,’ I asked in a suitably chastened voice.

  Nina Marburg uncrossed her ankles and lined up her feet as if lining up an argument, or a lie, or both. She wore navy highheeled shoes, narrow-fitting with buttons down the front. Very expensive. No wonder Hubert was impressed.

  ‘Jacky had been having nasty phone calls for two months before she died, always at night, always when she was at home. She worked permanent nights, you see. Sometimes three, sometimes four a week.’

  ‘Phone calls?’

  ‘No. Night duties of course. Usually it was about two calls a week.’

  ‘Was the caller male or female?’

  ‘Jacky wasn't sure, she said the words were all muffled. Does it make a difference?’

  ‘It could,’ I said. ‘Although some anonymous callers are women, most murderers are men.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What exactly did this person say?’

  For a moment Nina fiddled with her hankie, pulling it and twisting it. ‘I don't know the exact words. Called her a bitch and a whore, that sort of thing.’

  ‘That seems quite mild. What about threats?’

  ‘It didn't seem mild to Jacky, I can assure you. It really upset her.’

  ‘The police know about these calls?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They seem to think it was mere coincidence.’

  ‘Well of course it could be.’

  ‘I expected you to be on our side.’

  ‘I am, Mrs Marburg, but I really don't want to take your money under false pretences.’

  She raised one of her eyebrows, which in that position I could see was only a pretend one, expertly pencilled.

  ‘You see, if there isn't a chance of finding the murderer you would be paying me for simply going over the same ground as the police.’

  ‘Men,’ she said, ‘have no real intuition. I'm sure you could find out more.’

  Her voice, high-pitched and wheedling, sounded petulant, like a child's wanting sweets.

  ‘Mrs Marburg, the phone calls in themselves are flimsy evidence of premeditated murder. Have you any other reason for thinking Jacky knew her murderer? A jealous boyfriend, that sort of thing.’

  She stared at me for a few seconds. ‘I can see you don't want to take this case. Is it beyond you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I answered, trying to sound confident. ‘I just want as much information as possible, so that I can get a result.’

  She was silent for a moment, then answered thoughtfully, ‘She did take out life insurance the week before she died – that's all.’

  ‘I'll do my very best, Mrs Marburg, but don't expect too much. I have to be honest and tell you this is my first murder case. I usually deal with medical frauds and mishaps.’

  ‘That doesn't matter,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you'll find out a doctor's involved.’

  She wasn't smiling then and she didn't smile as she left.

  Chapter Two

  I began the next day searching through my filing cabinet for old local newspapers. As my files were empty I'd filled them with newspaper articles reporting crimes, as a slightly eccentric way of convincing myself that I ran a proper working business. Feeling optimistic that I'd find something on the murder I cleared the whole lot out, and began to sift through them. There was only one report, saying that a youth was ‘helping with enquiries'; the stop-press noted he had been released. Not much help, without a name. Then I typed out with my usual two-finger slowness the information I had acquired. It didn't amount to much, so I typed MOTIVE? in the middle of the page. Then I paused, for a long time.

  It was almost a relief when Hubert knocked at the door. I knew it was him, because he always crept up the stairs so stealthily. And I rarely had any other callers.

  ‘How's the detecting going?’ he asked.

  I gave him a withering glance, which he ignored.

  ‘You looked for the murder report?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Don't worry – I've got a stack of back numbers downstairs. I keep them for obituaries.’

  He returned in a few minutes with several papers. ‘These are the main reports,’ he said, advancing towards my desk.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Hubert stood his ground and I felt a little sorry for him; he was obviously eager for an update.

  ‘Aren't you busy?’ I asked.

  ‘I've delegated.’

  ‘I suppose you want to know all about it?’

  He smiled eagerly, his false teeth gleaming heroically.

  ‘There isn't much to tell really. Jacky's aunt and mother are convinced that she knew her killer. I get the impression that they think it's someone at the hospital. Their only reason for suspicion is a few weirdo phone calls and the fact that she took out life insurance a week before she died.’

  ‘What about the police?’ asked Hubert, giving the armchair a wary glance and then perching on the edge of my desk.

  ‘The police don't seem worried about the calls. They probably eliminated them as just coincidental.’

  ‘And you wouldn't?’

  ‘I'm not sure,’ I said. ‘But I'd like to speak to the mother before the police become aware that I'm involved, and I'll have to wait until after the funeral – it just wouldn't be fair on the poor woman.’

  Hubert repositioned himself on my desk and stared at my feet for several seconds. It was obviously inspirational, because he thought of something. ‘Why don't you get a job at St Dymphna's? Then you could tap into all the gossip and rumours. All that chitchat in the early hours, all girls together stuff. You'd soon get a lead.’

  ‘Why didn't I think of that? Great idea. Take a gold star and a form point. I'd give you a kiss, only you might expect me to make a habit of it.’

  Hubert smiled sheepishly. ‘I've never had a gold star before.’

  ‘You were deprived.’

  ‘I'll be off now then,’ he said, still looking pleased. ‘I've done my good deed for the day.’

  I rang the local nursing agency straight away. The woman who ran it, Pauline Berkerly, was almost a friend. We'd trained in the same general hospital, at different times, but it still forges a bond, and she'd kept me supplied with part-time work ever since I'd arrived in Longborough. Pauline and her agency had been a good enough reason to come to Longborough in the first place. She was both discreet and kind and well known for her efficiency.

  ‘Any night work at St Dymphna's?’ I asked.

  ‘Seven nights a week if you want it. But why on earth do you want to work there? No one actually chooses to work at Dymphna's.’

  ‘Because of the murder?’ I asked.

  ‘Partly; also because it's geriatric, it's due for closure, and it's miles from anywhere.’

  ‘Not your most favourite hospital then?’

  ‘The proverbial thorn. Do you really want some work there, Kate? I've got some more easy private cases, just like Florence Boughton, coming up.’

  Nursing the dying was Pauline's
notion of ‘easy'.

  ‘I'm on an investigation,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh.’ There was a long pause. ‘Don't tell me anything about it,’ she said. ‘I'd rather be kept in the dark.’

  ‘That's where I am at the moment – fumbling.’

  ‘Well, Kate, keep your fumbling very low profile, won't you? The management there are a most peculiar crowd.’

  ‘I'll be careful,’ I promised.

  Half an hour later Pauline rang back. ‘You're in luck,’ she said. ‘They are desperate for staff tonight and tomorrow night. Go straight to Harper Ward, round the back of the main building. It's continuing care – is that okay?’

  ‘Fine. Thanks,’ I said, trying to hide the fact that I felt quite daunted at the thought of two twelve-hour shifts with the dying, the dependent, the demented. And the scene of a murder.

  At lunch-time I decided to go out for a sandwich and a large doughnut, the latter being compensation for having to work the next two nights. I met Hubert lurking in the doorway; he'd probably been listening to my descent. He smiled, opened the side door and began to follow me out. I didn't say a word until we were walking up the High Street, side by side.

  ‘Going my way?’ I asked.

  ‘Only to the Swan. You going to the Swan?’

  ‘I hadn't planned to. I fancied a sandwich from the Bakery.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, in obvious disappointment.

  The Bakery, in the middle of the High Street, was always busy, but as we approached and I saw the queue stretching yards up the road, I realised my oral compensation couldn't wait that long. Besides, the Swan did wonderful chips.

  The pub, although busy at the bar, was not unduly packed. The usual groupings of estate agents and bank clerks stood around talking in loud voices about a variety of life's issues that went ‘up'. Redundancies were up, blood cholesterols were up, stress levels were up, their mortgages were up. I could only guess at what didn't go up.

  Hubert fought manfully through the upwardly mobiles to get our drinks and order my pizza and chips. He came back with a pint of beer.

  ‘You eating?’ I asked.

  ‘My weight's gone up,’ he said morosely, staring at the head on his beer as though prolonging the moment of pleasure to come.

  There seemed nothing more to say and Hubert didn't speak again until his glass was nearly empty. Then, in a quite unnecessary whisper, he said, ‘I've got a bit of gossip you might be interested in.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Well, don't keep me in suspense. Tell all.’

  ‘It's about – you know who.’

  ‘Jacky?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I'm listening,’ I said.

  Hubert leaned forward then, as if his words might escape into the surrounding beer fumes if he didn't keep them confined. ‘A neighbour of hers, lives at number eight, says that Jacky often came home in the early hours with different men. And …’ He paused as my meal arrived.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they often went inside.’

  ‘Knocking shop, you mean?’

  ‘Well. Not sure about that; she did live at home,’ he said uncertainly.

  ‘Perhaps they were just having a prayer meeting.’

  Hubert was not amused.

  ‘Do the police know about these men?’ I asked, offering him a chip from my plate.

  ‘They're bad for you.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘The chips. You'll get fat.’

  ‘Good.’

  Hubert, a little affronted by my lack of concern for my figure, fell silent, sulky even. Then, perhaps fearing I'd get temperamental too, said, ‘She did tell the police, but she says she doesn't think they believed her.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’

  ‘She's blind; well, half-blind and nearly eighty.’

  ‘You're having me on.’

  ‘I'm not.’ Hubert sounded affronted. ‘Another drink?’

  I nodded.

  When he returned he looked happier. I think he'd spotted the girl at the bar wearing red stilettos, his favourite colour.

  ‘Anyway this neighbour,’ he continued, ‘her name's Ada Hellidon, says that although her sight's poor she can tell the difference between black men, white men, tall or short.’

  ‘Is she quite sane?’

  ‘As you or me.’

  ‘I'll go and see her on my way home tomorrow. Thanks.’

  Hubert smiled serenely and we spent another half an hour listening to snippets of ‘up' conversation wafting towards us. Hubert managed to down three pints, which surprised me, and his eyes began to water slightly as if the beer had seeped up through his body and was overflowing. He insisted on walking back to the office with me and his eyes watered even more in the chill wind. I left him at the parking bay at the back of Humberstones.

  ‘I'm going home for a nap,’ I said. ‘I'm working at St Dymphna's tonight. Thanks again for the suggestion.’

  ‘You be careful.’

  It was only as I drove away that I remembered guiltily that I hadn't even bought him a pint.

  Driving away from Longborough towards Farley Wood and home I thought how much Longborough reminded me of a blown rose, all tight in the middle but bedraggled at the edges. Inner Longborough retained its old-world charm, with its wide main street and small shops, and market square and church steeple, but from the fifties onwards the outskirts had sprouted estates – ‘like bleedin' warts' was one description I'd overheard in the pub.

  As I drove on into the countryside it still felt a novelty after living in north London for most of my life. When I'd first arrived I'd felt very insecure driving through empty country lanes. It felt really odd not to be in second gear, with traffic front and back. Now I was used to it, I felt quite resentful of other cars. But today there were no other cars and although it was grey and overcast I still found the countryside held a mysterious fascination. Perhaps it was the lack of people, villages with their populations cocooned indoors, or in some far-distant office. Even the village church, which stood on high ground and overlooked my cottage, took on a sinister heaviness on bleak, cloudy days, although it was the graveyard surrounding it that troubled me most. My life seemed to be dominated by corpses but the only one that intrigued me was Jacky. Could it be true about the succession of men to the house? What about Jacky's mother? What on earth was she doing at the time?

  The cottage, as I pretentiously called it, was a terraced house in a row of five. Two up, two down, and a conservatory which one day I would use. The front room smelt musty and unlived-in, but I felt glad to be home and I'd only just settled down on the sofa, covered myself with a duvet, and thought how decadent an afternoon nap seemed, when the door bell rang. Being vain about everything but my weight, I glanced at myself in the hall mirror as I passed – what a sight! My red hair stood in hennaed spikes, like the burning bush finally burnt, and my mascaraless eyes were a lost feature in an oval of face.

  The woman at the door tried to hide her surprise that I'd been lying down. ‘So sorry to disturb you, dear,’ she said.

  I ran a quick inventory – no clipboard, didn't look like a messenger from Jehovah, certainly not double-glazing or timeshare. Far too cosy and sensible to be a salesperson.

  ‘I'm on night duty tonight,’ I explained.

  ‘I'll not keep you long, dear. Just two things really, Neighbourhood Watch and the WI.’

  ‘Come in then, Mrs…?’

  ‘Mrs Morcott – Pamela.’

  ‘Kate Kinsella, Miss.’

  I made tea and Mrs Morcott sat neatly in my armchair and expounded the virtues of Neighbourhood Watch. ‘Everyone has to be so careful these days, don't they, dear?’

  I nodded and smiled.

  ‘What with psychopaths everywhere and burglaries every five minutes.’

  ‘Surely not round here,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, yes, dear. There was a murder locally about three months ago. The police haven't caught the ki
ller, so he's still at large. Scary, isn't it? A young nurse. Struck down in the hospital grounds. Raped as well!’

  ‘Really. And the police don't have any clues?’

  ‘None at all, it seems. But please don't worry. Our Neighbourhood Watch scheme means we can all sleep more easily in our beds.’

  ‘That's great,’ I agreed.

  And Mrs Morcott then tried less successfully to interest me in the Women's Institute. ‘Honestly, dear, we do have such a lovely time. We have speakers and quizzes and competitions. It's not all cooking and jumbles.’

  ‘I really don't have the time, Mrs Morcott, but I am interested in Neighbourhood Watch.’

  ‘Good. Good. I'll add your name to the list. Think about the WI, won't you? That poor murdered girl's mother is a member. She hasn't come, of course, since it happened, but we're hoping to encourage her back to the fold.’

  Suddenly, Farley Wood's WI seemed a lot more interesting. ‘I'll think about it,’ I promised. ‘Thanks for calling.’

  I tried to sleep but couldn't. Thoughts of Jacky Byfield prevented that. A religious nurse, her mother a member of the WI, seemed an unlikely amateur prostitute. She also seemed an unlikely victim for crank phone calls. The fact remained, though, someone had hated her enough to kill her. Or had she seen something that night that meant she had to die? And was it true she'd been raped? The newspapers said nothing about rape. The endless possibilities circled in my mind until I decided it was time for ‘breakfast', because food is the best way I know of passing time without having to think too much.

  At seven thirty I drove the six miles to St Dymphna's in pouring rain and loud Mozart. Outside the hospital two huge ornamental street-lamps cast a watery glow around the entrance. Iron gates with stone pillars led to the drive, which was flanked on either side by mature pines and oak trees. The building at the end of the long drive seemed more country manor than NHS. A single chandelier shone feebly from what could have been reception. A sign saying ‘to Wards Grant, Melba, Truman and Harper' directed me through two stone arches to wooden sheds which looked exactly like stabling blocks. The sign on one said ‘Porter's Lodge' and on the other ‘Catering'. Both were in darkness. I parked the car as I came to another smaller, narrower arch. A lone bike stood propped against a wall. I walked through the archway and on to a covered walkway – all black wood with posts every few yards. The walkway led to another long wooden shed. It reminded me of all those old prisoner-of-war films, although I suppose the walkways were an added refinement.