CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Do you mind if I join you?” Winter asked in his best genial manner.
“Please yourself,” replied Sam Bishop, his voice thick
and slurred then, “Sorry, I mean…be my guest. I could use some company. My
wife, as you may have noticed, prefers to spend her time elsewhere. Mine’s a
double scotch, by the way…”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not driving. I’m a free agent, in more
ways than one. My wife, you see, doesn’t understand me. Or maybe it’s the other
way round. Whatever, she doesn’t love me
any more.”
Winter ordered the drinks. “And do you love her?”
“I do, yes. I do…hic…that’s the trouble. But her
friend doesn’t like me, you see. And what dear Sarah doesn’t like, Mary doesn’t
like either. They’re like twins, you see. What’s bad for one is bad for the
other. Me? I’m bad news…hic.”
“So…how long have you known Sarah Manners?”
“Too bloody long, that’s for sure!” Sam Bishop hugged a
sparkling new glass to his chest before raising it to his mouth and taking a
long sip. “Since we arrived in this hole…” He droned on… “Sarah and Mary were
bosom pals from the off. I get along with Horton okay. He plays a good game of
chess. But they’re a weird couple, if you ask me. It’s my belief he knocks her
about. I bet she likes it too. She likes to dominate Mary, you see. Oh, nothing
obvious. She’s subtle, that one. But women who like to dominate other women,
well, they like a bit of rough, don’t they?
Horton’s her bit of rough, I reckon. Mary thinks she’s a goodie-two-shoe
but, take it from me, Sarah Manners is a …hic…nasty piece of work.”
Winter refrained from saying that he was inclined to
agree.
“Oh, she likes to make out she’s a pillar of the community
and all that,” Sam Bishop continued, “But she doesn’t fool me. I tell you, she
runs that library like it was a…hic…prison camp. I reckon she missed her vocation. She should
have been a…hic…man. Did you see
they way she flirts with my wife? Disgraceful, that’s what it is, bloody…hic…disgraceful.
My Mary’s no…hic...dyke...so what the hell’s that Manners woman playing
at, eh? You tell me that.”
What, indeed?
Winter had been asking himself the same question.
Tears filled Bishop’s eyes. “Mary’s a good woman. That
Sarah Manners, she’s…hic…poison I tell you, poison.” He drained his
glass and tried to catch the eye or one or other of the bar staff but each
looked pointedly in the opposite direction.
“I’ll walk you home,” said Winter firmly. He expected
some resistance as he took the younger man by the arm and proceeded to steer him
through the crowd. But Sam Bishop seemed
content enough to lean on his arm and let someone else take chare of
events.
They reached the Bishop’s cottage within ten minutes. It
was in darkness. “Do you have a key?” Winter enquired.
“I do, yes, I do…at least…hic…I think so…” Sam Bishop
fumbled in various pockets before producing a bunch of keys. He picked out the
shiniest and approached the front door. After several attempts to fit the key
in the lock, he handed it to Winter. “Do the honours, will you, my friend? I’m
not seeing too well. Must be the
weather, eh? Hot for the...hic…time
of year, eh?”
Winter obliged and they were soon in a tidy, tastefully
furnished sitting room.
“A drink, eh?” Bishop suggested. “Of course you’ll have
a drink. We’ll both…hic...have a drink. Now, what will it be? Take your pick. I can offer you…err…hic…oops!”
Sam Bishop stumbled against an armchair, fell backwards
on to a handsome leather sofa and promptly passed out.
Winter hastily donned his surgical gloves and wasted no
time looking around. Both bedrooms had a well-used, lived-in feel to them and
he did not suspect the Bishops of having a lodger. Nothing of any consequence
caught his eye. One bedroom reeked of perfume and he found himself wondering
about Mary Bishop’s relationship with Sarah Manners. Did Mary know the truth,
he wondered, whatever that was? Whether she did or not, it had crossed
the detective’s mind several times already that she could be in danger. So what
was he supposed to do about it, call the police? He chuckled. There was no
element of laughter about the sound. He
scratched his nose. Proof, damn it, I
need proof. Proof of…what, exactly? But he thought knew the answer to that.
Winter no longer had any doubt that he was on a murder
trail, one that probably dated back more than twenty years.
How many victims? He ran through a list of
names in his head. Sean Brady, Marc
Philips, James Morrissey, Ruth Temple…then there was the attempt on Carol
Brady’s life (how could it have been an accident?) not to mention Liam’s. Not
forgetting Sarah Manners herself, of course. How did the librarian acquire that
bracelet if she wasn’t who she pretended to be?
The next day, Winter left a cryptic note at the inn for
Harry Smith and drove early to London.
He had no clear memory of Jean Cotter except from newspaper cutting at
the library in Monk’s Tallow. It came as something of a surprise, all the same,
to find himself confronted by a tall, big-boned woman with ample breasts,
wearing heavy make-up and a short skirt that did nothing for legs like tree
trunks.
Winter introduced himself. She scowled. “It’s you, isn’t
it, the one who wants my Ralph dug up?”
Jean Cotter was, mused Winter wryly, either very intuitive or
someone had been talking too much. “I
have to plead guilty,” he confessed with a smile designed to disarm even the
most indomitable opponent.
“You’d better come in, I suppose,” the woman murmured grudgingly,
“before my Ted gets back… He hates any talk about poor Ralph does my Ted. He’s
jealous, you see. I ask you, men, eh?”
The room into which she ushered Winter appeared spic and
span without being especially inviting, nor did it gave any impression of
warmth. Jean Cotter motioned to him to sit down but remained standing. “So,
what’s this all about then? Why can’t you lot just let my Ralph rest in peace,
eh, the rest of us too for that matter?
It was over twenty years ago, for crying out loud.”
“Was he a good husband?”
“He wasn’t a bad one if that’s what you’re getting at. I still can’t
believe he’d ever find the bottle to use a gun on someone. He’d jump half out of his skin if the cat
jumped on him, would my Ralph.”
“Do you have any photos?”
“I dare say.”
“Could I possibly take a look at some?”
“I dare say,” she repeated and disappeared, returning a few minutes
later with a cardboard box. “I have to keep these away from my Ted or he’d
likely a fit,” she confided and sat down on a hard chair, settling the box on
her lap. For a while, she ignored Winter altogether and rummaged through the
photographs, picking up this one and that, her expression difficult for even
Winter to discern, practised as he was at reading faces.
“That was one of the last ones taken of us together. We were in
Scarborough with friends…” she handed him a snap then quickly followed it up
with others. Suddenly, she burst out
laughing. “Oh, my giddy aunt, I’d forgotten all about this one! New Year 1982,
it was. We went to this fancy dress do with a friend of ours…as the Ugly
Sisters if you ever did…” She handed Winter the photograph, tears rolling down
her fat cheeks.
Winter started. He did not need to be told which of the three was
Ralph Cotter. In spite of the long, flowery dress, badly applied make-up and an
untidy blonde wig, he could easily have passed for a younger version of Sarah
Manners. “May I borrow this?”
“You can keep it for all I care. I’ve moved on, you see. A pity
others can’t do the same.” She hesitated. “Do you think I buried the wrong man?
Is that what all the fuss is about? I mean…that would make Ted and me illegal,
right? If that’s the case, you will keep
it hushed up, won’t you? I wouldn’t want any publicity. My Ted is a very
sensitive man. He wouldn’t be able to handle anything like that.”
“You don’t seem very surprised…” Winter felt bound to say.
The woman shrugged. “Ralph was always one for acting the
fool. He probably had no idea that gun was loaded. It would be just like him to
pull a stunt like this. Mind you,” she chortled, “It’ll be a first if it turns
out he’s got away with it. One in the
eye for you lot, too, eh?”
“If he’s got away with anything, it won’t be for much longer,” said
Winter tersely and made a quick get-away that suited them both.
Winter sat in the car for some time mulling things over.
The photograph had confirmed suspicions that, until now, had drifted in and out
of his subconscious with all the subtlety of an elusive grass snake. Now the snake had exposed itself. Or, rather,
it had been exposed it for what it was. At the same time, he still had no real
proof.
So the Ugly Sister in the
photograph bore an amazingly close resemblance to Sarah Manners…so what? Certainly, it opened up a minefield of
possibilities but that fell way short of producing hard evidence.
His mobile’s cheery ringing tone grated on already frayed nerves. It
was Arthur Bailey. “You were right, you old rascal. It wasn’t Cotter in that
coffin. I don’t suppose you can hazard a
guess as to who it might be?” His tone
was sarcastic.
“You could try a Marc Philips. Yes, that one,
who’s been on the Missing Persons list for years. Let me know as soon as you
find out anything. Oh, and Arthur, keep this under your hat for the moment,
okay? Oh, yes, and wait a bit before telling Mrs Cotter.”
“You’re asking a lot, Fred.”
“I know, but…just a couple of days, yes?”
“Twenty-four hours and that’s my last word on the
subject. But you’ll have to let Charlie Lovell in on this, understand?”
“Oh?”
“Don’t play the innocent with me, Fred Winter, it doesn’t suit you.
You didn’t think for one minute, I wouldn’t have had a little chat with Charlie,
did you? If there’s a link between this
Philips character and Ralph Cotter, he needs to know about it.”
Okay, I’ll tell him what I know as soon as I get back to Monk’s
Tallow.”
“Scouts honour, right?”
“Scouts honour...” Winter automatically crossed two
fingers on his free hand. He switched the mobile off. Arthur was right, of course. Lovell needed to
know. But first he, Fred Winter, had to be sure. Besides, it would take a while
yet before the body could be identified as Philips…if, indeed, it was
Philips. Winter turned on the ignition and put his foot down.
Back in Monk’s Tallow, Harry Smith was nowhere to be found. All the landlord of The Fox and Hounds was able to confirm was that
Harry had gone out around mid-day and not returned.
Winter glanced at his watch. It was now 4.00pm. There was no cause
for alarm. Harry had probably gone for a long walk to try and make sense of
things. I know the feeling. Winter
groaned inwardly. No cause for alarm? Winter tugged at his beard. He should
never have left Harry on his own. The lad was in a bad way, for heaven’s sake.
“By the way, there’s someone here to see you,” said the
young landlord of The Fox and Hounds, “She’s waiting in the Lounge Bar,” tossing
the detective a knowing wink as he spoke. Winter did not need to guess the
identity of his visitor.
“I’m sorry, Freddy, I had to come,” Carol Brady told him
with no hint of apology in a no-nonsense tone of voice reminiscent of Miss Parker.
As if anticipating an argument, she jumped from her seat and ran to give him a
big hug before he reached the corner table where she had been pouring from a
huge pot of tea. “What am I saying? Of course I’m not sorry, not in the least.
Now…how about a nice cup of tea, Freddy?”
Winter merely grunted, disengaged himself, followed her
back to the table and watched her do the honours.
“I wanted…needed…to know that Liam is alright.” Carol
gave a short laugh. “It’s so nice to be able to call him Liam. Oh, Sadie is a fine woman but… say what you
like, she’s crazy about Harry Smith, not my Liam.” Winter disagreed but knew better than to say
so, and made no comment. “She wasn’t too happy about my coming down here
either. I dare say she’s afraid of missing out. She made me promise to call her
every night at closing time and let her know what’s happening.”
She leaned back and treated Winter to a long, searching
look. “So…what is happening? What have you found out so far? Where is
Liam, by the way?” she added almost as an afterthought. Winter smothered a
chuckle in his handkerchief and blew his nose. It was typical of Carol to put
the subject of her main concern second to an overriding curiosity.
“I expect he’s gone for a walk/”
“What do you mean, you expect he’s gone for a walk?
Don’t you know?” She started to get angry and Winter couldn’t help but recall
how she’d always had a short fuse, even years ago, whenever she was unsure of
herself.
“He’ll be back soon,” The detective tried to sound assertive,
impulsively reaching across the table, gave one hand a little squeeze and held
it in his own. She continued to glare at him but did not withdraw her hand.
“Does he remember anything?”
“Not much…” Winter had to admit.
“But he is starting to remember things?” Winter hesitated for some time before telling her about their
discovery of the teddy bear. She snatched her hand away and the violet eyes
blazed, not with anger now but sheer disbelief. “But that’s…incredible!”
“It certainly triggered something in the lad’s mind,” Winter
continued evenly, “I think he’s starting to get….”
“A bigger picture?” she laughed, uneasily.
Winter nodded, smiling. “I can’t say how long it will take, Carol,
no one can. But I get the feeling he’s working really hard at it.”
“But the teddy bear, Tweedledeaf… of all things…how on earth…and
what the devil is it doing here in Monk’s Tallow?” She put her hand to her
mouth and the violet eyes widened like saucers. You don’t think…? Not
Cotter…not here? But…that’s impossible.
The man’s dead.” She was visibly
shocked. “Well, isn’t he?”
Against his better judgement, but glad to confide in
someone who would not think he was barking mad, he told her everything he knew
or thought he knew. To her credit, she
did not interrupt once. Nor did the violet eyes stray from Winter’s face for an
instant
“Bloody hell, Freddy, that’s
some hypothesis. What time do they start serving something stronger than tea
around here?” They laughed, in the
manner of old friends who could think of nothing better to say or do at a
particularly sensitive moment in time. “Where are you going?” Winter had
started to make a move.
“I thought I’d take a look around the village and see if I can’t
bump into Liam.”
“I’m coming with you.” She reached for her handbag.
“No Carol, you might frighten him off.”
She slipped into the jacket draped across the back of
her chair. “Never mind, me frightening him off, Freddy Winter,
you’ve just scared the living daylights out of me and if you think for one
minute I’m staying here on my own you’re very much mistaken.” The violet eyes sent out a message he read
only too clearly. His only response was a sigh of intense irritation that she
recognized was tantamount to unequivocal surrender.
They did not meet Liam on their stroll but they did encounter Sam
Bishop coming out of the church, just as they paused outside and were debating
whether to enter. He looked very flushed
and unkempt, much like a man who hadn’t slept a wink all night.
Winter greeted him and tried to introduce Carol but he interrupted.
“Have you seen Mary?” he asked agitatedly. Winter shook his head and opened his
mouth to ask the obvious question but Sam Bishop rushed on, close to tears.
“She must have come home last night because she’s taken the car. But I’ve not
seen her. The spare room hasn’t been slept in either. Why should she take the
car? She never takes the car. I went straight round to Monkey Tree Cottage, of
course. Daz told me Sarah came home about eleven, on her own. According to
Sarah, she left Mary at the cottage but didn’t go in because she had a
headache. Mary, that is. She gets these headaches you know. Sometimes they
develop into migraines, the poor lamb. There’s no way she could drive in that
condition. No way,” he repeated.
“Did you speak to Sarah yourself?”
Winter finally managed to get a word in edgewise.
“What? Oh, no. She’s gone to some library ‘do’ and won’t be back for
ages. Some conference or other, I think he said. To be honest, I wasn’t really
listening. Do you think I should call the police and report her missing? I’ve called all the likely
hospitals…although…she could be miles away by now of course. Do you think she’s
left me?” His face dropped, rapidly becoming even more flushed and as he
appeared to consider this possibility for the first time.
“I’m sure your wife will be home soon.” Carol did her best to sound
reassuring. “We girls need our space sometimes too, you know, just the same as
you men. Not that we get much of it,”
she added, swallowing a waspish tickle on her tongue.
“Do you really think so?” His eagerness was pathetic. Winter,
though, found that, try as he might, he couldn’t muster as much sympathy for
Sam Bishop as he suspected the man was due. “That could be it of course. We’ve
had a few problems lately. She probably just needs some space.” He flung a
grateful look at Carol and seized both her hands in his. “Why didn’t I think of
that? Thank you so much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash home in case she
phones…” He rushed off down the curving, narrow street that cut, scythe-like,
through Monk’s Tallow.
“There goes a frightened man,” declared Carol.
“Frightened?” “Winter, while inclined to agree that Sam Bishop was
in poor shape to say the least, felt driven to express curiosity about her use
of the word.
“Their marriage is obviously in trouble and he’s terrified she won’t
come back. Maybe…” she stopped abruptly and shook her head, laughing.
“Maybe…?” Winter prompted.
“I was going to say that maybe she’s run off with Sarah Manners. You
did say you thought they might be a couple of dykes…” She laughed again but the
expression on Winter’s face cut her dead. “You don’t think so…surely, not? I mean…the whole idea’s preposterous. For a start, how would Monk’s Tallow ever get
over it?” More peals of laughter followed. “Besides, even if your fantasy theory
about Sarah Manners were true, she’d never take that kind of risk…would she?”
That’s a very good question, reflected a grim faced Winter but did not feel inclined to say
more. Instead, he mulled over the possibility…or impossibility, depending on how one approached it. At the same
time, he found himself struggling with an irrational, sinking feeling. Whether
or not his suspicions about the librarian were remotely founded, of one thing
he was sure. Sam Bishop has good cause to
be concerned about his wife.
Suddenly, a note of warning struck the detective like a bolt of
lightning and he couldn’t look Carol in the eye as it crossed his mind that
Liam, too, might be in danger. Suppose that troubled young man had either
sought out Sarah Manners of his own accord or, worse…? He made a sudden about-turn, grabbed Carol and
quickened his step almost to a run.
“Where are we going?” she cried and attempted in vain to shake off
his grip on her arm.
“I’m taking you back to the pub.”
“Then what?” demanded Carol, breathing heavily from trying to keep
up in a pair of fashionable heels about as unsuitable for country wear as
Winter could imagine.
“I have to see a man about a dog,” the detective growled
unhelpfully.
“In that case, you and me both,” gasped Carol as they approached the
car park at the rear of The Fox and Hounds.
Winter stopped without warning and only just managed to catch
Carol’s hand to prevent her falling. “You will stay here and wait for me,” he
told her in a tone of voice that usually brooked no argument. In this case,
however, he was in for a big disappointment.
“I will do no such thing,” she retorted angrily, “You think Liam’s
in trouble too, don’t you? And don’t try denying it. It’s written all over your
ugly face, Freddy Winter, and if you think I’ve come here to risk losing my son
all over again…well…I think you know me better than that. You certainly did
once,” she panted, the violet eyes uncompromising.
Winter sighed, saw at once that he had little choice but
to cave in or she would probably guess where he was heading anyway and be daft
enough to follow on alone. Carol Brady, he recalled ruefully, had always been
her own woman. “Come on then,” he
muttered, “But you’ll do as you’re damn well told and don’t you dare get in my
way or on your own head be it.”
She scarcely heard his instructions, issuing from the tight-lipped
mouth like a rattle of machine gun fire as they ran towards the car. Yet, in
spite of frayed nerves and a rapid heartbeat, Carol not only managed to keep up
but also took a niggling pleasure in the fact that he did not once let go of
her hand.
To be continued
