Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 23

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

“The archives, did you say? Yes, of course you can see the archives. They only concern Monk’s Tallow, you understand. Sarah likes to keep her own records for the locals. Did you have a particular period in mind?  Oh, really?  Well, I dare say there will be files going that far back. Everything is clearly marked and dated and there’s even a catalogue although it’s not online I’m afraid. Sarah’s very proud of her archive collection…” the assistant rambled on pleasantly.

Winter had no idea what he expected to find in the Monk’s Tallow archives but had arrived at the library that morning in a state of peculiar anticipation, almost excitement.

He hadn’t slept well. It could be coincidence, of course. The tramp may have simply borne the same name and a strong likeness to the Marc Philips reported missing all those years ago. Mary Bishop, for all she was certain, could easily be mistaken. Likewise, it could be mere coincidence that the man for whom the police were now earnestly seeking was also called Marc Philips. Winter, though, had never quite believed in coincidence although he had to admit that, on this occasion, it left him with a worse muddle than ever to sort.   It raised all manner of implications, mostly vague and well nigh impossible to contemplate.  Contemplate them, though, he did, contradictory thoughts swirling like a whirlpool in his consciousness, sucking him in completely only long enough to allow a brief doze then spewing him back again to try and make sense of it all.

The amiable assistant was happy to leave him to it.

Winter spent the entire morning sifting through Sarah Manners’ musty-smelling but beautifully ordered files. Articles on Cotter’s untimely end made him grimace for remembering…Carol Brady, their affair, Helen’s miscarriage. The murder of Sean Brady paled almost into insignificance by comparison.

He could find no reference to the tramp. But if Mary Bishop was right, he had left Monk’s Tallow at about the same time as Cotter’s remains were discovered at the bottom of the cliff.  So what…?  Winter scratched his head for the umpteenth time. What was he supposed to make of it, if anything? 

“Find anything?”

Winter swung round, startled, and found himself eyeball to eyeball with young Harry Smith (his logical mind still would not grasp the fact that he could be Liam Brady).  “What are you doing here? Where’s Carol?”

“I had to come sooner or later, I reckon, so I guess it might as well be sooner. Besides…” he added with a half-hearted grin, “if I had to be here, I’d rather not be chasing demons on my own. What better company than a copper?”

“Ex-copper,” Winter reminded him dourly, “and one who doesn’t like surprises. Is Carol with you?”

Harry Smith shook his head. “She’s still in Herne Bay. Sadie was none too keen on my coming here, but she really put her foot down as far as Carol was concerned. She thinks it could be dangerous. Do you?” he asked, nonchalantly enough.

Winter wasn’t fooled and pursed his lips. The young man was scared, although he hid his feelings well. Worse, Liam Brady had no idea of what, precisely, he should be scared…or whom.  Silently conceding a degree of admiration for his unexpected visitor, Winter did not, however, feel in the least inclined to appear welcoming. “So what do you think you’re playing at?” he growled, “Fancy yourself as Daniel walking into the lion’s den, do you?  As if I haven’t got my work cut out as it is, without trying to make sure you stay in one piece…”

“You do think there are lions in Monk’s Tallow then.” It was not a question. Moreover, Harry Smith’s far from passing comment was made so disarmingly and with such a wickedly teasing expression that Winter saw something of Carol in the young man for the first time. He indicated open box files, neatly marked pages and various cuttings spread on a long trestle. “Take a look,” he invited.

Harry Smith merely shrugged but began to browse where Winter had studied closely before him. “None of this means a thing to me,” he was forced to admit after a while. “Do you think there’s some connection between my…Sean Brady’s killer and everything else that’s been going on lately?”

“There has to be,” Winter murmured, stroking his beard and addressing himself rather than his companion, “…although I’m damned if I can see what it is. Someone has had it in for Carol, you, even me recently.  Sean Brady was killed over twenty years ago. On the face of it, there can be no connection. Yet here we both are, his son and…”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Harry Smith was quick to point out.

“Are you saying Carol doesn’t know her own flesh and blood?” Winter’s eyebrows shot up.

Harry Smith merely gave another shrug, looked away and said nothing. Winter was about to continue when the door opened noisily.

“Ah, Mr Winter…and…a friend, I see.” Sarah Manners had clearly been warned to expect two people.

If the librarian was on edge, it barely showed. Winter, though, was a professional and not much escaped him. “Miss Manners, this is my friend, Harry Smith. Harry, this is Sarah Manners. She runs things here. ” Winter introduced them, curious as to why the Manners woman had shown no obvious reaction on seeing Liam.

“Have we met before?” Harry Smith stretched out a hand.

“I don’t think so, although I have to say you look remarkably like someone I used to know.  Yes, indeed. But they do say we all have a doppelganger, don’t they?” she tittered and accepted the proffered hand.

“So who do I remind you of?” Harry Smith enquired lightly without letting go of the woman’s hand.

“Liam Brady, I imagine,” said Winter lightly, “and you’re right. The likeness is remarkable.”

“Poor Liam…died,” Sarah Manners addressed Harry Smith, the gravel voice devoid of inflexion, and coolly withdrew her hand.  “So, gentlemen, did you find what you’re looking for?”

“Do I take it you’re back at work now?” Winter countered casually.

“Oh yes. I’m not feeling a hundred per cent of course. But one has to make an effort, doesn’t one?”

“One does,” Winter agreed.

“So…has our little collection succeeded in rewarding your… efforts?”

“It has, yes,” said Winter cryptically then turned to his companion, “Come on, Harry, let’s go and get some lunch…unless Miss Manners wants us to put everything away where we found it?”

“There’s really no need. I always tell the staff to leave all files exactly as they are left, for my personal attention. That way, I can be sure everything goes where it should.”

“I imagine, it must also be fascinating to see what people have been looking at,” Winter couldn’t resist observing, albeit with a broad smile.

“It can be very revealing of human nature,” Sarah Manners smiled back politely, “A library, you know, is a veritable microcosm of human nature. We get all sorts here.”

“I bet you do,” said Winter. “Do you, by any chance, remember a man called Ralph Cotter?”

The woman in the doorway looked momentarily nonplussed. “I know the name of course.  Such a dreadful business, it was. We still get people looking him up in the files from to time. Would you believe that out true crime section in the main library is one of the most popular?  But then people are such ghouls aren’t they? Few of us would admit it but I suspect we all have a morbid fascination with death, especially murder.”

“But Cotter wasn’t murdered, surely? Winter noisily cleared his throat.

“He had killed someone, had he not? Even so…”

“Even so…?” Winter prompted after suitably reflective pause.

“No one deserves to drive over a cliff and be incinerated, do they?  Beauty spot or no, they don’t call that stretch of road The Devil’s Elbow for nothing. I think…”

But Winter was not destined to know Sarah Manners’ train of thought at that particular moment in time.  Harry Smith suddenly pushed past her and ran out of the room without a word. Winter rushed after him, flinging a parting glance at the librarian and mumbling an apology of sorts, a steely gleam in the eyes that could be construed however she wished. The woman responded with a curt nod. Even without casting a backward glance, he was acutely aware of her watching him run across the carpeted floor and through the double glass doors before signing to an assistant at the counter that she did not wish to be disturbed then retreating, breathlessly, from the outside world.

Winter caught up with Harry Smith at the church, of all places. The young man hadn’t struck the detective as being in the least religious. Harry was standing at the porch, peering through the open front door. Shadowy figures were moving about inside and someone was playing an organ.

“Looks like a wedding rehearsal,” Winter commented.

Harry Smith neither answered nor even acknowledged the other’s presence. Instead, he turned to the left then proceeded to walk slowly and morosely through the churchyard.  He stopped, finally, at what must once have been a very decorative and elaborate tomb, now weather-stained and overgrown with weeds and moss. “That woman was one of the people I ran away from,” he said at last without looking at Winter.

Winter pricked up his ears “One of those who came to my house?”

 “That, too…” was the cryptic reply.

“What do you mean, ‘too’? You remember her from somewhere else as well, is that it?”

“Yes. At least, I think so.”

“But you can’t be sure.”

Harry Smith turned on Winter, eyes blazing. “Of course I can’t be bloody sure! How can I be sure of anything when I can’t even remember my own name?” The anger dissipated as quickly as it had arisen. His voice broke. “How can I be sure of anything?” he repeated, eyes still unnaturally bright but less with anger now than an unspoken plea for help.

“Why did you run off like that just now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Come on, you must have some idea, “Winter insisted, “Being an amnesiac doesn’t make you a complete idiot,” he added brutally.

Harry Smith glared, tensed like a tiger about to pounce, thought better of it and gestured despairingly. “I can’t be sure,” he repeated miserably.

Winter made a stab in the dark. “Of what, that Sarah Manners was one of the people who came to my house and scared you off?”

Harry looked surprised then, “I think so. I can’t be sure. But there’s something else about the woman. I know her from somewhere else, I’m damn certain I do but how…and…from where…?  It has sod all to do with her coming to your house too. I had a flashback. I get them sometimes. She was leaning over me. Someone else was peering over her shoulder. At least I thought so. Then I realised…oh, God!  It was that damn teddy bear!” He clutched his head as if in pain. “There was blood. There’s always so much blood.” He wrenched his hands from his face. Plainly distraught, he looked Winter straight in the eye. “I see that bear and want to love it. Instead, I rip its stuffing out. That’s got to mean something right?”

“What do you think it means?” Winter demanded. He would have liked to go more gently but sensed this was not the time for kid gloves.

Harry Smith hesitated before whispering, “I think I might have killed someone.”

Winter shook his head, his manner as brusque as it was assertive. “Take it from me, you’re not the type. Oh, they come in all shapes and sizes, I grant you that. Some look as though butter wouldn’t melt. But they all have one thing in common. They all get up a good copper’s nose. And I’m a damn good copper.”

“You honestly believe that?” Harry Smith was sceptical.

“I do and you had better start believing it too. Who knows? It might even make you want to find out who you are?”

“And you think I don’t?”

“I think you’re scared,” said Winter with a matter-of-factness that was abrupt but not unkind. “Take it from me, no one get to face up to anything all the while they’re hell bent on running away from it.” 

“You think you know everything, don’t you?”  The handsome face grew flushed with anger. It was just the kind of spirited response Winter had not only expected but also hoped for. 

The detective shook his head. “If I knew everything I’d have more to show for my life than an empty house and a pension,” he said gruffly, “But I can smell a killer a mile away and you don’t have that kind of smell. There’s nothing a hot bath, a decent deodorant and a change of clothes won’t have you coming up smelling of roses. Well, maybe not roses but I’m sure you get my gist…”

Harry Smith let rip with an involuntary burst of laughter then, “And how does Sarah Manners smell to you?”

Winter shrugged. “Let’s just say she’s no English rose…shall we? Now, are you planning a picnic among the tombstones or are you coming back to the pub with me?  We can book you in. You can take that bath and I’ll even look you out a clean shirt. Then we can have a late lunch and…take it from there. What do you say?”

Harry Smith seemed to be mulling over the prospect then opened his mouth and promptly shut it again.

“The room’s on me, lunch too. I can’t say fairer than that, can I?”

“So where’s the catch?” demanded Harry warily.

“No catch. Later on we’ll take in the sights and see if you get any more of those flashbacks. Is it a deal?”

Harry Smith gave a long sigh before nodding his head. It was, after all, why he had followed Fred Winter to Monk’s Tallow in the first place. Sadie and Carol had both thrown a wobbly but he was adamant. Sadie knew him too well to argue for long but Carol had tried to dissuade him right up to the last minute. Even in defeat, she had wanted to come with him.

Sadie had not only understood this was something he had to do by himself but also she wasted no time pointing out to Carol that, in view of recent events, she would be safer in Herne Bay. “Harry will have enough on his plate without having to worry about you all the time. Besides, I could use some help behind the bar.” 

To his relief, Carol had, finally, at least made a fair pretence at being convinced.  He liked the woman a lot, had warmed to her from the start and even given her an impulsive goodbye hug. But it was Sadie from whom he’d had to tear himself away before he lost his nerve.

It was late afternoon by the time Fred Winter and Harry Smith were standing on The Devil’s Elbow, overlooking a calm, blue sea dotted with the occasional surfer and two speedboats racing each other in the distance. 

Immediately below, a craggy shoreline may have provided a haven for various species of marine life but it also posed a dark and eerie threat even to the casual observer on a beautiful day. 

Winter found himself trying to imagine how it must feel to be hurtling, trapped and doomed, to that rugged, watery grave.  Just prior to the moment of impact…did a person have time to think about anything – or anyone - or had sheer terror completely taken over by then?  He shivered despite the warmth of a sunshine dancing on the water like nymphs in a fairy story. “Fairy story indeed!” he chuckled. Whatever would Miss Parker have made of that little burst of fancy?  He chuckled again. She would almost certainly have told him, with customary briskness, that it was all very well…but now was neither the time nor place. He glanced at his companion.  Harry Smith was staring, trance-like, at the rocks below, his face expressionless albeit an unhealthy shade of puce. Winter strolled away apace and left him to…whatever.  How did you attempt to assemble thought, he wondered, in the absence of memory?             

Harry Smith found himself utterly captivated by the gentle swish and swirl of waves lapping at the rocks below.  After a while he could not see a thing. It was as if a mist had fallen and all he could make out, in the total absence of colour, was pure sound.  Swish and swirl, swish and swirl.  Then the mist parted, slightly, like a curtain. Suddenly, he was peering through a chink at a body lying prostrate on a floor. Someone else and a small boy were leaning over it. As the chink widened, so the scene changed.  He saw two different people …a man and a woman, or two men, he couldn’t be sure. They were bundling what he took to be the figure of a third person into the passenger seat.  Now the car was on the move. It stopped. A blur of action took place that he couldn’t begin to make out. Now the car started up again. It was gathering speed, heading straight for the cliff edge.  The nearside door opened and something tumbled on to a grass verge or ledge while the vehicle continued to plunge to its inevitable destruction.  The crash, when it came, roared in his ears. Against a sheet of white flame he saw the imprint of a giant teddy bear before it, too, was engulfed by the inferno. A huge explosion rocked the earth beneath his feet. He stumbled, lost his balance and fell.  The curtain closed again.  Thankfully, he let the mist relieve him of his remaining senses and plunged headlong into a darkness that posed neither threat nor danger.

“Are you okay? You fainted…” Fred Winter’s voice seemed far away.

“I think so.” Harry managed to sit up. He looked around, dazedly at first till his head began to clear. “They tried to kill me,” he muttered then repeated with growing agitation, “They tried to kill me!”

“Who tried to kill you… how?” Winter probed gently. It was obvious the young man had experienced some kind of revelation, likewise that his state of mind was chaotic. “Hang in there,” he muttered, sensing intuitively that Harry was clinging to a shred of memory, just as a desperate man might cling to a blade of grass to save himself from falling over a cliff. 

“They tried to kill me,” Harry Smith kept saying over and over, quietly now, his manner shocked and disbelieving.

“Who, Harry? Who tried to kill you?” Winter persisted.

The hunched figure on the grass, rocking to and fro, looked up, wide-eyed and questioning into Winter’s concerned expression. “Harry? Who’s Harry?  My name isn’t Harry. It wasn’t Harry they were trying to kill. It was me…me, me, me,” he kept repeating.

“So who are you, Harry?” Winter hardly dared to breathe, let alone hope that they were on the edge of a breakthrough.

“Not Harry. I’m…Oh, God, who am I?”  He burst into tears. Nor did he resist Winter’s comforting arm around his trembling shoulders as the detective knelt beside him on the grass. .

It was a while before Harry Smith stopped shaking and crying. Winter lent him a handkerchief and helped him to his feet. The detective glanced at his watch. With luck they would reach Monkey Tree cottage before either of its residents returned from work. “Come on, lad, lean on me…”  

Winter assisted the young man he had privately thought of as Liam Brady for some time back to the car. His mind was made up. Even so, he decided that it would be unwise, at this particular moment in time, to relate either their destination or what on earth he expected to gain by breaking and entering.  It would not help to give Liam any more cause to be scared than he had already. However, a key to this whole damn muddle of a mystery lay somewhere.

Since all roads appeared to lead back to Sarah Manners, what better place to start looking than at Monkey Tree Cottage?

To be continued

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 22

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“How, exactly, did your aunt find out that Sarah Manners was living in Monk’s Tallow?” Winter was sprawled on his bed at The Fox and Hounds talking to Julie Simpson on his mobile phone. He listened carefully. “Do you have an address for the Hathaways?” 

Julie promised to look for Ruth’s address book and get back to him. “As far as I know, they hardly knew Sarah so they probably won’t be much help after all these years. Why do you want to know anyway?”  She was still slightly breathless, having just had a row with her mother over wedding plans.

“Something’s bothering me but I can’t put my finger on it,” Winter confessed, “It might help to chat to someone who knew her years ago, even if only slightly. Nothing ventured, nothing gained…”

After exchanging a few idle pleasantries, Winter hung up, although not before reminding her (twice) to call him back as soon as she found that address.  As it happened, he didn’t have to wait long. She called back within half an hour and gave him an address in Harlow.

Winter set off the next day after telephoning and speaking to Karen Hathaway who had seemed only too pleased to chat about Ruth Temple. “She was such a nice person. It’s so awful what happened. Poor Ruth, she never quite got over James Morrissey you know. She as good as told me that herself when I saw her last. When? Oh, a week or so before she died it would have been. I must say, she didn’t seem quite her usual self. Greg and I were devastated when we heard the news. I mean, suicide is …well…it’s just so…awful…isn’t?” she waffled on, “What’s that? Tomorrow evening? Yes, that will be fine.  You’ll stay for supper of course. Shall we say eight o’clock? Greg and I will look forward to it…”

What more he hoped to learn from the Hathaways about Sarah Manners - or Ruth Temple, for that matter - Winter hadn’t a clue. Even so, acting on hunches in the past had invariably paid off, and he had a gut feeling that Greg and Karen Hathaway were worth taking some trouble over.  He certainly hoped so.  Now, stuck in his third traffic snarl-up that day, he was beginning to wonder…

As it turned out, supper with the Hathaways proved to be well worth the wait. Winter found himself tucking into a superb coq au vin with relish.

“Like I said, I only met Sarah Manners once…” Greg Hathaway was saying,” but Ruth talked about her all the time. I used to think she was jealous and, of course, she had every right to be. I mean to say, she went and helped herself to poor Ruth’s boyfriend didn’t she?  Not that I cared much for Morrissey…”

“You knew James Morrissey?” Winter pricked up his ears.

“Not well, only very slightly in fact. To be honest, he struck me as a bit of a cold fish”

“More Ruth’s type than Sarah’s,” Karen Hathaway commented dryly, “Not that poor Ruth was a cold fish…” she blushed and hastily took a mouthful.

“There was certainly nothing cold about Sarah!”  Greg Hathaway grinned broadly, ignoring a cool glance from his wife across the table. “She wasn’t beautiful, exactly, but she had…what’s the word…charisma? That’s it. She certainly had plenty of that, even when she was drunk.  To be honest, that’s how I remember her, pissed as a newt at some party or other. She must have come on to every bloke there, I reckon.”

“How Ruth could stand such a person as a flatmate, I’ll never know,” murmured Karen Hathaway.

“She was waving her arms about, singing and dancing like a madwoman, “ Greg Hathaway continued, “I remember she was wearing a rather unusual charm bracelet and a silver elephant grazed my ear…” he burst out laughing.

“You let her get that close did you?” Karen Hathaway plainly did not see a funny side to the story. 

“She still wears it,” Winter told them, “I must remember to keep well clear of that elephant.”  This time, everyone laughed.

“She was unforgettable in more ways than one,” Greg Hathaway continued, “She went into some kind of fit before the party was over. Everyone thought she was just drunk at first then we realized it was more serious and someone called an ambulance. Apparently, so Ruth told me later, she was allergic to some flavouring or other in the punch. Ironic, really, since she only tried some because the Dry Martini ran out.”

“Nasty things, allergies,” Karen Hathaway tried to sound sympathetic, “My mother was allergic to tomatoes, you know…”

“Apparently, nut allergies are becoming more and more common…” her husband observed then launched into a tirade against Tony Blair’s handling of the Iraq crisis.

Was Blair allergic to nuts?  Winter found himself contemplating the idea as he tried, absently, to make a connection.  However, that facetious question remained purely hypothetical and a lively debate ensued.

Apart from enjoying a hearty meal and convivial company, the evening provided less useful information than a welcome distraction from the whole messy business. Declining the Hathaway’s’ kind offer to put him up for the night, Winter drove through the congestion-free darkness to reach Monk’s Tallow in the early hours.

Relieved that guests had their own back door keys, he let himself into the Fox and Hounds, removed his shoes before clambering up the stairs and was soon slumped on his bed fast asleep before he had even thought about undressing.

The dawn chorus broke irritatingly early. Winter resisted an impulse to bury his head under the pillows and lay, half-listening to the birdsong, half-contemplating a persistent problem he had concerning Sarah Manners. Put simply, could someone have changed so much even during a period of some twenty years?  The answer was probably, yes. And did it really matter anyway? He sighed. The answer was almost certainly, no. So why, oh why, could he not simply dismiss the damn women from his head altogether?  Something stirred at the back of his mind, nagged at him for a while then retreated, drowned by a palpable chattering and singing by the cream of nature’s own.

The frenzied buzz of media reporting has lessened (since there was little or nothing to report) and the residents of Monk’s Tallow were making a brave stab at carrying on with their everyday lives. Lovell having informed him that his team were still desperately trying to track down the elusive Marc Philips, Winter decided to pay another call on Sarah Manners. He was curious about her connection with Philips, not least because everywhere he looked within his own narrow sphere of preoccupation, there appeared to be a connection, however tenuous, with the librarian.

“He was only a casual friend, hardly a friend at all really,” Sarah Manners told him over a cup of tea. Horton was out. Winter sensed that she was nervous, unsure of herself.  “He fell in love with Monk’s Tallow. People do, you know. I promised to let him know when a property became vacant and when it did, liased with an Estate Agent for him. He travels a lot in his job, you see. It was no skin off my nose. If you can’t do someone an innocent little favour now and then, it’s a poor world wouldn’t you say?”  Winter nodded, wondering why she had felt obliged to say ‘innocent’.  “If there’s anything shady about the man, I really wouldn’t know.”

“I’m not sure anyone is suggesting there might be.” Winter tried to sound reassuring. “The police just want to find him, if only to eliminate him from their enquiries.”

“Yes, well, they’ll have their work cut out. Like I said, Marc moves around a lot. Sometimes we see him when he decides to pop down, sometimes we don’t. It’s not unusual to hear nothing from him for months at a time.”

“I imagine he’ll read about the murder in the newspapers,” Winter commented, stroking his beard, “He’ll know the police are anxious to ask him a few questions.”

“Possibly not if he’s abroad somewhere…”

Winter considered his next question carefully. “From what you know of the man, do you think he’s capable of murder?”

 Sarah Manners, too, waited a few moments before replying. “Who really knows what people are capable of in certain circumstances? When all’s said and done, I suspect we all have a capacity for murder. Let’s face it, Mr Winter…err, Fred…it’s a pretty basic instinct. Most of us can control it most of the time, while some of us…” The slim shoulders gave a meaningful shrug. “As a policeman, I’m sure you’ve seen some unlikely murderers in your time?”

Winter nodded. “I dare say there comes a time when all of us have to confront the dark side of human nature. What we choose to do about it…well, who knows until it happens?  I certainly hope I’m no potential murderer, don’t you?”  He meant it as a joke. But the librarian’s response was surprising, to say the least.  Instead of making light of it, she got angry.

“What kind of a question is that? Do I look like the kind of person who could kill someone in cold blood? Really, Mr Winter, I find your whole manner not only distressing but very offensive. I’m not sure what this poor girl’s death has to do with you in the first place but it certainly has nothing to do with me. I doubt whether it has anything to do with Marc Philips either. What is it with you, anyway? How dare you come into my house and start tossing the most outrageous accusations about… as if I were a suspect, for heaven’s sake!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” Winter began apologetically.

“Yes, well, I’m sorry too,” the woman had risen angrily to her feet but now sat down again. “Perhaps I over-reacted. I’m not well, you see. I should be back at work by now but…I’m just not up to it yet.  This whole business has upset me more than I could have thought possible. That poor girl…she was so young and pretty.  And to think her killer is still at large…it’s too much.”

“I had better go…”

“Yes, I think you had,” Sarah Manners agreed coolly then adopted a more conciliatory tone. “You’ll have to bear with me. I’m not myself at the moment, not myself at all…”

“I’ll let myself out.”

On his way back to The Fox and Hounds, Winter called Julie Simpson again. “Did James Morrissey have any family in the UK?”

“James? Why on earth do you want to know about James?”

 “Well, did he?” Winter repeated tersely.

 “I’ll have to call you back,” said Julie and hung up before Winter could soften his tone. He hadn’t meant to snap, he never did. Some things just…came out that way now and then. Well, not infrequently, if he was honest. Helen had found a way to deal with it. Quite simply, she’d ignore him. A grin crossed the deeply lined face. So, too, had Carol Brady he seemed to recall.

 Julie Simpson was true to her word and gave him another address, in Leeds this time. Winter groaned but took care to thank her profusely and enquire after the wedding plans. “Don’t ask!” was her laughing reply, although Winter thought he detected an edge to it that suggested all was not going entirely to plan.  On the drive to Leeds, Winter decided that, as a wedding present, he would not charge Julie a fee for what had to be a wild goose chase, surely? And yet…what was it niggling at him all the time. What was staring him in the face that he couldn’t see?

 He found the address easily enough by using his laptop to call up a street map on the Internet. Julie had said there was no phone number in her aunt’s address book, simply the entry ‘Rose Morrissey’ who might have been mother, sister, aunt…? It was anyone’s guess.

So it was that the following afternoon found Winter ringing the doorbell of a semi-detached in a suburb of Leeds, prepared for anything and anyone. It was a man who opened the door. Winter, undeterred by the other’s look of open hostility, guessed he was in his forties.

“Whatever it is you’re selling, I’m not interested so push off. Go and pester somebody else.” He started to close the door.

“I’m not selling anything,” Winter hastily explained. “I only want a few minutes of your time, that’s all.  I’m looking for Rose Morrissey. I’ve been driving half the day…” he added in the hope that he might, at least, extract the offer of a cup of tea.

“Then I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted journey because she’s dead,” was the short reply and the door continued to close in Winter’s face.

“Did you know the Morrisseys…James perhaps?”  Winter asked while having to raise his voice several anxious octaves as the door all but shut on him.  It paused then edged open again slightly.

“Are you a friend of James?”

“Not exactly, but I knew Ruth Temple,” Winter lied easily, settling for a half truth. He knew of the dead woman, after all. True to say, by now, he felt as if he had known her personally.

The door opened even wider. “I heard about Ruth.  If you ask me, it was a crying shame she and James never got it together. She was so right for him. But what does he do? Gets stuck on that Sarah Manners, doesn’t he? Know about Sarah, do you? Of course you do or you wouldn’t be here. You’d better come in. I’m Clive Morrissey, by the way. James was my brother.”

“Fred Winter,” entering with renewed anticipation of a cup of tea. Nor was he disappointed and they were soon chatting amiably in a spacious, if dowdy kitchen whose high ceiling reinforced a sense of all space and little room.

“She was no good for James, the Manners girl,” Morrissey was saying, “You could say she was, literally, the death of him. He never got over her disappearance.  When he heard from Ruth that she might be down in Sussex somewhere, he dropped everything and took the next flight to London.  She didn’t want to know, of course. I could have told him that, anyone could, except maybe Ruth. She was mad about James, you know. Things could have been so different, if only…” He sighed and took a sip of tea, “But we can’t help who we fall in love with, I suppose. You only have to look at my mum and dad,” he added cryptically.

“Do you think your brother’s death was an accident or…”

“Suicide..?” Morrissey shrugged, “No one likes to think about that, of course, but I honestly don’t think so. More likely, he was in such a state after Sarah dumped him a second time that he just wasn’t concentrating. They said at the inquest it’s a bad stretch of road.”

“It is.” Winter nodded.

“Even so, James was a damn good driver. He won rallies, you know. That bitch must have got to him once and for all to send him over some bloody cliff!”

“What was she like, Sarah, in the days before she…disappeared?”

Morrissey gave another shrug. “You mean took off, don’t you?  I dare say she had some bloke in tow, the poor sod.  Oh, she was pretty enough, I suppose, but nothing special in the looks department. If you ask me, she was as common as muck, for all her airs and graces. Mind you, she was nobody’s fool and there’s no denying she had what it takes to get men drooling after her.  She could wind a man around her little finger at first sight. “

“Is that what happened to James?”

Morrissey nodded. “He was hooked before he knew it. The worst part is I don’t think she gave a toss about him. Well, she couldn’t have, could she, the way she ran off like that?  Ruth, on the other hand, loved him to bits. Why the fool couldn’t see it beats me. If he’d only stuck with Ruth, he could have been happy and would probably be alive today. Instead…”

“Did James have no idea at all why Sarah should up and leave like that?”

Morrissey shook his head. “No one did. James was frantic. Apart from anything else, he was terrified she might get ill or worse. Ruth kept an eye out for her you see, everyone did.”

“Oh?”

 “She had this allergy…”

 “Ah, yes.” Winter recalled Greg Hathaway alluding to an allergy.

“Anything nutty, in any shape or form, would make her freak out. Apparently, it could be life threatening.  She’d had several close calls according to James. He must have rung around all the hospitals in the country during those early months after she did a runner.”

Winter stroked his beard. Hadn’t Carol Brady said something about eating peanuts the only time she’d had lunch with Sarah and Liam in Monk’s Tallow?  And what was it Audrey Ellis had said Ruth Temple told her?  She’s driving me nuts.  Suppose Audrey hadn’t been wearing her hearing aid and what Ruth had actually said was something like…She doesn’t eat nuts…?  Do people outgrow allergies?  On the other hand, there was the bracelet. It has to be the same Sarah Manners…well, doesn’t it?  Yet, just suppose…

Winter frowned. The alternative was too unlikely if not impossible to contemplate.

“I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you,” said Morrissey. Winter took the hint and left soon afterwards.

The next day, Winter’s sensibilities received something of a shock. He had taken to coming to the little church in Monk’s Tallow now and then, just to sit and ponder, sometimes merely enjoy the peace and quiet. He half hoped to bump into Mary Bishop again but there was never any sign. Instead, he sat and doodled just as he had done at school years ago whenever he felt bored…or troubled.  He fancied he could hear Miss Parker’s sharp reprimand, Pay attention, Winter, if you want to learn something. If you don’t, go ahead and scribble. It will get you nowhere fast, you’ll see.  She had been quite right, of course. And here he was, getting nowhere fast. He wondered whether Charlie Lovell was having any better luck and, for no particular reason, doubted it. 

He contemplated his doodling, could make no sense of it whatsoever and idly turned over the page. It was the printout of Marc Philips. Such a pity it was the wrong one, he mused gloomily. Not that it mattered to him, it didn’t. Even so, it would have given his old friend a lead of sorts to follow up. “Probably a dead-end anyway,” he muttered. Why was it life is so full of dead-ends? “Good question, Fred.” He had to chuckle. Old age really was catching up with him fast…

“Good heavens, I know that face!”

 A familiar voice immediately followed the hand that touched Winter lightly on the shoulder and all but caused him to jump out of his skin. He looked up to find Mary Bishop smiling down at him. She leaned forward, retrieved the printout and examined it closely. “Yes, it’s him alright…”

“You know him?” Winter expressed astonishment.

“Not exactly, but I know the face. He passed by here once, years ago. I remember him because Sam and I hadn’t long moved in.  I filled a flask for him and packed him some sandwiches a couple of times. He was sleeping rough, you see, and we felt sorry for him. Well, you do, don’t you. Not that people around here can handle that kind of thing, it’s too much for them. But living in London for years…well, you get used to the homeless don’t you?  I have to say, it doesn’t bode well for the twentieth-first century. Don’t you agree? I mean, whatever would Dickens say if he knew there were still beggars on the streets and people sleeping rough in this day and age?  It makes the flesh creep, it really does…”

“Are you sure it’s him?” Winter could not believe his ears.

      “Oh, yes, it’s him alright.”

“So what happened to him?”

“How should I know? He wasn’t the type to keep in touch, that’s for sure. One morning he simply wasn’t there any more. He used to sleep in the bus shelter opposite the church and…must have decided to move on, I suppose. They do, don’t they, those kind of people? It’s very sad, of course. Even so, it must be nice to do your own thing like that and let the devil take the hindmost…” she murmured, gave a long sigh and wore such a wistful expression that Winter’s sudden perception of Mary Bishop was one of a very unhappy woman.

“So when was this?” Winter was intrigued.

“Oh, donkey’s years ago…” She sat down in the pew immediately behind him, “a good twenty, I’d say.”

“Yet you’re sure this is him?”

“Oh, yes. Apart from the fact we hadn’t long moved here, it was around the same time as some madman crashed at the Devil’s Elbow. There was a bigger fuss than usual, police everywhere. Apparently the driver was on the run. It was in all the papers. He’d killed someone and…”

But Winter’s agile mind had taken off in all directions at once and he barely caught another word she said.  The ‘madman’…had to be Ralph Cotter, surely?  So what? 

Nothing, as usual, made much sense.

To be continued

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 21

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“I can see you’re busy…” Winter murmured. He had begun to regret paying a courtesy call at the local nick. Extra police had been drafted in to help find the young fair worker’s killer and its corridors seemed busier than Victoria station during the rush hour.  He introduced himself to the desk sergeant who was pleasant enough but less than interested. “We’re all pretty stretched at the moment, that’s for sure,” said the young man who struck Winter as barely old enough to wear a uniform in the first place, let alone sergeant’s stripes.

      “Pleased to meet you, sir, I’m sure. You’ll be glad to be well out of it I dare say.”

      “So long as you stay out of it,” said a voice behind him and a red haired young man in a suit appeared from behind a filing cabinet. “No offence sir, but we haven’t time to humour retired coppers, even those with your reputation.” The tone was light enough, the expression relaxed and not unfriendly.

       “I get the message,” responded Winter equably. “I merely thought it polite to drop in and say hello.”

      “Huh, that’ll be the day!” A loud snort from an open doorway blasted Winter’s ear just to the detective’s right. “Once a copper always a copper…and what ex-copper can resist sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted?”

      “I was trying to be diplomatic sir,” said the young DS, although Winter couldn’t be sure whether it was he who was being addressed or the older man whom he had turned to face with a critical eye.

      “You look a mess,” Winter declared mildly. “That must mean you have some clout around here.”

      “You’re looking at a DCI no less. As for looking a mess, it comes from being up all bloody night getting nowhere fast.”

      “As you’re sergeant quite rightly observed,” Winter felt bound to observe, albeit with a broad grin, “I’m glad to be out of all that.”

      “Huh, and pigs might fly!” The grim expression broke into a wide, if weary, smile. “It’s good to see you Fred.”

      “You too Charlie,” Winter approached and the two men shook hands warmly.

      “Organize some tea and biscuits will you, Mike,” Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Lovell addressed the red haired young man. “We’ll be in my office. This way, Fred, I might as well hear what’s on your mind now as later. Oh, and Mike, if there’s any of those chocolate digestives left…” Detective Sergeant Mike Pritchard nodded and muttered something inaudible. Whatever it was, it amused the desk sergeant, whose fruity chuckle followed the two old friends down a corridor and into an obviously makeshift office comprising the bare essentials. “It’s hardly what either of us are accustomed to, I’m afraid,” Lovell apologized with a grin, “But beggars can’t be choosers in such rustic corners of the world. I believe it was a stationery cupboard until a few days ago.” Both men laughed.

      They chatted briefly about old times until a sheepish looking Pritchard had delivered tea and biscuits on a tray and dutifully deposited them on Lovell’s desk.  “Ah, chocolate digestives ‘n’ all I see!  Now, that’s I what I call a good result, Mike,” enthused Lovell. But the DS merely nodded and left the room. The two men burst out laughing. “He’s a good copper,” Lovell told his guest, “but he can be a bit of a pain sometimes. You’ll remember the type, I’m sure.”  

     Winter nodded and helped himself to a biscuit. “I’m really not interested in the murder, Charlie. Hand on heart, it’s all yours and welcome.”

      “So what brings you to Monk’s Tallow? And don’t tell me you’ve been looking through your wedding album and got sentimental because I won’t believe a word of it. I know you, Fred Winter. You’re up to something.”

      “To be honest Charlie, I’m not sure why I’m here. I suppose you could say I’m on a fishing expedition.”

      “Well, let me know if you land anything that might be of the slightest use to me.  Right now I’m barely stabbing in the dark.  I have no witnesses and the body lay in the pouring rain all night so forensics won’t be too happy either.  Some kid thinks he saw the girl with one of the weekenders from Monk’s Porter that afternoon but he can’t be sure and the fellow’s obviously gone back to wherever he calls home.  The neighbours don’t seem to know a lot about him but neither have they any complaints.  It could be something or nothing, probably nothing the way my luck’s been running lately.” He frowned, then “Sorry, Fred, it can’t have been easy for you either since Helen…” 

      “Died?” Winter supplied the word so many people preferred to avoid although it was, he had to admit, something of a novelty to find it in a fellow copper even if they had known each other for the best part of thirty years. An uncomfortable few seconds passed. Both men were suddenly aware of the distance between them. One was not only enjoying his third marriage but also engaged in a murder enquiry while the other hadn’t a clue what he was about in more ways than one.

      The telephone rang.  “Lovell…”

     “See you later Charlie,” Winter mouthed and got to his feet. The other man waved and pulled a face while still barking instructions down to some hapless soul on the receiving end. 

     After a few mundane words with the obliging desk sergeant, Winter made his way to The Fox and Hounds, changed his mind and visited the little church instead. A portly vicar appeared to be giving some kind of press conference in the grounds and if anyone noticed Winter slip inside, they paid no attention.  

       Apart from a woman fussing over a flower arrangement, the church was empty. She looked up, a surprised look on her face, as Winter approached. But her greeting was friendly enough. “You’re most welcome. Are you a relative,” she added in a hushed, conspiratorial voice. Winter was nonplussed. “…of that poor girl,” the woman was close to tears. 

      Winter shook his head. “Just a visitor,” he explained and sensed her disappointment. “I got married here some years ago.”

      “Oh? How interesting…” Mary Bishop brightened, “And your wife, is she with you?”

      “She died.”

      “I’m so sorry. I’ll leave you to your memories then, shall I?”

     “There’s really no need to leave on my account,” Winter assured her, “I just dropped by to…” he finished lamely and shrugged, uncharacteristically embarrassed all of a sudden. 

      “I’m Mary Bishop, by the way.” She held out a slim, pretty hand for all Winter guessed she had to be in her forties.  

      “Fred Winter.”

      “Will you be staying in Monk’s Tallow long, Mr Winter, or are we just passing through?” Winter winced.       He hated it when people referred to “we” when it wasn’t in the least appropriate.

      “We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?” he told her and, even to his own ears, sounded petulant. “It depends…” He tried to sound apologetic.

      “There’s certainly a lot going on to keep people on their toes,” said Mary Bishop, grimly. “They say that poor girl who was murdered was only in her teens...but looked older…not that it’s relevant really, I suppose.  No one local could be responsible of course. It has to be one of those fair people, surely?  Mind you, people come from all over to the summer fair so…who knows?”

      “You’re absolutely right…who knows?” Winter agreed.

      “Well, I’ve finished here now so I’ll leave you to your thoughts.  It has been so nice meeting you Mr Winter.”

      “Likewise…it’s Mrs Bishop?”  She nodded, returned another smile that belied her years then promptly did as she had said and left him to his thoughts.

      Winter sat in a pew for a while, enjoying the peace and tranquillity of his surroundings and gazing, unmoved, at a huge stained glass portrait of the crucified Christ incorporated into a window that towered above the altar. Never a religious man, he had felt even farther removed from religion since Helen’s death. Had it really been necessary for her to endure such pain? Couldn’t a merciful God have found some other way? Even so, there was an air of spirituality about the place…and memories…good and bad… flitting in and out of his mind more fragile and colourful than the wings of a butterfly. He couldn’t help but be affected even though he failed to catch the butterfly and experienced a surge of regret for that.  It would have been a comfort to hold, for a moment at least, the sense of beauty (spirituality?) briefly overwhelming the feelings of loss, guilt and loneliness that has threatened to overwhelm him completely until… Julie Simpson came to his house that day?

      As he walked slowly towards the same side exit from which he had come, Winder found himself examining his motives for coming to Monk’s Tallow yet again. Did it really have anything to do with a few tragic accidents that could be easily explained away…or Liam Brady’s apparent identity crisis …or Carol Brady’s reappearance in his life?  He couldn’t deny that she still had the power to distract him. Yet, was it so surprising? They had been lovers once, after all. 

      Winter stroked his beard and felt compelled to ask what, if anything, did he still feel for Carol after all these years? “Nothing,” he told the enigmatic face of Christ to which, involuntarily, he cast a final glance. Yet, even to his own ears, there was a perceptible absence of conviction in his voice and it rang disturbingly hollow in the empty church. 

      He quickened his step, anxious to be out in the sunshine once more, free of fanciful thoughts and Gothic spirits. His thoughts turned to Sarah Manners and her partner…an odd couple and no mistake. Moreover, he could have sworn both of them had recognized him. How, why?  He felt besieged by unanswered questions while, like his old friend Charlie Lovell, getting nowhere fast. 

      Winter sighed. Of one thing he was certain.  Whatever the bigger picture, Sarah Manners and her partner were central to it.

      That evening, he called Carol from his room at The Fox And Hounds. She sounded cheerful and, as far as he could make out, was getting on well with Sadie. The latter had indeed, by all accounts, welcomed them both with open arms. “How are things between you and…?” he began.

      “Harry and I are fine,” replied the voice reminiscent of a wilful, strong-minded young woman with whom he had once been hopelessly infatuated. (Had it been infatuation or love?) “Keep in touch, okay?” she said briskly, “Bye.”  Carol put the phone down.  

      Winter sighed. If Helen had been a butterfly in his life, Carol Brady was his sword of Damocles.  The comparison brought a smile to his lips. Suddenly his appetite returned and, with it, an inspired thirst for a decent pint.  He went downstairs, ordered supper and, with eager anticipation, carried the first beer he had seen in ages with a good head on it to the only empty table in view.  His eyes wandered across the dimly lit but crowded room and spotted a familiar figure.  They rested fleetingly on Mary Bishop for a moment. Then he almost choked on his beer. For the woman with whom she was engaged in animated conversation, side profile only partially visible to him, was Sarah Manners. “Cosy,” he murmured to himself and watched the pair with growing fascination. 

      Both women were being very tactile, to say the least. Did this merely demonstrate closeness between friends, he wondered, or were they just a little tipsy? Or was Mary Bishop unashamedly flirting with her companion?

      “Hello!” Mary Bishop spotted him and waved. Sarah Manners turned just as Winter opted to wave back rather than try and pretend he hadn’t noticed and slip away. Mary beckoned. Winter began to thread his way through the crowd. Miss Manners, for her part, didn’t look too pleased to see him, her smile of welcome a trifle strained he thought. “How nice to see you again,” Mary Bishop enthused, “This is my dear friend…”

      “We’ve met,” the other woman cut her short, “Hello again Mr Winter.”

      “Please, call me Fred, everyone does.”

      “Fred and I met in the church,” Mary revealed, lowering her voice as if it were a closely guarded secret. 

     “My late wife and I were married there.” Winter smiled at Sarah Manners whose lips barely flickered.

      “What do you think of our murder then?” Mary Bishop continued to talk in a husky whisper that, to Winter’s keen ear, came across as both amusing and sexually stimulating. 

      He found himself comparing the two women.  Mary was attractive and vivacious. She put her friend in the shade somewhat although, he had to admit there was something about the Manners woman that was. well, interesting, to say the least. Whatever it was, though, he reflected amusedly, it certainly wasn’t sex appeal. Even so, she wasn’t unattractive and her clothes were smart even if they didn’t do a lot for her. Undoubtedly, her dress sense left something to be desired while Mary Bishop, on the other hand, demonstrated a flair for colour and knew how to catch the eye. Mary oozed femininity. By contrast, there was something hard, almost masculine, about Sarah Manners.  (But now I’m just being unkind, surely?).

      “I’m sure Fred is fascinated by it all, aren’t you?” murmured the subject of his thoughts. “Did he tell you he’s a policeman, Mary dear?”

      “Are you really?” Mary Bishop’s green eyes widened appreciatively.

      “A retired policeman,” Winter corrected Sarah Manners with a bland smile while watching every nuance of her expression. 

      “Nevertheless, old habits die hard. I’m sure you’d love to get your hands on the case.” The lipstick barely moved.

      “One always likes to assist the police with their enquiries given half a chance, wouldn’t you agree?”  Winter joked.  Mary Bishop laughed but her companion did not appear to find the comment in the least bit funny. 

      “It’s so hot in here!” Sarah Manners put a hand to her forehead. Winter observed a pretty charm bracelet on her left wrist decorated with animals. A silver elephant in particular caught his eye and he couldn’t help thinking how the bracelet would have looked far better on Mary Bishop. “Do you mind awfully if we leave dear?” she asked her friend.

      “Leave?” Mary sounded disappointed but quickly rallied, “No, of course not. You’re still not quite yourself after all.”  She turned to Winter, “Poor Sarah had a bad fall. But it takes more than that to keep a good woman down, doesn’t it dear?” She laughed again, a light breezy sound of which Winter approved.  Their companion visibly winced. The lipstick flickered and the librarian’s eyes gave Winter an icy glance before she turned and headed towards the nearest exit. “So nice to chat, Fred, we must do it again before you leave. I’d love to hear all about your adventures as a policeman.” Mary Bishop flung him a dazzling smile and hurried after Sarah.

      “Adventures, huh…!” Winter snorted. “Muddles, more like…”

      “What’s this? Talking to yourself now, eh?  Old age must be catching up with you faster than I’d ever have believed,” a familiar voice chuckled at his left ear.  

      Winter turned, his face already breaking into a wide grin. “Hello Charlie.”

      “A pint is it?”  Winter nodded and the two men made their way to the bar. “I see you’ve met the estimable Miss Manners…” Winter nodded again just as Lovell caught the barman’s eye. A couple at a nearby table got up and left so Winter homed in quickly and grabbed it. Soon after, the two men were chatting about old times over two healthy pints that Winter couldn’t help remarking made s welcome change from the invariable short measures served up in London pubs.

      “So how’s the investigation coming along Charlie?” 

      The other man shrugged, “It’s not, to be honest.”

      “What about that kid you mentioned who says he saw the girl with someone. Has he been much help?”

      Lovell took a long swig from his glass. “He seems pretty sure he saw her with the weekender, Marc Philips, but he’s not certain of the time and we still haven’t been able to track down Philips to confirm.  Even our friend, Sarah Manners, doesn’t appear to have a London address for him. All she could tell us is that he’s a manager in something to do with imports and exports…which could mean anything.”

      “Why should she know anything at all?” Winter was curious.

      “Apparently, they’re old friends. She helped him get the cottage, liased with the Estate Agent on his behalf, that kind of thing.”

     “Does he have any form?”

     “No such luck. The computer came up with a Marc Philips but only because he was reported missing years ago and there’s no resemblance, even allowing for the time gap.” Lovell produced a printout from an inside pocket and handed it to Winter. That girl was murdered four days ago, Fred, and we’re no nearer to finding her killer now than when she was found,” he groaned. “All we know is that she had a row with a boyfriend the day before but he has a cast iron alibi.  According to her mother, she was inclined to go after anything in trousers…which doesn’t exactly narrow the field of potential suspects down. It might as well have been you or me for all anyone has the foggiest idea whodunit.  But enough doom and gloom, what do you think of Mary Bishop? She’s quite something, eh? No spring chicken, I grant you, but I’d swap places with her old man any day!”

      “And you a respectable married man!” Winter feigned shock and both men roared with laughter.

"Actually, I wouldn’t mind a quick word with her before I leave Monk’s Tallow. I should have asked for her address”

      “You are getting old!” Lovell chuckled then, “Here…” Lovell wrote an address on the back of the printout and handed it over. “Everyone knows the Bishops so don’t worry, no one can get me on the Data Protection Act.”  

      The two men laughed companionably and Lovell indicated his empty glass. Winter drained his own, only too glad to take his turn at the bar, painfully aware that he had spent far too much time alone since Helen died. What was it the poet, John Donne, wrote? ‘No man is an island’…but that was all he could remember. Winter sighed. “If the cap fits,” he muttered inaudibly.

      Without any conscious effort or sense of guilt, Winter’s thoughts flew to Carol Brady. There was something of Mary Bishop about her, he reflected with a quiet chuckle. True, the two women were as alike as chalk and cheese. Carol, though, could easily have been taken for a brasher, less refined version of Mary Bishop.  

      The chuckle became a guffaw.  He had to concede that ‘refined’ was hardly an epithet applicable to Carol Brady. Yet he had adored her once, hadn’t he?  Memory, like a mirror image of the pair of them making love, leapt unbidden and unexpected, to his mind’s eye. Small wonder, he reflected wryly. Sex with no other woman in his life, including Helen, had been anywhere near as enjoyable as with Carol. Not until he met her had he understood how much of a hands-on art-form passion could be.   

      “That’ll be four pounds forty please,” said the barman.

      Winter started. The mirror shattered. Its pieces flew everywhere, like a meteor shower, bringing him, too, crashing to earth with a vengeance. 

To be continued

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

“Oh, yes, yes…” moaned the naked young woman sprawled on a grassy slope, enjoying her first real climax in ages. This Marc Phillips guy certainly knew how to treat a woman and no mistake. She closed her eyes, relishing the continuing thrills pulsating through her body like an electric charge. “Oh, yes…” she purred again and began to relax, rapid breathing starting to slow, half expecting, hoping, for a re-run. So wrapped up was she in her own contentment that she hardly felt, at first, the silk of a necktie around the neck. Not until it tightened suddenly and she found herself choking. 

Eyes flew open. Hands flapped uselessly. All attempts to scream were cut short by the pressure on neck and throat. The only sound she made was a horrible gurgling noise. She all but blacked out. The harsh, rattling sound continued for a few minutes. It was as if she were watching someone drown. She even fancied she could glimpse a head bobbing on a patch of postcard blue sea, only recognizing it as her own at the split second it went under…and failed to reappear.

Marc Philips, alias Ralph Cotter, watched in fascinated disbelief as the face, so pretty only moments before, first turned a puffy then blotchy blue-red colour. His fingers flew from the lifeless throat. Scrambling to his feet, he stayed there, retching, for a good ten minutes. He’d have given anything to jump into a hot bath there and then.  What have I done?  Terror vied with an enormous sense of pride to make his bladder tingle.  Even so, he had done it, hadn’t he? And all on my own, no help from Daz, or anyone. He, Ralph Cotter, had killed someone with his bare hands. There was no comparison with shooting Sean Brady. Nor was he unaware of the warm, sticky stuff staining his underpants as, in his mind’s eye, his hands clenched around her throat again and again, gurgling sounds in his ears like the last drops of bath water draining away.

It had been good, too, to have sex with a woman, be a man again. True to form, though, his thoughts turned to Sarah Manners with as much relief as pleasure.

      He had met the girl, called Cathy, at a local travelling fair. It had been his intention to return directly to the cottage after visiting Doctor Steven Ambrose but it was a glorious day and the fair was just nearby. Daz wouldn’t approve, of course, but then…what the heck? Be sure you come right back, and mind you stick to the same routine, he’d always say. We’re playing with fire as it is. Why you have to see the doctor about some damn pimple beats me.

      “It could be skin cancer,” Cotter had argued.

     “And it could be just a pimple!” Horton exploded but knew better than to try and get the better of a Sarah Manners with a bee in her bonnet. Sometimes he wondered just where the dividing line lay between Sarah and Ralph.

     Cotter had been attracted to the girl by her perfume. He had caught a whiff on a sudden breeze and looked around, hopefully, for Mary Bishop. Mary had never met Marc Philips. It would be an interesting encounter…

      But Mary was nowhere to be seen. Instead, his nose led him to a pretty, red haired girl in her late teens or early twenties wearing Mary Bishop’s favourite Calvin Klein perfume. It also happened to be Cotter’s favourite. He smiled at the girl without thinking and was slightly nonplussed when she smiled, seductively, back at him. It crossed his mind that she was his for the taking if he wanted. Bemusedly, it struck him that he did.

      While Cotter’s sexuality in respect to women was nothing new, of course, neither could its remaining innocuously dormant for so long be blamed entirely on his having assumed a dead woman’s identity. Marriage had not done a lot for his libido. Sex with Jean had been little more than going through the motions and she’d had no respect for his fetishes, barely made an effort to satisfy any in fact. He had never thought of himself as fancying a woman, even Mary Bishop. Until now, that is.

      Yes, he did fancy this girl…even if her face kept blurring into Mary Bishop’s. Mary, though, was special. He could never do anything to upset or hurt Mary. But this girl…what was she to him? What does it matter if…?  But he left the question unasked and unanswered as he approached her, smiling broadly, and proceeded to waffle on about the weather. Neither was fooled for an instant. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to be undressing each other, quickly and sensually, in a quiet spot less than thirty minutes later.

     He stared at the corpse with mounting horror, the first flush of achievement and a sexual fulfilment beyond his wildest dreams draining fast. Dawning in its place was the awful realization that he had a body to dispose of…and the sooner the better.

      Cotter struggled to collect his thoughts. Had anyone seen him and the girl enter the copse? He prayed, not. In any case, he would need an alibi. There was nothing else for it. Cotter reached for his mobile and called Daz. No reply. He tried to text a message but was all fingers and thumbs and quickly abandoned the idea. (What would he say, anyway, that he needed help to shift a body?) 

      A heavily perspiring Cotter began to panic. After numerous deep breaths he managed, at least, to get his clothes on. Each time he picked up the mobile it would take on a life of its own and jump out of his hands. He began to feel cold in spite of the sun’s blanket heat. His teeth began to chatter. More deep breaths helped. Eventually, he felt calmer. First things first, he decided, and dragged the body into some bushes, throwing the girl’s clothes after it. Maybe he could come back later and bury it properly?  But he already knew he would not be able to face that. And what does it matter if anyone saw us together?  Marc Philips didn’t exist, for heaven’s sake or, as far as he did, could easily take off and just…disappear. Cotter began to chuckle, quietly at first, before letting rip with a near hysterical guffaw.  Just then, the sun disappeared behind a cloud and the resulting dark shadow had an immediately sobering effect.  He must leave, now. If anyone saw him, so be it. They would never see him again.

      What persona, Cotter wondered absently, would Daz come up with next in order for him to re-assume ownership of Bluebell Cottage?   They would have to wait a suitable period of time, of course, and probably have to kill someone else…

“If Daz doesn’t kill me first,” Cotter confided to a fat thrush warbling on a low-hanging branch nearby. The bird took no notice. Cotter toyed with the notion of not telling Daz what he’d done…but not for long.  Sarah Manners, like everyone else in the village, would need an alibi.

Even so, the avid readers of Monk’s Tallow would have to get by without their librarian for a whole week while Cotter recovered from a thrashing within an inch of his life dealt out by Daz Horton that same night. “You bloody fool! You stupid, stupid bloody fool!” Horton raged as the handsome leather belt slashed at Cotter’s naked body. Cotter writhed and moaned, merely thankful that Daz had taken the news in his stride.

……………………..

By the time Fred Winter arrived in Monk’s Tallow and had taken a room at The Fox and Hounds, all local talk was of the murder of a young girl from the travelling fair that visited Monk’s Porter every year.

“They go around asking for trouble, them sort,” one local gossip declared in Fred Winter’s hearing as he entered the Corner Shop-cum-Post Office where a small crowd had gathered, “Not that I’d wish that on anyone. They say she was...well, you know…before she was done in.  I blame the Americans. All those sex mad movies and well, they seem to thrive on violence…you only have to look at what’s happening in Iraq!”

“Shocking,” everyone agreed with feeling, although whether they were more disturbed by the girl’s murder or America’s bad influence on modern society in general Winter could only surmise. He was about to enter the shop when a new voice chimed in.

“You can’t blame the yanks for everything,” said an elderly man wearing a flat cap approaching the group with his shopping trolley, “What’s more, they said on the News that whoever killed that poor lass is probably local.”

“Yes, well, trust those media people to come along and stir things up,” snorted a woman in tight jeans that did nothing for her ample figure.

“As if we didn’t have enough on our plates already,” complained a young mum with a toddler dragging on one hand, “No respect for anyone’s privacy, these reporters. As far as they’re concerned, we’re all fair game.”

At this juncture, all eyes feasted accusingly on Winter.

Winter merely smiled, refrained from passing any comment and made a beeline for what he took to be a friendly face behind the counter. “I only want a packet of tissues. Err…can you change a twenty pound note by any chance?” The assistant’s smile tightened perceptibly.

It was only mid-afternoon so Winter took himself off to the little library, enquired whether he could join for the duration of his stay and was politely told he couldn’t but was welcome to look around, read the newspapers, whatever.  “I was hoping to catch Sarah Manners,” he confided to an elderly woman with a blue rinse and spectacles on a cord around her neck.

“You and just about everyone else,” said the woman placidly, “Sarah’s so good to have around at times like this. She never flaps and, well, she certainly knows how to deal with journalists. Have you noticed how they seem determined to make pests of themselves wherever one goes?  I say, you’re not one, are you?” Winter shook his head. The woman gave an audible sigh of relief. “I didn’t think so. They all have that look about them, you know, like wolves with an appetite for some poor Red Riding Hood.”

“So where will I find Sarah Manners?” Winter persisted gently.

“Oh, she’s off sick. I gather she won’t be back for at least a week. Not that it matters too much now we’re only open three days a week anyway. Cuts, you know. That’s all the council ever does these days…cut, cut, cut. The bus service, Meals on Wheels, you name it. And they want to replace us with a Mobile Library, I ask you!”

“I think I’ll go and see if I can’t cheer Sarah up a little. The cottage on the corner isn’t it?” Winter hazarded a guess.

“That’s right, opposite the Old Bakery. You can’t miss it. The name on the gate is Fairview but everyone knows it as Monkey Tree Cottage. That’s because there’s a hideous monkey tree in the front garden. Why Sarah doesn’t have the council lop it down, I’ll never know. Her front room is like the Black Hole of Calcutta, for heaven’s sake.” She turned away for a moment to greet a customer.  “Oh, Mrs Batley, you’ve decided to return your books at last…” then to Winter, What did you say your name was…?” But he was already on his way.

There was no chance he might miss the monkey tree, it was enormous. Winter strode confidently to the front door and rang the bell. A man answered whom he rightly assumed to be Sarah Manners’ partner. Julie Simpson had told him a little about Daz Horton and Carol Brady had related, with typical colour, how he had practically gate-crashed Liam’s funeral service.  For an instant, Winter thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in the steely grey eyes, but it was impossible to be sure and he dismissed it as a trick of sunlight glancing off the monkey tree’s spiky branches.

“Does Sarah Manners live here?”

“Who’s asking?”

“My name is Fred Winter. We have a friend in common, Ruth Temple.”

“Ruth’s dead.”

“Quite. That’s why I thought I’d look up Sarah while I was in this neck of the woods. Commiserate and all that.”

“Sarah’s not well. She’s had a nasty fall.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can I see her? If she’s not up to visitors I can come back tomorrow. I’m staying at the Fox and Hounds for a few days.”

“I’ve never seen the place so full.  There’s nothing like a good murder to get people sniffing around, eh?”

“I wouldn’t know. I suppose so. My wife and I were married here, you see. I’m just making a sentimental journey.” Winter could only trust he looked suitably offended by any suggestion he might be “sniffing around”.

“Oh, well, you might as well come in,” grumbled Horton and took a few lazy steps backwards. At the same time, he dragged open the door a few more inches to allow Winter access to a small, dingy hall. “Sarah, you’ve got a visitor!” he called while ushering his guest into a small, untidy, but pleasant enough sitting room. No one answered. “Excuse me. I’ll just go and tell her you’re here. She probably thinks you’re a neighbour. Not that we don’t have lovely neighbours, we do. But they’re a nosy lot and, well, you know how it is. You don’t want it when you’re not well, do you?” He disappeared only to return a good five minutes later. “She’ll be right with you, just has to put a face on and all that. What is it with women and their make-up, eh? Come Armageddon, they’ll still be at it!” He grinned, exposing yellowy, crooked teeth. “I dare say you could use a drink eh? Can I get you a cup of tea…or something stronger?”

“A cup of tea would go down a treat.” Winter smiled pleasantly, absently stroking his beard. It struck him that something was not as it should be, although what, exactly, he had no idea.

Sarah Manners arrived, looking more than slightly flustered, a few minutes later.  While there were no visible injuries, she plainly had difficulty walking and was in some pain. She smiled weakly at Winter as she lowered herself, unaided, into an armchair. “You’ll forgive me for not shaking hands, Mr Winter, I’m not feeling quite myself at all I’m afraid.

“I’m sorry to have disturbed you. It’s just that I was in the area and poor Ruth…”

“Yes, yes, poor Ruth…” echoed Sarah Manners with more irritation than sympathy as far as Fred Winter could tell, although he was careful to maintain an outward expression that gave nothing away. Even so, she must have sensed his reaction because she promptly did an about-turn and was still oozing distress when Horton returned with a loaded tea tray.  He laid it on a small table and proceeded to pour.

“Sugar, Mr Winter?”

“Two please and do call me Fred, everyone does.”

“No sugar for me, dear, I’m sweet enough as I am,” giggled Sarah to which Horton made no reply and did not even look up.  “So, Fred, you’re a friend of poor Ruth’s?” The heavily painted mouth trembled with emotion although, judging by the look she threw Horton, Winter was inclined to suspect this had little if anything to do with feelings for Ruth Temple.

“We’ve known each other a while,” Winter told her, “so, of course, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I can’t imagine why,” the lipstick mouth pouted, “We’ve had nothing to do with each other for years.”

“Hardly her fault, I believe…” Winter murmured and took a sip of tea.

“Well, no, but it was all so long ago and I bet she tells it as if I was a real bitch, running out on her like that.”

“I’m sure you had your reasons…” Winter murmured again.

“I certainly did and I would have explained everything if only she hadn’t...well, you know.” She sniffed affectedly and daubed at her eyes with a tissue.

“Snuffed it,” supplied Horton cheerfully.

“You didn’t like her?” Winter was curious.

Horton shrugged. “I only met her once. At young Liam Brady’s funeral, it was. Can’t say I was impressed. Thought she was a pain in the backside if you must know. No wonder you ran out on the silly moo, my flower,” he chuckled, looking at Sarah and treating both, in turn, to a toothy grin.

“Not forgetting James Morrissey,” Winter added softly.

“What’s that, what did you say?” Sarah Manners started in her chair.

“James Morrissey. You ran out on him too, I believe.”

“I had my reasons,” Sarah countered, plainly agitated.

“I’m sure you did.” Winter gave her his best placatory smile and was pleased when the woman showed all the signs of relaxing in her chair, but remained …troubled?  Yes, he decided, something was troubling Sarah Manners and it was not the sudden loss of an old friend. “I understand Ruth was planning to pay you a visit. Such a shame she died before you were able to put her mind at rest. It continued to upset her for years, you know, the way you took off like that without a word.”

“I left a note,” declared Sarah Manners defensively, “So she knew I planned it. She had no cause to think anything untoward might have happened. I’d simply had enough, that’s all. I needed to get away, right away. So I did. People do, you know. I hardly understood why myself so how was I supposed to explain it to anyone else?  If Ruth wanted to make more of it than there was, well, that was her …”

“Funeral,” Horton growled.

“I was going to say, misfortune.” Sarah Manners darted him a reproachful glare before turning her attention once again to Winter.  “Ruth was always one to make a drama out of a crisis. I bet she loved being the centre of attention. Poor Ruth, imagine being abandoned by nasty Sarah like that.  Poor Ruth, my foot! She was a born victim, I tell you, a born victim. Play-acting was her forte.”

“And James Morrissey, was he a born victim too, and Liam Brady?”

Sarah Manners uttered a squeal that Winter couldn’t help but liken to a pig’s. Horton silenced her with a look that not only confirmed the detective’s growing, if inarticulate, suspicions but also caused him, unintentionally, to tug on his beard.

“There have been some nasty accidents at The Devil’s Elbow,” Horton declared impassively, “Accidents do happen, Mr Winter.”

“Did I say they don’t?” Winter raised a bushy eyebrow and took another sip of tea.

“You mustn’t tire yourself out, my flower,” said Horton with a note of controlled exasperation that did not fool Winter one bit.  

“I had better go. I wouldn’t want to add to your discomfort.” Winter drained his cup and rose.  “Perhaps I could call again before I leave? I’m planning to stay in Monk’s Tallow a few days at least and it would be wonderful to chat with you about poor Ruth, poor Liam too.  Talking about the dead is such a comfort, don’t you find?  It’s as if they’re still with us, watching our every move, not unlike a guardian angel wouldn’t you say?”  But Sarah complexion had turned a shade jaundiced and she merely flexed the shiny lipstick mouth uncertainly.

It was Horton who spoke. “Once you’re dead that’s it, as far as I’m concerned. You’ve had your turn at putting the world to rights and now it’s someone else’s. If you ask me, those who reckon anything else are talking a load of rubbish.” “Even so…”

“Even so…” Winter agreed and smiled pleasantly, nodding first at Sarah then Horton, “I hope we meet again soon.”

“I’ll show you out,” said Horton dourly.

“Thank you for coming,” Sarah Manners called just as they reached the front door.  But Horton had already ushered their guest into the spreading shade of the monkey tree, shutting the door on Mr Fred Winter before the detective could utter another syllable.             

The latter strolled thoughtfully back to the inn.  He was puzzled as to why Sarah Manners hadn’t given him a reason for her disappearance years ago. She could have given Horton as her excuse, for example, whether that was strictly true or false. Instead, she had let the mystery remain. 

Winter frowned. He was a copper, for crying out loud. It was his job to solve mysteries. He was damn good at his job. So where the flipping hell am I supposed to start?  Suddenly, he felt very tired, hungry and in need of a hot bath.  It was more than enough to make him quicken his pace and adopt a purposeful expression as he headed for The Fox and Hounds.

To be continued