Suspicion Points Read online

  Vanessa was making a list. ‘I’ll go to the next writers’ group meeting and e-mail you as soon as I get back. Even if I don’t find out anything.’

  On my way back to the station the following day I saw Alice, the woman from number ten Farrier Way, going into an estate agents. I crossed the road and opened the door.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said from behind a desk. ‘Oh, you’re the inspector working on the fire.’

  I smiled. ‘Sergeant. Do you know why the houses in Farrier Way are numbered consecutively?’

  ‘Yes.’ She gestured to a chair and I sat down. ‘There used to be a big Victorian mansion opposite – nothing special, not like Pengelly House – a bit of a jumble of styles really. You could hardly see the house, it was set right back. It’d been empty for a long time – just after my husband and I bought our place. Twelve years ago a developer bought the land and got permission to demolish the mansion, which was falling down anyway, and build houses. The regulations were strict and the houses had to be built like ours. When it came to re-numbering the houses we rebelled. We’d been living there for ages and the people in number seven didn’t want to be number thirteen, so the numbers on the other side start at eleven.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Is it important?’

  ‘No, I was just curious.’

  ‘Have you seen Bridget yet?’

  I nodded and stood up. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  ‘That’s all right. Nothing much going on since the credit crunch started. Just people desperate to sell because they’ve lost their jobs or gone out of business. Very sad. Ah, there’s just one thing. I don’t know if it’s important.’

  ‘It might be.’ I sat down again.

  ‘It’s just that I’m sure Bridget . . . no, sorry, I’m not thinking properly. It would matter if Phoebe was the victim, but of course it was Bridget – ’

  My senses on high alert, I smiled. ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘It’s nothing much. Just that I’m sure Bridget was jealous of Phoebe, but it would only matter if Phoebe had been the victim, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Why do you think she was jealous?’

  ‘Phoebe’s stunning and has a good figure. She’s popular. She wears divine clothes. I hosted a garden party last summer. Phoebe wore one of Yves and Craig’s creations; a white sun-dress in filmy cotton, discreet – she wasn’t showing anything – and white sandals. She looked like a princess. Declan, and not only Declan, but other men too, couldn’t stop looking at her. I could tell Bridget was jealous. She looked awful. Old jeans and a blouse in a ghastly animal print that could have done with a wash. She looked common. Her hair was greasy too. Compared to Phoebe she would have felt a mess. She must have said something nasty to Phoebe, because Phoebe ignored her for the whole day and that’s unlike Phoebe. She’s normally friendly. None of us knew Bridget and Declan’s plans for their house at that stage.’

  ‘Would you have invited them if you had?’

  ‘No.’

  Jealousy. The word was being mentioned a great deal. Bridget claimed Phoebe was jealous of her. Mrs Bradley agreed. Margaret said Bridget was jealous of Phoebe and now Alice was saying the same. I wondered if Alice knew about Phoebe’s miscarriages and the baby that died soon after it was born.

  On Saturday afternoon Vanessa and I went to see Ethel. Her apartment at Pengelly House had one bedroom with an en-suite shower room, a sitting room and a tiny kitchen. She had given a lot of her furniture to her children and grandchildren and her bookcases and books were in the communal areas of the house. Her father had been the chauffer at Pengelly House and she and my grandmother had been born the same year and grown up together. Excited about helping Vanessa and me, she made tea and put cakes on a plate.

  ‘Well, there are two people at the writers’ group who dislike Phoebe,’ she said. ‘Olivia, who went to university with her, and George who used to be the treasurer. The writers’ group was doing very well. We had lots of people attending the meetings. When the president resigned because he was moving to London we were upset. There are so few natural leaders. Phoebe didn’t want to be the president, but we persuaded her. She took a while to decide she would take it on, and said she’d be the caretaker president till we found someone better. We weren’t surprised that numbers increased under her leadership, but she was. She modestly didn’t take the credit for it. Just said she’d built on the previous president’s achievements.

  ‘He was a good president, but Phoebe made the group more dynamic. She also got the support of the local papers, who gave us good publicity, which helped increase the membership. We’d had theme nights once a month, but as Phoebe said, the group was for serious writers and poets who wanted to get published, not for dilettantes. She cut the theme nights down to three a year – a love story or poem in February, a horror story near Halloween, and a Christmas theme for our last meeting in December. And she made those nights special with decent prizes for the winners and wine and food after the voting.

  ‘We’d always been to the pub after the meetings, but Phoebe arranged picnics and dinners and she had parties in her house. Membership shot up. We went from an average of twelve members per meeting to twenty and once we had thirty.’

  ‘Were Olivia and George members before Phoebe came?’

  ‘George was. He’d been the treasurer for years. He was one of the earliest members. Olivia came just after Phoebe. They hadn’t seen each other for years. I remember the night she arrived. Phoebe didn’t recognize her, but she recognized Phoebe. They’d been friends at school and went to university together. I don’t know what happened, but they must have had a terrific argument. Olivia’s an amazingly good writer. You wouldn’t think it to look at her – terrible clothes, she drinks heavily, probably an alcoholic, and she smokes a lot.’

  ‘Is George a good writer?’ Vanessa asked.

  Ethel shook her head. ‘He thinks he is, but he writes doggerel. His poems are childish and his prose is monotonous.’

  ‘Any ideas why he doesn’t like Phoebe?’

  ‘No. They seemed to get on all right in the beginning. She’d been the president for a year when he resigned as treasurer. I said he dislikes her, but it’s stronger than that – more like hate. Not sure if this is relevant, but he and Olivia tried to set up a rival group. It failed. George and Olivia fell out over it. I heard them arguing in the pub one night. He said she owed him money for the cost of the room they’d rented. Apparently they’d agreed to pay half each. She said it was nothing to do with her – that it was his idea and he’d promised her that there would be so many people attending that their money would cover the cost of the room rent. They blamed each other. Olivia came back to the group and told Phoebe she was sorry, but George had made it sound like they could make lots of money. I’m sorry, am I rambling?’

  ‘No. I think this might be crucial.’

  ‘I don’t know why she let George come back to the group after that. After all he’d tried to destroy our writers’ group.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘He held his group on the same night. He tried to entice members away from our group. He tried to get me to go. He didn’t just ask either, he sent e-mails to all the members. I sent them to Phoebe, so she’d be warned.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She wasn’t worried. Said anything he ran would be a disaster.’

  ‘Did you delete the e-mails he sent you?’

  ‘No, do you want to see them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She went to her computer and switched it on. Like our grandmother she loved computers and was on Face Book. When the computer came on she searched through her e-mails. ‘Here they are,’ she said.

  Dear fellow members,

  Are you, like Olivia and I, fed up with the dictatorial way the writers’ group is run? Yes? Well, you don’t have to be fed up any longer! I am going to start another group, which will be run along democratic lines with you all having a say in how it’s managed.

  The c
urrent arrangement of meeting in the church hall is not conducive to writing, being too cold and us having to leave at 10pm so the caretaker can lock up, no matter that some of us have not read, but have paid our money.

  At the last AGM I said we should move to the comfortable room above The Britannia pub. Phoebe refused on the grounds that we have a locked cupboard in the church hall where the register is kept. When I said I couldn’t see what that had to do with anything, she said she would be the one who had to lug the register to the meetings and home again. A locked cupboard! The opportunity to meet somewhere more convivial is spurned for a locked cupboard! Poor Phoebe has the gross inconvenience of having to carry a register to the town centre and back.

  Do we even need a register? No. I think not! I’ll just ask who wants to read and they can. Keep it simple is my motto. Interested? I bet you are. Let me know what you think. Bombard me with ideas!

  ‘Pity he didn’t apply the simplicity motto to his prose,’ said Ethel. ‘If I hadn’t been so angry when I received that I would have laughed. I was going to tell him to go to hell, but I decided to let him think I might be a convert.’

  George,

  Thank you for your interesting e-mail. How much do you intend charging members per meeting?

  Ethel

  She clicked on his reply.

  Not a problem, Ethel old girl. The pub charges £10 a night for the room. It’s an extraordinary comfortable room with an open fire and loads of atmosphere. So if 20 people turn up that’s 50p! A bargain! Better than £2 for the other group.

  ‘Old girl. Did you feel like hitting him?’ asked Vanessa.

  ‘I felt like replying with, Hello balding, overweight, badly dressed, middle-aged man. But I restrained myself. I wanted information. When I went to the library I saw he had a flyer on the board.’ Ethel smiled. ‘I took it down when no one was looking.’

  George,

  Phoebe supplies tea, coffee and biscuits out of the funds. If we meet in a pub we won’t be able to have that. And what if only a few people arrive? That will be more than £2.

  Dear Ethel,

  My group is going to be the best writers’ group in the country. I’ve got so many exciting plans – a monthly magazine with the best short stories and poetry from the members – you name it – I’m having it! People will come flocking. Young, old, girls and boys. Once things get going it will generate tons of money and members won’t have to pay to attend meetings. What do you think about that?

  I’ll see you at our first meeting. Do you want a lift? I’ll pick you up and I won’t charge you this time. I know you’re short of money being a pensioner. What’s the address of that commune place where you live now?

  I’m going to have a reporter from the local paper there, so wear good clothes and put make-up on.

  Ethel tutted. ‘He makes it sound as if I dress in rags. I didn’t reply after that. But some members had fun at his expense. Seven of them let him think they were interested and that they might bring their friends along, which got him excited. When no one turned up for his first meeting, he sent them distraught e-mails.’

  ‘What does he mean by not charging you this time?’ I asked.

  ‘Before I moved here, we lived in the same street. He had a car, I didn’t. He insisted on giving me a lift to the writers’ group, even though I said I enjoyed the walk, which was less than a mile. I didn’t know him all that well then, and gave in. He said he worried about my safety – if I got mugged he’d never forgive himself. He drove me there and back and then wanted to charge me two pounds.’

  ‘Did you give it to him?’

  ‘No. I said I didn’t have any money left. I’d bought him a drink in the pub after the meeting. He told me next time would do. I told him I’d be walking next time. He kept badgering me for the money. ‘You don’t get anything in this life for free,’ he kept saying. Eventually I told him to shut-up.’

  ‘Has he got financial problems?’

  ‘If he has he could solve them by giving up smoking, drinking, and sell his car instead of driving everywhere.’

  ‘Has he got a mortgage?’

  ‘No. He rents. He’s got a flat in a newly converted house. There are four flats. Two bedrooms, so I’m sure he could move somewhere cheaper.’ She clicked on another of his e-mails.

  Where were you last night, Ethel? You promised you’d be there. Did you get lost? Are you ill? I put a lot of effort into the plans and now I’m out of pocket. I would have picked you up, but you didn’t give me your new address. I don’t like people who break their promises.

  ‘What else can you tell me?’ I asked.

  ‘Lots of things. But I’m not sure if they would help. Nothing good. I sound so bitchy.’

  ‘Do you think he hates Phoebe enough to kill her?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t like him and my judgment might be skewed.’

  ‘Tell us what else you don’t like about him.’

  ‘He makes up foolish names for people. It’s as if he can’t call anyone by their correct Christian name. Most people put up with it, but I refused to let him call me Unready.’

  ‘Unready?’

  ‘As in Ethelred the Unready. He thinks he’s clever and was annoyed when I told him to either call me Ethel or Mrs Smythe. There’s a girl he calls Dilemma. Her name is Emma. He Frenchifies their names or calls them by their initials. There’s a girl called Joan and he calls her Arc.’

  ‘What does he call Phoebe?’

  ‘Madame President – very sarcastically, but as annoying as this is I don’t think it points to him being a murderer. He’s one of these people who blame everyone else when things go wrong. Phoebe once said he was a member of the ‘Blame it on everyone else brigade.’ A good description. Whatever happens it’s never his fault.’

  ‘If you had to describe him in one word, what would it be?’ I asked.

  ‘Pathetic.’

  As soon as Vanessa and I left Pengelly House, we drove to the street where Ethel used to live. It was impossible to tell which houses had been converted into flats and which were still houses. We parked outside her old house and looked at the map. Farrier Way was about half a mile away.

  ‘Bells,’ said Vanessa.

  ‘Bells?’

  ‘Door bells. They might have his name on them. We can find out which house he lives in.’

  I hadn’t thought of that. We walked up the street checking which houses had more than one bell. The third one we saw had four bells of which one was for G. Wilson. I remembered his surname from the e-mails.

  ‘Do you think he would have driven or walked to Farrier Way?’ Vanessa said.

  ‘If he had any sense he would have dressed in dark clothes and walked. If someone saw him go to the front door and was suspicious they could have taken the car number if he’d been driving.’

  We took the most direct route. The first house George would have come to was number one, the house belonging to Kate and Yves. It was dark, but not late. The light in the hall was on, making it easy to see the number in the glass above the door. With the lights off it would have been difficult, perhaps even impossible, to see the number. The street lamp shone on the brass number on the porch. The door of Bridget’s house was blackened. There was a board where the glass had been and the windows on the ground floor had been boarded up.

  ‘Once the arsonist saw the number one, would they have bothered to make sure the next house was number three?’ Vanessa wondered.

  10

  SHARON

  The results on the thread caught in the flap of the letter box showed no traces of DNA. The sheet or article of clothing was clean. Although it was unsurprising, I was despondent and felt we were going backwards instead of getting close to solving the case. Scientific progress had deserted us. There were no fingerprints that could not be accounted for. We were back to motives. There were too many motives and no hard evidence.

  This news made me more frustrated and tense. At this time of the month I was always bloated and irrit
able. I hated being a woman. Since puberty almost half my life was spent in pain. Three weeks into my cycle my breasts became so tender it hurt to touch them. I was short tempered, which I tried and failed to curb. I hated myself on those days, but when my temper flared all I could do was moderate it and not throw things or hit anyone.

  When I started bleeding the pain transferred itself to my abdomen. I suffered agony for three days. When I was younger I ranted against the unfairness. None of my friends at school suffered like I did. Some felt mild pain or discomfort and a few lucky ones had no pain or discomfort at all. How I envied them. A doctor had put me on the pill, and while that helped the cramps, it made me emotional and weepy. I stopped taking it. A bad tempered detective was more credible than one that burst into tears. Bad temper could be attributed to the lack of progress we were making. Tears would be put down to instability.

  ‘Who lives the other side of Bridget?’ I asked Robert as we got out of the car in Farrier Way. ‘Fleur and Craig or Kate and Yves? Are they the married couples? Or is it Craig and Kate and Yves and Fleur?’

  ‘Kate and Yves.’

  Phoebe came to the front door with a portable door bell in her hand. When she saw us she tried to disguise her apprehension. ‘Come in. We’re doing some gardening.’ She was wearing a thick cream sweater with holes in the elbows, over an old pink shirt with frayed collar and cuffs. Her jeans, which were tucked into Wellington boots, had muddy streaks. Her cheeks were pink and her hair was loose and hung in those soft curls that I once spent a fortune trying to achieve only to come out of the hairdressers with a frizzy mess. She wore no make-up and looked younger and even more beautiful than she had the night of the fire. It was hard to believe that she was thirty-six.