Murder in Mind (16 page)

‘If someone is hanging around trying to kill Angelika, then I might get in their way? Or you might?'

Ellie was silent. Why hadn't she realized that she herself might become a danger to the killer?

Vera stared out of the window at the garden. ‘Mrs Quicke, I owe you a lot.'

‘No, dear. You don't owe me a thing. I shouldn't have asked you—'

‘I'll do it. I've the right skills for someone to help them out, and the job's come up at the right time for me, to get me moving again. It did cross my mind once or twice that I could ask if you had a suitable flat to rent which Mikey and I could move into, but . . . I couldn't bring myself to lift the phone to call you. Now you've come to me. Of course I'll do it.'

Ellie relaxed. ‘Are you sure? If you do, I'll pay you and pay you well. And, yes, I'll ask my son-in-law to see what sort of accommodation he can sort out for you. In the meantime, I'll take you over to the Hoopers' and introduce you. I'll say you used to work for me and are going to help them out as a favour. Which is all true. I don't want them paying you direct because, if they do, they could order you about and perhaps make life rather unpleasant for you.'

Vera looked surprised.

Ellie felt herself go red. ‘I should have said. My daughter Diana – you may or may not have come across her when you were working for me—'

Vera grinned. ‘Hoity-toity madam? Sorry, but she is.'

Ellie had to smile. ‘Yes, she is. She's also working for Evan Hooper and aiming to become the next Mrs Hooper.'

Vera looked as if she'd rather like to make a sour remark. Thought better of it. Frowned. Opened her mouth to say something. Closed it again.

‘Yes,' said Ellie, feeling bleak. ‘She is the only person I can think of who might benefit from these deaths. However, I don't think it's her style.'

Vera slanted a dark look at Ellie.

‘The police will be enquiring into alibis, motives and opportunities. So yes; if you think Diana is fiddling with electrical connections, then the police must be told.'

‘Only, you think it's an outsider?'

‘I can't think straight. How can an outsider know how to get rid of these people? But no one on the inside looks like a murderer to me.'

Vera picked up her handbag, checked for keys. ‘Let's go.'

Ellie had one of those moments when time stood still. She knew without a doubt who might have done the murders, though she didn't know why. An outsider who had inside knowledge. Of course.

Except that it was impossible. It couldn't possibly be.

Could it?

Monday noon

T
he Hooper house wasn't far away. As they turned into the driveway, Ellie was amused to see a couple of men and a woman homing in on a man who was out walking a dog. Could they be members of the press asking a neighbour for a comment on the Hooper tragedies? Ellie and Vera slipped past them unnoticed and rang the doorbell.

The door opened so sharply that Ellie had to step back to avoid the girl who then hurtled out.

Freya, dressed in tank top, shorts and trainers. ‘Who? Oh. You.' She switched her eyes to Vera. ‘And . . .?'

‘My cleaner. Helping you out for a couple of hours.'

Freya nodded. ‘I was going crazy, cooped up inside, so I'm off for a run. Make sure the door's shut behind you. We've had the police and all sorts here today, wanting to get an exclusive interview. Some nutters on the phone.' She looked right and left, saw the members of the press still crowding around the neighbour. ‘There they are again. Dad gave them an earful and now they're pestering neighbours. See you.' She loped off.

Ellie and Vera pushed the front door open and went in, shutting it firmly behind them. The hall was empty except for dust. Ellie called out, ‘Hello?'

No reply.

Vera said, ‘Spooky, innit?'

Quite. Ellie looked into the ‘snug'. Empty. Today's papers had joined yesterday's – and probably those from the day before – on the floor. Empty coffee cups, dirty plates. A steamy fug.

‘Phew!' said Vera, unlocking and pushing up a sash window to let in some fresh air.

Back in the hall, Ellie called out again. Still no reply. The grandfather clock ticked loudly in the silence. Ellie noticed that the landline phone on a side table was off the hook. She put it back on, and it rang. She jumped as if she'd been bitten, then laughed at herself. From the depths of the house someone – Evan Hooper? – shouted, ‘Whoever it is, I'm not here!'

Ellie said, ‘Hello?' cautiously into the phone.

‘You twisted, poisonous creep! What does it feel like to kill your own child, you filthy spawn of toad? And . . .'

Ellie blinked. That wasn't a very nice thing to call someone, was it? Ugh. She put the phone down, wondering why you called it a ‘torrent' of abuse. Because the person – man or woman? Probably a man – calling had dammed up the invective, only to release it in a torrent when someone answered the phone? Was this the ‘nutter' Freya had referred to?

Ellie hoped the girl hadn't had to hear herself called all those names. She didn't like it herself.

Did the caller really think Evan had murdered his own child? Nasty. Ugh. The phone rang again. How could she divert the caller? Could she make him think he'd got the wrong number? She picked up the phone, listened to the same few words and said in her best adenoidal voice, ‘Harrods. What department do you want?'

Silence. She replaced the phone on the hook. And waited.

It rang again. She picked it up, repeated: ‘Harrods. What department do you want?'

Heavy breathing. A man? Hard to tell. ‘Sorry, wrong number.'

She put the phone down. Would it ring again? Mm. Perhaps it would be best to leave it off the hook.

She beckoned to Vera. ‘The kitchen's this way.' It was in a worse state even than before, because someone had dropped a container of milk on the floor and not bothered to mop it up.

‘Oh my!' Vera was seldom at a loss for words, but the state of the Hoopers' kitchen managed it. Then, being Vera, she squared up to the task in hand and got to work. ‘You clear out, Mrs Quicke, and let me at it.'

Ellie become conscious of a steady thrum-thrum-thrum. She tried the door at the back which let on to the gym. It opened, and she found herself in an old-fashioned, Edwardian, iron-framed conservatory. Instead of plants, there was a plethora of exercise equipment.

Angelika was on the treadmill, dressed in a cropped top, shorts and trainers. Her hair had been pulled back into a ponytail. One ear was hooked up to an MP3 player, and a mobile phone was glued to the other. She neither saw nor heard Ellie come in. She was crying, but that didn't stop her legs smoothly pounding away the miles.

Beyond the treadmill were other machines, the purpose of which Ellie did not like to think about. The thought of subjecting her own comfortable body to their horrors filled her with a strong desire to be elsewhere.

Where was the power switch? Ah. On the wall. The room hadn't been cleaned since . . . since. Dust. Fingerprint dust. Dirty footprints on the floor.

Ellie was surprised that Angelika could use the equipment so soon after her stepdaughter's death, but as her career as a model depended on keeping her splendid body in trim, she'd probably managed to override any squeamish feelings she might have about using the machine. A beautifully tuned body. Would she have done better not to have ‘improved' her breasts? Perhaps she wasn't tall enough to be a catwalk model, so had had to settle for swimsuits and underwear?

Ellie's eyes roved the room. Fiona must have spun off and crashed headlong into that wall . . . there. Ugh. The stains were still on the wall and the floor beneath.

‘What . . .!' Angelika realized someone was in the room. She pulled the wire from one ear and spoke into the phone. ‘Call you back later. Promise.' And to Ellie, ‘Who are you? Oh. I remember. What are you doing here? We've only just got rid of the police. More questions. As if we knew anything! The press have started to buzz around, and there's some nutter on the phone, keeps ringing. As if we haven't enough to cope with, arranging the funerals and letting people know. They say we can't have the bodies yet, which is totally ridiculous, but Evan will sort it out.'

‘Don't mind me,' said Ellie, extra cheerful. ‘I just popped in to see if I could help out for a while. I've brought my cleaner with me and set her to work straight away.'

Angelika stopped the machine and stepped off on to the floor, swiping the backs of her hands across her eyes. ‘I double-locked the front door myself. How did you get in?'

‘Freya let us in.'

‘Oh. We had a reporter pounding on the front door, earlier. Evan sent him off with a flea in his ear.' She'd worked up a fine film of sweat. She reached for a towel on a stool nearby and said, ‘I'm going for a shower.'

‘Are you all right?'

‘No business of yours, but if you must know . . .' Her face creased in anguish. ‘The agency has cancelled the job in Japan! They said it wouldn't look right, so soon after Abigail . . . The magazine is getting someone else.'

‘I can see why you'd welcome the work, it would be a distraction, but—'

Angelika flapped the towel at Ellie. ‘You don't understand anything! I can't get away soon enough. I thought . . . And now what am I going to do?' She plunged through the door back to the kitchen, drew up short on seeing Vera, said, ‘Who the hell are you?' Didn't wait for a reply, but banged through the door to the hall and away.

Ellie turned the main power switch on the wall to the ‘Off' position.

Now, suppose the teenaged Fiona had not been alone in the gym on the day she died. She might have known . . . whoever it was, and let them in. Or they might have thrust their way into the gym after her. In those days Fiona probably hadn't bothered to lock the door after her. Why should she?

So, let's recreate the scene.

Fiona comes in, turns on the power at the wall. Switches on the treadmill. Steps on to it and turns up the speed. The police theory was that she turned it up high in order to give herself an ultra fast workout. The speed was too much for her, she tried to jump off, which ought not to have been difficult, but instead . . . Perhaps she caught her heel, swivelled round, got stuck in some way? Then spun off and . . .

Was that realistic?

How did the speedometer work? Ellie bent over the machine. It looked as if you pressed a button and kept your finger on it, to make the track run faster.

Suppose there'd been another person there, either invited in by Fiona or uninvited.

Wait a minute. Would the girl have continued to work away on the treadmill with a stranger present? Wouldn't she have switched it off and stepped away to deal with – whoever it was?

Most likely she knew – whoever it was.

If so, he or she might have been standing by the treadmill and turned the speedometer up themselves.

What was to stop Fiona turning it back down again?

Well, suppose that another hand had been placed firmly over the button? A hand belonging to someone who was too strong to be shoved out of the way.

Then the spin off. Ms Milburn had said something about Fiona being helped on her way with a boot to her rear end. Ugh. She'd have crashed into the wall, head first. She might have lived after such an incident, but she hadn't.

The killer hadn't touched anything, except for the speedo button, which he – or she – then wiped clean of all prints, his or hers. He or she hadn't bothered to turn off the treadmill at the machine, or at the wall, before leaving.

Ellie shuddered. Man or woman?

Unknown. It might have been a school friend of Fiona's, perhaps? Mm. Wanting to have a turn on the treadmill and getting into a spat with Fiona over it? Then a pettish action, a depression on the button which turned up the speed on the treadmill, and a refusal to let it be turned down.

Possibly. But would a school friend have kicked Fiona in the rear? Not likely. No.

The conservatory was filled with light, though the day had become dull. White muslin blinds – very expensive – were draped from rods across the ceiling, to reduce the glare on sunny days. It would be a pleasant place to sit and relax. Ellie imagined comfortable chairs, a low table or two. A rank of ferns here, a stand of geraniums there, perhaps a palm or two in big tubs?

She wondered what would happen to all the expensive gym equipment when Angelika moved out. She wondered how long it had taken Angelika to work out that she was in danger so long as she stayed in the house. Or perhaps even after she'd left it? After all, the second wife had departed years ago but had still met an early death.

Someone was pounding on the front door knocker and ringing the bell. Another telephone was ringing somewhere in the depths of the house.

Ellie went back into the kitchen, where Vera was making headway against chaos. She'd already set the dishwasher to work.

Flash!

A man's head appeared at one of the kitchen windows, and another flash half blinded Ellie. ‘What the . . .!'

Vera blenched. Someone was crashing around in the garden, making their way round the kitchen . . . and there were French windows at the end, leading on to the garden.

‘Vera, pull the blinds down! I'll see if the French windows are locked.'

Vera, hands slopping soapsuds, said, ‘Who is it? Reporters?' She pulled the blinds down in front of her while Ellie checked the French windows. The doors were locked, so she pulled the blinds down . . . and then did the same to the last window on the other side.

They stood still, listening. Someone was still moving around outside. They could hear the crackle of footsteps on a gravel pathway.

Ellie decided not to go back into the conservatory. Anyone in there would be exposed to view.

The key to the conservatory door from the kitchen was in the lock, and she turned it.