Murder in Mind (7 page)

‘But,' she said, and stopped. ‘Oh, this is ridiculous. Why should I go around doing the police's work for them?'

‘Ellie? What's the matter? You're usually only too eager to get involved. It's the hunter in you.'

She tried to laugh. ‘A hunter? Me? Oh, no. I can see you as a hunter, but not me. I'm just a housewife who's been promoted above her capabilities but, God willing, and with help from friends and neighbours – and from Him above – I muddle through. I am not a hunter.'

‘You could have fooled me. What's wrong, Ellie? You're really worried about . . . Is it something to do with Diana?' He stood directly in front of her, so that she had to face him.

She dropped her eyes. ‘Of course not. How could it be?'

‘If you say so, but . . . you'd tell me if . . .?'

She swung round to continue their walk. ‘It's nothing to do with Diana. It's just that I don't like being used by Ms Milburn. I feel I'm being manipulated. I don't like that, and I've too much on my plate already to bother with anything else.'

He nodded without comment. ‘What's for supper? Oh, and don't let me forget, I'm supposed to be on Skype to my daughter this evening some time.' He'd recently added the Skype camera to the computer in his study so that he could see his children and grandchildren during their weekly phone talks.

As soon as they were back, Ellie checked that Rose had in fact got out of her chair and was putting the supper on to cook, which might or might not be the case nowadays. This time all was well and Rose was preparing to bake some mackerel for supper with diced courgettes, spring onions and a few potatoes. Rose had been reading recipe books and thought they'd try a mustard sauce with it. It sounded odd, but would probably be delicious.

Ellie unpacked the shopping and put it away before she phoned Stewart's wife Maria at the cleaning agency, to ask if she could think of someone who could sort out the beds and bedding and, well, everything for the forthcoming visit.

‘Mm,' said Maria. ‘Let me think. I might have been able to do it myself, but we're very busy at work, and it's half-term next week. I wonder if someone in Stewart's office might . . . No, that won't do, they're all working flat out as it is.'

Which led to a discussion about Ellie wanting to promote him and get someone else in to take over some of his workload, which Maria said was not before time, though she quite understood how Ellie was placed. That was nice of her, but made Ellie feel she ought to have done something about it earlier.

‘Moving on to something more important,' said Maria, ‘the children and I are going to my parents for the weekend where they will no doubt be horribly spoiled, but little Frank has been asked to play in some football match or other tomorrow morning. He was only a reserve before, so it means a lot to him to have got into the team. Stewart's taking him, and I gather Thomas said he'd try to get along too.'

Ellie hit her head. Of course, the all-important football match. How could she have forgotten? Well, if Thomas went, it wasn't necessary for her to have to stand at the side of the pitch watching muddy boys get muddier as rain fell unrelentingly around them. Watching a football match was not high on her list of priorities. Frank could have the pleasure of telling her about it later.

Maria had an idea. ‘Ah, I think I know who could help you out. An old friend of mine, recently divorced, empty nest syndrome, has a business as an interior decorator. A bit of a bossy boots, but you could do with someone to take charge, couldn't you? She uses our cleaning agency now and again, and in return I recommend her to suitable people.'

‘Er, yes, I suppose so,' said Ellie.

Maria had a laugh in her voice. ‘Of course it's wrong to gossip, but you might be interested to hear that she is called upon to redecorate the Hooper house whenever there is a change of, er, mistress.'

Ellie grinned. ‘Ah, now I understand.'

‘Shall I ask her if she can pop round to see you tomorrow morning? Her name's Betsey, but the name of the firm is “Harmony in the Home”.'

‘Bless you. Tomorrow morning. Wonderful.'

Ellie dutifully attended to some of the paperwork which her secretary had left for her to sign, and read her telephone messages. One of the garden designers would be around to look at Pryce House early next week . . . Please remember to send a cheque to . . .

Ellie wasn't putting off the phone call to Caroline Topping. Just dealing with more important matters. Only, there was still ten minutes before supper would be on the table, so she reached for the phone book and found a number for a Mr Topping, who lived on the other side of the park.

They were probably out. Or not the people she remembered at all. The phone was picked up, to the accompaniment of a toddler's wail.

‘Caroline Topping? This is Ellie Quicke here; I don't know whether you remember me, but . . . Is this a bad time to call?'

‘My neighbour's just collecting her son and returning mine. Mrs Quicke, is it? Of course I remember you . . . Excuse me a moment, I'll just let her out.' Pause. A door slammed shut. The phone was picked up again. ‘I'm looking after my neighbour's little one for ten days while she recovers from an operation – she can't lift him at the moment – and in exchange she collects my son from school. He then plays with her boy till supper time. Helping one another out.'

‘Ah, I thought your little boy must be too old for the play centre now.'

‘Hold on a mo.' Caroline put her hand over the phone again. Ellie waited. Caroline returned. ‘Sorry about that. My son's just reminded me he has to be at Cubs in less than an hour, and my husband won't be back till late. So I'm going to have to rush. How can I help you?'

‘It's the police, really. They're trying to find someone who might have taken a photo of the clown at the play centre on their mobile phone before he disappeared.'

‘Yes, that was a tragedy. Really shocking. It makes one think how your own child might have died in the same way if . . . Terrible, terrible! I did take a picture as it happens, though it didn't come out very well. Look, I'll run a copy off on the computer and drop it in to you when I've taken Duncan to Cubs. Is that all right?'

‘Well, actually, it's the police who—' But the phone had gone dead.

Ask a busy mum for something . . .

Mrs Topping didn't know where Ellie lived nowadays, did she? This wasn't destined to turn out well.

But, as they were clearing up after supper – the mustard sauce had been delicious with the baked mackerel and Thomas had only grumbled twice about the limited number of potatoes on his plate – someone rang the front doorbell.

There was Caroline Topping, small, dark and only a little plumper than Ellie remembered her to have been. She was flourishing a piece of paper. ‘Got it! I remembered just in time that my friend told me you'd moved into a big house, and of course it's in the phone book, but I'm not sure that this photo is any good.'

Ellie ushered Caroline into the big sitting-room at the back of the house and offered coffee, but Caroline was in a hurry . . . Had she always lived life at this pace? It appeared that her son Duncan had returned home wearing someone else's jacket, and she had to drop it back to its owner and collect his, which she sincerely hoped he'd taken home instead, but you never know with children, do you? So if Ellie didn't mind, she'd just leave the photo with her and be off.

‘Well, thank you; but it's really the police who need it, not me. Couldn't you take it in to them tomorrow?'

‘Sorry, no can do. Half-term, and we're off tomorrow, sharing a rented house down in Cornwall, right by the beach, I do hope the beds are all right, for my husband complains something shocking if they're too hard or too soft. So I won't be here. Look, I took a chance on a quick snap of the clown with my mobile phone and it hasn't printed off very well. I think my printer needs a new colour cartridge, but you can see what he was like, a bit.'

‘Was it definitely a man? How could you tell?'

‘Oh. I don't know. I assumed he was male because clowns usually are, aren't they? Quite young, I thought. Someone doing work experience, clowning for the play centre, you know? That's what I thought, if I thought at all, which I didn't because it was all a bit chaotic that morning . . .'

She burbled on, but Ellie concentrated on the photo, which showed the clown in profile. A tallish person to judge by the way he/she towered over the children. Thin, to judge by a spindly neck, though wearing bulky clothing. A rubbery clown's face with a wide, smiling mouth. A mask? Ginger wig, with longish hair all over the place. Red coat, wide lapels, huge buttons. Baggy black trousers. Caroline hadn't got all of him or her into the frame, and the polished black shoes were not included.

One white-gloved hand held a plate stacked with biscuits while the other hand clutched the strings of a number of brightly coloured balloons: red, blue and yellow.

Caroline pointed to the clown's right hand. ‘The end of each balloon string was tied round into a loop, so that they could be given out quickly. Quite clever, really. The clown said, “Roll up for a birthday treat!” or something like that. All the children ran up and took a biscuit and a balloon each in orderly fashion, except that that one child pushed everyone aside to get at the biscuits. She wasn't interested in the balloons, only in the biscuits.'

‘Abigail, I assume?'

Caroline pulled a face. ‘Everyone knows Abigail. Knew. She was more often there than not. The kind of child your child avoids, you know? Although I shouldn't speak of her like that, not really. Dreadful, dreadful thing!'

‘I think it's important that the police get a clear picture of Abigail, because her father wants to sue the play centre for failing to stop her eating the biscuits. Oh, and he's sacked the au pair for the same reason.'

‘Has he?' Mrs Topping looked at her watch. ‘That's a bit over the top, isn't it? I must keep an eye on the time, because—'

‘What was the au pair like?'

Caroline screwed up her face. ‘Couldn't say “boo” to a goose, as my mother used to say about a girl who lived down the road from us. Turned out the girl was being abused by her father but none of us knew that at the time. This girl was Polish. Nice enough, but not really up to Abigail's weight. There was always a scene when she wanted to take the child home, but a lot of children get like that when they've overdone it, and no one takes much notice. It's best to be firm with them and not let them upset you, but the au pair always tried to reason with Abigail. Waste of time.' She looked at her watch again.

‘Did you see the child eat the biscuits?'

‘Um. Well, they were all milling round the clown, and I looked for my mobile to take a picture and the child I was minding ran back to me, offering me half his biscuit, which was sweet of him, he is a nice child. And then . . . they all scattered, in different directions, and I snapped the clown just as the last of the balloons were given out. So no, I don't think I actually saw her eating it. I was thinking about leaving, the time was getting on – which reminds me, I must be off – and then the au pair was calling Abigail's name, and people were starting to leave because it was near lunchtime, you see. And the clown disappeared—'

‘Did you see the clown go?'

A shake of the head. ‘I was strapping my little one into his buggy. Someone said that Abigail was hurt or been taken ill or something. We were amused, you can imagine, thinking she'd been greedy and made herself sick. Only, then we realized . . . and after that everything went quiet.'

Silence.

Caroline shook herself back to the present. ‘It was quick, they say. The play centre people were brilliant, asked us all to stay until the police came, and I had a drink for my little one in the buggy, so I did stay, but then time went on and I had to get back, the television man was coming to fix it because one of my cats had clawed the wire out of . . . But you don't need to know about that. So I came away. I suppose I understand why Abigail's father should be so angry, but really, that child! I mean, it's terrible, what happened, but she did know she oughtn't to eat snacks. I've heard the au pair tell her so several times. And the play centre does such a good job. It's the only place around with an outdoor play area which has permanent equipment, and it's good inside on wet days, as well. If it closes . . . Oh dear; it doesn't bear thinking about. And I must go.'

‘Thank you,' said Ellie, but Caroline Topping was already on the move. Ellie held the front door open for her. ‘I remembered you because of your cats. Do you still have four?'

‘The oldest one died, but I have a new manic kitten, J-peg we call her because the first we knew about her was when someone sent us a picture . . .' And off went Caroline, still talking, chugging away in her little Volkswagen.

So now Ellie had a picture of the clown, and much good it might do her.

At least it wasn't Diana. Quite definitely not.

Saturday morning

W
as this a good time to kill another of the hateful tribe? The sooner they were all underground, the better.

What about using the clown get-up again? No, better not. True, it only took a couple of seconds to tear off the mask and wig, and to shrug off the red coat. A white T-shirt hardly raised an eyebrow, and though the black trousers were baggy, they weren't outrageous.

But perhaps it wouldn't be necessary to use it for this one.

So; be prepared. Gloves, yes. Thin, disposable ones. And one of her own syringes, pinched on the earlier visit when all she'd done was laugh. The plan hadn't been thought through then. But now . . .

A glance around. No one in sight.

Most shops – even in a street at the back of the bus station – were busy on a Saturday morning, but this one was so dimly lit that it repelled rather than attracted attention. The window display consisted of a few curling pamphlets, a stack of books on alternative lifestyles, and a selection of weird and wonderful charms claimed to ensure well-being and happiness. The paperback which advertised recipes for everlasting life sported the corpse of a bluebottle. Everything needed a good clean, including the prisms which dangled in the window.