The Lily-White Boys (11 page)

Monica was smiling as she replaced the phone. She knew her late-night phone call was responsible for this invitation, and it made her realize how lukewarm had been her response to him over the last few months. Poor George, he deserved better.

The phone rang again and again she jumped. But the switchboard girl was announcing the Duchess of Hampshire's secretary. Lord, yes, the wedding outfit. She'd forgotten all about it, which showed how preoccupied she'd been. Switching off her personal problems, she thankfully turned to the comforting familiarity of her work.

‘An aunt?' Sid Trubshaw was staring at them almost belligerently. ‘I don't believe it!'

‘We've no reason to doubt the relationship,' Webb said mildly.

‘But they told us they was orphans. Brought up in an orphanage.'

‘Which one, Mr Trubshaw?'

‘Well, I don't know, do I? Since they're Broadshire lads, I assumed it was the Derrisbrick.'

Webb nodded, seeing in his mind's eye the large, forbidding building on the outskirts of Ashmartin. A happy enough place inside, though, as he'd heard more than once. ‘We checked,' he said. ‘With the Derrisbrick and all the other orphanages in the country. None of them had any record of the White twins.'

‘Another of their fairy tales,' put in Mrs Trubshaw tartly.

‘But they wouldn't have
lied
,' her husband protested with defiant loyalty. ‘Not to us. Mind, if the aunt and uncle threw them out when they was only nippers, they don't deserve to be called family. P'raps that's what they meant.'

Tactfully diverting the conversation, Webb continued, ‘You told us they'd been with you about three years. Where were they immediately before, do you know?' Two years were still unaccounted for after leaving the Hargreaves.

‘Yes, in digs on the Bridgefield estate.' Trubshaw shot a glance at his tight-lipped wife. ‘Doris here insisted on references before she'd accept them.'

‘Mind, to read it you'd have thought we were getting a couple of saints,' she said with a sniff.

Anyone who'd housed the White twins, Webb reflected, would be too eager to be rid of them to be scrupulous about references. ‘Have you their address?' he asked.

‘No, but I remember the name. Preston.'

‘What reason did the twins give for leaving there?'

‘Wanted to be nearer the town, for their job.' Trubshaw smiled sadly. ‘And nearer the club, and all.'

Their job; inquiries in that direction had not been enlightening.

‘What areas did they cover with their window-cleaning?'

‘The centre of town. Commercial premises, like. No private houses.'

Which was interesting. ‘Station Road?' All kinds of nefarious practices went on there; plenty of scope for possible blackmail.

‘Aye, but the smart part too. Carlton Road, East Parade, Duke Street.'

‘Thank you, Mr Trubshaw,' Webb said slowly, ‘you've both been very helpful.'

‘Have they?' Jackson asked in surprise, on the way back down the path.

‘Oh yes. Quite apart from the Prestons, who are well worth a visit, we now have some idea of their round. It's an interesting thought, Ken, that Miss Tovey herself might have been a customer. Her shop's in East Parade, isn't it?' He got into the car. ‘And I'm still not convinced they were left at her house by chance. See, what I always come up against is why the murderer didn't leave well alone. OK, he bundled them into the van so they wouldn't be seen. But why didn't he then hot-foot it back to his own car and get the hell out of it? Why climb into his victims' van and start careering all over North Park, with the evidence of his crime jogging around in the back? It only makes sense if he'd some idea of getting even with someone. Suppose he'd a grudge against Miss Tovey, and wanted to give her a fright?'

‘It still wouldn't be worth taking that risk, surely? As far as we know he wasn't used to the van; for all he knew, it could have had faulty lights or brakes or something, and one of our blokes might have stopped him. And what about the fact that it really did run out of petrol outside her house? He couldn't have gauged that so exactly, could he? Anyway, if it was someone who knew her well enough to have a grudge, she'd have recognized him, wouldn't she?'

Webb sighed. ‘You're right, Ken, none of it fits. All the same, it'd be interesting to find out how many of Miss Tovey's acquaintances had their windows cleaned by the Lily-white Boys.'

Back at his office, a note awaited Webb asking him to phone Dick Hodges. Perhaps things were moving at last.

‘Ah, Dave. Thought you'd like to know we came across traces of blood in the Wood Green lay-by and we've established it's definitely that of the stab-victim. So at least we've found the scene.'

‘Well done, Dick. Anything where the vehicles were parked?'

‘Spots of oil on the main road where the van was, which match up OK, and broken branches and flattened grass on the other side of the lay-by. Something was parked under the trees all right. What's more, a track had been made through the shrubbery to the back of the lay-by.'

Webb gave a low whistle. ‘That's pretty conclusive, I'd say.'

‘It should be, once you have a suspect. He left fibres and the odd shoe-print behind him.'

‘Well, that's encouraging. Thanks, Dick.' Webb replaced the phone and ran his hand over his face. What they now had to discover was where the twins had been between 9.0 p.m. when they left their lodgings and 11.0, when they were seen near the Mulberry Bush, a drive of only about twenty minutes. Why had they parked there? Were they waiting for someone, or indulging in a bit of spying? The other party involved was almost certainly the driver of the possible hatchback under the trees. But perhaps it was he who was spying on them? If they were meeting by arrangement, why hadn't he driven openly into the lay-by, as the twins later did, instead of creeping round through the undergrowth? Because the murder was premeditated?

There was a tap on the door and Dawson poked his head round. ‘Spare us a couple of minutes, Guv?'

‘Of course, Bob. Come in and pull up a chair.'

Dawson did so, subsiding on to it with a groan of relief and stretching out his legs. ‘Been pounding round the town on the track of the White gang. Now the season's over it's not so easy to run them to earth, specially since they've been avoiding the Duckworth.'

‘Probably dodging all the speculation.'

‘Yep – understandable. Anyway, I caught up with two of them at the timber yard where they work. Richards and Seymour. Couple of right layabouts.'

‘Were they any help?'

‘None whatever. Same story we hear everywhere – the twins kept themselves to themselves. If they were indulging in a spot of blackmail, they seem to have kept their mouths shut about it.'

‘Were any members of the gang closer to the Whites than the rest of them?'

‘Possibly Jango Simms. He was what Seymour called their “leg man”, whatever that means.'

‘Let's hope it means confidant. We've had a bit of luck today; the twins have an uncle and aunt alive and well and living in Oxbury. In fact, they lived there themselves until five years ago.'

‘Get away! Not what they told their landlord, was it?

‘No, poor old bugger. It hit him pretty hard.'

‘What of the relatives?'

‘They took the twins in when they were orphaned at the age of seven and kept them, under increasing difficulty, for eight years.'

‘Reckon they deserve a medal!' Dawson observed, with a sour grin. ‘Then what happened?'

‘An almighty row about noise, unacceptable friends and pot-smoking.'

‘And they got out?'

‘Yep. Never to be heard of again. Or so the aunt says.'

‘You don't believe her?'

‘I don't know. She seems frightened of her husband; he didn't want her to contact us. I keep wondering why. Like a job for tomorrow?'

‘Surprise me!'

‘It'll give you a break from the football crowd, at any rate. Leave Cummings to track down – what were their names? – Arkwright and Leyton, and you can attend to Simms yourself after you've seen Hargreaves. I haven't got his work address, but he should be home on a Saturday. Two, Riverside Close. But don't rile him, Bob; we don't want to get his wife into trouble.'

‘You know me, Guv,' Dawson said laconically. ‘The soul of discretion.'

Miss Tulip closed the gate of the little Victorian house carefully behind her, counted, as she always did, the number of footsteps it took to reach the front door – unfailingly nine – and inserted her key. But this evening the familiar ritual failed to soothe her. The police had been back at the store asking questions, and she was deeply disturbed.

Closing and locking the front door behind her, she went at once to the parlour cupboard, took out her father's sherry decanter and poured herself a generous measure. But instead of sitting down to enjoy it, she remained standing, an immobile figure in black jacket and skirt, gazing unseeingly through the net curtains to the matching terrace across the road.

Why
were the police still nosing around? She didn't for a moment think it was anything to do with Miss Monica. Not directly, that is. After all, anyone could see it wasn't her fault that a couple of bodies had been left at her door. Miss Tulip shuddered delicately and took another gulp of sherry.

Then there was the phone call Patsy had spoken about; an uncouth sort of fellow, wanting to speak to Miss Monica. That, again, had filled her with fear. Suppose whoever-he-was had discovered her little secret and wanted to report her? Would Miss Monica give her notice? Without Randall Tovey's to go to every day, her life would have no meaning, no meaning at all. Beside that possibility, even her – her secret was unimportant.

Setting down the sherry glass with a decisive little click, Miss Tulip went back into the lobby and dialled a number. When the familiar voice answered, she identified herself and asked crisply, ‘Has anyone been making inquiries about me?'

‘Not a soul, me love.' She heard the surprise in his voice, and it was some comfort.

‘I'm uneasy, Mr Spratt. I shan't be contacting you for a week or two, and – this is
most
important – you must make no attempt whatever to contact me.'

‘You're the boss.' He sounded supremely unconcerned, quite incurious as to her anxiety.

‘Very well. I'll speak to you in due course.'

She breathed a sigh of relief as she replaced the phone on its cradle. Then, some minutes behind her normal schedule, she went upstairs, slightly unsteady after the unaccustomed sherry. In the neat, impersonal bedroom she changed out of her working clothes and hung them carefully in the wardrobe till the next morning. She now had roughly fourteen hours before she could return to her real home, the foyer of Randall Tovey. She would fill them, as she usually did, with music, tapestry and sleep. As far as the police were concerned, she'd taken such precautions as she could. Now she must sit back and trust there'd be no further developments.

With a small sigh, she went downstairs to prepare her frugal supper.

Monica heard the car as she finished dressing for the theatre and went to the window expecting to see George. Instead, it was Justin who was coming up the path. The bell rang as she gathered up handbag and stole, and she reached the bottom of the stairs as Mrs Bedale admitted him. He stopped short on seeing her.

‘You're going out?'

‘In a minute or two, yes.' She held up her face for his usual peck. ‘To what do we owe this honour?' He seldom called at the house without Eloise.

‘I wanted to satisfy myself that you're all right.'

‘Oh, Justin,' she said softly. ‘That's very sweet of you.' It occurred to her that he'd driven straight here on his return from his business trip. ‘I'm fine,' she added.

‘No further developments?'

‘Look, come in for a drink. Mother will be pleased to see you.'

‘Don't change the subject, Monica. Has something else happened?'

‘A couple of phone calls, that's all.'

His voice sharpened. ‘What kind of phone calls?'

‘A man wanted to speak to me, but I wasn't available either time.' She laid a hand on his arm. ‘The police know about it. It's all right.'

‘It's very definitely
not
all right,' he said vehemently. ‘I'd be much happier if you packed an overnight case and came back with me now. And your mother too, if she'd like to.'

‘Really, it's not necessary. In any case, he hasn't phoned today, so whatever it was couldn't have been important.'

He was about to argue further when the doorbell sounded again. He turned and opened the door to see George on the step.

‘Am I interrupting something?' George inquired, looking from one of them to the other.

‘Justin's just heard about the phone calls.'

‘There haven't been any more?'

‘No, nothing. As I say, that's probably the end of it.' Justin said heavily, ‘I mustn't detain you. Are you going somewhere interesting?'

‘To the Grand, to see the new Ayckbourn play. I thought we could both do with a laugh.'

‘Is that George, dear?' called a voice from the drawing-room.

Justin said quickly, ‘I really mustn't stop – I've not been home yet.'

George said, ‘Don't worry, we'll cover for you' and he opened the drawing-room door. ‘Good evening, Maude. How are you today?' As he went into the room he pulled the door to behind him, allowing Justin to make his escape undetected.

In the hall, Monica said steadily, ‘George will take care of me.'

‘I'm sure he will. Why the devil don't you marry him, and tell his mother to go to hell? Then perhaps I could stop worrying about you.'