The Lily-White Boys (13 page)

‘How long had you known the Whites?' Dawson asked, proffering a cigarette by way of enticement. Jango took one and absent-mindedly tucked it behind his ear.

‘Five years, give or take.'

‘Before they came to live here?'

‘Yeah, they was out Bridgefield then. Met 'em at the club.'

‘And you were in their gang?'

That earned him a swift glance from suddenly wide-awake eyes. ‘Nothing wrong with that.'

‘But you were hauled up before the beak more than once, weren't you?'

Jango shrugged, neither confirming nor denying. Dawson decided to appeal to his vanity.

‘Pete Seymour and Charlie Richards said you were the closest to the twins.'

‘Yeah. Well.' Jango kicked at an inoffensive thistle.

‘In on their plans, were you?'

The boy hesitated, longing to claim importance but aware that any questioning could dispel it. ‘They didn't confide in no one,' he said reluctantly. ‘Half the time, we didn't even know what they was saying. Talked in a kind of shorthand. Gave you quite a turn at first, but it made them kind of special.'

Dawson tried to keep his voice casual. ‘Did you see them on Monday evening?'

The boy shook his head.

‘When was the last time?'

‘Sunday dinner-time.'

‘How did they seem?'

‘Fine. I was right cheesed off, with the end of the season and all, but they was all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Every now and then they'd look at each other and burst out laughing, but they wouldn't tell us what the joke was. Can't believe they've gone,' he added suddenly. ‘It don't seem possible, somehow.' He bit his lip and turned abruptly away.

At least the White twins had not died unmourned, Dawson thought. Old Trubshaw, Mrs Hargreaves, Jango here. All, in their own way, grieved for them, which was more than a lot of people could expect these days. With which sombre thought he patted the lad's arm and left him, letting himself out through the side gate in order to avoid the house and Mrs Simms.

It was Sunday morning, and Monica, obeying an instinct she didn't analyse, had decided to attend eight o'clock service at the local church.

St Stephen's, North Park, was a large and handsome building, built at the end of the eighteenth century to minister to the needs of the wealthy families who were moving into the new houses round about. No doubt its originators had expected it to be generously supported in perpetuity. Nowadays, however, its normal congregation numbered about fifty, and to Monica's shame she was not among them. She was a twice-a-year Christian, she admitted wryly, attending at Christmas and Easter, and for the rest of the year expecting the church's amenities to be available as and when she needed them – for baptisms, marriages and funerals.

Quietly letting herself out of the house, she set off on foot up the hill, not even troubling to check if her bodyguard was up this early on a Sunday morning. Yesterday's cloud had persisted, but so far the rain held off. The gardens needed it, everyone said.

She reached the gate of the churchyard and walked up the long path between well-tended lawns and graceful old trees. Fortunately the cemetery was some distance away; she was in no mood to contemplate mortality.

The sidesman at the door, whom she knew in his weekday guise as the local dentist, tactfully hid his surprise at seeing her. ‘Good morning, Miss Tovey,' he murmured in his Sunday voice, pressing a leather book into her hand. Monica experienced a momentary panic: suppose they were using the new service, and she wouldn't be able to follow it? But a hasty glance down revealed the 1662 Prayer Book, well known from schooldays.

She took a seat in one of the back pews and looked about her, at the vaulting arch overhead, and at the ornate pulpit and carved pew-ends inflicted on the building by over-zealous Victorians. No sunshine this morning to fire the stained-glass behind the altar, but the grey light was more in keeping with her mood. In the silence the sound of birdsong came through the open door, and the unique church aroma of polish, old leather and flowers filled her nostrils.

Why hadn't he phoned back?

The unbidden thought intruded on her peace, shattering it like a strident bell and setting her nerves jangling. Grimly she fought it down, willing herself to concentrate on her immediate surroundings, and gradually her breathing steadied. The blackbird still sang outside, and from behind her came the low growl of Colonel Plumpton, the churchwarden, as he checked the day's readings. Impossible to imagine, in this haven of peace, that somewhere out there, beyond the quiet churchyard and its protecting yews, was someone who wished her harm.

Yet wasn't that why she'd come here, to bargain with the Almighty? Please take this danger from me, and I'll be a better person in future? No doubt a familiar plea in this place, but how many of those who'd prayed it over the last two hundred years had been face to face with a murderer?

There was a rustle as those not already kneeling slipped to their knees, and the Vicar and server came through from the vestry. The service began, and as Monica joined in the familiar words, the sense of peace she'd been seeking at last filtered over her. Whatever the outcome of the next few days, she was grateful for it.

‘Mrs Bedale tells me you've been to church,' Maude greeted her daughter, as Monica came into her room for breakfast.

‘That's right.'

‘Why was that, dear? There's nothing special on, is there?'

‘No, I just felt like going.'

It seemed no further explanation was forthcoming, so Maude let it pass. There were times when she didn't understand Monica.

‘Eloise phoned a few minutes ago,' she said, tapping her egg. ‘She's invited us for lunch.'

‘Two invitations in a week? We are honoured.'

‘I told her it was their turn to come here, but she seems to think we need to get out of the house.'

The wider implications of the past week had, by mutual consent, been kept from their mother, but Eloise was right: Monica had no wish to spend a third day waiting for the telephone. ‘That's kind of her,' she said.

Harry came back into the kitchen. ‘That was Eloise on the phone. Maude and Monica are going for lunch, and she's asked the three of us to join them.'

Claudia turned from the joint she was studding with garlic. ‘I hope you said no?'

He looked uncomfortable. ‘I thought it would save you bothering.'

‘But I already have bothered! Harry, it's eleven o'clock! The vegetables are prepared, the dessert's made, and I'm just about to put this in the oven. Anyway, we were at their house on Tuesday. What's the point of seeing them again so soon?'

Harry eyed the joint. ‘But since you
haven't
put it in the oven, we could have it tomorrow.'

‘Maybe, but I'm telling you I don't want to go. I was looking forward to a lazy family day with the papers; why should we be dragged along to help Eloise entertain her family?'

‘That's not a very nice thing to say.'

‘I don't feel very nice. I just don't want all the bother of having to change and make-up and do something with my hair, just because Her Ladyship takes it into her head at this late hour to ask us to lunch. Anyway, she must have known I'd have it all in hand.'

‘Why bother changing? You look perfectly all right as you are,' Harry said with male obtuseness.

Claudia regarded him with exasperation. ‘You think I could hold my own with Eloise in a shirt and cords?'

‘Hold your own?' he repeated, and there was an odd note in his voice.

She turned to face him, aware that without realizing it, they'd crossed some kind of barrier and were on dangerous ground. What had she said to Abbie, less than a week ago?
Eloise is my friend as much as Daddy's.
Had that ever been true, when she had always been conscious of the need to be on her mettle?

‘You know what I mean. She's always so well groomed.'

‘But it's only lunch, for heaven's sake, not a Buckingham Palace garden party!'

‘That's not the point. Whatever the occasion, Eloise will be perfectly dressed for it.'

‘And there's something wrong with that?'

Claudia sighed, giving up the attempt to explain. ‘No, Harry, there's nothing wrong with it. But I do wish she'd sometimes get it wrong, like the rest of us.'

‘I'd no idea you disliked her so much,' he said.

‘I don't dislike her, for heaven's sake, I simply don't want to go for lunch!'

‘Well, I'm sorry but we're committed now. If you feel strongly enough about it, you'll have to ring her back yourself.'

‘What are we committed to?' Abbie had wandered into the kitchen.

‘Lunch at the Teals',' Claudia said heavily.

Abbie brightened. ‘Me too?'

‘You too,' Harry confirmed, ruffling her hair. ‘You don't think we'd leave you alone on a Sunday?'

‘Abbie has revision to do,' Claudia said, and was appalled at the waspishness in her voice.

‘Oh, Mum, I'm up to here with revision! I'll do some more this evening, but please let me come with you!'

Claudia met Harry's accusing gaze and knew she was beaten. ‘All right,' she said.

Abbie gave a little skip of pleasure and Harry walked out of the room. Stupidly close to tears, Claudia tore a piece of aluminium foil off the roll, tucked it round the joint and replaced it in the fridge. Then, with a bad grace, she went upstairs to wash, change, and recurl her hair. Whatever Harry might say, it was of more importance than ever that she should meet Eloise Teal on equal terms.

The landlord at the Magpie was affronted. ‘What are you fellers trying to do to me?' he demanded. ‘This is the second time in six months you've come in here and told me one of my customers has got himself murdered! Straight after leaving here, what's more!'

Webb made a placatory gesture, remembering Ted Baxter who'd met his fate at the hands of the April Rainers.

‘What do you think it's doing to my trade?' the man was continuing. He indicated the row of drinkers at the bar. ‘Times are bad enough, with all this talk about drinking and driving. If they keep on murdering what customers I've got left, I'll soon be out of business!'

‘At least these two weren't regulars,' put in his wife consolingly.

‘That makes a difference? I'm trying to encourage new business, not kill off any passing trade that looks in.'

Webb said soothingly, ‘I'm sorry, Mr Teasdale, I realize it's upsetting for you but I need to check a few facts. You say you'd never seen these young men before?'

‘Never set eyes on 'em.'

‘Did you notice if they spoke to anyone while they were here?'

‘They were chatting to the darts teams.'

‘Was there any argument or unpleasantness?'

‘None at all. They had a couple of pints each, played the fruit machines and watched the darts. We could do with more customers like them.'

‘Have you any idea what time they arrived?'

‘I don't clock my customers in and out, mate. Monday evening, that's all I can tell you.'

‘They left when the Stag coach went,' volunteered his wife. ‘I thought it was because the man they'd been talking to had gone.'

‘And that was at what time?'

‘Just after ten-thirty, wasn't it, Bert?'

‘Round about, I suppose.'

‘They didn't leave with anyone else?'

‘As to that, I couldn't say. Quite a few were moving off around that time.'

It was remotely possible, Webb supposed, that they could have been killed completely on spec by someone who followed them from the Magpie. He didn't believe it, though. The feverish excitement, the parked van along the Chipping Claydon road, the hatchback under the trees: to his mind, all these spoke of a prearranged meeting, and the only contact the Whites had had at the Magpie was with Roddie Hargreaves, who'd gone back to Oxbury on the coach.

He had another half to soothe Teasdale's ruffled feathers, then Jackson drove him back to DHQ.

Though still overcast, the day had become warmer and more humid, making every action an effort, and pressure behind Monica's eyes warned her that a migraine was imminent. As she changed to go out to lunch, she acknowledged to herself that she would much rather stay at home.

There was also the question of the phone; while her first thought had been to escape from it, she'd since remembered that the Chief Inspector wanted her to take the call. Mrs Bedale would have to give any callers the Teals' number.

The drive from north-west to north-east Shillingham should have been a simple matter of following the ring-road. Today, however, it was made frustrating by the vagaries of Sunday drivers, and by the time they arrived Monica was hot, sticky and short-tempered, with her migraine simmering nicely. However, as she'd expected, her sister's home was an oasis of cool welcome, with discreetly hidden fans blowing through the rooms, and by the time she'd held her wrists under the cold tap in the cloakroom, she'd recovered her equilibrium.

She was surprised to find the Marlows there; another instance of Eloise not warning her what kind of gathering to expect. Claudia was extremely chic in a new Randall Tovey dress, a caramel linen that beautifully offset her slight tan. But Monica's initially approving glance also detected strain; the hand holding her glass shook slightly, the other gripped her handbag. Harry also seemed subdued, and Monica sensed there'd been words before leaving home.

‘Sorry our young aren't here for you,' Eloise was saying to Abbie, handing her a long cold drink. ‘This was all a last-minute idea, as you'll have gathered, and they had other plans.'