The Lily-White Boys (16 page)

‘It's a possibility, nothing more. Trouble with cases like this, you can't completely discount anyone.'

‘But her a magistrate and all –'

Webb shrugged. ‘Could be a good cover. I'll tell you this, though, Ken. Having met the lady, I can't really see her in the role of drug-smuggler and murderer.' Especially since she's a friend of Hannah's, he added mockingly to himself. With which unprofessional proviso, he got out of the car outside Randall Tovey and walked into its foyer.

She was looking a lot better than the previous evening. Webb wondered how much of the improvement was due to the departure of the migraine and how much to her conversation with Frank Andrews.

‘Did he turn up?' she asked eagerly, as soon as she'd shaken Webb's hand.

‘Yes, ma'am, we got the full story.'

‘And you think he's genuine?'

‘I'd say so. We're checking times with his girlfriend and the transport firm he works for, but it seems to tie in.'

‘Well, that is a relief.'

‘Yes. However, we've still the real murderer to find. Miss Tovey, were you aware that the White brothers cleaned the windows here?'

She stared at him for a moment. ‘The windows? Oh, I see. I did know, yes, though I'd forgotten. Is it important?'

‘It could be, if they were killed because of something they saw in the course of their work.'

She smiled a little. ‘All they'd have seen here, Chief Inspector, would be ladies trying to squeeze into a dress one size too small. And since the windows are frosted in the changing-rooms, they wouldn't have seen much of that.'

The phone rang on her desk. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? Hello? Oh, Justin.' Webb and Jackson exchanged a quick glance. ‘Yes, thank you, much better. And please thank Theo for bringing the car round.'

There was a silence broken only by the murmur from the telephone. Then she said, ‘Has she? I am sorry; perhaps it's the weather . . . This evening? Well, yes, I should think so . . . No, really, I've fully recovered, though to be safe I'll avoid shellfish and red wine . . . Yes, I've met Monsieur Clériot . . . Did he? How kind of him. Very well, Justin, I'll be ready at seven-thirty . . . Not at all, I'll be glad to.'

She put the phone back, and smiled at the two men sitting expressionlessly opposite. ‘Sorry about that. My brother-in-law wants me to act as hostess for him this evening. It seems it's my sister's turn to have a migraine.'

Webb said quickly, ‘Your brother-in-law?'

‘That's right, Justin Teal. You may know him, he sits on the Bench.'

‘I know of him, yes, but I didn't realize you were related.' He paused, wondering how best to phrase what he wanted to know. ‘It's a case of business entertaining, is it? This evening?'

She looked surprised at his interest, but answered readily enough. ‘Yes; a lot of his suppliers have difficulty with English, and since I speak French and Italian it comes in very useful.'

‘With your brother-in-law being in the wine business, he must take fairly regular trips abroad?'

‘Of course.' She paused. ‘Forgive me, Chief Inspector, but why this sudden interest in my brother-in-law? Was he a customer of the Whites too?'

Webb smiled a little shamefacedly. ‘Actually, he was. As were quite a lot of business premises in this area.'

‘And you really think the twins might have seen something they shouldn't have?'

‘We've yet to find a motive for their murder, Miss Tovey. When we do, we might have a clue as to their murderer.' He rose to his feet, motioning Jackson to do likewise. ‘I hope you enjoy your dinner this evening.'

‘I expect to; we're going to The Gables, at Frecklemarsh.'

Webb paused. ‘Does Mr Pendrick still own it?'

‘Yes indeed. Do you know him?'

‘We met a few years ago.' When he was suspected of murdering his wife. ‘Give him my best wishes,' he added, smiling to himself as he pictured Pendrick's reception of them.

‘I shall.' She came round her desk to open the door for them. ‘Goodbye, Chief Inspector. Miss Lancing will see you downstairs.' She nodded to one of the assistants, who dutifully came forward, and the two men followed her in solemn procession between the rails of brightly coloured dresses and down the stairs.

‘Well, Ken, what do you make of that?' Webb asked as they reached the pavement. ‘Regular contacts with people from the continent – which both Teal and Miss Tovey have – could be a cover for all kinds of things.'

‘Sinister foreigners, you mean, Guv?' Jackson asked. ‘Perhaps we should be looking for Fu Manchu!' And he ducked Webb's cuff with a grin.

‘What we are going to do now, my lad, is go out and see this Preston family. The Whites were with them immediately before the Trubshaws. Let's find out if they smoked pot while they were there.'

The Bridgefield council estate lay a few miles outside Shillingham on the Marlton road. It had been built only six years but already had a shabby, dilapidated air, with broken fences, overgrown hedges and graffiti scrawled on a wall. Three or four small children were playing on tricycles, swooping on and off the pavement, but there was no other sign of life. Presumably most of the inhabitants were at work.

Webb and Jackson got out of their car in front of the Prestons' house, and, ignoring the children's wide-eyed stares, walked up the path and knocked at the door. There was a long pause and then it was opened by a girl of sixteen or seventeen, who regarded them suspiciously.

‘We're looking for Mr or Mrs Preston,' Webb said pleasantly.

‘They're not in.'

‘You're Miss Preston?' A nod. ‘Could we have a word with you, then? We're from Shillingham CID, Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson.'

He produced his identification, but she barely glanced at it. ‘I knew you were the fuzz. It sticks out a mile.'

‘May we come in for a moment? We'd like to ask you a few questions about the White twins.'

The effect of his words was surprising, because the girl's eyes filled with tears.

He said more gently, ‘We don't want to upset you, miss, but you might be able to help.'

She turned away without speaking, but since she left the door open, they took it as an invitation and followed her inside. The kitchen into which she had retreated overlooked a rough patch of garden. In one corner the chassis of an old pram lay abandoned, its wheels no doubt now gracing some other form of transport.

‘Could we have your name, miss?'

‘Dolores,' the girl answered with a sniff

‘You obviously remember the Whites,' Webb began, but she cut him short.

‘Be surprising if I didn't, when we had an Indian with them only last month.' The tears welled up again and spilled down her cheek.

‘You've kept in touch with them?' That was better than he could have hoped for.

‘Yeh. Damien mostly, my brother.'

‘He's not in, I suppose?' She shook her head.

‘How long did they live here?'

‘A couple of years.'

‘And why did they leave?'

‘Wanted to be nearer the football club.'

‘There was no – trouble – of any kind?'

‘No, of course not. They was like part of the family. Mum cried when they went.'

It was another example of the opposing feelings the twins had aroused: suspicion and distrust in Mr Hargreaves and Mrs Trubshaw, genuine affection in her husband and the Prestons.

‘And that meal you had was the last time you saw them. Can you remember when it was?'

‘After the Oxbury match.'

‘Which was?'

‘The last Saturday in April, I think. We celebrated at the clubhouse, then went on to the Punjabi Gardens.'

It was the second time that name had come up today. Any significance?

‘How often did you all meet?'

‘Damien saw them more than me, but they came here to supper sometimes. They were great.' Her voice trembled.

‘Dolores –' Webb used her first name in the hope of softening the questions which were to follow. ‘Do you know if they ever smoked pot?'

She looked at him sharply, and he added, ‘You won't be getting anyone in trouble. It's just that we're trying to find out who killed them, and that could be a lead.'

She said slowly, ‘They did a bit, when they first came, but Mum didn't like it, so they stopped. It didn't matter to them, one way or the other.'

‘Any other kind of drugs?'

‘No.'

‘Did you ever hear them mention drugs? Anyone they knew on them, something like that?'

‘Rob told me someone he was at school with died of an overdose. It shook him quite a bit. He said it was a mug's game.'

‘Did he make any other comment?'

‘Only that he'd like to get his hands on the bastard that sold it him.'

Not dealers themselves, then, but perhaps a motive for blackmailing those who were.

‘Do you know anyone who didn't like the twins – had it in for them?'

‘Only rival fans. There used to be punch-ups sometimes.'

‘Did your brother go with them to matches?' A Preston had not been mentioned among the gang.

‘No, he's not into football. He goes dog-racing.'

‘One more thing, Dolores, then we'll go. This may be painful for you, but could you tell us the first thing that came into your head when you heard they'd been killed?'

‘That I was glad they went together.'

‘They were that close?'

‘Yeh. It was spooky.'

‘But you'd no idea who could have killed them?'

‘No. It would only have made sense after a match.' She knuckled her eyes in a touchingly childish gesture. ‘I hope you get who did it,' she said.

George Latimer believed firmly that there was no such thing as a free dinner. On the other hand, evenings at home were stultifying and Monica, as he'd learned at lunch-time, was playing hostess to Justin yet again. He intended to put a stop to that once they were married. If they ever did marry.

He sighed; she'd seemed to need him the other night after her anonymous phone calls, but her dependence had been short-lived. The danger was now over; that was why she'd telephoned, and the measure of relief with which he'd heard the news was in proportion to the anxiety he'd felt.

All the same, he thought ruefully, it had been good to feel he was needed. And in the stress of the moment, she
had
agreed to a weekend away. He'd remind her of that, next time they spoke.

Now, though, he had other things on his mind, such as how, after a good meal, impartiality could be maintained regarding the increased loan which he was sure was behind the invitation.

At least, he thought as he got into the car, his clients had drawn the line at taking him to The Gables, where Monica was bound this evening. No doubt there were grades of restaurant for entertaining possibly compliant bank managers. Someone should do a sociological survey on it.

Frecklemarsh, a village eight miles south-west of Shillingham, owed its fame to The Gables, a small but highly regarded hotel renowned for its cuisine. It was a popular choice for wedding receptions and twenty-first parties, but its clientele was mainly drawn from businessmen on expense accounts who wished to impress foreign clients, and by wealthy families wanting a base from which to explore the Broadshire countryside.

The ambience was that of a country house, with genuine antiques, comfortable chairs and, in winter, log fires burning in the grates, and the relaxed atmosphere was due in no small measure to its proprietor, Oliver Pendrick.

He made it a practice to greet all his clients personally, and was as usual in the hall when Justin and Monica arrived with the two Frenchmen, father and son, who were their guests.

‘Mr Teal!' Pendrick came forward, holding out his hand. ‘Good to see you! And Miss Tovey. How's your mother?'

Monica watched with admiration as Justin introduced the Clériots and the proprietor slipped easily into French, immediately putting them at ease. He was, she knew, a widower, a tall, well-built man in his early fifties, with thick red-brown hair hardly touched with grey, and deepset eyes.

‘How's Henry?' Justin was asking, as Pendrick himself led them through to the restaurant.

‘Doing very well. He's spending a year at the Georges V and loving every moment of it.' He stopped at their table and pulled out a chair for Monica. ‘Enjoy your meal!' And he left them to attend to the next arrivals.

‘Henri is the son?' Monsieur Clériot inquired in French, as a waiter shook out a napkin and laid it across his knees.

‘Yes; following the family tradition, as you'll gather.'

‘The Georges V is a formidable training-ground!'

The pleasantries over, the talk turned almost immediately to business and Monica, steering clear of the more exotic dishes out of deference to her migraine, allowed her thoughts to wander. How wonderful it had been to drive here this evening without the knowledge that a police guard was of necessity following her, to walk fearlessly without looking back over her shoulder. That anxious time had lasted only five days, but the memory of it would, she knew, be long-lasting. At least it had taught her to take nothing for granted.

Half-listening to the soft cadences of French, she thought back to that morning and the Chief Inspector's visit. Why had the fact that Justin travelled abroad interested him? For that matter, what did he suspect the White twins had seen which was to lead to their death? Who else's windows had they cleaned?

She conjured them up in her mind – clipped blond hair, blue eyes, the cocky, defiant stance. They'd been
so young;
she'd hoped to be able to reform them in time, but had not been given the chance. More importantly, neither had they.

Justin claimed her attention with a query, and she reentered the general conversation.