The Midnight Hour, page 18
‘There’s not really much to say,’ said Astarte. ‘Verity—Alma—just wanted to know the usual things. What the future held for her and her family. Of course, it’s not that simple . . .’
Of course it isn’t, thought Emma. But she said nothing. She’d consulted Astarte herself once.
‘But I do remember that Verity—the woman I thought was Verity—was very worried about one of her sons. And I sensed that he was on a dark path.’
‘Which son?’ asked Emma.
‘The oldest one.’
‘David?’
‘No,’ said Sam. ‘Frederick.’
They looked at each other as the toy train continued to circle the track.
‘If Alma was pretending to be Verity,’ said Emma, ‘was she talking about her son or Alma’s?’
‘She wasn’t pretending to be Verity,’ said Sam. ‘She was just using her name. That’s very different.’
They both turned to Astarte, who was sitting serenely on the sofa, recorder in her lap. Jonathan was still staring at her adoringly.
‘The spirits don’t work in that way,’ she said. ‘They don’t care about names. If I was talking to Alma Saunders, then it was her aura I was seeing. She’d brought in something belonging to her son—a cigarette case—and I sensed his aura from that.’
Emma shook her head to clear it from the pleasant but bewildering miasma that Astarte often induced.
‘The point is that Alma was worried enough to ask a medium about her son. This might have been because Fred had just found out about the affair with Bert. Could she have been worried that Fred would kill him?’
‘Fred might have killed Bert,’ said Sam, setting the engine in motion again. ‘I thought that he might be a tough customer if roused. But I can’t see him killing his own mother.’
‘It happens,’ said Emma.
‘I know,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve covered stories like that. But to strangle his own mother because of an affair? I can’t see it. Besides, Bert might have been his father.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘It’s possible. You saw him at the funeral today. Did you see a resemblance?’
Emma thought back to the figure in the pulpit. She was ashamed to say that Fred’s accent, a strange mixture of Lancashire and Cockney, had prevented her from noting any resemblance to the Billington brothers. But he had been as tall as they were. She thought back to the tableau by the graveside.
‘Fred was talking to Sheena,’ she said. ‘Whispering almost. I thought that was odd. I mean, you said that he seemed to hate her. He called her a bitch.’
‘Love and hate are sometimes interchangeable,’ said Astarte.
* * *
Meg was trying to mingle. She was standing by the refreshment table in the village hall, balancing a cup of tea and a rock cake. The room, which was either genuinely old like the church or pretend old like Tudor Close, seemed very full of people. The Saunders family were surrounded by other mourners. Meg wondered whether she should insert herself into the group but she felt embarrassed about being in uniform. What had seemed appropriate for the service now seemed out of place in a social gathering. Besides, the stiff collar was chafing her neck.
As she raised her cup to her lips, she heard a voice say, ‘Where’s the bloody alcohol?’
This was very much what Meg had been thinking. At her grandfather’s funeral, the Guinness had flowed like water. She thought she recognised the voice and turned slightly in its direction. Yes, it was Aaron Billington in his leather jacket, looking sulkily at the tea urn. He was talking to his older brother, David.
‘Fred said that no one was getting drunk at his mother’s funeral,’ said David.
‘Stupid bastard,’ said Aaron.
‘I bet Mum’s having a glass of something now,’ said David. ‘I didn’t buy that story about her suddenly feeling overwhelmed. And Seth was only too keen to go back to the house with her.’
‘Probably afraid of people asking him for his autograph,’ said Aaron. ‘What with him being so famous and all. Conceited bastard.’
‘Hallo,’ said Meg. ‘Do you remember me?’ She tried a friendly smile.
‘Well, the uniform is a bit of a giveaway,’ said Aaron.
‘It’s WDC Connolly, isn’t it?’ said David. ‘You came up to London to talk to me and Sheena.’ Meg was impressed by his remembering her name. She looked around for Sheena and thought she saw her sleek head in the group around the Saunders brothers.
‘It’s very sad about Mrs Saunders,’ said Meg, trying to sound sincere and not simply inquisitive. ‘You must have known her well.’
‘Yes,’ said David. ‘Dear old Alma. She practically brought us up. Especially in Lytham when Mum and Dad were too busy.’
‘Dad was running the company,’ said Aaron.
David sighed, as if he knew what that was like. ‘He was busy, like I said.’
‘I can’t think what Mum was busy doing,’ said Aaron.
Was Verity busy having an affair with Max Mephisto? wondered Meg. He’d said that, after the war, they were just friends but men seemed to have a different definition of friendship. Meg remembered Sheena saying that Alma had known everyone’s secrets. She wondered what she’d known about David. And Aaron.
‘You must know Alma’s sons too,’ she said. ‘Frederick and Barry.’
Did the brothers exchange a quick glance, a flicker that suddenly made them look very alike?
‘We know them,’ said David. ‘I mean, we grew up together in a way but we weren’t exactly close. They went to different schools.’
Meg could believe this.
‘Seth and Barry were quite friendly for a while,’ said Aaron.
David looked over at Fred and Barry, the other fraternal grouping. Meg followed his gaze. Barry was shorter than Fred and far stockier. He also had bushy sideburns that made him look rather wolfish. Meg thought she’d heard that he was a fireman.
‘I don’t see Seth comforting Barry today,’ said David.
As if sensing her husband’s scrutiny, Sheena came over to join them. She was wearing a black dress with a boat neckline and looked far more glamorous than she had in London.
‘Hallo, WDC Connolly,’ she said. ‘Keeping us all under scrutiny.’ So both the Billingtons remembered Meg. Maybe they’d discussed her?
‘I came here as a mark of respect,’ said Meg.
‘How commendable,’ said Sheena. She blew cigarette smoke away from Meg’s face in a way that was almost more insulting than letting it choke her.
‘How was Fred?’ asked David. There was definitely a note of something in his voice but Meg wasn’t sure what. Anger? Jealousy? Warning?
‘Completely broken,’ said Sheena. As she spoke, Fred’s loud laugh echoed across the room. Sheena took a drag of her cigarette. ‘Where’s Seth?’
‘He’s gone back to the house with Mum.’
‘Is that wise?’ said Sheena.
Meg started to edge away. She thought that it was time she caught up with Verity Malone.
* * *
‘We need to go and see this Leonard Holt,’ said Edgar. ‘And take a proper statement. If he’s a credible witness—and WDC Connolly thinks he is—then we need to bring Seth Billington in for questioning.’
‘Have we got enough to arrest him?’ asked DS O’Neill. They were all crowded into Edgar’s office: Bob, Sergeant O’Neill, the other DS, a lugubrious individual called Barker but inexplicably known as Chubby, and DC Black. Henry Solomon looked down sorrowfully from his portrait over the mantelpiece.
‘I don’t think so yet,’ said Edgar. ‘But we’ve got his fingerprints on the envelope of the flyer sent to Verity Malone and he’s been placed at the scene of the second murder. If we bring him in for questioning, we might get something out of him.’
O’Neill cracked his knuckles. Edgar had heard rumours about O’Neill intimidating witnesses. He resolved that Bob and Meg should interview Seth.
‘Let’s concentrate on building a case against Seth,’ said Edgar. ‘Bob, you and O’Neill go and see Leonard Holt. I’ll come with you. If his statement holds up, we’ll go straight round and bring Seth in.’
‘Where’s WDC Connolly?’ asked the young policeman, Danny Black, suddenly.
‘She’s attending the wake,’ said Edgar. ‘I told her to mingle with the family, see what she can find out.’
O’Neill whispered something to Barker, who sniggered. Black went red but Edgar was pleased to see that he ignored the older officer’s comment. Edgar was counting the weeks until O’Neill retired.
* * *
Meg walked through the graveyard with its ominous mound of freshly turned soil. It was only two o’clock but already it seemed as if the shadows were deepening. Seagulls, very white in the gathering gloom, were swooping down in search of worms. Meg opened the gate that led into the gardens of Tudor Close. She wasn’t sure why she was taking this route, except that it was the quickest and the most discreet. As she walked across the lawns—beautifully maintained by Ted Grange—she heard a deep bark from inside one of the houses. Was that Lola? She’d seen Eric Prentice at the funeral but hadn’t spoken to him. She didn’t think he’d been at the wake.
Meg had meant to go round to the front entrance but, as she passed Verity’s French windows, someone called her name. Her actual name, not her rank.
‘Meg!’
It was Seth Billington, standing in the doorway smoking a cigarette. He was still in his black suit but his collar was loose and his tie was undone. Meg thought about the time when she and Emma had interviewed Seth in his hotel room, actually sitting on his bed. Oh God, she was sure that she was blushing.
‘Hi.’ Meg came closer, trying for a casual yet professional tone. Channelling Emma, in fact. ‘Just came to see how Verity was.’
‘She’s all right,’ said Seth. ‘But the funeral was a strain. Alma was her best friend.’
He stood aside to let Meg pass, his voice full of warm concern. But a witness had seen Seth leaving Alma’s house on the night she had died. If the DI was satisfied with Leonard Holt’s statement, he might well be on his way to Tudor Close to arrest Seth. Meg might be there when this happened, a traitor in the heart of the family.
Verity was sitting on the sofa with a glass of brandy in her hand.
‘Ah, Meg. How nice of you to come. How was the wake? Pretty grisly, I expect.’
‘It didn’t seem much fun,’ said Meg.
‘Barry told me there wasn’t going to be any alcohol,’ said Seth. He too was holding a glass. ‘So Ma and I escaped.’
‘Yes,’ said Meg. ‘I’d heard that you and Barry were friendly.’
‘Who did you hear that from?’ said Seth. He sounded amused. ‘From one of my loving brothers, I expect. They could never understand why I’d be friends with the char’s son.’
‘Seth,’ said Verity, on a note of reproof. ‘Alma was more than a char.’
Much more, according to Fred Saunders, thought Meg.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Seth. ‘Alma was a wonderful woman.’ He turned to Meg. ‘Have you got any idea who could have done this awful thing?’
‘We’re following a few leads,’ said Meg.
* * *
Edgar waited in the car while Bob and O’Neill disappeared into the neat cottage called The Old Forge. They emerged half an hour later, carrying the completed paperwork.
‘Pretty good witness,’ said Bob, getting into the car. ‘Very convinced that he saw Billington coming out of the house at ten p.m. on the night of Tuesday, the fifth of October.’
‘Why didn’t he go to the police?’ said Edgar.
‘Didn’t think anything of it,’ said Bob. ‘He knew of the connection between the families. Even when it came out that Mrs Stephens had been murdered, he still didn’t think it could be Seth.’
‘Just because he’s a film star doesn’t mean that he can’t be a murderer too,’ said Edgar. ‘Carter thought that Alma Saunders had been killed between nine p.m. and midnight on the fifth, so the timings fit.’
‘What about the woman seen entering the house at eleven p.m.?’ said Bob. ‘The one in the brown coat.’
‘We haven’t been able to trace her,’ said Edgar. The mysterious woman in brown was one of the many frustrating aspects of the case. ‘Let’s go and have a word with Seth.’
* * *
The photographs were still on the coffee table.
‘I’ve been sorting through them,’ said Verity. Meg sat next to her. Some of the pictures were in albums—fat velvet affairs with gold tassels—but most were loose. Seth put a glass of whisky in front of Meg but she didn’t think she should drink it. She was on duty and in uniform. Besides, she would need her wits about her.
Seth left the room and Verity continued to leaf through the black-and-white images. Occasionally she held up a picture to show Meg. ‘Trixie Tupman, she was gorgeous. Letty Lane, the Purley Princess.’ But the beauty of these women, if it had ever existed, did not survive the stilted poses and out-of-focus photography. They seemed almost comical with their black lipstick and firmly corseted figures. Only the young Verity seemed undimmed by time and fashion, smiling gaily over her shoulder or blowing kisses into the air.
‘My dad’s got a picture of you,’ said Meg. ‘My mum was ever so cross when she found it.’
Verity was delighted. ‘I’ll send him a signed photo,’ she said. ‘But tell your mum, men who look seldom touch.’
Meg tried, and failed, to imagine saying this to her mother.
‘I saw Alma’s sons at the wake,’ she said. ‘Is Seth still friendly with Barry Saunders?’
Verity was peering at a picture of a chorus line. ‘My first job,’ she said. ‘Dancing was hard work in those days. Two shows a night, sometimes a different town every day. Weekly rep was a luxury. The head girl was so strict. Your costume had to be perfect, seams straight, feathers at the right angle, even if nobody saw you. Sometimes the stages were so small that, if you were at the end of the line, you were high kicking away in the wings. Still, it was better than home.’
Meg repeated her question.
‘I don’t think so, dear,’ said Verity. ‘But they were quite close when they were young. The boys were brought up together really, well the older ones were. Seth and Barry were alike, both little daredevils. David and Fred were more serious.’
It was funny, thought Meg, how words sometimes came back to you. As clear as day, she remembered sitting in this room and Verity describing the last time she’d seen Alma. I said, ‘See you later, alligator.’ It was a joke we had. David and Fred used to love Bill Haley and the Comets. So the older boys hadn’t been all that serious and they had been friends. Or, at any rate, close enough to share musical tastes which, Meg knew from her brothers, was an even better currency than football.
‘Your daughter-in-law Sheena was talking to Fred and Barry at the wake,’ she said.
‘I’ve no doubt she was,’ said Verity.
Meg waited for her to say more and, after a few minutes of rather aimless shifting through photographs, Verity said, ‘Sheena always liked Barry. He’s a good-looking devil. But not as much as she likes Seth.’
‘Sheena likes Seth?’
‘Well, everyone likes Seth,’ said Verity. ‘Look at you, going red every time he talks to you. But Sheena’s got a bit of a thing for him. She sees all his films and collects his press cuttings. I think it drives David mad. He’s a patient man but no one likes their wife lusting after another man. Especially not their own brother.’
The word ‘lusting’ had a very old-fashioned sound, thought Meg. Like something you’d hear in the Bible. She decided to ask the question that had been troubling her for the last few weeks, ever since Emma had visited the police station. Perhaps the day of Alma’s funeral wasn’t the right time to ask but when would she get a better chance, sitting alone with Verity surrounded by memories of the past?
‘Apparently Sheena told Fred that Alma had had an affair with Bert,’ she said.
Verity continued to rearrange the photographs, like a magician shuffling a pack of cards.
‘Who told you that?’ she said.
‘Fred told Sam Collins, Emma’s partner.’
‘Oh, the journalist. She’s a smart girl. Like Emma. Like you.’
Meg waited, although she couldn’t resist storing up this nugget of praise to examine later.
‘Sheena hinted as much to me,’ said Verity, ‘but I don’t believe it. I’ll never believe it. Alma would never betray me. She was my best friend.’
Now Verity looked Meg straight in the eye. Meg believed her. Well, she believed that Verity believed it.
‘Why would Sheena say that if it wasn’t true?’ said Meg.
‘Because Sheena’s a vindictive cow, that’s why.’
Verity’s voice had the carrying quality of one used to being heard in the stalls and dress circle. When, a few minutes later, Sheena entered the room, Meg wondered if she’d caught this ringing endorsement. Sheena was accompanied by David and Aaron and carrying a covered tray of sandwiches.
‘Hallo, Mother,’ she said. ‘Fred sent these for you. They’ve got far too much food.’
‘Mother’ surprised Meg. Was this what you called your mother-in-law? Her older sister, Marie, was married but her husband, Terry, had called Meg’s mother ‘Mrs Connolly’ right up until their wedding day. Now Meg rather thought that he avoided addressing her directly.
‘That’s kind,’ said Verity. ‘But I’m not hungry. Meg might like one though.’
Sheena seemed to register her presence for the first time.
‘What are you doing here, WDC Connolly?’
‘Just checking in on Verity,’ said Meg.
‘That’s very kind,’ said Sheena. ‘But we’re here now.’
There was a definite implication that it was time for Meg to leave but Verity said, ‘We haven’t finished looking through the pictures yet. I know you’re not interested in this stuff, Sheena.’
