Killing a Unicorn Read online

  His alibi was cast iron. After letting him go, Crouch had had him checked up before anyone else. Routine procedure. The spouse — or the partner — was necessarily always the first in line as suspect, and the one who, quite often, turned out to be the culprit. But there was no possibility Chip could have been anywhere near Membery at the time Bibi Morgan was murdered. A City dinner, a hundred unimpeachable witnesses could be invoked to prove he was innocent. Unless, of course, he’d arranged for someone else to do his dirty work. It had been known, and had to be borne in mind, but Crouch wasn’t regarding this as likely, at the moment, or indeed at all. Not that he’d dismissed the man as being incapable of murder — anyone, in Crouch’s opinion, could kill, given the right circumstances - but Chip, over and above other considerations, seemed the hands-on type, one who might lose his temper on the spur of the moment, but not one to brood and plan a murder. Crouch knew he’d come back to the idea of a surrogate killer only when all else had failed.

  Jonathan Calvert and his girlfriend Jilly Norman also had unassailable alibis if, as they claimed, they had been marooned in the baggage reclaim at Heathrow, waiting for a suitcase that never turned up, though that too wouldn’t be allowed to pass without some verification. Leaving, of those closest to Bibi, Francine Calvert and the two old ladies. Crouch was a man who was willing to believe most things of most people, but at the moment he wasn’t yet down to regarding these last two old dears as suspects.

  As for Francine Calvert, the first person on the spot, who had found the body in the pool at the foot of the waterfall, she’d apparently been genuinely upset at the death of her friend — not that he would allow himself to be fooled by that. There was something about her that gave pause for thought: determination and a strong will, something hidden behind those smoky blue eyes. Though slender, she was a fit young woman and could easily have tipped the even slighter body of Bibi Morgan into the stream after stabbing her, perhaps having met her on the stream-side path on her way up to Membery and later, when the body had tumbled down the stream and slid over the lip of the waterfall into the pool, raising the alarm. Murderers before now had found it expedient to be the first to ‘discover’ the body. She was near to her own home, with no one else around, she could easily have showered and changed her clothes if they’d been bloodstained. Light summer clothes, easily washed. Though of course, there might have been very little blood if, as Logie had stated, the massive haemorrhage had been mostly internal.

  She would also have had to have the weapon with her, and that implied a prior knowledge that Bibi would have been there, which in turn made Bibi’s impromptu stroll along the stream seem a little less impromptu. More like a pre-arranged meeting. And not having found the weapon yet was worrying Crouch — that slightly off-centre triangular blade which had made the single incision that had caused her death.

  There were three kitchens where a knife might have come from: the original kitchen at Membery Place, one so old-fashioned it made him think of his old grandma’s kitchen in Lewisham, though four times as big. It was not a room where trendy knives of that sort were likely to feature, however. A one-knife-does-all sort of kitchen, with the addition of a bread knife and a potato peeler, perhaps. The second was the pretty, remodelled kitchen in the converted wing of the house belonging to Chip Membery, replete with serious culinary equipment, where Bibi Morgan was said to have enjoyed cooking, and no doubt had used such knives. The third was at the The Watersplash, where there were undoubtedly knives for every imaginable task, but all neatly in their allotted spaces, looking as though they had never been disturbed. In none of the kitchens was there one which exactly filled the bill regarding shape and size, or one which appeared to have gone missing. Maybe they ought to be looking for that builder’s pointing trowel, as suggested by Hanson.

  But … where did the child’s disappearance fit into all this? Crouch worried his chin with his hand. Nowhere, so far — unless, as Francine Calvert had been quick to suggest, he had been removed because he’d seen what had happened to his mother. But he had supposedly been put to bed before she’d gone out for that fatal stroll.

  ‘It was a hot night,’ Kate had pointed out. ‘Children don’t always go straight off to sleep. He might have wandered downstairs, looking for a drink perhaps, seen his mother out of the window and gone after her.’

  ‘Or his mother might have been got rid of in order to get at the child. Seems more feasible to me. Someone killed her and then went upstairs and snatched him from his bed. If he cried out, no one would have heard him, not from that wing of the house.’

  ‘And stayed to make his bed, afterwards? Straightened the duvet, smoothed the pillow?’

  Possible, but not very likely, Crouch had to admit. He’d simply been following up a theory put forward by the Super, not one of his own. Bob Vincent was convinced that this was a simple case of a child being snatched by his own father, whoever and wherever he was, in which case they might never hear from him. If he had murdered Jasie’s mother, he was unlikely ever to apply for legal custody of his child. As soon as they found out his name, they would have all exit points from the country watched, though logic said this might already be too late. Crouch had put the computer gurus to work on it, and no doubt they would come up with results, but even with the marvels of modern technology, these sort of enquiries took time, and after thinking about it, Crouch didn’t see why Chip himself shouldn’t speed things up and make life easier all round by being made to tell the truth. Which Crouch thought he knew already.

  He had told Kate caustically that he didn’t need a lie to jump up and hit him in the face before recognizing it: it seemed obvious to him that it was Chip, despite his denials, who was Jasie’s natural father. But what about those separate bedrooms? That still bothered Crouch.

  The evasiveness of the answers Chip had given about how he and Bianca Morgan had conducted whatever relationship they’d had was a puzzle. Had she been blackmailing Chip? Emotional blackmail, if nothing else? A home for herself and the boy in return for having his child to live with him?

  Whatever, Crouch felt more than ever that the answer to this particular murder did not lie outside the family. Perhaps that was a dangerous assumption to make, but Crouch was never averse to making assumptions, dangerous or otherwise, and buttressing them with whatever facts he could find to fit, and he was convinced there was something funny going on — and the more he thought about Chip Calvert, the more he believed this.

  All the same, instinct alone could be a dangerous thing. He couldn’t afford to ignore the routine approaches to this crime. His men had been busy during the day, up and down the village here, asking questions. It hadn’t taken long. Of all its two hundred-odd inhabitants, almost all, except the few who were away on family holidays, had now been seen. Results had been negative. No unrecognized cars had been spotted, no stranger or anyone peculiar (which was tantamount to the same thing) had been noticed hanging around, or Middleton Thorpe wouldn’t have missed it.

  Everyone who worked in the Membery Place Gardens had been rounded up and questioned: those who came in only on the garden’s opening days — the women who worked in the tearooms, served in the garden shop, took the money at the gates and so on — plus those working behind the scenes, which included men for the heavier work and several women who packed up plants for delivery by post, more who were employed specifically to weed the extensive beds and rock gardens — and swore they enjoyed it! The notable exception to all these was Gary Brooker, who had mysteriously been busy elsewhere all day and couldn’t be found whenever he’d been summoned for questioning. They’d pin him down eventually. He was an unpleasant little git, and as an outside chance, he might possibly have been moved to kill Bibi Morgan for some reason, but for the life of him Crouch couldn’t see him abducting the child. And the two crimes had to be connected.

  As with enquiries in the village, the results from all these interviews had been negative — but then, Crouch hadn’t expected otherwise. The country club wh
ere Bibi Morgan had worked was marked down for tomorrow, but he set little store by what his team would gather from there, either. An added complication was that the gardens had been open to the public yesterday. Nearly a hundred visitors had passed through the gates, but it would be virtually impossible to trace them all — and though access to the private grounds was easy enough, through a wicket gate from the nurseries, it was no easier than getting into the gardens by other routes — via The Watersplash and along the stream, for instance.

  Meanwhile, there were other things to occupy Dave Crouch’s mind until he and Chip encountered each other again — like considering how to deal with the press, who were already baying at the door. All we need, he thought, running a hand through his hair. But he knew they were a necessity, he needed their co-operation, to put out a plea for information, circulate the boy’s description. He’d grant them an interview, give them just enough to be going on with, put a taste in their mouths. And if there was still no news by tomorrow, the Super had let it be known, they’d have to consider setting up a TV interview, with someone close to Jasie to put in an emotional appeal. The problem there was that there was no mother in this case to pull the nation’s heartstrings. Though the added fact that she herself had been murdered — perhaps right in front of her child’s eyes — might evoke an even better response.

  Crouch had left his men to get on with the search for the boy under the able direction of an experienced, unflappable sergeant by the name of Osborne, who had collected a formidable team around him — local civilian volunteers as well as police, among whom were officers who were fathers themselves and had given up their days off, declared themselves willing to forgo overtime, willing to work around the clock if necessary. But faces were grim. With every hour that passed, the odds against finding the little boy alive lengthened.

  Chapter Nine

  How long could a day last? For ever, if you’d spent it waiting for news that never came, everlastingly making cups of tea for Alyssa — and for the police, whose capacity was almost as fathomless — and for anyone else hanging around waiting to be interviewed, come to that.

  The glorious weather, in direct contrast to the dark forebodings, the evil that had overshadowed the sun-filled day, had become intolerable. Membery was a house that was in any case rarely comfortable when the temperature soared, and no one had been at their best. Tautened nerves, coupled with the oppressive heat and the lack of air inside the house, had stunned everyone and made them morose and unlike themselves. Tempers frayed. They’d become snappish and impatient. Then guilty, ashamed of such trivial behaviour in the circumstances, which had in turn made them over-compensate with too much unaccustomed consideration and politeness, as if they were strangers, and not family: how could they be acting like this when such a terrible thing had struck all their lives, when there was still no sign of Jasie?

  The woods had been searched all day, until darkness made any further attempts counter-productive. They would start again at first light, they said, but though it hadn’t been put into words, any hope of finding him in the locality had dwindled. Fran could see it in the faces of the police. By now Jasie would be long gone and — dead or alive — miles from Membery.

  Perhaps it’s the grief, and a kind of impotent rage at whoever has committed both senseless acts, that’s made her barely able to think through the situation clearly. The unbelievable fact of murder — raw, violent, disruptive, with no seeming reason for it — is bad enough, but the abduction of a child, and not any child, but Jasie, is so mind-boggling that so far it has blocked all her constructive thought processes. She suspects that the events have affected everyone else in the same way, at any rate none of them have seemed able to do anything but go round in circles. Alyssa has kept on asking, futilely, all day, why Mark doesn’t ring, as if that’s the only thing that matters.

  ‘I expect he will, soon.’ Fran has been in no mood to discuss possible reasons why he hasn’t. Mark acting so out of character on top of all this is beginning to be more than she can take. But at least it has once more served as an excuse not to stay overnight at Membery, as Alyssa suggested, though there is, after all, no reason why she should: she doesn’t share Alyssa’s conviction that the murderer is still hanging around and that Fran, sleeping down at The Watersplash on her own, might be the next victim. She is dazed and light-headed with tiredness and can’t wait to curl up in her own bed. Besides — the delightful thought had slipped into her mind and immediately become of paramount importance — her own house has beautiful, blessed air-conditioning. She revels now in the coolness of it against her skin, like a benison after the dim stuffiness of the rooms at Membery.

  No one has felt inclined to eat much at all today, not even Jane Arrow, who can discipline herself to do anything if necessary. While waiting for news that never came, they’d nibbled throughout the day at bits of sandwiches and sausage rolls, biscuits, the kind of food that fills but doesn’t satisfy, with the result that no one has been able to face the evening meal produced by Rene Brooker, who pulled herself together and stayed on, long beyond her normal hours. She isn’t employed to cook, but over and above her usual cleaning duties, she’d made a chicken casserole as a gesture of sympathy. It gave her something to take her mind off things, and she’d remarked philosophically that if it was left uneaten, which it had been, it could be put in the freezer when it had cooled.

  Fran feels it would be sensible to try and eat something nourishing now, but she can’t think what. Unable to conjure up anything more inspired than a plate of cheese and crackers, she puts some out and then impulsively measures out an unaccustomed whisky to go with it. She doesn’t normally like whisky, but there has to be a reason why it’s Mark’s favourite tipple, and she reasons tonight might be a good time to find out why. Sloshed over a tumblerful of ice, she finds it just palatable, and after a while the results begin to live up to everything Mark claims for it.

  She sits back, sipping, muscles relaxed, a little swimmy in the head, and looks at the answering machine, willing its red light to blink, but it doesn’t obey. It seems impossible that Mark is blithely carrying on with his business across the Channel, unaware of the cataclysmic events happening here. Unaware and uncaring, too, she thinks self-pityingly, taking another swig of Glenfiddich, that she might be worried about not hearing from him. All right for some.

  She pushes the glass away. The whisky is evidently a mistake, it’s making her maudlin. And it tastes even nastier now that what’s left of it is diluted by the ice into a watery non-drink.

  It really is time to try and look at the whole muddled situation objectively and begin to take steps towards coming to terms with it. But that’s a lot easier said than done. All right, begin, then, as Crouch had done, with that telephone call Bibi had made to her at the office during yesterday afternoon. Was it really only yesterday? It seems like a month ago. Crouch is a bloody-minded man but, honesty makes her admit, he’s thorough, nor would it ever do to underestimate him, she’s sure. She reminds herself of his obviously sincere concern about Jasie and is cheered. Perhaps he has children of his own.

  He would keep harping on about that note which had been waiting for her when she got in, though. Was she sure, he’d asked yet again, that Bibi hadn’t said why she wanted to see her? And why, he repeated, had Fran destroyed it?

  Yes, she was absolutely certain that Bibi had given no hint of why she needed to see her, Fran had answered — but then, she didn’t need to give reasons for dropping in, even without any previous warning. They were friends, weren’t they? And the letter — she had destroyed that because she was learning to be a tidy person, she had felt like saying crossly, only she hadn’t. Pushing it down the waste disposal unit had been the sort of gesture that was by now becoming automatic. He asked why she hadn’t put it out with all the other junk mail, ready for the council binmen to pick up. Or why she hadn’t put it with the confidential mail, to shred. Because Bibi’s message had only been a note, not worth the bother of taking it up
to Mark’s study to where the shredder was, not worth thinking about, after she’d read it. She’d begun to see how suspects felt, when asked to explain every trivial action — for which there were often no explanations. Why did you peel the potatoes with that knife, instead of this, what made you take road A rather than road B? Why didn’t you tell anyone where you were going that night, so that you could have produced a cast iron alibi? It could drive you nuts. And yes, she was positive the signature on the note had been Bibi’s. Impatiently, she’d picked up a pen and demonstrated how unmistakable that signature was, in the round, girlish handwriting complete with the encircling curlicue of the final ‘a’ — which had immediately disproved her point: it would have been child’s play for anyone to have copied it.

  But why should they?

  ‘Does nobody keep any correspondence in this family?’ Crouch had sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Not even the letters from the so-called stalker?’

  Fran had looked at him, unable to conceal her dislike. ‘Perhaps Bibi would have kept them for you if she’d known she was going to be murdered!’

  He was too thick-skinned to wilt under irony. He’d met her sort before, his look said, posh house, posh accent, didn’t bother him. ‘No need to get uppity. Were they obscene, made her throw them away? Did they contain threats?’

  ‘I’ve told you,’ she’d said through clenched teeth, ‘I didn’t even know she’d had any letters.’

  She’d escaped at last, and found Chip, the only one who had known about their existence. He doubted very much if Bibi would even have mentioned them to him, he said, if he hadn’t picked up the post once or twice and recognized the same, environmentally friendly envelope, made from rough, recycled paper, the tree design on it scarcely leaving room for the address. Bibi had never let him read them, she said they weren’t worth bothering about, they were from some sad weirdo who had nothing else in his life and wasn’t responsible for his actions. She’d refused to report it to the police or to let Chip do so, either, swearing him to secrecy.