A Recipe for Murder Read online

  The settee was set caterwise, between the doorway and the very large ingle-nook fireplace, and Avis was sitting in the right-hand corner of it, watching the television. She was startled by the sudden opening of the door, but because she was expecting Powell she was not immediately frightened. Then she turned and she saw a thickset man whose face was flattened and made monstrous by a nylon mask and she was utterly terrified. Her first reactions were ones over which she had no control. She’d been holding the jade seahorse necklace and as she tried to force herself back into the settee — in the child-like, intuitive belief that if only she could make herself smaller, she’d make herself safer — she jammed her right hand down between the seat cushion and the arm of the settee. She opened her mouth to scream.

  He came forward and held the razor in front of her face. ‘Keep quiet, lady, so as there won’t be no trouble.’

  She slumped, as if every bone in her body had suddenly given way, and moaned.

  ‘There ain’t no one can hear you if you do scream, but I’ve sensitive ears.’

  Her mouth was open as if she had difficulty in breathing and there was a glazed look in her eyes.

  He turned off the television, then whistled twice and there was an answering whistle from the hall to tell him that Anderson was starting a quick search of the house. ‘Where’s your jewellery?’

  She might not have heard.

  ‘Come on, lady, make it easy for both of us. Where is it?’

  She whispered: ‘In … in a case in the cupboard in my bedroom.’

  There was the sound of an approaching vehicle and she looked with desperate hope at the drawn curtains, but it became obvious it was passing on the road.

  Anderson came down the stairs and into the sitting-room. ‘It’s all clear …’ He stopped as he saw Avis for the first time. He had never before seen a woman so sensually beautiful: for him, her terrified defencelessness exaggerated her desirability and he knew sharp, demanding desire.

  Reginald Powell, not astute enough to judge what might be going on in Anderson’s mind, said: ‘Keep her quiet. I’m going upstairs.’

  As the door shut behind him Anderson came forward slowly: he was beginning to sweat and his breath was short, as if he had been running. He was within three feet of her when he stopped. He stared at her.

  Reginald Powell returned to the room, an opened leather jewel case in his hand. ‘Where d’you keep the rest?’ he demanded roughly.

  ‘They’re … they’re all I’ve got,’ she answered.

  The jewel case contained a small rope of pearls, a couple of diamond rings, a ruby eternity ring, a brooch, and a bracelet. ‘See if she’s wearing a necklace.’

  Anderson grabbed the two collars of her blouse and pulled them apart, ripping off one of the buttons. It was obvious that under the silk slip she was not wearing a brassiere.

  ‘Lady,’ said Reginald Powell, ‘you’re going to make life painful for yourself if you don’t tell where the rest of the jewels are.’

  She kept trying to speak, but the words would not form.

  He brought the razor from his pocket with his left hand and flicked it open. ‘Where’s the other stuff?’

  ‘In … in … in the chest-of-drawers … It’s only costume …’

  He put the jewel box down and hurried out of the room.

  Anderson reached out. She tried to break free to her left, across the settee, but he grabbed hold of her. He pulled violently at the right strap of her slip and the blue embroidered nylon fell away to reveal her breast. He cupped the smooth flesh and his sweating fingers plucked at the nipple.

  She screamed.

  He hit her, knocking her sideways to the floor. He followed her down, conscious of nothing beyond the fire in his groin. She screamed again and he put one hand over her mouth and the other on her throat, to quieten her. She gave a convulsive jerk and collapsed.

  Reginald Powell slammed open the door and rushed into the room, razor at the ready. He stared at Avis, sprawled on the floor, and at Anderson, crouched over her, and he cursed wildly.

  Anderson slowly came to his feet.

  She hadn’t moved. Reginald Powell pushed past Anderson, knelt, and began to shake her. Her head rolled from side to side.

  ‘She must’ve fainted,’ muttered Anderson thickly.

  She was dead.

  11

  ‘I was only trying to keep her quiet,’ said Anderson. ‘So what do we do now, Reg?’

  Reginald Powell gripped the handle of the razor so tightly that his knuckles whitened. Having killed her because his concrete-thick brain hadn’t room for more than one idea at a time … They didn’t top people now, but death in furtherance of rape was murder and certain of a life sentence with probably a minimum of twenty years to serve. Ten years inside made a bloke stir-crazy …

  ‘I didn’t know she was weak, did I?’ said Anderson, now sounding aggrieved.

  Reginald Powell relaxed his grip, folded the razor and dropped it into his pocket. A murder hunt would start up the moment her body was discovered … The car had been nicked, so there could be no lead there: no one had seen them arrive, no one would see them leave … Bert would know who’d murdered her, but he couldn’t tell the splits without exposing himself. Or could he? Suppose he were really smart and went to the splits and strung ’em a tale about seeing his brother around the district recently … There wasn’t a split alive who wouldn’t believe a rich man rather than a poor man, especially when the poor man was an ex-con … How to make certain his brother didn’t get a chance to finger them? Suppose nothing was left behind — like that button on the carpet — and then they faked an accident …

  Because he was cunning but not intelligent, he did not try to work out what the consequences of his idea might be.

  *

  They drove from Colderton to Stern Head, using minor roads which Reginald Powell remembered from his youth, in the two cars — the stolen Ford and Avis’s Jaguar.

  A spur of the Downs reached the sea to the west of Leatham, ending in four cliffs, the highest of which was three hundred and thirteen feet. Once isolated, these cliffs had become in the summer a favourite picnic site for trippers. Where once there had been weed grass, gorse, and the occasional tree, there were now painted wooden railings, a car park, litter bins, public lavatories, and concessional stalls. But by the middle of September, the stalls were shut and padlocked and except on a really sunny day not many people went there.

  The Jaguar and the Ford drove into the car park, which was empty. The ground rose to a crown and then descended gently: they parked on the crown and climbed out of the cars. They could just make out the heavy, painted wooden fencing and the jagged cliff edge. Out to sea, green and white side and masthead lights marked ships steaming down Channel, much closer inshore a wreck buoy flashed green.

  There was a strong wind, gusting heavily, and Reginald Powell had almost to shout to make himself heard. ‘Get the jack and spring the driving door.’

  It was difficult to work out how to anchor the base of the jack, but eventually, and after using a shielded light, they solved the problem. They forced the door of the Jaguar until it could no longer be closed.

  Reginald Powell dropped a three parts empty bottle of whisky on to the back seat and Avis’s handbag on to the front passenger seat.

  Anderson climbed in behind the wheel. He switched on, engaged drive, released the handbrake, and accelerated. The Jaguar went down the shallow slope and slammed into the wooden railings to splinter its way through, picking up speed far more quickly than he had reckoned. He pushed open the driving door, finding some difficulty in overcoming the wind resistance, and threw himself out. Momentum rolled him over and forward. Desperately, he dug down with his feet into the soft soil. There was one last roll, which he thought was going to take him over, and then he came to a stop, his right hand dangling in space.

  *

  Dinner at Tregarth House was usually a formal occasion. On the long refectory table were set three-f
orked Georgian candelabra, with candles lit, a heavy silver gilt epergne, queen’s pattern cutlery, Waterford crystal, and damask napery. On the nights when Olive Bins waited at table there was an air of pretentiousness about the scene: when they waited on themselves, a suggestion of farce was added. But it ceased to be ridiculous if one remembered that eight-year-old child who had sworn to himself that one day he would lead the fife of the rich and then had had the courage and the staying power to make it come true.

  This Tuesday they were on their own and Judith had just brought in the cold salmon, mayonnaise, and boiled potatoes, when the phone rang. ‘Answer it, will you, Julian? I’ve still the peas to dish,’ she said, before she realised he was already passing through the doorway.

  He crossed the drawing-room and went into the study, careful to close the door. He had no premonition of disaster, but was on edge because he still couldn’t decide how long to leave it before he rang Avis to apologise for not being able to get along that evening.

  He lifted the receiver. It was not until the question, ‘Are you on your own?’ was repeated that he realised it was his brother’s voice.

  ‘How did it go?’ he demanded.

  ‘It blew up. We’ve made it look like an accident. Keep your mouth tight shut and it’ll stay an accident, open it and you’ll be in more trouble than you’ve ever thought of because I’m not sinking without taking you with me. Got it?’

  ‘What have you made look like an accident?’

  ‘Her being dead, you soft bastard. So just forget everything and keep right away from me. Have you been in the house all evening?’

  ‘Yes,’ he croaked.

  ‘So who’s been there with you?’

  ‘Judith … all the time … and the farm manager was here half an hour ago …’

  ‘Keep on remembering, if the splits get a hand on my collar, I’ll see they get two hands on yours.’ The line went dead.

  He replaced the receiver, shocked and physically weak, and sat on the padded arm of the nearest chair.

  ‘Julian,’ he heard Judith call, ‘Hurry it up, the meal’s all ready.’

  They’d made it look like an accident. If her death had not, in fact, been an accident, had it then been murder?

  Judith came into the library. ‘Didn’t you hear … My God!’ she blurted out as she saw his face. ‘Are you ill?’ She hurried to him and drew his head against her side in an instinctive gesture of protection. ‘Shall I call the doctor?’

  He had to give an explanation that would allay any possible suspicions. ‘It … it was some man telling me that he was going to kill me because I’m a capitalist.’

  Her expression changed as she could not avoid a feeling of critical surprise that he should so allow a crank telephone call to upset him. ‘Ridiculous.’ She tried to speak more sympathetically. ‘Get on to the police and tell them what’s happened.’

  ‘I don’t … I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

  ‘Of course you’ve got to phone them.’ She lifted the receiver.

  ‘They won’t bother about a crank call …’

  She dialled 999. The police asked her to get in touch with the local divisional station and gave her the number. She spoke to the duty sergeant, then passed the phone across. ‘They want a word with you. Would you like a whisky?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Hullo, Mr Powell,’ said the sergeant, ‘I understand you’ve had an unpleasant phone call. Will you tell me exactly what was said?’

  ‘It’s … it’s all a bit jumbled for me now.’

  ‘That’s not at all surprising. When something like this happens, it shocks anyone up. But just do the best you can.’

  ‘He said I was a capitalist so he’s going to kill me.’

  ‘He gave no other explanation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I suppose you didn’t recognise the voice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There was just this one threat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you employ people in your house or your work, have you recently had occasion to sack anyone?’

  ‘I’ve a farm, but everyone who works on it has been with me for years.’

  ‘I see. Now, were there any special characteristics about the call — did it come straight through or were there the pips which show it’s coming from a call-box?’

  ‘There were pips.’

  ‘That’s to be expected since most calls like this come through a call-box … Well, we’ll make a note of what’s happened and report the matter to the telephone people, but frankly at this stage there’s not very much else we can do. But if you should receive another call like this one, will you tell us about it straight away? If someone’s got it in for you and keeps making calls, then between the post office and ourselves we might be able to nab him. Sorry you’ve had the bother, but don’t get concerned about it. It’ll only be some nutter.’ There was a quick chuckle. ‘At least you were spared someone trying out his four letter vocabulary.’

  Judith returned with a drink as he replaced the receiver. ‘Here you are. It’ll make you feel better.’

  A whole bottle couldn’t do that, he thought despairingly.

  12

  After the detective had left Honey Cottage on the Thursday morning, Scott stared through the rain-streaked window of the sitting-room and watched him hurrying through the wet to his car. Fiona was mentally ill, he thought bitterly.

  He walked into the hall and round the foot of the stairs to the corner cupboard on which the phone stood. If Avis were not with Fiona as he’d assumed — and therefore had not been worried by her absence — where was she? Could she have gone to stay with the Ambridges or the Thomases?

  Claire Ambridge was polite enough to hide her astonishment: Mary Thomas was boisterously vulgar and asked him what he hadn’t been doing to Avis to make her run away.

  He returned upstairs and sat at the typewriter, but his mind refused to settle back to work. Fiona must realise that if Avis found something better to do she would never put off the doing of it just because of a prior appointment — and probably Fiona even understood that Avis would let her down for the malicious pleasure of knowing the disappointment this would cause. So something more must have been running through her sick mind. She’d mentioned Jane to the police. Had Avis been voicing her ridiculous suspicions, garnered from God knows where, and had Fiona accepted them seriously, so that she believed he might have cause to murder Avis …?

  *

  Bratby, six years retired, walked his dog every morning and afternoon, rain or shine. Dressed in wellingtons, leggings, oilskins, and a battered sou’wester, he rounded a rock spur and through the sheeting rain he saw something out to sea, about thirty yards from the water’s edge, which was wedged against a single tongue of rock. He squinted slightly as he identified a badly crushed car.

  ‘Come on, Bruce,’ he said to the dog, ‘we’d better go and tell the police.’ He enjoyed anything which broke up the humdrum of retired life.

  *

  At low neap tide the sand stretched for an unbroken two miles and the break-down truck, with a P.C. in the passenger seat, was able to drive round to the point where the shattered car lay, still against the single pinnacle of rock, in less than two feet of water.

  The P.C., who was wearing thigh-length sea-boots, checked the collar of his mackintosh and then stepped out on to the sand. The third law of police investigations, he thought sourly, stated that if rain would make a job more disagreeable, it rained.

  The winch was in neutral. He reached up and took hold of the heavy steel hook and, unwinding the wire, carried it into the sea. The small waves slapped against his legs, sending quick spurts of spray springing upwards. He reached the wrecked car, secured the hook, stepped clear, and waved. There was the tooth-twingeing sound of metal scraping against rock as the car was pulled clear, then amidst a flurry of water, it was winched ashore.

  The P.C. looked inside the shattered car and found, thankfully, that there was no
even more shattered body inside. The driver climbed down from the truck. ‘So where d’you think it came from?’

  ‘Could be Stern Head. There was a report that the rails in the car-park had been smashed.’

  ‘Went over there, eh? So all we’ve got to do now is get it to your place?’ The driver whistled a few bars from one of the latest pop tunes. ‘We’ll have to get one end up on the trolley, then trail it. Bloody awful job.’

  Some blokes could never stop moaning, thought the P.C., as a cold trickle of rain began to slide down his back.

  *

  Ferington central police station, built five years before, was ten storeys high, with its main entrance one storey up and approached by a wide sweeping ramp.

  Kelly’s office was on the third floor. It was a square room with light green walls, white ceiling, and a very large picture window, double glazed, which to his perpetual annoyance couldn’t be opened because the building was fully air-conditioned: there were times, especially when the paperwork became mountainous, when he longed to hurl a chair through the window so that he could breathe fresh air.

  The telephone rang. ‘D.S.’

  ‘Sarge, there’s a report from B div. They’ve hauled a car out of the sea which probably went over the edge at Stern Head. No body inside, but the driving door has sprung. The registration number identifies the owner as Mrs Avis Scott who lives at Honey Cottage, Colderton.’

  ‘I suppose they’re putting the car through Vehicle Testing?’

  ‘I couldn’t answer that one.’

  He replaced the receiver, leaned back in his chair, and thought about Scott. A man who covered up his feelings under an air of detached irony, strongly committed to personal privacy. It seemed obvious that his marriage was not a happy one. People! But for them, the world could have been a happy place. Because his work brought him constantly in contact with crime and misery, he sometimes felt as if the overriding obsession of the human race was to destroy the slightest pleasure in living. Yet he was totally content with life, having a home, a wife, and a family. Perhaps that merely pointed to a lack of ambition: but having so often seen the tragic consequences of ambition, he was quite content to lack it.