Still Friday
A message from Nigel was waiting for Gary when they reached
the cottage, telling him that the Fargos had turned up at the villa.
“So they are back. They probably think there’s no danger
now,” said Gary.
“How did Nigel find out?” said Cleo.
“I didn’t know about him.”
“Did you want to observe the villa, Cleo, or send Dorothy?”
“Of course not, but you never mentioned the guy.”
“It’s a guy called Stan Butterworth. He’s staying with a
relation after running away from his marriage. He phoned to ask if we knew of
anyone needing a private eye or a security guard. Nigel talked to, thought he
was bona fide and told him we’d call on him if the need arose. Nigel organized
the observation when he realized that Butterworth’s relations live almost
opposite.”
“It sure is a stroke of luck. So he’s been watching out for
those relatives of the old doctor. Awesome!”
“And now he’s keeping an eye on them. If they go away he’ll
follow them, but it won’t come to that. Nigel will have gone to Greg for advice
by now. I’ll just phone and make sure.”
“I’m surprised they did not call you out at HQ. You’ve just
been there.”
“Nigel may not have told them where I was going at the
information desk and I did not go to the office as I did not want to keep you
waiting any longer than necessary.”
“So it’s my fault that you didn’t find out earlier, is it?”
“Don’t be daft, Cleo. I’m not the only one at HQ. It’s time
someone else did something.”
“That’s not fair, Gary. I expect all your colleagues were
busy.”
“All’s fair in war and love. I’ll phone Nigel back to see
what he’s done. We’ll see to all the kids and have an early night, OK?”
“Stan Butterworth could join my agency, couldn’t he?”
“I was hoping you’d say that. Nigel even suggested it.”
“But you didn’t tell me, Gary.”
“You were on the point of giving up the agency, Cleo.”
“Yes. But I can’t now, can I?”
I was hoping you’d say that, my love. Where ARE all the
kids?”
“At you mother’s. She has to be at home now and again and
they like being there.”
“Shall we go and collect them?
“Maybe you should first see to the Fargos, Gary. I’ll take
care of the family and you really need to get some crimes solved.”
“Bang goes the family evening,” said Gary.
***
Nigel had written a text to say that Greg had brought the
Fargos in for questioning. Gary left at
high speed in the red car, negotiating the end- of-rush-hour traffic with more
aplomb than caution and with his portable Martin’s horn blaring as he prepared
himself mentally for a nasty few minutes ascertaining if, why and how Dr Fargo
had met his death. The big question was that if they were innocent, why had
traces of the doctor’s clothing been found in the cellar freezer?
***
Cleo took a moment to think about the afternoon’s scene at
the old nurse’s house. There was something wrong with it all. Talking to
Dorothy would help solve the puzzle. Dorothy was into straight talking and
usually spotted any contradictions. But Dorothy was not at home. Her detecting
had taken her to the Crightons.
***
Mr Crighton greeted Dorothy like a long lost relative when
he met her at Oxford main station.
“Nice of you to come, Miss Price,” he said. “I’m quite glad
we don’t live in the city centre, although it’s quite a long drive to our
house.”
An hour of horrendous rush-hour traffic later, Mr Crighton
parked in the driveway of the little house he now occupied with his wife and
led the way to the front door, where he rang the doorbell. Dorothy wondered why
he had not used a key, but he explained that Muriel liked to open the door so
that she could stay in control.
Dorothy pondered on the ludicrous explanation. Mrs Crighton
put it succinctly when she explained that Paul Crighton had lost his door key
once too often. Dorothy felt bound to suggest that he put the next one on the
same ring as his car key.
“I never thought of that,” he said.
“He doesn’t do much thinking,” commented Mrs Crighton.
“Don’t say things like that, Muriel,” Paul Crighton replied.
***
Dorothy reflected that things were not going too well in the
Crighton household and decided that she would prefer to be somewhere else.
Muriel Crighton was a sour-puss, usually in a crotchety mood
with a sharp tongue and a deep-seated grudge against humanity, which included
her husband, but not their son or adopted son depending on which story they
were telling. The moment Betjeman Crighton had confessed to murder, Mrs
Crighton had declared that the boy was adopted and they did not know he had
such evil roots. Muriel forced Paul to tell this version of their son’s
genesis.
Notwithstanding the devastating disownership of the boy, the
Crightons had moved at Muriel’s bidding to be near him. Dorothy had no idea whether
the Crightons actually believed in their son’s innocence. It didn’t really matter,
Dorothy decided. This married couple would continue their cat and dog existence
until one of them bit the dust leaving the other to enjoy life again, wherever
Betjeman ended up.
Muriel Crighton led Dorothy into the dining-room. The table
was arrayed with the best china and some very tempting looking fairy cakes. The
room was tidy but lacked any feeling of homeliness.
“We like it here,” said Mrs Crighton with heavy emphasis.
“Yes, we do,” said Mr Crighton, who would not have dared to
contradict this battle-axe of a woman. “I like the garden and spend hours
there.”
Escaping from Muriel, no doubt, thought Dorothy, but did not
comment.
“I’ll show you the house while the kettle is boiling,” Muriel
said, leading Dorothy out of the dining room to show her the lounge (as she
called it) and the ‘restroom’, which was a tiny loo squashed been the inside
and outside front doors. Then she went ahead up the stairs saying that she
would now show Dorothy Betjeman’s room.
Dorothy thought was that strange since they should have been
under the impression that Betjeman had been sent down for life.
“He always has his own room, you see,” said Muriel Crighton,
stroking the counterpane on Betjeman’s single bed.
“Does Betjeman visit you?” Dorothy asked.
“Not yet, but he will soon,” said Mrs Crighton.
Mr Crighton had followed them up the stairs and was now
heard to declare that Muriel should not tell stories as you never knew where
they might land you. If Betjeman escaped, they would be under suspicion.
“He will come, Miss Price. He’s innocent,” said Muriel.
“But until they find out, he has to stay where he is,” announced
Paul Crighton who had been indoctrinated by Muriel.
Dorothy did not know what to say. Betjeman was a psychopath
– or at least that’s what the medical report said, and that did not depend on
him having committed murder. He was mentally deranged. Thanks to Gary, she and
Cleo had been able to read the psychiatrist’s damning comments, but if she were
going to get anywhere with her mission, she would have to keep that knowledge
to herself. After all, she herself did not think that Betjeman had killed
Laura, though she reserved judgement on the murder of Laura’s son Jason. But
Betjeman was insane, whatever he had done or not done.
The Crightons were plainly in denial.
“Can you visit your son?” Dorothy asked as she sat on her
designated chair and eyed the table. She was relieved that the tea, brewed on
command by Paul Crighton, was not perfumed with bergamotte and the milk was fresh.
The cream cakes were bought but very nice.
The whole scene was surreal. The empty chair that Betjeman
would have occupied had he been there was apparently always there waiting for
him together with his cup, saucer, plate and cutlery. The sweetness and light
of this afternoon tea arrangement and sudden politeness of Mrs Crighton when
she poured the tea were bizarre.
“Yes,” said Mrs Crighton. “But he’s adopted, you know. My
husband couldn’t …well you know …”
“Don’t listen to her, Miss Price,” said Mr Crighton.
Presumably strengthened by Dorothy’s presence, he bawled “I’m sick of that lie,
Muriel.”
“And I’m sick of you denying it, Paul,” said Muriel, quickly
reverting to her normal tone of voice.
“Don’t worry,” said Dorothy. “Everyone has wicked ancestors,
so a few wicked genes might have come down your line somewhere.”
“That’s what I say,” said Mr Crighton.
“Then they were all on your side,” said Mrs Crighton.
Considering that Muriel Crighton had just declared that poor
Paul was not capable of fathering a child, she was merely adding insult to
injury.
“Don’t talk like that, Muriel. Miss Price will think we are
depraved.”
Dorothy felt the urgent need to change the subject.
“Do you think I could have another of these lovely little
cakes?” she said. “Did you make them, Mrs Crighton?”
“Yes,” said Mrs Crighton.
“No you didn’t,” said Mr Crighton. “I got them from the
little baker’s down the road before I left for the station. They cost a pound
each, but they are worth every penny to see you again, Miss Price.”
“But it was your idea,” said Mrs Crighton. “You are not
taking any more of my household money for frivolities,”
“Don’t listen to her,” said Mr Crighton. “ They’re out of my
pocket money and she’ll eat any we leave over, so tuck in.”
Changing the subject had been a stroke of genius, Dorothy
decided. Mrs Crighton had dropped the subject of Betjeman’s origins in favour
of lying about the cakes, though Mr Crighton was not going to let her off that
lightly.
“You were jumping into bed with that postman at the time,
weren’t you, Muriel? Or was it the milkman?”
Mrs Crighton scowled.
“Thought I didn’t notice, did you? Well, I did.”
***
Dorothy wondered if there was any point in continuing with
her visit. These people were at each other’s throats. She could imagine that
Betjeman’s upbringing had been fraught with emotional conflicts he could do
nothing about. A sensitive little boy, he had probably become the loopy guy he
was through emotional neglect. For Dorothy, the only way forward was to get
back to where she wanted to be with her investigation and then make a dignified
exit.
***
“All that is no concern of mine,” Dorothy said, “but you
really should try to get on a bit better. I have some news for you and I can’t
tell it if you go on being nasty to one another.”
“It’s the stress, Miss Price. I’m sorry,” said Mr Crighton.
“Paul is sorry, but I’m not, Miss Price. Get to the point,
please.”
“Shut up, Muriel,” said Mr Crighton in a continuation of his
new braveness.
“Thank you,” said Dorothy. “I’ve always thought that
Betjeman was on some sort of high when he confessed to murdering Laura Finch.”
“My son never took drugs, Miss Price,” said Mrs Crighton.
“Not from drugs, but possibly from films he had watched or
comics he had read.”
“He never read anything. He was not quite literate enough,”
said Mrs Crighton.
“He wasn’t literate at all. I would say he was illiterate,”
said Mr Crighton. “He might have looked at rude pictures.”
“Don’t start that again,” shouted Mrs Crighton.
“I know what your husband means,” said Dorothy. “Anyway, I
always had my doubts and now someone has turned up who might be the killer. She
had a motive. Betjeman didn’t.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Mr Crighton. “The boy was
infatuated with Laura Finch. She’d been a prostitute and he fancied her. Then
she asked him to do up her garden. Dealing with the garden beds rather than
hopping into hers was not what he had in mind. He was insulted. Iat upset him.”
“I didn’t know that about that Finch woman,” said Mrs
Crighton.
“You don’t know everything, Muriel.”
“That is not a very strong motive,” said Dorothy. “He might
have been working on changing her mind. She was no good to him dead. I have a
stronger suspect.”
“Who?” the Crightons said together, harmony retrieved for a moment.
“Someone from Mrs Finch’s chorus,” said Dorothy.
“Funny you should say that,” said Mrs Crighton. “We’ve had
one of those women here a few times. She wanted to see Betjeman, but he can’t
have visitors except us.”
“When was she here last?”
“Not long ago.”
“I had the feeling she was checking up,” said Mr Crighton.
“She always seemed relieved when I told her that Betjeman had no chance of
release.”
“Even though it was lie,” said Mrs Crighton.
“That’s very interesting. Can I show you some photos?”
Dorothy produced photos of the two dead women that she had
received on her mobile when she was in the train to Oxford. ‘Just in case’,
Cleo had written.
“Was it one of these two women?” Dorothy asked.
“No. Definitely not. I don’t know who those women are,” said
Mrs Crighton, “and they look dead.”
“So would you come to an identity parade and picked out the
one who did come here?” Dorothy asked.
“The penny’s dropped, Miss Price,” said Mrs Crighton.
“You’re from that black woman’s agency, aren’t you?”
“Cleo Hartley is coloured, but she has great wisdom and
integrity, Mrs Crighton. If you want us to prove your son’s innocence, you’ll
have to stop talking like that.”
“She will,” said Mr Crighton, for once seeming to be
stronger-willed than his spouse, “and we will attend any meeting you want us
to. I want to see my son outside those prison walls and in his nice bedroom
upstairs even if he is too mentally challenged to live with us all the time.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Dorothy. “I don’t think I need to
say any more.”
Mrs Crighton seemed pacified, so much so that she offered
Dorothy the rest of the fairy cakes.
“You can share them with Miss Hartley,” she said. “No hard
feelings and thank you for coming. “I’ll get a box for them.”
Mr Crighton looked flabbergasted. What had come over Muriel?
Had she come to her senses at last? Or was it more likely that the promise of
freedom for her son had gone to her head.
***
By the time Dorothy got home it was too late to phone the
Hurley cottage, so she sent Cleo a text message and was in return invited to
breakfast. Gary would want hear about her mission.
***
It should be mentioned that although getting everyone
organized and fed had been left to Cleo all day Friday except for the excursion
to see Mrs Crown,, Gary had been an active agent in getting all the kids to bed
that evening and was currently having second thoughts about actually becoming a
domestic animal with home-keeping a priority.
Thankful that he had more than enough to do at HQ now he was
also obliged to head investigations the drugs squad used to cope with, he had
to admit to himself that although he wanted to tell Cleo about the impending
Fargo questioning and hear her comments on it, he was not sorry the questioning was not going to happen until
next morning.
“Too tired?” said Cleo as she
served their nightcap of milk coffee.
“That depends on
something making me tired,” said Gary, swinging himself up from a horizontal
position on the sofa. “How about you?”
“Try me!”
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