Murderer's Fen Page 7

  “No, Mr. Nicholls,” Nield said firmly. “I’m just covering the grounds—that’s all.…”

  He got to his feet. “Well, I think that’s as far as we can go at the moment.… We’ll do our very best to locate your daughter—and of course if we get any news, we’ll let you know at once. If you hear anything, please get in touch with me at Cambridge.” He gave Nicholls his card. “Good-bye, Mrs. Nicholls. Good-bye, sir.…”

  Dyson slipped the car into gear. Nield said, “Let’s go and have a word with Sally Thomas while we’re here.”

  They found her at the “returned books” desk of the library—a thin, very plain girl, with glasses. Just the sort of friend, Nield couldn’t help thinking, that Gwenda’s parents would have approved of. No risk of her leading anyone into mischief.… He introduced himself, and took her aside. The interview was brief, and the result a total blank … No, Sally said, she hadn’t seen Gwenda since the previous Thursday, when she’d been told about the St. Neots job. No, Gwenda hadn’t said anything to her about going to see a man on the way. No, she hadn’t ever mentioned meeting a man on holiday.… What had happened, Sally asked anxiously. She looked very distressed when Nield told her that Gwenda hadn’t gone to St. Neots after all, and that he wasn’t quite sure where she was at the moment. “No doubt she’ll turn up,” he said, with a forced smile. He was hating his job to-day. But what could he do.…?

  He re-joined Dyson, and briefly reported. “Right, Sergeant—we’ll get a bite to eat now.… Then back to see Hunt.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Dyson said.

  Chapter Three

  That second visit of the police to Ocken began inauspiciously for Hunt.

  As Dyson drove slowly into the village, a cream sports car flashed across the bows of a lorry at the T-junction, swerved and braked in a skilful avoiding action, and shot away into the Cosy Caravan site.

  “I believe that was our man,” Nield said.

  Dyson’s eyes narrowed. “They drive as they live.” His tone was bitter.

  The inspector gave a non-committal grunt.

  Hunt was just getting out of his car as the policemen drove up to the office. “Hallo, Inspector,” he called. “Just a second.…” He walked to the front of the car and glanced nonchalantly at a tyre. Then he strolled over and joined them. “Two visits in one day, eh? You’ll be getting me a bad name.”

  “We’ve just come from Peterborough,” Nield said.

  “Ah, yes.… Has the erring daughter made her peace with Mum and Dad?”

  Nield shook his head. “She’s not there, Mr. Hunt.… She didn’t go home on Saturday.”

  “Didn’t go home.… !” Hunt stared at him. “But that’s not possible.… Why, I practically saw her to the door.”

  “But not quite?”

  “Well, no.…”

  “A pity,” Nield said. “Was there any particular reason why you didn’t?”

  “Only that she was giving the directions—and she asked me to stop before we got there. She said, ‘This’ll do—our house is just round the corner,’ or words to that effect—so I pulled up. I thought she probably didn’t want to be seen getting out of a jazzy sports car.”

  “So what happened?”

  “She thanked me for bringing her, and I wished her luck, and she went off round the corner.”

  “I see.… Well, she definitely didn’t go home.”

  “Extraordinary!” Hunt said. He stood frowning. “And you’ve no idea where she did go?”

  “No”

  “Well, I’m damned … ! And I thought I’d done such a good job on her.… I suppose she must have got cold feet at the last moment and gone off—the way she’d talked of doing. It looks as though I wasted my day.”

  “Did she show any signs of having second thoughts while she was in the car?”

  “She didn’t say anything.… But she did seem to be getting more and more gloomy the farther we went. I thought it was just because the moment of confession was getting near. Now I can see—she must have been changing her mind.”

  “H’m.… Well, your explanation may be the right one.”

  “Could there be any other, Inspector?”

  “There could be,” Nield said. He looked hard at Hunt. “It could be that Gwenda Nicholls has been murdered.”

  He watched tensely for any change of expression that might be interpreted as a sign of guilt. All he saw was consternation.

  “Murdered.… ! Good God, what makes you say that?”

  “We received an anonymous letter this morning, Mr. Hunt.… I’ve no idea who wrote it or how far it can be relied on. Usually I don’t pay too much attention to unsigned letters—but this is one I can’t ignore.… It concerns you—you’d better read it.”

  Hunt took the letter card and read it through. A look of incredulity spread slowly across his face.

  “Are you suggesting, Inspector, that the girl mentioned here was Gwenda Nicholls.…? And that I killed her?”

  “No,” Nield said. “I’m simply looking into the possibility.… With that letter before me, and knowing that a girl who was with you here on Saturday has disappeared, I’ve no alternative.”

  “But it’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard in my life … This fellow’s completely up the pole—I never went near the fen on Saturday … And by eight-thirty I was nearly at Peterborough—and Gwenda Nicholls was with me. I told you.”

  “I know you did, sir.… But can you prove it?”

  “Prove it …?” Hunt looked uncertainly at Nield. “That’s asking something, Inspector … How can I?”

  “Did you buy any petrol on the way? Did you stop anywhere? Did you talk to anyone?”

  “No—I drove straight there.”

  “Well, you’d better tell me all you can about the journey.… I think you said you left here about half past seven?”

  “About that—I didn’t notice the exact time … It was just after Gwenda had rung up the Bakers.”

  “I see … And which way did you go?”

  “Through Stretham, St. Ives and Huntingdon—and straight up the Great North Road.”

  Nield nodded. “That was the route we used … How far was it, Sergeant?”

  “Forty miles,” Dyson said.

  “About an hour’s run, eh, Mr. Hunt?”

  “At his speed,” Dyson said.

  “That’s right,” Hunt agreed. “We got there a little after half past eight.”

  “And you dropped the girl and came straight back?”

  “Well, no—I dropped the girl and sat in the car for a few minutes.”

  “Oh! Why did you do that?”

  “I was tired—I’d had a pretty strenuous afternoon … I sat and smoked a cigarette before I left.”

  “That was at a point just short of Everton Road, was it?”

  “It was, if Gwenda was telling the truth.… I couldn’t swear to it myself—I might have been anywhere … You’ve seen the place—it’s one of those suburbs where the roads all look alike. And of course it was dark.”

  “You had to find your way out of the suburb. Didn’t you notice any of the street names then?”

  “No—I simply reversed the car and came out the way I went in.”

  “H’m … And what time did you get back here?”

  “Some time before ten—I don’t know exactly.… Anyway, Inspector, this is all quite fantastic.… Why on earth should I have wanted to kill Gwenda Nicholls? I hardly knew her.”

  “That’s what you tell me, Mr. Hunt—but again I’ve only your word for it.… I don’t say your story about someone else giving your name and address isn’t credible—but in view of what’s happened since, a doubt does creep in … Maybe Gwenda Nicholls did find the right man?”

  Hunt shook his head. “She didn’t, you know.”

  “If she had, of course, you’d have had a motive.”

  “For killing her? Just because she was pregnant?”

  “It’s happened,” Nield said. “Often”

 
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t have been a motive for me—what a ghastly thought! Anyhow, I can assure you I wasn’t the man. It was some fellow who arrived shortly before I left.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, we worked it out … I knew when I left, and Gwenda knew when he got there.… Not that I’ve any recollection of him myself—chaps were pouring in and out by every launch.…”

  “Did she describe him to you?”

  “She said he was good-looking and attractive—though she practically had to say that, since she’d let him seduce her. She didn’t go into any details, and I didn’t press her.… At that point I guess she just didn’t want to talk about him.”

  “Wasn’t she going to make any effort to trace him …? Through the hotel, for instance?”

  “No—once she knew how he’d cheated her over the address, she didn’t want anything more to do with him.”

  “Did she tell you what happened? How the seduction came about?”

  “She told me a little.… Apparently she’d been having a last dance with this chap, and her parents had gone up to bed, and she was on the point of going, too, and then he persuaded her to have a drink in the bar. She wasn’t used to drinking and she got a bit squiffy. Afterwards he went upstairs with her, and chatted her into letting him go into her room for a moment, and produced a bottle—and the rest followed. She said it would never have happened if she hadn’t been fed up with her parents for keeping her on a leash. She could hardly believe it next day.”

  “I can imagine … And you were already on your way home when this took place?”

  “I was already back in England.… Honestly, Inspector, you’re quite wrong if you think I was the man. As I told you, I didn’t know her. Apart from a couple of dances, I hardly spoke to her.”

  “H’m.… Were you accompanied on this holiday, Mr. Hunt?”

  “No—I was alone.”

  “You were alone.… And yet you hardly spoke to an exceptionally lovely girl—I’ve seen her photograph, you know—an attractive, unattached girl, whom you’d danced with? You made no attempt to follow up the acquaintance.…? That sounds singularly unenterprising.”

  “An affair was the last thing I was looking for,” Hunt said. “I happened to be engaged to be married.”

  “Ah … That could make a difference, I agree. Faithful to the girl you’d left behind, eh …?” Nield looked thoughtful. “Of course, it could also have given you a stronger motive. If you had seduced Gwenda Nicholls, and she’d arrived here pregnant, and had threatened to tell your fiancée, you’d have had a classic reason for wanting to get rid of her.”

  “You mix with bad types, Inspector.… As far as I’m concerned, that’s pure nonsense.”

  “Who is your fiancée, Mr. Hunt?”

  “Her name’s Susan Ainger—she lives near Newmarket. She’s a hotel receptionist at the Crown there.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “About six months.”

  “How long have you been engaged to her?”

  “Since July.”

  “And when do you plan to get married?”

  “In December.”

  “M’m.… You hav’n’t exactly let the grass grow under your feet, have you …? How did you come to meet her?”

  “Well,” Hunt said, “it was just one of those chances … She advertised her sports car in one of the motoring journals, and it was a model I was interested in. I was working in Norwich at the time, but I managed to get down here and she took me for a trial run.… That’s the car—I bought it from her.… Anyway, we got on very well together—and I went on seeing her.”

  “From Norwich?”

  “No—I changed my job soon afterwards.”

  “Where were you before?”

  “With Central Motors.”

  “Why did you change?”

  “I wanted to be near Susan.”

  “I see … I was wondering what had brought you to a quiet spot like this.”

  “Well, that’s the answer … I’d fallen for her, and it seemed the only way to get to know her.”

  “Is she attractive?”

  “I think she is, naturally.… She’s not what you’d call pretty, but she’s very lively and gay. And we’ve got a lot of interests in common.”

  “I shall look forward to meeting her,” Nield said.

  Hunt stared at him. “Do you have to?”

  “I think I may.”

  “You don’t mean you’re going to tell her about your crazy suspicions?” Hunt’s air of slightly amused detachment had suddenly changed to alarm.

  “I shan’t tell her,” Nield said. “But she’ll almost certainly hear about everything from other sources … There’s bound to be a lot of publicity from now on.”

  “Publicity.…”

  “I’m afraid so. A girl’s missing, Mr. Hunt If she doesn’t show up in the next day or two, I shall have to circulate her description and give her last known whereabouts. This caravan site.… I shall need to enlist the help of the newspapers. They’ll no doubt send reporters to interview you—and they’ll want to know everything. …”

  “But—good heavens!—this could just about finish me.”

  “Not if you’ve told the truth, sir—and if we find Gwenda Nicholls.”

  “That’s all very well—but suppose you don’t …? If she’s changed her name, and deliberately hidden herself away, you may never find her. Then I’ll go on being under suspicion.… It’s pretty damned unfair, Inspector—just because I did what I could for the girl.…”

  “Not just because of that, Mr. Hunt. There’s the letter—remember …?”

  “The letter’s a load of rubbish,” Hunt said angrily. “I don’t know what the fellow saw, or thinks he saw, but he certainly didn’t see me.”

  “What’s your explanation of the incident?”

  “A couple of locals having a frolic and going home separately, I’d guess.”

  “What do you suppose made the writer think of you?”

  “How would I know …? Seeing the chap walk off in this direction, maybe. If he looked anything at all like me, that could have been enough to account for the mistake, in a bad light.… Anyway, it was a mistake. Damn it, the writer himself admits he isn’t sure.… How vague can you get?”

  Nield grunted. “Well, we’ll leave that for the moment, Mr. Hunt.… Now, if you’ve no objection, I’d like to take a look round.”

  “I object to your whole attitude, Inspector. I’ve got caught up in something I know nothing about and I bloody well resent it.… But go ahead—I can’t stop you. There are forty-five caravans, eighteen boats and ten acres of site.… I wish you joy.”

  “I don’t plan a search,” Nield said, “just a quick once-over … And I’d be glad if you’d come along with us.”

  Hunt gave an angry shrug. “You might as well arrest me and be done with it.”

  “Don’t push your luck,” Dyson said.

  Chapter Four

  Both policemen knew roughly what they were looking for. This was routine.… First, any signs of violence around the site. According to the letter, if a murder had taken place it had occurred in the fen—but traces were often carried back by a killer.… Second, any indication that Hunt had recently been out on a digging operation.… Third, anything that might have been useful to him in the transport line—since he’d have had to do a good deal of fetching and carrying before the job was over.… Finally, anything unusual or out of place—anything that couldn’t be adequately explained. …

  They stopped first at the shed. It was a spacious building, with racks and shelves piled with neatly arranged stores in great variety. Most of the stuff was gear and supplies for the boats and their owners—bottled gas and paraffin, cookers and sleeping bags, rope, oars, clothing, fishing tackle, odds and ends.… One shelf was stacked with mattresses and cushions brought in for the winter. Near the door there were some used tools—two shovels, a pick and a spade. They’d been roughly cleaned bef
ore they’d been put away, but a little earth still clung to them. Dyson tried to dislodge a piece with his finger nail. It was rock hard. No one had dug with these tools for days.

  “Have you got any more spades around?” he asked.

  Hunt shook his head. “This isn’t a cemetery.” he said.

  Nield’s glance fell on a well-worn suit of overalls hanging from a hook. “Are these yours, Mr. Hunt?”

  “They are.”

  Dyson said, “What do you wear them for? Your dirty work?”

  “That’s right, Sergeant.” Hunt ignored the crack.

  Nield took the overalls down and examined them. They had several patches of damp mud on them, and a lot of oil marks.

  “No bloodstains?” Hunt said.

  “None that leap to the eye, Mr. Hunt.… What do you do about footwear?”

  “I use gumboots,” Hunt said, pointing to a pair in the corner. Nield picked them up. Damp black mud clogged the soles, and wet patches showed on the sides.

  “When did you last wear this outfit?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I’m clearing out a boat that’s just come in—laying it up for the winter.… The bank’s always muddy at this time of year. In fact, the whole place is muddy.”

  “So I see,” Nield said, moving on.

  They stopped next by Hunt’s mahogany dinghy. It was tied up to a tree, with the oars across the thwarts.

  “Is this your boat?” Nield asked.

  “It belongs to the firm.… I use it.”

  “What for, exactly?”

  “To take heavy supplies to the cruisers—bottled gas, that sort of thing. And to cross to the other side.”

  Nield gazed at the unbridged lode. “Do you cross often?”

  “Only when I feel like a walk,” Hunt said.

  “How do most people enter the fen?”

  “They’re supposed to go through the main entrance and sign a book—but the locals often don’t bother, they go in any way they can.… I’ve permission to cross here.”

  Dyson said, “If a man was seen walking back from the fen in this direction, could he be going anywhere except to the site?”

  Hunt gave him a nasty look. “Yes, he could, Sergeant. He could be intending to take the path to the entrance that runs along the other side of the lode. Or he could be going to get into a boat that he’d left tied up to the bank, and row away.… Any more bright ideas?”