Murder in Langley Woods Page 7

  ‘As you’ve bought some of my wares, I’ll read your palm for nothing,’ she said.

  Melissa had little faith in palmistry, but she was too taken aback to refuse. In any case, she told herself while the gipsy scrutinised the lines on her hand, frowning in concentration, it would do no harm and it would be something to tell Iris later on. She recalled how Rachel had claimed to read in her face that she was ‘a story-teller’ and gone on to say, ‘cleave to the one who truly loves you’. The memory gave her a mild frisson and a tingling sensation in her fingers, as if an electric current was passing from the other woman’s hand to her own.

  ‘You have known sorrow,’ said Rachel abruptly, looking searchingly into Melissa’s eyes. ‘Loss of a loved one. Rejection by those who loved you.’

  Melissa felt her pulse give an unexpected blip, but although the assertion was uncannily accurate she said nothing in reply except, ‘Go on.’

  ‘You have a child,’ Rachel continued. ‘Living, but far away now.’ She spoke with calm authority and without appearing to want confirmation, although the dark eyes sought Melissa’s after every statement. ‘The future is bright, but the past will one day seek you out. After that there will be peace.’ Abruptly, she released the hand she had been holding in a firm but gentle grip and began to drink her tea.

  Impulsively, Melissa said, ‘I believe that you too have known sorrow.’

  The huge brown eyes filmed over. Rachel’s voice was unsteady as she replied, ‘You have heard about Hannah? From the newspapers, I suppose?’

  Melissa nodded. It would, she knew, be unwise to reveal her other sources. ‘You said something about a gadgy who enticed Hannah away. Do you think this man killed her?’

  ‘Even if he did not, the blame for her death lies at his door. If she had stayed with her own people, she would still be alive. He bewitched her with his tales.’ There was a bitter, angry rasp in the gipsy woman’s voice and a fierce glitter in her eyes as she spoke.

  Melissa experienced a sharp stab of apprehension, but she tried to keep her tone casual as she asked, ‘What sort of tales?’

  ‘Of the faraway lands he used to visit. Lands where our forefathers came from, many centuries ago. When Hannah was a child her grandmother used to tell her how they came from the East and wandered the earth, driven from place to place by those who did not understand their way of life. She made her grandmother repeat the tales over and over again, always saying that one day she would visit those lands for herself.’

  Rachel put a hand over her eyes, momentarily overcome by grief. When she was calm again, Melissa said, ‘I have read about your people. The book said there were some lands – Hungary, for example – where the rulers were less harsh and showed them some compassion.’

  ‘You are right. That is the place above all others that Hannah wanted to see.’

  ‘Do you think that is where she went with the gadgy? Do you know who he is … does his job take him there?’

  It was one question too many. Rachel’s features seemed to turn abruptly to stone and without replying she stood up and went to the door. ‘It is time for me to leave,’ she said.

  Recognising that she would reveal nothing further, Melissa politely escorted her to the gate. ‘There’s no bus into Gloucester this afternoon,’ she said. ‘How will you get back to your camp?’

  ‘On foot, the way I came. It is not far.’

  ‘It’s over five miles,’ Melissa pointed out, ‘and it may rain. I’ll give you a lift if you like. Are you sure?’ she went on as Rachel determinedly shook her head.

  ‘Five miles is nothing to a Romany gipsy and we pay little heed to the weather. Farewell, and thank you.’ She took a couple of paces, then turned back and said, ‘Remember my earlier words. Cleave to the one who truly loves you. And I wish your friend a long and happy marriage.’ She strode away, her earrings glinting in the sun and her shawl making a splash of brilliant scarlet against the stone wall that separated the track from the sloping pasture beyond.

  Melissa watched until she vanished round a bend, then slowly returned to finish putting away her onions before going back indoors. Her thoughts were racing and she was relieved when four o’clock came and it was time to go next door for the promised ‘cuppa’. It would be good to talk things over with Iris before deciding what to do about the new information that Rachel had revealed.

  Iris, naturally, was anxious to know exactly what was going on, and between sips of herbal tea and bites from home-made nut cookies, Melissa related the entire story so far, including her show-down with Ken Harris and her latest meeting with Bruce. At the mention of the reporter’s name, Iris pulled a face.

  ‘Watch it!’ she advised. ‘He’ll lead you into a scrape if you aren’t careful.’

  ‘No he won’t. I’ve already told him I don’t want to get involved any further. Just the same,’ Melissa went on, ‘I think I’ll put him in the picture about Hannah wanting to go to Hungary. It might narrow his search for the chap she went off with … the way Rachel reacted when I asked about his job makes me think he might be a long-haul truck driver who does runs to Eastern Europe.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell the police?’ demanded Iris as Melissa broke off to take a bite of her cookie.

  ‘Of course,’ Melissa said with a sigh.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘If Matt Waters hears about it, he’s sure to tell Ken that the information came through me. And Mister Bossyboots will demand to know how I came by it, and …’

  ‘… and then he’ll know your gipsy lady has been here,’ Iris finished. She gave one of her witch-like cackles, her grey eyes sparkling with impish glee.

  ‘Don’t laugh, it isn’t funny,’ Melissa scolded. ‘After the bust-up about my going to the Romany camp, he’ll go ape…’

  Iris grew serious again. ‘Let him,’ she advised. ‘Can’t let these chaps boss us around all the time. Jack would like to vet my clients. Gets worried in case one of ’em tries it on.’ Some of Iris’s most lucrative commissions were for paintings of the houses of wealthy property-owners. ‘He’d like me to work from photos,’ she added scornfully. ‘Such rot … can’t get the feel of a place from a photo.’

  ‘That’s not quite the same thing. Still, there’s no way round it. If I don’t tell the police, and the gipsies find that truckie first and beat him up – or worse – I’ll feel responsible. I’ll just have to risk Ken’s wrath.’

  ‘How about calling Crimestoppers? No need to give your name then.’ The grey eyes were mischievous again.

  Melissa laughed and shook her head. ‘It’s tempting, but I think on balance I’d better do things properly. If I could get a word with DCI Holloway himself, Ken might never find out.’

  ‘So what if he does? You scared of him or something?’ Iris taunted.

  ‘Certainly not!’ said Melissa indignantly. ‘Just the same, I’d rather not have another fight with him just yet.’ She pushed aside her empty plate, finished her tea and stood up. ‘I’ll go home and call the incident-room right away. Oh, by the way,’ she added as she reached the door. ‘I met Gloria just now and she said something about her Stanley having seen something or someone to do with the case.’

  ‘That’s right – forgot to mention it. Says he saw a gipsy in a pub in Gloucester trying to sell stuff to the customers.’

  ‘Was it lace?’

  ‘Gloria didn’t say. The landlord threw her out … got a right mouthful in return by all accounts.’

  ‘I wonder if anyone’s told the police about that?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘It might have been Hannah. Oh well, I’m sure to hear all about it from Gloria tomorrow. I’ll let you know if I hear anything new.’

  As it happened, neither DCI Holloway nor Matt Waters was available when Melissa made her call to the police. A woman officer noted the information, took her name, thanked her and said one of the detectives on the case would be in touch.

  Next, she called Bruce Ingram. He was out of the o
ffice, but she managed to reach him on his mobile phone at a pub not far from the Crossed Keys. He received the news of Hannah Rose’s desire to visit Eastern Europe with evident excitement.

  ‘Thanks, Mel, that could be a really useful lead,’ he said. ‘Have you told anyone else?’

  ‘The police, naturally.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose you had to.’

  ‘Have you picked anything up yet?’

  ‘Not so far. I’ve tried a couple of pubs near the hotel, but no one I’ve spoken to remembers anything about a bloke with a gipsy girl, or even a gipsy on her own selling lace. The police have already been here anyway, asking the same questions. I have to leave it for the time being, I’ve been assigned to another story.’

  ‘Maybe the E-FIT and the picture of the lace will jog a few memories. Why don’t you leave it to the police from now on?’

  ‘No chance. Think what a story I’d have if I found that truck driver. “My Life on the Road with a Doomed Romany” – how’s that for a headline?’

  ‘Very Gothic,’ Melissa said drily. ‘Well, it’s up to you. Best of luck.’

  ‘Cheers!’

  Finally, she called Harris Investigations and learned from Ken’s assistant, Tricia Jessop, that he had been called away on a case and had left a message that he would be out of town for a couple of days. ‘I tried to call you just now, but your line was engaged,’ Tricia explained.

  ‘Fine, no problem,’ said Melissa. She put down the phone with a feeling of relief. With any luck, the news of Rachel’s visit might never get back to him. Then she mentally scolded herself for being a coward. ‘What’s it got to do with him anyway?’ she said to herself.

  The answer, although she did not know it at the time, was, ‘Quite a lot.’

  Eight

  Soon after five o’clock, the bank of cloud that had been slowly spreading from the west slid quietly across the sun. The temperature sank, the golden autumn light faded to sombre grey and within a short time a steady, soaking rain was falling on the thirsty earth. Melissa’s relief at seeing the drought broken at last was tempered with concern for Rachel. Picturing the gipsy trudging the lanes with her hold-all, water streaming down her face and dripping from her black braids, her scarlet shawl saturated and her long skirt clinging wetly round her legs, she wished she had been a little more pressing with her offer of a lift. Then she reminded herself that it was three hours since Rachel had set off and the walk back to the Romany’s encampment should have taken little more than two. It crossed her mind at the same time that although the gipsies were still living in horse-drawn caravans, they almost certainly had some motorised transport as well. Despite Rachel’s claim to have reached the village on foot and her declared intention of returning the same way, Melissa found herself wondering whether that was really the case and whether she had been wise to accept without question everything Rachel had told her. She could imagine all too well what Ken Harris would have said. That’s just the sort of yarn these people spin. It’s ten to one she had a car – probably neither taxed nor insured – parked somewhere outside the village. Then she reproached herself for her mistrust. It was true that the gipsy had been unwilling to reveal anything that might help to identify her young relative’s abductor, but that in itself was no reason to suspect her of lying about anything else.

  There was, however, some reason to feel uneasy about what lay behind the reticence. The more she thought about it, the more convinced Melissa was becoming that Hannah’s relatives were intent on settling their own score. If, as she had been led to believe, she would soon be receiving a call from one of the officers investigating Hannah’s murder, she would do her best to sell the idea that whoever had taken the girl away in the first place was in serious danger from men living on the fringe of society who were hell-bent on exacting a private revenge for the wrong done to one of their number and – by extension – to the whole family. Rachel had mentioned that her people were moving on that afternoon, but although she had given no indication of how far or in which direction they would be travelling, there was little doubt in Melissa’s mind that they would remain within striking distance of the place where Hannah had last been seen until, one way or another, her killer had been brought to book.

  When, soon after six o’clock, the call came through, it was Detective Sergeant Waters on the line. ‘Thanks for the info you passed to us, Mel,’ he said. ‘Will it be okay if I call in for a quick word later on? I’ll be coming quite close to your village on my way home.’

  ‘Sure, Matt.’ It was a relief to know that DCI Holloway was not following up her call in person. He was unlikely to have taken her fears seriously; he prided himself on dealing in facts and not allowing himself to be swayed by hunches for which no practical justification could be produced – especially when the source of the hunch was female.

  ‘Say around seven?’ Matt suggested.

  ‘That’d be fine.’

  ‘Right, see you then.’ There was a pause before he added, somewhat diffidently, ‘If you’ve nothing else arranged, perhaps you’d care to go out for a drink after we’ve had our chat?’

  The invitation took Melissa by surprise. She had come to know Matt several years ago through her involvement in a case on which Ken Harris had been engaged. The two men had kept up their friendship after Harris’s retirement from the police and the three of them had shared the odd social occasion, but this was the first time Matt had asked her out. She knew nothing of his private life, apart from the fact that he was a widower living on his own and that his high personal regard for his superior officer was in no small part due to the support the former DCI Harris had given him during his wife’s last illness. It would be totally out of character for him to repay that support by making a pass at his friend’s lover behind his back. There must be an ulterior motive; it would be interesting to know what it was. So she kept her tone light and matter-of-fact as she replied, ‘Thank you, that’d be nice. See you later.’

  It was almost eight o’clock when Matt arrived at Hawthorn Cottage. He apologised for being late without giving an explanation, followed Melissa into her sitting-room, declined her suggestion of coffee and settled down with his notebook.

  ‘I understand from PC Sheldon’s report that you have reason to believe the dead girl was anxious to travel to Eastern Europe, and that the man she ran away with could be a long-distance truck driver?’ he began.

  ‘That’s right.’ Without mentioning Rachel’s visit, Melissa recounted what she had learned of the girl’s fascination with her grandmother’s stories of their people’s history and the lands where they had originated, together with her aunt’s claim that the man had ‘bewitched’ her with tales of his own. ‘I’m very much afraid they mean to do him harm,’ she went on earnestly. ‘That’s why I believe it’s vital that the police find him before they do and why I called the incident-room as soon as I realised—’ She broke off, aware that the intensity of her feelings was beginning to show.

  Matt opened a folder he had brought with him and was scanning the top sheet in it while she spoke. ‘I don’t see any reference to the man’s possible occupation in your original statement,’ he remarked. ‘Or the supplementary statement you made this morning, after our talk yesterday.’ His steel-blue eyes fixed her with the searching gaze that seemed to be a part of every police officer’s stock-in-trade.

  Melissa shifted uncomfortably in her chair. ‘It didn’t occur to me at the time,’ she said lamely.

  ‘And what about the grandmother’s tales and the girl’s apparent wanderlust?’ Matt persisted. ‘You didn’t tell us about them either. Why was that?’

  ‘Because I only learned about them this afternoon,’ she admitted reluctantly.

  Matt’s eyebrows lifted. ‘How did that come about?’

  It had been naïve to suppose that she could conceal her invitation to Rachel. It would get back to Ken, of course, and he’d be scathing about it, wanting to know if she had missed any items of value and generally laying dow
n the law about the folly of inviting vagrants into her home. It would lead to another spat, but there was nothing she could do about it now. So she met Matt’s gaze with a hint of defiance as she replied, ‘When Bruce and I visited the Romany camp, before any of us knew about Hannah’s murder, I watched Rachel making lace and asked if she had any to sell. She had none there at the time and I arranged for her to call this afternoon and bring some to show me. We got talking, and—’

  ‘You’re saying she came here at your invitation?’ Matt interrupted, his voice expressing both surprise and disapproval.

  ‘That’s right.’ Melissa was about to launch into an explanation of her search for a wedding present for Iris, but checked herself. Didn’t she have a perfect right to issue invitations to whoever she chose? Why should she have to justify everything she did?

  ‘I see.’ Matt closed the folder and made a note in his book. ‘Do I take it, then, that the girl’s aunt told you she had run off to Eastern Europe with a truck driver?’

  ‘On the contrary, she clammed up as soon as I started asking questions about the man and his job. It was what she told me earlier in the conversation that put the idea into my head. It occurred to me that meeting someone with first-hand knowledge of the countries where her ancestors came from would have fired Hannah’s imagination and made it a doddle for him to persuade her to go with him. Don’t you agree?’