strangled from behind with a length of strong cord identical with that used to fasten the mouths of the plastic bags; both ligatures were still in place round the girls’ necks. ‘Nothing beyond the strength of any ordinarily healthy and active woman,’ Kelsey added. ‘All that was needed was a vehicle. And the ability to use a screwdriver.’
The town of Martleigh was a good deal smaller than Cannonbridge and lay twenty-two miles to the north-east. 34 Thirlstane Street proved to be a small butcher’s shop standing at the end of an Edwardian terrace in a respectable working-class district a mile or so from the town centre. There were no front gardens; the houses opened directly on to the street. When Sergeant Lambert halted the car and stepped out on to the pavement there were only the peaceful sounds of Sunday morning to be heard under the pale blue sky: radio music, children playing in a nearby street, a dog barking, the hum of traffic, a woman calling a child.
Gilded letters above the shop read: A. F. LOCKYEAR. FAMILY BUTCHER. The marble display slabs in the window had been washed down with scrupulous care; behind them a precise row of sheaves of white greaseproof paper, neatly impaled on metal hooks, obscured any view of the interior. Kelsey got out of the car and glanced up at the living quarters. The curtains were drawn back but there was no sign of life.
Sergeant Lambert pressed the doorbell. After a minute or two when there was no answer he pressed the bell again, keeping his finger on it for several seconds. Still no reply. He was about to press it for the third time when he became aware of someone watching from the house next door. A whisk of movement behind the net curtains of the downstairs window, a hand lifting the curtain discreetly to one side, a woman’s face appearing briefly at the other side of the glass. He stood waiting for her front door to open, as it did a few moments later.
A little birdlike woman of fifty or so came out on to the doorstep. She wore a trim nylon overall, her brown hair was neatly and becomingly dressed. She gave both men rapid up-and-down glances from her bright black boot-button eyes. She darted a swift look at the car before she spoke, knowing them at once for policemen.
‘Something wrong?’ She stepped out on to the pavement. When Kelsey didn’t answer she added, ‘Mr Lockyear’s not here. There’s no one at home. He’s on his own just now, with Joanne being away. I could take a message.’
‘Perhaps you could tell us where we could find Mr Lockyear?’ Kelsey said.
‘He’s down at his allotment. He’s always there this time of a Sunday, Easter or no Easter, makes no difference. He won’t get back here till just before one, all he’ll do is cook himself a chop.’ A mouth-watering odour of roasting turkey, sage and onion stuffing, drifted out behind her. Lambert felt all at once acutely hungry. ‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked again with the same lively, inquisitive air.
Kelsey still didn’t answer that. ‘Where can we find these allotments?’ he asked.
She gave him directions. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ he told her. ‘Very good of you, Mrs …’
‘Mrs Snape,’ she said at once. ‘If there’s anything I can do—’
‘Thank you,’ he said, with finality. They went back to the car. She remained standing on the pavement, watching them with unabashed curiosity. ‘You can get back here tomorrow,’ Kelsey told Lambert as the car moved off. ‘She’ll talk her head off, given half a chance.’
The allotments were some three-quarters of a mile away, on the northern tip of Martleigh, in an open, windswept situation. The air was full of the cries of domestic fowl mingled with the chirruping of songbirds. Somewhere a radio played a Strauss waltz. Judging from the lingering, acrid smell as they crossed the bleak terrain, someone had recently cleaned out the fowl pens, had scattered the manure over the earth.
There was no great air of urgency about the place. Twelve or fourteen men, middle-aged or older, dug and planted in a leisurely fashion. Kelsey asked the first man they encountered if he could point out Mr Lockyear to them. ‘Arnold Lockyear?’ the man said. He gestured with an earth-stained hand. ‘He’s over there, at the far end.’
Lockyear had his back to them as they came over. He was stooping over a bed of rhubarb, examining the crowns, replacing ancient bottomless buckets and wooden orange boxes over the slender stalks. The other men continued to work on their plots, displaying no open curiosity.
Lockyear turned his head at the sound of their approach. He paused in his task and then straightened up. He remained where he was, in silence, his face expressionless, his eyes darting over them in swift assessment.
‘Arnold Lockyear?’ the Chief said. Lockyear gave a single nod. His face wore the look of a man who knows with certainty that he is about to hear bad news. A short, stocky man within hailing distance of middle age; a thick red neck and fleshy, jowled face, deepset brown eyes, thickly curling hair the colour of a cobnut. He looked not unlike a yearling bull.
The Chief identified himself and Lambert. The look on Lockyear’s face intensified, he closed his eyes for an instant.
‘I’m afraid we have bad news,’ Kelsey said. ‘Very bad news.’ The manure-scented breeze blew in their faces. From the neighbouring allotments the thock and click of tools sounded clear and distinct on the shimmering air.
‘It’s Joanne,’ Lockyear said with grim certainty. He stood with bowed head as the Chief said what had to be said. As he listened his face took on a look of stunned disbelief. When the Chief came to the end of his harrowing recital Lockyear raised his eyes and stared into Kelsey’s face. An expression of horror overlaid with frowning questioning appeared on his blunt features.
There was a brief silence, then Lockyear said with an air of frozen shock, ‘Both of them? Both the girls? Helen as well?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ the Chief said gently.
Lockyear drew a long quavering breath. He shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said in a dogged way as if it might all somehow turn out to be no more than a piece of lunatic misunderstanding. ‘There’s no possible doubt about it? Both the girls are dead?’
‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt at all,’ Kelsey said. ‘They’re both dead.’ Lockyear stood looking at him with his arms hanging limply at his sides.
‘I’m afraid I must ask you to carry out an unpleasant duty,’ Kelsey said. Lockyear gave him an uncomprehending look. ‘I must ask you to come with us to the Cannonbridge mortuary, to identify the bodies.’
Lockyear’s mouth opened a little. He turned his head and stared down at the rhubarb crowns with their delicate rosy stems tipped with pale yellow leaves, frilled and crimped. He gave a single nod.
‘And we’ll need to ask you some questions,’ Kelsey said. ‘I’m sure you understand that. When you last saw the girls, what contacts you may have had with them since that time, who their friends and associates were, and so on. Any light you can throw on what’s happened. It will all take time, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
Lockyear nodded slowly, he went on nodding for some seconds.
‘The post mortem will take place tomorrow morning,’ Kelsey said. Lockyear gave another slow, bemused series of nods. ‘You’ll probably want to call in at your house before we go to Cannonbridge,’ Kelsey added as Lockyear continued to stand there. ‘You may want to change your clothes, there may be something you need to see to. We can wait while you attend to it.’
Lockyear
