Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea Sarah,” murmured Mary Bishop, a rising note of apprehension in her voice, “Suppose Mr Philips returns unexpectedly? Besides, the police will be watching surely?”

      “I hardly think so.” Her friend was dismissive. “It’s not as if he’s even a suspect.  If what I’ve heard is true, all they have to go on is the word of some child that he might have seen Marc with that poor girl on what might have been the day she was murdered. I ask you, what grounds are they for suspecting anyone? Not that it matters if they are watching…”looking around warily all the same, “…since it’s him they want to talk to, not us. As for Marc minding us being here, well, you don’t know him like I do. He’d be okay with it, trust me.” Cotter produced a front door key and turned it in the lock, “He’s the soul of hospitality. Anyway, “throwing her a meaningful glance, “…you don’t really want to go back to Sam tonight, do you?”

Mary Bishop shook her head and meekly followed her friend inside. “I’ve never met him, of course,” she commented idly, “Not many people have as far as I know. You’re among the privileged few,” she laughed gaily, “and why not? You’ve made yourself the heart and soul of this village, after all. I only wish I knew how on earth you managed it. Sam and I are as much outsiders now as we ever were. Not that you t haven’t a certain charisma, dear, you do. But that doesn’t excuse your keeping the elusive Mr Philips practically to yourself. It would be rather fun to be able to say I knew Monk’s Tallow’s very own mystery man…”

“Except that we happen to be in Monk’s Porter,” observed the librarian dryly and wished Mary would shut up about Marc Philips. 

Cotter bit his lip. He must stay calm. Mary must suspect nothing. I must be mad. He kept thinking that even as he let them into the sitting room and headed straight for the drinks cabinet. I am stark, raving, mad…  She had been on his mind for so long now, Mary Bishop…the caress of her hair against his cheek…the touch of her hand in his…the fragrance of her perfume…oh, that perfume, it was enough to drive any man wild with…desire?  Did he desire Mary Bishop? Not in the way most men might, he understood that much, just as he understood, too, that he could no more have prevented himself from bringing her here tonight than lying to Daz about his whereabouts. Daz would have understood…only too well. Not only would he have put a stop to this, but also given him a good hiding for even contemplating what has haunted and obsessed me since that first meeting with this extraordinarily sweet woman.

Cotter bit his lip again. Oh, yes, Daz would have understood alright.  

“It’s rather bare, isn’t it?” Mary was saying, “But I suppose you only need the essentials when you’re a weekender,” she observed and she relaxed on a sofa that had clearly seen better days. “A decent carpet would make all the difference and some ornaments, something to make the place more homely, lived-in at any rate. At least there are curtains. She got up and went to close them, pausing to accept a second glass of wine from Sarah before sitting down again. Sarah sat down next to her and they chatted, intimately, without being intimate, as they so often had during a friendship spanning nearly twenty years. 

Mary Bishop sighed contentedly.  She had never been able to relax quite like this with Sam. He always had to be doing something. The idea of just sitting and chatting was about as alien to him as watching out for flying saucers in the night sky. She giggled. Sarah and she often did that. “I ought to call Sam, I suppose, just to let him know I won’t be home tonight…” although couldn’t be absolutely sure she wouldn’t. She’d had too much to drink of course and wasn’t quite herself. But it was a nice feeling. Besides, it would serve him right to fret a while. He had never liked Sarah while she, on the other hand, was only too pleased he’d found a soul mate (of sorts) in Daz Horton. 

“You deserve better than Sam,” said Cotter and meant it, unable to resist placing a hand in hers.

Mary Bishop smiled and made no attempt to withdraw her hand. “You’re a good friend, Sarah, and Sam’s a good man. It’s just that he and I are just not …”

“Compatible?”

“We were once. I was head over heels in love with him and vice versa. People change, I suppose. But for you, I think I would have left Sam years ago…” She squeezed her friend’s hand and leaned closer, content to lay her head on the shoulder of the person with whom she had convinced herself she was far more compatible than her husband.  They would sleep together tonight, she was certain of it. Sarah will seduce me and it will be heaven, sheer heaven. She could hardly wait to feel her friend’s hands on her naked body, the mouth smiling at her now planted longingly, lingeringly on her own lips.  They had never discussed it or even shared a kiss during their entire friendship. But Sarah felt the same way, of that Mary Bishop was positive.

“More wine?”  Cotter did not wait for Mary to reply but took her glass and went to the cabinet.

Mary Bishop continued to anticipate how the evening would develop with mounting excitement and some trepidation. She did not see the librarian slip something into her glass after pouring a liberal measure of Merlot.

Cotter braced himself before returning to the sofa, having already drained and refilled his glass for Dutch courage. His hand shook slightly as he handed her the glass. “I propose a toast… to us.”

“To us,” she echoed warmly. They clinked glasses, drank, chatted about nothing and everything for a while longer until, yawning, Mary Bishop rested her head yet again on the shoulder she had come so to rely on in recent years, failing miserably to stifle several more yawns before, finally, her eyes closed and she drifted into a delightfully sensual, all-embracing unconsciousness. She would have no recollection being lifted up, arms hugging her close as they carried her into the bedroom…or of being undressed slowly and deliberately until, her naked body lay on the flowery duvet as if on display. To Cotter’s adoring eyes she manifested all the alluring qualities of a fairytale Sleeping Beauty. 

Cotter leaned over and kissed the slightly parted lips, the breasts he’d envied and longed to caress for years.  Hastily, frantically, he kicked off the sensible shoes (try as he might, he had never been able to get the hang of high heels) then ripped off his clothes, glad for once to be rid of the turquoise silk suit, black stockings and (especially) the padded bra. Gone was Sarah Manners, librarian, as if in a puff of smoke. In her place, not Ralph Cotter (he was dead, after all) but one, Marc Philips, every inch a hot-blooded male desperate to prove his libido.  Nor was it anything like that sordid business with the girl from the fair.  This was special, exquisite, more fulfilling than he could have dreamed. 

He savoured every moment of raping Mary Bishop.

Later, he was content just to lay there, his arms wrapped around her, the feel and smell of her body more intoxicating than any liquor he had tasted in his whole life.  At the same time, it saddened him to think how it made a mockery not only of his marriage to Jean (a sorry sham from the start) but also (whatever am I thinking?) his relationship with Daz. “What have I done,” he sobbed quietly, “What have I done?”

Eventually, he extricated himself, reluctantly, from Mary Bishop’s unwitting embrace. Padding to the bathroom like a man sleepwalking, he suddenly quickened his step as if forced rudely awake and was soon retching, violently, over a washbasin much the same colour as his face. He started at that face in a mirror on the wall and the lines of another fairy story came back to haunt him,. ‘Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?’ Thou art fair, oh queen,” returned the mirror acidly, “but…” His disturbed mind lingered on that ‘but’ for so long that he lost all track of time. 

It seemed only minutes before he returned to the bedroom. He only realised his mistake a split second before Mary Bishop sat bolt upright and screamed.

Cotter panicked. The wretched woman would not stop screaming. He took a running dive and straddled the heaving body on the bed, forcing her against the pillows, a hand held tightly over her mouth.  Mary, though, continued to make muffled, protesting noises, her eyes wide with terror.

Confused and upset, Cotter did not understand at first. How could she be afraid of him? Didn’t she know he would never hurt her? Then he felt a throbbing between his legs and peered, involuntarily, at his sex. It seemed to grow to giant proportions even as he watched, fascinated, as if not fully realizing what it was. 

Wide eyes on the pillow followed his gaze and Mary Bishop’s muffled screams gained a new momentum.

It seemed to Cotter that the hot breath against his palm was set on branding his flesh forever with the images of her fear, rage, disgust… until he could bear it no longer. Smashing his free hand into the quivering jaw, he knocked the distraught woman senseless.

      Amazed at first by what he had done, Cotter could only stare at the beloved face on the pillow, its pink flesh already starting to turn an ugly puce. Then he burst into tears. The longer and harder he cried, the more he began to comprehend the full import of his actions. She would have to die now. There could be no reprieve. He would lose her. Worse, he might be caught and sent to prison. The tears became a flood. No, not that. He could never cope with that. He would rather die. Oh, God, what have I done? What do I do? Daz will kill me. But that was nonsense, of course. Hadn’t Daz always taken care of him?  Why should anything change now?  He looked steadily at the unconscious woman on the bed and knew the answer.  Daz must never know he loved Mary Bishop as a man loves a woman. He might guess (probably has?) but he must never know for sure. “He’ll never know, Mary,” he told the motionless, appealingly vulnerable figure of Sam Bishop’s wife, “It will be our secret.”

“What the hell do you think…?” A blast from the doorway jerked Cotter into a semblance of comprehension.  He sprang to his feet to confront Liam Brady like a man possessed. 

Harry Smith stared, disbelieving, from the naked woman on the bed to the wide-eyed lunatic who might have stepped out of a gothic novel.  He opened his mouth to demand, abuse, protest…and much more besides. But the eyes cut him short, glued his lips and parched his tongue. He knew those eyes. “Sarah?” he croaked at last. The lunatic made no reply. “You’re…Sarah Manners.” It was not a question. The eyes continued to burn into his face.

Longing to reach for a handkerchief and wipe away the sweat, Harry Smith did not dare for fear of losing a thread of concentration that was leading him…where?  He glanced again at the woman on the bed. Only, the image had changed dramatically.  In her place lay a man, on the floor, someone bending over him. A small boy clutching a teddy bear was also on the very edge of the picture, poised to step into it.  The child glanced in his direction before running to the man who was no longer leaning over the body on the floor but looking at the child, a glazed expression in the eyes and blood on his clothes. He, too, spared Harry Smith a fleeting look before focussing all his attention on the small boy. “I know you,” Harry Smith murmured without realizing he had said a word, “You’re…” But he got no further. 

Liam Brady crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.

…………………………

“You’ve done what?” Daz Horton exploded after being shaken awake before even the dawn chorus had stirred. He stared at Cotter in utter disbelief.  Not for long, however. He could tell by the state the other man was in that Cotter was deadly serious. Quickly, almost methodically, he took in the male clothes. “You haven’t gone off on another rape and throttle jaunt have you?” he demanded crudely and did not need to be told. “My God, you have, you idiot, you stupid, bloody IDIOT.”  He leapt out of bed and lunged at Cotter’s throat.

“They’re not dead,” whimpered Cotter, stumbling backwards against the wall. “We can get rid of them, can’t we? No one need know…”

“What do you mean, ‘they’re not dead?  Horton’s jaw dropped. “Who’s ‘they’? What have you gone and done, you stupid, stupid bastard?”

Cotter’s subsequent revelation stopped Horton in his tracks.

“I tied ‘em up and gagged ’em then locked ’em in the pantry…” Cotter whined. At the same time, he managed to sound pleased with himself, anxious as he was to win Horton’s approval.  His partner’s expression less than reassuring, however, he soon began to cry. “They know, Daz, they know…” he stammered.

Horton, appearing to relent, gathered his lover in his arms and gave him a brief, conciliatory hug before propelling him out of the room. “Black coffee for you, flower, and plenty of it I’m thinking,” he declared, whereupon he dumped a tearful Cotter unceremoniously into a chair at the kitchen table. Adrenalin racing, he grabbed two mugs and poured black, steaming liquid from a percolator. “You’re certain Liam recognized you?”

“Why else would he pass out like that?” Cotter sobbed.

“Yes, well, you’re no painter’s dream in the nude, my turtle dove, let’s face it. I don’t imagine Mary made a pretty sight with her jaw swelling up like a barrage balloon either…”

“I had no choice. I had to shut her up. She was screaming the place down, for heaven’s sake. She saw my cock, Daz, she saw my cock!”  Horton merely guffawed. “It’s no laughing matter, Daz. They’ll have to go, the pair of ’em.”

“So what did you have in mind? Don’t tell me, the Devil’s Elbow. Oh, my turtle dove, you really are something. But don’t you think that’s pushing our luck rather?”

“It’s always worked before…”

“That’s true, but not slap bang in the middle of a local murder hunt.” Horton scratched his head. “I suppose we could always arrange to put the blame on our old friend Marc Philips.”

“Yes, yes!”  Cotter shouted in his excitement, “We kill two birds with one stone, Mary and Phillips. No one will ever be any the wiser. Better still, the police will be certain Phillips is their man. And we know how far that will get them, don’t we?” he added with a nervous giggle.

Horton shook his head. “It’s too pat, flower, too pat, too convenient, by half. No, we need something more…convincing, if not original.”

“You could be right. Especially now that bastard Fred Winter and Carol Brady are sniffing around,” Cotter had to concede but was unprepared for Horton’s daggers drawn expression.

“The Brady woman, did you say? Are you telling me that Carol Brady and Fred Winter are sniffing around in Monk’s Tallow?”

“I spotted them earlier. Don’t panic, they didn’t see me. They were outside the church talking to…oh, God…Sam Bishop! You don’t think…?”

“That they might just put two and two together and get their arithmetic right for once?  We can’t take that chance. Come on, let’s go.”

“But…”

“But nothing…If they decide to sniff around the cottage and find Liam and the Bishop woman, we’re as good as done for. Besides…” He began to mull over the possibility (or impossibility) of killing four birds with one stone. “Get changed and make it quick. I reckon it’s time Sarah bloody Manners stuck her oar in…with a little help from a friend of course,” he added with a wicked grin that sent Cotter’s heart racing.  Daz, he could tell, either had a plan or was close to formulating one.

They came across Fred Winter’s car parked about some way from the cottage at Monk’s Porter. “They’re either up to something, expect to find something…or both,” observed Horton, his voice shaking with emotion.

“You don’t think…?” Cotter became increasingly alarmed and could not finish the question, his face a picture of raw anxiety.

“I don’t think anything and neither will you,” Horton snapped, moving forwards, “There’s a time for thinking and there’s a time for doing. This is no time for playing mind games, flower, we need to see what the hell’s going on with those two and get stuck in.”

“Stuck in?” Cotter was curious in spite of a growing trepidation making him want to pee all of a sudden.

“Pick a tree and get a move on,” Horton snapped, recognizing the signs. Cotter did as he was told.

Minutes later, the pair could not only see the cottage clearly but also make out Winter and Carol Brady peering through separate windows. Before Cotter had a chance to collect himself, Horton had already made strides towards the couple, calling out and waving cheerfully. Cotter’s heart sunk. Even so, he forced his legs to follow at a safe distance.

“Looking for Marc?” Horton asked, casually enough, as he approached a very surprised looking couple. “Who isn’t eh?” he chuckled. “I doubt if he’ll be home but come in and see if you want, Sarah and I have a key. We send on any mail, you see, not that much gets delivered to this address, what with him only being here occasional weekends and all that…” Horton fumbled for the front door key.

Once inside, Horton ushered all three into the sitting room and poured them all a drink, ignoring Carol Brady’s expressed preference for a cup of strong coffee. “I feel whacked all of a sudden,” she confessed and sank into an armchair. “A drop of the hard stuff, that’s what you need,” retorted Horton and she felt too tired to argue.  “I’ve never known such a time of it around here,” he commented and poured four large whiskeys.

Winter thought he heard a scuffling sound and pricked up his ears.  Cotter noticed and his blood ran cold. “Marc thinks he has rats,” he murmured unconvincingly.

“So when was the last time you saw him?” Winter asked the librarian.

Cotter shrugged. “It must be a few weeks ago at least. Time flies so. It’s hard enough catching up with oneself, let alone anyone else. It’s quite scary really?”  He uttered a silly titter that grated on Carol Brady’s nerves. She had almost forgotten how much she disliked the woman.

“No one seems to be catching up with that poor girl’s killer, that’s for sure,” observed Carol bluntly and accepted a glass from Horton with a bright smile requiring no small degree of effort. Something was wrong or, at least, not quite kosher. Freddy sensed it too, she could tell by the way he kept scratching his nose, a habit she’d always deplored, but try as she might, never managed to break him of during those long-ago days when they had been an item…of sorts. She reached for a cigarette and would have lit up then changed her mind and began to replace it in a pack of twenty when Sarah Manners flung her such a disapproving look that she, leisurely, went ahead and lit up after all.  The librarian took a chair directly opposite her and continued to glower with undisguised disapproval.

“I dare say you’d like to take a look around,” said Horton equably, remaining on his feet, as did both men.  “All in good time, eh? Marc has always been generous with his scotch,” he chuckled and topped up their glasses. No one objected. Neither Carol nor Winter saw Horton slip a small tablet into their glasses from the hollow of his palm. “What was that?”  He cocked an ear. “Mice, maybe…?”

Everyone listened. No one touched their drinks. The anonymous tablet dissolved unnoticed, ready to go to work on its wary yet, on the whole, unsuspecting victims. The latter took another sip of the excellent malt and experienced nothing untoward for several minutes.

Carol yawned and closed her eyes, only half-listening to the chatter of voices around her that kept coming and going, like her old transistor radio at the Camden flat that had been on the blink for ages. The comparison made her want to laugh but she had lapsed into unconsciousness before the sound reached her mouth. Winter watched her, half-smiling, suppressing a yawn himself. Instantly, he was on the alert. Looking from the rim of his glass at first Sarah Manners then her partner’s watchful expression, he knew he had been duped. You fool, Fred Winter, you bloody fool. He put the glass down and struggled to keep his eyes open. “I must use the loo, I’m afraid,” he managed to say and took three faltering steps towards the door before he went sprawling.           

A warning bell ran in Horton’s head. Winter hadn’t asked for the loo but merely expressed his intention to use it. That could only mean one thing.  “He’s been here before, flower. This is worse than I thought. Still, he couldn’t have discovered your pals in the pantry - there hasn’t been time for that. And there’s nothing else for him to find here, is there, nothing you haven’t got rid of like I told you…?” But Cotter’s expression was not encouraging.

Instinctively, Horton dashed into the bedroom.  He saw it at once, sat on the floor below the windowsill looking as pathetic as Cotter’s expression in the wardrobe mirror. “What did I tell you? Get rid of that bloody bear, I said, not bring it here you stupid, STUPID woman!” He swung round and lashed out at Cotter who made no attempt to sidestep the blow. 

To be continued

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 25

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

“Do you mind if I join you?” Winter asked in his best genial manner.

“Please yourself,” replied Sam Bishop, his voice thick and slurred then, “Sorry, I mean…be my guest. I could use some company. My wife, as you may have noticed, prefers to spend her time elsewhere. Mine’s a double scotch, by the way…”

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not driving. I’m a free agent, in more ways than one. My wife, you see, doesn’t understand me. Or maybe it’s the other way round.  Whatever, she doesn’t love me any more.”

Winter ordered the drinks. “And do you love her?”

“I do, yes. I do…hic…that’s the trouble. But her friend doesn’t like me, you see. And what dear Sarah doesn’t like, Mary doesn’t like either. They’re like twins, you see. What’s bad for one is bad for the other. Me? I’m bad news…hic.”

“So…how long have you known Sarah Manners?”

“Too bloody long, that’s for sure!” Sam Bishop hugged a sparkling new glass to his chest before raising it to his mouth and taking a long sip. “Since we arrived in this hole…” He droned on… “Sarah and Mary were bosom pals from the off. I get along with Horton okay. He plays a good game of chess. But they’re a weird couple, if you ask me. It’s my belief he knocks her about. I bet she likes it too. She likes to dominate Mary, you see. Oh, nothing obvious. She’s subtle, that one. But women who like to dominate other women, well, they like a bit of rough, don’t they?  Horton’s her bit of rough, I reckon. Mary thinks she’s a goodie-two-shoe but, take it from me, Sarah Manners is a …hic…nasty piece of work.”  

Winter refrained from saying that he was inclined to agree.

“Oh, she likes to make out she’s a pillar of the community and all that,” Sam Bishop continued, “But she doesn’t fool me. I tell you, she runs that library like it was a…hic…prison camp.  I reckon she missed her vocation. She should have been a…hic…man.  Did you see they way she flirts with my wife? Disgraceful, that’s what it is, bloody…hic…disgraceful. My Mary’s no…hic...dyke...so what the hell’s that Manners woman playing at, eh? You tell me that.”

What, indeed?  Winter had been asking himself the same question.

Tears filled Bishop’s eyes. “Mary’s a good woman. That Sarah Manners, she’s…hic…poison I tell you, poison.” He drained his glass and tried to catch the eye or one or other of the bar staff but each looked pointedly in the opposite direction.

“I’ll walk you home,” said Winter firmly. He expected some resistance as he took the younger man by the arm and proceeded to steer him through the crowd.  But Sam Bishop seemed content enough to lean on his arm and let someone else take chare of events. 

They reached the Bishop’s cottage within ten minutes. It was in darkness. “Do you have a key?” Winter enquired.

“I do, yes, I do…at least…hic…I think so…” Sam Bishop fumbled in various pockets before producing a bunch of keys. He picked out the shiniest and approached the front door. After several attempts to fit the key in the lock, he handed it to Winter. “Do the honours, will you, my friend? I’m not seeing too well.  Must be the weather, eh?  Hot for the...hic…time of year, eh?” 

Winter obliged and they were soon in a tidy, tastefully furnished sitting room.

“A drink, eh?” Bishop suggested. “Of course you’ll have a drink. We’ll both…hic...have a drink.  Now, what will it be?  Take your pick. I can offer you…err…hic…oops!”

Sam Bishop stumbled against an armchair, fell backwards on to a handsome leather sofa and promptly passed out.

Winter hastily donned his surgical gloves and wasted no time looking around. Both bedrooms had a well-used, lived-in feel to them and he did not suspect the Bishops of having a lodger. Nothing of any consequence caught his eye. One bedroom reeked of perfume and he found himself wondering about Mary Bishop’s relationship with Sarah Manners. Did Mary know the truth, he wondered, whatever that was? Whether she did or not, it had crossed the detective’s mind several times already that she could be in danger. So what was he supposed to do about it, call the police? He chuckled. There was no element of laughter about the sound.  He scratched his nose. Proof, damn it, I need proof.  Proof of…what, exactly?  But he thought knew the answer to that.

Winter no longer had any doubt that he was on a murder trail, one that probably dated back more than twenty years.

How many victims?  He ran through a list of names in his head. Sean Brady, Marc Philips, James Morrissey, Ruth Temple…then there was the attempt on Carol Brady’s life (how could it have been an accident?) not to mention Liam’s. Not forgetting Sarah Manners herself, of course. How did the librarian acquire that bracelet if she wasn’t who she pretended to be?      

The next day, Winter left a cryptic note at the inn for Harry Smith and drove early to London.  He had no clear memory of Jean Cotter except from newspaper cutting at the library in Monk’s Tallow. It came as something of a surprise, all the same, to find himself confronted by a tall, big-boned woman with ample breasts, wearing heavy make-up and a short skirt that did nothing for legs like tree trunks.

Winter introduced himself. She scowled. “It’s you, isn’t it, the one who wants my Ralph dug up?”

Jean Cotter was, mused Winter wryly, either very intuitive or someone had been talking too much.  “I have to plead guilty,” he confessed with a smile designed to disarm even the most indomitable opponent.

“You’d better come in, I suppose,” the woman murmured grudgingly, “before my Ted gets back… He hates any talk about poor Ralph does my Ted. He’s jealous, you see. I ask you, men, eh?”

The room into which she ushered Winter appeared spic and span without being especially inviting, nor did it gave any impression of warmth. Jean Cotter motioned to him to sit down but remained standing. “So, what’s this all about then? Why can’t you lot just let my Ralph rest in peace, eh, the rest of us too for that matter?  It was over twenty years ago, for crying out loud.”

“Was he a good husband?”

“He wasn’t a bad one if that’s what you’re getting at. I still can’t believe he’d ever find the bottle to use a gun on someone.  He’d jump half out of his skin if the cat jumped on him, would my Ralph.”

“Do you have any photos?”

“I dare say.”

“Could I possibly take a look at some?”

“I dare say,” she repeated and disappeared, returning a few minutes later with a cardboard box. “I have to keep these away from my Ted or he’d likely a fit,” she confided and sat down on a hard chair, settling the box on her lap. For a while, she ignored Winter altogether and rummaged through the photographs, picking up this one and that, her expression difficult for even Winter to discern, practised as he was at reading faces.  

“That was one of the last ones taken of us together. We were in Scarborough with friends…” she handed him a snap then quickly followed it up with others.  Suddenly, she burst out laughing. “Oh, my giddy aunt, I’d forgotten all about this one! New Year 1982, it was. We went to this fancy dress do with a friend of ours…as the Ugly Sisters if you ever did…” She handed Winter the photograph, tears rolling down her fat cheeks.

Winter started. He did not need to be told which of the three was Ralph Cotter. In spite of the long, flowery dress, badly applied make-up and an untidy blonde wig, he could easily have passed for a younger version of Sarah Manners. “May I borrow this?”

“You can keep it for all I care. I’ve moved on, you see. A pity others can’t do the same.” She hesitated. “Do you think I buried the wrong man? Is that what all the fuss is about? I mean…that would make Ted and me illegal, right?  If that’s the case, you will keep it hushed up, won’t you? I wouldn’t want any publicity. My Ted is a very sensitive man. He wouldn’t be able to handle anything like that.”

“You don’t seem very surprised…” Winter felt bound to say.

The woman shrugged. “Ralph was always one for acting the fool. He probably had no idea that gun was loaded. It would be just like him to pull a stunt like this. Mind you,” she chortled, “It’ll be a first if it turns out he’s got away with it.  One in the eye for you lot, too, eh?” 

“If he’s got away with anything, it won’t be for much longer,” said Winter tersely and made a quick get-away that suited them both.

Winter sat in the car for some time mulling things over. The photograph had confirmed suspicions that, until now, had drifted in and out of his subconscious with all the subtlety of an elusive grass snake.  Now the snake had exposed itself. Or, rather, it had been exposed it for what it was. At the same time, he still had no real proof.  So the Ugly Sister in the photograph bore an amazingly close resemblance to Sarah Manners…so what? Certainly, it opened up a minefield of possibilities but that fell way short of producing hard evidence.

His mobile’s cheery ringing tone grated on already frayed nerves. It was Arthur Bailey. “You were right, you old rascal. It wasn’t Cotter in that coffin.  I don’t suppose you can hazard a guess as to who it might be?”  His tone was sarcastic.

“You could try a Marc Philips. Yes, that one, who’s been on the Missing Persons list for years. Let me know as soon as you find out anything. Oh, and Arthur, keep this under your hat for the moment, okay? Oh, yes, and wait a bit before telling Mrs Cotter.”

“You’re asking a lot, Fred.”

“I know, but…just a couple of days, yes?”

“Twenty-four hours and that’s my last word on the subject. But you’ll have to let Charlie Lovell in on this, understand?”

“Oh?”

“Don’t play the innocent with me, Fred Winter, it doesn’t suit you. You didn’t think for one minute, I wouldn’t have had a little chat with Charlie, did you?  If there’s a link between this Philips character and Ralph Cotter, he needs to know about it.”

Okay, I’ll tell him what I know as soon as I get back to Monk’s Tallow.”

“Scouts honour, right?”

“Scouts honour...” Winter automatically crossed two fingers on his free hand. He switched the mobile off.  Arthur was right, of course. Lovell needed to know. But first he, Fred Winter, had to be sure. Besides, it would take a while yet before the body could be identified as Philips…if, indeed, it was Philips. Winter turned on the ignition and put his foot down.

Back in Monk’s Tallow, Harry Smith was nowhere to be found. All the landlord of The Fox and Hounds was able to confirm was that Harry had gone out around mid-day and not returned.

Winter glanced at his watch. It was now 4.00pm. There was no cause for alarm. Harry had probably gone for a long walk to try and make sense of things. I know the feeling. Winter groaned inwardly. No cause for alarm? Winter tugged at his beard. He should never have left Harry on his own. The lad was in a bad way, for heaven’s sake.

“By the way, there’s someone here to see you,” said the young landlord of The Fox and Hounds, “She’s waiting in the Lounge Bar,” tossing the detective a knowing wink as he spoke. Winter did not need to guess the identity of his visitor.

“I’m sorry, Freddy, I had to come,” Carol Brady told him with no hint of apology in a no-nonsense tone of voice reminiscent of Miss Parker. As if anticipating an argument, she jumped from her seat and ran to give him a big hug before he reached the corner table where she had been pouring from a huge pot of tea. “What am I saying? Of course I’m not sorry, not in the least. Now…how about a nice cup of tea, Freddy?” 

Winter merely grunted, disengaged himself, followed her back to the table and watched her do the honours. 

“I wanted…needed…to know that Liam is alright.” Carol gave a short laugh. “It’s so nice to be able to call him Liam.  Oh, Sadie is a fine woman but… say what you like, she’s crazy about Harry Smith, not my Liam.”  Winter disagreed but knew better than to say so, and made no comment. “She wasn’t too happy about my coming down here either. I dare say she’s afraid of missing out. She made me promise to call her every night at closing time and let her know what’s happening.”

She leaned back and treated Winter to a long, searching look. “So…what is happening? What have you found out so far? Where is Liam, by the way?” she added almost as an afterthought. Winter smothered a chuckle in his handkerchief and blew his nose. It was typical of Carol to put the subject of her main concern second to an overriding curiosity.

“I expect he’s gone for a walk/”

“What do you mean, you expect he’s gone for a walk? Don’t you know?” She started to get angry and Winter couldn’t help but recall how she’d always had a short fuse, even years ago, whenever she was unsure of herself.

“He’ll be back soon,” The detective tried to sound assertive, impulsively reaching across the table, gave one hand a little squeeze and held it in his own. She continued to glare at him but did not withdraw her hand.

“Does he remember anything?”

“Not much…” Winter had to admit.

“But he is starting to remember things?” Winter hesitated for some time before telling her about their discovery of the teddy bear. She snatched her hand away and the violet eyes blazed, not with anger now but sheer disbelief. “But that’s…incredible!”

“It certainly triggered something in the lad’s mind,” Winter continued evenly, “I think he’s starting to get….”

“A bigger picture?” she laughed, uneasily.

Winter nodded, smiling. “I can’t say how long it will take, Carol, no one can. But I get the feeling he’s working really hard at it.”

“But the teddy bear, Tweedledeaf… of all things…how on earth…and what the devil is it doing here in Monk’s Tallow?” She put her hand to her mouth and the violet eyes widened like saucers. You don’t think…? Not Cotter…not here?  But…that’s impossible. The man’s dead.”   She was visibly shocked.  “Well, isn’t he?”

Against his better judgement, but glad to confide in someone who would not think he was barking mad, he told her everything he knew or thought he knew.  To her credit, she did not interrupt once. Nor did the violet eyes stray from Winter’s face for an instant

 “Bloody hell, Freddy, that’s some hypothesis. What time do they start serving something stronger than tea around here?”  They laughed, in the manner of old friends who could think of nothing better to say or do at a particularly sensitive moment in time. “Where are you going?” Winter had started to make a move.

“I thought I’d take a look around the village and see if I can’t bump into Liam.”

“I’m coming with you.” She reached for her handbag.

“No Carol, you might frighten him off.”

She slipped into the jacket draped across the back of her chair. “Never mind, me frightening him off, Freddy Winter, you’ve just scared the living daylights out of me and if you think for one minute I’m staying here on my own you’re very much mistaken.”  The violet eyes sent out a message he read only too clearly. His only response was a sigh of intense irritation that she recognized was tantamount to unequivocal surrender.  

They did not meet Liam on their stroll but they did encounter Sam Bishop coming out of the church, just as they paused outside and were debating whether to enter.  He looked very flushed and unkempt, much like a man who hadn’t slept a wink all night.

Winter greeted him and tried to introduce Carol but he interrupted. “Have you seen Mary?” he asked agitatedly. Winter shook his head and opened his mouth to ask the obvious question but Sam Bishop rushed on, close to tears. “She must have come home last night because she’s taken the car. But I’ve not seen her. The spare room hasn’t been slept in either. Why should she take the car? She never takes the car. I went straight round to Monkey Tree Cottage, of course. Daz told me Sarah came home about eleven, on her own. According to Sarah, she left Mary at the cottage but didn’t go in because she had a headache. Mary, that is. She gets these headaches you know. Sometimes they develop into migraines, the poor lamb. There’s no way she could drive in that condition. No way,” he repeated.

“Did you speak to Sarah yourself?”  Winter finally managed to get a word in edgewise.

“What? Oh, no. She’s gone to some library ‘do’ and won’t be back for ages. Some conference or other, I think he said. To be honest, I wasn’t really listening. Do you think I should call the police and report her missing?  I’ve called all the likely hospitals…although…she could be miles away by now of course. Do you think she’s left me?” His face dropped, rapidly becoming even more flushed and as he appeared to consider this possibility for the first time.

“I’m sure your wife will be home soon.” Carol did her best to sound reassuring. “We girls need our space sometimes too, you know, just the same as you men.  Not that we get much of it,” she added, swallowing a waspish tickle on her tongue.  

“Do you really think so?” His eagerness was pathetic. Winter, though, found that, try as he might, he couldn’t muster as much sympathy for Sam Bishop as he suspected the man was due. “That could be it of course. We’ve had a few problems lately. She probably just needs some space.” He flung a grateful look at Carol and seized both her hands in his. “Why didn’t I think of that? Thank you so much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must dash home in case she phones…” He rushed off down the curving, narrow street that cut, scythe-like, through Monk’s Tallow. 

“There goes a frightened man,” declared Carol.

“Frightened?” “Winter, while inclined to agree that Sam Bishop was in poor shape to say the least, felt driven to express curiosity about her use of the word.

“Their marriage is obviously in trouble and he’s terrified she won’t come back. Maybe…” she stopped abruptly and shook her head, laughing.

“Maybe…?” Winter prompted.

“I was going to say that maybe she’s run off with Sarah Manners. You did say you thought they might be a couple of dykes…” She laughed again but the expression on Winter’s face cut her dead. “You don’t think so…surely, not?  I mean…the whole idea’s preposterous.  For a start, how would Monk’s Tallow ever get over it?” More peals of laughter followed. “Besides, even if your fantasy theory about Sarah Manners were true, she’d never take that kind of risk…would she?”

That’s a very good question, reflected a grim faced Winter but did not feel inclined to say more. Instead, he mulled over the possibility…or impossibility, depending on how one approached it. At the same time, he found himself struggling with an irrational, sinking feeling. Whether or not his suspicions about the librarian were remotely founded, of one thing he was sure. Sam Bishop has good cause to be concerned about his wife.  

Suddenly, a note of warning struck the detective like a bolt of lightning and he couldn’t look Carol in the eye as it crossed his mind that Liam, too, might be in danger. Suppose that troubled young man had either sought out Sarah Manners of his own accord or, worse…?  He made a sudden about-turn, grabbed Carol and quickened his step almost to a run.

“Where are we going?” she cried and attempted in vain to shake off his grip on her arm.

“I’m taking you back to the pub.”

“Then what?” demanded Carol, breathing heavily from trying to keep up in a pair of fashionable heels about as unsuitable for country wear as Winter could imagine.

“I have to see a man about a dog,” the detective growled unhelpfully.

“In that case, you and me both,” gasped Carol as they approached the car park at the rear of The Fox and Hounds.

Winter stopped without warning and only just managed to catch Carol’s hand to prevent her falling. “You will stay here and wait for me,” he told her in a tone of voice that usually brooked no argument. In this case, however, he was in for a big disappointment.

“I will do no such thing,” she retorted angrily, “You think Liam’s in trouble too, don’t you? And don’t try denying it. It’s written all over your ugly face, Freddy Winter, and if you think I’ve come here to risk losing my son all over again…well…I think you know me better than that. You certainly did once,” she panted, the violet eyes uncompromising.

Winter sighed, saw at once that he had little choice but to cave in or she would probably guess where he was heading anyway and be daft enough to follow on alone. Carol Brady, he recalled ruefully, had always been her own woman.  “Come on then,” he muttered, “But you’ll do as you’re damn well told and don’t you dare get in my way or on your own head be it.”  

She scarcely heard his instructions, issuing from the tight-lipped mouth like a rattle of machine gun fire as they ran towards the car. Yet, in spite of frayed nerves and a rapid heartbeat, Carol not only managed to keep up but also took a niggling pleasure in the fact that he did not once let go of her hand. 

To be continued

Catching Up With Murder - Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“We can’t just break in like common criminals!” Harry Smith protested in the welcome shade of the monkey tree.

“There will be nothing common about it, I can assure you,” Winter told him. As   if to prove his point, the detective produced a set of skeleton keys from his jacket pocket. “Believe me no one will know we’ve been here so just make sure you don’t disturb anything and give the game away.”

“I don’t know…”

“Well, I do. Trust me, I’m a copper.” Winter not only continued to reassure his reluctant accomplice with a broad grin but also produced two pairs of surgical gloves. One pair, he handed to Harry while pulling on the other himself before trying a key in the door. It took five attempts before one fitted

“Suppose someone sees us?”

“Believe me, no one ever notices people entering by a front door. A window, yes…a back door, maybe. But a front door, never. “Eureka!” The door swung open and Winter strode confidently inside, leaving his nervous companion to shut the door. Nor did Harry Smith wait long before cautiously following, anxious to put the door between him and any prying eyes. 

“What now? Harry wanted to know, his voice barely above a whisper.

“We take a quick look around then scarper,” said Winter in his normal voice.

“What if…”

“No bloody ifs, alright?  Do as I say and let’s see if we can’t come up with something that will give us a clearer idea of just what we’re up against.  And for heaven’s sake, be careful.” Winter entered the sitting room, his eyes everywhere at once or so it seemed to an increasingly jittery Harry-Liam.

Winter looked in every room, searching this cupboard, that drawer, examining shelves and peering under the unmade bed with the speed and precision of someone with years of experience. He was alone in the main bedroom when he discovered, tucked among other personal items in a drawer, a birth certificate…for one, Marc Philips.

The detective frowned. If Sarah Manners had acted as a go-between for the sale of the house in Monk’s Porter, she may well have needed it for verification purposes of course. On the other hand…why hang on to it?  A birth certificate was something anyone would be sure to want back, surely?  He was still considering the matter when he heard movement and turned to find that Harry had entered the room and was looking around with the air of a furtive fox expecting to be sniffed out by a pack of hounds baying for his blood at any minute.  Winter replaced the certificate and decided it was time to leave. He was about to gesture the same to Liam when the young man’s expression changed suddenly.

“I’ve been here before,” he said slowly as if continuing to turn over the likelihood in his mind.

“Ah! What makes you think so? Do you recognize something…the wallpaper, the carpet…what?” Winter struggled to restrain his excitement, keeping his voice low and matter-of-fact.

Harry Smith shook his head. “No, nothing…but something is missing. Something isn’t here that was definitely here before…and I have been here before, I have,” he repeated stubbornly, countering Winter’s wary look with a meaningful glare.  

“So what’s missing? Come on, think, man, think!”  Winter urged, trying hard not to betray his exasperation. But Harry Smith continued to shake his head and give the impression of someone peering, desperately, through a thick fog. The birth certificate still dwelling on his mind, the detective instinctively decided it was time to play another hunch. “Come on, let’s get out of here. Let’s see if we can’t find out some more about the elusive Mr Philips.”

Harry did not say a word on the short drive to Monk’s Porter. Winter recognized the hallmarks of a man on auto-pilot. He could but guess at the young man’s torment. It was bad enough trying to remember something on the tip of a tongue that refused to deliver the goods. It had to be a thousand times worse for an amnesiac.  On impulse, he called Julie Simpson again. “Did you aunt ever mention whether Sarah Manners had any kind of allergy?”

“Oh, yes. Nuts. If she ate them or anything containing them, even flavouring, apparently she’d go…well, nuts,” she giggled then added apologetically, “It’s no laughing matter of course. It can prove fatal. I believe she had one or two nasty turns. Poor Auntie used to worry herself sick about it, always reading the ingredients on food labels etcetera whenever she went shopping. Why do you ask?”

“Do people grow out of that kind of thing?” neatly side-stepping her question with another.

“They might, I suppose,” she sounded doubtful, “But I gather Sarah had always been stuck with it, from birth I think. So it’s hardly likely, I imagine. You’ll have to ask her.”

“I will indeed,” Winter growled into the phone, suddenly remembering to ask about the wedding plans, but it was obvious from her tone that this was a bad time. Was there ever a good time, he wondered?  Julie managed a cheerful enough ‘Bye bye’ but hung up almost immediately.

Liam, Winter was pleased to see, caught on fast for all that he remained very subdued. The two men entered the cottage in Monk’s Porter by the front door, as if they had every right to do so. The police, Winter knew, had already searched the place and found nothing. But they had been looking for clues as to Marc Philips’ possible whereabouts. Whereas, he…?

Winter tugged at his beard. What did he expect to find here?  Lips pursed, a wry frown crossed the rugged face. A sixth sense told him, though, that he would not be disappointed. Nor, it transpired, was he. He found a pair of women’s panties draped over a stool in the bathroom.  Winter paid scant attention. So Philips had a girlfriend or he was a transvestite…so what? It was then that a man’s scream blasted his ears like dynamite.

Winter dashed into the next room - a bedroom - to find Liam prostrate on the floor. A thick piled rug had broken his fall and spread unevenly across the floor like a pool of blood. Thankfully, of the real stuff, there was no sign.

After heaving an unconscious Liam on to the bed, the baffled detective hurried to the bathroom, only to return minutes later with a wet flannel. He was still was wiping the pale, sweaty face, when the younger man’s eyes flew open and stared, blankly at first, into space before filling up with such terror that he sat bolt upright. “Take it easy now, yeah?” Winter struggled not to betray alarm. “Everything’s okay, Harry, you’re going to be just fine,” he murmured. “Don’t be frightened. There’s nothing at all to be frightened of, okay? Just try to relax. You fainted, that’s all. Now, take some deep breaths and try to relax,” he kept repeating and felt encouraged by the fact that Liam seemed to be taking notice and growing calmer by the second.

Gently but firmly, Winter pushed the trembling shoulders back against the starchy white pillows. “Now, take some deep breaths and try to relax,” continuing to make reassuring noises while wiping pellet-size drops of perspiration from the young man’s deeply furrowed brow.

Harry tried to speak but only an intelligible grunt emerged from the dribbling, quivering mouth. He flung out a hand towards the window.  Winter saw immediately what the young man meant. A hideously battered teddy bear, one ear missing and the other dangling by a thread, sat on the windowsill.

Winter could only stare, incredulous. “Tweedledeaf...!”  There was no room for doubt. Moreover, it was several minutes before he realized the involuntary cry had erupted from his own throat. Unable to tear his gaze away, Winter half expected the old bear to respond. He felt as if he were under a spell of sorts until it was broken by

a plaintive shriek from the figure on the bed.

Harry Smith screwed his eyes tightly shut.  This time, however, he remained conscious. Winter had to take what comfort he could from that.  

Forcing himself to stop staring at the teddy bear, Winter’s sweeping gaze took in the rest of the room. On the face of it, there was nothing extraordinary or untoward to alert the sensibilities of a suspicious copper, or anyone else for that matter.  He went to the wardrobe and opened the door. Surprisingly, the inside was bare.  Marc Philips was obviously a man who liked to travel light. It struck Winter as was odd, though, to say the least. He’d have expected to find at least a few items of clothing if only a raincoat for wet weekends.  He glanced at Harry who lay unmoving on the bed, hands by his side with both fists clenched. His eyes were still closed but his breathing more regular now. Winter thought it best to leave him to recover in his own time. 

The rug, where Harry’s fall had sent it sliding untidily across the floor, cried out to be straightened and replaced. Winter was about to do just that when he noticed a loose floorboard. Kneeling down, he examined it more closely. It surrendered easily to even the most cursory exploration. The detective found himself looking into a black hole. Intrigued, he lowered an arm and felt around inside. His fingers found what might have been a cardboard box.  Whatever, it would not budge.  Undeterred, Winter began to remove more floorboards with surprisingly little difficulty. Finally, with a grunt of satisfaction, he withdrew a hatbox from its hiding place.   .

“Bloody hell…!” By now Harry Smith had opened his eyes and begun to show an interest in the proceedings.  His reaction was much the same as Winter’s when the detective lifted the lid to reveal a very convincing wig and beard, plus a pair of horned rim spectacles which, on further examination, proved to contain plain glass.  There were other documents, including a medical card. Winter made a mental note of the name and surgery address of a local doctor.

Harry Smith frowned. As he watched Winter return the items to the hat box, drop it back into its hiding place and carefully replace the floorboards, his mind, like the detective’s was racing ahead of itself. If Marc Philips was a fake, who the hell was he and why disguise himself?  More to the point, perhaps…whatever happened to the real Marc Philips?  A chill ran down his spine as a string of possibilities played on his imagination, all of them nasty.

Winter, meanwhile, was thinking along much the same lines but had taken several steps further in what had struck even his suspicious mind as a completely absurd hypothesis…

If Marc Philips was not who he pretended to be, who was to say he existed at all? Anyone could put on a false wig, beard and glasses…even someone local like…

Daz Horton’s name sprung to mind.

Harry had already, excitedly, explained it was the same teddy bear that had gone missing from Monkey Tree cottage although he had no idea why he should remember seeing it there and nothing else. So how had it ended up here if Horton hadn’t brought it…or Sarah Manners…but why?  Liam Brady, the detective mused pensively, would have good cause to remember that particular toy. Moreover, it followed that there had to be a connection with Ralph Cotter. But what, damn it…what?  His copper’s nose began to twitch.  He stroked his beard. Suppose, just suppose the tramp’s body had been substituted for Cotter’s all those years ago? That would mean…

“Shit!” the detective swore aloud. But if Cotter was still alive, where the devil was he hiding out - he and Marc Philips both…in Monk’s Tallow? It seemed unlikely. At the same time, if he was right and Philips did not exist as the residents of Monk’s Porter knew him…

Nothing, as usual, was making much sense.

The two men exchanged few words on the drive back to The Fox and Hounds. Winter told Harry Smith to go ahead and he would join him at the bar in a few minutes.  He called Carol. Sadie answered the phone and asked eagerly after Harry. Winter did his best to reassure her and restrain his impatience to speak to Carol. She came on the line, also anxious for news about Harry-Liam, but took the trouble to enquire about himself too. Winter could feel his cheeks burning and was relieved she could not see him. “Can you recall whether Ralph Cotter was buried or cremated?” 

“What sort of question is that? Of course I remember. I went to the damn funeral, didn’t I?  Why on earth do you want to know?”

“You went to the funeral of your husband’s murderer?” the grizzled detective could not conceal his astonishment. “Doesn’t that strike you as being bizarre, to say the least?”

“It’s what our Americans cousins call ‘closure’,” said Carol in clipped tones that warned him to tread carefully, “and if you must know, he was buried. Jean Cotter didn’t hold with cremation although why, in this instance, I can’t imagine since he was burnt to a bloody crisp anyway. She had the whole works, church choir and all. Mind you, it gave the press a field day and she probably made a pretty penny out of it.”

“Didn’t you?” Winter couldn’t resist asking.

“Of course I did. I had a child to support, remember? If she could get blood money for playing the grieving widow, so could I.  I earned it too, we both did.”

“Where is he buried?”  She told him. “One more thing, Carol, did the teddy bear ever turn up? You didn’t give it away or anything…?”

“Give it away? Not bloody likely. That bear was family, for heaven’s sake. Look, Freddy, what the hell’s going on down there?  And don’t tell me ‘nothing’. It’s me you’re talking to, not some halfwit colleague.”

“Sorry, Carol, you’re breaking up. I’ll call you again later. Bye.” He hit the off button, keeping his finger on it till the tiny screen went blank.

For a while, he  continued to sit there, pondering the unlikely, then turned the mobile back on, thought about calling Charlie Lovell but hit Arthur Bailey’s name in the directory instead. Lovell had his hands full and would, in any case, think he had finally lost his marbles.

“You want me to…what?” Bailey was more shocked than surprised.

“Trust me, Arthur, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t dead important.”

“We’d have to get Jean Cotter’s permission and why should she agree to have her husband’s body exhumed just on some daft hunch of yours? Besides, I seem to recall there wasn’t much left of it anyway.”

“She married again, didn’t she? I’m sure she’ll want to make sure she isn’t a bigamist, I know I would,” responded Winter with a chuckle and was relieved to hear another at the other end. Arthur Bailey, he knew, would do his damn best.

“Suppose she agrees…what then?”

“Try for a DNA sample and see if it matches with any you can get of Cotter’s. There must be something.”

“If there had been a switch, don’t you think someone would have sussed?”

“Why should they?  There was no reason to suppose the charred remains in that car weren’t Cotter’s.”

“And now there is?”

“Too right, there is.” Winter exuded more confidence than he felt and it did the trick.

“It’s not on my patch,” Bailey was at pains to point out.

“True, but I wouldn’t mind betting you know someone whose patch it is and that they owe you a favour.”

“You wish!”

“Come off it, Arthur, the world and his dog owe you a favour. When have I ever asked for one?”

“More times than I’ve had hot dinners,” commented Bailey ruefully.

“Well, what’s one more hot dinner between friends?” Winter cajoled. 

After a long pause, “I’ll see what I can do but no promises.”

“You’re a star.”

“I’m an idiot.” Bailey hung up.   

That evening, Harry Smith was quiet and restless. He barely spoke over dinner and excused himself almost immediately afterwards, without bothering with a desert, leaving Winter to devour a strawberry ice cream sundae with relish. 

Across the room, the Bishops, too, were sampling a Fox and Hounds “special” lamb roast. Mary nodded and Winter nodded back. Sam Bishop did not appear to notice this mute exchange or, if he did, chose to ignore it. They were a glum couple, thought Winter, not for the first time. Then Sarah Manners arrived. She was alone.   Mary Bishop immediately brightened at the sight of her friend while her husband’s welcoming nod was but cursory. The librarian sat next to Mary, made no attempt to order anything but seemed content just to chat. Again, Winter could not help but notice how tactile the two women were with each other.

After about ten minutes, Sam Bishop left. The severity of his expression gave Winter cause to speculate further on whether he mightn’t find his wife’s behaviour towards her friend… disconcerting, to say the least.

Sarah Manners spotted Winter at once and waved. It was an indifferent wave, merely acknowledging his presence. Certainly, it could in no way be construed as an invitation to join the two women. Winter waved back. The light caught the charm bracelet on her wrist, plunging the detective into deep thought.  If Sarah Manners was not who she claimed to be…who was she? And if she was wearing Sarah’s bracelet, how did she come by it? It was a puzzle and no mistake. The glimmer of a notion crossed his mind but he dismissed it to nether regions as too fantastic for words.

His thoughts turned again to Philips, another likely figment of the imagination. Did Sarah Manners know this?  Could that be the reason she helped him purchase the cottage in Monk’s Porter, because he could not do so freely in his own name? Could Marc Philips and Ralph Cotter be one and the same?  The detective shook his head. It made no sense. If Philips did not exist then the implication had to be that Cotter was still alive.  If so, where was he and how did Sarah Manners fit into the general scheme of things?

Winter went to the bar and ordered another beer.

The medical card found among the wig and other items continued to play on his nerves. If, for argument’s sake, Cotter was alive, it made sense that he would need a medical card in an assumed name. But that did not explain the disguise. He could easily have grown his own beard, dyed his own hair and worn plain glass spectacles. If he had already acquired another man’s identity, why bother with the theatricals? Unless he was living locally, of course, in which case he wouldn’t want the GP to know who he was, but why should that matter if he was known under an assumed name anyway?

Winter watched Mary Bishop and Sarah Manners leave the dining area, arm in arm, giggling like a couple of schoolgirls. The absurd notion that had struck him briefly earlier returned to haunt him. If the librarian wasn not the real Sarah Manners, it might explain James Morrissey’s distress…enough to cause him to lose control of his car or even commit suicide.  His suicide, in turn, might explain Ruth Temple’s. But where did Liam and Carol Brady fit in to all this? And what about the teddy bear? Suppose Liam had recognized the teddy bear? It might have proved enough to send him over the edge…figuratively speaking, maybe even literally. But how did the damn bear got to Monkey Tree cottage if Cotter hadn't taken it there himself, and why move it to Marc Philips’ bedroom? If Cotter and Philips were one and the same person, that meant he was not only local but also had to be well known to Sarah Manners and her partner.  Unless…

Winter shook his head again. Impossible…

He drained his glass and made his way to the bar for another pint. “Impossible!” he barked at a bemused barman.

Across the bar, he could see into another room where Sam Bishop was leaning heavily on the bar, knocking back shorts like nobody’s business.

To be continued