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 glanced down at his clothes. ‘Yes, I suppose I’d better change.’ He looked vaguely about. ‘I’d better clear up here.’ He covered the rest of the rhubarb, gathered up his fork and spade, trowel and hoe, without haste. He put them tidily away in the shed and locked the door, testing it afterwards to see that it was properly secured. All his actions were marked with care and deliberation, though his face still wore its drained, numbed look.
He didn’t speak to any of the other men working on the allotments as he walked away beside the two policemen; the men continued with their digging and forking as if unaware of the little party making its way past them. But when they reached the car and Lambert glanced back he saw that they had all now stopped working and were openly staring after them.
The drive to Thirlstane Street took place in silence. When they reached Lockyear’s shop it was lunchtime and the street was deserted. Lockyear was able to dart into his house unnoticed. The two men followed him inside. The air smelt stale and musty as if no one bothered to open the windows any more.
‘I’d like to take a look in Joanne’s room,’ Kelsey told Lockyear. ‘You can carry on with whatever you have to do.’
Lockyear led the way upstairs and opened a door on the right of the landing. ‘This is Joanne’s room,’ he said. ‘Helen had the room next door – it hasn’t been used since she left.’ He went off along the corridor to the bathroom.
Kelsey went into Joanne’s room and looked swiftly through her belongings. The room was adequately furnished, reasonably comfortable. All the soft furnishings looked in need of repair or renewal, as if nothing much in that line had been done for several years.
Joanne’s clothes were neatly arranged in a single wardrobe and a chest of drawers. Not a great deal of clothing and nothing very fancy; plain, functional, inexpensive garments. Beside the window stood a small bureau; none of the drawers was locked. The top drawer held an assortment of papers, methodically disposed. The letter from the aunt’s solicitor. A bundle of school reports: Joanne had been an industrious pupil, usually first in form at Art. Well behaved, presenting no problems; otherwise unremarkable. Photographs and snapshots, going back over a number of years, all with carefully written identifications. A wedding photograph of her parents, the bridegroom a resolute-looking young man, tall and slightly built, with a good forehead; the bride short and slight with a delicate, pretty face and shy smile, a great deal of dark hair dressed in curls and loops under her filmy veil.
A second wedding photograph, taken nine years after the first: the marriage of the girls’ mother to Arnold Lockyear’s father, the bridegroom grey-haired and bull-necked, with no discernible waistline but with a cheerful, good-tempered face alight with pride and love. His hand clasped the hand of his bride, even more slender and delicate-looking now in a dress and jacket of pale silk, a pretty little veiled cloche hat perched on her dark hair, still abundant, still glossy and wavy. She had an air of having passed through some harsh weathering process since she had last