Murder Has a Pretty Face

  Bello:

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  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment, and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

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  Contents

  Jennie Melville

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Jennie Melville

  Murder Has a Pretty Face

  Jennie Melville, a pseudonym for Gwendoline Butler, was born and brought up in south London, and was one of the most universally praised of English mystery authors. She wrote over fifty novels under both names. Educated at Haberdashers, she read history at Oxford, and later married Dr Lionel Butler, Principal of Royal Holloway College. She had one daughter, who survives her.

  Gwendoline Butler’s crime novels are hugely popular in both Britain and the United States, and her many awards included the Crime Writers’ Association’s Silver Dagger. She was also selected as being one of the top two hundred crime writers in the world by The Times.

  Chapter One

  When the woman first came into town nobody knew what to do about her. Certainly not the police. She was standing watching a large parked van in which a group of doctors and nurses were conducting a mass screening of women for cervical cancer. She watched the other women go in and come out, but never tried to go in herself.

  ‘As far as I hear, she just stands and looks,’ said Inspector Charmian Daniels of the Deerham Hills CID. ‘We can’t arrest her for that.’

  She added: ‘And she can’t have anything to do with all the other problems we have on our plate.’ She totted them up: ‘One dead man, unknown, probably murdered; one robbery of a local furrier’s, stripped bare; one pedigree dog, stolen. Problems in descending order of importance.’ Even then she knew the woman stood for something. Disorder, maybe.

  The robbery of the furrier was specifically Charmian’s job. She was supposed to be something of an expert at break-ins. The murdered man was her boss’s task at the moment. (Her boss was Chief Inspector Walter Wing.) Everyone took an interest in the murder. Anyone who had an idea was offering it. Nobody had an idea about the dog.

  And a spate of small, relatively trivial incidents, violence, break-ins, assaults. Many more than the average in Deerham Hills. Nastier.

  ‘No, the woman has nothing to do with all that,’ said Charmian.

  She got up and looked out of her window. She had a room in the newest part of the newish police station in the centre of Deerham Hills, and from her window on the third floor she could see the pleasant town, through which ran a slow-flowing river, bordered by gardens. The town’s profile was dominated by the spire of the fifteenth-century church and the tower of the twentieth-century polytechnic: old town and new town happily blending.

  ‘I ought to go down and look at her myself,’ she said absently. ‘When I’ve got through some of this paperwork on my table.’ Even more absently she added: ‘We ought to know about the death of the man found in the river. Perhaps we’ll be lucky and he drowned himself.’

  ‘Having first tried to weight his feet?’ said her sergeant, Adam Lily, whose name annoyed him very much. ‘There are patches of cement on his socks.’

  ‘Were,’ said Charmian. ‘The pre-mixed sort, too. Perhaps he was a builder. Joke,’ she said hastily to Sergeant Adam Lily’s blank face. She looked at her watch. ‘The shops are still open; the woman might still be there. I think I’ll go down and have a look myself. Also, I have an appointment.’

  When she’d gone, the sergeant turned to the woman police constable seated at the typewriter. ‘Getting over it, is she, then?’

  The constable shrugged. ‘ If you ever really do. It’s been a year.’ Agnes considered the year, and her life during it. ‘Lousy year, really.’

  ‘I do agree. What’s gone right? For me, nothing.’

  ‘One or two things,’ suggested Agnes.

  They looked at each other. ‘Yes,’ agreed Adam. ‘ Not as often as I’d like, though.’

  ‘Got your car back yet?’

  Adam scowled. ‘Yes, and a bill with it. Don’t know how I’m going to pay it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t gamble, but save.’

  Adam shrugged. ‘Only way I’m ever going to make money, I reckon. I’ll never earn it, that’s for sure.’

  ‘No, nor me.’ Agnes looked at her hands. ‘Money, money, money.’

  She didn’t sound amused.

  ‘Well, I’m off.’ Adam moved away. ‘See you later?’

  Agnes barely muttered her answer.

  Inside the van where cervical smears and breast-scanning were taking place in curtained alcoves was a small waiting-area. Comfortable seats and magazines were provided: sometimes the wait was long. At lunch-time there had even been a queue, but it was now early afternoon. Four women were seated there, each with her head buried in a magazine. No one was talking. There was something about the clinical air that discouraged conversation, although the atmosphere was friendly enough.

  A tall, strong-featured, fair-haired woman was reading Vogue. She was thin, but looked as if she could have been a heavy well-built woman if rigorous dieting had not kept her weight under control. Her breasts were tightly laced inside an expensive brassière that was going to be hell to get out of, and she would probably have to ask the nurse to hook her back in. As for the other test, well, her uterus had never been a welcoming one, and she could already feel her muscles tightening.

  ‘Can I have that Harper’s if you’ve finished reading it?’ she asked her neighbour. In her left hand she clutched a card to hand to the doctor, with her name, Diana King, written on it.

  Her neighbour, small, pretty and blonde, politely handed over the magazine she was reading and accepted Vogue in return. She was an elegantly boned creature with huge hungry blue eyes and a constant smile.

  Next to her was seated a tall spare woman in jeans and a check shirt. She wasn’t reading at all but was obstinately smoking a cigarette in defiance of a large notice requesting no smoking. She carried the cards for herself and her companion: Phyllis Ladbury and Beryl Andrea Barker.

  ‘Whichever of us is called, you can go first, Baby,’ she said tolerantly. ‘I can see you’re on the twitch.’

  The other woman present was using the time to check her bank statement. Baby tried to read it upside down, but found it difficult. She could read the name, though, and it matched that on the card in the woman’s lap, which vaguely surprised Baby’s suspicious little mind. She was always on the look-out for discrepancies, and enjoyed them. ‘Beatrice Dawson,’ she read, on bank statement and card. She whispered to her friend: ‘It’s the cold steel going inside me

  that gets me. That’s what I can’t stand.’

  Presently, Charmian Daniels came in and sat down. No words

  passed.

  They all sat there quietly. It was an hour in a day in their lives.

  Kitty Morley, having recently had a child, had not been summoned to the mass screening of Woman. Nature had just cleared out her system magnificently, and she was well. She went home from her weekly ‘big’ shop in the Bonanza Supermarket in Deerham Hills, drove the car into the garage, scraping the paintwor
k again, and unpacked the frozen goods first, then the baby and last of all the bags of groceries. She had worked out her priorities weeks ago. Presently, when the baby began to sit up and grab things, she would have to move him first, but for the moment he could only lie there and stare and wave his hands.

  At dinner she said to her husband, Ben: ‘There was such a funny woman outside the freezer-shop today.’ She waited hopefully for him to make some response, but he only chewed on. So she tried again. ‘Really queer. Just stood there and stared.’

  ‘At you specially? Or everyone?’ He was still young enough, and newly married enough, to think his wife well worth staring at.

  ‘No, not just me. Everyone.’

  ‘Ah.’ And he went back to chewing his steak, which was tough.

  ‘She had such heavy make-up on. Thick black eyebrows, and a great red Cupid’s bow of a mouth. It looked all wrong.’

  ‘So she was ugly, then?’

  ‘No, not ugly,’ said Kitty thoughtfully. ‘More grotesque. I was sorry for her.’

  ‘Oh well, you won’t see her again, so why worry? Is there any pudding?’

  ‘You haven’t finished the steak yet.’

  ‘Only thinking ahead,’ observed her husband mildly. ‘You’re always telling me to.’

  ‘Yes, but I meant about cutting the grass, and decorating the living-room, and planning our holiday, not food, not eating,’ said Kitty with deep conviction. ‘Important things.’

  ‘Food’s important,’ said her husband rather sadly. It was not always important to his Kitty. Hence, no doubt, the toughness of the steak. ‘Anyway, to me. And to him.’ he said as there was an angry roar from upstairs. ‘ How’s he getting on?’

  ‘About the same as he was when you last saw him this morning. Not much change from that. What do you expect?’

  ‘You feel as though they should be advancing every minute when they’re as small as that,’ said Ben. ‘ They’ve got so much to get in.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s very bright,’ observed Kitty appraisingly. ‘It’s disappointing. He should be reaching out to grab things – bright things – with his hands by now, and he’s not. About ten weeks, he should be doing at least that.’

  ‘But that’s the average. It’s the average for that sort of thing. Doesn’t mean any more. It’s not a law.’ Ben stopped eating to make his point.

  ‘Oh, of course, I know that. But naturally I thought he’d be better than average.’

  ‘He’ll catch up.’

  ‘I don’t want him catching up. He ought to be right out there, leading,’ said Kitty.

  Ben tried to read her expression. He was never quite sure when she was joking. Because she was clever he was never sure of her at all. Possibly she was joking now.

  ‘However, he was very intelligent this afternoon,’ she went on. ‘I give him full marks for it.’

  ‘You were joking then,’ said Ben with relief.

  ‘When that woman looked at him, he glared back.’

  ‘I don’t like to think she even looked at him,’ said Ben nervously. He was very protective of his son. ‘ You don’t suppose that she was.… No, I suppose not. Still keep an eye on the baby, Kitty, when you’re out.’

  ‘Oh, I always do,’ said his wife placidly. ‘I don’t think she was looking at him hungrily. No, not at all. It was just a stare. Not much expression was in it behind the mascara.’ She got up.

  ‘Where are you going? He’s stopped crying.’

  ‘I’m not going up to him. I’m going to telephone my friend Charmian and tell her about the woman. I think she ought to know.’

  ‘She probably knows already,’ observed Ben. ‘You don’t suppose you were the only one who noticed the woman, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Kitty thoughtfully. ‘Now you mention it, I don’t. There must have been others today. Wonder if she’ll be there tomorrow.’

  Next day it rained; but there was a covered-in promenade around the new market, where it was possible to stop and stay dry. Also to stand and stare.

  ‘Baby, have you seen the way she looks?’ said Phil, returning to her car where her friend was waiting. ‘I went back to see again. Face like a mask and a stare on her that’d frighten a horse.’

  ‘She’s creepy,’ said Baby. Gleefully, she shuddered: ‘Her hands!’

  ‘Did she touch you?’

  ‘No, Phil. Never came near me. Don’t be so fierce. It frightens Baby.’

  ‘Not you,’ said Phil with conviction. ‘You love it. What about her hands, then?’

  ‘Red nail-varnish and ragged cuticles. Ugh!’

  ‘Everyone can’t spend the hours on their hands that you do.’

  ‘Don’t be spiteful, Phil. After all, it’s my job.’

  ‘I’ll drive you back to work,’ said Phil, changing the subject. ‘You’re going to be late. Got all the shopping you want?’

  ‘Enough till the weekend. Thanks for carrying the heavy stuff.’

  Phil grunted. ‘That’s what I’m for.’

  ‘Not only.’ Baby put out a little hand, the nails a delicate pearly pink. ‘You know that.’

  Phil grunted again. ‘It’s that woman. Got under my skin somehow.’

  As they drove past the corner, they both turned to look.

  ‘She’s still there.’

  ‘Poor soul,’ said Baby. ‘It’s sad, really.’

  The car stopped outside Charm and Chic hair salon, and Baby got out, waved goodbye and went in. She was nearly, but not quite, late; and Diana King, her employer, was standing in the window of the shop, looking out.

  ‘Your two o’clock’s just come in,’ she said to Baby.

  ‘Sorry if I’m late.’

  ‘No, you aren’t. She’s early.’ In Diana’s eyes it was as great a sin for a customer to come early as to come late. Not to come at all was worst; but Charm and Chic charged for that.

  ‘I’ll just get my things together.’ Baby was putting on a pink overall and gathering up a large pink cushion on which were disposed a small bowl of scented water in which to soak the client’s fingertips and a tray of lotions and varnishes. Baby floated a rose petal in the bowl and was ready.

  ‘You might change the water.’

  ‘It’s perfectly fresh. Mrs Driscoll before lunch wouldn’t use it. Said the bowl reminded her of her dog. And I can’t keep splashing out on scent to put in it. Too pricey.’

  ‘You’re as mean as Old Nick, really,’ said Diana. ‘She’s never got her dog back, then?’

  ‘No. I don’t think she ever will now.’

  Diana continued to look out of the window. ‘ Big girl, your friend,’ she said. ‘Nice car she drives. Good driver, is she?’

  ‘It’s her life,’ said Baby earnestly.

  ‘Introduce me some time.’

  ‘Oh, I will,’ said Baby. ‘She’s a dream.’

  Charmian Daniels had weathered the first week of the woman’s coming into town, and was now having a few hours off duty. It had been her intention to spend the time gardening, but the rain prevented that. Instead she decided to clear out some cupboards. Charmian was no housewife; the house was tidy and clean because she would have despised living in a mess, but she paid someone else to clean it for her. This job, however, was special, and she had to do it herself. She had left it long enough as it was.

  Charmian’s house had the anonymous look of all houses not loved by their owners. Everything in it was in immaculate order but was neglected. If a house could be bored, this house was bored. Only Charmian’s bedroom had any character, with the clothes she had just taken off hanging up to air, her shoes on special trees, and on the air the faint breath of a very fresh, light toilet water. The big bed with its pleated chintz quilt was placed squarely in the middle of the room, reflecting, perhaps, the character of the man who had once shared it with her. Charmian had moved her pillows into the centre of the bed. This was the only sign of change.

  She opened a cupboard door. Inside, it was full of men’s clothes. She stared f
or a moment, then deliberately closed the door.

  It was over a year now since her husband had died. The first numbing shock had been lived through and had lifted. Time now to deal with all the tasks she had pushed aside. She opened the cupboard door again. ‘These first,’ she said aloud.

  By her side she had placed two large empty cardboard boxes, into which she methodically tumbled the clothes. She went through the pockets of jackets and trousers as each garment came off its hanger, deliberately suppressing all emotion as she did so. All the pockets were empty, for her husband had been a careful foreseeing man.

  All except one outfit, the suit in which he had died. Died suddenly and painlessly (or so the doctors had assured her) of a massive myocardial infarction. His police identification-card and his cheque-book and similar papers had been removed with his wallet, as she knew, but in the jacket some objects might still remain.

  Even after this length of time Charmian disliked digging through his pockets, prying. She and Rupert had treated each other with dignity and reserve.

  Not the foundation perhaps for the very happiest and closest of marriages. ‘And, as a matter of fact,’ said Charmian, as if she had only just discovered it, and was surprised, ‘it wasn’t.’

  Her husband had been fifteen years her senior, and already a distinguished policeman when they married. He had been even more distinguished when he died. Charmian, too, had been steadily ascending the career-ladder, her ambitions unchanged by marriage; indeed, stimulated by it. Her husband’s career had shown her what could be done.

  ‘I’m not as clever as he was, but I sometimes have flashes of insight which make up for it. And I’m very thorough,’ she said.

  The top pockets of the jacket were empty. It was good tweed, and well tailored; he had had excellent taste, better than Charmian’s, as she acknowledged.

  All the clothes could be cleaned and sent to Oxfam.

  Now, my clothes, if I drop dead, won’t be worth a penny, thought Charmian. Shan’t drop dead, of course. Go plodding on, dogged and indomitable and very, very irritating. Just like my mother.