John Creasey: Send Superintendent West

Lissa Meredith was standing near the gate, beautiful against the heavy summer foliage of the trees and the grass still brilliant green from summer rain. She was beside the car before he could get out, slid into the seat next to him and closed the door.

“You were on time,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything you saw, all the details you can remember, and everything you think I ought to know about the Shawns,” Roger answered. He offered her his cigarette case. “Down to the most minute detail.”

“Such as toothbrushes,” she said. “I’d rather smoke my own.” She took a red packet of Pall Malls from her handbag, and flicked a lighter as Roger slid the car into the stream of traffic. “They had gone to bed in a hurry, that’s for sure. Belle’s clothes were just dropped on the floor, some of David’s were in a pile by the side of the bed. I don’t believe that means what you probably think it means. Belle is a tidy creature by habit. Fastidious.” Again the implication of criticism, of “too fastidious”. “They hadn’t cleared away after dinner, which was most unusual. Belle is having fun being a real housewife. Sometimes she will just put the dirty things in the washing-up machine, but she won’t leave the dining-room untidy. They must have been desperately tired. Do you want me to guess?”

“Just facts, please.”

“I might guess better than you.”

“We’ll guess together when we have to,” Roger said. “Don’t lets start arguing.”

She looked intently at his profile, which was very good. If there was anything wrong, it was with his chin, which was rather heavy and thrusting. He had a shortish nose and finely chiselled lips, his hat was pushed to the back of his head, showing wavy, corn-coloured hair, the colour of which almost disguised the grey. He knew that she was studying him closely.

“Who wants to argue?” There was laughter as well as submission in the words. “The back door wasn’t locked, but the front door was. None of the catches had been fastened at the windows. Belle is a nervous woman, the windows were always fastened and doors bolted.”

“Why was — why is she nervous?”

“I don’t know of any reasons, except —” Lissa paused. “Except that being nervous is a kind of obsession with her.”

“You don’t sound as if you approve of Belle Shawn,” Roger said drily, and when that won no response, he went on: “What do you think gives her this obsession?”

“No one’s ever put her across his knee, face downwards,” said Lissa, very deliberately. “You really want to know about her?”

“I have to know,” Roger said. “I have to be able to judge how much notice to pay to what she says. Do you mean she is spoiled?”

“Fussed, pampered, protected against the evil world, indulged since she was able to walk. And in spite of all that,” Lissa Meredith went on, “the better Belle often shows through, the good and adorable Belle. You’re right to want to know about Belle before you talk to her.”

“You imply that she’s neurotic and hard to live with?” Roger asked.

“Part of the time, that’s true.”

“Is she happy?”

“Can a bundle of nerves be happy?”

“Part of the time.”

“Oh, she is. Little parts. David’s been away from her a great deal. First the Korean war, then some special assignments. That is why they came to England. David’s likely to be here for twelve months, perhaps longer. Then she found she couldn’t bear to be without Ricky, and they sent for him. Did you really mean to ask if she’s happy with David?”

“I’d like to know.”

“I can tell you he’s in love with her — passionately. But it’s one thing for a man to come back to a beautiful wife, to know she’s waiting, another to be the patient, faithful wife. Oh, I don’t think there is anything wrong.” He knew that she was glancing at him, and that her eyes were laughing. “But don’t really know each other very well Are you looking for a motive?”

“Just for facts.” He turned into a main road near Hammersmith Broadway, where five roads met and the lumbering red giants of the buses loomed over the black Humber Hawk.

“Shawn’s inclined to give her her head, is he? He’s too easy with her?”

“Isn’t that a guess?” taunted Lissa.

“A deduction. His wife usually sleeps late, the maid arrives at nine, and Shawn and his son get up early, so someone gets the breakfast.”

Lissa laughed.

“They don’t have a cooked breakfast. But you’re right, David takes the easy way with Belle.”

“Has there ever been any threat to the boy?”

“I’ve not heard of one.”

“Do you know of anybody with a personal motive for wanting to hurt either of them?”

“No.”

“Mr Marino said they were rich,” Roger remarked after a pause.

“They were both rich at one time, but Belle lost her money. David has plenty for the two of them, but —” Lissa hesitated, as if seeking the right words, then went on very slowly. “I think if she still had her own money, she would take Ricky and leave David high and dry. It makes it sound as if I don’t like Belle, and that’s not so, Superintendent. But I do think David’s money holds Belle where nothing and no one else could.”

At Ealing Broadway, near the Common, where women and young children and here and there a nursemaid were sitting about or playing beneath the shade of trees, Lissa told him where to turn off for Wavertree Road. Soon they were driving along the narrow, tree-lined avenues of the housing estate. They passed countless houses which looked very much alike, the red bricked walls, the concealing hedges. Everything had the neat and tidy look that was so typically English.

From the end of Wavertree Road, Lissa directed him to the cul-de-sac, shaped like a horseshoe and with three houses in it, the Shawns’ the middle of the three. This house was brick-built, the top was timbered, and the tiles were weathered to a dark red. Window frames and doors had been recently painted, and the garden was spick and span, dahlias nodding multi-coloured heads and ragged petals in the quiet wind. In the garden of the house on the right, a grey-haired woman stood looking up at Number Thirty-one.

As Roger switched off the engine, they heard a scream, then a man’s voice, followed by more screaming which shattered the suburban quiet; even here the note of hysteria was clearly discernible, with its message of anguish.

Lissa Meredith was out of the car before Roger. She ran to the gate, which stood open, and flew along the yellow gravel path to the front door. The grey-haired woman stared apprehensively at her and at Roger. By the time Roger reached the porch Lissa had opened the front door and disappeared. The screaming became louder, the distorted voice made words sound like raw wounds.

“It’s your fault, it’s your fault, I hate you! I hate you, I could kill you! Get out of my way, get out, get out!”

Roger went into the hall, closed the door, saw Lissa halfway up the stairs and two people — obviously the Shawns — at the head, on the landing. Belle was struggling wildly in her husband’s grasp.

4

HYSTERIA

BELLE SHAWN wore a dressing-gown, wide open; beneath it, a pair of filmy pink pyjamas. Her hair was blown about as if caught by a high wind; she was kicking at Shawn and trying to wrench her arms free. As Lissa neared them, she got one hand away, and her fingers clawed at her husband’s face. Pain made him relax his grip, and Belle pulled herself free, turned and rushed down the stairs — and saw Lissa for the first time.

She screamed: “Ricky’s gone, Ricky’s gone I Fetch the police, he won’t Fetch the police!”