The Loophole Read online

‘I told her I had to buy the best spears to go with her wonderful homemade mayonnaise.’

  ‘She said I was a silver-tongued devil, but I think I’ve been up-staged,’ Frank said.

  Stuart sat down beside him. ‘Right.’ He pointed to the notebook. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve worked out. I wish I was joining you at the camp, feel a bit redundant here.’ Frank tapped his biro on the notes. ‘You’ll have plenty to do, there’s lots of background work on the suspects needed, and when we know how much information Revie can give you, you’ll be able to plan your schedule.’

  Stuart wrinkled his nose. ‘Not like being in the thick of it, is it?’

  Frank decided to ignore that. ‘I think we should ask Revie to do criminal checks on all the suspects, not just those Laurel, Dorothy and I will be working with. Agreed?’

  ‘Sounds sensible, but it’s no good overloading him; perhaps give him the names of the ones you’ll be working with first; that way we might get more detailed work.’

  ‘Fair enough. That will be Sam Salter and Belinda Tweedie: Dorothy’s suspects; Charles Frost: Laurel’s suspect and Gareth Hinney: mine.’

  ‘What about Stephen Salter?’

  ‘Leave him off, for the moment.’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘As you’ve finished off the other work, and thanks for that, I think you should look into the backgrounds of the two missing women. I’m not sure how much involvement the police had, that’s something Revie should be able to tell us, but from what Salter said, it wasn’t much. I’d like you to visit their parents, talk to their friends, past employers, sniff out what kind of women they were, or are. Had they anything else in common, apart from their looks?’

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘Lucy Milne was local, lived at Sudbourne and Roberta, Bobby Dodd, lived a bit farther away, at Woodbridge.’

  ‘Not too much travelling then, that’s good.’

  ‘You could take Mabel with you, it might be useful to have a woman there if things get difficult. She’s good with people -as long as she doesn’t lose her temper. No doubt everyone, and especially the parents, will be upset as their loss is brought back to them, or they may be pleased someone is searching for an answer to the girls’ disappearances. Try not to raise their hopes they’ll be found alive. You’ll have to make up some excuse as to why you’re asking questions, you can’t reveal what’s really happening.’

  Stuart frowned. ‘Yes, that could be difficult. If you’ve got any bright ideas let me know.’ His face brightened. ‘I think Mabel would like to come with me. I know she wants to be more involved in the cases. I think she’s a bit jealous of Dorothy, now she’s doing a bit of detecting.’

  Frank frowned. ‘Let’s hope Dorothy’s detecting is going smoothly.’

  Stuart laughed. ‘I can see her now, poking her finger into Sam Salter’s chest and saying: “Mr Salter, what have you done with those girls?”‘

  Frank groaned.

  Mabel appeared from the kitchen. ‘Stuart, could you be a love and shell these peas for me?’

  Stuart got up, patted Frank on the back, and with a broad grin on his face went to the kitchen.Frank placed his knife and fork together over his clean plate. The smell of roasted lamb lingered in the air. Revie spooned himself a third helping of new potatoes. Stuart looked as though he was counting the spuds on Revie’s plate.

  ‘Miss Mabel, I know you’re married now, but I always think of you as Miss Mabel, that lamb outshone your bacon butties, and that’s saying something.’ Revie squinted at Frank. ‘You’re not trying to butter me up again, are you?’ He poured the last of the gravy onto his plate.

  ‘I thought there was no need for that, Nicholas, we’ve been promised cooperation by the Suffolk police. However, if Mabel’s delicious meal puts you in a good mood...’

  Revie patted his stomach. ‘You should have waited for me, Mabel, not rushed into the arms of old Stuart.’

  Mabel got up. ‘You’re the second man who’s said that today.’ Stuart glared at Revie. Mabel pointed to Revie’s plate. ‘You’d better stop talking and eat those up, now you’ve taken them. I’ll get the pudding, then we can get down to business.’ She gathered up some of the plates, leaving Revie to gobble up his food.

  Frank cleared up the rest of the dishes, including Revie’s. ‘Stuart, could you give Inspector Revie details about the case? I’ll give Mabel a hand.’

  Later, in the sitting room, a glass of whisky in one hand, and a list of names Frank had handed to him in the other, Revie pursed his lips. ‘Just four? Stuart said there were seven people working in the camp when both girls went missing.’

  ‘That’s correct, but we thought we’d give you the people we’ll be attached to first.’

  ‘Thought I couldn’t cope with all of them at the same time? Or thought I might skimp if there were too many?’

  No flies on Revie. ‘Would you like the rest of the names?’

  ‘Might as well. Got as much details on them as these?’ He tapped the paper. ‘Done your homework, which certainly makes my job easier. We’ll do a criminal check on all of them first. Let you know straight away if anything comes up.’

  Frank went to the office/dining room and collected another list. On returning, he handed it to Revie.

  He stared at it. ‘Young Salter in the mix, then? Does he take after his father?’

  Mabel put down her glass of Tia Maria. ‘No, he doesn’t. I thought he was a pleasant young man. I must admit I didn’t take to Salter Senior.’

  ‘Interesting,’ Revie said.

  ‘Stuart’s going to do some background work on the missing girls. Could you let us know if the police came up with any hard facts, please?’ Frank asked.

  Revie nodded. ‘Will do.’ He continued staring at the second list, then tapped the paper. ‘This Thomas Coltman, I think I heard someone at the station talking about him...’ He paused, wrinkling his brow, and rubbing his hand over his mouth and jaw as if trying to work the wanted words out of his mouth.

  Frank’s diaphragm contracted, Stuart’s pipe sent out a stream of smoke and Mabel leant forward, her eyes widening.

  ‘That’s it.’ Revie’s raised his fist and pointed a finger upwards, vaguely resembling God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. ‘I remember now. It was one of the oldtimers having a jaw about famous local murder cases—’‘He’s a murderer! Shouldn’t he be in gaol?’ Mabel interrupted.

  Revie laughed. ‘My, you do jump to conclusions, Miss Mabel. No, if it’s the same chap, it was his wife who was murdered, and his baby boy. Happened during the War, he was overseas somewhere. Man who done it was caught, airman I think. Hanged.’

  ‘Where did this take place?’ Frank asked.

  A saturnine smile creased Revie’s face. ‘Where you’re about to go -Orford.’

  Chapter 9

  Friday, June 18, 1971

  Frank decided to take the picturesque route to Orford through Tunstall Forest. The road wound between stands of conifers on the right, and sweeping fields, many occupied by pigs, to the left, with sunlight shafting between leafy branches, painting stripes across the tarmac. As he wasn’t expected until after lunch, he wanted to look round Orford before going to the camp. He didn’t know the village well. He’d been there a few times to eat at the restaurant called the Oysterage when he was a detective inspector based at Ipswich, but apart from a visit to the Norman castle, he hadn’t even got as far as the quay on the river Ore, and he wanted to get the lie of the land as he’d researched the history of the village and also the spit of land off its coast, Orford Ness.

  He parked in one of the few remaining spaces on Market Hill, a triangular area in front of an antique shop, the Oysterage and the village hall. He thought he’d walk down to the quay and then come back and have lunch in the Oysterage. He might as well have one decent meal before going to the holiday camp; God knows what the food was like there.

  He passed a church set high behind a brick wall; it looked interesting,
possibly medieval, and worth a visit. Then the road curved, becoming long and straight, with a sign reading Quay Road; he was on the right track.

  The brick houses to his left were attractive, with hollyhocks growing from cracks near their walls, and roses trained over door-ways. Further on he passed a large car park; people dressed for sailing were manoeuvring small boats from trailers. Opposite it was the Jolly Sailor pub. He wondered if it sold Adnam’s beer; might be a good place to escape to for a quiet pint and a think, if the holiday camp’s atmosphere became too frantic. Altogether Orford seemed a busy, vibrant place, hardly a suitable venue for a murder... or two.

  A short distance from the pub the road widened into the quay; he hadn’t expected it to be so spacious, with a wide jetty butting out into the River Ore. He walked to the edge and peered over the side. There were two sets of iron steps leading down to the river, suitable for embarkation onto motor boats and to the left was a slip-way for smaller vessels. Brick buildings gave way to wooden huts, with boards advertising fresh fish; dinghies were moored in shallow waters, with small sailing boats further on.

  The air was buoyant, and the light reflecting off the water dazzling. The Ore ran from north to south, changing its name from the Alde as it flowed from Aldeburgh to Orford. He decided Suffolk folk were possessive, changing the name of the same river as it flowed through different towns. From Orford, the Ore made its way to Shingle Street, an isolated place he’d always wanted to visit; there, it entered the North Sea.

  Between the Ore and the sea was the spit of low, flat land he’d read about: Orford Ness. When he had done his National Service at RAF Marsham, Norfolk, he had heard about the Ness, as it was known locally, and from his research he knew it had once been used by the military in the 1950s: testing the components of atomic bombs, and before that for testing bombs and armaments in both World Wars.

  The stretch of water between the quay and the Ness was perhaps a mere one hundred yards, making it easy to reach by boat, although the river current looked strong. Swimmable? He thought Laurel wouldn’t have too much trouble.

  Ministry of Defence notices on the quay made it clear landing on Orford Ness was forbidden, and so it wasn’t surprising there was no sign of any activity there, apart from seabirds wheeling over the reeds and scrub. It looked an isolated and forgotten place; who would want to go there when you were likely to tread on a live bomb and be blown to bits?

  He squinted against the sun. The only buildings he could see were a white-and-red striped lighthouse and, far to its right, the pagodas; laboratories where the atomic bomb components were tested to destruction. He could see why they were given that name: they stood out against the skyline, grey, squat concrete buildings, with deep oriental roofs supported by strong pillars. He’d read they’d been built to absorb the shock of an accidental explosion.

  He imagined the Ness during the last war, busy with technicians and troops. Now it was left to return to how it was a century ago, when it was used for grazing. He turned and looked around the quay; somewhere, not far from here, must be the place where Thomas Coltman’s wife had been murdered. Thomas Coltman, a part-time worker at the camp. He’d asked Revie if he could find out more details about the case: exactly when it happened and who was the murderer.

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’ Revie asked. ‘This is 1971, not 1940 something.’

  ‘Curiosity.’

  ‘You know what happened to the cat, don’t you?’

  ‘Hasn’t happened so far, touch wood.’

  ‘I think you lost one of your lives not so long ago.’

  Revie was right; he didn’t fancy another close shave with death.

  Frank parked in front of the reception office at the camp, feeling relaxed after a pleasant lunch in Orford. As he walked towards the building he tried to sharpen his mind and get into his role: gardener. Would a gardener be able to afford a meal of smoked fish, oysters and fish pates, half a bottle of Muscadet, followed by rum baba and coffee? He didn’t think so. If he was asked what he’d eaten for lunch he’d have to lie.

  Behind a desk bristling with leaflets and information was a tall, buxom blonde, a perfect fit for the description Dorothy had given of Belinda Tweedie when they had talked over the telephone earlier in the week.

  She brightly smiled. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Frank Diamond, I was told to report here; I’m a new member of staff.’ He held out his hand.

  She looked at a piece of paper on the desk. ‘Ah yes. A new gardener.’ Her eyes widened and she looked as though she was unsure whether to shake his hand or inspect the nails for dirt. She briefly made contact with the tips of her fingers.

  ‘Miss Belinda Tweedie, Mr Salter’s personal secretary. Take a seat, I’ll see if I can contact Miss Minnikin, who can show you your chalet and take you to meet Mr Hinney, our head gardener.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but now he wished he’d a cloth cap so he could have doffed it to her. She would have appreciated that. Dorothy and Laurel had separately phoned Greyfriars House and reported on all the people they’d met and their feelings about them. Laurel said she was enjoying giving swimming lessons and was feeling fitter by the day, but Dorothy was frustrated because she wasn’t in charge of the office. She could see several areas for improvement and didn’t like having to do as she was told by Miss Tweedie. Her compensation was staying with the Salters: the house was lovely and the food excellent, much better than the camp.

  Belinda Tweedie placed the receiver on the telephone. ‘Miss Minnikin asked if you could find your way to the staff chalets, she’ll meet you there. She’s having a problem with one of the campers; they’ve asked for another change of bedlinen, third time this week and they’re going home tomorrow! Where do they think they are? The Ritz?’

  She passed him a map of the camp and circled an area behind a large building. ‘She said she’d be there in about five minutes, so you’d better hurry.’

  ‘I’ll take my car.’

  She looked surprised. Perhaps she thought a gardener shouldn’t be able to afford a car. ‘Yes, do that. You can’t leave it here. The car park is for visitors only.’ She bounced her biro off the camp map. ‘There’s the staff car park. Drive over at once, Miss Minnikin is a busy person, as we all are.’ She turned away from him to deal with two campers who had just come into reception. ‘May I help you?’

  Frank strode out in his effort to keep up with Miss Minnikin. Laurel’s description over the phone of Nellie’s stature and girth was accurate, but more intriguing was her long relationship with Sam Salter.

  ‘You’re a fast walker, Miss Minnikin. Training for a road race?’

  She stopped and he nearly collided with her. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Diamond, I’m trying to get rid of my temper; some of these campers, especially the ones in this camp, take the biscuit.’ She smiled at him. ‘I should be pointing out the features, shouldn’t I, instead of galloping ahead of you.’ She looked him up and down. ‘You look fit. Are you?’ There was a definite twinkle in her eyes.

  He wondered if Laurel’s assessment of Minnikin’s sexuality was accurate. ‘I had a good lunch at Orford. It’s a bit too soon to be exercising.’

  ‘At Pinneys?’

  ‘Pinneys?’ Blabber mouth -so much for lying.

  ‘Mrs Pinney runs the Oysterage in the Market Place; she’s Belgian, you know.’

  He stored the name away for later use. ‘I thought the place had a continental touch. Yes, that’s where I had lunch.’

  ‘Bit too fishy for me, I prefer the Crown, you can rely on their sirloin steaks.’

  He imagined her seated in a strongly built chair, with a gargantuan plate in front of her, a fork skewering a fat chip while her knife cut into a large piece of bloody meat. ‘You don’t sound as though you come from round her, Nellie. Is it OK if I call you Nellie?’

  She waved to an empty bench they were approaching. ‘Course it is, dear. Let’s sit down for a few minutes, give you time to recover from
too much food, and me from the cheeky campers. I wouldn’t mind but you could tell they were the type who wouldn’t change their own sheets more than once a month! These young people nowadays don’t know they’re born. Spoilt by their parents, and now National Service has ended there’s nothing to toughen the boys up.’ She let out a long sigh. ‘I sound like my old ma, she said the same things about me!’ She laughed. ‘So where do you think I come from?’

  He tried to look as if he was puzzling out the answer, an answer Laurel had already told him. He stroked his upper lip. ‘I think I can hear the faint sound of Bow Bells. Am I right?’

  Nellie nodded, grinning back at him. ‘Very good, Frank. You’ve got a sharp ear.’

  ‘Didn’t Mr Salter come from the East End? I don’t suppose you lived near him?’ He laughed as though the suggestion was ridiculous.

  ‘Well, you supposed wrong! We lived in the same street; I’m a bit younger than Sam, but my parents were fond of him, even though he was a bit of a rascal in those days.’

  He decided to risk it. ‘Not one of the Krays’ boys, I hope?’

  Nellie pulled a face. ‘Not far off,’ she whispered. ‘But he’s changed since then. He and his wife, Patsy, moved out of London before the war ended. He kept in touch and I visited them a few times; they’d moved to Essex. He’d changed. Become a real family man. Thinks the world of his son.’

  ‘So, you met Stephen when he was a baby?’ God, careless again! He shouldn’t have mentioned his name, but Nellie didn’t seem to make the connection.

  She smiled sweetly, as if remembering the baby in his pram. ‘I saw him a few times. They both doted on him.’

  He decided a few more general remarks were needed before he asked the vital question. ‘He’s made a great success of his life and it’s nice he’s kept in touch with you; he’s not turned into a snob, has he?’

  She beamed. ‘I’m very fond of Sam, and he’s been good to me, and to a few of the others he lived near. He likes his flashy cars and expensive suits, but his heart’s in the right place.’