Element of Chance

COPYRIGHT

Harper An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 1975 by Collins Crime

Copyright © Emma Page 1975

Emma Page asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9780008175948

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780008175955

Version [2016-02-18]

DEDICATION

For Ginge

Poet Extraordinary

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About the Author

By Emma Page

About the Publisher

CHAPTER 1

SEVEN-FIFTEEN on a calm, palely golden Friday morning in October. Andrew Rolt – Area Manager of CeeJay Plant Hire Limited – came slowly down the stairs of his large Victorian house on the outskirts of Barbourne. He was already dressed for work in a dark business suit; the skilful cut of the jacket concealed his thickening waistline, the beginnings of a paunch. Although he was not much over forty his brown hair was liberally streaked with grey. He was still passably good-looking in a boyish way; his features retained something of a vulnerable air.

He reached the front hall and went slowly towards the rear of the house. He had slept badly again, felt little appetite at the thought of toast or coffee. He halted in the doorway of the big silent kitchen and turned his head in the direction of the dining room with its store of bottles discreetly housed in the sideboard. He felt jittery, apprehensive. Surely the letter must come by this morning’s post. It had reached his ears in the gossipy interchanges of the trade that the interviews for the Kain Engineering job were scheduled for next Monday afternoon. If his name was on the short list they must surely let him know by today.

He had expected to hear yesterday morning, had come downstairs confident that he’d find the letter in the wire cage on the inside of the front door. He’d sent off two previous applications for jobs in September, both unsuccessful; when the second application had come to nothing he realized what was holding him back. This time he had corrected the error. He hadn’t put ‘Living apart’ in the box opposite ‘Marital status’; this time he had simply written: ‘Married.’

But yesterday there had been no word from Kain Engineering. There is still Friday, he had told himself, rallying almost at once from the old feeling of hopelessness that rose in him at the sight of the empty letter cage; there is no need yet for despair. It was despair that threatened him nowadays, a sense of failure and isolation that confronted him in unexpected moments, leaping out from behind a word, a look. He had to break out now from the barriers closing round him. In a couple of years he would be forty-five; he must make the push without delay – and must succeed in it – if he was to escape the insidious downward slope.

He glanced at his watch. Seven twenty-two. The post was scarcely ever later than seven-thirty. He turned from the kitchen and walked hesitantly towards the dining room. Nothing wrong with just one drink, it would make bearable the next few minutes of waiting.

In the large dining room with its tall windows framed in long drapes of plum-coloured velvet, he stooped to open the sideboard cupboard, paused with one hand already reaching for a bottle and stood for a moment with his eyes closed. No, he would not take a drink. He straightened up, sighed deeply and closed the cupboard.

He went quickly into the hall and let himself out into the garden, kept in trim by a jobbing gardener and glowing now with the deep rich colours of autumn. Chrysanthemums, dahlias, asters; shrubs with their soaring sprays and thick clusters of berries, white, scarlet and purple.

He wandered along the neat paths, contemplated the drift of yellow leaves in the shrubbery, ran a finger over the creamy ruffles of a late rose. He had gone to a nursery five years ago when Alison had said she would marry him. He had been astounded at his good fortune, had felt a great surge of optimism, a fierce late blossoming of the romantic impulse. He had selected twenty-one rose bushes – one for every year of Alison’s life. He had created this pretty little rose garden with a vision of the two of them strolling beside it in warm summer evenings.

By the time the bushes had established themselves, when they had been in the ground scarcely more than two years, Alison had turned her back on the marriage, had walked out on him, had returned to secretarial work.

She hadn’t mentioned divorce. She had no legal grounds for such a step and it was certainly the last thing he wanted. In the first few months after her departure he had telephoned, written, gone to see her, made a succession of appeals for her return. By degrees the appeals grew less frequent, died away. He no longer cherished any very strong hope that they would succeed and now that they had lived apart for over two years he was afraid to approach her again. His action might make her realize that sufficient time had gone by to allow a petition for divorce by consent.

Out on the road, some little distance away, he heard the sound of a vehicle. A light sweat broke out on his forehead. He began to walk back towards the house with an air of casualness. The vehicle slowed to make the turn in through the gates. It came up the drive, disclosing itself as a red mail van; it halted when Rolt stepped into view. He took the letters from the postman and flipped them apart.

‘A mild morning,’ the postman said. ‘Could be sunny later on.’ Rolt saw the postmark on the third letter. He turned over the envelope and read the seal on the back: Kain Engineering. His heart seemed to rise up in his chest, suspend its beat for a long moment and then drop back with a thud.

‘They talked about rain in the forecast,’ the postman said. ‘They get it wrong two days out of three.’ Rolt glanced up, aware that the man had said something. He smiled, nodded vaguely and plunged off across the grass, ripping open the thick white paper, unable to wait till he got into the house.

He fumbled at the folded sheet. His eyes raced over the lines of typing. The words sprang out at him like whorls of fire … Interview … Monday … 3.30 p.m.

He raised his head and looked up at the pearly sky. The mail van went back down the drive and out into the road. A flood of joy washed over Rolt. Careful, he told himself, must keep my grip. He walked up the short flight of stone steps that led to the front door. His pace was consciously brisk, his manner controlled and competent.

I’ll get Alison back, he said in his mind with total confidence. He had something to offer her now. And she’d had time to think things over, she was no longer an inexperienced girl. She’d see sense, realize where her best interests – the best interests of both of them – lay. And no doubt by now she’d had more than enough of turning out in all weathers five days a week to go to the office. She’d probably wondered why he hadn’t been in touch with her lately. After all, if she actually wanted a divorce, she could have approached him as soon as the two years were up. And she had no steady boy-friend, he was pretty certain of that.

He let himself into the house and closed the door behind him with a precise click. Silence settled back over the high-ceilinged rooms, the spacious hallway, lofty staircase, wide landings. He stood looking down at the carpet with its subdued pattern of blues and greys. Things would sort themselves out, it would all come right in the end. Just to get Alison back would at once make him feel younger, more positive and hopeful, give direction and purpose to his life.

He raised his head and glanced about him. Yes, that’s it, he said to himself with decision. I’ll phone Alison, I’ll get the whole thing settled … But possibly not before the Kain interview … Probably best not to speak to her before three-thirty next Monday afternoon … For if by some remote chance she put on a voice of ice, if she refused to listen to reason, how then could he possibly conduct himself with cheerful confidence during the ordeal of the interview?

No, he would get the job first and then phone Alison; he’d have something concrete to lay before her then, something more enticing than vague, optimistic proposals. He put up a hand and rubbed his chin. In actual fact, he thought, I’d offer her anything to get her back. He imagined himself phrasing the words over the phone … Just say what it is you want and you can have it. How could any woman resist an offer like that? Anything she wanted … Well, of course, it went without saying, anything within reason.

He placed his hands together, linked the fingers, rubbed the palms against each other with a sense of satisfaction and relief. He noted with pleasure his feeling of control and competence, of being in charge of himself and his existence. And now, with all that resolved, what about one little drink? Not as a prop or a crutch – certainly not. Nor as a shield or a distorting mirror. But perfectly normally and wholesomely, by way of celebration.

Five minutes later he was sitting at ease in the dining room when he remembered the other letters the postman had handed him. He set down his glass and picked up the little pile of envelopes. Nothing of great consequence. The telephone account, a couple of receipts, and a bill for the perfume he had given Celia Brettell on her birthday last month. Her thirty-third birthday according to Miss Brettell, her thirty-eighth according to uncharitable intimates. Every year at Christmas and on her birthday – with the exception of the couple of years of his marriage – he rang the changes between chocolates, flowers, books and perfumes, being careful never to give her anything more personal. He flicked the sheet of paper against his fingers, thinking about Celia.

He had known her for years, liked her well enough. There had been a time when he had almost allowed her to steer him towards the altar, from lack of any alternative and more attractive prospect. But that of course had been in the days before Alison.

He thrust the bill back into its envelope and instantly forgot about Miss Brettell. He gathered up the rest of his mail, stood up, finished his drink and went upstairs, half smiling, thinking with pleasurable expectation about the interview on Monday.

Monday morning, ten minutes past seven. In the bedroom of her ground-floor flat in Fairview, a solid Edwardian villa set on the lower slopes of the hills that cradled Barbourne, Alison Rolt drew back the curtains and looked out at the day. A little over two miles separated Fairview from Andrew Rolt’s Victorian residence on the other side of Barbourne.

Quite a pleasant day. A light veil of mist obscured the view but there was a strong hint of warmth and sunshine later in the morning.

She went swiftly along to the bathroom and turned on the taps, piled her long hair on top of her head, squeezing the springy tresses into a waterproof cap ruched and frilled with pale blue nylon.

She flung a handful of salts into the water and stepped in. There was a suggestion of the exotic about her; she was small, slender and delicately made, still three or four years away from thirty. A pale olive skin deepened by suntan, quick movements, easy grace.

The only sound came from the water running into the cistern and her own soapy splashings. But I don’t in the least mind being alone in the house, she thought, leaning back in the pale green water. She wasn’t nervous; she found the quiet a pleasant contrast to the daily bustle at the office. And in any case the situation was likely to be merely temporary; the two upper flats were sure to be tenanted again before long.

She came out of her thoughts with the recollection that it was Monday morning, that she had made up her mind on Friday to start a campaign to restore the efficiency of the girls who worked under her. She was junior partner at the Kingfisher Secretarial Agency in Barbourne, she had striven for high standards in the time she had held the post – a little less than a year. She had achieved a fair degree of success, only to find some of her efforts being undone in the last month or two.

In the middle of the summer Kingfisher had finally absorbed the remnants of Tyler’s, the other secretarial agency in the town. Before her move to Kingfisher Alison had worked at Tyler’s for eighteen months. It was a long-established agency but it had grown increasingly complacent, opposed to inevitable change, partly because old Mr Tyler had no son or daughter to inject fresh ideas into the business. He had seen the Kingfisher start up six years ago; he had felt no concern, considering the new agency an upstart enterprise likely to remain small and unimportant or else fade out altogether.

But Kingfisher had steadily expanded, nibbling unremittingly at the edges of Tyler’s business, gradually luring away staff, enticing and retaining clients. A little over a year ago Mr Tyler died. The ownership of his agency passed to his widowed sister, an elderly invalid living in a South Coast nursing home, with no interest in the business apart from the money it might bring her. One of the senior members of staff – a man of no very great competence, not far off retiring age – was promoted to manager.

The flowers had scarcely withered on Mr Tyler’s grave when Alison received an approach from the rival agency of Kingfisher. Judith Padmore, the founder and sole owner of Kingfisher, had had her eye on Alison for some time, well aware that it was largely Mrs Rolt’s ability and youthful energy that allowed Tyler’s to struggle on at all. Miss Padmore was a shrewd, hard-working woman with long commercial experience behind her. Now in late middle age and ready to take a little more leisure, she made her proposition in a forthright manner. A junior partnership, a percentage of the healthy Kingfisher profits in return for an investment of capital and the application of Mrs Rolt’s talents to the business.

It had taken Alison no time at all to say yes. She had joined Tyler’s when she closed the door on her marriage. She was twenty-three years old at the time, determined to make a good career for herself; she believed she had found a suitable niche. But her ambition had increased along with her experience. She hadn’t much enjoyed the final six months at Tyler’s and the bleak realization that in spite of all her endeavours she was now merely part of a rapidly failing concern.

After her departure Tyler’s had struggled on under its inadequate manager, finally giving up the ghost a few months ago when the manager decided to retire. Miss Padmore took over what was left of the business and goodwill, the few remaining staff, together with the furnishings and equipment, all in exchange for a lump sum paid over to the invalid lady on the South Coast.

The graphs on the walls of Miss Padmore’s office already showed a marked upswing and could be expected to present an increasingly satisfactory appearance for the next year or two. But there’s a fairly rigid natural limit to expansion in a town of this size, Alison thought, squeezing the sponge over her slender shoulders.

She lay back in the bath and stared up at the ceiling. She’d probably have to move on in a couple of years, seek lusher pastures. She blew out a long calculating breath.

Nothing in her thoughts so much as brushed against an image of Andrew or flicked awareness of his existence into the forefront of her mind. Her marriage – or what was legally left of it – was now totally lacking in significance for her. When some chance happening brought it to her recollection it seemed as if she was recalling with difficulty an almost-forgotten interlude. She felt more and more that exciting possibilities were opening out before her, that the real business of her life was only just beginning.

The sound of the newsboy’s whistle reached her ears. It must be turned a quarter to eight. She pulled out the bath plug and stretched out a hand for a towel. She stood up and dried herself with easy, rapid movements. Along with the goods and chattels that had moved across from Tyler’s in the course of the final transfer, there had also come a certain tinge of slackness that began before long to affect the Kingfisher staff. Girls started to arrive a little late in the mornings, to vanish a trifle early in the evenings, to absent themselves for an occasional afternoon without good reason.

And the time has come to root the slackness out, Alison thought, stepping out of the bath and flinging down the towel. She picked up a bottle of lotion and began to massage it into the fine smooth skin of her calves and thighs.

When she got back to her bedroom the clock showed five minutes to eight. She pulled open a drawer, looked rapidly through the filmy underthings. She certainly couldn’t risk being late for work herself if she was going to get her campaign off to a good start. Some of the girls were only too quick to take advantage of any little lapse on the part of the management.

The central police station in Barbourne was a modern building, bright and airy. The reception area was almost empty at this time on a Monday morning; it had a leisurely air after the busy traffic of the weekend. On a bench against the wall an old man sat alone in a patient, relaxed attitude.

Detective Sergeant Colin Viner stood in front of the long polished counter, dealing with a couple of girls, office workers, who had come in to report an incident which had taken place – or which they said had taken place – on Friday night. Viner was not at all sure that he was disposed to believe their unsupported tale of a man springing out at one of them as she walked home alone across the hill from an evening class in the town.

There had been vague rumours for some little time of a man haunting the hills. Nothing substantiated, nothing serious. Such rumours were not uncommon; often the episode which sparked them off was nothing more than a prank, a moment’s mischief.

‘It’s a great pity you didn’t manage to get a good look at the man,’ Viner said briskly. He slid a speculative glance at the taller of the two girls, the victim of the alleged assault – or more precisely, of the attempted assault, for the girl, according to her story, had taken to her heels at once with scarcely more than a finger laid upon her. She was really quite pretty in a fluid, drooping way … and he had always been rather partial to fluid, drooping girls … He flicked the thought away and returned his attention to business. He’d have liked a little more evidence than the statement of this young woman whose path – during the short time he’d been stationed in Barbourne – had crossed his own a little more frequently than he was inclined to put down to the simple workings of chance.

‘If you could give me some idea of the man’s age, his height—’ He ran his eye over the brief details he had jotted down about the girl: Tessa Drake, eighteen years old, shared a small flat with the other girl in Leofric Gardens, a run-down area of Barbourne. Employed as a shorthand-typist by the Kingfisher Secretarial Agency.

On her way to work now, twenty past eight by the station clock, having – so she said – spent the best part of the weekend recovering from her nasty experience of Friday night and bracing herself – with the moral support of her friend who stood now levelling at Viner a sternly challenging gaze – to walk up the steps of the police station and recount her shocking tale.

‘Did the man say anything?’ Viner asked without hope. ‘I don’t know what you expect us to do when you can tell us practically nothing.’

‘Well, she was very upset.’ The friend, little more than five feet in height but bristling with protective ferocity, jerked her head in indignation. ‘Who wouldn’t be? A man jumping out at her like that.’

Detective-Inspector Bennett came striding into the hall and swept a glance over the reception area. He closed his eyes for an instant at the sight of old James Ottaway once again on his bench, now sitting bolt upright, staring rigidly ahead. Bennett came to a halt a few yards from where Sergeant Viner was writing something down with an air of resigned boredom.

‘Mandy Webb. Nineteen years old,’ Viner said aloud as he wrote the words. He glanced up at the second girl. ‘The same address in Leofric Gardens?’ She nodded. ‘And you work at the same place as your friend?’

‘No. We used to work together. At Tyler’s agency. When it folded up Tessa went to Kingfisher and I got a job at CeeJay Plant Hire.’

‘You’d better get off to work then,’ Viner said. ‘Both of you. Wouldn’t do to keep your bosses waiting.’ He caught sight of Inspector Bennett. ‘These young ladies have come across – or fancy they’ve come across – our phantom prowler,’ he said as Bennett came over. ‘Most upset,’ Viner added with unsubtle irony. ‘So upset they didn’t notice anything about him.’

Bennett ran his eye over the girls, the short one like a terrier with her fringe of fawn-coloured hair, and the taller one, not bad-looking in her dreamy way. He frowned. Hadn’t the tall one been into the station only a week or two back on some pretext or other? He flicked a sour-grape look at Viner’s smooth tanned skin and thick dark hair; a pity the sergeant had nothing better to do than stand around encouraging silly girls to run in and out making eyes at him.

‘You might explain to these young ladies,’ Bennett said with threatening jocularity, ‘that there’s such a thing as being charged with wasting police time.’ The tall girl gave him a look of faint alarm, the other lowered her eyes with an expression of contempt.

‘Foolish girls,’ Bennett said, gazing idly about, ‘are inclined to pick up snippets of rumour.’ His glance rested on James Ottaway still peering resolutely into vacancy; at least it wasn’t one of the old fellow’s noisily obstreperous days, something to be thankful for. ‘Frivolous minds seize on a titbit,’ Bennett said. ‘They touch it up, embroider it.’ He jerked his head round, frowned at the girls with a look from which jocularity had abruptly vanished. ‘Then they come in here with their daft tales, trying it on, looking for a bit of importance.’ He nodded over towards the door. ‘Go on, scarper. Go and waste your bosses’ time.’ When they had taken themselves off a few yards, pink-cheeked and bridling, Bennett said loudly, ‘The tall one, Miss Droopy Drawers—’