MURDER ON THE STAIRS

CHAPTER ONE (Part Three)

CHAPTER ONE (Part Three)

Betty could not wait to get back to her flat to telephone her son. It was about tea-time and Griff should be home by now, unless he was out on a case. She knew he took his job as a Detective Inspector at the Metropolitan Police very seriously.

The phone rang a few times before he answered and by the background din of children's voices she knew she had chosen a bad time.

'Hello, Mam,' Griff said loudly over the noise. 'What's wrong?'

'Griff, listen, nothing's wrong with me,' Betty said hastily. 'But I do need your help and advice.'

'Mam, can't this wait?' Griff sounded tense. 'The kids are having their tea and Carol hasn't come home yet. I've got my hands full.

Betty pictured her three grandchildren. They were a wiry trio and did tend to get overexcited when their mother wasn't around. Griff was a hopeless disciplinarian.

'Griff, a friend of mine is in trouble,' Betty persisted. 'There's been a murder at St Albans, and my friend is under suspicion.'

'A murder! Mam! Are you all right?'

'I wasn't here at the time. I was visiting in Newport.' Betty clutched the telephone receiver more tightly. 'Bernie - my friend - had nothing to do with this murder,' she said. 'Griff, can you find out what's happening down here and fill me in.'

'Mam!' Griff sounded irritated now. 'I can't go poking my nose into the cases of other Forces. Who is this friend, anyway?'

'Bernie, Bernard Walters. He's a neighbour of mine. I know he had nothing to do with it. Please, Griff. It's important.'

'Look, Mam, the police wouldn't have taken him in unless they were pretty certain of their facts. There's nothing I can do.'

'Oh, right!' Betty said angrily and slammed the receiver down, for which she was immediately sorry.

She knew she had been asking too much of him. Griff was a stickler for protocol.

Feeling sorry she had acted so childishly, she put the kettle on and made tea. Sitting quietly in her living-room, sipping the golden brew, she tried to decide what she should do next. She had not one doubt that Bernie was innocent. Over the six months they had been close, she had got to know him well.

Joan Phelps had not been liked around the complex; distrusted even. Because of her spying, she must have made enemies, real enemies. Herself for one, Betty conceded grimly. Maybe Joan had been killed because of something she knew. Betty decided a bit of nosing around herself might unearth some interesting facts.

Whilst washing her cup and saucer she was puzzling how she could do that when there was a loud knock at her front door.

Answering, she found two large men on her door step. Cops, every inch of them. She wasn't a policeman's widow for nothing.

'Mrs Betty Beagle, are we?'

Betty lifted her chin and looked the older man straight in the eye.

'Well, I don't know about you, officer, but I answer to the name of Betty Beagle,' she said tartly.

The older man sniffed, indifferent to her scorn. 'I'm DI Bowen.' He jerked his thumb at his companion. 'This is DS Smithers. Can we have a word?'

Betty made a show of looking at her wrist watch. 'It's getting late.'

'The Law never sleeps,' DI Bowen said heavily.

Oh, Betty thought, we're one of those are we. Married to the job. Probably divorced.

'Well, I do,' she said.

'It's only half past six,' DS Smithers put in. 'The night is still young.

There was a small smile playing round his lips. He had gingery hair and a pleasant face. Suddenly she was reminded of her husband, Tom, when young.

'You'd better come in,' she said, relenting. 'You're drawing a crowd.'

Smithers looked around, but there was only old Mr Cooper from opposite shuffling across the courtyard carrying his Tesco bag.

Smithers' smile widened and his eyes twinkled as her passed her in the small foyer.

With the two big men in it, her living-room felt like a sardine tin.

'Sit down,' she invited. 'I can't imagine why you have questions for me.'

They both sat on the settee. Betty wondered idly whether it could take the strain.

Smithers took out his notebook. 'You're a friend of Mr Bernard Walters, we understand, a close friend.'

Betty felt her lips tighten. He wasn't anything like her Tom.

'Why that should interest the police, I don't know,' she said woodenly.

'Everything about Mr Walters interests us,' DI Bowen said. He had a large nose and he seemed to looked down it at her. She decided she didn't like him.

'You know you're barking up the wrong tree, sunshine.' She could not help it; the words seemed to just burst out on their own.

DI Bowen sniffed. 'Oh, we've got the right tree, all right,' he said. She did not like his confident tone. If he was dead set on Bernie as the culprit he would not look anywhere else. Tunnel vision.

'Joan Phelps made lots of enemies,' Betty said rashly.

DI Bowen raised his eyebrows. 'Really?'

'She was a busybody and possibly a thief.'

DI Bowen sniffed. 'Tell us more.'

Betty bit her lip. 'I have no proof, but many of the residents complained about her. She was extremely offensive to me the day before she died.'

'Did Mr Walters witness that?'

'No!'

Betty felt a quiver around her heart. She wasn't doing herself any good, and certainly was not helping Bernie.

'You said you had questions,' she continued defensively.

'Did Mr Walters ever use threatening words against Mrs Phelps in your hearing?'

'Certainly not!'

'How well did Mr Walters and Mrs Phelps know each other. I mean, was there anything going on between them?'

Betty felt her hackles rise. 'I know what you're trying to do,' she said between gritted teeth. 'You know Bernie and I are - friendly, and you're trying to get me to say something you can use against him.'

She stood up, forcing them to do the same.

'You're not at all certain about the tree, are you?' she said spiritedly. 'Bernie is innocent, and the sooner you come out from behind those blinkers and start investigating Joan Phelps the sooner you'll find the real killer.'

'Mrs Beagle...'

'Leave my flat now,' Betty said determinedly. 'I've got nothing more to say.'