They found Peter Hobbs under his car—an old green car. He got up slowly. He wore old blue
trousers and a dirty orange shirt.
‘We want to talk about Mrs Clarkson,’
Inspector Walsh said.
‘Oh, it’s about her,’ Peter said. He looked
at the Inspector. ‘I know she’s dead. Someone in the village told me.’
‘Why did you go to the Clarkson’s house
last night?’
‘Jackie wanted me to come and see her
brother, Roger. “You’re angry,” she said. “Come and tell Roger.” I went to the
house but nobody opened the door. So I made a lot of noise and then they opened
the door. Old Mrs Clarkson wasn’t there. But I told Roger. I told them all!’
Peter hit the car with his hand. ‘I wanted to kill that woman. I lost my job,
my first job, because of her. Last month I was in trouble with the police and
that old woman wrote to my office and she told them about the police. I wanted
to kill her!’
‘Take it easy!’ Inspector Walsh said. ‘What
happened next?’
‘Jackie gave me some coffee, but her
brother didn’t listen to me,’ Peter said angrily. ‘Then Tom Briggs came in. He
wanted to talk to Roger, too. But Roger didn’t listen to him. Jackie was very
unhappy—she nearly cried. Then I went home. That’s
all.’
‘I see. Now tell me about the tablets. You
went to the village on Thursday?’
‘Tablets? Oh, yes. I remember Jackie wanted
me to get her mother’s tablets from the village. I go to the village on my
bicycle—this car doesn’t work.’
‘Thank you, Peter. That’s all.’
‘That’s all?’ Peter laughed angrily. ‘You’re
going to come back, I know that! I know the police!’
Tom Briggs’ farm
was about half a mile away, near the river.
It was not a big
farm, and the house was old and dirty.
‘Not much money here,’ Inspector Walsh
said.
Tom Briggs was a young man, about thirty
years old, with dirty hands and bad teeth. ‘What’s wrong? Excuse me, I’m eating
my dinner,’ he said.
‘We can wait Finish your dinner,’ Inspector
Walsh said. ‘We want to ask one or two questions about last night.’
‘Come and wait in the front room,’ Tom said
and opened the door.
Inspector Walsh looked at the things in the
front room. There was an old black and white television, and some books on the
table. There was a picture of a happy young girl with long brown hair on the
table, too. Inspector Walsh looked at the picture for a long time. Who was the
girl?
Tom Briggs came back into the front room.
‘Finished?’ Inspector Walsh asked. ‘You
know Mrs Clarkson is dead?’
Tom Briggs sat down suddenly on the nearest
chair. ‘What? How did she die? When did it happen? I was there last night.’
‘She died last night or early this morning.
What did you do last night?’
‘Me? Why are you asking me? I went there to
meet Mr Clarkson—Roger. I’m losing money on this farm and I
need more land. I want half Mrs Clarkson’s garden.’
‘You went into the kitchen. What did you do
next? Can you remember?’
Tom Briggs looked at Sergeant Foster and
then back at Inspector Walsh. ‘I remember it very well. All the family were in
the kitchen. Peter Hobbs was there, too. I talked to Roger. He wants his mother
to sell the house. But he wants the land. He doesn’t want me to have it. But
now Mrs Clarkson is dead. What’s going to happen now?’
Inspector Walsh got up and took the picture
of the girl from the table. ‘Who’s this?’
Tom’s face went red. ‘Who? Oh! That’s a
friend. It’s not. . . It was a long time ago.’
The two detectives walked back to the
Clarksons’ house through the garden. It was beautiful, green and quiet.
Inspector Walsh felt tired and hungry. Who killed Molly? He knew the answer now,
but he needed to ask one or two more questions.
‘Let’s go, Sergeant,’ he said, and put on
his hat again. ‘Tomorrow is a new day.’