Death and a Snapper (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 6)

by R. A. Bentley

  'Oh dear,' said Connie. 'It sounds like he's going to be trouble.'

  'I'm afraid it does. He's a nasty piece of work and probably bears grudges. This case is far from over, and I can't have them fighting like tomcats every time they meet. And who is to say he won't take it out on Clare?'

  'He'd have to find her first.'

  'He's MI5, darling, and Felix is an uncommon surname. If he can't find her he's even more incompetent than he appears to be. I'm wondering, you know, if I shouldn't encourage them to get married after all. It must surely afford her some protection, especially if I can persuade them to let her stay where she is.'

  'She's not likely to want that,' said Connie. 'And as for spending her wedding night there . . .'

  'I don't see why not. Anyway they can always stay at an hotel or something. Or even have a honeymoon if they can afford it. I did wonder if they could stay at Ian and Daisy's place. They won't be using it for a year or two yet.'

  'I'm not sure what Daisy would think about that!'

  But Daisy was perfectly agreeable. 'I'll have to ask Ian,' she said, 'but I'm sure he won't mind. They'll only need a bed, after all, and perhaps a kettle.' She giggled. 'Mum, the look on your face!'

  So the next day, the Felixes drove Clare into Winchester to book the registrar and buy something to wear.

  'Are you sure you wouldn't like a church wedding?' asked Lavinia. 'You only do it once, you know.'

  'No, I don't think so,' said Clare. 'Church weddings are for taking pictures of.'

  *

  'Ha!' said Sergeant Rattigan, in the very act of lighting his pipe.

  'Ha?' queried Felix, similarly engaged.

  'I've been struck by inspiration, I think.'

  'Do tell.'

  'Rather a lot of caveats.'

  'Never mind, let's hear it.'

  'All right. Stephen Cadogan returns to this country with a bunch of Russian terrorists in tow. Why is he here? Him personally, I mean.'

  'To expedite matters: accommodations, bookings, fares, maps, translation and so on. Anything where you need local knowledge. They'd need someone like that. Not a good idea, when you think about it, to shoot the poor fellow.'

  'Damned foolish. Anyway, he finds them a car, source unknown, and an hotel for the night. The following evening they dine at Pacelli's. That much we know. However, we've always made the assumption that their first night in the country was spent at the Taunton. At any rate, I did.'

  'Yes, I suppose I did too. First night in London anyway.'

  'But suppose they'd already established a base? We've no idea, really, how long they'd been here. For a start, it was long enough to equip the ladies – I use the term somewhat loosely – with some nice frocks. The dinner suits could wait until the last minute, but frocks take a little time, especially if you can't try them on. Also they had to reconnoitre Coneybrook Hall. I'd love to know how they managed that. However, that's by the by. They'd have needed time, is my point.'

  'It's an interesting slant on things,' said Felix, 'but where might that base be? Any ideas?'

  'Yes, I have. You've just arrived in the country after a decade away. Where might you take a party of associates to stay? I'll tell you. You'd take them home, to Newbury.'

  'That bunch of cutthroats!'

  'I'm assuming his parents didn't object; which when you think about it they may not have done. The prodigal has returned, let us kill the fatted calf. Not sure why this lot are here but never mind, plenty of fatted calf to go round. And no doubt they'd be on their best behaviour, initially. Eventually the gang leaves for London, but shortly afterwards returns, minus Basil, to the only refuge they know. Maybe they pretend he's elsewhere or maybe they revert to type and chuck some threats about – two elderly people and a couple of probably live-in servants, what are they going to do about it? – and take over. And remember how jumpy that girl was. Almost like she had a gun at her back. Maybe she did have.'

  'Hmm. Well it would be easy to check, I suppose.'

  'But care needed.'

  'As you say, needs care,' said Detective Superintendent Polly. 'Especially if we were to raid the place. It could so easily go wrong.'

  'I suggest we poke about a bit first,' said Felix. If we're right, there's bound to be some sign of them. Meanwhile we have men on call, lurking in the undergrowth. We can use the local force – they'd enjoy that – and it won't cost much. If we get egg on our faces they can blame us.'

  'All right,' said Polly. I'll make the necessary arrangements. When do you want to do it? Hang on a minute. Just let me answer this. 'Yes? . . . All right, I'll tell him. It's your mother for you, Felix, urgent.'

  'I'll take it in my office, sir.'

  'Hello, Mother, what's wrong?'

  'Oh, Miles. I'm sorry to phone you at work, dear, but I'm so worried. Clare has gone away, quite without warning. Just slipped out of the house before we were up. She's taken her overnight case but left the rest. She never said anything about it. I'd have rung before but she's a free agent after all, and we assumed she'd gone to John. Then we found a note to him, in her room.'

  'All right, he's here, I'll pass you over. Don't panic, John, but Clare has gone off somewhere. It does look as though she intends to return. She left a note.'

  Nash took the earpiece. 'You'd best read it out to me if you don't mind, Mrs Felix.' He paled as he listened. 'Is that it? . . . No, I have no idea . . . Did you get any warning? The odd remark maybe ? . . . I see. Well, I'll try her flat first. You'll let me know if she rings? . . . Yes all right. I'll keep you posted.' He passed the instrument back to Felix. 'Can I go and look, sir?'

  'Yes, of course. Do you want to give me the gist of it?'

  Yardley, who was still at his desk, stood up. 'I'll clear off, shall I?'

  But Nash shook his head. 'No, it's all right. She obviously realised it would have to be read out. She sends her love, hopes to see me soon and says there's something she has to do but not to worry about her. Not to worry!' There was a crack in his voice. 'I thought for a minute she'd cried off.'

  'Might she have gone to your flat, sir?' said Yardley, when he'd gone.

  Felix nodded. 'She might have I suppose. I'll ring Connie. I've a nasty feeling about this.'

  *

  Shrinking into her overcoat, Clare Valentine pulled her woolly hat down over her ears and wrapped her scarf more tightly about her. She was cold and hungry, and often had to move to avoid patrolling policemen and the more unsavoury-looking loungers and passers-by. It was a popular area with prostitutes and men had twice tried to pick her up. For the umpteenth time she turned her gaze to the second floor flat across the road. It was a dull day, inclined to drizzle, and she knew someone was at home because the lights were on. That was encouraging anyway. It would be easier to catch them coming out than going in. Cars lined both sides of the street, occasionally moving off or taking an empty space, which was fortunate as they were her only cover.

  In theory it was all but hopeless — hopeless and desperately dangerous. She knew that, but she had to try. She'd go mad otherwise. She had always been one to face her fears. Alone in the world, she'd had no choice. Then she'd found John and had fallen with relief into his arms, grateful at last for someone to care for her and care about. But the fear, she soon discovered, now encompassed both of them. Only one thing would take it away.

  The photographic film she was using needed reasonably good light – anything faster would be too grainy for the necessary enlargement – but already the sky was darkening. What, really, were the chances? Close to nothing probably. She might have to wait for days. Or it might never happen. But patience and persistence had brought her some of her best shots, had made her a decent living, at times. So she waited. Just a few more minutes, then back here tomorrow.

  She was almost dozing on her feet when she was jerked awake by a sudden movement. They were there – two of them – coming out onto the pavement. She had been right! Reaching into the protective warmth of her coat she took out the Leic
a. It had only one lens, a 55mm. She had to be close. And quick. Creeping between the cars she crouched over a bonnet and pressed the button, advanced the film, pressed again, knowing instinctively they were good shots. They were getting into a car. They would see her as they drove off. Turning, she knocked at the nearest door, just a few steps up from the pavement.

  'Am I right for Mr Clement?'

  The maid looked at her strangely. 'There's no one of that name here.'

  For a while she could only lie exhausted on her bed. She'd done it! And in double-quick time too. But the flat was cold and smelled fusty from being closed up, and presently she got the gas fire going and began to make herself a cup of tea and something to eat. There was a tin of beans in the cupboard, and some spaghetti that looked all right. They would do for tonight. Tomorrow she'd go "home." Back to her little room in Bettishaw. But first to develop her film.

  *

  The door wasn't locked, as it had been earlier, and getting no answer to his ring, John Nash walked in. The flat was distinctly warm and his heart leapt, but there was no-one there. Perhaps she'd slipped out for milk or something? There was a saucepan on the stove and an opened tin of beans. He smiled. Clare wasn't much for food. Going to use the bathroom he was arrested by a message, written in lipstick on the mirror. "Teapot. Love U. Clare."

  No-one went home that night as they waited for him to process the film. He hadn't the facilities for 35mm, and was obliged to use Clare's kitchen/darkroom. He didn't know where anything was or what developer she used or how she went about it, and had to take advice from a friend with a Leica. It took a long time. Better that than spoil it. The rest of the team kept vigil in the living room while a constable patrolled the street.

  So that's it, he thought, as the first enlargement materialised in the dish. The discovery brought no satisfaction, only terror.

  'That'll be your Austin Mayfair,' said Felix.

  'And not much doubt who that is,' said Rattigan.

  'Makes a good woman, doesn't she? You'd scarcely know it,' observed Yardley.

  'We still don't know she isn't one,' cautioned Felix.

  'Who's the bloke?'

  'The other one.'

  'The other woman?'

  'Yes, look — the elf ears.'

  'Could be, I suppose.'

  'Bet it is.'

  'Can we enlarge it a bit more, get the number?'

  'Something MO,' said Yardley, peering at it. 'Dented offside wing.'

  Felix produced a magnifying glass. 'Try this.'

  'Got it,' said Rattigan, writing it down.

  'Anyone recognise the street?'

  'Not enough to go on.'

  'I should have thought it was obvious,' said Nash. He was fighting down panic, but his mind, working frantically, seemed strangely clear.

  'What do you mean?'

  'It's Grant's place of course. How else would she know to go there?'

  The others all looked at each other.

  'You do realise what you're saying?' said Felix.

  'If it means he's mixed up in it then he is. I just want Clare back.'

  'I'm not saying you're wrong,' said Felix diplomatically, 'but he might have made her photograph them before, or try to. She'd remember the address.'

  'Why would she bother again now?'

  'It's not Grant's car,' said Rattigan. 'I know it from Coneybrook. Green Sunbeam tourer.'

  'It's the gang's, obviously,' said Nash. 'They're visiting or staying with him.' Why couldn't they see it? It seemed obvious to him. She'd been photographing, trying to prove that Grant was mixed up with them, and he'd seen and followed her. Determined that they should get the pictures she'd gone with him quietly. He'd never felt so helpless. She needed him and he wasn't there.

  Chapter Twelve

  'It's possible, you know,' said Rattigan the next morning. 'I'm not saying he's right, but it's possible.' He produced an old envelope, filled with scribbled notes, and slapped it on the table. 'Not something for the official notebook, I think.'

  Felix chuckled, producing a scrap of paper of his own. 'No, I agree. It's one of those things one wonders about, only to dismiss it. There's no real evidence for it, but as far as it goes, it works. What have you got?'

  'You first. I'll be devil's advocate.'

  'All right then. Item one: he's steadfastly refused to give us any information about these people, and what little he has done appears to have been at the insistence of Underwood and is essentially useless.'

  'Doesn't trust us with sensitive or classified information,' countered Rattigan. 'Culture of secrecy ingrained.'

  'Yes, I suppose so. Or is it professional jealousy? It's taking it rather to extremes either way. Item two: keeps tabs on us. How did Underwood know about our researches into Cadogan? And that includes our interview with the barrister fellow. They must have asked him what he said to us.'

  'Or he's their man. I was suspicious at the time, if you remember.' 'Yes, you were. And another thing, which I forgot to mention, he told John before their fight that he was fed up with our foolish theories, presumably that these people are White Russians. I don't recall ever mentioning that either.'

  'Nor we did. I suppose they might have overheard the lads discussing it, or Nash said more to him than he told you. However, maybe they monitor everyone — rules of the game.'

  'Well it's a darned cheek. But then we come to Pacelli's, where he managed to get Cadogan killed.'

  'Tragic accident. These things happen. No doubt did his best. Dangerous game.'

  'Did he though? If he really was in league with the Russians, all he had to do was create an impossible chance to escape and leave the poor devil to his fate. He sets Clare Valentine to take her photos, slips out of the restaurant, grabs his coat and hat and appears to turn up with his chums as if he's just arrived, which we know darned well he hadn't. That's suspicious, if nothing else.'

  'That's assuming Clare is telling the truth. And he never actually said he'd just arrived. It never came up.'

  'Well we can check her story,' said Felix, 'though I don't really doubt it. I might have a word with Pacelli's' manager. He wasn't there but he can tell me if he agreed to her photographing, which he surely must have done. Also, someone must remember seeing them together. We probably did ourselves without realising it. However — culture of secrecy again, if you like. But who did kidnap Clare last night? One could certainly forgive John for thinking it was Grant.'

  'The Russians. They know where she lives, remember? And why is Grant not in the photos? We have no evidence he's even connected with it.'

  'Nor do we know where he lives, and not much chance of finding out. But if it was the Russians, would they not have killed her out of hand? That seems to be their modus operandi — maximum violence. Instead they let her use the bathroom before leaving, like gentlemen. I'd favour Grant over that.'

  'But would Grant have left the bathroom unchecked, and the film not searched for? That seems unlikely.'

  'Only if he or the Russians had seen her taking the photos. He may just have called there on the off chance. He probably didn't know she'd been in Hampshire, remember. It's only a few days, after all, and John wouldn't have told him. Or perhaps he deputed the Russians to pick her up alive.'

  Rattigan pursed his lips thoughtfully. 'Both are possible, I suppose. I'll give you that one.'

  'Thank you. And finally, he's behaving exactly how you'd expect anyone hand in glove with the Russians to do. He appears to be quite high in his organisation, implying a certain competence, but without our "interference" as he calls it he'd have had a dead Lady Coneybrook on his hands and an international incident; which presumably was the aim of the exercise.'

  'Hmm, well I can see that. But none of this would be admissible in court, even supposing MI5 allowed it to go that far. Also, I might remind you, they nearly blew him up. The Devil wins.'

  'You can never trust the Devil though. Good morning, sir.'

  'Not me, I hope,' smiled Superintendent Polly,
coming into the room. 'It's all set up, chaps. Two o'clock this afternoon, as requested.'

  *

  But John Nash had no doubt who had taken his girl. Sleeping at her flat in the vain hope that she might return, he next day hailed a taxi – though the carpet and the train fares to Hampshire had all but cleaned him out – and went in search of either the Austin Mayfair or the street it was seen in. He had noticed what no-one else had, that in the distance was a police-box.

  'Could be anywhere,' said the cabbie, peering at the photograph. 'Do you know how many police boxes there are in London?'

  'We won't need to look at them all.'

  He was working on the theory that it wasn't far away. Why had Grant picked on Clare to do his dirty work? You wouldn't drive half across London to find a snapper. Probably he'd seen her postcard in a shop window or picked her out of the local rag. He told the cabbie to drive systematically up and down the neighbouring streets, and whenever he met a patrolling constable he stopped the cab and showed him the photo. It was a slow job.

  'Meter's running, mate,' the cabbie reminded him.

  'All right, back to my place. Remember where we've got to and we'll start again from here.'

  Back at his digs he selected one of his better cameras, took it down the road and pawned it. He would have pawned them all if necessary.