Miss Pink Investigates series Box Set Part Two

by Gwen Moffat

  Miss Pink recovered first. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘It was in a filing cabinet, or so the papers said. That had a beam across it but the beam wasn’t holding anything up so we moved it and opened the cabinet—which wasn’t locked. There was nothing inside.’

  ‘But there wouldn’t be—’ Rupert caught his wife’s eye and subsided.

  ‘There’d be charred paper,’ Pryce said. ‘There was nothing.’

  ‘Thorne ran off with it, eh?’ Roderick sounded as if he were trying to be helpful.

  ‘Someone has, sir.’

  ‘Is it not possible,’ Miss Pink ventured, ‘that Sandra was reading this book—or manuscript—in bed?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ He was unexpectedly firm. They all felt the change and their attention sharpened. ‘At eleven o’clock,’ he went on, ‘the television men left. They’d arrived late and she said she was far too tired to give them an interview then. She told them to come back at nine this morning. They said she looked exhausted. They left her and the Thorne fellow clearing up after the party they’d had. From what they say the girl was far too tired to take any book to bed with her.’

  ‘What you mean is: she was dead drunk.’ Doreen was icy.

  ‘Not at all; she was cold sober.’

  ‘At eleven?’ Miss Pink asked suddenly.

  ‘At eleven.’ He looked expectant.

  ‘I don’t know when the fire started. . . .’ She glanced at him but he gave her no help. ‘But I—we were thinking in terms of an accident involving brandy and smoking in bed. You don’t think so?’

  He raised his shoulders. ‘There’s a lot to do yet. When did the fire start? Where? When was the book removed from the filing cabinet?’ His eyes rested on Roderick. ‘Why was it taken? Where was the Spitfire at eleven o’clock?’

  After a moment Miss Pink said stupidly: ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The television chaps were the last to leave—no, so far as they know, they were the last. At that moment the couple were in the kitchen clearing up and the T.V. men saw themselves out. The reason that they thought everyone else was gone was that theirs was the only car out front. No Spitfire. In fact, they’d seen no Spitfire when they arrived.’

  ‘What time was that?’ Miss Pink asked.

  ‘Around ten-thirty. People were leaving then.’

  ‘Then who took the Spitfire?’ Rupert asked.

  Pryce didn’t look worried. ‘Thorne probably took it and hid it while the party was in progress.’

  ‘Why?’ Miss Pink asked.

  Pryce looked at Williams, who spoke for the first time. He cleared his throat. ‘Most likely reason would be so the lady inside wouldn’t hear him start the engine, miss.’

  She blinked at him. Everyone looked bewildered, except Pryce.

  ‘Do you have the registration number of the Spitfire?’ he asked. No one had. ‘No matter. Have you Thorne’s address?’ The Bowens shook their heads.

  ‘I have Sandra’s,’ Doreen volunteered.

  ‘We have that, ma’am.’

  ‘Has Thorne got a record?’ Rupert asked.

  Pryce looked sly. ‘We’re checking on that.’ He couldn’t resist adding: ‘And a lot of other things.’

  Doreen was saying: ‘I never trusted that man; he was so obviously mercenary.’

  ‘You knew him, ma’am?’

  ‘Naturally. They drank here. I’m not at all surprised at what’s happened; I mean: stealing the book—and the car. That must have been worth quite a bit. And then,’ she added smugly, ‘no innocent survivor of a fire would run away.’

  ‘You thought he could be a villain?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say he impressed me as being honest. What would you say, darling?’ Rupert sucked in his cheeks thoughtfully and shook his head.

  ‘Rough,’ he asserted, ‘very rough. I’d never have employed him anywhere near a till. You can tell, you know: there’s a look in the eyes. . . .’

  ‘And what did you think of him, sir?’ Pryce turned on Roderick, now slumped on the settee like an empty sack. His pale eyes looked beyond the superintendent.

  ‘Didn’t drink. Never trust a feller who doesn’t drink. No manners either; that’s what’s wrong with this country. . . .’ His head drooped. Doreen sighed.

  ‘How did you come to meet him?’ Pryce’s tone was sharp.

  Roderick roused himself. ‘Come to me party last—when was it? Tuesday. Last Tuesday. I was eighty-seven.’

  ‘Congratulations, sir.’

  ‘Came along in a temper to take the girl home; didn’t like her being out on her own.’

  ‘You invited her to your party?’

  ‘Dammit, she was me tenant!’

  ‘Of course,’ Doreen put in earnestly, ‘none of us, least of all my father-in-law, had any idea what she was. She was our mystery woman: ravishingly beautiful; you should have seen her. I daresay you’ll see photographs but they won’t do her justice. She was so vital! Such a scandal for Abersaint.’ Her face fell. ‘It’s not amusing, is it? Not any longer. I still can’t believe it’s happened. Poor child; she was being manipulated.’

  ‘What makes you say that, ma’am?’

  ‘It was obvious. It’s not hindsight, I assure you; I remarked on it to Miss Pink. I mean: she was dim, empty-headed; she was completely under his thumb.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Why, Thorne’s. He was her—what do you call it?—protector? In every sense of the word.’

  ‘We didn’t know that,’ Rupert put in quickly.

  ‘No; I said: this is hindsight. All we knew was that she was beautiful, not very bright—and an alcoholic.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Pryce looked at Miss Pink.

  ‘Brandy,’ she contributed. ‘And she couldn’t hold it; not at Mr Bowen’s party anyway. I think one of Thorne’s duties would be to keep her sober.’

  ‘What did you think of him, ma’am?’

  Miss Pink assembled her observations. ‘He had the air of a petty criminal but he was careful, within his limits. He had no experience outside his job, if one assumes that to be some kind of bodyguard. He was confounded by the arrival of the reporters. I’d say he was in a panic yesterday.’

  ‘What—all day?’

  ‘He had himself under control when I was there in the afternoon,’ Doreen put in. ‘I’d say he was angry, alert; suspicious, yes, but not panicking.’ She looked inquiringly towards Miss Pink.

  Rupert said slowly: ‘His subsequent behaviour doesn’t show panic. He hid the car where no one would see it, came back, stole the book from the cabinet, walked to where he’d hidden the car. . . . Ah, that’s why he hid it: he had to get his possessions out of the cottage without her noticing, so he got them out while the party was on.’ He beamed, not seeing that their faces were closed against him. ‘And then he drove away!’

  ‘You forgot something,’ Pryce said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The fire.’

  For a moment Rupert was taken aback, then he resumed sulkily: ‘I think she was drinking and smoking in bed. So she was tired: that’s just when you need a pick-me-up, and having had one, she’d go on—particularly if she was an alcoholic. It was a coincidence certainly—’ his eyes came round slowly, very slowly to his wife and, for the first time, he became aware of her expression, ‘—wasn’t it?’ he whispered. The words slipped out and he made a quick movement as if they were tangible and he could grab them back.

  Pryce said smoothly; ‘There’s more than one apparent coincidence here. The book disappearing at the same time as the fire is one, but those two things happened only twenty-four hours after the story was leaked to the Press. The lady lived down here for six weeks without anything happening, then suddenly, everything happens.’

  ‘But the agent leaked the story deliberately,’ Doreen said.

  ‘Yes?’ Pryce looked vacuous. ‘But it was so useful to Thorne, wasn’t it? All those reporters at the cottage, getting in each other’s way, no doubt; cars rushing here and there, so no one missed
the Spitfire being driven away—almost certainly in the dark—yes, it must have been. Doesn’t it seem likely that the leak was a ploy to lure a lot of people to the cottage?’

  ‘Why?’ Doreen asked carelessly.

  ‘As cover.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The theft of the book. It could be worth a fortune—and I don’t mean royalties and that. I mean selected passages: like typing them out and sending them to the people concerned and asking how much it was worth to delete that bit before publication. “Asking”? They could name their price.’ He looked grim.

  ‘Are you suggesting Thorne leaked the story himself?’ Miss Pink was incredulous.

  ‘No,’ Doreen interrupted before Pryce could reply. ‘Some other member of the gang, even some other gang—yes, that’s more likely—’ she was excited, ‘—some criminal in London—could it be the agent after all? He leaked the story, and Thorne took advantage of all the visitors . . . or perhaps he had to steal the book at that moment for some reason. . . . Something had gone wrong with the timing?’ She saw Pryce was watching her like an obese hawk and threw up her hands. ‘I’m doing your job! I’m so sorry; I got carried away. Over to you, superintendent!’ She collapsed with a giggle of embarrassment.

  ‘Gangs.’ Pryce tasted it. ‘Now that’s a nice thought. She was short on brains and Thorne don’t seem to have been much cop himself. There’s the agent, of course, and who was behind him?’ He lumbered to his feet and Williams, like a well-trained collie, left his chair and moved to the door. ‘I have to see the forensic people now.’ Pryce smiled affably. ‘And the pathologist. I’m afraid we’ll be busy for a while at the cottage but I’ll let you know when we’re finished and then you can call in your insurance people. They’ll be interested in how it started too.’

  Chapter Eight

  Samuel was taking in his milk when Miss Pink drove past to her garage. He waved cheerfully as she emerged.

  ‘You’re back early! But then you left at some terribly uncivilised hour.’

  She hesitated. It was only a matter of time before the police learned that he had been a friend of Sandra. She should warn him. She advanced purposefully and he retreated in surprise into his house. She followed and he closed the door behind her. At the back, outside the open french windows, Caithness was stalking butterflies in the patio.

  She gave him the facts quietly but firmly. He dropped rather than sat down. Sweat stood out on his forehead and he rubbed his eye sockets with the heels of his hands as if he could erase the images behind the eyes. After a while he took his hands away and said weakly: ‘It’s so wrong! Both of them . . . burned. . . .’

  ‘I didn’t say Thorne was there.’ His mouth opened and he gave a shuddering laugh but there was no comprehension in his eyes. ‘We didn’t see another body,’ she went on, ‘and the Spitfire’s gone—was gone, last evening.’ She told him about the two visits made by the television men. His face remained blank. She stood up. ‘I’m going to make some tea.’

  She’d switched the kettle on and was looking for milk when he appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘There’s something else; you haven’t told me everything.’

  ‘The book’s missing too.’

  ‘What book?’

  ‘Her story; it was kept in the filing cabinet.’

  ‘Oh, the typescript. That’s gone? And—Thorne?’ He looked wary. ‘I see; he’s pinched the script. His nerve broke.’

  The kettle boiled and she made the tea. He continued: ‘Thorne was in a panic yesterday with the arrival of the reporters. He called me. What could I say? He wanted to cut and run but Sandra was for staying on and finishing the book.’ He went to put the cosy on the teapot but his hand was arrested momentarily, then he completed the action. ‘So he drove away and left her drinking in bed?’

  ‘He didn’t drive away; the car wasn’t outside.’

  She repeated the part about the television men not seeing the Spitfire. For the first time since she’d dropped the bombshell he looked her full in the face.

  ‘But that’s mad! Why would he hide it, return to the cottage, steal the typescript, then walk away to where he’d hidden the car?’

  ‘I don’t know. You say it was a typescript. I didn’t see a typewriter.’

  They returned to the living room. She looked at the bookshelves, at a door beside the fireplace. It was a long cottage; there was another room on the ground floor which she hadn’t seen.

  ‘My study is through there.’ His tone was resigned.

  ‘You write too?’

  ‘Comics.’ He was belligerent. ‘I do the scripts for the pictures: war stuff, flying mostly. Well, it’s a living. Naturally—’ he was sardonic, ‘I expect to write properly one day.’ His voice dropped. ‘When I have the incentive.’ His eyes wandered to the kitten now sprawled panting on the paving stones. He got up and went to move it into the shade but Caithness fastened round his hand like a plush boxing glove. He came back and sat down. The kitten uncurled and studied Miss Pink.

  ‘You were ghosting the book,’ she said. ‘I thought as much. You were too concerned with it at Roderick’s party, and you spent a lot of time at the cottage. She wasn’t clever enough to write a book.’

  ‘She couldn’t string a sentence together; even her chronology was muddled.’ He wasn’t looking at her. ‘Yes, it was my book, actually—and a lot of good it’s done Thorne to steal it; I’ve still got the notes.’ Miss Pink sat up. ‘That’s how it was done,’ he explained, ‘And that’s why I have to come clean. I made notes there, typed it here at home, and Jakey Jones knew what was happening, so very shortly the police will be calling on me. I suppose it’s irrelevant to say that I needed the money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three thousand. Fifteen hundred down, the balance when it was finished. I’ll have lost the second payment but I can’t grumble; I’ve made fifteen hundred in six weeks. Hell! Thinking of the money when she’s. . . . I can’t bear to think about it.’ After a moment he pulled himself together and went on: ‘My name wasn’t to be associated with it in any way. There’s no contract, of course, and no letters, and I was paid in cash; I’m absolved from all responsibility.’ He was bitter.

  ‘Are there names in your notes? Real names?’

  ‘No. Don’t look at me like that. I really don’t know the names.’

  ‘The police will ask you.’ She shifted course. ‘Who was her agent?’

  ‘I have no idea of that either. I never met him, I don’t even know his name. He called himself Julius but by the way Sandra giggled until she got used to it, that was a pseudonym too. I’ve spoken to him twice on the phone. The first time was when he rang me out of the blue about two months ago. He didn’t say how he’d come to hear about me; I guess it would be publishers’ talk, or agents. . . . He’d be looking for a third-rate hack who could use a few thousand. He put it to me in general terms: to ghost an autobiography. I said I’d think about it. Within a day or two Sandra turned up—here—and filled in the gaps. I found her captivating and I’m afraid I was amused by the whole project. But the clincher was the money; she had fifteen hundred in cash and you don’t argue with a sum like that, and as much again.’ He looked at her hopelessly. ‘I can’t work, you know, with this back; it gives me hell in the winter. But I want—I need to stay here, and where would I go—?’

  ‘All right,’ Miss Pink said neutrally, ‘you needed the money. I’m not judging you—not for what you did,’ she added absently.

  ‘What did I do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You don’t mean the book had something to do with her death? How could it if it was an accident? You mean, if Thorne had been there, he’d have got her out of the fire?’

  ‘I don’t know. Has Julius not been in touch with you since the story broke?’

  ‘No. He hasn’t called me since the evening after Sandra came to see me. He rang then and asked for my decision. I never rang him. I don’t even know his number. Do you believe that?
’

  She shrugged. ‘The question is: will the police believe you? I think it would be wise to tell them this before Jakey reaches them.’

  ‘It would be more in character for Jakey to come and ask me what it was worth to keep quiet.’

  She shook her head. ‘He won’t have time for mischief. The police will want to see him because he was at the cottage yesterday.’ She pondered this. ‘I wonder what time he left.’

  ‘He liked Sandra.’ He sounded as if he were exploring the statement.

  ‘Did he stay late at the cottage?’

  ‘I was never there in the evenings. In that atmosphere—and in a heatwave, so help me—I had to have some system. We stopped work at tea time.’

  ‘How much did you have to do to finish the book?’

  ‘I reckoned about three chapters.’

  ‘So Thorne would have been in a better position if he’d waited another fortnight, stolen the completed book and your notes as well.’

  ‘Those were to be handed over at the end.’

  ‘Even easier. Why didn’t he wait?’

  ‘Because the balloon went up yesterday. The publicity precipitated matters. Thorne felt they had to leave, Sandra wouldn’t, so he took the book. Perhaps the idea of that was that she’d follow him.’

  ‘That’s far-fetched; all he had to do was to tell her he was going to take the book and the car, and surely she’d be forced to go with him? Or did she have a strong attachment down here?’

  ‘No.’ She stiffened and he qualified it reluctantly. ‘Girls like Sandra can’t afford attachments.’ He looked guilty, and perhaps to cover it, asked quickly: ‘Do the police know about the leak: who made it?’

  ‘Surely it was the agent: the man you call Julius?’

  ‘That’s what Thorne said and I didn’t argue with him. But it can’t be true; the timing was wrong. You must see that.’