by Roy Lewis
‘Anything else?’ Cardinal asked.
Carlton grunted. ‘We’ve got the usual standby, a nosy neighbour. Surprising really, you’d think in flats like these people no longer have time to skulk behind curtains and watch what’s going on. But the old lady across the way … she’s about seventy but still has her wits about her … she says there was a car parked in the street for quite a while yesterday evening. Not a locally owned car, she knew all those, she reckoned. The vehicle was driven away about eight, returned again at ten for about an hour, and then went off again. She didn’t see who was driving it. But she heard some odd noises in the street about midnight, she got up and took a look outside and saw that the car was back. As far she could make out, anyway, because it was dark. And she wasn’t really sure about the time.’
‘Bit imprecise.’
‘You said it.’
‘Was it she who put out the alarm call?’
‘Found the body, you mean? As a matter of fact, it was. No one else in the street seems to have noticed, but when she was up and about, our neighbour saw the front door to the downstairs flat was ajar. She was on her way out herself, to visit the mini-market down the road. Anyway, she nosed inside, called out to Miss Parker, and when she got no answer she took a look around.’
‘Public-spirited citizen.’
‘Nosy old fanny, you mean. Still, she got the shock she deserved. Let out a scream, scuttled outside, back to her own house, rang 999. And that’s when the cavalry arrived.’
‘This old lady, she couldn’t say what car it was she saw? Registration, that sort of thing.’
Carlton shook his head. ‘You’d have thought not, wouldn’t you? She couldn’t give us a number, though she thinks it might have had a 6 in it … which is little help. But make of the car, that’s another thing. She reckoned it was a Ford Focus. How about that? You’d think an old girl like that wouldn’t be interested in cars. But she regularly takes the Auto Trader apparently, even though she’s not in the market to buy.’
‘Misspent youth, perhaps?’
Carlton managed a smile. ‘Back seat in inexpensive cars, you mean? Could be. But, there you are. I have to say, I don’t take to the old girl much, but at least I can say we could do with eyes like hers among some of the coppers I have to work with.’
CHAPTER SIX
Grout was bored and frustrated. There had been no sign of his quarry. He felt he was wasting his time hanging around the house but Cardinal had been specific in his instructions and Grout knew better than to cross the old man. Not that he would get any Brownie points for hanging around, he had the feeling that he’d get bawled out whichever decision he took. Cardinal didn’t like to be kept waiting, he expected that matters would be followed through with expedition. Even if delay was due to no fault of Grout’s.
He checked his watch, and decided he’d give it another half hour. No sooner had he made the decision than he realized it wasn’t necessary. He caught a glimpse in his rear mirror of a car turning into the drive. He waited a few minutes, then started his engine, edged his own car forward until it was half-hidden behind a screen of trees but in such a position that the driver of the car coming up to the house would not see him immediately. He watched as the car nosed towards the garage. The driver killed the engine, got out of the car, locked the door and began to walk towards the house when he caught sight of Grout’s vehicle.
He froze.
Grout had the feeling that the man was poised, contemplating flight. It would take little to send him irrationally leaping for his car. He waited. Then after a moment the man’s shoulders slumped. Grout breathed a relieved sigh and got out of the car, he had no appetite for a wild chase in the countryside.
‘Mr Gilbert?’
Paul Gilbert leaned back against the bonnet of his vehicle, folded his arms and affected a casual pose as Grout walked towards him. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the man doubled up, bent forward, clutching his hands to his stomach. The sounds were unmistakeable, he retched, vomited in what seemed a panicked reaction. Grout hesitated, slowed, walked forward carefully.
‘Are you all right?’
There was no reply apart from a continuation of the violent retching. But as Grout stood there, slowly the pained sounds ceased, drily.
Gilbert brought out a handkerchief and wiped his mouth and face. He stepped aside from the pool of vomit on the drive. He was sweating profusely; Grout noted the perspiration glistening on his face. He avoided Grout’s glance.
‘I’m sorry … I’m not feeling well.’ Gilbert’s voice was muffled by the handkerchief.
Grout thought it was quite understandable. Even from where he stood some feet away from the man he had come to interview, the stench of regurgitated whiskey was palpable. Gilbert had clearly been hitting the bottle hard, even this early in the day.
‘We’d better go inside,’ Grout suggested, extending a reluctant helping hand.
Gilbert ignored the assistance and lurched towards the front door of the house. He had some difficulty locating the appropriate key from the ring. Grout waited patiently then followed Gilbert into the house as he switched on the lights inside the entrance hall.
‘I need a drink.’
Grout thought that was perhaps the last thing Gilbert needed but made no demur, it was neither his house nor his stomach. They entered the sitting room. Gilbert staggered towards a drinks cabinet, clutching his stomach, then poured himself a stiff scotch, making no offer to his visitor. Grout watched impassively as Gilbert collapsed on the brocade settee without removing his coat. Grout looked around him.
It was an expensively furnished room with deep comfortable chairs, a piano, stereophonic recording equipment and a series of elegantly framed photographs adorning the expensively papered walls. Several of the photographs were of carefully posed girls, young, nubile, scantily clothed, with the usual parted, expectant lips, awaiting breathlessly the inspection of the viewer. He guessed they were examples of Gilbert’s own work. The man did not seem to Grout to be the kind of individual who would be inclined to show the work of others.
Grout looked back at the man sprawled on the settee. Gilbert’s eyes were closed, his fingers loosely gripping the saviour whiskey, the beverage intended to replace what he had already lost in the driveway. There was no doubt in Grout’s mind that there would be no problem hauling Gilbert in right now, for being intoxicated in charge of a car. But there would be little point to that, it would be better to have a quiet chat with Gilbert in his own house, and see what transpired.
‘Do you remember me, Mr Gilbert?’ he asked quietly.
It required a certain effort on the part of the eminent photo-grapher to open his eyes. Further effort led to his raising his head to blink, focus weakly, and then nod. ‘You’re that copper. You were at The George … I was questioned … what the hell are you doing here?’
‘You’ve a good memory, Mr Gilbert, on even a short acquaintance. But why am I here? Just to ask a few more questions. Regarding your memory for a start … was yours really that good, when we spoke that day at The George Hotel?’
‘What you talking about?’ Gilbert said peevishly.
He seemed in no mood to answer. His head dropped, he struggled to a more upright position and he began to retch again. The glass of whisky was spilled. Grout stepped back, looked about him, saw the half-open door across the room and wondered whether it was a bathroom. Gilbert needed a glass of water, not more alcohol. But when he looked through the door, he realized it was a small room that Gilbert had clearly furnished as a work room of sorts, for mounting and framing prints. It was cluttered with photographic material and equipment with some unmounted shots being some three or four feet across, but Grout suspected this was not Gilbert’s main studio. That would be elsewhere, away from such clutter. Then his attention was caught by one particular unframed blow-up that occupied a position of prominence in the room.
It was the photograph of a woman, walking along a terrace beside a river, with a stone bridge
in the background.
It took only moments for Grout to recognize the setting; the features of the woman were somewhat indistinct since she was looking away, but he could see that the shot had been taken in the gardens of The George Hotel at Chollerford.
He stared at it thoughtfully for a little while, then turned and went back into the sitting room. Gilbert was sitting up, staring vacantly at the empty glass spilled on the rug in front of him. He seemed unhappy and depressed. Grout stood in front of him, waiting.
At last Gilbert looked up at him, eyes vacant.
Grout leaned forward. ‘When you were questioned at The George Hotel, your answers seemed to me to be somewhat vague. But they interested me.’
‘Is that so?’ The words were belligerent, careless, the tone defeated.
‘The information you gave was somewhat precise.’
‘What the hell you talking about? Isn’t that a good thing?’ Gilbert asked wearily. He stared unhappily at the stains on the rug before him.
‘You answered with precision. Very, sort of, strict answers to questions. And you didn’t exactly lie, did you? Perhaps … just left things out, is that right?’
Gilbert made no immediate reply, but now a certain evasiveness had crept into his glance. An edgy atmosphere seemed to be building up between the two men and it was sobering Gilbert quickly. Soon he would forget he was feeling ill.
‘For instance,’ Grout murmured almost casually, ‘with respect to the woman you met, you said you didn’t go into her room with her. The inspector who questioned you, he put a certain interpretation on that … but another occurred to me. You might have meant you didn’t go to the room with her, but that wouldn’t preclude you from having visited her later on, would it?’
Gilbert opened his mouth as though about to reply, but then thought better of it and remained silent.
‘And again,’ Grout suggested, ‘you said she gave you her name and that was all. Perhaps my ears are unduly sensitive but it seemed to me that there was a current of resentment in your tone when you made that statement. I wondered what that might be … so, what exactly were you trying to tell us in that statement, Mr Gilbert?’
Gilbert hesitated, then shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. I’ve nothing to add to what I said at the time. I don’t know what you’re trying to imply. I never stepped inside that room of hers. I never touched her, never seduced her. I didn’t really know her or anything about her. There was a bit of a chat, a drink, and then, after that, we went our separate ways. That’s all there was to it. I haven’t seen her, or heard from her since.’
‘But you took her photograph. I’ve just seen it in your processing room.’
Gilbert hesitated, glanced furtively to the room in question. ‘Well, I …’ He seemed to be about to make some sort of denial but realized it would be a waste of time. His shoulders slumped and he was suddenly very pale. Grout smiled at him but there was no warmth in the smile.
‘When you were interviewed you specifically stated you had not taken any shots of the woman. But in fact you had. So why didn’t you see fit to mention the photographs to the police? What were you trying to hide? Not just the photographs, I guess.’
‘I wasn’t asked about it,’ Gilbert replied in a surly tone.
‘Oh, come off it, Gilbert. I know you denied it. Besides, you knew we were trying to trace this girl. We had a description but that was all we had to go on. You must have realized that a photograph would have been invaluable to us. And you didn’t even mention it? In fact, you denied taking any! Why? What were you trying to hide?’
‘Hide? Nothing!’ Gilbert licked dry lips, and he leaned forward, seizing his knees fiercely. He shook his head as though trying to escape a sudden dizziness. ‘Not telling you … I wasn’t asked … I didn’t hide anything … I did nothing wrong!’
‘On the contrary. You lied to us. You took a photograph of the girl; you knew we were looking for her; you withheld the photograph. This behaviour of yours, lying to the police, hiding evidence of her identity, it could lead to a degree of unpleasantness and harassment, Gilbert, believe me. Trouble could be heading your way.’
‘No!’ Gilbert’s tone was strangled and he stared at Grout in a desperation that was surprising. ‘Look, I told you, I did nothing wrong! I wasn’t withholding the shot deliberately, I mean, I had no intention of misleading anyone. But can’t you understand? I didn’t mention it because I just didn’t want to get involved.’
‘You’ll have to explain that to me rather more fully,’ Grout said coldly.
‘I didn’t want to get involved. All that police activity, finding the body at Chesters, I was shocked, I wasn’t thinking straight. And the girl …’
‘Yes?’
Gilbert heaved a despondent, defeated sigh. ‘All right, I admit I was interested in her. It’s true I bought her a drink; I chatted her up. I thought I was in with a chance, if you know what I mean. I tried to get off with her. And I got the impression she was leading me on. We walked on the terrace, I kissed her … and then she agreed that I should go to her room after a short interval. But …’ Gilbert looked at Grout with a sudden, sullen defiance. ‘But when I went there, the bitch had locked the door. She had me standing there, almost pleading. And she stayed silent.’
‘She was in the room?’
‘I’m pretty certain of that. She was just playing a game, wasn’t she? Turning me on, then hanging me out to dry. Humiliating me… . And in the morning … she was gone. I didn’t see her again.’
‘You could have told us all this earlier,’ Grout growled.
‘What difference would it have made? I just explained to you, I didn’t want to be involved in all this mess. I didn’t want to admit she’d made a fool of me … getting me interested, and then locking the bloody door!’
‘And you’re certain she was inside the room.’
Miserably, Gilbert shrugged. ‘I thought she was. At the time, I was certain she was. But now, thinking back, after I’d returned to my own room, and I was lying there frustrated, alone on my bed, I heard a car leave The George Hotel car park. Maybe she had already decided to leave the hotel; maybe that was her car. Or maybe someone else’s. I don’t know. The headlights flashed over my room ceiling. I remember thinking …’
He fell silent.
Grout’s tone was cold. ‘It would have been better if you’d told us all this earlier. It could have made things easier for us. As it is, I think you’d better come with me to headquarters at York where you can make a statement—’
‘Oh, there’s no need for that,’ boomed a voice from the open doorway. ‘We can just continue the interview right here.’
Cardinal smiled almost affably as he settled himself into a chair and stretched out his long legs. He sighed. He looked at the two surprised individuals facing him. ‘That’s better. Car seats do my back no good. I hope you don’t mind, Mr Gilbert, my appearing unannounced like this. The front door was open. I saw my colleague’s car. My name’s Cardinal, by the way. Detective Chief Inspector. You’d have expected Grout to make the necessary introductions, wouldn’t you? But there you are… .’
Grout glared at the senior officer. Affability was a quality he had not come across in Cardinal before but there seemed to be a great deal of it in evidence now. It made him suspicious.
‘I didn’t realize—’ he began but Cardinal waved him to silence with an expansive gesture.
‘Don’t worry about it, Grout. Bad manners, in my experience, is a general failing in the young and inexperienced. Social courtesies get left by the way. And I know you and I were supposed to meet at headquarters, but I got tied up in other enquiries, couldn’t have made it so when I got the message from you that you were still waiting to interview Mr Gilbert, I thought I’d meet you here.’
He smiled at the pale-faced man on the settee.
‘And you’ll be Mr Gilbert, of course. I’m sure you’ll agree it’s far more cosy to have a routine chat here, isn’t it, rather
than at headquarters?’
Grout continued to stare at Cardinal, who had folded his arms, crossed his feet at the ankles and assumed the expression of a benign uncle.
‘Now, Mr Gilbert, you were explaining something to young Grout here.’
After a brief hesitation Gilbert repeated what he had said to Grout, a little warily, but he seemed to relax somewhat as Cardinal frowned in understanding and nodded his head sagely.
‘Well, I can see how you felt, not least after the unpleasant experience of stumbling over a corpse on your morning stroll. Still, better late than never, hey? And as for giving us information about the woman, well, I mean, I know you have a reputation to maintain and as a photographer you wouldn’t want to have your name closely linked with this unfortunate, and rather mysterious young woman, would you? But of course we would like to have a copy of the photograph—’
‘There’s a big one in the room over there,’ Grout snapped irritably.
Cardinal eyed him coolly as Gilbert babbled his assurance, rose and almost scurried into the other room.
‘Yes, of course, you can take the print.’
He seemed relieved by Cardinal’s relaxed manner. Grout glowered, wondering what had brought about his senior’s easiness; Chief Inspector Cardinal was normally renowned for his short temper and gracelessness with colleagues. And he had said something about the woman … Grout was unable to pursue it for the moment.
‘How long have you been in the photography business?’ Cardinal asked when Gilbert hurried back from the other room with the print in his hands.
‘Twelve years, now.’ Gilbert was sufficiently relieved even to indulge in a little boasting. ‘In that time, I’ve made quite a reputation in certain circles—’