An Accidental Shroud

by Marjorie Eccles

  It didn't take Abigail long to establish that Joss Graham was no product of the higher education system of this country, or any other. His schooling had stopped when he was fifteen, legally or illegally hardly mattered now. The job he was doing here was similar to the dozens of other unskilled jobs he'd worked at around the world. What would Thelma say when that piece of news percolated through to her? Mayo decided she'd find some excuse to justify it. Like a few bits of paper saying what exams you'd passed not equating with intelligence, or some such. Possibly true, in Joss Graham's case. He was obviously no fool.

  'Why did you lie to Mr Wilding about your qualifications?' Abigail was asking.

  'I wanted the job. I wasn't the only one going for it and I figured if there was any choice, it would give me a head start.' His lips twisted in a smile little short of insolence. 'Mr Wilding, having none himself, is impressed by that sort of thing.'

  'Mr Wilding took you on himself? Doesn't he leave that to his foreman, or personnel manager or whatever?'

  'Mr Wilding never allows anyone to work for him without his say so.'

  'Wouldn't it have been easier simply to tell him who you were? That he was your father?' Mayo put in.

  'Who says he's my father?' A brief, blazing look came from the blue eyes, but was quickly extinguished.

  'Your mother seems to think he is.'

  'Well, she should know.' With a lazy grin, Graham tipped his yellow hat further over his brow, folding his arms. 'But you shouldn't really believe everything my mother says.'

  'We're not playing games here, Graham!' Mayo intervened sharply. 'A man's been murdered, in case you've forgotten.'

  'Right. But what has that to do with me, or my parentage?'

  'For your sake nothing, I hope. For the moment, I'd like to know just what your game is – why you came here to work at all?'

  'Isn't a guy entitled to be curious about someone who might be his father? If I liked what I saw, who knows? If I didn't, I could always forget it.'

  So far, he hadn't given a single straightforward answer, and Mayo felt he was wasting his time hoping to get one, on this subject at any rate. But he knew he'd get nowhere losing his temper with Graham, and there were other questions to ask. 'We'll come back to that later, Graham. Meanwhile, let's see if you can do any better at telling us where you were the night Nigel Fontenoy died, and I don't want any funny answers.'

  Graham was unfazed. 'Your people have already been through all this.'

  'Never mind that, it won't do any harm to go over it again.'

  'OK, OK, go ahead.'

  Was he naturally so laid back – or was it a put-on, designed to hide deeper feelings? Mayo thought not. Something told him that what you saw was what you got, as far as Joss Graham was concerned. And he didn't particularly like what he saw; there was that underlying arrogance that set his teeth on edge for one thing – plus a feeling that Graham was laughing up his sleeve, as if he knew something they didn't know, which did nothing to endear him to Mayo.

  'You and Matthew Wilding were out drinking the night Nigel Fontenoy was murdered,' he said. 'I suppose you can remember that far back?'

  'Sure I remember. It's a night Matt won't forget in a hurry, either. First time he was ever drunk – and I mean drunk! He was knocking them back like there was no tomorrow.'

  'What about you?'

  'Me? Oh, I've learned how to hold my drink.'

  That wasn't what Sal Cellini had originally said. Later, he'd admitted that he'd had a suspicion that Graham wasn't as drunk as he appeared, but had been egging the younger man on unnecessarily. The question of drugs had crossed the nightclub owner's mind, but he'd decided they were only boozed up. All the same, he'd asked them to leave – he'd had a suspicion the lad might not have been as old as he said he was.

  'Didn't you try and stop Matthew?' Abigail put in.

  'No, why should I? It's an experience everybody has to go through sometime, it's part of growing up.'

  'That's one point of view.'

  'Oh, come on, he's nineteen! And I guess he was entitled to kick over the traces that night.'

  'Why that night, in particular?'

  'Just a feeling I had, maybe he'd had a row with his father, I don't know. He's all mixed up about his relations with him, doesn't really like being as rebellious as he makes out he is.'

  'So – Matthew got completely drunk – then what?'

  'I drove him home. I was hesitating about leaving him alone, but as soon as he got out of the car, he threw up. I knew he'd be OK after that, all he needed was to sleep it off. He was making one hell of a racket, though, and Lindsay came out to see what was going on. She said to leave him to her, she'd make him some coffee, get him to bed, so that's what I did.'

  'What time was that?'

  'Around eleven, eleven-fifteen maybe. I don't keep much track of time.'

  'Where did you go from there?'

  'Home, of course.'

  'And got there at what time?'

  'Must've been around eleven-forty-five, or a bit earlier.'

  'Jake Wilding was still there?'

  'Jake? You're not serious?'

  'He says he was visiting your mother.'

  Amusement lifted the corner of Graham's mouth. 'Was he? Well, if he says so. Maybe he parked his car around the corner. Sure, there was a light in the front room, but my mother often stays up late. I went in the back way and straight upstairs so as not to disturb her.'

  'So she couldn't confirm what time you got in?'

  'No, but my sister Cassie would. I knocked on her door as I went past. Thought the storm might be bothering her. She asked me what time it was and I said coming up to midnight.'

  In that case, he couldn't have been murdering Nigel Fontenoy in the middle of Lavenstock. But ... another sister, half-sister, whatever, providing another alibi? All these sibling permutations could give you a headache.

  The sun was emerging from behind the clouds as they left the site, one of those brilliant shafts on a dark afternoon that light a scene with a lurid unreality. Joss Graham was standing beside the JCB, watching them, waiting to climb back into the seat, and some trick of that odd light made his profile stand out for one brief, illuminating moment in sharp relief. In that moment, Abigail was again aware of that eerie feeling of recognition. Her pulses quickening, she knew that what she'd just seen, and something else she had previously noticed and recorded in her subconscious, had slotted together. She felt a faint chill down her spine but her intuition refused to take her any further.

  She took the wheel and, as they left the site, Mayo remarked, 'I think we could be on to something here, Abigail. He's lying in his teeth. What's he being so damned cagey about, if he hasn't something to hide – all that guff about Wilding, implying he isn't his father! You've only got to look at him to see the likeness.'

  'You reckon, sir?'

  'Why, don't you?'

  'It's possible -'

  'And so are a lot more things. Like Graham having easy access to Wilding's truck, like him being a big strong lad, physically capable of manhandling Fontenoy's body, like having an alibi that stinks. He'd ample opportunity after leaving Matthew Wilding, and only his sister to say what time he got in. But what about the motive? Why should he want to murder Fontenoy? If it had been Wilding who was murdered, now – well, it's pretty obvious he hates Jake Wilding's guts ...'

  Abigail said, 'He and Matthew Wilding have alibied each other. What if they were in it together?'

  'The same thought had crossed my mind. Matthew stood to gain a lot from Fontenoy's death, and could've made it worth Graham's while to help him. But you know, I'm still bothered by that missing box. We must assume that was the parcel Fontenoy took up to London – and unless he left it there, it went missing from the safe on the night he was killed, so it's therefore crucial to the murder. I'm looking for something which would explain that. Such as Fontenoy sending the box to Naomi Graham via Wilding, in exchange for that document she's alleged to have.'

&nb
sp; The phrase she had used about herself and Carmody, and which had been inexplicably haunting her ever since, suddenly came back to Abigail in a different context. Two halves of a sixpence. The broken coin, the lovers' token, the conspirators' map torn in two, both halves of which must dovetail ... it seemed like a notion straight out of romantic adventure fiction, Boys' Own Paper stuff. And yet …

  'I may be way out on this, sir,' she said slowly, 'but supposing it wasn't an exchange Fontenoy had in mind. What if those two belonged together – the document of Naomi Graham's, and the contents of Nigel Fontenoy's box – that neither was complete without the other ...'

  Mayo's interest was caught. 'Go on.'

  'If we assume Fontenoy did take the box to Jermyn's, it seems reasonable to think it contained – well, certainly not papers, as Christine Wilding suggested, but the sort of thing Jermyn's would be interested in – jewellery of some kind.'

  'That's feasible.' Warming to the idea, Mayo added, 'And Naomi's document could be the provenance for it, the proof of its authenticity. The thing that would up the ante many times. Good thinking, Abigail. And supposing Wilding knew about the box – through Christine – and he now has both, hm? When shall we be able to talk to Jermyn's man?'

  'He gets back tomorrow. But if he doesn't know anything about what was in the box, I don't really see how we can find out, other than putting the thumbscrews on old George Fontenoy.'

  'Well, we're making a lot of assumptions anyway which may be unjustified. The thing to do is to get hold of Naomi Graham – and as soon as possible.'

  Abigail looked at him quickly. 'Yes, Nigel Fontenoy may have been killed for the contents of that box. And if Naomi Graham still has the document ...'

  'Well, I don't like the way this is pointing, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Let's see we keep tabs on our friend back there on the building site. Meanwhile, if we haven't already had Wilding junior in yet, I think I'll see him myself.'

  Abigail, as she drove back to the station, was again tantalized by that last glimpse of Joss Graham, aware that some sort of connective idea was forming in the back of her mind. What if –? she thought suddenly. No, she was jumping the gun, guessing. But what if her guess, hunch, intuition, call it what you will, was right?

  She didn't mention what she'd just thought to Mayo, not yet, not until she had seen Naomi Graham and could be more sure. Mayo didn't go much on hunches and she'd already come up with one about the box and its provenance which might be way out. She wasn't going to push her luck.

  21

  Naomi Graham had spent most of the day feverishly clearing out, preparatory to packing, answering neither the door nor the telephone, hoping to finish before Cassie got home. It was hopeless, even with the assistance of a glass or two of wine. It remained a total mystery to her how she, surely the most unacquisitive person alive, had managed to amass so many possessions, and was only to be explained by the fact that her stay in Lavenstock had lasted far longer than she'd originally meant it to. Things had simply accumulated, mostly as a result of living in this terrible climate. So much more was needed, not only in the way of clothes against the cold and the wet, but blankets, heaters, hot water bottles, things unnecessary and unimagined in the Mediterranean countries that were fast acquiring in Naomi's mind all the attractions of the Isles of the Blest.

  Cassie, arriving home long before Naomi had finished and finding her mother with a glass in her hand, contemplating with despair the chaos she had created, stared accusingly at her across the mess like some goddess of vengeance, her dark face flushed, her black luxuriant hair vibrant and electric, her dark eyes flashing, all Greek.

  'What are you doing?' she demanded.

  'Isn't it obvious? I'm getting ready to leave. I've had enough of this place!' Naomi declared, waving her glass.

  An Intercity express, on the up-line to Birmingham, made its presence felt, shaking the window-frames until the panes rattled, while Cassie watched her mother with narrowed eyes. When she could make herself clearly heard, she declared, her mouth passionate, 'I won't go with you.'

  'I never imagined you would,' Naomi replied, with undisguised relief. For a moment there, she had imagined Cassie was going to suggest accompanying her.

  Cassie regarded her mother with pitying scorn. She herself had not, it was true, ever made any secret of her wish to remain in England. She'd no desire to begin the penniless, vagabond life with her mother all over again. She was determined, in fact, that nothing would make her. But behind the wariness at the back of her mind, the panic, even, behind the questions as to why her mother was really leaving, was the feeling that it would have been nice to have been asked.

  'You can stay on here, until the house is sold,' Naomi offered, feeling she was being more than generous. Mundane considerations such as how Cassie was to keep it going on her part-time wages from the filling station or what would happen to her when it was eventually sold, hadn't entered her head – or if they had, she'd assumed Cassie would manage somehow, as Naomi herself always had. As she had now, for instance, having managed to winkle out someone to stay with in Turkey, until the house was sold. Cassie was young, she had a fierce energy and self-reliance and besides, Naomi had a duty to herself, hadn't she? But whether the house was sold or not was ultimately of little account, money was the last thing that mattered to her. All that counted now was to shake the dust of Lavenstock from her heels forever. It was imperative to move on.

  She had no regrets. Nothing good had ever happened here, everything bad. Worse would happen if she stayed. Things had changed with Nigel's death. She shivered as though someone had walked over her own grave. For a moment, her thoughts were insupportable but, as always, she shrugged them off. Only two things remained to be done: to write a letter, and to see George Fontenoy. It was nigh on twenty years since she'd last seen old George, but she didn't expect him to have changed. Unlike Nigel, he'd always been an eminently reasonable man and, in a nicer way than Nigel with his pretty little girlies, had had a soft spot for a handsome young woman, she recalled, forgetting that she was no longer either handsome, or young.

  She came out of her thoughts to see Cassie shrugging herself back into her leather jacket, a sullen, determined look on her face. It was the sort of look that Naomi had come to dread, the look that Cassie and Joss shared.

  'Where are you going?'

  'To see Joss, amongst other things. Don't worry,' Cassie added, which was a mere figure of speech because she knew her mother was incapable of it, 'I'll be back.'

  In a few moments, her motorbike could be heard roaring away. Naomi shut her eyes for a moment against an unfamiliar, choking despair, then poured herself more wine.

  Having knocked several times on the front door of the ramshackle little house above the railway cutting and received no reply, Jenny Platt was about to go round to the back when the door was suddenly opened by a woman who stared at them without speaking.

  Abigail introduced herself and Jenny, and explained why they were there. 'I take it you've no objection to answering a few questions, Mrs Graham?'

  'I was never Mrs Graham, Mrs Andreas either, but it'll do if you want to be formal. I prefer Naomi. Come in.'

  Jenny raised a quizzical eyebrow in Abigail's direction as they were shown without haste into a small front parlour that had a musty, unused feeling and yet at the same time spoke eloquently of too many people living in too little space. Every surface was cluttered, including the floor. The tacky furniture, apart from a large TV set and some seriously expensive sound equipment, had the appearance of having come from the nearest Oxfam shop, which was in fact the case. The tall, untidy woman who had shown them in was dressed in a random assortment of clothes, apparently from the same source as the furniture. Her feet were bare and a little grubby, a silky shawl with a matted fringe slipped from her shoulders. She was a 1960s fugitive, yet, beneath the tat and the undisciplined grey hair, the slackness round her jaw, it was possible to see that she might once have been very attractive.

/>   Seats were found for them by adding more to the piles of everything else on the floor. 'Drink?' Naomi asked, waving the bottle, and when the offer had politely been declined, topped up her own glass. This done, she subsided on to the carpet, sitting in the lotus position with the wine bottle handy and answering Abigail's questions, if not willingly, at least truthfully, as far as Abigail could tell. Yes, Jake Wilding was her first husband. Yes, he had visited her on the night of Nigel Fontenoy's death. Yes, the inspector had the times of his visit substantially correct. And no, she had not handed over to him a letter or document, or anything to give to Nigel Fontenoy, she couldn't imagine what Nigel could possibly have been on about. Her voice was suddenly sharp-edged with malice, a secretive expression crossed her face.

  'Are you sure about that, Mrs Graham?'

  'Why should I lie?' Why indeed, especially so obviously?

  'What was it Nigel Fontenoy so desperately wanted from you?'

  'Oh, please! I've told you, I gave him nothing. Even though he sent Jake to persuade me rather than face me himself. And offered me money.' She said this as though it was the ultimate insult. 'Nigel always did think money was the answer to everything.'

  Abigail said suddenly, 'Why do you think he was murdered?'

  'Why are you asking me that?' she demanded, suddenly stiff-lipped. 'What makes you think I'd know?'

  'Because, Mrs Graham – Naomi – we think it might be because of something he had in his possession. If you do have this document, has it occurred to you that you might be in danger?'

  This seemed to frighten her more but her mouth stayed stubbornly set. Abigail sighed. 'All right, let's talk about something else. I believe you once worked for Nigel Fontenoy and his father, as a jewellery designer?'

  The alacrity with which the other woman answered showed how she welcomed the change of subject. 'Yes, but that was before I left Lavenstock for the first time. I'm leaving again, this time for good. I don't fit in here, I never did.' Her eyes strayed towards a nearly full trunk with its lid propped open, which might partly, but not wholly, have explained the room's untidiness, the recent signs of feverish activity.