by Clare Curzon
Fanshawe, returned to catch the other residents at the end of their working day, had already spoken with Miss Barnes, who appeared torn between her conscience’s need to offer more support to Mrs Winter and cowering at the thought of further involvement.
She had little to offer on the dead woman, having rarely seen her. There appeared to be a zonal, but not class, division between these upstairs and downstairs people. It was comic, really. They spoke of each other rather as some natives to either side of Watford referred to the other lot as ‘northerners’ or ‘southerners’.
She admitted that, after the dinner party which Beattie had given for all the residents, curiosity had led her to call at the Greenvale Garden Centre. She had purchased a Bromeliad there, which was perhaps a mistake because now she had to leave the temperature of the flat at a higher, uneconomical level, and the humidifier full on during her absence at school.
Fanshawe looked round for an exotic animal, but there was no cage. Miss Barnes picked up on his confusion and pointed to a brilliant, poker-stiff stem topped by a brilliant, torch-like bloom and surrounded by glossy, strap-shaped leaves. ‘Right,’ he said, vowing he’d never give such a dictatorial thing house-room, even if he found it attractive.
Thanking Miss Barnes for her patience, and silently congratulating himself on his own, he followed up that visit with one to the reputedly security-mad Wormsley, noting how he was inspected through the fish-eye lens on his fire door before being allowed in. A quick look through Criminal Records had satisfied Fanshawe that nothing was known of the man to make him paranoid in the police presence, so it had to be assumed that he was simply weird that way. Or hoarded objects of value in his home? But he wasn’t a pawnbroker; just a photographer, according to information from other residents. Nothing about his furnishings or lack of ornaments suggested he had a fortune tucked away.
Wormsley listened, head tilted, to the DC’s request for information and seemed quite pleased to deny any personal link with the dead woman.
‘Or a professional one?’
‘Er, whose profession? She’s a sort of glorified gardener, isn’t she?’
‘You’ve never done any photography or advertising matter for her?’
‘No; we stick to portraiture. Mostly kiddies, family stuff. The occasional portfolio for wannabe models. Nothing commercial.’
‘So you never saw her?’
‘The Winters live upstairs and towards the front,’ Wormsley pointed out, as though that guaranteed segregation. ‘So I only ever saw her from the window, when she fetched or put away her car. I see them all from here. See?’ Wormsley waved towards the outer wall and Fanshawe walked across to look out.
Beyond the double glazing and an ornate wrought iron grille he saw the row of lock-up garages about fifty yards to the right and partly obscured by a screen of leafless trees. Only one car was visible, parked outside. As he watched, Martin Chisholm issued from the rear door of the house, went across to the Saab, unlocked it and climbed in.
Damn, Fanshawe thought: now I’ll have to make another visit tomorrow. I’m not hanging about for him to get back from an evening out.
Wormsley was watching him with a waggish smile as though he knew, and enjoyed, what the DC had been thinking.
Really the man was a first-class shit. For that reason Fanshawe decided to take his time and rumble up some totally unnecessary questions. Not that it upset the other in the least. He even seemed amused and offered to turn off the oven where his supper was cooking. ‘I can finish it off in the microwave later,’ he said. ‘Anything I can do for the forces of law and order.’
When Fanshawe finally ran out of ideas, he rose to leave.
‘A pity you missed Mr Chisholm,’ Wormsley said slyly, at the door. ‘Especially as he seems to have gone away. Packed quite a bit of gear in the boot earlier. I should think he’ll be absent for some considerable time.’
Bloody man! He knew all the time and enjoyed stringing me along. Well, I’ll see we get the last laugh, Fanshawe vowed. It hardly seemed worthwhile tackling Neil Raynes on his own, especially since he was just out of hospital and known to have been in touch with DS Zyczynski there.
Still, he might give a lead on where Chisholm had gone. If it wasn’t far they could still contact him for any necessary information. DI Salmon wouldn’t be happy to hear he’d got out of reach. And an unhappy Salmon, Fanshawe guessed, could undoubtedly be a right barracuda.
Neil Raynes was plunged in gloom and a deep armchair, with the television on loud, showing a programme on volcanoes. The earth heaved and belched, spitting fire in a way he felt suitably in harmony with. He killed the volume with his remote, but dropped back in the same chair and continued staring at the hypnotic convulsions and hellfire flaming as Fanshawe settled in.
His answers were mainly monosyllabic. Yes, to whether Chisholm had gone away No, to whether the man had left an address. No, he couldn’t be contacted by phone. No, he’d no idea how long this absence would be. Fanshawe stared at him po-faced and waited.
At this point Neil volunteered, almost pettishly, that there’d been no time for conversation when he was picked up from the hospital.
‘He must have given you some idea of where he’d be going.’
Impatiently Neil tore his gaze from the flame-spouting screen. ‘Something came up while I was in hospital. He doesn’ t have to tell me where his work takes him.’
‘So he’s not on holiday, then?’
The boy looked undecided, then adopted a pose of bored superiority. ‘I suppose he’ll have as good a time as the situation permits. Club class, travel perks and all that, of course.’
‘Are you sure he’s gone abroad?’
‘Well, he took his passport.’ That had slipped out: the first thing Neil had checked on. The European Community one had certainly gone. He didn’t know about the others, kept in the safe he hadn’t a key to.
‘Ah.’ Fanshawe considered how he could present this, back at the nick. Imply the man had set out before he himself had been allocated the job? But if Salmon was into nit-picking, he’d winkle out from someone exactly when Chisholm had picked the boy up today, and know that Fanshawe was on the job by then.
He sighed. ‘Can you tell me how well he, or you, knew Miss Winter?’
‘Sheila? We’d say hi when we happened to meet. Actually, something a bit more formal from Marty. He isn’t into Americanisms. I don’t think I ever said anything apart from that to her. She didn’t seem all that interesting as a person.’
‘Interesting enough to get herself murdered.’
‘Yes. That’s odd, isn’t it?’ The boy – Fanshawe supposed he really should call him ‘young man’ because he was supposed to be twenty or so – seemed honestly puzzled.
‘Still, if there’s a nutter about, looking for a victim, I suppose almost anyone will do.’
What an obituary for the poor woman, Fanshawe reflected: to be almost anyone, a nutter’s fancy Only it hadn’t been like that. There was no sexual attack, no mutilation. The stabbing had been violent and the body disposed of away from the scene of the killing. That made it personal, not random, according to CID wisdom.
There was only one more question that suggested itself to him as he closed his notebook and slipped the elastic band over it. ‘Have you ever been to Henley-on-Thames?’
Neil Raynes rose out of his seat. ‘Yes, of course. Often. I used to row there for my school, and later for Thames Club. I suppose I know that part of the world as well as anywhere, really.’
So did that apparent innocence clear him? Or was it bravado? Taken all round, Fanshawe supposed Neil Raynes could be crossed off the list.
‘I’d like to know immediately you hear from your friend, or he returns. Is that understood?’
Neil shrugged. ‘I’m sure he couldn’t help you anyway.’
Fanshawe considered himself dismissed. As he unlocked his car opposite the house’s imposing portico, a taxi arrived and Z got out. He waited while she paid the cabbie off
, then carried her bag upstairs for her. ‘Thanks,’ she said, following him in. She looked washed out and there was a fresh dressing on the side of her head.
‘Bring me up to date,’ she demanded.
‘I didn’t think you were due out till tomorrow.’
‘What’s the difference of a few hours? I acted awkward and they let me go. I’ve things to see to here.’
‘Such as?’
‘That’s private.’ She spoke sharply, then relented. ‘I can relax better at home. Besides I want to keep an eye on happenings.’
He stared at her. ‘The job? You sound as though you think the residents are involved.’
‘Aren’t they? – either directly or as a result. Do you want coffee or tea?’
‘Tea, if that’s all right.’
‘Suits me too. Actually I could murder a bacon sarny.’
‘You sit down. I can manage that.’ He went through and surveyed the range of cupboards, pulled out the grill pan and fetched gammon rashers from the fridge.
She took a chair opposite the kitchen door and they conversed through it. ‘So who’s DI Salmon got in the frame now for killing Sheila Winter? I heard he had to let Barry Childe go.’
‘I’m hoping it’s a plumber called Jonathan Baker. He turned out to be the “Nat” in a letter Sheila wrote concerning Childe’s employment.’
‘I heard about the letter.’ She registered Fanshawe’s puzzlement. ‘The Boss dropped in, doing the grapes and flowers thing. But how does this Jonathan plumber come to be calling himself Nat?’
Fanshawe explained that he’d almost met the man on Beattie’s doorstep, and how spilling the tea and orange juice in the canteen had drawn his eyes to the three letters in the middle of his name, Jonathan.
‘Having the right surname, it was a leap in the dark even then,’ he said, ‘but I don’t go for coincidences. I told the DI and he got in touch with the prison again. Jonathan Baker was known to them all right. Not as an inmate, but he’d been a maintenance man there before he set up on his own in Thames Valley with a secondhand van and a plumber’s mate – who was also, as it happens, a youngster who’d done a stretch in Aylesbury for attempted mugging.’
‘So he could tie in with Childe and the suspected cannabis culture.’
‘It looks that way. By now he should have been brought in for questioning. Even if Sheila Winter wasn’t involved in the project, he certainly suggested she provide charitable aftercare for an old lag acquaintance.’
‘She must have had a lot of confidence in his judgment. She was a pretty down-to-earth person: not the sort to be conned easily. So that was what came out of visiting at Beattie’s. Who else did you speak to?’
He listed them, and she nodded as he gave an outline of the conversations.
‘I’ve just come from seeing your young friend Neil Raynes,’ he added. ‘Did you know that his partner, or whatever, has disappeared into the blue? Raynes denies knowing where, why, or for how long, but Chisholm’s passport’s missing, so we have to assume he’s out of the country, possibly out of Europe.’
‘I did know actually,’ Z admitted. ‘That’s mainly why I didn’t want to stay on till tomorrow. Martin Chisholm looked in on me to ask if I’d keep a sisterly eye on Neil while he’s away on business. I’m not sure whether he knows I’m in the job, but chances are that he’s picked up on that.’
‘Does he think his boyfriend’ll misbehave, then?’
‘No; and they aren’t an item in the way you imply. But Neil is under pressure: has a health problem, and doesn’t always trouble to take his medication.’
‘D’you mean he’s a nutter? In which case …’
‘It’s confidential, but I’ll trust you not to spread it, Hugh. A few years back he was involved in a bad RTA and his passenger was killed. She happened to be his stepmother, and since then his father can’t stand the sight of him. That and a personal sense of guilt have really messed him up. Chisholm’s a sort of post-adolescence guardian paid to provide an alternative home for him, provided that he keeps well away from his own.
‘Although Neil survived the accident he was badly injured, almost didn’t make it, and required some complicated surgery including a kidney transplant. I don’t know if you’re aware of what that means, especially to someone young who’s never had to think twice about taking risks.’
‘A permanent invalid,’ Fanshawe grunted.
‘Not exactly. But there’s a hell of a lot of precautions and medication and forbidden stuff. For his body to continue accepting the transplant he faces a lifetime of restrictions; and the drugs required to prevent the immune system from rejecting the alien matter reduce his ability to cope with bacteria and viruses we consider normal. It requires the outlook of a geriatric in a young and vital mind. Most of the time he manages, but it’s hard on him, and with his mainstay away – Chisholm, I mean – he’ll need twice the determination to stay on course.’
‘So Chisholm expects to walk calmly off and leave the responsibility to you!’
‘They’re my neighbours, Hugh. Which is the nearest I’ve got to family. Besides, I like him, for all that he’s a bit unpredictable. It’s a purely personal decision: nothing to do with my being a cop.’
‘I just hope he doesn’t land you in any trouble. It sounds dodgy to me.’ He came through the doorway with a plate in one hand. ‘D’you want tomato ketchup or mustard?’
‘Mustard, please. I hope you’ve made one for yourself as well.’
‘Betcha,’ said Fanshawe. ‘Never could resist the smell of grilling bacon. Nearly as bad as my Jewish brother-in-law over that.’
Chapter Twenty
Neil Raynes waited until Fanshawe’s Ford reached the curve in the drive, then slunk back along the side of the house, re-entered by the back door and went straight through the utility room and laundry to gain the front hall. There was no one about, He checked the table for letters, but of course Marty would have dealt with them. He’d have answered anything urgent by e-mail. Neil never received any of his own.
He went lightly up the stairs, turned left on the gallery and waited a moment before ringing Rosemary’s bell. When she opened up he stuck out his chin belligerently. ‘You weren’t to be let out until tomorrow,’ he accused her.
She looked weary. A slight flush appeared, then left her face ashen again under the pink elastic bandage. ‘I knew I’d feel better at home. So I discharged myself.’
Neil sniffed the air. ‘At least you’ve eaten.’ He walked past her and stood in the kitchen doorway. She saw him register the two used plates and beakers in the sink.
‘Fraternizing with the enemy,’ he observed angrily. ‘That was another policeman who just left. Did you know?’
‘Yes, he wanted to ask some questions about the attack on me. He seemed reasonable enough. I was hungry, so we had a snack together.’ There was no call to explain so much, and it made her sound defensive. Although she believed the sharp-eyed Chisholm had guessed her real job, she wasn’t sure about this young man. Probably he didn’t suspect, which was as well, seeing he’d referred to Fanshawe as “the enemy”. She needed him to trust her a little longer, now that she knew how vulnerable he was.
She waved towards the sitting-room and he followed her in. ‘When do they expect you back at work?’
He dropped on to a chair. She chose the sofa under a window, outside the circle of light from a nearby table lamp. The whole room was dim. He wondered if her head was still painful. His was tender, but no more than that. Now that he was with Rosemary he didn’t have anything to say. He considered her question.
‘Quite soon, I suppose. I wasn’t seriously hurt. I’m to attend Outpatients in five days, to remove the sutures.’
‘Me too. Let me give you a lift.’
‘I don’t think you should drive yet.’
She looked at him gravely. It was laughable really Here she was, ready to keep an eye on him, and he was bothered about her welfare. It might be a good idea to let him continue with th
at. Then they’d both have an excuse to do what they intended. ‘We could share a taxi,’ she compromised.
He didn’t answer because her cell phone fluted. He passed it across to her from the table at his side. ‘Zyczynski,’ she said quietly into it. ‘Oh, Max! I didn’t recognize the number … From where? I see … Yes, I’m fine and I’m at home now … Yes, really … Well, yes, I suppose: more of an incident than an accident. But I wasn’t specifically targeted. Just wrong place, wrong time, as often happens …Of course, I would. Come whenever you can … Right then; I’ll not wait up for you. See you. Bye.’
She grimaced, turned off the phone and faced Neil. ‘That was Max,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘He’s just heard what happened to me. So I’m in trouble for not getting in touch.’
‘He’s coming tonight?’
She nodded, getting up from the sofa and brushing creases from her cord skirt.
‘You’ll be all right, then.’ His voice held a curious mixture of relief and wistfulness.
‘It’s kind of you to check on me, Neil,’ she said. ‘Don’t forget to take care of yourself too.’
‘Yeah,’ he answered, hovering by the door. ‘Marty’s away at the moment, so I’ve no one to spoil but myself.’
Funny boy, she thought, watching him cross the gallery and start down the stairs. He made her feel – what exactly? Motherly, she supposed. And yet there was slightly more to it. She recalled how he’d joked about a taste for older women. Maybe there was some truth in that. If so, had she a responsive taste for younger men? He was attractive, she’d admit: her frog prince. It was the large, wide-spaced eyes that had made her think of him as that. Not that she’d be kissing him and risk a transformation.
She went back to turn off the lights in the sitting-room, abandoned the dishes in the sink, and began to undress. She was dog-tired from the small effort of getting back home. As she climbed into bed she felt warmed through, knowing that when she awoke Max would be lying there beside her.
Clever of the Boss to delay telling him until she was over the worst. She cuddled her pillow close and was almost instantly asleep.