A Meeting of Minds: A Superintendent Mike Yeadings Mystery (Superintendent Mike Yeadings Mysteries)

by Clare Curzon

  It was after ten next morning when Beaumont turned up with yet more videos from the garden centre’s CCTV. ‘They’re just an excuse. You don’t need to bother with them,’ he told Z, who was still drinking breakfast coffee at the kitchen table with Max Harris. The aquamarine bathrobe reflected a greenish tinge on her face, but her eyes looked less sunken.

  ‘I never knew about the attack until Mr Yeadings rang through to the office,’ Harris explained. ‘I’m just back from Kandahar.’

  ‘So you’re on the news desk now?’

  ‘God, no! But even a columnist has to keep up with history in the making; not that things have really changed out there. Tribal tensions are much as they ever were. Only there’s more concern at the moment with poppy harvesting than strict observance of Muslim law. As it happens, I was born in Rawalpindi, which under our crazy nationality laws makes me a Paki. And I spent my early years dragged all over Asia.

  ‘But what’s new on the crime front? Have you any idea who did this to my Rosebud?’

  ‘We’re trying to tie it in with Sheila Winter’s murder. It was the Winter flat she was attacked in. The intruder was searching for something. Flavour of the moment is Jonathan – otherwise “Nat” – Baker. He seems to have been Sheila Winter’s manfriend, and he’s connected with the old lag, Childe.

  ‘DI Salmon is grilling him now, with the Boss sitting in. This time (glory be!) we were able to locate our suspect through Yellow Pages. I had the pleasure of calling on him last night with an invitation for 9a.m.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ Z asked. ‘I understand that Beattie and Frank Perrin know him. Has he admitted being in the house?’

  ‘Not so far. I took his first statement. He seemed to be quite open about things. He’d known Childe in the slammer, as he claimed; but while Childe was an inmate, Baker was on the maintenance staff. He’d been impressed by the serious way Childe was into horticulture, even studying for qualifications. He’s still a registered visitor to the prison, but gave up working there two years back, when he started up on his own as a Corgi approved plumber and heating engineer. That’s how Frank Perrin got to meet him, when he was short-staffed. He did work on this house in the early part of the conversion, but nothing since it’s been lived in.

  ‘His contact with Sheila Winter goes further back, to when she still lived in London, but he’s holding out on how they came to meet. She employed him to install a special watering system for the outdoor planting at Greenvale and tropical forest conditions in the glass-houses. Although he denied entering the house recently, he volunteered that he delivered some piping conduit for Perrin. That was when Fanshawe was in Beattie’s kitchen and failed to set eyes on him.’

  ‘He must know Frank Perrin well enough to guess where he drops in for elevenses,’ Z pointed out. ‘Do you think Salmon’s really going for him? What about the suspected cannabis set-up at Barry Childe’s cottage? Could he be in on that?’

  ‘He supplied him with all the gear. Baker keeps his paperwork in his home office and he showed me it. On first sight the invoices look kosher, including a small trade discount. Childe will be clearing the debt in instalments, since he’s barely paying his way as yet. There’s nothing to prove Baker was part of the project or even knew what his gear was to be used for.’

  ‘You haven’t said what he’s like.’

  ‘Scrubs up well, as they say. In fact he’d pass muster as any average decent citizen. Physically he’s long and lanky. Made me think of Mister Punch; the nose and chin thing, with a wide mouth stretching up towards the ears. Quite a humorous face, not that Salmon will give him much to laugh over as yet.’

  ‘I wonder what the Boss is making of him?’

  ‘He’ll not let on. He’s giving DI Salmon a lot of rope.’

  ‘I wish I could be working on it,’ said Z wistfully. ‘I’m stood off for a fortnight, would you believe? Can’t you find some way I can help, unofficially?’

  ‘You concentrate on getting better,’ Max interrupted. ‘I have to go back to town tonight, but as soon as I’ve off-loaded this Kandahar stuff I’ll be taking you off for the happiest, healthiest holiday you’ve ever known. So order some brochures from the travel shop and tell me what you’d fancy.’

  When Beaumont had left, Max briskly surveyed the contents of fridge and freezer, then made out a shopping list. ‘Get just enough for two days,’ Z insisted. ‘I need to make use of young Neil Raynes. Shopping will keep him out of mischief.’

  ‘Good,’ Max agreed, wryly wondering if too much propinquity might encourage Neil to try the opposite. He grinned, kissed her gently and took off.

  Beaumont had tucked some folded papers between the bread crock and the dresser wall. She had watched him do this while Max’s attention was elsewhere, and guessed that whatever they contained was for her eyes only. She reached for them now and smoothed them out on the kitchen table. They covered alibis for the period during which she had been attacked.

  According to this resume the house had appeared quite empty, and no cars had been parked outside when Neil and Vanessa Winter arrived back in her Alfa Romeo. A bracketed note admitted that no check had been made at that point on whether the garages too were empty. Z nodded. Her own car had been in there, she remembered.

  Martin Chisholm had arrived in time to sort out Vanessa and Martin on the staircase, but until 15.48 he’d been at the car showroom in London arranging trial runs for a newly delivered Saab. This was confirmed by two colleagues. The times they gave for his leaving meant he’d driven home at an average speed of forty-seven mph, which was good going for the start of rush-hour.

  Miss Barnes had returned from school a few minutes later, and Major Phillips was dropped off by his ‘corporal’ some ten minutes after that, having come straight from the golf course clubhouse.

  Beattie Weyman had been at the hairdresser’s up until it shut at six o’clock. Frank Perrin claimed to have been checking on some foundations out at Berkhamsted, but the foreman and labourers had left by then and the site hut was locked; so this was without confirmation.

  All that afternoon Paul Wormsley had been working on the firm’s taxation figures, PAYE and VAT, at his photographic studio. His assistant vouched for this. She had been coping at the vital time with a fractious family of three under-tens – ‘real ankle-biters’ – and resented his failing to help. ‘Keeping his head well down, in case he got drawn in,’ she had claimed with some bitterness. The DC taking down her account had noted that Wormsley’s office was partially overlooked by the studio and sufficiently well lit for her to see his upper body bent over his desk. She hadn’t noticed at what time he left, but it must have been after herself at five. His lights were still on. He didn’t arrive at Ashbourne House until the ambulance had left and the doctor was with Mrs Winter.

  As well as Frank Perrin, Beaumont had added Jonathan ‘Nat’ Baker to the list of residents. The latter’s daybook showed he had worked for two customers that afternoon. One was booked in for 2.20pm and the other 4pm. He claimed that the first job had proved considerably more involved than expected and he’d phoned the second client to explain he might be up to an hour late. He said he’d arrived there at 5.07pm and left at 6.18. Since he charged for labour by the first hour and then by subsequent half-hours, he had to transfer these details to the bills, and their carbons confirmed the timing he claimed. Both call-outs were for adjustments to central heating in Eton Village; one, in fact, at New House in the College.

  ‘Very posh,’ Z murmured to herself. Let DI Salmon challenge that one. Nevertheless, as she saw from Beaumont’s note below, the DI was not entirely satisfied with this claim, so had arranged to call the plumber in on the following morning. This would be the interview the Boss was sitting in on at present.

  Long and lanky, Beaumont had described the man. Z tried to bring back to mind the brief instant of entering Vanessa’s bedroom. Had her attacker appeared like that? Big, she’d thought at the time, but then fear would have increased her impression of him; and she
’d had a flash of real terror as he hurled himself on her.

  Concentration didn’t help. No clearer picture came. Her attacker could have been any one of this lot, or a total stranger, as far as she could tell. And they all had reasonable alibis, except Frank Perrin.

  She wished that this nausea at recall of the incident would let up. Her earlier bacon sandwich lay uneasy inside her. It was nothing to do with the injury to her head. Just sheer funk. Which was silly, because as she’d told Max, the attack hadn’t been specifically targeted at her. Her involvement with the intruder was over. She’d simply walked in on him, so he’d have been as shocked as she was herself. And by now, seeing the upset he’d caused, probably scared out of his criminal wits.

  Superintendent Yeadings stole a glance at his watch and consciously straightened in his seat. Ten thirteen a.m. and the interview was stalling. Beside him Salmon slouched with one arm across the table and the other along Yeadings’s chair-back. The DI’s piggy eyes appeared to be tracing a crack across the Interview Room ceiling. Held in the fingers of his right hand, a ball-point pen prodded the tabletop with a maddening rhythm of which only he seemed unaware. He’d been over all the material three times and now had apparently succumbed to a mental block.

  Yeadings cleared his throat. ‘I was wondering,’ he said mildly. ‘I’ve never heard of Nat as a shortened form of Jonathan before. ‘It’s there, of course, in the middle, and it’s certainly used for Nathan, again part of your given name. But in this case it’s unusual, having no similarity of sound. How did you come to adopt it?’

  Some of the strain went out of Baker’s taut features. At last it didn’t feel that he was being hammered. This senior officer was bumbling, unfamiliar with techniques of interrogation.

  Familiar enough with stories the old lags told, he knew that it was CID at street level who asked the pertinent questions. This other was a desk man. He breathed once more deeply. ‘Well, the obvious shortening is Jon, but there’s a lot of Johns and Johnnies about. “Nat” differentiates.’

  Yeadings pulled towards him the report Fanshawe had typed of his mid-morning visit to Ashbourne House. ‘I notice here that neither Miss Weyman nor Frank Perrin uses the name Nat. Both referred to you as Jon.’

  ‘My customers do, mostly. They see what’s written on the van. And I use the initials JB when I receipt their bills.’

  ‘Ah.’ Yeadings nodded sagely, enlightened. ‘So it’s more personal friends who call you Nat?’

  There was an uncomfortable silence. Salmon stared sideways at Yeadings and made a show of superhuman patience. Baker’s shoes scuffed on the floorboards as he changed position under the superintendent’s gaze.

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘I didn’t realize it was one. People who call me Nat? Yes, they’re closer, I suppose.’

  ‘Like Miss Winter, for example. Sheila Winter.’

  There was another silence; then, ‘Yes, I think she was one who used that name.’

  ‘The only one perhaps?’

  Baker closed his eyes. Yeadings counted silently in his head. At twenty he asked, ‘Why would that be, Mr Baker?’

  The man’s eyes re-opened. He faced Yeadings squarely. His voice was unnaturally controlled. ‘She had – there were associations with the word John. She preferred not to use it.’

  ‘Tell me about this other John.’

  ‘It’s irrelevant.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that. We know very little about Miss Winter, apart from what her father has been able to tell us. This is possibly something he knew nothing about. It would help our inquiries if you explained this to us.’

  Baker looked down at his clasped hands on the table, considering how to pick his way out with least damage. Eventually he made an offering gesture. Yeadings observed the work-blunted fingers; but the nails were well cared for.

  ‘His name was actually Jan, or Jani. A Dutchman. I think she dealt with him, importing plants and bulbs, and he did her down over some order.’

  ‘She confided this to you?’

  ‘She was upset and I was working on the spray system at the time. I couldn’t help overhearing.’

  Yeadings watched him. The man must realize that his story didn’t quite hang together. Beside him Salmon had been alerted to the implication of a Netherlands interest. To him it would obviously mean a drugs connection.

  ‘So if I question office staff at Greenvale, they will confirm this, Mr Baker?’ Yeadings had to get the question out before the DI burst in and irrevocably changed tack.

  ‘I – I’ve no idea.’

  ‘No, I think it’s outside their zone of competence. Because it wasn’t over a business matter that this Jani let her down, was it? She had loved him and he cheated on her.

  ‘Hadn’t you better tell us everything now? You see, your own relationship with Sheila Winter was a very personal one, wasn’t it? And that is why she had a special name for you that no one else would use. After this Jani Dutchman, you became lovers, didn’t you, Mr Baker? And her death has turned your life around.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘Interview terminated at 10.27,’ Yeadings said firmly, as Salmon opened his mouth to jump in. ‘It is noted that your attendance at the police station was voluntary. You are free to leave when you wish, Mr Baker, but I suggest we allow you to think things over and return in twenty minutes. Perhaps by then you will realize the need to be completely frank with us. A constable will bring you tea.’

  He left Salmon to finish off and quitted the room, but he was only halfway down the corridor when the DI came charging after him. ‘He was on the point of coming clean,’ he protested.‘Now he’ll think up some screwy alibi.’

  Yeadings barely spared him a glance. ‘The man’s grieving. He thought nobody knew, and suddenly his most private feelings are exposed. Have some decency, man.’

  The DI halted in his tracks, flushing with repressed anger.

  Red Salmon, like it says on the tins, Yeadings thought (with silent regret for a pun as bad as any of Beaumont’s). But just let him stay buttoned up or he might be claiming there was no place for decency in police work – and mean it, which Yeadings didn’t want to hear.

  ‘Let’s continue at 11.15. You’ll have time then to visit the canteen.’

  Back in his office, Yeadings made two phone calls while the coffee machine burbled. Zyczynski was at home and swore she was resting. Max had arrived but was out shopping; when Beaumont dropped in he’d left a list of alibis for the time of her attack.

  ‘How do they square up with alibis for the murder of Sheila Winter?’ she asked.

  ‘That’ll be complicated,’ he admitted, ‘and we haven’t tackled Nat Baker on that yet. In his case I have a feeling DI Salmon hopes for a crime passionnel.’

  She made no comment. Familiar with that tone of voice she knew he wouldn’t commit himself to an opinion, and he’d gone as near as dammit to criticising the new DI.

  ‘So could it all be sewn up quite quickly?’ she ventured and was answered with a chuckle.

  ‘You’re beginning to sound like the media, Z,’ he told her. ‘Just concentrate on getting well again, and leave the case to us.’

  He said goodbye and made a brief call to Beaumont, who was arranging to have the plumber’s van taken in for forensic examination.

  Rosemary Zyczynski was left mumbling to herself, ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, bimbo!’ and fuming at lack of material to get working on.

  Yeadings checked his watch at 11.15 exactly, then re-entered the Interview Room. Baker looked up, his long face stern. ‘I’d like to tell you about my – my association with Miss Winter. Are you going to caution me?’

  ‘Not at this point. I will interrupt you if it becomes necessary. Shall we wait for the detective inspector?’

  Salmon was three minutes late. He entered looking sour and took the seat beside Yeadings. He started up without more ado. ‘When did you last see Miss Winter, and where?’

&n
bsp; ‘On the Monday, five days before she was killed. It was at the garden centre. I called in with some receipts for goods I’d supplied.’

  ‘Bills already settled? Why couldn’t they have gone by post?’

  ‘They could have, but. I wanted to see her. We’d both been caught up by work and there were things to settle. You see, Sheila and I were planning to be married. We had fixed a date in January, and arranged with the registrar. I’d booked a week’s honeymoon at La Cluse in Savoy. We intended to get some skiing in.’ He stopped abruptly.

  ‘January?’ Salmon demanded suspiciously, ‘and you a plumber? Isn’t that your busiest time?’

  ‘One of them; for burst pipes and pump breakdowns. Yes, but it would be more convenient for Sheila.’

  ‘So her job was more important than yours?’ The DI seemed determined to control the questioning this time. Yeadings smiled, nodding encouragement to Baker.

  ‘She dealt with living things. After the Christmas rush would come the low season. Everything was already tidied for winter, and it was too early for heavy pruning. My work was to be covered by a friend. We could both afford to take a week off then.’

  ‘How did her mother regard the idea?’ Salmon demanded, curling his lip.

  ‘She hadn’t been told. Sheila meant to offer her a health club holiday with beauty treatment while we were away, then present a fait accompli on our return.’

  ‘Wasn’t that asking for trouble?’

  ‘She would be upset whenever she was told, but that way it would avoid any unpleasantness at the most important time for us.’

  ‘Why would it upset her?’

  ‘I think that’s obvious. She was accustomed to having Sheila at her beck and call. New arrangements would have to be made, so that Vanessa became more independent. Sheila thought she might agree to stay on at the flat, possibly with a paid companion. I have a country cottage outside Chesham, not far away, and Sheila planned to buy the fields to either side of it for cultivation.’