‘So?’
‘I called in a favour or two and an old colleague is checking something for me. I am waiting for a call back.’
‘I daresay I could tell you now,’ said Rewley, who had been showing his own signs of impatience.
‘I expect so. But let’s wait to get it authenticated, shall we?’
The telephone rang, Charmian reached out for it quickly. But it was her husband.
‘You must have been sitting right by the phone. One ring.’
‘I was.’
‘The dog is back.’
‘Has he got blood on his paws?’
‘What do you mean? Has he been in an accident? He looks fine.’
‘No, only joking, but he seems to be the alibi for a suspect accused of killing Diana …’
‘Really?’ Humphrey sounded sceptical. ‘How did he manage that?’
‘He seems to have been sighted outside Baby’s place and then in the Great Park where the suspect was walking.’
‘He is tired, and there are certainly some leaves and mud on his coat. I thought he might have been looking for Dr Harrie. Any news there?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You need a bit of luck,’ said Humphrey knowledge-ably. ‘When a chap is missing, it takes time and luck to track him down … And then a doctor, if he wanted to do himself in, could tuck himself away somewhere and just put himself to sleep. He might even go home to do it. He did have a home, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes. Birdie thinks it was in London so the Met are doing the looking.’
He was probably still alive, wandering round, wondering what to do. He hadn’t seemed the suicidal type, but you could never tell.
‘Good, good. Now don’t you worry, he’ll turn up. Somewhere.’ Humphrey assured her.
‘I might be late back. Don’t wait up for me.’
‘Shall I come down? Bring you some sandwiches and coffee?’
Looking at her tired colleagues, Charmian said that wasn’t a bad idea. ‘Bring enough for three.’
‘Will do.’
‘Humphrey is bringing us food and coffee,’ she announced.
Rewley admitted he was hungry. ‘I was thinking of going to the all-night deli in Apron Street. They make good sandwiches.’
Charmian was about to start on a defence of her husband’s sandwiches when there was a smart, double rap on her door. ‘Must be the night man,’ she said, referring to the officer who remained on duty in SRADIC all night. She went to the door.
Outside stood the night man and behind him the uniformed figure of Sergeant Tiller from the Slough Division.
‘A body of a man has been dragged from the river above Wraysbury. Seems to fit the description of Dr Harrie.’ Tiller hesitated, perhaps surprised to see the trio. ‘ I was told I would find you here. I have the car outside.’
Charmian knew she must go. She had asked to be told at once of any likely suicide victims and here one was. Pull a string or two, she thought, and you find it is you that is on the end of it. Plus a body or two. Dr Harrie had to be considered because of his granddaughter. He had had an interest other than pure curiosity.
And now Diana, who had planned to profit from writing a book about the first murders and Joan Dingham, had been killed.
It’s like a piece of knitting, except I don’t think I have the pattern right, Charmian thought to herself.
‘I’ll come.’ she turned to the other two. ‘Tell Humphrey I will be back, and to keep the coffee hot.’
‘Shall I come with you?’ asked Dolly.
Charmian shook her head. ‘No, I’ll be fine.’ The drowned man, whoever he was, could not have been in the river for long, so he could not yet be blown out of shape or discoloured.
‘Where is he?’
‘Slough mortuary, ma’am. He was pulled out of the river this afternoon but it all took time.’
She nodded. She would have preferred to have been summoned to the riverside earlier rather than the mortuary at night, but that was not how things were done.
If it is indeed you lying on the mortuary slab, Dr Harrie, I must take back some of the suspicious thoughts I have been having about you.
The sergeant was silent as he settled her in the car, then took his own seat beside the driver. She was a pretty young woman who gave Charmian a big smile. Nice haircut and good teeth. She looked good in uniform, too.
I looked good in uniform, Charmian recalled, in my day. Not difficult, you just needed a trim waist and long legs. Maybe that’s why I joined the Force. I had a good degree, could have done anything with it, and the police wasn’t exactly fashionable at the time. Is it ever?
As Charmian was driven away, the telephone on her desk rang. Rewley looked at Dolly, who nodded, then picked it up.
Charmian was back within the hour. Her husband, plus dog, had arrived before her. He had set out a plate of sandwiches and a big Thermos of coffee on her desk which he was sitting studying with interest. The dog was at his feet, sound asleep: work for the day was over.
They all stood up when Charmian came in except the dog, who slept on. No one spoke until she said quickly, ‘No, not the right man. This poor fellow was younger and thinner and I had never seen his face before. Not Dr Harrie.’
‘No,’ said Rewley. ‘Not Dr Harrie. In fact, it couldn’t be. We’ve just discovered there is no Dr Harrie. Not alive, anyway, he died some years ago, Felicity had no grandfather.’
‘Well, well,’ said Charmian. ‘ Why is that no surprise to me?’
Humphrey poured out mugs of coffee (he had brought some with him) and unwrapped the sandwiches. Quietly, he passed the plate round. The dog woke up and followed him.
No one else was greatly surprised either.
On the way home, with Humphrey driving, his basket of provender now eaten, he said, ‘He always was a doubtful fellow, I didn’t know what to make of him. You don’t, do you, with a chap who looks like that?’
‘You gave him a touch of respectability when you pretended to remember him from school.’
‘Prep school,’ Humphrey said at once. ‘ Little boys, long while ago. People change. I’ve changed.’
Yes, thought Charmian, thinking of what Humphrey must have been like at this early school: long legged, always tall for his age, a crest of unbrushed fair hair (he still had plenty of hair, thank goodness), full of talk and information, most of it accurate. She hadn’t known him then, but she could imagine, and perhaps he hadn’t changed all that much.
‘I hope you find him soon,’ he said.
Over breakfast the next morning, Humphrey said, ‘I think you owe it to Birdie and Winifred to tell them yourself. This morning.’ He went back to eating his boiled egg, and reading The Times, duty done.
Charmian ate a piece of toast, and gave some to the dog. Then she urged her husband to take his face out of the newspaper so she could talk to him.
‘Now stop acting the Wisest Old Man in the village, it’s a good part, and you’ve written it well.’ Humphrey kept a straight face.
‘And tell me what you really think about the missing so-called Dr Harrie.’
‘He was certainly not a doctor. A man with a personality problem and probably deeply unhappy.’
‘And would he kill himself?’
‘It’s your job to know that, isn’t it?’
‘Have a go. I need an outside opinion.’
Her husband considered, then he said, ‘Yes, one way and another, I believe he would.’
Charmian nodded. ‘Right.’
‘He treated the dog well, though.’
‘But I told you, more or less, I told you,’ said Birdie, when Charmian called to alert them to the latest news. ‘It was all that hair, I said that our visitor had that to hide behind. I could tell he was hiding. Mind,’ she added thoughtfully, ‘there are more things than who you are that you might have to hide.’
‘He was hiding.’ Charmian felt she had to say this.
‘Of course, but what was he hiding from and why, I ask m
yself? What did he talk about a lot? Himself and the death of his granddaughter. But he knew she was not his granddaughter, so he was talking about himself and death.’
Birdie had a knack of saying profound things so simply and artlessly that it took time to sink in.
‘There is a search going on for him,’ said Charmian.
‘Of course. But no one knows now who he is: he has no name.’
‘Do you think he is dead, Birdie? Was the threat of suicide real?’
Birdie looked thoughtful. ‘My dear, with men of that sort one can never be sure. What was he doing here? What did that charade mean to him? And Charmian … since he knew he could camp at the end of our garden and not be turned away. I think he knew of us, the two white witches of Windsor.’
‘I thought that too,’ said Charmian.
‘His real home may not be too far away.’
‘I thought the same. I was hoping the dog would lead the way, but so far, he hasn’t.’
‘Do you think he is dead?’
Birdie paused to think. ‘Can’t say. Sorry. But I do think he is a deeply disturbed person who is very interested in murders.’
Winifred came into the room, carrying a bowl of purple and pink flowers. ‘ The hellebore is doing very well this year, Birdie, so I ventured to pick some. Although I always think it very funereal, don’t you?’
‘Never seen any in a wreath,’ said Birdie.
‘Oh, no, they are a private flower, not a ceremonial one. A private flower for private mourning.’ She planted the flowers on the table. ‘You are talking about the hoaxer? Hoaxer Harrie,’ she said with some pleasure.
‘You knew what he was or wasn’t?’ asked Charmian. Her friends often amazed her.
‘We knew he was a bit iffy, didn’t we, Birdie? But we like that rather than otherwise. He was an attractive man,’ she said appreciatively.
‘Birdie thinks he was too absorbed with death.’
Winifred shrugged. ‘Birdie likes a bit of drama.’
‘Now now,’ protested Birdie. ‘ But he could do with finding. We know about the death in the hairdressers. Word gets around quickly here. And being witches we have special channels.’
I bet, thought Charmian.
‘I didn’t know Diana, and we do our own hair, don’t we, Winifred, but it’s a terrible thing to happen. Is there a suspect?’
Birdie had a lovely formal way of putting things, Charmian thought, she would never say: have you caught anyone yet?
Cautiously, Charmian admitted that an accusation had been made against someone, but she did not think that person was guilty.
Birdie frowned. ‘A woman, I suppose.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘My thoughts tell me that no man killed Diana.’
Charmian went back home and then drove to her office, leaving her husband and the dog with instructions to go out for a walk together to see if the dog could flush out his former master.
In the office there was a fax telling her that Joan Dingham had now withdrawn her accusation against her sister and had apologized for the attack on her. She said it was just ‘nerves’. The fax was from Inspector Parker who managed, even in writing, to sound sceptical and disapproving of Joan Dingham.
Dolly came in. ‘ You got the fax?’
‘You’ve seen it?’
‘No, but Emily Agent rang to tell me about it. She would like to strangle Joan herself.’
‘No other news? Nothing that takes us forward?’
Dolly said, ‘No. No progress. Well, nothing that anyone is saying anything about. Of course, they might be keeping a fact or two up their sleeves, but I doubt it.’
‘Three murders,’ said Charmian. ‘The death toll is rising.’ She flipped through the copy of the report that the CID investigating team had sent.
Witnesses interviewed. Not many of them and none with anything interesting to say.
Forensic reports: mud on the Siddons girl, dried sand on the Harrie girl … nothing surprising in either cases since they were traces of the ground where their bodies had rested. Scraps of leaves and grass. All local, nothing illuminating. The injuries on both girls had been done with a pointed, sharp knife. The injuries on the last victim had, at first, seemed like a savage rape but which, it was later confirmed, was not. She had been dead when so injured.
The killer was getting inventive but, in a funny kind of way, kinder. The girl had known nothing of the last set of injuries.
Charmian turned to her diary. ‘ What’s going on today?’
‘Yes, I know,’ Dolly was following her gaze. ‘ Today, this morning in fact, the parents of the two murdered girls, the Pinckney Heath girl and the Windsor one, are holding a joint press interview. TV as well, I believe.’
Charmian was running through the names. ‘ I hate these occasions but I suppose I had better go. John Parker made a point of asking me. Mrs Goodison, that’s the Harrie girl’s mother, who has come back from Canada, and the Siddons girl’s parents, they wish to be called that so it seems, have come back from South Africa. I suppose any publicity is better than none.’
‘That’s a bit sour, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, I’ll be there, might get a clue about the so-called Dr Harrie.’
‘I’d like to come,’ said Dolly tentatively.
‘There’s plenty for you to get on with here. Rewley too.’ Charmian looked around. ‘Where is he, by the way?’
‘Went off to Kingston to look at some hospital records. Didn’t say why.’
‘He should have done. I’m running this ship. Right, you can come with me, in that case. I’ll meet you in an hour and you can drive me to the St Anselm church hall where the press conference is being held.’
Still sour, thought Dolly as she went away. Not like her. No, wrong to call her sour: she blames herself for getting no further with this case. She doesn’t understand Joan Dingham either and that isn’t helping. But who does understand that woman?
The room where the parents and the police were facing press and television reporters was crowded. The police had organized the session. Charmian, surveying the faces, thought she recognized one or two but could not put names to them.
Joan Dingham was not there, which was wise, nor was her sister Lou, presumably still sporting her black eye and broken nose, on whom the latest word was that the nose was not broken, but badly bruised. But another face that Charmian associated with the Dinghams, the helpful man in the garden around the flat where Lou lived – Chappell, was that his name? – he was there, looking keenly interested. He’ll probably report back to Joan and Lou, speculated Charmian, he looks the eager sort that longs to tell you something. Very often something you don’t want to know.
Charmian took a seat at the back of the room where Dolly had joined her. ‘ Be good to have a smoke,’ said Dolly.
‘No, it wouldn’t. You should give it up.’ Charmian was sharp.
‘You used to smoke.’
‘And now I don’t.’
‘The truth is, I don’t enjoy these sessions.’
‘Neither do I,’ admitted Charmian.
‘It’s the tears,’ said Dolly sadly, ‘and then those who try to hide the tears. Cover them up.’
‘This lot look calm enough.’
Mrs Goodison, beautifully dressed in a dark suit, with a flame-coloured scarf at her throat, was sitting very upright, the tension only showing by the tight grip she had on her handbag. She herself was not beautiful but very attractive, even considering the stiffness of her iron composure.
She’s not going to cry, Charmian thought, but she might surprise us all by standing up and shouting. Wouldn’t blame her, either.
Mr and Mrs Siddons were both wearing black: black and white striped and floating silk for her, and a short black jacket with jeans for him. They sat a few feet away from each other with a policewoman in between.
‘He’s wearing Armani,’ whispered Dolly. ‘Last season’s though.’
The Siddonses were treating the p
ress conference as a public performance and, although Charmian thought they would not burst into tears or shout but behave with appropriate dignity, she guessed they would go away afterwards and have a strong gin and tonic.
Mrs Siddons had her hair dressed in several small plaits, which was oddly becoming to her face.
‘She could pick a fight, that one,’ whispered Dolly.
‘She’s an actress, you can tell,’ was all Charmian said, although she thought Dolly was right.
The parents, all three of them, were introduced by Inspector Patrick Palmer, who was the new man in charge of public relations and was known as Publicity Pat. He did his usual job and first Mrs Goodison and then both the Siddonses spoke a few words, telling of their distress and shock and urging anyone who might know anything to come forward.
The television camera took them all in, they made a handsome and interesting set of parents. A cut above the usual parents of murder victims, and more in control of themselves. They had dressed for the occasion as if it was a wedding.
Charmian felt sure that they were loving parents but not one of them had been in the country at the time of the killings: the Harrie child, Felicity, had been living as a boarder in a school house while the Siddons girl had looked after herself. Both girls had enjoyed the freedom and had moved into racier society than they might have managed otherwise.
Perhaps this was why they had died.
Charmian met Mrs Goodison’s eyes at this point but realized that they were not focused on her, she was not looking at anything in the crowded room, she was staring into space. Then she stood up, throwing her handbag to the floor, and began to shout.
The television camera concentrated on her.
‘None of you are interested in my dead child, you are not going to find out who killed her, you just came to see a show.’
The television cameras continued to stay on her face, but Charmian knew that nothing of this would be shown on the screen, but would be edited out.
She’s going to say something really awkward any minute now, Charmian thought.
‘You let that bloody murderer Dingham out of prison and now look what’s happened. It’s her, all her. Kill her, kill her.’
Dead Again Page 17