I was about to do the sensible thing, stop standing in the rain and go home, when the figure of a man emerged from the end of the alley, pushing the broken tape aside with one hand and looking furtively around him. Instinctively, I ducked further into the shadows and held my breath.
In the darkness I could only make out a tall, spindly figure, coat collar pulled up around his ears, a dark cap obscuring his face. Then, as he turned his head, the lamplight gave me a brief glimpse of his features. It was enough. Piano Teeth. He gave one more nervous look around him and then emerged from the alleyway, sticking the tape back and tapping it into place with his bony fingers. Then he thrust his hands in his pockets and, with an air of assumed innocence, sauntered jauntily towards North Street.
I hurried after him and peered around the corner. I wanted to see where he was going. But more than that, I wanted to see what he’d been up to. I watched him until he disappeared from view then nipped back to the dark mouth of the passage.
I pulled away the police tape and fumbled in my bag for my torch, aimed the beam of light down the alleyway, flooding the ground ahead, and trod cautiously, dodging the puddles. The rain was leaking from a gutter, pattering on to the plastic lids of wheelie bins and I weaved my way between them, down to Nick’s front door and ran the torch beam over it. The police tape was still fixed in place, the door solidly shut. I gave it an experimental push. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed. I walked on a little further, until I stood beneath the stockroom window, high in the wall, and shone the torch at it.
I was so intent on looking upwards I didn’t notice the bloody beer crate until I nearly fell over it. Someone had emptied it of its bottles, stood them carefully against a wall, turned the crate upside down so it could be stood on, and placed it immediately beneath the window, to give himself a leg-up. Now, who would do a thing like that? I asked myself, as I placed my own feet on its surface. I gave a tentative bounce. The crate was made of plastic, but seemed sturdy enough.
My nose just about level with the window frame. I shone the torch around. There were plenty of dirty cobwebs, but no broken glass, no splintered wood. If Piano Teeth had considered breaking in this way, he must have thought better of it. As I inspected the frame more closely, I discovered that the window was actually screwed shut from the inside. It would have been impossible to force it open without tools, and perhaps he hadn’t brought his breaking-and-entering kit with him. Or he was a coward, too scared to break in, just like I was.
I heard voices and hastily flicked off the torch. Some late-night revellers were carousing down Sun Street, crossing that end of the alleyway. A drunken voice suggested that bugger the police tape, they should take a shortcut. Time I was gone. I jumped down off the crate, knocking over the beer bottles and sending them rolling, clinking noisily across the cobbles. ‘Shit!’ I cursed in a whisper.
‘Somebody’s down there,’ the drunken voice announced loudly.
‘Prob’ly a cat,’ someone else suggested.
I didn’t wait to hear the rest of the conversation. I dashed down the alley, back the way I’d come, not stopping to put the tape back in place. I ran down Shadow Lane, slowing my pace as I turned the corner, and began walking home, shoulders hunched against the falling raindrops.
Now, what could Piano Teeth have wanted so desperately that he was prepared to break into a crime scene to get it? To remove evidence of his having been there? It was a bit late for that. The police knew he’d been in Nick’s because I’d told them I’d seen him. I didn’t know his real name, but Paul did: Albert something. Assuming they’d been able to track him down, they would already have interviewed him.
The sensible thing to do, of course, would be for me to ring the police as soon as I got home and tell them what I’d just seen. But would they be interested? After all, I hadn’t really caught him trying to break in, and there was no real evidence he’d tried. An upturned beer crate didn’t count for much. I could just imagine what the police would say. It was dark, could I be sure the man I’d seen was really him, what was I doing there anyway? No. If I wanted to know what Piano Teeth was up to, I was going to have to ask him myself.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Of course I remember you, Juno!’ Tom Smithson shook me warmly by the hand. ‘You came to that auction viewing with Paul and poor old Nick.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Awful business!’
‘The police have been in touch, then?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Please sit down. Sit down.’
Dartmoor Antiques was set in an old warehouse on the outskirts of Exeter, a concern very like Ashburton Art and Antiques Bazaar but larger and more impressive. Tom Smithson was the proprietor. I’d tracked him down on the Internet. Most of the ground floor was filled with his stock.
‘Dark-brown furniture,’ he waved an arm at a collection of wardrobes, desks, assorted bookcases, tables, chairs and dressers, ‘not fashionable at the moment, of course,’ he added wryly as we sat down at a mahogany table. He turned to me and smiled. ‘So, what can I do for you?’
I felt a bit awkward. ‘I expect I’m only going to ask you what the police have already asked,’ I told him. ‘But time is going by and the case doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. I wondered if you’d ever come across Nick’s Russian customers.’
‘You’re right, they did ask but I’m afraid I couldn’t help them. I didn’t have that many dealings with Nick myself and I hadn’t seen him since the auction.’ He frowned at me. ‘You’re convinced, are you, that these Russians are responsible?’
I sighed. ‘Pretty much.’ I recounted my meetings with them, first at Nick’s flat, and then on the moor.
Tom Smithson listened, his genial features displaying more and more alarm.
‘They certainly sound like a pair of wrong ’uns. But I’ve never come across them, and I don’t know what Nick’s connection to them might have been.’
‘There was another dealer with you and Nick, that day at the auction,’ I began tentatively, getting to the real reason for my visit. ‘Tall, thin, with … um … large teeth … I think his name is Albert. I saw him coming out of Nick’s place one day, by the back door.’
‘You mean Bert Evans.’ He thought for a moment and his shoulders shook with laughter. ‘Poor old Bert! He has been known to dabble in what you might call murky waters, but if you’re fancying him for a murder suspect, Juno, I’d think again. He’s got a brilliant alibi.’
‘What?’ I asked.
‘He was having dinner with us the night that Nick was murdered. There was a whole group of us, we went on until the small hours. In fact,’ he added, grinning, ‘I remember that you came into our conversation that night.’
‘Me?’
‘You made quite an impression on Bert. He was asking if anyone knew anything about you. He’s a sad soul, been widowed twice. He’s always on the lookout for the next Mrs Evans.’
My face must have been a picture. It made Tom laugh, anyway. ‘But seriously,’ he added, ‘I think you can forget him as a suspect. He’s got a very weak heart, he’s waiting for a bypass operation. He’d run a mile from any violence − has to avoid stress at any cost.’
Then what, I wondered, was he doing poking around a crime scene?
‘He’s got a unit here, as a matter of fact,’ added an amused voice, ‘although we very rarely see him.’ A lady was strolling towards us, silver hair cut into a shiny bob, her long, purple skirt swinging as she walked. She carried a sad-looking teddy bear under one arm, and had small gold-rimmed specs perched on the end of her nose.
‘Vicky love, come and meet Juno.’ Tom Smithson held out a hand. ‘Juno, this is my wife, Vicky.’
‘I’m trying to thread this bloody needle,’ she told us, holding it up at arm’s length and squinting at it, ‘so that I can repair poor Bruin here.’
‘You need stronger glasses, old girl,’ he advised her.
‘No, I just need longer arms.’
I volunteered to thread the offending needle, whilst Vicky w
andered off to make us all a cup of tea. Despite the autumn sunshine the air was fresh, and it was cold sitting in the warehouse, the door wide open to attract customers. A few possible buyers could be seen browsing amongst the old garden implements and stone ornaments displayed outside.
I sat drinking tea and chatting with Tom and Vicky for another half-hour. They were lovely people, and any idea that I might have cherished that Tom might have been involved in Nick’s murder seemed ridiculous.
‘Of course, if you want to talk to Bert, we can give you his number.’ Tom chuckled. ‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to see you, fancies himself as a bit of a ladies’ man.’
‘On what basis?’ I asked, incredulous.
‘Oh, you’d be surprised.’
Yes, I would. I thought I’d change the subject. ‘Have you seen anything of Verbena Clarke lately?’ I asked, as Tom scribbled Bert’s number on a scrap of paper.
I explained that she and I had parted company, without explaining why. He nodded sagely. ‘Not an easy character, our Verbena.’
‘Do you know her well?’ I asked.
‘No, no, only through the trade.’
I would have liked to ask more, but customers began drifting in through the door, and I felt I’d taken up enough of Tom’s time. But Vicky offered to show me around and I couldn’t resist the chance for a good snoop. Apart from the piles of brown furniture, collectibles and stuff that could be dismissed as junk, there were units containing more expensive items, most of them locked safely inside glass cabinets, many of these cabinets internally lit, with mirrored shelves to show off the contents to best effect. I peered in, mulling lustfully over silver jewellery, snuffboxes, vinaigrettes, and a long hatpin ending in a translucent lump of glowing amber. I read the price label, and sighing sadly, looked to the shelf above. And there stood a candlestick: square base, heavy, silver, William IV.
‘You OK, Juno?’ Vicky asked. ‘You’ve gone white.’
‘I wonder if I could have a closer look at that.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s rather expensive.’
‘I’ve got an uncle with a big birthday coming up,’ I told her, lying glibly. ‘It’s the sort of thing he’d love.’
‘Of course …’ Vicky searched for the key to the cabinet among the heavy bunch that she carried, unlocking the glass door and sliding it open.
‘This isn’t Bert Evans unit by any chance?’ I asked, still staring at the candlestick.
‘No, no,’ she assured me, as she reached in for it. ‘This cabinet belongs to Olivia. She’s not here today.’ She glanced at the price tag. ‘But I’m sure she’d be open to offers.’
She held the candlestick out for me and I realised I was holding my breath. I took it and turned it round in my hands. It looked identical to the murder weapon, but had been well polished, the overhead spotlights dancing off its gleaming surfaces. I turned it over and studied the base. The rectangle of green baize that covered it was pristine.
‘I don’t think that baize is original,’ Vicky said, ‘probably a replacement.’ She smiled. ‘You’re holding that as if it’s an unexploded bomb.’
I smiled too, but weakly.
‘Would you like me to ring Olivia?’ she asked. ‘Ask what her best price is? I’m sure she’d be willing to do a deal, the thing’s been sitting there for at least a year.’
I felt a surge of relief. The question I had been going to ask next, where Olivia had got the candlestick from, was now irrelevant. If it had been in the cabinet so long, it couldn’t be the murder weapon. I looked at the price tag. ‘I’m afraid it’ll still be too rich for my blood.’
I handed it back to Vicky, she replaced it in the cabinet and we made our way back to the warehouse entrance. ‘If you think it’s the kind of thing your uncle might like, I could keep an eye out for another one,’ she volunteered, ‘something a bit cheaper. You never know when one might come in. I could always phone you. Would you like me to do that?’
I turned to her and smiled. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Hold on,’ she called, just as I was walking out, ‘didn’t you want to talk to Bert?’
I waved my scrap of paper. ‘Tom gave me his number.’
‘We can do better than that.’ She searched a drawer under the counter. ‘Here,’ she held out a business card. ‘We keep them for all our traders.’
I took it from her. It read, in elegant, curling script: Bert Evans, Antiques and Objet’s d’Art. Either he had no grasp of the apostrophe or he ought to sack his printer. But the card gave his telephone number, and his address.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
My plan to call on Bert Evans next morning was thwarted by Maisie and her washing machine.
‘It’s done it again!’ she wailed at me on the phone. ‘It won’t open. It won’t let me have me washing!’
‘Don’t try and force the door, Maisie, not again. We don’t want another flood. Just wait till I get there. OK?’
Maisie was muttering as she put the phone down. She believed her washing machine to be possessed of a malign spirit. It wasn’t of course, she’d just pressed the wrong button, again, but why washing machine manufacturers can’t understand that elderly people cannot see tiny white buttons on a white background, is a mystery to me. By the time I’d gone round to her cottage, drained the washing, sorted out the correct cycle, let the machine do its stuff and hung her clothes out on the line for her, it was lunchtime.
I was promised to Ricky and Morris for the afternoon, but I phoned them and cried off, promising to work tomorrow instead. This left me free to call in on Mr Evans, unannounced. His place was a little way away in Lustleigh, in a pretty village where many of the properties were detached, thatched and worth a small fortune.
I drove around a couple of times before I eventually found the private road leading to his house. There was a board on the corner with the name of three properties on it, Teniriffe being one. It seemed Bert couldn’t spell either. But whatever Tom Smithson had meant by dabbling in murky waters, Bert was doing very well out of it. His gravelled drive led to an impressive house with mullioned windows, a pretty front garden surrounded by mature trees, and a double garage with two cars and a large motorhome parked outside.
I pulled the van up behind it, got out, rang the doorbell and waited. There was no response and no noise from within. After a minute or so I peered nosily through one of the mullioned windows, shading my eyes with my hand to try and cut out my reflection, but I couldn’t see anything between the gap in the curtains except the raised lid of a grand piano.
I followed a path around the house, through a wrought iron gate at the side. I called out a couple of times but except for a wood pigeon flapping off in alarm from the branch of a fir tree, there was no sign of life.
Bert’s back garden was huge. For a moment I lingered jealously, taking it all in, imagining what I would do with this space if it was mine. Most of it was taken up by a lawn, manicured to within an inch of its life. A lawnmower was abandoned in the middle, halfway along a green stripe it had been shaving on the grass. Someone was about then, either Bert or a gardener, someone called away mid task by the ringing of a phone perhaps, or an urgent call of nature.
I tried a couple of loud hellos, then followed the path to a flight of stone steps, leading down to a second area of garden, dominated by a large pool. As I looked down at the dark water a golden koi carp the size of a torpedo glimmered briefly under the surface. And there was something else. Lying at the edge of the pool was a pair of sandals, truly horrible mauve socks leading to even more horrible skinny white legs knotted with varicose veins, and a bum in a pair of khaki shorts. The rest of the body was only dimly visible, under the water.
I flung myself down the steps on to the path, on my knees, and pulled hard on the waistband of the shorts. ‘Mr Evans!’ I yelled, as I tugged at his body. ‘Bert!’ I could tell from the way his arms floated out on the surface that he was dead. The poor old sod must have had a heart attack, pitched forward and lan
ded face down. I sank my arms in the cold water, getting one arm around his waist from underneath and grabbing the collar of his shirt with my other hand. As I hauled desperately, a tiny goldfish darted through the waterweed of his floating hair. I managed to shift his body back, only a few inches, but enough for me to grab his hair and lift his head out of the water. His face was a bluish white, slack-jawed, his pale eyes staring, as dead as any fish on any slab. I lowered his head, grabbed him by the legs, and dragged him ignominiously until his body was beached, his face turned sideways, his cheek resting on the stone kerb of the pond. Water dribbled from his gaping mouth like a gargoyle. It was not the face of a man who’d died peacefully. I knelt and felt at his neck for a pulse, just in case, but found not the faintest flicker.
I ran back to the house. The kitchen door was open and I was halfway across the floor, dripping water on the shiny tiles, heading for a phone I could see mounted on the wall, before I stopped and gazed about me at an upturned table, scattered chairs, a broken vase in glassy diamonds strewn across the floor. Through double glass doors I could see into a sitting room and a similar scene of chaos: ripped sofa cushions flung about and trampled on, books and ornaments swept from their shelves and lying on the carpet, a smashed photo frame, a shattered lamp.
I froze into stillness, rigid. Could whoever had done this still be in the house? I listened, ears straining, but could detect no sound beyond the ticking of the kitchen clock. After a minute I felt safe enough to move, dialled for the police, then picked up a kitchen chair and sat, wet and shaking, waiting for them to arrive.
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