by Janet Neel
The audience regarded her with some hostility, but after a minute Sir James conceded that this made sense, and Henry decided to conclude the meeting.
‘Well, I’m afraid there is not a lot more I can do until we have had a look at the figures. If you can let us have anything tomorrow, or even later today, we will start straight away; otherwise we will be with you the day after tomorrow.’
The visitors rose to go, and Henry and Francesca went with them to the lifts. Henry, exchanging civil commonplaces with the Blacketts about mutual acquaintances in Yorkshire, could hear Francesca behind him exercising her charm on Peter Hampton. Rather uphill work, he thought; the chap was hardly responding, and had harked back to the point that he didn’t want his suppliers approached at this stage. He was deeply amused to hear Francesca, abandoning charm, tell him not to fuss, just as if he were a younger brother; the Department was not in the business of pushing people into receivership. They bade their visitors farewell in a final exchange of civilities.
‘Francesca, could we have a word in my office?’ She gave him a caricature hang-dog look, but he remained resolutely unamused. He asked for tea, firmly dismissed his secretary and explained to a much subdued Francesca that in any meeting at which he was senior officer present, he took the lead — just like a Minister, he volunteered, inspired. He reminded her that she had been dealing with anxious men from out of London, who had been deeply disconcerted at finding themselves explaining industrial problems to a snippet like her who added to the general sins of being young, a southerner, and a civil servant with an index-linked pension, the final, ineradicable sin of being a woman. ‘The last time these chaps listened to a girl tell them the odds they were eight years old and at school,’ he reminded her. ‘Just use a bit of sensitivity and tact, ease them into the meeting, and shut up when someone senior is trying to get through a list of questions.’
Francesca, to his pleasure, neither wept nor sought to excuse herself, but, rather pink about the cheeks, apologized, drank her tea and left. He sat back to finish his tea, feeling pleased with himself and in control of his new environment. A fearsome crash from the corridor made him start, and he looked up to see Rajiv Sengupta at the door.
‘May I come in? May one also enquire why Fran has just marched through my outer office, pausing only to kick two filing cabinets? We who have known her for some time conclude that something has vexed her.’
‘Me,’ said Henry promptly. ‘I feared she might have gone off to weep.’
‘Not Francesca. Er, Henry, what did you do?’
‘Cursed her out for not allowing me to hold my own meeting.’
‘How brave. I can see you are going to be a real asset to this Unit. I can’t imagine why she didn’t kick you rather than my filing cabinet. I actually came to discuss staffing. I hear from Francesca — between crashes, you understand — that we really have acquired another customer this afternoon. Which of the accountants do you want on it?’
They spent a peaceful and efficient forty minutes committing Martin Bailey’s time fully to Britex and making consequent readjustments on other jobs. Henry found Rajiv shrewd as well as entertainingly malicious in his judgements of which of the secondees could effectively do which job. They were sitting back, pleased with each other, when Francesca put her head round the door.
‘Draft note for the Minister of this afternoon’s meeting herewith — I told David Jonas I would do it all, since he and the Minister were there for less than half of it. Would you look at it, please Henry, and then you can just tick it through.’
Henry, impressed, took the note which ran to a page and a half and summarized succinctly the main points. ‘Very good,’ he said, ‘and very quick.’
‘We have to be.’
Not forgiven yet, he thought, biting his lip to keep from grinning. ‘What else are you doing?’
‘I am holding a meeting on another case.’ She picked up her note and left, stiff-backed. Both men watched her go, avoiding each other’s eyes.
‘“I kept my dignity”,’ Henry quoted, with affection when she was safely out of the room. ‘“Pig, says I, and swep’ out.”’ He caught Rajiv’s considering look. ‘Don’t worry about it — we’ll get on. She’ll learn. I’m now going home — I feel as if I have been here for months, and I’m worn out. See you tomorrow.’
7
McLeish sat at his desk at Edgware Road the next morning and considered the papers on it dispiritedly. Statements from the hotelkeeper; and the typist who had found the body still to be read. No apparent motive other than the obvious one of robbery, and if that was right their chances of finding the murderer became slim, because there would be no connection between victim and murderer. Find him they must, however. Someone who could deliver two further blows with a hammer to make sure his victim was dead ought not to be walking the streets. Nor was he himself working well, he felt fidgety and stale. He looked up at Davidson working in his contained way on the other side of the room, and immediately remembered a suitable distraction.
‘We ought to tell young Mr Wilson about our interview with his lady’s husband.’
‘Aye, we ought. I tried earlier this morning but I can’t find him. The people he has at his house — I take it it’s the housekeeper or some such — say he is rehearsing at the BBC and cannot be disturbed. Mrs Byers is somewhere modelling something, but the wee body on the telephone had no idea what or where. I’ve left messages. Shall I try to find Miss Wilson as well?’
The question was a little over-casual and McLeish looked up sharply. ‘I tried myself this morning. I wondered whether to make an appointment or maybe just go up there when I’ve time around lunch and tell her about it.’
‘That’s an idea. I’m sure she would welcome personal handling of this matter.’ Davidson’s eyes were bright with interest, and McLeish gave him a sourly amused grin.
‘Nice wee girl.’ McLeish blinked at him. As a description of a young woman probably five foot eight in her socks it struck him as unusual. ‘Ye were that busy giving her the eye, you missed all the detail. When we were round there, you know, she saw me looking at the food like a starving kitty, so she says she is hungry and feeds us bloody great plates of food, casual like. And I’m not her type, she just saw a body looking hungry and made sure he got fed. Shows a motherly nature which is aye a good thing in women.’
‘All right, Bruce. You’re the expert round here, women everywhere we look. How do I ask her out?’ His sergeant gazed at him, eyebrows peaked into triangles of incredulity.
‘Try a wee telephone call,’ he suggested. ‘Ask her if she’d like to come out for a drink tonight.’
‘Won’t she be rather surprised?’
‘Why? She fancied you too, nae bother, couldn’t take her eyes off you. I may have been starving but I saw that. Look, ring her up, you can lead in gently by telling her about our chat with Mr Byers. That’ll amuse her — I mean, it gave me a laugh.’
‘He wasn’t expecting us, was he?’ McLeish grinned at the memory. He and his sergeant had descended on the premises of Gordon and John — green-and-white striped blind, green and white fittings in the shop, a chatty blonde seventeen-year-old on reception, who had been immediately enchanted by her first glimpse of Davidson. After the preliminaries they had asked for Mr Byers and the girl behind the desk, gazing rapturously at Davidson, had bent her mind to the question and after some thought had summoned Mr Franco to the front desk. Mr Franco, born Francis Byers, had irritably left a modelgirl client and slouched elegantly over to the desk. He had, as Davidson observed with pleasure, nearly pissed himself when he came face to face, or rather face to collar-bone, with McLeish. He had recovered fast, the nondescript face, rendered almost good-looking by a stylish long blond mane of hair, hardening into older, tougher lines.
‘You can’t come ’ere.’
‘Would you rather come to the station, then?’ Davidson had enquired, and the manager, a lively Jew in his twenties with an incipient weight problem, had arrived from
nowhere, sized the situation up with the speed of experience, and swept the whole party away to a crowded back office, returning himself to deal with Mr Franco’s abandoned client. McLeish, looking particularly menacing in the tiny office, had explained the nature of the complaint and asked, pro forma, whether Mr Byers or any of his associates were involved, receiving the expected denial with scepticism. Mr Byers did, he assumed, understand that threatening behaviour was in itself an offence? And that the eyes of the CID in Hackney would be on his family and associates, twenty-four hours a day, if any further threats were received? Should any actual violence take place, of course, the whole Byers family and associates would receive the full attention of two separate police forces.
‘She’s my old lady. Why aren’t you out catching murderers rather than helping a sod like ’im take Sheena away?’ They had both been embarrassed to see that he had tears in his eyes.
‘Whatever happens, you don’t go uttering threats.’ Davidson had swung into action. ‘No more funny phone calls; you want to say something to her, you write it and send it through the post. You don’t want the uniformed branch round here.’
That blow had gone home, McLeish had thought. His years as a policeman had left him confident that he knew the difference between a rational man who could be frightened into sensible behaviour, and the genuine hard man, often psychopathic, who would shrug off a police warning. This one wouldn’t risk his livelihood; no need to consider a watch on either of the Wilson households. Pity, really; he wouldn’t have minded a good excuse to keep a watch on one Wilson.
‘You ring her up, I’ll get some coffee,’ volunteered Davidson now, seeing him still hesitant. McLeish, dithering, watched gloomily through the glass partition as Davidson wove his way to the machine, patting the prettiest of the WPCs gently on the bottom as he passed, clearly giving pleasure rather than offence. He seized the phone and resolutely dialled.
‘Francesca Wilson’s phone.’ It was a pleasant, cultured male voice and McLeish blinked. Could it be that there were male secretaries in the Department of Industry? Did Francesca have one? He could hear a confused background noise and raised male voices, and realized that inviting Francesca out more or less in public was going to have its difficulties.
‘Francesca Wilson.’
‘Inspector McLeish here,’ he said awkwardly, feeling the Friendly Neighbourhood Policeman personality threatening to envelop him. ‘I thought you would be glad to know that we have interviewed Mr Byers.’
‘Hang on, will you, Inspector? Gentlemen, could this meeting transfer itself next door. I am sorry, but I need quiet for this phone call … So, what happened?’
‘We went to see him, and we told him that if the phone calls did not stop we would come and see him again.’
‘Accompanied on any subsequent visit by several members of the uniformed branch, I take it?’
‘That’s right.’ Quick with it, too, he thought, grinning into the receiver.
‘You do have all the fun. I wish I had been there.’
‘I was wondering whether you would like to come out for a drink some night?’ McLeish plunged, deciding it was now or never. He held his breath through the slight pause that ensued.
‘Yes, I should like to.’ He let out the breath, carefully. ‘What night had you in mind?’
‘Tonight?’
‘I can’t.’ The clear voice sounded genuinely regretful. ‘I have a dinner for my old college. This particular festivity comes round once every five years.’
‘Tomorrow any good?’ McLeish, drawing confidence from the careful explanation, decided to push on.
‘I have one thing to do, but I could meet you afterwards. Peregrine — you know, my brother — is recording an edition of “Sacred Music for a Sunday” or similar for the BBC. They rehearse all day, then record with a live audience at 6.30. It takes about an hour and a half, so I’ll be through by 8. Actually you could come and be audience too, if it would amuse you. We have a spare ticket because another brother is also in the show as part of the Bach Choir.’
‘I’d like that. Can I take you to supper afterwards?’
‘That would be very nice.’ Francesca sounded both pleased and mildly surprised, and McLeish found himself beaming at the telephone. He listened with amusement as she attempted to instruct him about where to park, and observed with some firmness that the studio was in his manor and he would cope.
‘All right, then. Come in a police motorcade, see if I’m embarrassed,’ she said amicably. He was laughing as he said good-bye, and looked up to see his sergeant, balancing two cups of coffee, closing the door with an elbow.
‘Got a date? Told you so, nae bother.’
‘I have got a date, yes, but it seems to involve going with her mother and two of her brothers to hear two other brothers record a semireligious song programme for the telly. I think we are having dinner by ourselves afterwards.’
‘That’s what all the girls do in Ayr,’ Davidson observed, unsurprised. ‘They take a brother or a cousin along on the first date. If everything’s all right, the brother goes off with his mates, but at least the bloke’s understood that the girl has family who mind on her.’
McLeish gazed at him, wondering whether the Wilson family could really be operating on the same conventions as appeared to govern the social behaviour of decent Scottish working-class families. ‘Does the mother come too, on a first date?’ he enquired.
‘Aye, whiles. It depends. Where are you going to take the lass? I know a decent Italian place, he does a good meal and there’ll be no embarrassment. No villains there, and not too many of the lads.’
‘I don’t want it complimentary.’ McLeish spoke warningly, knowing his man.
‘No, he won’t offer unless he’s asked,’ Davidson said soothingly. McLeish blenched, but decided to take the recommendation: it would be a good meal, and he knew nowhere else respectable round there.
Back at the Department of Trade and Industry, Henry Blackshaw was sitting, with the telephone cradled between his shoulder and his ear, doodling irritably as he listened to Britex’s Managing Director.
‘I thought it might be better not to start in London.’ Peter Hampton was sounding weary. ‘We still have the police here.’
Henry thought about this and decided it was nonsense. ‘Mr Hampton, a police investigation on a murder case is likely to drag on a bit, isn’t it? And the affairs of your company will not stand delay. I think the only way to proceed in this case is for my people to come in as arranged and get started. If we have to work round the police, we’ll manage that too. In any case, we’ll mostly want to collect papers on the first visit and take them away.’
Hampton did not receive this plan with any enthusiasm, but Henry gently overrode his objections. So worn out by the whole thing, poor bugger, that he just wanted to find a hole and pull it in after him. He dealt patiently with Hampton’s last-ditch attempt to stall them, which involved the suggestion that Francesca might be too delicate and impressionable to work effectively in a situation where one of the staff had been brutally murdered. He decided as he put down the phone that the nerveless Francesca had better be warned that she was expected to show some maidenly delicacy and went, grinning to himself, down the passage to find her. Her office was, as usual, crowded, containing Rajiv as well as Martin Bailey, who was doing the main casework on Britex.
‘Are you coming with us, Henry?’ she asked disapprovingly. ‘You are supposed to be running the place, not doing the casework yourself.’
‘Fair point,’ Henry acknowledged. ‘But it’s my field, textiles, and I want to do this one personally. Part of the learning process,’ he added firmly, seeing Francesca still look doubtful.
‘It’s a big rescue,’ Martin Bailey confirmed. ‘Even off the published figures they need a £6m slug to keep the bank at bay.’
‘It’ll turn out much worse than that when we get in and have a look.’ Henry spoke from long experience. ‘So, I am leading this expedition; we are getting th
ere at 8.30; and we’ll visit the factory in Yorkshire next Monday — if that is all right with you, Francesca?’
‘Sorry, Henry, purely personal preoccupation rather than disapproval,’ she said, blushing. ‘I’m dining at the American Embassy on Monday, and it is rather an upmarket bash, so I’d like time to change before dinner.’
‘That’ll be all right. I have a dinner in London myself.’ Henry noticed Rajiv’s gaze fixed thoughtfully on her, and wondered what he had missed.
‘Francesca,’ Rajiv said, ‘Bill Westland would like a word with you. Could you drop by his office?’
‘What about?’
‘He did not honour me with his confidence. He is free now, I understand.’
‘He’ll have to wait till I’ve finished this,’ Fran said dismissively and Rajiv, raising his eyes to heaven, collected Henry and went off down the corridor.
‘She is remarkably cavalier about a summons from a Deputy Secretary, even if he does happen to be her godfather. Ah well, she’ll learn.’
‘What is it about this dinner at the Embassy?’
‘Ah. Clever of you to notice. It is expected that she will meet there a very good friend of hers, the junior Senator from West Virginia, one Michael O’Brien. He is important in all sorts of complicated ways to our relationship with the Americans, and important to Fran in a quite specific way.’
‘The chap she had an affair with?’
‘Yes. I rather suspect that Bill Westland, put up to it by the Foreign Office, is going to ask her to put over a few messages about this and that at dinner.’ He considered, the black eyes wide with speculative amusement. ‘This would be ill-advised, since Fran was brought home early from Washington because their relationship was causing concern to the wetter of the Foreign Office policy-makers.’ He glanced at Henry who was slowly absorbing the implications. ‘On the whole, Henry, it might be better if you could contrive to get the whole party marooned in Yorkshire. We should pray for snow.’