The Cold Light of Dawn

by Graham Ison

‘Because,’ said Tipper, ‘during the week you were away, Penny Lambert was murdered — in France.’

  Charley Godley smiled, stood up and walked over to the side-table where she kept the whisky. ‘You boys going to join me in one?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  She walked back to her chair and sat down. ‘You don’t honestly think that I murdered that little tramp, do you?’

  ‘You seemed more compassionate than that, last time we spoke to you about her,’ said Tipper.

  She stared into her whisky as if trying to see something beyond the amber liquid, seeking, almost, a vision, as a fortune-teller will search a crystal ball.

  ‘Well I’m a bit old-fashioned,’ she said. ‘My father always brought us kids up never to blacken the dead.’ She smiled and shook her head, recalling the father who was obsessed with the Bronte sisters. She looked up at Tipper. ‘She was an absolute cow. We had one blazing row after another. Oh, sure, we had a relationship, but Christ, what a tempestuous relationship it was. Just like husband and wife, really.’ She interrupted herself: ‘I suppose that it’s difficult for you — for any man — to understand that sort of thing. But I loved that damned girl — really loved her, more than I ever loved my husband — or any other man, for that matter. And I got nothing in return. She was a bitch. She would go out with men, and taunt me with them afterwards, making comparisons.’ Suddenly, and quite uncharacteristically, she started crying, holding her head in her hands and trying to hide her distress. Just as quickly she stopped, and looked up, dabbing her eyes with a tissue she had taken from her jeans pocket. ‘I’m sorry, loves, that’s not the real me.’ She shook her head, as if clearing her mind of unpleasant memories. ‘The rest is true; after the final row she pushed off to live with this bloody civil servant of hers — John.’ She put the tissue back in her pocket and braced herself — almost a shake. ‘I’m sorry. No. I didn’t kill her. I must admit that I felt like it on more than one occasion, but I loved her too much.’ She stopped again. ‘I suppose I always thought that she might come back, that I might persuade her …’

  Tipper was a cynic, the result of too many such interviews, and dealing with too many criminals, who would produce Oscar-like performances to preserve their liberty. When the chips were down, he always thought, it concentrated the mind wonderfully.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Godley,’ he said. ‘We’ve interrupted your work for long enough. Perhaps we can come back and see you again?’ When we’ve got a little more evidence to screw you with, he thought.

  ‘Oh, don’t let that worry you,’ she said. ‘I’ve had nothing to do all afternoon.’

  Tipper thought of the girl they had met on the stairs, and willed Markham to say nothing.

  ‘Guess where we’re going now?’ said Tipper when they reached the street.

  ‘Richmond, at a rough guess, guv’nor.’

  *

  That Charley Godley was as shrewd as they had given her credit for was borne out by the fact that the pretty girl they had met on the stairs of her studio wasn’t in the least surprised to find two policemen on the doorstep of Charley Godley’s house.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,’ she said, holding the door open. ‘You’d better come in.’

  The trained eyes of the detectives assessed the girl as she settled herself confidently in an armchair. About twenty-eight, they reckoned — Penny’s age. She had long blonde hair, and wore tight jeans with boots, and a loose scarlet blouse, tied at the low neckline with a black ribbon. She wore a plain gold wedding ring, but who had given it to her was a matter of speculation.

  ‘Charley told me to expect you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘She rang me, just after you left the studio. Why are you harassing her?’

  ‘We’re not. We’re making enquiries into a serious offence.’

  She smiled tolerantly. ‘I suppose you want to ask me if I went on holiday with Charley in the south of France in August?’

  ‘No,’ said Tipper. ‘I want to ask you when you went?’

  ‘On Friday the fifteenth. We caught the morning plane from Heathrow — nine fifty-five, it was, on Air France. Arrived at Nice at about a quarter to one; very civilised. Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘Yes. Where did you go from there?’

  ‘We got a taxi out to Cannes.’

  ‘Yes?’ Tipper raised his eyebrows.

  ‘We had hired a villa — just outside Cannes, actually,’ she said. ‘Idyllic. Swimming pool — everything.’

  ‘Sounds expensive.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘There must be more money in photography than I thought,’ said Tipper.

  ‘I paid for it, if you must know,’ said the girl. She sat gazing at the detectives in a very cool, relaxed way. ‘And to save you asking your cat-and-mouse questions, Charley and I have a lesbian relationship — which should come as no surprise to you. And since you haven’t yet asked, but will do so, sooner or later, my name is Sheila Johnson, and I’m twenty-seven.’ She was playing with them now, with a bravado that, in their experience, could only be the result of confidence in her own and Charley’s innocence. ‘And since you can’t take your eyes off this …’ She extended her left hand to display the ring on her third finger. ‘It was given to me by Charley. I’m not married, at least not in the conventional sense, but it suits me — and her. Now, is there anything else? Or are we getting to the stage where I ought to be ringing my solicitor?’

  It was an implied threat, but Tipper was accustomed to such hazards in his job. ‘Did you stay at Cannes for the whole week?’

  ‘Yes. In fact we stayed in the villa for practically the whole time. I think we went out for a meal about three times. Most of the time we spent in and around the pool.’ She smiled — the first injection of humour she had permitted to enter the conversation. ‘In fact, we were half drunk for most of the week.’

  ‘Did you go to Brittany at all during that week?’

  ‘Good God, no. That’s miles away. Why?’

  ‘Because that’s where the murdered body of Mrs Godley’s last lesbian companion was found, during the same week that you and she were in France, Miss Johnson, that’s why.’ It was an unnecessarily brutal way of putting it, but Tipper felt inclined to jar this girl’s composure.

  It had its effect. She paled quite visibly, and her hand went to her mouth. ‘My God!’ she said, ‘I didn’t know anything about that. Charley didn’t say anything about anyone being murdered. That’s terrible.’ Perhaps she suddenly felt vulnerable.

  ‘I take it you knew nothing about her previous relationship?’

  The girl paused. ‘No. No, I didn’t.’ She looked up truculently. ‘So what? It’s a free world, and we’re all free agents in it. Aren’t we?’

  ‘Up to a point, yes,’ said Tipper with a smile. ‘Have you ever heard of Penelope Lambert — or Penny Gaston, as she was sometimes known?’

  Sheila Johnson did not hesitate. ‘No, I haven’t. Why? Was she Charley’s girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes. When did your relationship with Mrs Godley begin?’ Tipper was taking advantage of the girl’s perplexity over the news that they were investigating a murder, asking a few important questions before she recovered her self-confidence.

  She thought about that for a moment or two. ‘About four months ago, I suppose.’

  ‘What do you do for a living, Miss Johnson?’

  ‘Now?’ It was a strange question.

  ‘Yes — now.’

  ‘Nothing. I’m what you would call “of independent means”, I suppose.’

  ‘That sounds as if you haven’t always been so?’

  She uncrossed her legs, and recrossed them the other way. Tipper noticed that her boots were of very good quality — handmade in all probability.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I used to be an escort. I suppose you’d call it being a prostitute.’

  It was a feature of whores that Tipper had noticed over the years; they were never retic
ent about their occupation when talking to policemen and the Inland Revenue — the former usually laughed and the latter were embarrassed.

  Tipper laughed. ‘And does Charley Godley know what you did for a living?’

  The girl smiled a tight smile. ‘Of course she does. There are no secrets in Soho, you know.’

  ‘And you’re sure you never met Penelope Lambert?’

  ‘I said I’d never heard of her.’ She spoke impatiently.

  ‘Why did you stop being a prostitute?’

  ‘Quite simply because I’d made enough money at it. And, contrary to popular opinion, there’s not a great deal of job satisfaction in it.’

  Markham sniggered, and was rewarded with a withering look from the girl.

  ‘What’s more,’ she continued, ‘you see the worst possible side of men. They’re animals. Quite frankly, I’m pissed off with men, which is probably why I became a lesbian — if you’re interested.’

  ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Johnson,’ said Tipper, standing up.

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘Just think yourself lucky I’m not still in the trade — it would have cost you about a hundred quid.’ There was no humour in the remark, and no one smiled.

  ‘Did you ever take any photographs?’ asked Markham, thinking that here was another ‘J’, and remembering the ‘J took photographs’ entry in Penny’s diary.

  She looked at him as if doubting his reason. ‘Of course. Hasn’t everyone?’

  ‘I meant professionally?’

  ‘I’m not into blackmail,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t mean that either,’ said Markham, regretting that he had asked the question at all.

  ‘What did you mean then?’ She stood, legs apart, hands on hips, defiant.

  ‘I meant were you ever a professional photographer?’

  ‘No. Charley’s the photographer. I did a few lewd poses for her — that’s how we met.’

  *

  ‘Well I’m damned,’ said Markham, as they settled in the car outside Charley Godley’s little house. ‘After all she said about not being into porn.’

  Tipper laughed. ‘Wake up, Charlie. It’s an easy way to make money, and there’s very little risk, because blokes like you and me can never see it as being awfully serious. Who gets harmed by it? There are one or two born-again Christians in the job who get terribly animated about it, but generally speaking they stay in the uniform branch.’

  ‘What d’you think, guv? About Charley Godley, I mean?’

  ‘Bloody waste of time, Charlie. But we’ll get our friend Captain Courbet to have a few enquiries made in Cannes, just to see if their story holds up. Otherwise, I think we can forget it.’

  Chapter Six

  John Wallace, the civil servant whose telephone number was in Penny’s diary, was mystified to get a call from Scotland Yard, and not a little concerned to learn that two detectives wished to interview him about a matter that they were not prepared to discuss on the phone. They weren’t prepared to discuss it because they were by no means certain that John Wallace, albeit a civil servant, was the man that Penelope Lambert had gone to live with when she left Charley Godley. On the face of it a semi in Surbiton did not seem to be the place that might appeal to a girl of the complex character that was now emerging.

  It was a three-up-two-down, stucco and pebble-dashed house typical of the thirties era in which it had been built.

  Wallace was tall and well-built; if anything a little overweight, with wavy greying hair and the fleshy good looks that often attracted vacuous women and sports-car salesmen alike. Tipper thought that he was about thirty-seven, probably still played rugby, squash and tennis, and talked loudly in pubs, where judging by his complexion, he spent a lot of his time and much of his money.

  ‘This is my wife Linda,’ said Wallace, showing them into the sitting room. A tall thin woman with dyed blonde hair and hard features was switching off the television. She did not look particularly pleased to see them.

  ‘Perhaps it might be better if we spoke to you on your own,’ said Tipper.

  Wallace frowned. ‘Anything you want to say, you can say in front of my wife.’ He spoke with a certain haughtiness, like a man who believed the myth that an Englishman’s home is his castle.

  Tipper shrugged. ‘As you wish. Does the name Penelope Lambert, or Penny Gaston as she was sometimes known, mean anything to you?’

  Linda Wallace gave a short cynical laugh. ‘I told you that woman would mean trouble eventually,’ she said.

  ‘You knew her?’ Tipper looked at Wallace’s wife.

  ‘Good Lord no, but John told me all about her. It was before we were married. He lived with her.’ She glanced at her husband — a glance which implied that all men were children at heart, and that women knew it.

  ‘Why d’you say that she’d be trouble?’

  Linda Wallace’s face became serious. ‘Aren’t all easy women trouble in the long run? She was a model, so she told John, but quite frankly, in my experience, the term model covers a multitude of sins — and I do mean sins.’

  ‘She wasn’t like that.’ Wallace himself butted in, and Tipper thought that perhaps he had started what policemen call a husband-and-wife dispute.

  But Mrs Wallace was contemptuous. ‘Come off it,’ she said. ‘She was available and you fell for it. It wasn’t until she found out that you were a civil servant with no money — just debts — that she was happy to let go.’ She paused, suspiciously. ‘At least, John Wallace,’ she said, ‘that’s what you told me.’

  ‘What’s happened exactly?’ asked Wallace. ‘Has she been arrested or something?’

  ‘Would it surprise you if she had?’ asked Tipper quietly.

  ‘Well — I don’t know exactly … I just wondered why you’d come down to see me about her.’

  ‘She’s been murdered.’

  ‘Good God!’ said Wallace.

  His wife was less sympathetic. ‘Well it won’t be anything to do with him,’ she said, indicating her husband. ‘He can’t even bring himself to carve the turkey at Christmas.’

  Tipper discounted that. In his twenty-two years’ service he had met quite a few mild-mannered men who had been convicted of murder. ‘When did you start living with her, Mr Wallace?’ There was a sudden edge to his voice; he was already tiring of Linda Wallace.

  ‘It must have been about three years ago.’ He paused and looked at his wife. ‘We’ve been married, what — two years?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ She spoke sarcastically, in tones that implied that he would undoubtedly forget their anniversary, too.

  ‘How did you meet her?’

  ‘At a party. I had one or two racy friends — I was living in a flat in Battersea at the time — we used to throw these wild parties — couldn’t afford them, of course. I can’t remember who invited her, but I saw her and thought, yes, I think I’ll have some of that …’

  ‘And I suppose that’s what you thought when you first saw me?’ His wife interrupted again.

  Wallace ignored her and went on, ‘We got talking, and — well, it was all rather quick …’

  ‘I’ll bet it was,’ said Linda Wallace.

  ‘Do you mind.’ Wallace snapped sharply at his wife. ‘We both agreed that we’d clicked,’ he said, turning to Tipper again, ‘and she moved into my flat.’

  ‘Where from?’ Markham was sitting at the table, making notes.

  ‘D’you know, I haven’t the faintest notion. I had this idea at the back of my mind that she lived somewhere locally, sort of Chelsea-ish, but I wasn’t sure. Anyway, she moved in — and we lived together for about six months.’

  It all sounded just a little too pat for Tipper’s liking. ‘Just like that?’

  Wallace smiled — a little too confidently. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let me get this right,’ said Tipper. ‘She turned up at one of your parties. You don’t know where she came from but after a short conversation you offered her accommodation in your flat, and she moved in? Just like that? N
o questions — no doubts — no hang-ups. You said “How d’you fancy living with me?”, and she agreed. Have I got that right?’

  Wallace shrugged and crossed his legs. ‘Some people do have all the luck, don’t they?’ He smiled.

  ‘Who was she living with before, Mr Wallace?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Are you saying that for the whole time she was living with you, she never once mentioned anything about her previous life?’

  Wallace looked slightly uncomfortable, and Tipper knew that there was more in this apparently innocent relationship than the man was prepared to reveal. It might simply be the presence of his forbidding wife, with her sarcasm and disdain; on the other hand there might be something very much deeper.

  ‘No, not really. I suppose she made some allusions to it, but I wasn’t much interested in what she’d been doing before.’

  ‘And then you met your wife?’ Tipper glanced at Linda Wallace, leaning back in her chair, coldly observing her husband as he wriggled.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I left Penny — in the Battersea flat — and moved down here. The flat was rented, you see, but this was Linda’s house. Linda was divorced. We’d met in the office, and so I —’

  ‘I don’t think the gentleman’s interested in our affairs, John,’ said his wife sharply.

  ‘Did you ever take any photographs of Mrs Lambert?’

  Wallace half smiled and appeared to give the matter some careful thought. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I don’t think I did. Why do you ask? The best I can do is give you a description of her, but —’

  ‘We know what she looks like, Mr Wallace. Incidentally, when did you last see her?’

  Wallace didn’t hesitate. ‘The day I moved out of the flat and came down here. That would be about two-and-a-half years ago, as I said.’

  As with the others he interviewed, Tipper raised the question of elimination fingerprints; like the others, Wallace raised no objection.

  On the doorstep of the Wallaces’ house, Tipper turned and nodded briefly. ‘It may be necessary for us to talk to you again, Mr Wallace.’ Wallace did not look very thrilled at the prospect.