by Jill McGown
‘Not up to me,’ said Lloyd. ‘But I doubt it’ He got up. ‘We will want to talk to your wife again,’ he said. ‘She did hear something, Mr Pearce. About twenty minutes before you came in, she said. Only she led us to believe that that made it ten o’clock – I presume that we’re an hour out.’
Gordon covered his face with his hands. ‘Please don’t blame Pauline,’ he said.
‘I’m a bit stuck for anyone else to blame,’ Lloyd said sharply. ‘I’m sorry to have spoiled your quiet pint.’
And he walked quickly away, down the path, across to the pub. In the fading light, Gordon could see him get into his car, and drive out on to the main road.
He walked slowly back to the bridge. Over, turn right, past Lennie’s studio.
He told Pauline.
‘Did you tell him anything else?’ she demanded.
No, you didn’t tell him anything else, did you, Gordon? No mention of Pauline being out in the middle of the night.
‘No. He doesn’t think anything terrible will happen to me.’ He held Pauline close to him. ‘He’s angry with you,’ he said.
‘Good,’ she said, and kissed him. And went on kissing him.
You’d think she was never going to see you again, Gordon, old son. What does she mean, good? What’s good about a policeman on the warpath?
‘We’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘ You’ll see. You’ve still got your business – you’ve still got me. It’ll be all right – we’ll be all right.’ Kissing him, unbuttoning his shirt, wanting him. They were making love, and still all she said was that it would be all right.
It wouldn’t. He couldn’t let her do this to herself, to the baby. You know what you have to do, don’t you, Gordon? Old son. You know what you have to do.
They hadn’t found Tasker. Beale had declared himself quite unable to account for his disappearance, and allowed the officers the run of the flat, eager to help. Beale’s Rolls had gone from the Riverside Inn car park; Beale had sent someone to fetch it from the Riverside Inn – you couldn’t trust anyone these days. Taken it for a spin, more than likely.
Lloyd had given vent to his feelings on Drake when Jack Woodford had come to tell him.
‘I think you’re being a bit hard on the lad,’ Jack had said.
‘Why? He should have recognised him, Jack. And we’d have had him. Now Beale’s got him holed up somewhere, and God knows why.’
Jack had raised an eyebrow. ‘It was a long time ago, Lloyd,’ he said. ‘He tackled him in the dark, over three years ago. Are you so sure you would have recognised him?’
Lloyd had refused to give in that easily. ‘He gave evidence in court, didn’t he?’ he had said. ‘Or was that one of the times he didn’t turn up?’
Jack had smiled at that ‘No,’ he had said patiently, ‘ he gave evidence. Go home, Lloyd. You’re tired and irritable. Your mum would be putting you to bed.’
Lloyd had started to feel uncomfortable. Jack Woodford could get away with making him feel like a petulant schoolboy, because he knew him so well. But Tasker had disappeared, all the same, and he still hadn’t given up.
‘Leonora,’ he had said. ‘How many women do you know called Leonora?’
‘Be fair,’ Jack had said. ‘I was here then too, and I didn’t make the connection.’
‘You weren’t involved in the arrest.’
‘Neither was she! She had nothing to do with it – we knew that all along. We weren’t bothered about her. She was in bed with him when the lads went in, or her name wouldn’t even be on the file.’
Lloyd had grunted. He had gone off at half-cock again, and he had been told off again, in Jack’s inimitable style. But Judy would never have missed the connection, he had thought, as he had packed up his briefcase, and wished he was still working with her.
‘And he was right about Pearce,’ Jack had added, as Lloyd had left the station.
Yes, thought Lloyd as he drove home, he had been. He ought to tell him it was good work.
He let himself into the flat, being as quiet as he could; he couldn’t be bothered cooking, and made himself a sandwich, going into the sitting-room, putting on the TV. He kept the sound low, though there was usually no need; Judy could sleep through anything. There was a film on that he wanted to see … well, wanted was pitching it a bit strongly. He doubted very much that he would enjoy it, but watch it he would, because if he didn’t they might stop showing anything but Superman and old Bond movies.
And they were showing it in letterbox format – another good reason to watch. Prove to them that the nation doesn’t really switch off in droves if the screen is blank top and bottom, or the image is black and white, or there are subtitles or four-letter words. What the viewer doesn’t like, he said, in the letter that he was eternally composing to various TV magazines, is a camera endlessly panning and scanning, or seeing half of a two-shot, and hearing the other half. What it doesn’t like is bad dubbing by bad actors, all the major characters apparently having severe speech defects, and some minor characters disappearing altogether. Not to mention key scenes in the plot, on occasion. That, sir, is what the viewer doesn’t like. Yours faithfully …
He had always had a problem with letters. He couldn’t sign formal letters ‘Lloyd’, as though he was a peer of the realm. He had to use his initial, and he didn’t like even doing that. D. It looked so innocuous, but he knew what it stood for.
That, however, wasn’t the reason that he had never actually written his letter about films on television. No – the reason he had never actually written was that he was on the side of the angels, and everyone knew that it was only the people who did apparently like see-sawing through edited Technicolor films dubbed into inoffensive English who wrote and complained every time they saw anything other than that.
The result was that no one knew that he was sitting here watching a small strip of screen on which a film that he wasn’t enjoying was playing, so it was all a waste of time, really.
It was just after nine thirty when the bedroom door opened, and Judy appeared, blinking a little, her hair tousled.
‘Hello, love. I thought you’d sleep right through.’
‘I keep having dreams,’ she said, joining him on the sofa as he put his arm round her.
‘It’ll pass,’ he said, kissing her on the top of her head.
‘I don’t think she was in her studio,’ said Judy.
Lloyd groaned. ‘ Judy – this way lies a nervous breakdown,’ he said gently.
‘Beale said he thinks she just left the light on when she closed up.’
He sighed. ‘Austin thought she was in the studio,’ he said. ‘Pauline Pearce heard someone at the studio door. Her car was gone from the garage … that adds up to her being in the studio, Judy.’
‘Why would she put the car back in the garage?’
‘To cover her tracks with Tasker,’ he said. He was sure that was why, wherever she went with him. He didn’t think the car had anything to do with it. The wedding ring, though …
‘She didn’t. Austin’s lying. He’s a fraud – look what Allison said about this house he’s going to buy once he’s safely elected.’
‘Judy,’ he said sternly, ‘you have no proof that he’s lying. You don’t like the man – all right, I probably wouldn’t care for him either. But that doesn’t mean he …’ He shook his head. ‘He doesn’t strike me as someone who has murdered his wife,’ he said.
‘Well, that’s all right. Not guilty because he doesn’t strike Chief Inspector Lloyd as someone who has murdered his wife.’
‘I’m not the jury! I’m the investigating officer. And the investigating officer doesn’t usually have to live with a friend of the victim, who received a phone-call that bothered her just before the victim died!’ He realised what he was doing as soon as the words were spoken and he saw Judy’s reaction. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, hugging her. ‘ I’m sorry. But it isn’t easy, Judy. So far, we have no proof that Austin did anything other than what he says he did, an
d I can’t do anything until we have.’
‘I know. I’m sorry.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Maybe it’s time to take my mind off it again.’
He knew that that was just what he should be doing, but he broke his own rule. ‘What did bother you about Austin’s call?’ he asked her.
Judy thought for a moment. ‘The fact that he called at all, for one thing,’ she said. ‘We just didn’t have that sort of friendship. It was a couples thing, really. I mean, I met her in the first place, but in a way, it was Michael and Jonathan who were friends. They had quite a lot in common.’
Lloyd smiled at the implicit criticism.
‘And I’m sure he was lying.’
Lloyd nodded. ‘But that could have been for a dozen reasons,’ he said. ‘He didn’t want to admit they’d had a row, or he really thought she was with Tasker, and didn’t want you to know that – any number of reasons.’
‘And there was something about the way he spoke that just seemed …’ She looked him straight in the eye. ‘It gave me the willies,’ she said.
It had. He knew that. But … He smiled. ‘Guilty,’ he said. ‘By reason of giving Detective Inspector Hill the willies.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and smiled a little. ‘And I’m spoiling your film.’
Lloyd looked at the screen. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, the director spoiled it. You’re not spoiling anything.’
She sniffed a little, and wiped what might have been a tear. ‘Why are you watching it?’ she asked.
‘It’s one of those films you’re supposed to have seen,’ said Lloyd. ‘I avoided it when it was in the cinema, but I’ve got no excuse now.’
She smiled. ‘There isn’t a law,’ she said.
‘Oh, yes there is. It’s a natural law. Like having to finish a book once you’ve started it. You have to see any film which is described as a milestone, a classic, a departure, a tour de force, or seminal.’
‘Which is this?’
‘Seminal.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s the seed from which a hundred other films just like it spring up.’
‘Do you have to see the hundred other films?’
‘Yes. Because some of them may be merely derivative.’
She laughed. ‘You’re mad,’ she said. ‘ You can put it off. I won’t tell anyone.’
He felt quite guilty as he picked up the remote control, and pushed the little red button to remove the band of light from the screen. And quite relieved. It had another hour and a half to go, and he wasn’t going to have to sit through it after all.
‘Gordon Pearce is into old films,’ she said. ‘He’s got loads of videos.’
Lloyd smiled. Funny. People with whom you might have become friends turned into suspects. Not people any more.
She looked up at him, her eyes dark and worried. ‘I think …’ she began, then looked down again. ‘I think I just want it to be Jonathan who killed her,’ she said.
Lloyd frowned. ‘ What do you mean?’
‘You know I saw her yesterday,’ she said. ‘She was really going places, Lloyd. People were getting very interested – she was getting commissions. Not just Frank Beale – other people. People who didn’t live upstairs from her,’ she said.’ Judy smiled a little. ‘Someone was coming from one of the Sundays to interview her. She was excited, and—’ She pursed her lips together. ‘And someone just wiped all that out.’
There wasn’t much Lloyd could say. He held her tighter.
‘And why?’ she went on. ‘Because they thought she could identify them? I’d much rather it was Jonathan. I’d much rather it was anger, or jealousy, or hate, even. I – I don’t want her to have died because someone found it inconvenient for her to go on living.’
Lloyd sighed. There were no words of comfort. The best thing he could do for the people Mrs Austin had left behind was to prove who had killed her, and soon.
And his best hope of a witness was at Frank Beale’s mercy, or he was a Dutchman.
Chapter Six
He was in Beale’s flat, the heavies either side of him, Beale in front of him.
‘Forgive the cloak and dagger stuff,’ said Beale. ‘But I couldn’t accommodate you until now. The police are taking a great deal of interest in the area. In this flat in particular.’ He sipped a cup of coffee.
Oh, God. What had Austin told them? Still – he couldn’t prove any of it. Not unless Rosemary had done something stupid, and she had never done anything stupid in her life.
‘You know what happened last night, Stevie?’
Stevie was bad.
‘My wife was murdered. Here, in this flat.’
Jesus Christ. Steve couldn’t take it in. ‘Rosemary?’ he said, after a moment.
‘Rosemary.’
‘Dead?’ Steve still couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘That is the usual result of murder,’ said Beale.
‘My God.’
Beale nodded. ‘The police say my wife was playing around.’
Steve shook his head.
‘I employed you to keep an eye on her, Stevie.’
‘I did. She wasn’t, Frankie.’
Beale looked at his men again, and again they moved almost imperceptibly closer.
‘The police say it was Austin.’
Under other circumstances, Steve might have found that amusing. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No one. There was no one. I’d have told you.’
‘Maybe.’ But Beale hadn’t yet given whatever invisible signal it was for his minders to stand easy. He walked away, his back to Steve. ‘Did my wife pay you to keep quiet about it?’ he asked.
‘No!’
Beale turned. ‘That’s a very expensive watch, Stevie,’ he said. ‘You didn’t buy that on what I pay you.’
Steve looked at the watch. ‘ I nicked it,’ he lied.
‘Has Austin paid you to keep your mouth shut?’
‘No! He hasn’t, Frank, I swear it. Nothing was going on with her and Austin!’ His position was very slightly better than he had thought it would be. His protests had the merit of being true.
Beale came close to him. ‘If you’re lying …’ he said, and there was no need to finish the sentence.
‘I’m not,’ said Steve, desperately. ‘She wasn’t seeing Austin, I swear.’
‘Why would the police say she was?’
‘They’re just trying to rattle you, you know that!’ Steve said. ‘They’ll think you—’ He broke off. ‘They always go for the husband, don’t they?’ he said.
‘Not in this case,’ said Beale. ‘They know where I was, Stevie. But they are very interested in you,’ he added.
Steve’s mind raced. ‘I had nothing to do with it!’ he shouted.
‘Then you’ll be able to tell me where you were last night,’ said Beale. ‘At eleven o’clock.’
Steve glanced nervously at the two men, who had moved simultaneously very slightly closer to him. ‘I was in Stansfield,’ he said.
‘Witnesses?’ asked Beale.
‘Yes. You know her. Lennie Austin – she has the studio downstairs from here.’
Beale stepped back, his eyes widening very slightly; the two men on either side of Steve tensed up. Beale wasn’t happy, and they knew that. You’d swear they were almost human, thought Steve.
‘You know Mrs Austin, do you, Stevie?’
‘Yes,’ he said, and looked nervously at the two men, to see if that offended them. It didn’t seem to.
‘When did you see her last?’
‘Last night,’ said Steve, a touch desperately. ‘That’s what I’m telling you. I was with her last night – and if you think I had anything to do with killing Rosemary, just ask her.’
Beale shook his head very slowly. ‘ You don’t know, do you?’ he said. ‘You really don’t know.’
‘Know what? What the hell’s going on?’ Panic, bewilderment, a strange sense of unreality all served to make Steve forget, just for a moment, his unhappy position. ‘You drag m
e here, no one tells me why – you’re saying the cops are after …’
But Beale was nodding to the men, and Steve’s voice trailed away.
But they left. They just nodded back, and left the room. At last, Steve relaxed. Relaxed was what he told himself he had done. The truth was that he had almost fainted with sheer relief.
‘You were with Mrs Austin,’ Beale said.
‘Last night’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I have some bad news for you, Stevie.’
Jonathan let the phone ring. Someone had to answer it. And, eventually, someone did.
‘Gordon Pearce.’
There had to be an explanation. Jonathan looked at the painting on the hotel wall, at the blue and green swirls of colour. It looked as though the colours had met and mingled on the canvas by their own free will; they hadn’t. Leonora had painted that effect.
‘It’s Jonathan.’
‘Oh – hello. Is everything all right?’
Not really, Gordon, he thought. Not really.
‘Sorry, I’m being …’ Gordon foundered. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I called to see you, but you were asleep,’ said Jonathan.
‘Yes. Pauline told me about the paintings. Thank you.’
‘Tell me about the ashtray, Gordon,’ Jonathan said, his voice sounding desperate despite his efforts to control it. He looked at the painting again.
‘Ashtray?’ Gordon’s voice sounded uncomprehending.
‘The ashtray you put in the entrance at your flats.’
There was a silence. Then: ‘Oh, that. What about it?’
What about it. Perhaps he shouldn’t be doing this.
‘Was there another one?’
‘What?’
Oh, please Gordon, please. ‘Were there two?’
Another silence.
‘Gordon, were there originally two ashtrays?’
‘Yes. Why do you want to know?’
‘That’s … what he used,’ he said.
‘What?’