‘Your cold is bad. I could tell you’d got one the minute you came in.’
‘Forget my cold. About Frank. You can’t remember what he wanted. No? Has he ever asked you to breakfast before?’
‘No,’ Fanny gave her infectious giggle. ‘We have never breakfasted before, and this was to be at the Peacock. Not like Frank to splash his money around.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Charmian recalled the man who had moved his custom from one pub to another because of the noise. She sat back. All right. Let’s leave it there. Just get in touch with me if you do remember anything.’
‘And you’ll come running?’
‘Yes, I will, you old wretch.’ She bent to kiss Fanny’s cheek.
‘You didn’t bring any flowers or fruit.’
‘You seem to have plenty.’ She moved towards the door. ‘What would you like?’
Fanny said: ‘Not fruit or flowers … Biscuits, please, the food is awful here.’
As Charmian got to the door, Fanny said: ‘I can smell that smell … I reckon it’s got stuck in my nose. Not biscuits, please, but a spray of that nice violet scent …’
‘Right,’ said Charmian, smiling to herself as she walked away. Fanny was still Fanny.
Then, before the policewoman could get herself back in, but when she could hear what was said: ‘Fanny, have I your permission to go over Waxy House?’
‘Yes, all right. But take care.’
‘All the care in the world. I’ll get Mr Grange to send you the papers round to sign.’
She looked at the WPC, who had heard every word and could bear witness if necessary that Fanny had given permission.
‘Blow the papers,’ she said to herself as she drove down the Slough Road. ‘I’m going into that house.’
But she wanted a word with Frank Felyx first.
Chapter Ten
Into the weekend and after
Frank Felyx had created a sanctum for himself that suited his way of life: inside his house it was muddled, cosy and warm, a one-man nest, an igloo, protecting him not from snow but from the world.
His garden he neglected; he had never cared for gardening, although while his wife was alive he had weeded and mowed to please her, but now he regarded it as no more than a place to bury the odd dead bird or cat.
Any drinking he did now he did at home – he was avoiding the pubs. He knew well that he was an object of suspicion. He might have made away with Alicia Ellendale; he had been named by her and consequently had been questioned and had seen his house searched. The garden had been inspected: they’d have that dug over soon, he told himself sardonically.
Only they can’t quite make out how I could have done it, seeing there are no witnesses and no forensics for them to lay their hands on.
Haven’t got Alicia’s body, either. That worried them.
At one time, the chief suspect had been either him or Arthur Doby: the shoe found in the refuse bin at the coach car park had pointed the way to Doby. Although Frank knew well that there was a school of thought among his former mates that believed he had planted it there. Certainly now Doby was dead, murdered, that left him on his own, in pole position, and under suspicion for Doby’s murder.
Although he was leading a solitary life there was still the telephone, and he had his contacts – he knew about Doby and about Fanny. But his contacts were becoming increasingly reluctant to talk to him and he knew that too.
He sat in his comfortable old armchair by a window which could have done with a wash and let a few names roll round his mind:
Phyllis Adams, Jane Fish, Mary Grey, Kathleen Mace, working girls all; probably not a real name among them.
It was raining again, which he was glad about because it gave him an excuse for not going out; he thought he had a cold coming on, a lot of them about. He had probably handed it on to the detective who had come calling on him that morning.
A former colleague had come round questioning. Not that he called it that. Just dropped in for a drink with a pal. Oh, yes, and with Drimwade’s keen permission to do so. His old colleague was Sergeant Jacaponi, whose father had come from Italy as a PO and had decided to stay. He had married an English girl from Berkshire, and together they had produced several children (of whom the sergeant was the eldest) and a successful dog- and cat-meat factory.
Jacaponi had the air of being uneasy at the task set him and had brought with him a bottle of whisky. He knew that when Frank was out of temper with him, and it had happened, he had called him the Cats’ Meat Man.
‘Didn’t get a chance to come to your leaving bash, so I thought it was time I looked in.’
‘No. You were on holiday.’
‘Yes, I went with the old man to see his family, or what’s left of it, in Milan.’
Get out of him where he was the morning that Doby was killed. I want to handle this quietly, Drimwade had said.
‘Haven’t seen you around lately,’ Bill Jacaponi began.
‘You’ve been away.’ Frank allowed himself a slight smile. Think I don’t know what you’re after, the smile said. And then he relented because in his way and on the right day he had liked the sergeant whom he now regretted having labelled the Cats’ Meat Man (a name which he knew had joyfully been taken up by his colleagues in the CID). ‘To be honest, I haven’t been out much at all.’ He thought of saying he had been doing a bit of gardening, but a quick look through the window suggested that the lie would be a bad idea. ‘Felt like staying quiet. I read a lot.’ That was true at least. Then he relented entirely. ‘Let’s open that bottle. My favourite malt.’
‘I know.’ Which is why I chose it, he said to himself. Jacaponi watched Frank bustle out to the kitchen; he could hear the tap running and guessed he was washing the glasses. Well, that was something, because judging by the look of the sitting room not much else was cleaned.
Ponged a bit, too. Bill Jacaponi himself usually rubbed his face and hands with an Italian toilet water, which was, he guessed, why he had got his unlovely nickname. It was the British male striking back.
Frank opened the bottle and poured them each a substantial draught. If the sergeant thought the drink would loosen his tongue then he was mistaken.
‘No, haven’t been out except to do a bit of food shopping and not much of that. I’m running a bit short.’ He grinned, showing well-browned teeth.
‘Not good to be too much on your own,’ tried Jacaponi, almost able to predict the answer he would get.
‘I like my own company. My grand-daughter drops in occasionally, and Fanny Fanfairly, but I don’t think I’ve seen anyone for the last few days.’
Not admitting going out, but no one here to admit to seeing him, translated the sergeant to himself. It looked as though that was all the news he would be taking back to Superintendent Drimwade.
Good news, bad news, how could he tell?
He left soon afterwards, realizing that if he stayed on they would finish the bottle of whisky between them, and though he guessed his head was as strong as Frank’s he had no desire to put it to the test.
‘You won’t be my last visitor today,’ said Frank, pouring himself another whisky.
‘No?’ Jacaponi guessed he meant a visit from the investigating team, and no friendly bottle of whisky would be next. Even one from the Met. He himself had had a call from Sergeant Edwards.
‘No.’ Frank smiled, ‘ and I don’t mean my granddaughter and her boyfriend … He’s a lawyer, you know. I might find that useful.’
If Jacaponi had hung around, instead of reporting straight back to Drimwade that he had got nowhere – if he had stayed and watched the street, he would have seen the expected caller arrive.
‘Knew you’d be here,’ said Frank. ‘Had one visitor asking questions already, now you, and you won’t be the last.’
Charmian saw the bottle of whisky on the table, smelt it on his breath and drew at least one accurate conclusion.
‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Yes, the bottle was a
present. Can I pour you one?’ Never forget you are a gentleman, Frank, or nearly one. Might have been one once with a better education and a bit more money.
‘No, thank you, and I’m going to make you some coffee. I think you could do with it. I want to talk to you.’
‘I wouldn’t mind some coffee,’ he said meekly enough, aware that the whisky had got to his legs and would get to his mouth if he wasn’t careful. And with speech and Charmian Daniels you had to be careful. ‘I wouldn’t mind a slice of toast if you can find the bread.’
I must be drunk, he told himself, giving orders to her, Lady this and Chief of that. He closed his eyes and leant back against the cushion.
When he opened them Charmian was sitting there, looking at him. A cup of coffee and a slice of buttered toast were on the table beside him. Chilling nicely, by the look of them.
‘Had much sleep lately?’ she asked, and her voice did not sound friendly.
He pulled himself together. ‘I wasn’t up in London killing Doby, if that’s what you mean.’
‘You know about his death?’
‘I’ve got my channels. I may be retired, I may be under suspicion for I don’t know what, but I’ve still got my contacts.’
‘I’m aware of that, Frank. I never thought you were totally ignorant of what was going on.’
‘Not totally innocent, either. I can see that in your face. And it’s what you’re here to find out.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’
‘After all my years in the force, I think I might have been trusted more.’
‘Let me put it like this, Frank: Alicia Ellendale, whose relationship with a certain division of the Met in South London seems to have been close, has disappeared after saying she was coming to Windsor to see you.’
‘She never came near me,’ Frank said in a thick voice. ‘And it was only Doby’s word she ever meant to.’
Charmian moved on smoothly: ‘She has never been seen again after leaving the coach from London. She was last sighted walking into the town. Later, a severed foot in a shoe was found near the river. Both were identified as Alicia’s. So alive or dead, she was without a foot or a shoe. Later still, that other shoe of hers turned up in a litter bin at the coach station. Mysteriously.’
‘It’s all a mystery.’
‘It’s fair to say that you came under suspicion at first, then the needle swung towards the coach driver, Arthur Doby.’
‘It’s a gamble, isn’t it?’ said Frank. ‘Roulette.’
‘Of course, he was under suspicion from the first. Bound to be. But no real evidence against him, except he was not perhaps the nicest of men … You were, Frank, or judged to be.’
‘Good old honest, reliable Frank. That was it, wasn’t it?’
‘You’ve lost that merit badge, Frank. Perhaps you were not as nice and straightforward as you seemed. Or perhaps you’ve changed since you retired.’
‘Is that a question?’ he asked, leaning forward.
‘I don’t think you’ve changed, but we all of us have different faces for different people and different times, so I think we’re just seeing a different face. I think you might remember, Frank, that people have to be prepared for change. You didn’t do that, you just let us see suddenly that underneath that reasonable police officer was a man with the usual emotions and not all of them nice.’
Frank did not answer. So what? he thought.
‘I’m not blaming you, just explaining that some of the trouble you’re in is because you didn’t prepare us to see what you are.’
‘And what am I?’
‘A man with a strong sex drive who had a lot of dealings with people like Fanny and Alicia and knew them better than you ever let on.’
‘Could be. I don’t deny it. I like Fanny, the old bitch. How is she, by the way?’
‘Getting on all right. Although a good attempt was made to kill her. She thought she was invited out to breakfast with you.’
‘Have I ever invited Fanny out to breakfast?’
‘You must have offered invitations in the past for her to believe in this one. She certainly thought it was you.’ Charmian was watching his face. Little expression showed, except anger.
‘One or two, perhaps. My sex life, such as it is or was, is nothing to do with you, ma’am. And as for inviting Fanny to breakfast, I didn’t.’
The telephone rang in the hall.
‘Answer it.’
‘I’m not going to, let it ring.’
Charmian got up and went into the hall. He did not try to stop her. ‘Hello,’ she said into the phone. There was a sound of breathing and then the line went dead.
Frank looked at her with a kind of triumph. ‘ Wrong number?’
‘Wrong person answering. I’ll find out who’s keeping you so well supplied with information before I’m done. I’m warning you, Frank.’
‘A man must have a few friends.’
She still couldn’t make up her mind whether she thought he was guilty or not. He seemed to keep one step ahead of her, like a dancer. You are a cleverer man than I ever thought you, Frank, she decided.
I’m getting to be a bad judge of character, she told herself, a skill I had always prided myself on. Perhaps I never was as good as I thought. I’m also irritable and depressed. Something else I used not to be. Or not to show.
Perhaps Frank and I are both showing different faces – the ones underneath, the ones we kept hidden. I’ll be honest with him, just for this once. Not playing games.
‘I came round here, Frank, to make up my mind if it was you who telephoned Fanny, attacked her, and if it was you who killed Doby.’
‘And I bet you’re still wondering.’
‘I think I am, Frank. That’s a warning.’
‘So I’m still up there – chief suspect?’
‘I’m afraid so. The only one at the moment.’
He took a long drink of the coffee that must now be quite cold. Then he wiped his mouth free of the moustache of coffee that had rimmed his upper lip and leaned forward, hands planted on his knees.
‘But my contacts tell me that the view now is that it looks as though the person who killed Doby was a woman.’
He leaned back in triumph, there was no mistaking it.
Charmian did not answer directly. ‘ I have to find Alicia,’ she said. ‘Alive or dead, she must be found. And when she is found, she’ll tell us something, whether about you or someone else.’
‘And about the other missing women?’ he said. Phyllis, Jane, Mary and Kathleen. ‘ Don’t forget them.’
‘I don’t forget them,’ said Charmian.
‘All working girls and you know what that means.’
‘Yes. Sex.’
‘There’s a lot of it about.’
‘You don’t have to tell that to someone who’s seen Waxy House.’
‘Yeah, and not all of it waxy and dead,’ said Frank sardonically.
‘Yes, you’ve already said that Harry Aden is in love with Mrs Fenwick. How does she feel?’
‘No idea. I never asked. I know about him because he told me: I could love that woman, he said.’
‘Only could.’
‘That’s what makes it important,’ said Frank. ‘If you can’t see that you can’t see anything.’ He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. ‘Go away now, please. You can come back and arrest me any time. I won’t run away.’ He sounded weary. ‘Not much good at running anywhere these days.’
Charmian stood up. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
‘You do that.’ He opened an eye. ‘And if you run across my grand-daughter, tell her not to come to see me. I want to be left alone.’
At the door she turned back. ‘Frank, one last question: What did you mean in the pub when you said Mrs Fenwick had a funny sense of humour?’
He stirred in his chair. ‘Oh, perhaps nothing … I saw her one day in Brown and Frasers, that big store in Slough, and she was buying a great long black raincoat.’
‘Not shiny?’ as
ked Charmian.
‘No, dull, heavy, and I said to her what’s that for? And she laughed and said, “For when I am a man.” ’
‘Are you saying she was bisexual?’
‘Not saying anything. You asked, she said and I told, that’s it.’
‘Or that she was the woman in black who killed Doby and attacked Fanny?’
‘You’re saying it, not me. You put the question and I answered, and that’s it.’
He closed his eyes again. ‘Pull the door behind you.’
Charmian sat in her car outside his house, thinking over their conversation. Frank had come up with a neat idea and put it across well. There must be a search of Waxy House, and it had to be thorough. She would need twenty-four hours.
‘I gave him the chance,’ she said to Rewley, in her office on Monday, ‘and he took it. Before my eyes, another woman in black, who might be bisexual, appeared. We have two candidates now: Alicia, not dead, but damaged and limping, and Caroline Fenwick. I haven’t met her, by the way. She’s said to be away on a work project.’
Charmian had had a busy twenty-four hours, and more.
They were seated together in Charmian’s office, in the half-hour before the search of Waxy House was to start, going over such new reports of Doby’s death as had come in. ‘Nothing much there,’ Rewley had said. ‘Let’s send Dolly up there again to work on the sergeant. She gets on well with him and may pick up what they are really thinking.’ He pushed the papers – faxes, copies of telephone calls, a medical report saying that Doby had a bad heart and would have died quickly – away from him across the table. ‘These are just routine stuff.’
‘It was always going to be us in trouble,’ said Charmian. ‘That’s why we got the job. They don’t like the idea that Alicia Ellendale may turn out to be not lost and dead but out there killing. Can’t say I blame them.’
‘It’s unlikely in fact, though, isn’t it?’
Their eyes met. ‘Yes,’ said Charmian. ‘Too many hard facts against it … Let’s be hard and name them. Shall I start? One, the medical opinion was that the foot found in the shoe in Windsor was from a corpse.’
Rewley nodded: ‘And that person was identified by the malformed toe as Alicia.’
The Woman Who Was Not There Page 15