A Quarter Past Dead

by TP Fielden

  ‘Hardly, Arthur. She’d been starved of cash, remember?’

  ‘Be that as it may, Johnny went away with a pocketful – and a broken heart. The moment the job was done she didn’t want any more to do with him. “I was used,” he said to me. He was very upset to hear she was dead, I think he made the fatal mistake of falling in love with her.’

  ‘She seems a pretty cold fish, I must say.’

  ‘And that’s it, really. We chatted about old times and said goodbye. I promised to put in a good word for him when he gets back to Scotland.’

  ‘You’re all heart, Arthur. Did he tell you, by the way, the address of the house where the Patrikis family lived?’

  ‘Yes, it’s a big old place off the Finchley Road, up towards Hampstead Heath. We could drive over there after lunch if you like.’

  ‘Who needs lunch?’ said Miss Dimont, reaching for her raffia bag.

  One thing you could say about Betty, she was a trier. She never liked to let people down, especially when they were nice enough to ask her out. Which is why she was sipping gin fizzes with the Admiral in the Yacht Club bar.

  ‘Never been here before,’ she said admiringly, dazzled by the high polish on trophies and tankards, monuments to many glorious feats under sail, which littered the place. ‘Do they allow women in here?’

  ‘When they’re as pretty as you,’ said Sir Cedric, looking over his glass and waggling his weatherbeaten brow.

  ‘I expect you’ll be bringing Lady Minsell here, then, when you get your cottage.’

  ‘Invalid,’ said Sir Cedric sadly, shaking his head. ‘She rarely comes out these days. I travel a great deal by myself.’

  He’s sixty-five if he’s a day, thought Betty. Beautiful clothes but a body like a sack of flour. Married. And more in love with himself than any man has the right to be.

  ‘Did you see me on What’s My Line? last Tuesday?’

  ‘I don’t have a television, Admiral.’

  ‘Cedric.’ He pronounced it ‘Seedric’.

  Oh Lord, thought Betty. Here we go again.

  TWENTY

  ‘I’m just going to knock on the door. You stay in the car.’

  Arthur looked uncomfortable at this decidedly forward approach. ‘Don’t you think we should telephone first?’

  ‘Do you have a number, uncle?’

  ‘Well, no, actually.’

  ‘Do we even know who lives here now? Mr Patrikis died nearly five years ago.’

  ‘Hadn’t thought of that.’ Arthur was struggling with his stringbacked driving gloves. ‘Go on then. Give me a call if you need anything.’

  Miss Dimont shouldered her raffia bag and marched up the wide drive to the front door of The Glen, a curiously Scottish name for a house which backed on to Hampstead Heath. It was vast, imposing, set in impressive grounds and with a colossal front door.

  A beautiful young woman answered her knock.

  ‘Do forgive me. I’m a friend of Helen Patrikis, who used to live here. I was rather hoping you might be able to tell me if you know the whereabouts of any family members – I’m so sorry, I hope you don’t mind…’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You do mind. Well, many apologies, I’ll be…’

  ‘No,’ said the young woman, ‘I do. I do know the whereabouts of family members. I’m one myself – Elektra Patrikis. What did you want?’

  ‘Oh!’ stuttered Miss Dimont. Accustomed to knocking on people’s doors in her other guise as a reporter, she was momentarily thrown to so easily find what she was looking for – detection’s supposed to be more difficult than that. She played for time.

  ‘May I come in?’

  The woman looked at her suspiciously, but after a moment’s appraisal decided this middle-aged and apparently uncharismatic spinster posed no particular threat, and stood aside.

  The Glen’s hall was huge, its panelled walls covered in oil-paintings of ships – ugly, utilitarian vessels in anonymous colours plying their trade through seas which lacked charm or identity. A housekeeper hurried forward, apologising for not having answered Miss Dimont’s knock.

  ‘OK, Elsie, it’s about Helen. Come this way,’ the young woman said, leading the way down a passage into a large garden room whose tall windows gave out onto the Heath.

  ‘Beautiful view,’ murmured Miss Dimont. ‘Look here, I’d better explain. But first would you mind telling me how you’re related to Helen?’

  ‘She’s my cousin.’

  The answer, phrased as it was in the present tense, filled Miss Dimont suddenly with dread – the woman’s assumption was that her cousin was still alive. Did she want to be the one to break the news of her ugly death?

  ‘Look, I’m not quite sure how to put this, but I think I’d better get things straight. My name is Judy Dimont, I’m the chief reporter of the Riviera Express, which is a newspaper in Devon. Do you know Temple Regis, by any chance?’

  ‘Heard of it,’ said the woman. ‘Who hasn’t? A reporter, you say? What’s this about?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say that I believe Helen is dead. How are you related to her?’

  ‘Our fathers are – were – are – brothers. Helen’s father Stavros is dead, my father is out there in the garden.’ She pointed to a tall man in his sixties playing croquet on the lawn. ‘That’s my sister with him, I’d better go and tell them. Are you sure? Are you sure it’s Helen? She went missing, you know.’

  She doesn’t seem very upset, thought Miss Dimont. ‘Someone has died,’ she said guardedly, ‘the police have been unable so far to identify her.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ For a moment the woman looked horrified, as if waiting to hear of some ghastly disfigurement.

  ‘Simply that when she was found she had nothing to identify her. Look, before you go and tell your father, will you help me? Will you look at this?’

  I’m taking a chance, thought Miss Dimont. I could be accused of misrepresentation, Press intrusion – oh, all sorts of things! Better soldier on, though.

  ‘It’s a dreadful thing to ask, but is this her?’ She drew from her bag the folded 10 × 8 prints Terry had given her, and selected one at random.

  The woman leaned forward. Miss Dimont could tell from the look on her face that she was appraising the woman in the photo, sizing her up, perhaps even matching herself against her dead cousin. It seemed a strange response.

  ‘Yes,’ came the eventual response. ‘Yes, that’s Helen. With that disgusting boyfriend of hers. Radish, we used to call him.’

  ‘Hugh Radipole? Well! You’re sure?’

  ‘He took her for a drive in one of his fancy cars – she was just a schoolgirl then.’

  ‘Would you like your father and sister to hear what I have to say?’

  ‘Come on.’ Elektra strode forward towards the garden and Miss Dimont followed. Her response seemed odd – upset, yes, to learn of the death of her cousin and yet strangely detached at the same time. The way she looked at the photograph – as if…

  And then she had it – Elektra had not been looking at Helen, but at Radipole! The first glimpse was enough to tell her it was her cousin, the rest of her lingering gaze was on the man, not the girl, in the photograph.

  They emerged into the sunlight to discover the croquet match had progressed away towards the end of the garden. While Elektra went over to fetch her father and sister, Judy turned to look back at the house.

  And there it was – the gabled and tiled edifice which featured in one of Terry’s seven prints, a picture taken roughly speaking from where Elektra was standing, telling her sister and father the terrible news.

  All three came back to the terrace where Miss Dimont stood. ‘My father, Aristide Patrikis, and my sister, Calista. This is – sorry, I’ve forgotten your name already.’

  ‘Judy Dimont, I’m chief reporter on the local newspaper in Temple Regis, Devon.’

  The man looked at her steadily. His eyes signalled his station in life – top of the tree. ‘Tell me quickly,’ he said. It was an orde
r, not a request.

  ‘Someone who I believe to be your niece, Mr Patrikis, was found shot dead in a… holiday camp in Temple Regis. She had no identifying papers, nothing to show who she was. The police have been unable to connect her with anyone, and it’s only by chance that I…’

  ‘It’s not your job, is it, to do police work? Going round informing people of the death of a loved one?’ His tone was patronising, final – what he said in life was written down by others, and acted upon. He did not like this journalist telling him things about his family.

  Miss Dimont was undaunted. ‘Forgive me, Mr Patrikis, but it is anybody’s job. Families have a right to know when one of their number has died, it really doesn’t matter who tells them.’

  Patrikis was looking at her but, rather, looking through her. This messenger was of no importance, the message was. ‘When did this occur?’

  ‘About ten days ago.’

  ‘You say shot.’

  ‘Shot. She was lying on her bed in the holiday camp chalet. No possessions in her room.’

  ‘Why has it taken so long for the family to be informed? And why,’ he repeated, ‘is it you who comes now?’

  ‘She registered under a false name. She, I think purposely, left no identifying articles behind apart from the photo album. Which I suspect was an oversight – she had deliberately set out to hide her identity.’

  ‘What name did she use?’ The man seemed to be trying to bully the information out of her.

  ‘Patsy.’

  ‘That’s not a Greek name.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The police, why have they not been to see me?’

  ‘Because they don’t know yet. They’ve tried their best but actually it was a press photographer who made the breakthrough.’

  The man ran his hand through iron-grey hair and then put his arm round his daughter’s shoulder.

  ‘What has been done with the body? Somebody, I take it, must identify her? If nobody has done so yet?’

  ‘That would be standard procedure, Mr Patrikis. I’m very sorry to be the bearer of such bad tidings.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Elektra said you didn’t know the family lived here. What were you doing knocking on our door?’

  As if for the first time the man’s black eyes focused sharply on Miss Dimont, making her feel most uncomfortable. He didn’t like her, didn’t like her questions, seemed almost insulted that someone so lowly should intrude into his private domain.

  ‘Come on, Papa, we must do something, go to this place Regis,’ said Calista, tugging at his cuff. She was clearly the favourite.

  ‘Phone Stevens and tell him to arrange for the plane to be in Hendon in an hour’s time.’ He could have been talking to an underling, favourite daughter or no. Turning to Miss Dimont he said, ‘Where is this Temple Regis?’

  ‘I think you’ll find the nearest airstrip is Newton Abbot. In Devon.’

  ‘I’ll say good day, then.’

  Judy and Elektra were left alone on the terrace. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Well,’ said Judy hesitantly – she was thinking of Arthur stuck in his Jaguar outside in the street.

  ‘Well, yes. Thank you.’ He would just have to wait.

  ‘Come into the kitchen.’

  Elektra led the way through a couple of large rooms to a brightly lit space large enough to cater a platoon of soldiers.

  ‘They’ll go off together,’ she said, nodding as if in the direction of her father and sister. ‘Stay for a while. I have to admit it’s a bit of a shock. What on earth was she doing down in Devon?’

  ‘Hugh Radipole has a hotel down there.’

  ‘Does he? Oh yes, I forgot.’

  No you didn’t, thought Miss Dimont, but continued, ‘Can you tell me about your cousin and Mr Radipole?’

  ‘She loathed him. But she couldn’t leave him alone. He’s hardly our sort – he sold cars! – but somehow he became entangled in the family. He wouldn’t go away.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he seduced Helen – though there’s another word for it – and suddenly uncle Stavros was inviting him around all the time.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yes, this is Helen’s house. She inherited it when Stavros was murdered. When she went missing after he died, Papa decided he would rather live here than our house, which is on the other side of the Heath.’

  ‘That seems an unusual thing to do,’ said Miss Dimont, trying hard to seem conversational, not nosy.

  ‘Oh, we still have the other house. We move from one to the other, a month here, a month there, Papa seems to enjoy that. We keep the household staff on over there, the private staff – secretary and housekeeper – move with us when we go.’

  Miss Dimont thought of her own small cottage with three bedrooms and no staff, and for a moment pictured Mulligatawny acting as secretary and housekeeper in her absence, keeping the wheels turning efficiently until her return.

  ‘So Stavros welcomed Radipole into his house? That seems odd.’

  ‘They were of a similar age, though of different wealth and background. What drew them together was Stavros’ love of cars. Big, small, new, old – he was besotted by them. He collected oddities – there was a vast garage full of them over in Maida Vale – and Hugh, er, Radipole, used to search them out for him.’

  ‘But he knew what was going on between Radipole and his daughter?’

  ‘He approved. He had Radipole under his thumb because of the money that was going his way – it was almost as if he was an employee – and so indirectly he controlled his daughter through Radipole. He was a very controlling man.’

  ‘Most unusual,’ said Miss Dimont. ‘Delicious coffee, by the way.’ She was thinking again about Arthur, cramped in his own bit of motoring joy, wondering how long she would be.

  ‘Thank you. Helen – is there anything else you can tell me? I’m slightly in shock about her death. Even though we weren’t that close I find the whole thing impossible to believe.’

  ‘You weren’t close even though you only lived on the other side of the Heath?’

  ‘She was seven years older. Our fathers didn’t get on well. Anyway, Helen both loved and hated her father. There was a period just before he died when she would shout and scream at him, saying some unforgiveable things, but then when he died she changed, utterly. She went round wearing black for a year, wouldn’t go out, wouldn’t see anybody. She went into a huge downward spiral.

  ‘And then she just disappeared. She’d dropped hints before, to me anyway, saying she was rich at last, her inheritance from Uncle Stavros left her free to do exactly as she liked. She wanted to get away from London and go and live a completely different life.’

  ‘In Devon? With Radipole?’

  ‘Hardly. She ended up despising him because of the way he sucked up to her papa. No, she disappeared into thin air. To start with we thought she’d come back, but when she didn’t – well, that was when Papa decided it was pointless keeping on household staff here at The Glen without them doing anything for their wages, and he moved us over here. Very soon he stopped talking about her, would hush us up if we mentioned her name. It was almost as if he thought she was dead.’

  Miss Dimont looked into her cup. ‘Do you know where she went?’

  ‘Probably Switzerland. But it could have been Timbuctoo – nobody could find her.’

  ‘Were the police involved?’

  ‘Papa thought it was a family matter. He got some private detectives to work on finding her but they were useless.’

  ‘But then, finally,’ said Miss Dimont, thinking aloud, ‘she ends up in a holiday camp next door to the man who’d been her first lover. Despite the fact she’s on the run, trying to keep out of sight, she spends every evening in his bar. It’s very odd, the whole thing is very odd.’

  Elektra washed up the cups. ‘Their relationship altered the day her father died. She was young enough to
be Radipole’s daughter, but suddenly she was the boss – she was the one with the money. I think when they were first together she must have been very impressed by him – he’s very smooth, you know – but by the end she must have seen him for what he was.’

  ‘Where did his money come from? He came down to Temple Regis and built this remarkable hotel – he could never have made that money selling cars.’

  Elektra laughed out loud. ‘You mean, did Stavros pay him to be his daughter’s lover? Well, there’s a thought!’

  There indeed is a thought, Miss Dimont silently agreed.

  ‘I must be going,’ she said. ‘May I have your number? If you like I can telephone you from Temple Regis and let you know how things are going.’ She sensed Elektra had no particular expectation that her father would call.

  The girl scribbled the number on a piece of paper. ‘And now,’ pronounced Miss Dimont, ‘I’m off. Mustn’t keep the chauffeur waiting.’

  Elektra nodded understandingly. In her world, everyone had chauffeurs.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The world does not revolve around London, even if its inhabitants think so. The moment Miss Dimont stepped out of the Pullman train onto the palm-treed platform she was reminded that it does, in fact, revolve around Temple Regis. And there was Terry, sitting in the Minor, waiting for her in the car park.

  ‘Trust you to push off just when you’re needed,’ he growled, but she could tell he was pleased to see her. Or thought she could tell.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Major incident over at Ruggleswick. Unbelievable. You wouldn’t think that two grown men could…’

  ‘Start at the beginning, Terry. And drive slowly.’

  The photographer deliberately crunched the gears and made a jerky exit. He was in a bit of a mood.

  ‘Unbelievable,’ he repeated. ‘A punch-up between Bobby Bunton and that Radipole man on the lawn outside the Marine – in front of all the guests! Well, all the guests that are left,’ he added with a grim smile. ‘Most couldn’t stand the racket of the Devil’s Dodgems, packed their bags and left. It’s all-out war!’