by John Gardner
‘Do you think Cap’n Flint meant the BBC had just given up on the antiques programme; or was he suggesting they’d given up on Miss Benton?’
‘Nobody’s mentioned that, but if the BBC had pulled the rug from under the fair Jo — well, that might make a difference.’ She thought of Jo Benton’s photograph. The last one she’d seen was in the agent’s offices: Josephine Benton leaning forward, one hand cupping her chin, a smile on the full lips, and a deep twinkle in her eyes, the right eyebrow slightly raised — quizzical they’d call that. Her hair looked gold, fine and shimmering even in the black and white print. And there was something else Suzie Mountford remembered — Jo Benton had been wearing a wooden brooch, a sword-shaped piece fashioned out of bleached wood: more a scimitar than a sword. It was slightly fuzzy and out of focus.
But it was a publicity photograph, she reasoned, so why was she wearing a little wooden ornament? Was this some special keepsake, the wooden brooch? A lucky charm? Did it matter? Jo had been a devious woman, a meticulous planner: the kind of person who would choose carefully for a publicity picture.
‘You think I should ask the agent? Ask Webster?’ She meant ask about the intentions of the BBC, but part of her wanted to find out about the wooden brooch as well.
‘Tiny details.’ On the day before he had been injured, Big Toe Harvey had said to her, ‘Never underestimate tiny clues, Susannah. Query anything you find odd — even the smallest thing should be looked into if it doesn’t feel right to you. Develop your sense of constant suspicion.’
‘You’re the detective, Suzie,’ Shirley said, ‘but yes. Yes, I think you should talk to him. Find out what the BBC were doing.’
‘I’m no more a detective than I’m Pilot Officer Prune.’ She laughed. Then, making up her mind to phone Webster, she held out her hand. ‘Pennies, Shirl. I haven’t got much in the way of ackers, and I’ve no change. None at all. We can claim it back, though. All contributions gratefully received.’
They raised four pennies between them and Suzie went down the stairs to where there was a public telephone to call the Webster and Broome Agency.
Richard Webster wasn’t in. ‘Gone out to lunch with a client,’ the receptionist told her.
‘When’re you expecting him back?’
‘I’ve no idea. It’s an important client so he could be out for the rest of the afternoon.’ She sounded exceptionally snooty.
‘Would you tell him that Detective Sergeant Mountford wants a word. I won’t be back in my office today, but I’ll try to ring him later.’
‘Who?’ the girl asked with all the charm of a King Cobra.
Suzie all but spelled it out for her. A moron, she considered as she went back into the restaurant where Shirley had ordered rice pudding with raisins and sultanas — the dried fruit was a real treat. The war was just over a year old but as they approached Christmas it was clear that there was a serious shortage of dried fruit for cakes.
‘My mum used to make rice pudding with cocoa and sugar. Called it chocolate rice. Only way I’d eat it.’ She told Suzie.
‘My mum once took me out for a meal when I was a kid and I read through the menu. The joke she always told was that I said very loudly, “Do you have to pay for rice pudding?” I was flabbergasted that you had to part with money to eat rice pud. Not my favourite choice.’
‘You’ve got no choice here. It’s rice pud or cold wait-and-see pudding.’
They took the Tube to Marble Arch at the top of Oxford Street, then spent twenty minutes searching for Barry Forbes’ office. Finally discovering it in a little mews house tucked away in one of the streets behind the Cumberland Hotel.
At the mews house a thin grey woman — uncertain age and very indecisive clothes — answered the door when they rang. Suzie showed her warrant card and said they were here to see Mr Forbes.
‘You’re the police?’ The woman sounded surprised, bewildered, as though she didn’t really believe them.
‘I’ve just shown you my authority.’ Suzie exuded gentleness, and the woman gave Shirley Cox a piercing stare as though uncertain of what or who she was — or why. Shirley smiled sweetly and said, ‘I’m police as well. Who might you be, madam?’
‘Miss. Miss Poulter. Mr Forbes’ personal secretary.’ She was all business with a touch of bustle. ‘He can give you fifteen minutes. He’s off to Chequers soon. Mr Forbes is going to Chequers with the Prime Minister.’ Miss Poulter was important by association. ‘Come,’ she snapped, leading them across a tiled floor, pausing in front of an oak door, which she tapped and then immediately opened. ‘There are two policewomen to see you Mr Forbes.’ It was as though she was telling her boss that a pair of illiterate tarts had forced their way in, uninvited and with dog dirt on their shoes.
‘He can give us fifteen minutes, Skip,’ Shirley whispered, deadpan. Suzie raised her eyebrows and stepped into the office with Shirley at her heels.
A polished military desk stood on a wine red carpet. On the wall behind the desk hung a large oil painting of a naval battle: men o’ war pounding each other, a lot of smoke and a dark brooding sky. Barry Forbes rose slowly to his feet: around five-ten; neat straw-coloured hair, the kind of hair some people would envy; thick and heavy; the sort of hair that would always drop back in place, perfectly. There was no doubt that physically he was an attractive man, deep blue eyes, smooth skin and a scrubbed complexion.
Makes you sick, Suzie thought, introducing herself and Shirley, leaning across the desk to shake hands. All very civilized. He had soft hands and she caught a glimpse of well-manicured nails. I know you, she thought, I’ve seen you somewhere, in the flesh and, no I’m not thinking of seeing your picture in the newspapers. What had Richard Webster said? ‘Enjoys dressing up in women’s clothes. Also likes to take on two women at a time: loves dressing in fancy underwear.’ How do the girls dress up? she wondered. Uniforms, she reckoned.
That’s what he’d like: the three of them: the Wren in her uniform, and Jo as a nurse. She remembered the nursing sister’s blue uniform in the Coram Cross bedroom. Should have followed up on that. Inwardly she blushed and wished she’d had more experience. She really found it difficult to understand why people would want to do things like this.
She had a vivid picture of him rolling around a double bed with the women shrieking with laughter at the fun and frenzy of it all. Today though, Barry Forbes was dressed in a Harris Tweed jacket with big leather buttons like small conkers, and cavalry twill trousers. He wore a double-breasted waistcoat and the jacket hung open showing off his slender figure. Not all men have waists, she thought. Suzie remembered an old Etonian — a friend of Ned Griffith — who had taken her dancing in Cambridge, at the Dorothy Café, making some remark about ‘not trustin’ a fella who wears double-breasted weskits or two vents in the back of a hackin’ jacket’. Where do I know you from? she thought again.
‘You’ve come about this dreadful thing that’s happened to Jo Benton.’ He was making more of a statement than a query, the voice fiendishly ruling class with what Suzie thought of as a wha-wha overlay.
‘Yes, about her murder.’ She sounded like a blunt instrument.
A look of concern passed across Forbes’ face: there and gone in a blink. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘So much death out of the skies every night, yet we have to differentiate —’ He had a melodic voice, and knew how to pitch it. She thought she detected a bit of Welsh in there.
‘Differentiate?’
She didn’t like him; didn’t like his type. Ruling Class came off him like some cheap, obvious scent. I am someone to be reckoned with, his manner said. Suzie had met his type at Cambridge. Public school, trained from birth to run the country and the Empire. Great charm and ability no doubt, but everything taken for granted. I’m going to deflate you, she thought. (Where the hell do I know you from?)
‘Differentiate between legal and illegal murder.’ He moved his hands a lot: a series of controlled gestures that said there was a hit of an actor in him; that he knew
what he was doing.
Businesslike, she said they had to ask him some routine questions.
‘Yes?’ He looked at his watch as if to tell her to be quick about it.
‘You were a close friend of Miss Benton’s?’
Deep in his eyes she saw the fear move again, then his right hand twitched on the desk while his left came up across his body to rest for a second below his right shoulder.
‘Well. Yes. Well, I don’t know about a close friend. I did know her, of course.’
‘Not close? You bloody little liar, Suzie thought. ‘Known her for some time?’ she asked, casual; soft as a child’s kiss, and as treacherous.
‘Oh, several years, yes.’ A shade of uncertainty in his voice, slinking in and mingling, moving up to his eyes. Remember, Suzie thought, remember that he’ll think he’s fireproof, being one of Winston’s special advisors with his name in the papers all the time.
That’s what DCS Livermore had told her when she’d rung him last night. ‘You’ve probably heard him on the wireless, Suzie. He’s a relatively young man but he sounds a bit of a Charlie to me: bit full of himself, if you know what I mean. Probably thinks he’s real; thinks you can’t touch him either. Most of these fellows believe that. Advisors and politicos. Because they get important jobs they take it for granted that they’re above the law. In Germany they probably are, but not here. If he gets cheeky slap him down. He’s only a glorified bookkeeper after all, not the real financial McCoy like John Maynard Keynes. But take care because Forbes can probably still bite, and the newspapers’ll make a right mess of you because Forbes is on the side of the angels. Difficult, it’s always bloody difficult to find the right tone. Walk the right line.’ The DCS had paused then said he wondered if they were ever going to meet in the flesh. Then he laughed, told her to be careful.
In the present she queried, ‘Several years? What’s several years mean exactly?’
There was no response and she didn’t press it. Waited in silence until he volunteered, ‘She was an acquaintance. Five, six years maybe. Yes, an acquaintance,’ he repeated as though he had found the form he wanted.
‘An intimate acquaintance?’
‘Well. I wouldn’t —’
‘Mr Forbes, we know you had an intimate relationship with Miss Benton.’ There, it was out in the open, sprawling on the carpet between them.
‘Oh.’ For the first time he sounded embarrassed. The arm moved defensively across his body again and the flicker of uncertainty recrossed his face. ‘No,’ very firmly. ‘Oh no, certainly not intimate. I must deny that absolutely. I find it objectionable. Offensive.’
Stung him, Suzie. Wounded him.
‘Miss Jo Benton and Miss Monica Parker.’ Shirley spoke from behind Suzie’s shoulder.
Forbes flushed and his eyes moved, looking towards the door, over her shoulder. ‘No,’ he said. Then again, ‘No.’ Shaking his head. A vigorous, aggressive rejection.
‘You deny knowing Monica Parker?’ Suzie asked, leaning forward, her body language full of hostility. ‘Miss Monica Parker who is, we understand, a leading Wren serving in HMS Daedelus, a shore station at Lee-on-Solent. What the navy calls a stone frigate.’
‘Miss Parker was a friend of Jo’s, yes.’ He looked Suzie straight in the eyes. ‘Yes, I knew her as well. Foolish. Of course I knew her.’
‘Leading Wren Parker would make up a threesome with you and Miss Benton.’ Shirley Cox gave him a big friendly grin. Come inside, dear — oh, what lovely teeth you have, grandmama.
Suzie heard herself make a tiny guttural sound in the back of her throat. Oh my God, watch it Shirley.
‘No!’ He scowled. ‘No! You’re reading far too much into this.’
Suzie imagined that in his head Forbes was assessing his situation. Asking himself if he was in trouble. He wouldn’t want the press tipped off. Probably had enough clout to keep them off, though maybe he was frightened and trying headlines on for size. A couple of the Sunday comics might just have a go — WINSTON’S SPECIAL ADVISOR MET WREN AND WINTER DRAWERS GIRL IN THREESOME LOVE NEST! On the whole the press didn’t like printing rumour and government scandal, so he was probably right to think he was untouchable.
‘You knew both Miss Benton and Leading Wren Parker?’ Suzie asked, bringing it all down a bit.
‘Yes!’
‘Knew them in the Biblical sense,’ needled Shirley, delighted at Barry Forbes’ confusion.
Oh, Shirl, no.
‘No! No, not in the Biblical sense.’ He sounded very positive. Roused. Even angrier.
‘When did you last see Miss Benton? With or without Leading Wren Monica Parker?’ She flashed a look at Shirley Cox.
‘Some time ago. Some time ...’ Rattled but still sure he could stop his reputation going for a burton. ‘But it wasn’t ... I can swear on oath that I didn’t know them in any improper sense. This is quite outrageous.’
His denial was so vehement that Suzie now really wondered if Richard Webster, the agent, had made some error. ‘You’d swear on oath?’ she asked, and the doubt was there in her own tone.
In the pause that followed, Suzie told him that this information was confidential. ‘We’re anxious to clear any really close friends. Personally we think Miss Benton’s murder was a crime of opportunity.’
‘For now, that is,’ Shirley added and Suzie could’ve killed her.
‘Mr Forbes, we’re not interested in morality. We’re only out to catch whoever killed Josephine Benton.’
Barry Forbes gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Well, yes. Yes, all right I knew them. Both of them. Jo and Monica. But there was no impropriety. I must stress that. A bit of foolishness from time to time but not —’
‘And when did you last ...?’
‘See them? Oh, I don’t know. Maybe three weeks ago. End of Novemberish. I don’t have much time these days for —’
‘Three-in-a-bunk?’ Shirley supplied and this time Suzie gave her a look designed to puncture her sense of humour. She put out a hand as if to signal Cox to slow down, take it easy.
‘I find that distasteful, disrespectful and embarrassing.’ Then low, almost under his breath, Forbes said it was all very childish.
Suzie was about to ask him what that meant when Shirley chipped in again — ‘And there’s somebody else. A Miss Emily Baccus?’
‘Yes?’
‘You know Emily Baccus?’
‘I did know her, yes. We went ... We were ...’ Having regained his equanimity, Barry Forbes had started to get flustered again. This time he crossed both arms over his chest for a moment — big medicine to ward off the evil spirits. ‘Yes, of course I knew Emily. But ...!’
‘You had a relationship with her ...’ Suzie spoke quietly, calmly, dropping her voice.
‘Had is the operative word.’ He fiddled with his tie then looked at his watch. ‘I really must ...’ he said, then stopped short, looked at his watch again and — ‘The time. I have to be with the PM.’
‘Emily Baccus?’ Suzie prodded.
‘Emily Baccus, yes. Yes. There was a time when I thought we could become engaged. Marry. Emily and me.’
‘Not any more? You don’t see her nowadays?’
‘So busy.’ he said and it didn’t ring true. ‘We had a falling out. She became distant. We drifted. I don’t really sec that it’s any of your business, Inspector.’
‘Sergeant.’ she corrected. ‘Detective Sergeant, and I’m afraid it is my business, Mr Forbes. We know you’ve had a sexual relationship with Miss Benton, and —’
‘No! No!’ Very firm. Outraged even. He look a deep breath and little white patches of skin showed high on his cheekbones. ‘No. I want to make this quite clear. I don’t have to stand for this. And I did not have a sexual relationship with Miss Benton,’ he insisted, raising his voice. ‘Not in any accepted sense. Anyway, it’s none of your damned business.’
‘We could do this at the station if you’d feel happier.’ Immediately Suzie knew that she had gone too far.
If there was any bluff to be called he called it. ‘If you feel we should speak formally. At the police station. Then we can do just that, and I’ll bring my solicitor. When would you like to arrange that, Sergeant ... er?’
‘Mountford ...’
‘When would you like to do that, Miss Mountford?’
Quite suddenly, Suzie became aware of how incredibly aggressive they must have sounded. Livermore, on the phone last night had summed it up — ‘It’s a difficult line to tread. Difficult, the line between accusation, rudeness, and what’s within the bounds of decency. You learn it by doing it. If you overstep the mark, then for God’s sake apologize.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Forbes. Sometimes in a murder inquiry we go too far. A formal interview’s probably not necessary, sir. If you could just tell us where you were on the evening Miss Benton was killed? Between around five and seven?’ Sounds like a radio play, she thought. I was proceeding in a westerly direction when I came upon the accused and all that. She hated the unimaginative construction of standard police jargon.
‘As it happens, I was at Ten Downing Street for most of that day. In fact every day this week up until today. I think you’ll find the staff there will bear me out. Prime Minister as well if you like. I was at Ten Downing Street from eleven in the morning until well after nine o’clock at night. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and yesterday.’ He sounded smug about the witnesses he could call, and she was tempted to go on the attack again. ‘Professor Lindemann as well if you need more,’ he said. ‘Professor Lindemann and Jock Coleville also should you have cause. Chief of Air Staff Portal was there on Tuesday, and I saw General Ismay on Wednesday and yesterday.’ The pinkness of his cheeks darkened, turning quite florid, with the white patches still clear. Little white triangles.
Suzie thought of Harlequin, then asked. ‘And Miss Baccus, sir?’
‘No. I don’t think Miss Baccus has ever been in Number Ten.’
‘That’s not really what I meant, Mr Forbes. Could you give us her address, sir?’
‘Of course.’ He parroted the address near Marylebone High Street — Derbyshire Mansions. He shook his head, gave an agitated sigh. ‘Really, I’ve had enough of this. Insinuations, and these disgusting accusations.’ He continued to shake his head, and there was a kind of violence in the gesture.