by Frank Smith
‘What about Foster? Can’t we do something about him?’
‘We will,’ Paget assured him. ‘He’ll be charged with obstruction, concealing a body, and half a dozen other things, but that’s all for the moment.’
Ormside grunted. It was simpler in the old days, he mused. Take them in for questioning and lean on them. Then chuck them in the cells and let them sweat for a day or two, then do it all over again. But you couldn’t do that today. All these rules and regulations. Christ! the villains had more rights than coppers these days. He brushed the thought aside. There was work to be done, and the sooner he got on with it the better.
* * *
ORDINARILY, Tregalles would have gone directly to Merrick’s flat in Fulham, but Jane Lansing, Lisa’s best friend, according to Foster, lived in South Kensington, which was on his way. He had telephoned the night before to arrange a meeting, and Miss Lansing had agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly it seemed to him, to see him at eleven.
If she had sounded reluctant on the phone, there was no sign of that reluctance when she answered the door. She invited Tregalles in and offered him a drink. ‘Ordinary tea, herbal tea, or coffee?’ she said brightly.
‘You’re having something?’ he asked cautiously.
‘I’m having herbal tea,’ the young woman said. She saw him hesitate, and laughed. ‘I have coffee made,’ she told him. ‘You don’t look like a herbal tea man to me.’
Tregalles warmed to her. Jane Lansing was small, slim, and very attractive. She had long, flowing hair the colour of burnished copper, dark eyes that crinkled easily into a smile, a generous mouth, and a lightly freckled face. She wore a white, short-sleeved tailored shirt, open at the neck and pulled in sharply at the waist. It disappeared beneath the waistband of designer jeans that moulded to her body like a second skin. Her feet, he saw with some surprise, were bare.
‘Just be a minute,’ she told him as she left the room.
He barely had time to note the details of the room before she returned. Small, casually furnished, but very comfortable, with a few good prints on the walls, and a large, old-fashioned spinning wheel in one corner. A tape was playing in the background; one of those mood music things, he decided, with waves and long synthetic sighs of sound.
Jane Lansing appeared with a tray and set it on a small table between them. ‘Please help yourself to milk and sugar,’ she told him.
Tregalles spooned in a generous helping of sugar while Jane Lansing sipped her tea. ‘I hope this isn’t all a waste of your time, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘As I told you, I haven’t seen Lisa for at least a month, so I don’t know how I can help you. Is she in some sort of trouble?’
Tregalles side-stepped the question. ‘Can you think of anyone she might stay with?’ he asked. ‘A friend, relative, anyone?’
A strange expression crossed the young woman’s face. ‘Has she left Peter?’ she asked.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well—I don’t think I’m telling tales out of school if I tell you she’s been thinking about it for some time, and she was getting a bit desperate the last time she was here.’
‘How, exactly, do you mean, “desperate”, Miss Lansing?’
‘I think it was a combination of things, really,’ she said. ‘I know she was bored silly down there in the country with nothing to do, and Peter was growing more and more possessive. I mean, he wanted to know where Lisa was all the time, and he didn’t like her leaving the cottage even when he was away for a week at a time.’
The young woman sipped her tea. ‘She did, of course. Came up to London whenever she got the chance, but she didn’t always tell Peter.’
‘She stayed here with you?’
Jane Lansing arched an eyebrow over her cup, and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. ‘Sometimes,’ she said guardedly.
‘It is important, Miss Lansing. Very important.’
The young woman set her cup down. ‘Look, Sergeant, if I had some idea about what Lisa’s done, I might be able to help you, but I’m simply not going to talk about her behind her back.’
Tregalles set his own cup aside. ‘To the best of our knowledge, Lisa Remington has been missing since sometime after March 10th,’ he said. ‘She disappeared at or about the same time that her husband, Sean Merrick, was killed in Bracken Cottage, and no one admits to seeing her since. So, anything you can tell me about her or where she might be would be of considerable help.’
Jane Lansing stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Killed? Sean? My God! Down there at the cottage? Then he did come back. Lisa was afraid he would.’ Her eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘What do you mean by “killed”?’ she asked.
‘He was shot with a twelve-bore,’ Tregalles said bluntly.
‘Oh, my God! And you think Lisa did it?’ She fell silent. ‘Not that she wouldn’t have cause,’ she said softly. ‘Oh, poor Lisa. But why didn’t she come here? Why haven’t I heard?’ She looked to Tregalles for answers.
He didn’t think she was acting. Jane Lansing seemed genuinely shocked by the news—and perhaps a little hurt that Lisa had not come to her for help.
‘Please listen to me, Miss Lansing,’ he said. ‘It has not been established who killed Mr Merrick. There are several possibilities. But we are concerned about your friend, Lisa. Now, if she found herself in serious trouble, or wanted to go into hiding, would you expect her to come to you for help?’
Jane Lansing nodded, but she looked puzzled. ‘I’d like to think this is the first place she would come,’ she said. ‘We’ve known each other ever since we started modelling, not that I was ever in her class, of course. But she didn’t, Sergeant. I swear she didn’t, and I can’t understand it.’
‘There is no record of her having used her bank or credit cards since she disappeared, and it seems to me that she would need money. Is there anyone she could go to for help of that nature?’
Jane Lansing shook her head. ‘Lisa’s line of credit is pretty thin, here in London,’ she said slowly, brow furrowed as she tried to think of possibilities.
‘What about her mother?’
‘Constance? Lisa would die before she’d ask her mother for money,’ she said emphatically. Jane’s face became grave. ‘Are you quite sure you’ve told me everything, Sergeant?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘Is Lisa dead?’
Tregalles hesitated only briefly. ‘I’m afraid that is one possibility,’ he admitted. ‘But we still hope to find her alive.’
Jane Lansing shut her eyes. ‘Oh, Lisa,’ she breathed. Her eyes remained shut, but her voice steadied as she said, ‘You said Lisa wasn’t the only one who could have killed Sean. Is Peter a suspect?’
‘Why do you ask that?’ Tregalles countered.
‘Because I’m sure that Peter must have suspected what Lisa was doing when she came up to London, and he’s a very jealous man. I really don’t know what he would do if he ever found out the truth.’
Tregalles picked up his coffee. It was cold. ‘Don’t you think it would be best if you told me everything?’ he suggested. ‘What is the truth about Lisa Remington, Miss Lansing?’
* * *
‘IT’S ROUND THE BACK,’ the sharp-featured woman told Tregalles as she began to shut the door. Tregalles held it open. ‘When was the last time you saw Mr Merrick?’ he asked her.
‘I don’t see him,’ she said. ‘I keep myself to myself, and I expect him to do the same. But you can tell him from me that if I don’t have this month’s rent by the end of the week, he can get out.’
‘Pays by the month, does he?’
The woman scowled. ‘What if he does?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Then you must have seen him at the beginning of March,’ Tregalles said.
‘What if I did?’
‘When was that, exactly? What date? Please, it’s important.’
‘Why? What’s he done? Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
Tregalles was beginning to lose patience. ‘Because he’s dead, that’s why,’ he said bluntly.
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The woman stepped back. Alarm flared in her eyes. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘what sort of game are you playing? What do you mean, he’s dead?’
‘Just that. He was killed about three weeks ago. Now, please, will you answer the question?’
The woman tried harder to close the door. ‘I don’t know what your game is,’ she said, ‘but if you’re not out of here in ten seconds, I’m ringing the real police.’
‘But I am the real police,’ Tregalles said, struggling to hold the door. ‘I showed you my warrant card.’
The woman thrust her face forward until it almost touched his own. ‘Well, tell me this, then, Mr Policeman,’ she said. ‘If Mr Merrick’s dead, who’s been driving his car and living downstairs all this time, then? You tell me that, clever clogs!’
* * *
PETER FOSTER was in his dark-room. He’d spent most of the day in there, not so much because he had work to do, but to avoid seeing policemen every time he looked out of a window. They were a constant reminder that he was, in fact, the prime suspect in the murder of Sean Merrick.
They didn’t believe him; he knew that. Oh, why, oh, why had that stupid yob chosen to hide in the well? It was as if the hand of fate had reached out, and it frightened him. The odds against something like that happening must be a million to one, but there it was, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Except stick to his story. They couldn’t prove a thing if he stuck to that.
Although it was his dark-room, Foster also used it as an office, and he was sitting at his desk when the telephone rang. He scooped it up. Someone will be listening to this, he thought. In case Lisa should ring. To hell with them, he thought recklessly. Let them.
‘Two-three-eight-one, Peter Foster here,’ he said.
‘Ah, Mr Foster. Is Miss Remington there, please?’
‘No. Who is this?’
‘It’s me, Bill Burbridge down at the garage, Mr Foster,’ the man said, and Foster recognized the voice of the owner of Burbridge Motors (Sales and Service since 1933) in Broadminster. ‘Sorry it took so long,’ the man said apologetically, ‘but you know how it is with these foreign motors, Mr Foster, and then, of course, we had to send it out for spraying…’
Foster gripped the phone. ‘What are you talking about, Bill?’ he asked sharply. ‘Do you mean Lisa’s car?’
There was silence at the other end for a moment. ‘Sorry,’ the man said again, ‘but I thought you’d know. About the accident, I mean.’
‘What accident?’
‘Why, the accident right outside the garage, Mr Foster. When Miss Remington tried to make that turn round the metal post on the corner. Cut it too fine; crushed the whole side in, and we had to order…’
‘When was this?’ Foster asked sharply.
‘Like I said, about three weeks…’
‘I mean what date, man? I want the exact date!’
There was a rustling of paper. ‘March 12th,’ said Burbridge. ‘You see, it was…’
But Peter Foster had hung up, and was half-way to the door.
* * *
THE TEN-YEAR-OLD VOLVO was there in plain view beside the back gate, and the number plate matched the one being circulated. Tregalles put his hand on the bonnet. It was slightly warm.
He opened the iron gate and went down the crumbling steps. Jane Lansing had told him that Merrick had been going downhill steadily ever since Lisa left him, but he hadn’t expected this. But neither had he expected to be told that someone was living in Merrick’s so-called flat, and it was with a certain amount of caution that he knocked at the door.
There was no response. He knocked again, louder this time, and heard faint sounds inside. He knocked a third time and was rewarded by a bellowed ‘Sod off and let me sleep!’
Tregalles knocked again, and this time he heard a rumbling behind the door, and it was suddenly flung open. A man dressed only in vest and trousers stood there, swaying. He looked as if he’d just come off a five-day binge; his eyes were bloodshot; his face unshaven, and even at that distance his breath was enough for Tregalles to turn his head aside.
He held his warrant card up and identified himself, but before he could continue, the man spewed out a torrent of abuse.
‘What is it with you bastards?’ he ended bitterly. ‘Do you take it in turns? Christ, I’ve only just got back and got my head down, and here you are again. What is it, now?’
‘Who are you?’ Tregalles said. ‘What’s your name? And what are you doing here in this house?’
‘Jesus, Mary!’ The man looked to heaven as if for aid. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think I am?’ he bellowed. ‘You lot have had me in often enough. Merrick, for Christ’s sake. Sean Christopher Michael Merrick! All right? Or do you need it spelling for you?’
* * *
‘IT’S MERRICK, all right.’ Tregalles was speaking to Paget. ‘I’m ringing from the local nick where he spent last night. Drunk and disorderly. He was at the cottage, though, on the Monday, March 11th. Says Lisa sent him packing with a load of buckshot, and he has the scars on his backside to prove it. And he’s still limping. That’s when he left his portfolio there. I have his statement, and I also have a statement from Jane Lansing.’
When Tregalles had given Paget a brief outline of what Lisa’s friend had told him, the chief inspector told his sergeant not to spend any more time in London, but to get back as soon as possible. ‘We have an interesting development down here,’ he said. ‘Tell you all about it when you get back.’
Tregalles had phoned from Worcester to tell his wife that he would be home, but it would be late, and he told her not to wait up. But when he let himself in shortly before midnight, Audrey was there waiting for him. He shrugged out of his coat and kissed her.
‘You should have gone to bed,’ he told her. ‘I said not to wait up.’
Audrey took his coat and hung it up. ‘Hungry?’ she asked. ‘Or did you manage to get something to eat?’
‘I could go a nice cup of tea,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what they do to the air on trains, but I’m so dry.’
Audrey went ahead of him into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Tregalles watched her with affection. A dyed-in-the-wool family man, he was glad to be home. It was all very well for those who liked a few days away on expenses, but give him home every time. For a brief moment he thought of Jane Lansing, lovely face, lively eyes, perfect body, and very nice with it, too. The sort of girl who would turn any man’s head.
But he wouldn’t swap his Audrey for ten Jane Lansings, he thought comfortably. He put his hands around her waist. ‘Good to be home, love,’ he told her.
‘Good to have you home,’ she responded, but there was a worried frown on her face and she seemed tense, preoccupied.
‘Anything wrong?’ he asked.
Suddenly, her eyes were moist and a tear trickled down her cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as she busied herself with cups and saucers. ‘I was going to wait till morning to tell you, but…’
‘What is it, then? Here, never mind those. Sit down and tell me. What’s happened?’
Audrey sank into a chair. ‘It’s Olivia,’ she began, and quickly put a hand on his arm as she saw alarm flare in his eyes. ‘Oh, no, she’s all right,’ she assured him. ‘It’s just that there was this man outside the school, today. He spoke to her; walked along with her. He didn’t do anything, but it’s just the thought … Oh, John, I should have been there myself, but Joan said she’d be there all this week, and I didn’t know she’d been taken ill until afterwards. I wouldn’t have even known about it if Brian hadn’t said something at tea-time.’
Tregalles felt as if his collar were choking him. He could feel the blood rushing to his face, and it had become unbearably hot. ‘But Olivia is all right? He didn’t harm her? What did he say? Did he touch her?’
Audrey put her hand out quickly and caught his sleeve. ‘No, John. It’s all right,’ she hastened to assure him. ‘Calm down. Olivia says he didn’t, and so does Brian. The
trouble is, Olivia said he was such a nice man. After all we’ve said; after all the school has done…’ Audrey shrugged helplessly. ‘I just don’t know what else to do, John, except to make sure that she is never on her own again.’
Tregalles sat down slowly. It was an effort, but he forced himself to calm down. Just the thought of young, lovely, innocent Olivia being approached by a man created a storm inside him, but he knew there was no point in going off half-cocked. But it was hard. He took Audrey’s hands in his.
‘Did Olivia tell you what the man said?’ he asked gently.
‘She said he kept calling her Wendy. And he talked about a dolls’ house at home.’
Oh, God! Trying to get her interested in going with him to see the dolls’ house. ‘Didn’t anyone else see him? Do anything? Ask him who he was?’
Audrey shook her head in a bewildered sort of way. ‘That’s the odd thing,’ she said. ‘Both Brian and Olivia said there were other people about, but nobody did anything. It’s as if the man was invisible. I don’t understand it at all.’
‘Did you report it?’
Audrey nodded. ‘I spoke to Jim Dean, and he sent Molly Forsythe round to talk to Olivia, but I don’t know how much good it will do. She tried to get a description of the man out of Olivia, but all she could tell her was that the man was “really old like the vicar”. Brian did say the man had a dark suit on, and they both agreed he had grey hair, but that was it. Molly was going round to see some of the parents who meet their kids out of school, and she said they’d do their best to have someone over there tomorrow.’