‘Something like that, yes.’
‘Try to think. I must know exactly when they started.’
Holmes frowned. ‘I’m pretty sure – yes, it must have been that Monday, because it was the next day that she rang Mrs Thorpe and that was the day before we were due for an appointment. Yes, it was that Monday.’
‘Now think very carefully. Can you remember what she did, that day?’
‘Not offhand. She must have gone to work, I suppose.’
‘You can’t remember anything special about that Monday?’
Holmes passed a hand over his head and then pressed the thumb and forefinger into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I just can’t seem to think …’
‘Do you think you could try to remember, when we’ve gone? Try really hard, I mean? And if you do, give me a ring?’
Holmes shrugged. ‘If you like.’
‘Good. Now wife’s mother is dead, but if she and your wife lived in the same place all her life until you married, it’s possible that your mother-in-law had some close friends living nearby. Do you know of any?’
‘There’s Mrs Lawton. Julie used to call her Auntie Rose.’
‘Her address?’
‘9 Wellington Road, Wimbledon.’
‘Any others?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Right. There’s just one other point.’ Here it came. Thanet had deliberately left this till last. Now, he kept his tone as casual, as matter-of-fact as possible. ‘I understand that while you were living in London there was a man who used to pester your wife. Could you give me his name, address and place of work?’
Holmes sat up abruptly. ‘Kendon, you mean? What’s he got to do with it? You don’t think he – my God, wait till I get my hands on him!’
‘Mr Holmes, calm down, please. We really have no idea. But we have to follow up every lead, however slight, and Mrs Thorpe just happened to mention his existence.’ Thanet felt quite justified in pretending that there was no evidence to connect this man with Julie. For one thing, they were not yet certain that it was he who had apparently been meeting Julie on Tuesday evenings while her husband was out, and for another he didn’t want a second murder on his hands; at the moment Holmes looked quite capable of committing one. ‘Please,’ he went on. ‘There really is no need to get so worked up.’
‘No? If I thought he’d followed her down here … He never left her alone, even after we were married. Said she was his, by right – he introduced us, as a matter of fact. He knew her first, but that gave him no rights over her. I told him, it was her choice and that was that. And she chose me.’ An expression of pride flitted briefly over Holmes’s face.
‘Anyway, as I said, it’s just a matter of checking every lead. So if you could tell us where to find him …?’
‘Flat 4, Wallington Park Road, Putney.’
‘And he worked?’
‘At the BBC. He’s Kenny Kendon, the disc jockey.’
Thanet was astonished, though he didn’t show it. Kenny Kendon was one of the Radio 2 regular disc jockeys, with his own live programme each morning. ‘Description?’
‘A bit taller than me – five ten or eleven, I suppose. Brown hair.’
So, still in the running for the mysterious boyfriend, Thanet thought with satisfaction. He avoided looking at Lineham. ‘Well, I think that’s about all for the moment.’ He stood up and Lineham followed suit. ‘And if you take my advice, Mr Holmes, you’ll get back to work as soon as possible. You won’t do yourself any good hanging about here, brooding.’ At the door he turned. ‘Mrs Thorpe was very concerned about you, by the way. She said she’d give you a ring.’
This, he was pleased to see, meant something to Holmes. A spark of interest flared briefly in his eyes. He said nothing, however, as he let them out and watched them walk down the garden path.
‘Well, what do you think of that, sir?’ Lineham said excitedly, when they were in the car. ‘Kenny Kendon!’
‘Interesting.’
‘You’ll go and see him?’
‘Tomorrow, I think. We’ll both go, by car. You can visit this Auntie Rose while I’m seeing Kendon.’
‘Where now, then?’ Lineham asked.
Thanet looked at his watch. Four o’clock. ‘Back to the office. I must get my reports up to date. I’m seeing the Super at five-thirty.’ At least there were now some interesting developments to report. ‘Remind me to ring the Met. will you? I’ll have to let them know I’ll be trespassing on their patch tomorrow.’
Nothing interesting awaited them at the office. Thanet managed to bring himself up to date on his paperwork, had a satisfactory interview with Superintendent Parker, then took himself home.
The children were already in bed but Bridget heard him arrive and came downstairs, begging for a story. Thanet obliged and then, protesting, did his stint on the rolling-pin while Joan was putting the finishing touches to supper.’
‘Sylvia rang up,’ she announced, when they were seated at the table.
Sylvia was an old school friend of Joan’s who lived in Borden, a village some ten miles from Sturrenden. ‘Said she hadn’t seen us for far too long, and could we come to dinner on the fifteenth.’
‘When’s that?’
‘End of next week.’
Thanet grimaced. ‘It’s so tricky.’
‘I know, and so does she. But it is difficult, with dinner, letting people down at the last minute if you can’t make it. Perhaps we’d better say no.’
Thanet smiled at her. ‘Why don’t you accept and then, if I can’t come at the last minute, go by yourself?’
Joan frowned. ‘I’d rather go with you.’
‘I know, but it’s hard on you, never having any social life because of my job. Why don’t you? You know Sylvia well enough to turn up by youself if you have to.’
‘I suppose so,’ Joan said reluctantly. ‘All right, I will. I’ll say we’ll both come if we can, if not I’ll come alone.’
They ate in companionable silence for a while and then Joan said, ‘How’s the case going?’
Thanet told her. He’d seen so many policemen’s marriages fall apart because their wives had been unable to cope with the irregular hours, the inconveniences, the broken promises, the loneliness and sense of isolation, that he had from the beginning vowed that this would never happen to him. He believed that if a wife felt involved in her husband’s work she could more easily tolerate the demands it made upon her. Many of his colleagues, he knew, would disagree, would say that the only way to cope with pressures that were often near-intolerable was to keep their working and home lives completely separate, shut the former out of their minds the moment they stepped through the front door.
But for Thanet and Joan his way had worked, kept them close to each other. He trusted her completely, knew that she would never betray a confidence. What was more, talking to her often served to clarify his thoughts.
‘Kenny Kendon!’ she said, echoing Lineham, when he had finished. ‘You’re going to see him?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘That’ll be interesting. Seeing the inside of Broadcasting House and so on.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘All right, I know that’s not what you’re going for. All the same, it will be interesting. Out of the usual run.’
‘True.’ He could see that that was how it might seem to her. Her life at the moment was very much dictated by the demands of domesticity, above all the needs of the children. And, as anyone knows who has experienced it, the unremitting company of small children can be very wearing, however much one loves them. He leaned across, took her hand. ‘Do you get very fed up with these four walls, love?’
She grimaced. ‘Sometimes, I suppose, if I’m honest. But I tell myself it won’t go on for ever. I’m glad you’re not one of those Victorian types, though, who’d like to see his wife shut up in them for good. And you can stop looking so smug!’
Thanet grinned. ‘Me, look smug? Nonsense!’
‘All the same, it’s nice to get some
vicarious glimpse of the outside world, especially if there’s a spot of glamour involved. Promise you’ll be especially observant, tomorrow.’
‘Cross my heart,’ Thanet said.
7
Thanet and Lineham set off for London at half past seven the next morning. Thanet had checked the times of Kendon’s daily programme in the Radio Times: seven thirty to ten o’clock. He hoped to arrive at Broadcasting House in comfortable time to catch Kendon when the programme ended.
On the way they tuned in to Radio 2 and listened with interest to Kendon’s show, which proved to be the usual mixture of chat, jokes, phone-ins, record requests and pop music. It was comforting to know that their quarry was certain to be there, at the end of the trail. After a while Thanet switched off and they drove in silence.
‘You know what strikes me as odd about this case, sir?’ Lineham said eventually.
‘What?’ Thanet took out his pipe and started to fill it.
‘The number of men who were interested in Mrs Holmes. I mean, the one thing that’s obvious is that she was attractive to men. There’s her husband, who was potty about her, Mr Parrish – according to Miss Waters, anyway – and now this man Kendon.’
‘What’s so strange about that? Some women are especially attractive to men.’ Thanet lit up and waved his hands to disperse the clouds of smoke billowing around them.
‘Yes, but this girl was different, wasn’t she? I mean, often, when you get a woman who attracts men, it’s because she’s, well …’
‘Sexy?’ supplied Thanet with a mischievous grin. He never quite understood how Lineham had managed thus far to preserve a certain naivety in such matters. One would have imagined he’d have shed that long ago, in this job.
‘Yes.’ Lineham kept his eyes studiously on the road. ‘And this girl wasn’t … sexy, or at least, if she was she didn’t seem conscious of it – even Miss Waters, who admits to being jealous of her, says that.’
‘I know. But, for a start, I don’t agree that girls who are attractive to men are necessarily sexy, even if they appear to be so. There’s a certain type of girl, for instance, who is so unsure of her attractiveness – her femininity if you like – that she deliberately sets out to attract men, to appear sexy, to prove something to herself. Women like that are often cold underneath, frigid even, and frequently end up with the reputation of being heartless flirts. But Julie Holmes, I’m pretty sure, didn’t fall into this category. As you say, even Maureen Waters, who admits to being jealous of her, says that Julie seemed unaware of her effect on men and certainly didn’t set out deliberately to impress them.
‘Anyway, the point is that because of the sort of person she was, Julie was under constant pressure from the men in her life, each of whom seems to have seen her as a unique challenge and was therefore not prepared to give up easily. Somehow, by her very nature, she invited it.’
‘You mean she was a natural victim, sir?’
‘In a way, yes, I suppose I do. But I think it was little more complicated than that. I think that under normal circumstances she could cope with pressure of the kind we’ve been talking about. The trouble started when something extra came along.’
‘The nightmares, you mean?’
‘It looks like it, from what we’ve been told.’
‘But why should they have made that much difference? I mean, people often have nightmares, but they don’t go to pieces because of them.’
‘I don’t think that these were just ordinary nightmares.’ Thanet was gazing out of the window. They were now entering the outer suburbs and part of his mind was automatically mourning the rape of the countryside. ‘They frightened her, of course, exhausted her probably because they disturbed her sleep, but I would guess they started because something deep in her mind had been stirred up, something that was best forgotten.’
‘What sort of thing, sir?’
‘Who knows? But,’ Thanet said dreamily, still gazing at the monotonous pattern of houses, ‘I would guess that it was something very nasty indeed. A veritable Kraken.’
‘A what, sir?’
Thanet shot him an amused glance. ‘A monster, Mike. A sleeping sea-monster which, suddenly awakened, stirs up an awful lot of mud. So that’s one of the things I want you to do when talking to this Mrs Lawton, Julie’s Auntie Rose. Keep an eye out for monsters.’
‘You mean, try to find out if Mrs Holmes had any traumatic experiences as a child, sir?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, man, stop being so pompous. But yes, that’s exactly what I do mean.’
‘Sir …?’
‘Yes?’
‘No, it doesn’t matter.’
Thanet suppressed his irritation and said softly, ‘Look Mike, let me just tell you this. It’s as good a time as any. I may be a bit impatient with you at times, but the only thing that really irritates me about you is your lack of self-confidence. It’s such a waste, you see. The powers that be have had the wisdom to see that it doesn’t stop you from being a first-rate copper, and no doubt hoped that early promotion would give your ego a boost. So give yourself a chance, will you? If you have a suggestion to make, make it.’
‘It’s not so much an idea as a question.’ Lineham shot a quick, assessing glance at Thanet. ‘It’s just that I can’t see the point of digging into the girl’s past. What does it matter to us, if she saw something nasty in the woodshed at the age of three?’
Now that Lineham had actually spoken out and had criticised him, Thanet irrationally felt angry – and then, almost at once, amused at himself. Typical, he thought. Encourage the man to express his ideas, then get mad because they’re not the same as yours. ‘I can quite see your point,’ he said. ‘But I can’t agree with you, not at the moment. I have a feeling that her state of mind at the time was directly responsible for her death, and that it is therefore very important to know what was disturbing her. Anyway, until we actually have the murderer in our hands my policy is always to dig and go on digging, irrespective of what turns up.’
‘I will duly dig,’ said Lineham solemnly, then flashed a wicked, sideways glance at Thanet to see how he had taken the remark.
Thanet grinned and gave the sergeant a playful slap on the shoulder before turning to study his map. The traffic was thickening now and Lineham had to give his full attention to his driving. Thanet directed him. They crossed Blackfriars Bridge, found their way into the Strand, circled around Trafalgar Square, drove up to Piccadilly Circus. Thanet experienced the familiar surge of excitement which London always induced in him. The knowledge that he was at the hub of one of the greatest cities in the world never failed to affect him. They battled their way along Regent Street, negotiated Oxford Circus and experienced a sense of triumph as the greyish-white bulk of Broadcasting House loomed up ahead of them, dwarfing the delicate spire, slender columns and satisfying symmetry of All Souls Church. It was twenty to ten.
‘Pick me up here at eleven-thirty,’ Thanet said. ‘You’re sure you’ll find your way?’
Lineham nodded. ‘I took a good look at the maps last night.’
‘Fine. See you then.’
Thanet watched Lineham out of sight around the one-way system, then turned to look up at the solid mass of Broadcasting House. Above the tall, golden doors was an impressive sculpture of an old man holding a young child. Thanet studied it for a moment, wondering what it symbolised, before going into the foyer. He crossed to the reception desk on his right and said that he wished to speak urgently to Mr Kendon. Deliberately he did not reveal that he was a policeman; he did not want to put Kendon on his guard.
The receptionist told him what he already knew, that Kendon was busy at the moment with his programme. She said that she would ring up to leave the message that someone was waiting to see him, and assured Thanet that Kendon would come down as soon as he was free. Thanet thanked her and sat down to wait on one of the red benches in the reception area, looking about him with interest.
The foyer was alive with movement. A constant stream of
people flowed past the two security men behind the rope barrier. These, he noticed, were meticulously careful; during the next twenty minutes nobody entered the inner area without showing his pass. Remembering his promise to Joan, Thanet kept his eyes open for familiar faces but, disappointingly, there were none. Scarcely surprising, he reflected. If this had been the television centre, now …
It seemed no time at all before Kendon presented himself.
‘Mr Thanet?’
Thanet rose as he acknowledged the greeting, studying Kendon with interest. The barmaid’s description had been very accurate, he thought, and he could see why Kendon had made such an impression on her. Like Parrish, this man would be very attractive to women. He had rugged good looks, a fine physique, and considerable charm. He was wearing a white silk polo-necked shirt and tight dark green trousers in a fine, silky corduroy velvet. He looked disconcerted when Thanet produced his identification card, but soon appeared to recover his aplomb.
‘We’ll go across to the Langham,’ he said. ‘We’ll be able to talk quietly there.’
As they pushed their way out through the tall swing doors and crossed the road, Kendon kept up a smooth monologue. They were, he said, going to the Club, a favourite haunt of those who worked for the BBC. The Langham used to be the Langham Hotel, and had been taken over by the BBC, famous ghost and all. Thanet stored it all up to tell Joan, wondering if this was Kendon’s normal way of carrying on a conversation (if such it could be called) or whether the man was simply talking in order to forestall questions before he was ready to answer them.
More tall golden doors, green carpet, left along corridors to a high, spacious room furnished with small round tables, a bar on one side and a buffet on the other. Kendon insisted on paying for the coffee before leading the way to the far end of the room where a huge bay window overlooked the busy street below.
‘It’s just been redecorated,’ Kendon said, looking about with a proprietorial air.
‘Very nice,’ Thanet said obediently. ‘And now, Mr Kendon …’
The Night She Died Page 8