Loretta Lawson 01 - A Masculine Ending

by Joan Smith

  Details of how Dr Puddephat died have not yet been released, but police say foul play is suspected. They have no idea what Dr Puddephat was doing in France at the time of his death. He was last seen in England a few days before he was due to attend an important conference in Italy.

  A spokesman for Thames Valley police, who have been investigating the don’s disappearance, said that two detectives would be flying to Paris today to continue their inquiries.

  The story ended with a quote from Professor Morris, master of Puddephat’s college, who said he was ‘devastated’ by the news. Des Koogan would have his work cut out to keep at bay all the reporters and photographers heading for the college, Loretta thought with the ghost of a smile. Tracey returned with her brandy. She drank it at one gulp. ‘Good God, that was a double,’ he said. ‘You are in a bad way. Are you sure you want to hear any more?’

  ‘Yes,’ Loretta said flatly. ‘I can’t just pretend it hasn’t happened.’ The warm feeling induced by the spirit made her aware of how cold she had been since hearing the news. ‘Tell me everything.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tracey. ‘On your head be it. It’s not very nice.’ He sipped his own drink, which looked like another double brandy. Perhaps he was as shocked as she, but more skilled at concealing the fact.

  ‘Because they knew Puddephat was supposed to be going abroad,’ Tracy began, ‘the cops put out a message through Interpol. To be on the safe side, they sent it to several countries. There was some confusion about what his real destination was, apparently. Nothing happened until yesterday, when an unidentified body turned up in Paris. The French police ran a check on fingerprints, and found they’d got Puddephat. The Yard released the news this morning.’

  ‘Why is Scotland Yard involved?’ Loretta interrupted. ‘I thought it was being investigated by Thames Valley police.’

  ‘It is,’ Tracey said patiently. ‘But the Interpol office is at the Yard. Anyway, as I was saying, that’s all they’re admitting publicly. But I’ve got the inside story from my mate. Off the record, of course.’

  A thought occurred to Loretta, and a look of alarm passed across her face. ‘Does he know about me?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ Tracey said. ‘I told him we were thinking of putting someone on to the story, and needed to know if it was worth following up. I didn’t mention you at all. Now, about where the body was found. D’you remember a church in rue Roland?’

  Loretta considered the question. ‘I can’t picture it,’ she said, ‘but it could be at the far end from the flat.’

  That must be it,’ Tracey agreed. ‘And they’ve been having some restoration work done on it. Some local worthy died and left some money, apparently. They closed it while the really major stuff was going on, and it opened again last Sunday. So the builders have gone, and all the old biddies turn up in their Sunday best to say their Hail Marys, or whatever it is they do. And there’s this smell. At first they think the builders have messed up the drains. So they swing a bit of incense about, and wait for the workmen to come back and investigate. But by yesterday, it was pretty bad. So they search the church, and there it is. Puddephat’s body hidden in the altar.’

  Loretta stared at him, appalled. The picture he had painted was so vivid that once again she felt as if she were about to be sick. Tracey, on the other hand, seemed to have cheered up considerably. He even appeared to be enjoying himself. Loretta reminded herself that telling stories was part of his job, and he had probably heard much worse than this in his time.

  ‘One of the odd things about it is that he was wearing brand-new clothes,’ he added. ‘You know, those blue things that French workmen always wear. Whoever killed him got rid of his own clothes and put them on the body afterwards.’

  ‘So he was murdered?’ Loretta asked miserably.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Tracey. ‘No doubt about that. A frenzied attack, my mate said.’

  Pushing this thought aside, Loretta asked another question. ‘But how did he get from the flat to the church?’

  ‘Well, assuming he didn’t put himself there, which is unlikely since we know what you found at the flat, someone must have carried him there,’ Tracey replied. ‘That’s one thing the police have no idea about. And they know nothing about the flat, of course.’ ‘But how can I go to them now?’ Loretta cried, sensing the implied criticism in his tone. ‘They’ll never understand why I didn’t go to them in the first place. God knows how many offences I’ve committed! D’you want to see me in prison?’

  ‘All right, don’t jump down my throat,’ Tracey protested. ‘I’m trying to help you. I can see your problem perfectly well. I’ve got one myself, if it comes to that.’ Loretta looked blank. ‘Here am I,’ he explained, ‘with inside information about a very good story, and I can’t use it because of where it comes from. It’s not a very happy situation for either of us.’

  ‘Selfish pig!’ Loretta snapped. ‘Has it occurred to you that I nearly disturbed the murderer - that I might have been killed as well? And you just think about your wretched paper!’ They glared at each other across the table.

  ‘All right, I’m sorry,’ Tracey said. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you found out in Oxford?’

  Calming down, Loretta outlined what she had discovered about the dead man.

  ‘I’m astonished, Loretta,’ Tracey said when she described the raid on Puddephat’s rooms. ‘You should be a journalist yourself. In all my years on newspapers, I’ve never gone as far as breaking and entering. But it sounds as if it’s paid off. He certainly made a few enemies. There’s the Sykes chap, and R, whoever that is. And they’re only the ones we know about. The question is, was either of them in Paris that weekend, or was it somebody else we don’t know about? That’s equally likely, you know, when you think about it. And what about his wife? She doesn’t sound too keen on him, though I don’t know if she counts as an enemy for our purposes. If you want my advice, I think I’d wait a day or two before doing anything. See what turns up. My contact at the Yard may know more by the end of the day. What d’you think of that?’

  To Loretta the suggestion was a reprieve. She turned down Tracey’s offer of another drink, and agreed to speak to him again that evening. Then she excused herself and went in search of a strong cup of tea.

  When she left college at a quarter to five, Loretta was still feeling tense and restless. For once, she was reluctant to go straight home to Islington. On the way to the tube station, she passed a cinema where an American comedy was about to start. On impulse, she turned into the foyer and bought a ticket. Her mind was not on the film, however, and she left after an hour. When she arrived home, the phone was ringing. She picked it up, expecting to hear Tracey’s voice. Instead, she found herself talking to Bridget. She sounded excited.

  ‘Geoffrey just got hold of me,’ she said. ‘The police have taken away Theo Sykes! They came for him this afternoon, Geoffrey says. There was the most tremendous row - Sykes refused to go with them at first, and the master was brought in to persuade him. Geoffrey thinks he’s going to be charged with the murder. You do know about the body, don’t you?’ Bridget asked anxiously as Loretta remained silent.

  ‘Oh, yes, I know about the body,’ Loretta said, still trying to take in this new twist of events. ‘But why have they arrested Sykes?’

  ‘It turns out he was in France at the time of the murder,’ replied Bridget. ‘So it looks like it’s all solved already. Aren’t you relieved? This means you won’t have to go to the police after all.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Loretta, realizing that her reaction was proving a disappointment to Bridget. ‘I suppose I’m a bit shocked by it, that’s all.’ Arranging to call Bridget the next day, she rang off. At once, the phone sounded again. This time it was Tracey.

  ‘Looks like you’re off the hook, Loretta,’ he began. They’ve got him.’

  ‘I know,’ said Loretta. ‘I’ve just heard.’

  ‘Who told you?’ Tracey asked indignantly. ‘I’ve only
just found out myself.’

  ‘Bridget rang,’ Loretta explained. ‘But do tell me what you know. I’m sure you’ve got far more details. How did they get on to him, for a start?’

  ‘Ferry tickets,’ Tracey told her, pacified. ‘As soon as the ID was confirmed yesterday, the Thames Valley boys started going through their files. They had a rough idea of when the murder took place from the state of the body - not exact, but within a day or two. When they first interviewed Sykes, on Monday this is, he told them he was staying at a cottage in the Lake District entirely on his own for the first two and a half weeks in September. The cottage belonged to friends, he said, but they were diplomats and happened to be in Syria. Just out of curiosity, a bright young DC ran the names of some of the witnesses through the Sealink computer this morning. And guess what? Sykes went to Paris a couple of days before you did, and came back on the Monday. When the cops went to see him again this afternoon, he flatly refused to say why he was there, where he stayed, or anything about the trip. So they pulled him in. They think it’s only a matter of time before he breaks. According to my contact at the Yard, the theory is that he met Puddephat by chance, and saw his opportunity. They don’t know how Puddephat got there, by the way. He hasn’t shown up on any of the ferry company computers, or any of the airline ones, for that matter. They checked right at the start of the inquiry. It looks like he may have travelled under an assumed name, God knows why.’

  ‘But why would Sykes kill Puddephat?’ Loretta asked. ‘I know he didn’t like him, but surely that’s not enough?’

  ‘You’re forgetting the business of Sykes’s fellowship,’ Tracey pointed out. ‘Sykes stood to gain by Puddephat’s death. With Puddephat out of the way, the English faculty were on the spot. They were a fellow short, and the start of the autumn term is a terrible time to get a replacement. With Sykes about to go at Christmas as well, they were really up the creek. They’ve been putting pressure on this chap Morris to renew Sykes’s fellowship, and the clincher is he was going to do it on Monday.’

  ‘I’m not a hundred per cent convinced,’ Loretta said thoughtfully. ‘And why did your friend tell you all this?’

  ‘It’s off the record again,’ Tracey explained. ‘They’re likely to charge him over the weekend, so Gerry was tipping me the wink there’s no story for us. And there isn’t, not with a charge pending.’

  Loretta thanked Tracey, and settled down on the sofa with a new book about Jane Austen. She persevered for fifty pages before admitting that she hadn’t taken in a word.

  Chapter 7

  Loretta’s bedroom was a large room on the top floor of her maisonette in Islington. It had stripped floorboards with pastel rugs dotted on them, and white walls. It also contained the piece of furniture in which she took most pride - a Victorian brass bed that she polished lovingly every three months. Loretta regarded the room as a refuge from the outside world and, in spite of her discoveries, she was fast asleep next morning when the buzzer on the entryphone sounded in the hall a floor below. Putting a hand out for the clock, she found it was only a quarter to eight. She was on the verge of ignoring the summons, on the reasonable assumption that the visitor had pressed the wrong buzzer, when it sounded several more times. So insistent was the noise that she padded downstairs in her nightshirt and picked up the handset. ‘Yes?’ she said, yawning audibly. She could not imagine who might want to see her at this time on a Saturday morning.

  ‘Police, miss,’ said a businesslike male voice at the other end. ‘Sorry to bother you. Can I come up for a moment?’

  Astonished, Loretta pressed a button, which released the door at street level. Listening intently for the sound of feet on their way up the stairs, she could detect the movements of only one person. She stood rigid, fighting down a feeling of panic. How had they got on to her? she asked herself. Surely Tracey hadn’t given her away? She wondered again how many offences she had committed since failing to go to the police in Paris. At least they couldn’t know about her visit to Puddephat’s rooms. Or could they? She was about to find out.

  Opening the front door of the flat, she came face to face with an out-of-breath uniformed policeman. There were no stripes on his jacket so presumably he was a constable. She was surprised that they hadn’t sent at least a detective. He also looked rather young.

  ‘Miss Lawson?’ the visitor began, his eyes sliding away from her face. Loretta hesitated, but decided against getting into the Miss or Ms argument at this time of day. As she confirmed her identity, she noticed that the policeman was blushing. A flash of intuition told her that he was embarrassed by her attire. His discomfort gave her confidence. If he insisted on turning up when she was almost certain to be in bed, he could hardly complain about her nightshirt.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, stepping back and waving him into the flat. The constable entered the hall and hesitated, nervously removing his helmet. Loretta led the way into the drawing-room and settled herself in an armchair. If there was going to be trouble, she might as well make herself as comfortable as possible. As the young man perched on the edge of the sofa, she took the bull by the horns. ‘I can guess why you’re here,’ she began, ‘I just hadn’t expected you so early.’

  ‘I’m sorry miss, but the station has been trying to get hold of you for several days,’ he interrupted. ‘You never answer your telephone.’

  That’s because I’m at work,’ Loretta said shortly. He was as bad as the pair who called on Bridget, she thought impatiently. Didn’t he know that millions of women worked? Then the significance of what he had said came home to her. They had been trying to contact her for several days. That meant they had connected her with Puddephat’s disappearance before the discovery of the body. But how? Loretta was deeply perplexed. ‘Well, where do you want to start?’ she asked, bracing herself for the questions to come. ‘Do I have the right to call a lawyer?’ Now it was the policeman’s turn to look astonished.

  ‘It’s not usual in a matter like this, miss,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to stop you, but if you send off a cheque this weekend, that’ll be the end of it.’ He fished inside his jacket and pulled out an envelope. ‘All the details are in there,’ he added, handing it to her. ‘Miss Loretta Lawson, that is you, isn’t it?’ he went on, seeing her hesitate.

  Light was beginning to dawn on Loretta, and the relief was so great she almost laughed out loud. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘You must excuse me, Officer, I’m still half asleep.’ She was opening the envelope as she spoke. Inside was a summons for non-payment of a parking ticket. She had completely forgotten about it until now. ‘Thanks very much for coming. How rude of me, I should have offered you some tea or coffee.’ He demurred at once, and she surmised that he was as keen to leave as she was to see the back of him. She promised to get out her cheque book as soon as he left, and saw him out. Closing the front door, she leaned againt it, a hand to her throat. She felt faint when she thought how near she had come to disaster. She certainly needed a cup of tea, even if her erstwhile visitor didn’t.

  When the Guardian arrived half an hour later, she plucked it from the letter-box with impatient hands. The discovery of the body had made front-page news, in spite of the continuing saga of the hijack, and one of the features staff had put together a hasty obituary on an inside page. There was nothing about the arrest of Theo Sykes but that might be because the news had broken too late. The front-page story lacked most of the details with which Tracey had supplied her, and amounted to little more than a rewritten version of the PA copy she had seen. Just in time, she remembered to switch on the radio for the eight-thirty news on LBC. The headlines included a row between two Conservative MPs over remarks one of them had made about the weight of the Princess of Wales, an attack on the Prime Minister by a junior bishop in the Church of England, a house fire in Cardiff, and the discovery of a woman’s body in South London. The inquiry into Puddephat’s murder did not feature at all. She wondered if there had been some procedural delay in charging Theo Sykes. Or perhaps poli
ce press officers did not work at weekends? She must check with Tracey. She remembered she had agreed to go and see a movie with him that evening. The original purpose of the meeting - to discuss her discoveries in Oxford, and ask his advice on what to do next - had been overtaken by events, but she had nothing else to do that evening, and Tracey was usually good company. She looked at the clock. Saturday was the one day on which he seemed to arrive early at the Herald office, but she doubted whether he would have got there yet. She made a mental note to ring him later. She took a couple of cookery books from a shelf in the kitchen, and sat down at the dining-table to look through them. She had invited several friends to lunch the next day, and she had given no thought to what to cook. She was writing out a shopping-list when the phone rang.

  It was Tracey. ‘About tonight,’ he said. ‘I suppose you won’t want to see me now your little mystery’s been cleared up?’ Loretta knew that tone of voice. Tracey was in one of his self-pitying moods, and expected her to do something about it. These depressions were usually connected with his job; she guessed he was still irritated by his wasted trip to Glasgow and consequent lack of a story for the next day’s paper. Saturday was the busiest day of the week at the Herald office, and Tracey hated having nothing to do while his colleagues got their stories on to copy paper, consulted lawyers and argued with sub-editors. Nevertheless, her heart sank at the thought of spending an evening with him in his present state of mind, and she was tempted to invent a sore throat in order to get out of it. But he had been very helpful over the Puddephat business, she admitted to herself, and his moods were unpredictable - he might be on top of the world by the time he arrived at the cinema.

  ‘I’m still keen if you are,’ she said brightly, pretending she had not noticed anything was amiss. ‘By the way, I’ve just been listening to the news. There was nothing about Sykes being arrested.’