“Let’s see, I have my wash at ten thirty, make some cocoa and read a little while I drink it. Then I say my prayers and get into bed. So I’d say it was somewhere between eleven and eleven thirty p.m. I usually drop off very quickly.”
As well you might, thought the Chief Inspector, reflecting on the gentle, harmless pattern of this sweet old man’s life and comparing it to the smash and grab maelstrom in which he was compelled to live such a large portion of his own. No wonder he usually dropped off very slowly and then only when aided by a couple of Mogadons or a slug of something forty per cent proof.
“So you heard nothing else from the direction of Nightingales after that, sir? The front door bell, for instance?”
It was a lot to hope for and, of course, he didn’t get it. Still, this was meaty stuff. Hollingsworth, who by all accounts had not left the house once since his wife disappeared, had been away for something like three hours on die night he died. And the time of his death could now be narrowed down a little more, for the man had not been quickly and violently killed the minute he re-entered the house. There would have been conversation, drinks offered, drinks poured. Certainly the stuff had not been forced down his throat. He must have sat there talking with, if not someone he trusted, at least someone he believed he had no cause to fear.
Of course Dawlish’s comments would be useless as evidence. It could have been anyone driving away and driving back. Anyone closing the garage door. But for now and because, so far, it was all he had, Barnaby chose to believe the obvious. And, after all, the obvious was so very often true.
Sergeant Troy was asking Mrs. Molfrey if she could confirm any of Mr. Dawlish’s comments.
“Alas, no. I was watching television, Taggart actually. I can’t stand the suspense between episodes so Cubby tapes all three then I have a good wallow.”
His tale told, Cubby was despatched to produce some refreshments. Barnaby directed his attention to Mrs. Molfrey who was regarding him with lively interest. Today her complexion was the soft vivid pink of Turkish Delight. Her dark eyes shone. He decided, finding himself on the spot, as it were, to remind her of their earlier conversation.
“We’ll be talking to your hairdresser later on today, Mrs. Molfrey. About her appointment with Mrs. Hollingsworth. And also to the girl who cleans for you.”
“Heather? You’ll find her in a council bungalow behind the hostelry,” explained Mrs. Molfrey. “With her boyfriend and assorted infants. He plays a Harley Davidson.”
Troy stopped writing and stared at Mrs. Molfrey, open-mouthed.
“It’s a guitar,” said Cubby, chiming in from the kitchen.
“The sergeant would know that,” called back Mrs. Molfrey. “A young blood like himself.”
The kettle bubbled and spat and Cubby raced about.
“He’s a giddy boy,” said Mrs. Molfrey. Then, “I’m so glad you’re taking the matter of Simone’s disappearance seriously, Chief Inspector. Next door thought I was quite overstepping the mark, coming to see you. But then they’d sit tight if the house was burning down rather than run outside and draw attention to themselves.”
She did not mention Brenda. Did that mean the Brockleys’ daughter had returned? Or merely that Mrs. Molfrey knew nothing of her absence. In either case, bearing in mind her neighbours’ desperate wish to keep the news to themselves, Barnaby saw no reason to comment.
“I couldn’t help wondering if Alan’s death was connected in some way with his wife’s disappearance. Do you have any spin on that, Chief Inspector? Or are you waiting on the results from the PM?”
These crime buffs, they made you laugh. Troy snatched at his notebook which was slipping off his knee. He was delighted to have come across this barmy old trotter again and couldn’t keep his eyes off her. She seemed to him like some magical character from a panto or fairy tale. There ought to be a black cat around the place. And one of those broomsticks with twigs tied round the handle. Troy really looked forward to describing Elfrida Molfrey to his daughter at bedtime. Even now he composed the opening sentence: “Once upon a time, in the middle of a dark wood, there was a higgledy-piggledy cottage . . .”
Mrs. Molfrey shouted, “Don’t forget the pecan and marmalade yum-yums.”
And Cubby called back, “Hey ho.”
Mrs. Molfrey reached out and drew a two-tier trolley up to her chair. On the bottom level were some lorgnettes attached to a gold and tortoiseshell holder, a cigar box with pens and pencils, a glue pot and scissors, writing paper and envelopes, some mineral water, a clean glass and today’s copy of The Times. There was also a strip of folded white card resembling the brass Toblerone on a bank manager’s desk on which her name was written, in exquisite copperplate.
“It’s to remind me of who I am,” explained Mrs. Molfrey, noticing Barnaby’s surprised glance. “One so easily forgets, don’t you find?”
Cubby came in then with a heavy tray. He looked after Elfrida first. Swinging the hinged top of her trolley over her lap, he unrolled a richly embroidered tray cloth and matching napkin and laid out her tea, a plate of cake with a little silver fork and a crystal vase hardly bigger than an egg cup. This held a wisp of asparagus fern and three pale yellow rose buds.
Troy spent the next quarter of an hour trying to prise his jaws, locked on the delicious ticky-tacky, apart and avoiding the large and extremely hard nuts. A single sip and he nudged his dish of tea under the chaise longue with the heel of his shoe. Barnaby gently prodded Cubby and Elfrida further on the lives and general behaviour of their nearest neighbours. He asked if either of them had ever heard signs of a serious disagreement.
“A rumpus?” asked Mrs. Molfrey. “Good gracious, no. Did you, sweeting?”
“Not at all,” said Cubby.
“Did she ever express unhappiness when talking to you?”
“Never. Ennui, but that was to be expected. Shut up in that dreary, tasteless house.”
“Sounds as if he couldn’t trust her.” The words were spoken unclearly but with much sympathy and understanding. Troy had never met a woman he would trust further than the nearest lamp post. Or a man either, come to that. He did not have a very rosy view of human nature. And human nature, unsurprisingly, did not have a very rosy view of him.
“I do feel,” said Cubby, “that Alan must have been rather lacking in confidence in that respect. After all, most couples mix constantly with members of the opposite sex without running off with them.” As he spoke, Cubby looked across at Elfrida in a calm, relying sort of way. The implication was that, even if a stream of handsome gallants should come thundering up her garden path, he knew that not one would be allowed admission.
To Barnaby’s surprise, rather than treating this preposterous suggestion as a huge giggle, Elfrida raised her right hand, afire with several magnificent rings, lowered her crepey violet eyelids and inclined her head with an elegant, accepting grace.
The two policemen caught each other’s eye. Troy winked in joyous disbelief. Barnaby spent a moment silently admiring this breathtaking chutzpah before steering the conversation back to the subject that really interested him.
“Did Mrs. Hollingsworth ever suggest to you that her husband was violent?”
“Alan? Nonsense!”
“Quite impossible,” said Cubby. “He adored her.”
Barnaby took this with a lorry load of salt. He had attended too many domestics where the husband had adored his wife before knocking her senseless, sometimes permanently. On a more trivial level he asked if the Hollingsworths had been having problems with their telephone.
“Simone never mentioned it to us.”
For a short while everyone ate and drank with relish. Cubby’s socks, blobbed with many beautifully woven darns, were clearly visible inside his open leather sandals and Barnaby wondered if he mended them himself. Having finished his cake and tea, he said, “Mrs. Molfrey, when we first arrived you suggested you also had something to tell us but it had slipped your mind. Have you remembered what it was?”
/> “I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. I can tell you that it was something auditory. An unexpected or wrong sound. Or perhaps a lack of sound where one might have expected such a thing to exist. I wouldn’t dwell on it, you see, but it happened on the day Simone disappeared.”
“Well, if it comes back to you, perhaps you’ll let me know.” Barnaby produced a card from his wallet and gave it to her. “This number gets straight through to me.”
“Ohh, thank you.” Mrs. Molfrey glowed with delight. “Rest assured I shall not abuse the privilege.” She studied the slip of pasteboard through a magnifying glass.
Troy didn’t get it. Seemed to him the chief was asking for trouble. The old trout would be on the blower every five minutes.
As Cubby got up to see them off, there was a bone-cracking snap. Barnaby assumed it was an elderly joint giving way until he saw his sergeant wince and rub his jaw.
As the Chief Inspector turned to go, he noticed for the first time on the wall behind him a large sepia photograph of one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen in all his life. A girl of perhaps eighteen with the sweetest expression on her perfect features. A great cloud of dark hair banded with strings of pearls; huge dreaming eyes. Her slender neck rose from clouds of tulle pinned here and there with gardenias and her small, exquisite hands were crossed at her breast. Encircling the picture were several theatrical posters.
Although there was no longer even the memory of resemblance between this heavenly beauty and the withered old lady in the wing chair, Barnaby knew at once that they were the same person. And he wondered how Mrs. Molfrey could bear to contemplate daily such a cruel comparison.
“You know who she is, of course?” Cubby said shyly when they were once again walking down the worn brick path.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” said the Chief Inspector.
“Elsie Romano.” Then, when Barnaby appeared puzzled, “A star of the Edwardian theatre. And one of the great beauties of this, or any other century.”
Troy, bringing up the rear, winked again, this time winding his index finger round and round close to his forehead.
“She was the toast of the Ivy and the Trocadero. And the Café d’Angleterre. When she and Jack went dancing there, after the show, people would climb on to the banquettes and even the tables to catch a glimpse of her.”
“Is that a fact, Mr. Dawlish?” Barnaby, born in 1941, three years after the Café d’Angleterre had been bombed to bits, could think of nothing else to say.
“So you see how privileged I am. Just an ordinary chap, never been anywhere, never done anything. Yet here I am, practically at the end of my days, with this sudden . . . honour, as you might say. This opportunity to care for a most rare and lovely . . .” Greatly moved Cubby pressed the red and white kerchief to his brimming eyes.
Troy, face averted, shoulders twitching, opened the garden gate.
“I’m sure, if you caught her at the right moment, Elfrida would show you the photograph of herself and Jack on the steps of the Gaiety.”
“That was her husband—Jack?”
“Good heavens, no.” Courteously Cubby attempted to conceal his amazement at such ignorance. “Jack was Jack Buchanan.”
Barnaby had planned to call on the Brockleys next. Not only to see if Brenda had returned but also because, as the only other inhabitants of the cul-de-sac, they were uniquely placed to support Cubby Dawlish’s statement. Indeed, up late and no doubt anxiously looking out for the lights of their daughter’s car, they might even be able to add to it.
But now, just as they approached The Larches, Perrot came running towards them. He cried out, “Sir! Sir!”
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Mr. Marine said to tell you they’ve found her!”
“Found who?”
“Why, Mrs. Hollingsworth, sir.”
“I’d forgotten what a funster you are, Aubrey.” Barnaby’s heart, which had started to bang wildly in his chest when he raced down the lane, along the side of the house and into the back garden, was slowly returning to normal.
“Sorry,” said Aubrey Marine. “I’ve always had this feeling for drama, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to control it.”
Barnaby had flopped into a chair on the patio a few feet away from a small, newly turned heap of earth. He was mopping his scarlet face with a handkerchief and making a strange noise. Half pant, half snarl.
“Are you all right, Tom?”
“No thanks to you.”
“I should have said a reasonable facsimile of Mrs. H. Although reasonable is hardly the word, as you will see.” He was moving towards the French windows which stood wide open. “Come and have a look.”
All the SOCO team were present in the sitting room, as was Sergeant Troy. They had gathered round a table on which lay an Asda carrier bag covered with dirt and a small, semi-transparent envelope file. Still wearing his gloves, Aubrey turned back the flap and, using a fine pair of tweezers, pulled out what appeared to be a single Polaroid photograph about five millimetres square. He laid it on the table. Barnaby bent down to look more closely.
It was the woman in the wedding portrait. Recognisable, even without her make-up and despite the expression on her face which was piteous in the extreme. Her features were distorted; her lips so tightly clamped together that the luscious cupid’s bow had quite disappeared. Her skin had a greyish white pallor but this, Barnaby told himself, could have been due to the harshness of the flash. She was holding across her chest a copy of the Evening Standard dated Thursday, 6 June.
About to speak, the Chief Inspector was silenced by Aubrey who held up his hand, saying simply, “Wait.”
In spite of the folder, it seemed that damp had affected the contents of the plastic bag. Slipping the tweezers beneath the left-hand corner of the picture, Aubrey had to peel it away. There was another underneath.
Now her eyes, darker and much larger, were puffy and swollen with weeping. There were bruise-like shadows on her forehead and just beneath her jaw. The fingers of the hand gripping the newspaper were filthy and covered with some sort of stain. The date this time was 7 June.
The last one was the worst. Mrs. Hollingsworth’s pretty mouth was a real mess. Her bottom lip appeared to have been split and the blood flowing from it had been left to dry on her neck and chin. There was a savage mark across her right cheekbone and her right eye had been severely blackened. She no longer looked frightened. Just sat, her head hanging, expressionless. Beaten, in every sense of the word. Her hair had been savagely chopped and in one or two places, where the skin showed through, looked as if it had been pulled out. A wodge of newspaper had been jammed in her mouth. Her blouse had been torn open and a complete page of the Sun dated Saturday, 8 June, was pinned to the front of her brassiere.
Troy said, “Jesus.”
Barnaby stared at the escalating misery spread out in front of him. Inevitably, given his length of time in the force, he’d seen much worse and the shock he now felt was not simply a natural one of pity and revulsion. Mingling with these emotions was exhilaration at the sudden and dramatic turn the case had now taken. He had long ago accepted that this excitement, even in the face of another’s anguish, was an aspect of his personality that the job seemed to encourage if not actually demand. It had been many years since he had chided himself for callousness.
“Whole new can of worms here, guv,” said Sergeant Troy, master, as ever, of the original one-liner.
Barnaby, his mind swarming with fresh possibilities, did not reply. Using the tweezers, he was turning the photographs over and studying the backs, unmarked except for splotches of moisture.
“Envelopes?”
“I certainly don’t recall seeing any earlier but we’ll have another look.”
“Try your best.” With a saliva test they could be halfway there. “Don’t think much of their choice in wallpaper.” This was thinly striped and covered with sentimental drawings of puppies going about their natural business in many archly contrived wa
ys.
“It was everywhere, that,” said Aubrey. “A few years ago.”
“Could you give it priority, please?”
“OK.” Aubrey Marine dropped the carrier into a labelled transparent bag. “Why d’you think he buried this?”
Barnaby shrugged. “Couldn’t bear to have the pictures in the house?”
“Why not just burn them then? Or chuck ’em in the dustbin?”
“Because if they don’t deliver the goods when he hands over whatever it is they’re after, this may be all he’s got to take to the police.”
“A shakedown, then?”
“Looks like it.”
“Timing’s a bit close, isn’t it, sir?” asked Sergeant Troy. “I don’t mean for taking the snaps. If they pinched her on the Thursday afternoon they could well have taken the first one that evening. But posting them?”
“A bit tight, yes.”
“I mean, all three must have been here by Monday, latest. Risky, even sending them first class.”
“The Post Office have a special service that guarantees next day delivery,” said Aubrey. “Only a couple of quid but you have to fill a form in. Which I doubt these people would want to do. Of course they could have just been stuffed through the letter box.”
“Bloody hell,” said Sergeant Troy. “That’s a bit chancy, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily. Middle of the night, everyone asleep.” Aubrey Marine, after asking if Barnaby was through with the snaps for now, tweezered them back into their plastic sheath.
“I must say this throws a new light on Perrot’s interview.” Barnaby was walking away, stepping once more out of the French windows. “No wonder Hollingsworth couldn’t wait to get him out of the house.”
“Explain why he yanked him in off the doorstep as well, chief,” said Troy. “First thing these bastards do is threaten to kill the victim if the other party goes to the police.” He added, “Tell you what.”
Barnaby grunted. It was not a sound to encourage a confidence.
“I reckon this is proof positive he topped himself. Paid over the money—which is what he dashed off for on Monday night—then they got in touch and told him she’s had the chop. Nothing else to live for so he goes and does the business. What do you think?”
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