‘Why do you want to phone Janine’s parents?’ asked Mo, who was beginning to sound rather lost.
‘Bear with me,’ I replied, dialling the number.
A man answered.
‘Hello, is that Mr. Yorke?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘Ah, my name is Webster, of Webster Rennie Associates. We’re the accountants for Top Table Introductions Limited. Apparently the company owes a certain amount of back-pay to Janine Yorke, your daughter. I’ve been instructed to issue a cheque to her. It’s not a large sum, I’m afraid – but every little helps, as they say! I am speaking to the right Mr. Yorke, aren’t I?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘And Janine was employed by Top Table Introductions?’
‘Yes, some time ago. She was a secretary. But I don’t understand – why are you sending the money here, instead of to her own address?’
‘We seem not to have a record of it, for some reason.’
‘Just a moment, I’ll give it to you now . . . yes, here we are: Flat two, number forty nine Northolt Road, Hendon. Do you want the post code?’
‘No, that will be fine. Thank you, Mr. Yorke. Goodbye.’
I put the receiver down gently, and then proceeded to dance a little jig of celebration on the carpet.
‘We have our solution, at long last!’ I declared.
‘If you say so, Sherl.’
Regaining my composure I added, in pedagogical vein: ‘When all the details come to light I think we will find blackmail to be at the heart of this business. Perhaps you even suspected that yourself?’
‘No,’ replied Mo a little bitterly, ‘I didn’t. I’m not supposed to be the cerebral half of this partnership.’
I laughed. ‘Quite. Well, there’s no reason to reproach yourself. It’s been a pretty Byzantine case, with many a blind alley. I went down one of them myself, with that theory about Fatima’s facial scar.’
‘Who was being blackmailed, then?’
‘Janine, of course.’
‘Why?’
‘This is how I now read it,’ I said, settling down on the sofa. ‘Last year she was hired as a humble admin girl at the dating agency. At the beginning it seemed like just another temping job. But over the months she witnessed a procession of extremely wealthy, eligible men pass through the office. Some of them found a wife; the great majority did not. What a crying shame, she thought – all that net disposable income going abegging!
‘Janine found she had free access to client files. At the touch of a few buttons she could discover exactly what characteristics any particular gentleman required of his dream date. This was a potential goldmine, for anyone who wanted to gold-dig.
‘Her chance came when she heard the agency was about to fold. In the dying months she managed to copy information about several likely clients. Of these George Beaumaris was chosen as her main target. Why? Well, for a start he was a millionaire. Also, she fell nicely into his required age range. No doubt he gave the impression – on the one occasion when he came into the office – of being the kind of mild, middle-aged chap who would be easy to manipulate into marriage.
‘But there were some obstacles to overcome. George ideally wanted a red-head who knew about roses, and who did not wear spectacles. Janine, at that time, had dark brown hair, was a botanical dunce, and did wear glasses.’
‘How do you know that?’ interrupted Mo sharply.
‘Because I studied her very closely at George’s house. She was wearing contact lenses which were clearly giving her trouble, as if she had only recently started using them. And when we were out in the rosarium I noticed she had hennaed hair – the darker roots were beginning to grow through. Did you ever wonder why she always had her hair up, and favoured very high heels?’
Mo shrugged.
‘Because she was slightly below five foot three – Beaumaris’s minimum – and had to appear taller. But all these were merely superficial changes. The hardest challenge was to pass herself off as a gardening expert. It took months of painstaking study. Look, I’ll show you.’
I went off to the bedroom, and returned with a pile of books.
‘These were her homework. All bought or borrowed suspiciously recently, you notice. Which is why they were hidden away under the bed. After three months swotting she had mastered her subject well enough to put the plan into action . . .
‘She telephoned Beaumaris, claiming to be just another Top Table client looking for Mr. Right. As we know, they hit it off immediately, and by the time she had demonstrated her newly-acquired botanical scholarship in Beaumaris’s garden, the poor man was utterly and completely hooked! The irony is that if nothing had gone wrong they could have lived happily ever after.
‘But something did go wrong. Beaumaris got it into his head to contact the M.D. of Top Table, Mary Catchpole, and tell her how he and Janine Yorke were engaged. Mary reacted with creditable self-control when she realized that one of her ex-employees must have passed herself off as a client. She decided, for the time being at least, not to give Janine away.’
‘But to blackmail her instead?’
‘Very perceptive, Mo. Yes, the opportunity was too tempting to pass up. Mary was also aware of how rich Beaumaris was. She wanted a slice of the cake. It was only fair . . .
‘One day she visited Janine at her flat and demanded a large sum in return for her silence. Janine had no choice but to comply. It would mean borrowing off Beaumaris, of course, and she needed a plausible reason. Hence the request for cosmetic surgery. Am I making sense so far?’
‘So far, yes.’
‘Good. Now let’s jump ahead to just before the wedding. Mary turns up at Janine’s flat again, in order to extort one final, huge payment. Janine knows she can’t possibly raise the money, and pleads for leniency. Mary is implacable. A fight breaks out, as a result of which the blackmailer is overpowered and tied to the bed.
‘Janine plans to keep Mary tied up until after the wedding, by which time she will have come into her marriage settlement, and be beyond Mary’s power. However, during the reception Beaumaris springs an awkward surprise – they are to fly off to Nice immediately, for a month-long honeymoon! Obviously Mary can’t be left bound and gagged for that long. She must be released, before she dies of dehydration – murder is definitely not part of the plan. Janine tells Beaumaris she wants to go to her flat, to close the window. It’s a pretty feeble-sounding excuse, and her husband won’t hear of making a special detour. He insists they go straight to the airport. Once in France she tries to telephone her brother, in order to elicit his help – unaware that he’s in Bradford on sculpturing business.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Mo interrupted, ‘how would she have explained the fact that there was a woman tied up on her bed?’
‘No need. Toby was in on Janine’s scam from the very early stages. That’s my belief, anyway.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘He was the only one of Janine’s circle who was ever allowed to meet Beaumaris. To me that’s highly significant. It suggests that Toby could be trusted not to spill the beans about her having been employed by Top Table. He must have known what she was up to, and probably even approved. A wealthy brother-in-law would make an excellent patron for his sculpture, after all.’
‘True.’
‘Anyway, the longer Janine was unable to reach Toby the more frantic she became, knowing that Mary was slowly dying of dehydration at her hands. This morning she decided she had to act. She crept out of the hotel while George was still asleep, then caught the next available plane back to London.’
I stepped over to the window and surveyed the rather anonymous Hendon street. ‘In fact, she could arrive any time now.’
Mo looked alarmed at the prospect. ‘What do we do with her?’
‘I haven’t decided yet,’ I replied thoughtfully. ‘It depends on how she reacts to being rumbled. Mind you, I should have seen through her ploy considerably earlier than I did.’
‘Ho
w?’
‘Well, from the start I felt it was rather fishy that she fulfilled Beaumaris’s requirements for the ideal woman so perfectly. You remember that conversation I had with her in the rose garden? I was questioning her about Top Table Introductions. She was being extremely unforthcoming – until I told her I might have to delve into the agency’s files. Then she suddenly remembered that Toby had talked to a man in a pub about the figurines. I’m pretty sure, looking back, that that whole story was a concoction – a diversion – to make me forget all about researching into Top Table.’
Mo weighed this for a while. ‘And Janine got her brother to back up her deception?’
‘That’s right.’
‘One thing, though,’ remarked my colleague, joining me at the window. ‘You said Mary Catchpole was the woman Daphne and I saw – at the window?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why was she spying on us?’
‘I imagine she was trying to intimidate Janine; to remind her that she had to keep paying up, or Beaumaris would learn about her fraud.’
‘I see. And the veil?’
‘Ah, that all started, I suggest, when Beaumaris turned up here, to Janine’s flat. Mary Catchpole happened to be around at the time – conducting her blackmail. Obviously she couldn’t allow Beaumaris to recognize her, so she hid her face and rushed into the bedroom. Beaumaris was curious to know who Janine’s anti-social friend was. Janine had to think on her feet. She invented a shy muslim friend called Fatima, who was staying with her. It was so obscure that he believed it. From then on Mary decided to become Fatima and wear a veil whenever she visited Janine.’
‘So there never was a schoolfriend with a scarred face? That was the whole basis of your first theory, wasn’t it?’
‘My first theory was completely wrong,’ I admitted gracefully.
‘Janine claimed it was all true, though,’ pointed out Mo.
‘Yes, to throw us off the scent; and at least it made her out to be altruistic, rather than simply scheming.’
Just then a mini-cab pulled up directly beneath us, and a figure wearing a wide purple hat emerged carrying a suitcase. We heard steps on the stairs and then a key turning in the lock.
Janine walked in, plonked the case on the floor, and rushed towards the bedroom without even noticing us.
‘Good day, Miss Yorke!’ I called after her cheerily.
She spun round, wild-eyed.
‘You won’t find Mary Catchpole in there – she’s on her way to hospital. Don’t worry, she’ll probably be alright. But it was a near thing.’
Janine sank heavily into an armchair and then burst into tears of relief.
‘You’re lucky,’ I added, once she had recovered and blown her nose. ‘It could have been murder. Manslaughter at the very least. By the way, we know all about you working for Top Table, and that you were being blackmailed by Mary. We know everything in fact.’
‘Have you told George yet?’ she snivelled.
‘No, not yet. He’s waiting for my call, at the hotel. Perhaps it would be better if you talked to him yourself.’
‘Why?’
‘Don’t you think you owe him that at least?’
She shrugged.
‘Actually, I’m not sure of the legal situation, but he could claim that you married him under false pretences. In which case you lose the marriage settlement. As to Mary Catchpole, she may not press charges. It would mean admitting to the blackmail, wouldn’t it?’
‘But surely the police will want to know why she was left tied up,’ observed Mo.
I thought about this. ‘Mary could say she consented – that it was a bizarre game which went horribly wrong!’
Janine seemed to take some heart from the idea.
‘I love George, you know,’ she declared, looking almost defiantly at us. ‘You may not believe me, but I do.’
‘Frankly, what we think is neither here nor there,’ I said, handing her the telephone. ‘It’s your husband who will need all the persuasion.’
THE BALCONY SCENE
CHAPTER ONE
It was just after five o’clock on a Friday afternoon in February, and we were about to put on our coats and close up the office for the weekend when an email came through. Business had been pretty slack recently so every new communication was given our promptest attention. I hurried over to the computer, and read it over a few times.
‘Anything?’ enquired Morris, hovering near the door with one arm in his anorak.
‘I suppose it was only a matter of time,’ I replied meditatively, ‘before the Internet took over as the main medium for intimidation. How long after the invention of the telephone was the first obscene call made, do you think?’
‘No idea. Who’s the email from, anyway?’
‘Kevin Tripp, managing director of X.E. Media Ltd. They publish “tasteful pornography”, whatever that is. Apparently he’s received an unusual death threat, on the Internet. Someone calling himself “Mad Monk” has visited the company’s site and left a message warning that Tripp will be assassinated before the end of March.’
I handed the communication over to Mo.
‘He obviously takes the threat seriously, judging by how much he’s offering us up front,’ remarked my colleague gleefully.
‘I imagine it’s easy to make enemies in the porn business,’ I conjectured. ‘Perhaps he has good reason to be frightened.’
‘Did you read this bit? He wants us to go round to his office on Sunday to “receive instructions”. Odd way of putting it.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘that’s exactly what I was thinking.’
The offices of X.E. Media turned out to be situated in a glass-and-concrete block in Capper Street, off Tottenham Court Road.
As it was Sunday the place was locked up, but we pressed the appropriate buzzer, and after a few minutes a short, tubby man of about forty appeared at the door and let us in.
‘You’re from Baskerville’s, right?’ he asked, looking us over with small, suspicious, close-set eyes.
‘Indeed we are,’ I replied breezily.
‘This way,’ he ordered.
Mo and I exchanged glances, unsure as to whether this was Tripp himself, or an underling.
We took the lift to the very top floor, and as it was a slow lift I had time to study our escort in detail. He wore a well-tailored double-breasted suit, a flowery silk tie, and highly polished brown brogues. But the expensive, executive image was somewhat undermined by his near-skinhead haircut. Also, I noticed a tattoo of a snake on his neck, which he was at pains to conceal by pulling up his collar. I attempted to make eye-contact with him on more than one occasion, but each time he averted his gaze, and sucked harder on his mint. His cheeks were excessively chubby, giving him the air of a slightly malign hamster.
Exiting the lift we made our way down a long, narrow corridor and into an office marked: K.TRIPP, MANAGING DIRECTOR. Although comfortable, it was a little on the spartan side. Our attention was immediately drawn to a shelf running along the wall to our left upon which was displayed a bewildering array of girlie magazines.
‘It’s all harmless stuff, as you can see,’ remarked the man blandly, following our gaze. He sat down behind the desk, drew out a packet of mints from a drawer, then popped one into his mouth, hardly before the last had been consumed. ‘I wanted to have this meeting in private,’ he explained. ‘As you know, I’m in a dodgy situation. Somebody’s trying to kill me.’
It was apparent from these last remarks that we were indeed addressing Kevin Tripp himself.
‘We’re nearly into March already,’ he added, nervously looking across at a desk calender. ‘This is the plan; I’m going to stay locked up in my house in Kensington for the whole month. I won’t step outside the front door, not even to buy a newspaper. That way they’ll have to take a potshot at me. Obviously I’ll keep away from the windows as much as I can; the curtains will be drawn at all times. I won’t let any strangers in, no matter who they are. Jack Earle �
� an old mate of mine – he’s going to be my armed bodyguard. He’ll be staying with me. I want you to work closely with him.’
‘What will our role be, exactly?’ I enquired.
‘You’ll be my eyes and ears, out on the street. Keep a look out for anyone acting suspicious, anyone taking an interest in the house. Also, find out who’s living opposite and how long they’ve been there. It’s a round-the-clock job, so you’ll have to work out a shift system between yourselves. And I want a progress report every day. Any questions?’
I cleared my throat awkwardly, before commenting: ‘To be frank, Mr. Tripp, this isn’t the type of thing we normally undertake. Our expertise lies in deduction and analysis, rather than basic surveillance.’
‘I’m paying you well over the odds, right?’
‘Yes, I suppose you are.’
‘For that money I expect you to do as you’re told. There are plenty of other firms who’ll take the work.’
Mo toyed with his adam’s apple and gave me a kind of pleading look.
I bit my lip, and then answered: ‘Alright, we accept your terms. But there’s something I need to establish first.’
Tripp leant back in his chair, sucked hard on his mint, and allowed me a rare moment of sustained eye-contact. ‘OK. What is it?’
‘Have you any idea who this “Mad Monk” is?’
‘No,’ he answered quickly.
‘Is that because you don’t have any enemies, or because you have too many?’
Tripp’s ferrety eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to react angrily. But the mood passed.
‘Let me worry about that side of things, Mr. Webster. I’ve got my own methods. You just make sure you do your job properly.’
‘Fair enough,’ I agreed, with a shrug.
‘OK, that’s it for now,’ announced our latest client, getting up and steering us towards the door. ‘I want you to come round to my house on Tuesday, to get a feel for the area.’ He scribbled a note on a scrap of paper and handed it to me. ‘That’s the address. And you can meet Jacko at the same time.’
‘Your bodyguard?’
‘Yes. He gets a bit out of order sometimes – but don’t worry about it. I can trust him with my life.’
The Sherlock Effect Page 17