The Gospel Makers

by Anthea Fraser

  She sat gazing piteously at Webb, tears streaming down her face.

  ‘It’s all right, Maggie, you’re doing very well. Did you notice anything else — anything in the room out of place, for instance?’

  ‘The other chair was pulled round, like, to face the one he was in,’ she said hesitantly. ‘And it looked like someone had been sitting on the end of the bed.’

  Webb leant forward. ‘Did it now? As though two people had been with him?’

  ‘I — I suppose so, sir.’

  ‘Any cups, glasses, cigarette stubs?’

  She shook her head, wiping her cheek with her hand. ‘Did you touch anything? Anything at all?’

  She stared at him with frightened eyes. ‘I — I might have straightened the bedspread, sir. Sort of automatic, like.’

  Webb closed his eyes briefly, hoping the spontaneous gesture wouldn’t scupper the SOCOs’ chances of lifting vital fibres.

  ‘Anything in the wastepaper basket?’ Such as a passport, some plane tickets, a clutch of credit cards? It had been empty when he’d glanced into it.

  ‘I didn’t look,’ she confessed miserably. Nor could he blame her.

  ‘Did you go into the bathroom?’

  ‘No, sir. Once I saw he was — dead, I just ran out calling for Mrs Anderson. She’s in charge of our floor, sir.’

  Another hazard loomed. ‘And what did Mrs Anderson do?’ he asked heavily.

  ‘She came in and had a look for herself.’

  ‘And did she touch anything?’

  ‘No, and she said I mustn’t neither. Then she phoned for Mr Diccon.’

  ‘From the phone in the room?’

  ‘No, the one in the housemaids’ room.’

  Thank heaven for Mrs Anderson. He could leave her interview to someone else.

  ‘Right, Maggie, I don’t think we have any more questions for you. Thank you for your help.’

  She nodded and crept from the room, closing the door softly. Webb stretched and looked at his watch. ‘You’ve been remarkably forbearing, Ken. Do you know it’s almost two?’

  Jackson grinned. ‘My stomach could have told you, Guv.’

  ‘Let’s go along to the bar and challenge them on the pie-and-pint stakes. I need a word with the barman, anyway. He might have spotted our lad as one particular needle in his haystack.’

  *

  Fortunately, the barman was one of those who’d been on duty the previous day. The lunch-time rush was now over and, having heard all the excitement, he was more than ready to chat to the detectives.

  ‘We’re trying to discover what our chap did after arriving at the hotel,’ Webb said, having first placed his order to placate Jackson. ‘Since it was around one o’clock he could easily have come in here.’

  The barman shrugged. ‘Wish I could help, sir, but the place was going like a fair. One solitary gent —’

  ‘We’re hoping he might have met someone.’

  ‘People were meeting each other all over the place. It’s what they come here for.’

  Webb took a long draught of his beer. ‘Come to think of it, he might have met two people. Is that any help?’

  ‘Not with the conference mob in at the time.’ He paused. ‘The only bloke I remember is one who lost someone rather than met them.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he ordered a malt whisky and went to sit down. Then a few minutes later he came back and ordered another, plus a gin and tonic. I was just about to get them, when a lady came up and tapped him on the shoulder and said sorry, her friend had arrived and she couldn’t join him after all, so he cancelled the gin.’

  ‘He didn’t suggest to her that they joined up?’ Webb was thinking of the two visitors upstairs.

  ‘No, just said not to worry, the people he was expecting would be here soon.’

  ‘People? In the plural?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And did he come back later for more drinks?’

  ‘Not to me, sir, but there were three of us serving.’

  ‘Can you describe this gentleman?’

  ‘Mid-forties, dark curly hair, business suit and a rather classy tie.’

  Webb let out his breath on a long sigh. ‘And the lady?’

  ‘Oh, a bit of all right, sir, if you take my meaning. Blonde hair, green eyes, nice figure. Looked like a model.’

  ‘Have you seen her in here before?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Did you notice who she was with?’

  He shook his head. ‘Honest, sir, I was run off my feet.’

  ‘But you’d know her again?’

  ‘Not half!’ the barman confirmed with a grin. Then suddenly, realizing the direction of the questioning, he sobered. ‘You’re never saying that’s the bloke that died?’

  ‘It seems very likely. What time did all this take place?’

  ‘Sorry, sir, all I can tell you is it was in the lunch hour.’ Their food arrived and Webb nodded to Jackson to take it to an alcove.

  ‘When we’ve eaten I’d like a word with your two colleagues,’ he told the barman.

  When Webb reached the table, Jackson was already tucking into his meal and they ate in companionable silence. Only when they’d finished did Jackson take time to look about him, stroking the rich upholstery on which they sat and gazing admiringly at the bronze horse.

  ‘Lovely statue, that,’ he remarked. ‘Copper Coin, for a pound.’

  ‘Tut, tut, Ken, I didn’t know you were a gambling man.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not, Guv. With a wife and four kids I don’t need any help in throwing money away. But there are three races I put a bit on each year — the National, the Derby and the Cup. And that little beauty’s won me a bob or two over the years.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Webb looked up. A man was standing at the table, his bottle-green jacket and bow-tie identifying him as one of the barmen.

  ‘You was asking about a lady in here yesterday? Blonde lady?’

  Webb’s interest quickened. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Well, sir, she was meeting Mr Derringer, one of our guests. I took their drinks across myself.’

  ‘This Mr Derringer — he isn’t a man in his forties, with dark curly hair?’ (Could Samantha have misheard ‘Ker-ringer’?)

  ‘Oh no, sir. Fifties at least, and balding.’

  Too bad. ‘Is he staying here?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘And the lady?’

  ‘I’ve not seen her before.’

  ‘Did you see the other gentleman, with curly hair?’

  ‘Afraid not, sir. We were very busy.’

  ‘Any idea of the approximate time?’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Like Bedlam it was, in here.’

  ‘Well, thanks very much, Mr —?’

  ‘Barker, Sid Barker. Me other mate didn’t see neither of them — me and Ted just asked him.’

  ‘I’m grateful for your help, Mr Barker. Thank you.’

  As the man moved away, Webb’s bleeper sounded, loud in the almost empty bar.

  ‘Good timing,’ he continued. ‘Sounds as though Stapleton’s arrived. I’ll go and have a quick word, then we’ll track down Mr Derringer.’

  *

  The pathologist, who was bending over the figure in the chair, glanced over his shoulder with a grunt as Webb approached, then resumed his examination. He would comment when he was ready, and Webb waited patiently.

  Several minutes later, Stapleton straightened. ‘Before you ask, Chief Inspector,’ he said in his clipped voice, ‘time of death could be anything up to twenty-four hours. Rigor mortis is wearing off, as you see, but it would have been accelerated in this heat — the radiator’s immediately behind him. No outward marks, at least on preliminary examination. Should be able to tell more when we get him on the slab.’

  ‘And no ID, as you’ll have heard.’

  ‘Unusual, I grant you, in these days when we’re all tagged and labelled, though personal
ly I see nothing sinister in it. If he hadn’t come by car he would not have his driving licence, and as for the ubiquitous credit cards, he might simply not have held with them. I don’t myself.’

  ‘You presumably have a cheque-book, though?’

  The pathologist took refuge in his habitual grunt. ‘There’s nothing more I can do here. I’ll see you, no doubt, at the mortuary.’

  As Webb followed him out of the room the Scenes of Crime officers were arriving. Webb stopped to tell them about the straightened bedspread.

  ‘Otherwise, nothing has been touched as far as I know. The chambermaid said the chair isn’t usually turned in to face the table, so if you’re lucky you might get some prints off it. Let’s hope so, anyway. We could do with a break on this one.’

  Chapter 5

  News of their detention had obviously sifted through to the guests. Little groups were conferring in hallways, some apprehensive, some indignantly looking at their watches, and as Webb and Jackson turned into the lounge they could see a uniformed figure stationed implacably at the front entrance. The net had closed, but was the fish still in it?

  Ignoring the agitation around him, Mr Derringer was holding a meeting in one corner of the lounge, and was not pleased at being interrupted. However, the manager’s wheedling finally extracted him, and he bustled over to where Webb and Jackson stood waiting.

  ‘I can’t imagine what you want with me,’ he said crossly. ‘I gather one of the guests has died, but why that should necessitate not only my being confined to the building but my clients as well, I simply do not understand. It hardly makes for good business relations.’

  The two men with whom Derringer had been talking were staring curiously in their direction. Webb said imperturbably, ‘I believe you met a lady in the bar yesterday.’

  Derringer reddened, the flush spreading over the polished dome of his head. ‘I hope, Chief Inspector, that you’re not suggesting anything improper.’

  ‘I’m suggesting nothing at all, sir, merely asking a question.’

  ‘Then yes, I did. That also was a business appointment, but because of the limited time factor it seemed sensible to incorporate lunch. I’m on a tight schedule, as I’ve already told one of your men.’

  ‘The lady’s name, sir?’

  ‘Mrs French, of French Furnishings.’

  ‘French Furnishings?’

  Derringer said impatiently, ‘Merely a play on her name. She’s as English as I am.’

  ‘Have you the lady’s address, sir?’

  ‘Somewhere, I suppose.’ He looked up sharply. ‘Why, what has she done? I can’t afford to be tied up with anything shady.’

  ‘As far as I know she’s done nothing. In fact, it’s not the lady herself we’re interested in but the gentleman she was speaking to before you arrived.’

  ‘And what do you want him for?’

  Webb said smoothly, ‘We don’t want him, sir. In a manner of speaking, we’ve already got him. It was he who was found dead this morning.’

  ‘Good God. I hadn’t realized.’

  ‘You saw him, then?’

  ‘Of course I saw him. He was in one alcove, obviously waiting for someone, and I in another — Mrs French had been delayed. When she came in, she saw him first and approached him by mistake. I overheard her say, “Mr Derringer?” so I made myself known.’

  ‘Did anything strike you about him, sir? His manner or apparent state of mind?’

  ‘I saw that he was getting agitated, presumably because his appointment was overdue. I remember thinking, “You’d better calm down, my boy; if they see you in that state they won’t trust your business judgement.”’

  ‘In what way did he seem agitated?’

  ‘Oh, constantly looking at his watch and then at the door. And he’d no sooner finished one cigarette than he lit up another.’

  Webb nodded. ‘And afterwards, when you’d sorted yourselves out, did Mrs French make any comment about him?’

  ‘Only in apologizing for her mistake.’

  ‘Did you notice if this gentleman’s friends arrived later?’

  ‘I can’t say I did. As soon as we embarked on our business discussion, I forgot about him.’

  ‘What time was your appointment with Mrs French, sir?’

  ‘Twelve-thirty,’ Derringer replied promptly, ‘but she was at least fifteen minutes late.’

  At last they had that tied down.

  ‘Was the other gentleman here when you arrived?’

  ‘No. I can be sure of that because I was keeping an eye open for Mrs French and saw him arrive.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘About twelve-forty, I’d say.’

  Mention of time had reminded Derringer of its passing and he glanced at his watch. ‘Look, there really is nothing else I can tell you, Chief Inspector. Naturally I’m sorry about the death, but there it is. If you want to see Mrs French, the premises are in East Parade, though I doubt if she can help you. Now you really must excuse me.’

  Webb let him go; his home address and further details would be noted during a routine interview later.

  ‘East Parade,’ Jackson commented. ‘Very up-market.’

  ‘And just across the road. Things are under way here so we might as well call on the lady and see what she can tell us about the elusive Mr K.’

  *

  French Furnishings was three doors down from Randall Tovey’s, the exclusive store which itself had been caught up in violent death a few months previously. The window display was arresting — delicate chairs, an antique chest spilling out brilliantly coloured fabrics, and interestingly shaped vases grouped on an oriental rug. An indication, no doubt, of the comprehensiveness of the service offered.

  Webb pushed open the door, and when a girl approached them, asked for the proprietor.

  ‘Have you an appointment, sir?’

  ‘No.’ He held up his warrant card. ‘DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, Shillingham CID.’

  She looked startled. ‘Mrs French is on the phone, sir. Would you mind waiting a moment?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  Webb stood happily enough, looking about him and soaking up atmosphere. The barman had described a glamour-girl, but it seemed she was an astute businesswoman. There was constant activity around him as customers compared curtain fabrics, examined delicate lamps, or moved about with cumbersome books of wallpaper, and the assistants were bustling in and out with swatches of material and order books.

  Alcoves around the perimeter had been decorated as sections of, respectively, a bedroom, a sitting-room and a dining area, each displaying a flair which appealed to Webb’s artistic sensibilities. It certainly seemed a flourishing business, and he was looking forward to meeting its owner.

  The phone behind the till rang and the girl beckoned them, leading them to a panelled door at one side of the display area. She tapped on it and stepped aside for them to enter.

  Christina came round the side of the desk to greet them, and it was obvious the barman had not exaggerated her attractions. She was not, however, the girl Webb had half-expected, but a woman in her forties, mature and self-confident. Ash-blonde hair hung in a straight silken curtain to the level of her chin and her long, almond-shaped eyes were sea-green. She wore her designer clothes with the careless grace of a model, the knee-length skirt revealing a pair of long, slender legs. Jackson reminded himself that he was a married man and averted his eyes.

  ‘This is most intriguing, Chief Inspector. How can I help you?’

  ‘I believe, Mrs French, that you had a lunch appointment at the King’s Head yesterday?’

  ‘Dear me!’ she said mockingly. ‘Is Big Brother watching me?’

  ‘And,’ Webb continued, ‘that in the first instance you mistakenly approached the wrong gentleman?’

  She waved them to a seat and returned to her own. ‘Yes, what of it?’

  ‘Can you give us any information about that gentleman?’

  She stared at him f
or a moment, then said, ‘None whatever.’

  ‘He didn’t introduce himself?’

  ‘He didn’t have the chance. He offered me a drink but I was still looking round for Mr Derringer. Then almost at once, he came over, and that was that.’

  The feeling of let-down told Webb that he’d hoped for more from this meeting.

  ‘You exchanged no personal details whatsoever?’

  She frowned at his persistence. ‘None. Am I to be told the point of these questions?’

  ‘Did you see him again, after you joined Mr Derringer?’

  ‘Only as he left the bar.’

  ‘Alone?’ Webb asked quickly.

  ‘No, with a couple — a man and woman. Look, what is all this?’

  ‘Mrs French, I’m sorry to tell you that the gentleman in question was found dead in his room this morning.’

  Watching her, Webb saw her eyes go blank with shock. ‘Oh,’ she said after a moment. Then, ‘I am sorry. And you don’t know who he is? But surely —’

  ‘Could you describe this couple for me?’

  It took her a moment to drag her thoughts from the dead man. ‘I caught only a glimpse of them — they were nothing out of the ordinary.’

  ‘Old? Young?’

  ‘About his age. Look, if he was staying at the hotel, they must know who he was.’

  ‘Unfortunately not. The desk was very busy, so he simply took his key and the receptionist can’t remember the name he gave.’

  ‘So there’s no way of letting his family know? How absolutely terrible. But surely he had papers on him — cheque-book —?’ Her voice trailed off as Webb shook his head.

  She said slowly, ‘Isn’t that rather strange?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs French, very strange.’ Whatever Stapleton might think.

  She moistened her lips. ‘Chief Inspector, are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

  ‘That we suspect foul play? It’s on the cards, I’m afraid.’

  ‘My God!’ she said softly.

  ‘In which case we might need to call on you again. Could you give the Sergeant here your full name and address, please?’