by Janet Neel
He dunked his fingers decisively in the finger-bowls that had materialized instantly, even in that busy dining-room. Francesca, riled by his certainty, reflected fair-mindedly that this was a man who had always carried massive responsibilities: his own business when he was nineteen, and a wife and baby by the time he was twenty-two. She drank half a glass of wine rather too fast to give herself time to reflect and felt it going straight to her head.
‘I didn’t ask you to lunch to talk about Sal,’ Robert Vernon was saying. ‘I want you to come and work for us – I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, but I need someone like you as a personal assistant to help me with our public relations, our shareholders, government, all those things.’
‘Dorothy – Mrs Vernon – does all that, surely?’
‘We’re getting too big for her to do everything. You’re your father’s daughter, you can do all that. What are you being paid where you are?’
‘£20,000, give or take. And an index-linked pension.’
‘You get a car? No? Expenses? No. Why are you doing it, Francesca? You could have twice that with us, no trouble at all. You could be my personal assistant.’
Francesca, even flushed with a glass of wine, felt imagination boggle at the idea of being this one’s right-hand girl, never mind the hazards of skirting around Dorothy Vernon.
‘You are kind, Robert, but it’s not my thing. My personality is all wrong to be anyone’s personal assistant. I need to have my own command. I could maybe run a site if I’d started younger or was an engineer, but I couldn’t look after public or government relations.’ She struggled to express her objection. ‘It’s not that it’s not interesting – I’d only be interested for about ten minutes a day and that just isn’t enough. I’m sorry, Robert, I’m not making myself clear.’
‘Yes, you are.’ Mercifully he seemed to be amused. ‘I’m only interested for ten minutes a day, so’s Dorothy. No point having three of us. God, you are like your Dad. Not that interested in money either, are you?’
‘More interested than he was.’ The response was sharp enough to cause Robert Vernon to stop in mid-attack on his steak. ‘I’m very keen on having my own good job and my own good pension. There’s no way I’m ever going to be financially dependent on anyone.’
‘You’ll have to be when you have children. You are going to marry your policeman, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not going to marry anyone if it means being dependent on them.’
‘But Francesca.’ Robert Vernon was so distressed that he put his knife and fork down. ‘What’s up with all you girls?’
She looked back at him, pink with anxiety.
‘I suppose I understand,’ he said, slowly, pouring her some more wine. ‘My father died young, too, and I saw what happened when there wasn’t a wage-earner in the family. It’s different now, though.’
‘You cannot have looked at the rates of pension payable to the widow of a Detective Chief Inspector.’
‘Good heavens, girl, is that the first thing you enquired about when the poor bugger asked you to marry him: how was the pension scheme?’
Francesca started to laugh, and choked on her steak, accepting gratefully the glass of water pressed on her within seconds by a hovering waiter. ‘No, Robert, not quite like that. John couldn’t understand the bumph about the ways of opting in, out, or sideways to the main Metropolitan Police Pension Scheme. I can read anything financial rather quickly, so he showed it to me. Disheartening reading, I’d have to say.’
She looked round for the waiter to get another glass of water, and found her eye drawn to the two sober citizens, sharing a half bottle of wine at a table three away from them, whom she had noticed before. They both looked away from her quickly, and she wondered idly what they were doing here. Not tourists; her eye, trained by months of bankrupt textile companies, told her that – their suits were English and mass-produced, probably for Austin Reed or Marks and Spencer. Unlikely for the Savoy, somehow.
‘How is Sally?’ she asked giving up the small puzzle.
‘Better in herself today. She was very upset about Nigel, of course. I still think she’d have come back to Nigel – they get on all right – but of course with Fraser dead, it’s made things pretty difficult.’
‘You think that if Alan had actually got that place on K6 he’d have gone and the whole affair would have collapsed?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
Francesca blinked at the confidence of the response, and stared across at Vernon who looked away.
‘You talked to him,’ she said, suddenly and unreasonably certain. ‘You offered to pay him to go away.’ She sat looking at his bent head as he went slowly scarlet across the cheekbones. ‘And he took it – I mean he agreed,’ she said, speaking out of the same certainty. ‘Oh, Robert! What a thing to do.’
‘He wasn’t going to marry her, whatever I did.’ Robert Vernon was searching the table for his glass in an agony of embarrassment. ‘I wanted him out of the way.’ He looked up, startled, and Francesca and he stared at each other across the table, the words echoing between them.
Michaels, three tables away, kicked his companion sharply and unobtrusively organized himself to move fast if he had to.
‘But did you succeed – I mean, did he agree to go, for money?’ Francesca was after the point like a terrier.
‘Yes. We’d made a deal and he was taking twenty-four hours to sort out the price. He wanted me – the firm – to provide enough sponsorship for a place for that oppo of his, too – Hamilton. Didn’t think it right, he said, just to take it for himself.’
‘How did you feel about that?’
‘I thought he had a nerve, asking for two places, but I did agree. I didn’t want him as a husband for my Sally. He said himself that climbers shouldn’t marry. Don’t look like that, Francesca – even if they’d married, where would my Sally be with a husband dead on some mountain and young children left? He was right about that.’
‘I’m sorry. I was remembering Alan. Very like him, wasn’t it? And someone killed him.’
‘Well, not me, girl, not for the price of two tickets to K6. He thought it would have cost about £200,000. It’s deductible from tax and we’d have got some good from the advertising.’
‘What would you have told Sally?’
‘That was Fraser’s job. He said he’d already told her he wasn’t prepared to marry her.’
‘But Robert, he’d have gone, anyway – I mean, you didn’t need to bribe him?’
‘We had to teach your Dad not to use words like that. Yes, he’d have gone if he was offered a place – I was just making sure he was offered.’
He scowled across the table, but Francesca kept her head. ‘You must tell the police this, Robert; it’s material. It lets you out anyway.’
‘They surely don’t suspect me?’ Robert Vernon said incredulously.
‘Of course they do,’ Francesca said implacably. ‘Though, come to think of it, John said no more than anyone else involved. Yes, I should like some pudding, if that’s all right?’
Robert Vernon assured her impatiently that she might work her way from one end of the trolley to the other with his blessing.
‘Why didn’t you tell the police anyway?’ she asked, accepting a mixed bowl of raspberries, strawberries and trifle. She considered him, frowning. ‘You weren’t concerned for yourself, although you should have been. You were worried about someone else, and now you’re not or I’d never have got this out of you.’
‘I’m glad you don’t want to work for me,’ Robert Vernon said, after a pause. ‘I’m not going to tell you what I was worried about, clever clogs, but you’re right – I’m not now. Do you want a second go at the trolley, since the first lot’s gone down in one swallow?’
‘How kind. Yes, please, it’s not every day I see a trolley like that. Look, Robert, I’m sorry, I know you’ve gone off me, but you must tell John all this.’
‘I’ve not gone off you exactly,’ he said thought
fully, watching her. ‘I’d just forgotten what your Dad was like, awkward bloody genius that he was. I’m sorry I offered you a job in public relations though; you’d be terrible. I probably should have offered you managing director.’ He reached over and patted her hand. ‘I’ll talk to your John this afternoon. Will he be very annoyed?’
‘Yes and no.’ Francesca noticed that the two men at the nearby table had paid their bill but were still sitting drinking coffee, and suddenly understood who they were and why they were there. ‘Yes, for the waste of his time; no, because if he had a daughter he too would protect her from the winds that blow, to the point of gross interference. He’ll understand.’
‘You don’t let him protect you,’ Robert Vernon observed. ‘You should. It’s what men want – someone to look after.’ He indicated to the head waiter that he would welcome a bill, and checked every item before signing it. She watched him, observing each detail. ‘Your Dad tried, you know. He couldn’t help dying at thirty-seven.’
‘I know. Thank you for lunch, Robert.’
They caught each other’s eye and both started to laugh.
‘Ah, Francesca, any time I want my character back in my face I’ll buy you lunch.’ He rested a heavy hand on her shoulder as he steered her out of the restaurant and up the stairs to the main lobby. ‘You’ll be all right with a man and kids of your own. Don’t you pass up a good man like my Sally’s just done, there aren’t enough to go round. Can we take you to your office? I’ll ring your John as soon as I get back.’
Francesca hesitated, mindful of the watchers who were now standing just outside the main door studying the programmes at the Savoy Theatre. ‘My office is in the opposite direction to yours,’ she said, pitching her voice so they could hear. ‘Would it not be better to get me a taxi? The traffic looks awful.’
Robert Vernon glanced at his driver who observed neutrally that there was a demonstration which was causing difficulty.
She kissed Vernon goodbye, nodded to his driver, and hesitated by the door of the taxi which the commissionaire was holding deferentially open, wondering irritably whether to tell her watchdogs they could go home. But she suddenly heard Robert Vernon’s voice in her head and in a blessed moment of clarity understood that she was being ungracious. John McLeish had provided secure protection for her, and that protection should be accepted in the spirit in which it had been offered. It was for John to tell her afterwards, if he chose, that she had been well looked after.
She smiled at the commissionaire, told the taxi-driver where to go in tones that the watchers could not fail to hear, and sat back in the cab without looking in their direction.
16
Three miles away, John McLeish was spending his nominal lunch-hour reading irritably through the statement he had collected that morning from Bill Vernon. A sergeant from the uniformed branch in Chelsea had waited for five hours from nine p.m. to two a.m. at the door of Bill’s flat, and had been just about to give up and get some sleep when its owner had arrived home with a girl both of them flushed with drink, having spent the evening blamelessly at Tramps. They were vouched for by several well-known names, including the owner who had been roused from sleep at his house in St John’s Wood to confirm the story and had observed with no discernible trace of sarcasm that he never slept that much anyway.
It was, of course, interesting that Bill had a drink with Mickey Hamilton around six-thirty that evening, which meant he had been in the right place at near enough the right time to attack Nigel Makin at about seven-thirty. He had left the pub with Hamilton, at about seven, certainly not later, and had not gone back on site. ‘I mean, I wish I had, but I had no reason to, and I knew I’d left none too much time to get back and change before picking up Susy. He had picked up the said Susy, having changed and bathed, at eight-thirty on the other side of London, which made it just barely possible, but unlikely.
McLeish rose heavily to his feet to return to the interview room where Bill Vernon was waiting to sign his statement, and paused at the door to consider him. He was reading a paper peacefully in the small unwelcoming room, looking uncomfortable but not unduly so.
‘If there is any more coffee, I’d be very grateful,’ he said, mildly. ‘My head’s still a bit sore.’
McLeish called down the corridor, feeling that he had been guilty of a breach of hospitality. ‘Did we offer you any lunch?’
‘I turned it down. It seemed a bit early.’
McLeish decided Bill Vernon must really have been over-indulging. ‘It is two o’clock,’ he observed.
‘I hadn’t realized.’ Bill Vernon glanced at his watch and McLeish followed his gaze. ‘It’s stopped, that’s why. Never mind, coffee is what I need, thank you so much.’ He bent his head to adjust his watch.
McLeish saw the uniformed constable put the coffee down, and observed that Bill Vernon’s hand was unsteady as he picked it up. A monumental hangover, evidently.
‘I’ll leave your statement with you to check. I’m afraid you have to sign every page, in the presence of an officer.’
‘Fine. No worry.’
He might not have any worries, McLeish thought sourly, but he was the only one here who hadn’t. He thought he knew who had attacked Nigel Makin but he had an uneasy, edgy feeling that there was more to come and he didn’t know where it was coming from. He thought of Francesca lunching at the Savoy, nurse-maided by Michaels. Not a lot could go wrong there, but he would be more comfortable when she was back in her office. He walked back to the interview room where Bill Vernon indicated that he was nearly ready.
‘So you’re off to Scotland?’ McLeish said pleasantly, when Bill had signed all five pages of his statement.
‘Day after tomorrow. I am just finishing some work on site. I can’t wait.’ The rather heavy face under the floppy dark cow-lick was suddenly animated. ‘There’s a couple of farms coming up at auction – I thought I might make an offer ahead of the auction, see if the old chap would bite. The settlement is all ready for signature, so the money’s there.’
‘Well, good luck with it. We’ll need to have an address where we can find you – this business here isn’t over yet.’
Bill Vernon looked surprised. ‘I thought you’d arrested Hamilton? I mean I was very surprised, but I thought you were confident. I’m sorry, perhaps I shouldn’t ask.’
Mickey Hamilton had appeared in front of the magistrates that morning, as required by law, and had been remanded for seven days for further enquiries. McLeish was not, however, inclined to discuss police business with Bill Vernon, who had been close to the site the previous night and had also been present when Alan Fraser fell to his death. He declined, stuffily, to comment and said goodbye.
Back in his office, he threw Bill’s statement into the out-tray for photocopying and filing, sat down and looked anxiously at his watch. Quarter to three: Francesca should at least be on her way back from lunch. His telephone rang and he snatched it up.
‘Chief Inspector? Robert Vernon here.’
‘What can I do for you, Mr Vernon?’ McLeish asked, when the pause had stretched itself.
‘I’ve just had lunch with Francesca. At the Savoy.’
McLeish attempted a sentence expressive of both pleasure and surprise, but realized that the man at the other end wasn’t listening.
‘I should have told you before about a conversation I had with Alan Fraser. Look, I’m in the car and we’re on your doorstep. Shall I come up?’
McLeish, galvanized, said he would come down, now, to meet him. ‘Is Francesca with you?’
‘No, no, she’s back at her office, or should be by now.’
‘See you in five minutes.’
‘Sergeant Michaels on my line, John,’ his secretary called from the outer office and handed him the telephone while she took her coat off.
‘She’s back safely, sir,’ Michaels reported. ‘I’ve just seen her into her own office. Vernon went off in a different direction, and we didn’t try to follow.’
‘Q
uite right. He’s come here. Get back, will you, quick as you can? And thank you.’
McLeish collected Davidson and rushed downstairs, realizing that Bill Vernon had probably missed his father by only a few minutes. Robert Vernon, looking uncomfortable but resolute, recounted the critical interview with Alan Fraser, Davidson’s pen flying.
‘Let me get this straight then,’ McLeish said, furious and formidable. ‘Fraser said he would go willingly to K6, provided a place could also be found for Mickey Hamilton. You, or rather Vernon Engineering, were going to negotiate an amount of sponsorship in exchange for those two places. Fraser was to explain his departure to your daughter.’ He considered this substantial piece of projected interference and thought about the stubborn, wily, determined man sitting across the desk.
‘He wasn’t going to marry her anyway, Chief Inspector, whatever I did, so I wanted him gone. It was what he wanted, too.’
‘The only explanation you owe us, Mr Vernon, is why you didn’t tell us this before. You must see that this is important evidence.’
‘Well, I’ll answer that. I didn’t know who he had told, did I? I didn’t know whether he’d talked to Sally and I didn’t know whether she’d been angry enough to do him harm.’
‘And now you do know?’
‘What I know, Chief Inspector, is that Sally was home with me last night, watching the telly, and not at the Underpass hitting Nigel Makin over the head. It has to be the same person doing all this, doesn’t it, or it doesn’t make sense?’
‘No.’
‘What?’
‘No, it doesn’t have to be the same person. As you know, Nigel Makin had found a lorry fiddle on two of your sites. When he talked to me yesterday he had also found that relevant material had been extracted from your computer system, and that he probably had the only copy left. It is now missing. The lorry fiddle and the murder of Fraser may be separate crimes, committed by different people.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Robert Vernon had turned white and for a moment you could see that he was over sixty.