by Joan Smith
Loretta put down the phone and stepped out of the box, glad to leave its lavatory stench behind her. She got into her car and headed back towards Keeper’s Cottage, cheered by the thought that she hadn’t just let things lie. She stopped the car in the road next to the cottage, got out and opened the wooden gates, then parked neatly in front of the cottage. She locked the driver’s door, turning towards Baldwin’s to see if anyone had returned to the house – the police making more checks, or Jeremy Frere. As she did so, she caught sight of someone on the lawn below the house. Shading her eyes against the morning sun, she knew the man was familiar without first realizing who he was. Then, as he walked towards her, she recognized Colin Kendall-Cole. He was dressed much more casually than on the occasion of their first meeting, in an old sports jacket with worn leather patches on the elbows.
‘Morning. It’s Dr Lawson, isn’t it?’
Loretta stared at him. ‘That’s right.’ She was taken aback by his recollecting her name. Since Tuesday night she’d built him up into an ogre in her mind – the sort of man who’d deliberately serve South African wine at his dinner parties. Now they were unexpectedly face to face again, and he was regarding her with a questioning smile, she found herself nonplussed.
‘I hope you’re feeling better. Terrible business, Tuesday night.’
‘Yes. Yes, it was.’
‘By the way.’ He paused. ‘I gather I upset you a bit. I wanted to apologize – tongue was a bit unguarded. Just goes to show – one thinks one’s in control all the time, but a thing like that...’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine what came over me, flinging accusations about like that. I’m sorry.’ He gave her an open, frank look and Loretta felt even more uncomfortable.
‘I – well, I suppose we were all rather upset. Did you get to your meeting? Yesterday morning?’
‘Meeting? Oh yes, yes I did. Don’t think I contributed much, but at least I didn’t let the old man down. I’m afraid you wouldn’t approve, it was about the base. The minister wanted to discuss this bill of mine.’ He gave her an apologetic smile and looked back towards Baldwin’s. ‘I actually called to see Jeremy,’ he added, changing the subject. ‘Wanted to offer my condolences. But there’s no one in.’
‘The police were there till quite late last night,’ Loretta explained. ‘I think he’s staying somewhere in the village, the Green Man maybe. He’ll probably be back soon – the police seem to have finished.’
Colin looked at the gold watch on his left wrist. ‘I wonder if I should hang on for half an hour? I’d like to see him, poor chap.’
Loretta hesitated, wondering if she’d detected a hint that Colin would like to wait in the cottage. Extending an invitation was much against her inclination, but his apology had left her feeling guilty. As the silence between them lengthened, she decided she had no choice.
‘Would you like to come in for a coffee? I was just going to make some.’
‘That’s very kind.’ He responded with alacrity. ‘You’re sure I’m not disturbing you?’
‘No, don’t worry.’ Resigned to making small talk for the next half hour, Loretta unlocked the front door and led the way inside. Colin followed, then stopped on the threshold.
‘Well, well! This is rather a change! Joe and I used to play here when we were kids, this place was falling to pieces then. They’ve made a pretty good job of it, I must say. Joe’s Clara’s elder brother,’ he added, seeing the question in Loretta’s eyes. ‘I haven’t been inside since it was done up. Didn’t that Aga used to be in Baldwin’s?’
‘I’ve no idea, I’m sorry. Take a seat. Would you rather have tea?’
‘What?’ Colin pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down, settling the battered old briefcase he was carrying by his feet. ‘Oh, whatever you’re having. Don’t go to any trouble. Poor old Joe, this must have hit him hard. D’you know him?’
‘No, but then I hardly knew Clara. She’s a friend of a friend. I just happened to borrow the cottage for a few weeks.’ She poured a handful of beans into the coffee grinder.
‘I see. When did you move in?’
‘Saturday. Four – no, five days ago. Though it feels like ages.’ She decided against explaining that she hadn’t spent many nights in the cottage.
‘And your friend – Peggy. How long had she been staying with Clara?’
‘The same. But that was a coincidence. Clara brought her over from the ... peace camp, after what happened on Friday night.’
‘And there’s been no news of her?’
‘Not as far as I know,’ Loretta said stiffly, wishing Colin would change the subject. The peace camp, and Peggy, were subjects on which they were unlikely to agree, so why keep picking at them like a scab?
‘And you didn’t know –’
Colin’s next question, whatever it might have been, was interrupted by a knock on the front door. Relieved, Loretta went to open it and found Jeremy Frere standing outside.
‘Oh, hello, I just came to let you know I’ve finally – Colin! What are you doing here?’
Behind her, Colin was getting to his feet.
‘I’m truly, truly sorry.’ Colin clasped Jeremy’s right hand in both of his for a moment. ‘Such a loss ... I came over to offer my condolences on the off-chance you were here. Connie sends hers, too. Not that words are much use at a time like this...’
‘That’s very decent of you, Colin. And Connie, too. Tell her I was asking after her, won’t you?’
‘Dr Lawson here very kindly offered to make some coffee,’ Colin said, turning to Loretta.
Her heart sank. She had been hoping that Jeremy would take Colin off to Baldwin’s, but now it looked as though she would be stuck with both of them. Colin’s mention of Peggy had started an idea in her mind, and she wanted time to think it over. But good manners required her to extend her offer of refreshment to Jeremy. He accepted with alacrity, and settled himself into a chair.
Loretta transferred the ground coffee to the cafetière, and waited for the kettle to boil. Colin was asking Jeremy about the funeral arrangements for Clara, which gave her a moment’s grace. Why had Chief Inspector Bailey gone to London? At the time of her phone call to the police station, she had been so anxious to speak to Bailey about the tape that his absence for the day had struck her only as inconvenient. But as soon as Colin raised the subject of Peggy the obvious question had occurred to her: was the detective’s trip connected with the missing girl? Or was she missing? Had Bailey gone to London because Peggy had turned up, safe and sound, to announce that she’d left the house on Tuesday afternoon, hours before the murder? But in that case, Bailey would hardly have gone to the trouble of interviewing her himself. Perhaps there’d been a sighting of Mick? Or even an identification, because of his singular tattoo?
‘Sorry?’ She realized both men were looking at her.
‘I was just asking if you need any help,’ said Colin, gesturing to a point behind her. She turned, and found the kettle boiling fiercely. She filled the cafetière, carried it to the table, and set out three cups and saucers.
‘Any biscuits?’ Jeremy asked hopefully, watching her pour out. She went silently to a cupboard, took out the opened packet of chocolate digestives, and plonked them on the table in front of Jeremy. She was about to sit down when there was another knock at the front door.
‘You’re popular this morning,’ Jeremy said facetiously.
Loretta skirted the table and opened the door again. Two men she didn’t recognize were waiting outside.
‘Sorry to trouble you, miss.’ One of them flashed a warrant card towards her. ‘I wondered if you’d seen Mr Frere this morning. We tried the pub, and they said he was coming back to the house.’
Loretta turned and saw Jeremy get up, his face even paler than usual. ‘Well, he’s here, as a matter of fact...’ she said slowly.
‘Don’t tell me you want to search the house again.’ Jeremy clearly knew they were police officers. ‘I’ll have to start charging rent if this goes
on much longer!’ His attempt at a joke failed to disguise his sudden nervousness.
‘We may need further access later today, sir. But we haven’t come about that. Is there somewhere we can talk privately?’ He glanced meaningfully at Loretta and Colin.
‘Privately? Is there really any need – oh, if we must. Shall we go over to the house?’
‘Well, sir, my instructions are to ask you to accompany me to the station.’
‘The station? What for? You’re not arresting me, are you?’ Jeremy’s voice was shrill.
‘No, sir. At this stage, I’m just asking you for help with our inquiries. Voluntarily, of course.’
‘Do I have to go?’ The question was directed at Colin, and Loretta remembered he was a solicitor. Colin got to his feet and put a restraining hand on Jeremy’s arm.
‘Look, old chap, you don’t have to go. But is there any reason not to? After all –’
Jeremy shook the hand off. ‘All right, all right. What happens now? Handcuffs?’ He thrust his wrists belligerently in the direction of the detective who’d done the talking.
‘That won’t be necessary, sir. I’m grateful for your cooperation.’ This last was said with heavy irony.
Jeremy paused for a moment, looked as if he was about to say something, then thought better of it. He moved towards the door, turned, and attempted a cheerful wave. ‘See you later, then! Soon as I escape from Alcatraz!’ He strode off across the garden, the two detectives in his wake.
There was an awkward silence in the kitchen, broken eventually by Colin, ‘Surely they don’t think –’ He stopped.
Loretta shrugged. It certainly looked as though the police suspected Jeremy of involvement in his wife’s murder, but why? How did that tie in with the evidence of the cassette tape? Surely he wasn’t in league with the Americans – if it was they who’d made the tape – against his own wife? None of these was a thought she wanted to share with Colin; she shook her head, wishing he would go. ‘I don’t know what it means.’
Colin moved to the table, picked up his cup, and drank some of the coffee in it. ‘Well, I must be off – bit of constituency business to see to. Thanks for the coffee.’
‘You’re welcome.’
He picked up his bag, inclined his head in her direction, and left by the open door. Loretta closed it and collected up the cups, rinsing them in the sink as she tried, and failed, to make sense of the morning’s developments.
Around four, she decided she could no longer bear sitting in the cottage trying to write letters. Frequent trips to the front door had revealed no sign that Jeremy had returned; she wondered if he was still being questioned. Had he even been charged? She looked at the clock, realized she’d just missed the news on Radio Four, and ran lightly up the stairs. She took off her trousers and changed into a summer dress; Robert should be back from London any time now, and she could make a detour to ring Tracey on her way to see him. In the kitchen she checked that the tape was still in her bag, pulled the front door shut behind her, and set off in her car for the phone box she’d used that morning.
Tracey picked up his extension as soon as it rang.
‘Loretta? Sorry, no luck.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I spoke to a chap who does a bit of liaison work from time to time, and he says the Yanks aren’t talking.’
‘You mean – they won’t say whether they made the tape?’
‘No, I mean they won’t say anything at all. The point is, and I was told this quite forcefully, that Anglo-American relations are at an all-time low. Or as my friend actually put it, those fuckers wouldn’t spell the president’s name without an official request in writing from the DG. He says it’s not even worth asking them.’
‘But if they aren’t involved, why wouldn’t they say so?’
‘Look, as I understand it, the Yanks don’t want the Brits to know anything at the moment – what they’re doing or what they aren’t doing.’
‘Oh.’ Loretta was disappointed. Even though Tracey hadn’t been optimistic about his chances of success, she had placed great faith in him. ‘In other words, they’ve stopped speaking to each other,’ she said sarcastically. ‘Just like a bunch of schoolgirls.’
‘You don’t understand, Loretta.’ Tracey was being patient. ‘It’s all because of Libya. Reagan wasn’t prepared for all the flak he’s got in the last few weeks, and he wants to know why nobody warned him. The Yanks feel let down –’
‘They feel let down –’
‘Let’s not get into a political discussion. I agree with you, as it happens. I’m no more in favour of Reagan using British bases to bomb Tripoli than you are. But I’m not a fan of Colonel Gadaffi, either.’
‘Neither am I. Now who’s starting a discussion?’
‘All right, I’m just telling you the score.’
‘OK, where does that leave us?’
‘Us? Listen, there’s nothing else I can do. Or you, for that matter. Take your tape to the police and let them deal with it.’
‘Oh yeah. A long way they’ll get. Someone’ll put a quiet word in somewhere, and it’ll all be dropped.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. At least give them a chance. They’ll get further than either of us could.’
‘Oh, all right. Thanks for your help.’
‘Don’t mention it. When are you coming back to London? There’s nothing for you to do up there. And I don’t like the thought of you hanging round a place where a woman’s just been murdered.’
‘Is that a warning? Did your friend in MI5 –’
‘Shhh! I don’t want to talk about it on the phone! And no, he didn’t say anything about warning you off. Stop being melodramatic. It’s just common sense.’
‘Well, I’ll come back after I’ve seen the police. And I must go, I promised to go and have tea with some people in the village.’ It was half true, she thought, crossing her fingers. ‘I’ll give you a ring when I get back to London. Bye.’
‘Loretta–’
She put down the phone, anxious to avoid questions from Tracey about the identity of the people she was about to visit. Although they had been separated, though not divorced, for years, she still didn’t like discussing her lovers with Tracey. He, feeling no such inhibition, had a highly developed sense about when to ask searching questions about the very private side of her life. It wasn’t until she was getting into her car that it occurred to her that she’d forgotten to mention Jeremy Frere’s summons to the police station; she hesitated, wondering whether to ring back and ask Tracey to do a bit of digging on her behalf, then decided against. She intended to see Bailey as early as possible next day, and she’d find some way of raising the subject then. She closed the door, fastened her safety belt, and set off for Flitwell.
Loretta parked the car in the road outside Robert’s house and walked through the side gate. The faint sound of music from the drawing room told her Robert was at home, and she was immediately nervous. She paused before ringing the bell, trying to analyse what she was feeling; it was more than the mingled sense of anticipation and fear of disappointment that usually accompanied meetings with a new and unfamiliar lover. Her mind had flown back to the brief suspicions she’d harboured the day before as to Robert’s possible involvement in Clara’s death: there was guilt, yes. And there was anxiety, the knowledge that she might say or do the wrong thing at this delicate point in their relationship. The only thing to do, she decided, was to stop anticipating and get on with it. She pressed the door-bell.
At once the music stopped; this time, it seemed, the player had been Robert. She heard footsteps, then the door opened.
‘Loretta!’ He seemed genuinely pleased to see her, stepping forward to embrace her. ‘Come in. I didn’t hear your car draw up.’
He stood back, allowing her to precede him into the drawing room.
‘I’m sorry about yesterday, missing you, I mean. I had to do an interview with a Japanese TV company, they’re over here making a film about British composers
. It was arranged weeks ago, and I couldn’t put them off. Do sit down.’
Loretta took a seat at the end of the sofa.
‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came over. I suddenly couldn’t stand being in the cottage any more – I went racing off to Oxford to do some shopping and get something to eat.’
Robert sat down next to her.
‘Poor old thing,’ he said, taking her hand. ‘Probably did you good to get away. Were you all right on Tuesday night? I feel rather bad about letting you go back there after what happened. Did you get any sleep?’
‘A bit,’ she said, relieved that they were able to talk about the murder as easily as this. ‘I wasn’t scared. As I said, the place was crawling with police. Are those today’s papers?’
‘Yes, have you seen them? Dreadful stuff. I don’t know what the press is coming to in this country.’
‘No, I haven’t seen any of them. I didn’t want to go to the village shop in case anyone realized who I was and started asking for all the gory details. Can I have a look?’
‘Of course. Drink?’
It was a bit early in the day for Loretta, but she was beginning to relax and thought that one drink would do her no harm.
‘Yes please – gin and tonic?’
‘Coming up.’ Robert got up and left the room, leaving her to look through the pile of papers lying on the floor. She quickly found what she was looking for: the Daily Mail. Although the murder was front-page news, she had to turn to an inside page to find Adela L’Estrange’s contribution. It took up most of page five, and was lavishly illustrated. There was a picture of Clara, unsmiling and rather fierce; one of the exterior of Baldwin’s, taken from the front; another showing double glass doors with Frere Fine Arts painted across them in imitation handwriting; and one of Jeremy himself. This last was a blurred snapshot taken in what looked like semi-darkness – Jeremy, champagne glass in one hand, had thrown his other arm across the shoulders of a woman whose cleavage threatened to burst the fragile restraint provided by her plunging neckline. ‘When the wife’s away ... the husband used to play’, the caption read, adding unnecessarily that the photograph showed Jeremy and a blonde friend at a recent nightclub opening.