Death Trap

by Patricia Hall

  THIRTEEN

  At eight o’clock on Saturday night Kate stood on the doorstep, shivering slightly in a summer dress and sandals, with only a cardigan round her shoulders, looking up and down the street for the familiar red Capri. She was still not sure why she had made this date with Harry Barnard, a spur of the moment invitation to a party which probably said more about her anxieties than any desire to encourage his attentions. What she did need to do, she told herself, was to talk to him and this had seemed at the time like a good opportunity to do just that when Tess had issued a general invitation to her friends to go with her to a party at a colleague’s basement flat in Holland Park Avenue.

  When she had left the office to snatch a quick lunch the previous day she had not been totally surprised to see a familiar figure lounging on the other side of Frith Street, trilby at a jaunty angle and the collar of his coat well turned up against a sharp autumnal breeze. She had crossed the narrow street, dodging an accelerating taxi and the lunchtime strollers, and given Harry Barnard a tentative smile.

  ‘I was hoping I might see you,’ she had said, ignoring the fact that he had blatantly been waiting for her to emerge.

  ‘That’s encouraging. I tried calling you last night but no one answered your phone.’

  ‘We don’t hear it if we’ve got the telly on,’ Kate came back with a slightly guilty smile. ‘And there’s no one else in the house now to pick it up. Which was one reason I wanted to talk to you. Someone lobbed a brick through one of the downstairs windows the night before last and so far we’ve not been able to get the landlord to even board it up. It’s not safe, and to be honest we’re getting a bit scared.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Barnard had said. ‘There seems to be a lot of bad stuff kicking off down your way. Have you made any progress looking for another place?’

  ‘Not really,’ Kate said. ‘We’re all too busy during the week. We’ll have another go this weekend. I need to talk to you though, about other things. It’s all getting very complicated and I don’t think the police in Notting Hill will listen to me.’ Barnard had sighed, knowing she was right.

  ‘Have you got time for lunch?’ he had asked, but Kate had glanced at her watch anxiously.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve got to be at a photo shoot near Oxford Circus in half an hour. Ken is keeping me really busy now he’s decided I’m quite a good thing. I don’t think the others like it very much but that’s their tough luck.’

  ‘What about this evening?’ Barnard has persisted.

  ‘I’m going to the pictures with the girls.’ Kate had hesitated. She did not really want a solo date with Barnard. That, she had thought, would give him too much encouragement but she had thought of another possibility. ‘We’re all invited to a party tomorrow night, one of Tess’s teacher friends who lives near us. Would you like to come? We could talk then.’ And slightly to her surprise, he had agreed to pick the three women up at eight.

  Kate was ready ahead of time and had gone downstairs first, feeling nervous about introducing Barnard not only to her own friends but to Tess’s school colleagues and worried that she was exaggerating their predicament. When she had got home the previous day she had been relieved to see that the smashed window had been boarded up at last, and there had been no further disturbances that night. Perhaps it had just been a bit of casual vandalism by local youths, Marie had suggested over breakfast, but somehow Kate did not think it was as simple as that. So it had been three friends unwilling to discuss their fears who had done the rounds of half a dozen flats to let around Shepherds Bush and Hammersmith, only to find three of them already taken by the time they got there and the other three so cramped and dilapidated that none of them could bring themselves to even consider living there.

  ‘We’ll have to go further out,’ Tess had said eventually. ‘There’s nothing half decent round here that we can afford.’

  Kate pulled her cardigan round her shoulders to keep off the wind just as Barnard’s car swung into Argyll Gardens. She turned back into the front door and called Marie and Tess who had been readily included in his offer of a lift to the party.

  Dave and Jenny’s flat was in the basement of one of the tall villas backing onto Holland Park Avenue, seemingly impressive on first sight as they approached through the gate from the main road, but in fact cramped and dark as the servants’ quarters of mansions usually were. Dave, the host, in cords and a short-sleeved shirt, waved the four of them into the kitchen where they deposited bottles in exchange for glasses of indeterminate booze before they rejoined the crowd in the living room where the door and windows onto the garden had been left open to keep the place cool, and the sound of the Merseybeat wafted out into the night. Barnard sipped his drink and pulled a face.

  ‘I’ll see if I can find the bottle I brought,’ he whispered to Kate. ‘It’s a good deal better than this plonk.’

  ‘It’s pretty foul,’ she agreed, though her own experience of drinking any wine at all was strictly limited. She glanced around the crowded room, animated groups of people she did not know mixing and melting in the overcrowded space as they went to and fro for more wine or helped themselves to bread and cheese from the dining table pushed against the back wall, and she felt a moment’s panic.

  Tess came over with her friend Jenny. ‘Tell Jen it’s true you knew John Lennon back home,’ she said. ‘She won’t believe me.’

  Kate grinned, happy enough to be distracted from her worries. ‘We were both at art college together,’ she said. ‘We all used to go and see them at the Cavern before they got well known. It was great.’

  Jenny looked suitably impressed as Barnard came back with two new wine glasses and handed one to Kate, who sipped it and did not find it much different to what had gone before. Wine was obviously an acquired taste, she thought, but made no comment.

  ‘We’re not going to be able to talk in this crush,’ she said to Barnard as Tess and Jenny were swallowed up again and the music switched to Gerry and the Pacemakers.

  Barnard glanced around and drew her firmly through the press of people to a door at the far side of the room, opened it and peered in only to find it already occupied by a couple sitting on the coat strewn bed enjoying a passionate encounter. ‘Oops, sorry,’ he said, closing the door again quickly. ‘Come on,’ he said to Kate. ‘We’ll have a look at the garden. There’s plenty of light from the main road.’

  ‘It’s a bit chilly,’ Kate objected when they got outside and Barnard smiled slightly and put his arm around her.

  ‘I’ll keep you warm,’ he said and slipped off his jacket and slung it around her shoulders. They found a garden seat beside a patchy lawn under a tree. ‘Now,’ he said when they were settled. ‘What have you been getting into this time?’

  Hesitantly she told him her worries about Cecily Beauchamp’s death, about their being given notice to quit the flat and feeling they were living under siege, and finally, and most reluctantly, about the trail she had followed around the market from Vera Chamberlain to Leonie Fletcher and finally to the house of Denise Baker and what she knew about the murder of Janice Jones.

  ‘To be honest I don’t know what to do next,’ she admitted finally. ‘The police don’t want to know about any of this, do they? Back home no one liked the bizzies very much. Some of them were thugs and some of them were not very honest. But if you were in real trouble you could go to them if there was a crime and still think you’d get some help. Here it’s just a jungle . . .’ She hesitated, knowing that Barnard himself was compromised and wondering why she expected him, when push came to shove, to be any different from the rest.

  Barnard shifted uncomfortably on the wooden bench, his face in shadow. ‘You’re not going to give up on this, are you?’ he asked quietly, knowing the answer he would get.

  ‘No, of course not,’ Kate said, the yellow light filtering over the high fence between the garden and the busy road outside illuminating an obstinate expression that Barnard was becoming familiar with.
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  ‘Right,’ he said after a long pause. ‘Here’s what you must do. First tell Nelson Mackintosh’s lawyer about the women who have information about the dead girl. That’s vital to his defense, so you’ve done a really good job there tracking them down. But you have to channel the information to the defense.’

  ‘Do you think it could get him off?’ Kate said, feeling slightly more cheerful.

  ‘Not on its own maybe, but I’m sure his lawyer is already working on an alibi. It’s not that easy to set someone up for a murder that they didn’t do, if that’s what’s really happening.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ Kate said. ‘Everyone who knows Nelson says killing a street girl is not something he could ever do. He’s not that sort of man. Not even the drug charge is right. He’s well known for not having drugs in his cafe. They must have been planted.’

  ‘Either that or they belonged to his son,’ Barnard said sharply. ‘Anyway, you must talk to the lawyer and he’ll follow up these witnesses you say you’ve found. Will they give evidence in court do you think?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kate said. ‘And what about my old lady in the basement? I knew her and now I’ve met her son, and the whole thing stinks. Her death’s just too convenient for him. He needs the money and now he’s got it. And Vera Chamberlain is sure that Cecily was refusing to sign away the house. She didn’t want to sell it.’

  ‘You may think that,’ Barnard said. ‘But you’ve got absolutely no evidence for it. It’s all circumstantial. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll tackle my mate at Notting Hill, find out what the post-mortem result was. You’ve heard rumours but I’ll check out the facts. We’re going to a Chelsea match on Tuesday night. I’m sure I can get something out of him then. Will that do?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Kate said, shivering slightly.

  ‘Come on back inside. You’re cold,’ Barnard said, putting his arm round her shoulders, and as they got to their feet someone shouted from the door of the flat.

  ‘Come on in. We’re putting the telly on.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘That Was The Week That Was,’ Kate said enthusiastically as Millicent Martin’s voice rang out through the open windows and the hubbub of conversation died down. ‘Don’t you watch it? We don’t miss it. It’s very good, very funny.’ Inside, the entire crowd of party-goers sat on the floor or stood in clusters round the small black and white screen as David Frost introduced the programme which had become a political cult amongst a large proportion of the population as the scandal-hit government looked to be staggering to its end.

  ‘Do we have to?’ Barnard asked, sounding unimpressed and putting a tentative arm around Kate’s waist. ‘I can think of better things to do.’

  But Kate put a finger to her lips. ‘Listen,’ she whispered. ‘They’re going to talk about landlords again. I saw something once before at home. I never thought I’d meet any of them though.’

  The party-goer standing in front of Kate turned round and told her to shush before offering her the cigarette he was smoking. She looked puzzled and glanced at Barnard who was smiling sardonically and shaking his head.

  ‘You don’t want to let me see that, mate,’ he said to the smoker. ‘You really don’t.’

  The man moved away hurriedly as enlightenment dawned on Kate, but she said nothing as Barnard’s attention suddenly turned to the screen where David Frost was interviewing a man he recognised. Lazlo Roman looked as full of self-confidence as he had when Barnard himself had spoken to him, and was denying just as vigorously that he was in any way similar to the notorious and now deceased slum landlord Peter Rachman.

  ‘People need homes,’ he said. ‘Many landlords will not take West Indian families. I do. And there is nothing wrong with that. My father was a gypsy in Nazi Europe so I know what it is to be hated because of your race. Believe me, you do not want to go down that road in this country. It leads to the camps and the gas ovens.’

  For once, Kate thought, even David Frost looked slightly nonplussed and the interview quickly turned to the harassment Roman claimed he was suffering from gangsters trying to cash in, before Lance Percival launched into his regular satirical calypso.

  ‘He was the man who wants to buy our house from Miles Beauchamp,’ Kate whispered to Barnard.

  ‘And your house is being targeted,’ Barnard said, not bothering to hide his rising anger as he steered her away from the rapt crowd of TV viewers to the front door where they would not be easily overheard. ‘Beauchamp is using thugs to get you out and someone else is using thugs to try to get protection money. Jesus, you must get out of there.’

  ‘It’s not so easy,’ Kate said gloomily. ‘We looked at three places today and they were all awful.’

  ‘I know it’s not easy,’ Barnard said. ‘If the worst comes to the worst you can always kip down at my place.’ He took on her look of barely disguised horror and grinned. ‘Positively no strings, I promise. And I do make the beds and wash the dishes.’

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ Kate said, without total conviction.

  ‘Do you want to go and see Nelson Mackintosh’s wife now?’ Barnard said. ‘The sooner the family know what you’ve found out the better, I guess. We can come back later to pick up your friends.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Kate said, and after a quick word with Tess, whose expression told her that she didn’t believe a word of that excuse, the two of them drove away through the evening traffic and parked outside Nelson Mackintosh’s cafe.

  The main room was as seriously crowded as the first time Kate had come through the door and an uneasy silence fell as the two white visitors pushed through the crowd to the bar where Abraham Righton was busy serving drinks.

  ‘More photographs, Miss O’Donnell?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you have enough of us poor folk already? An’ who’s this? Your bodyguard?’

  It was not the welcome Kate had been expecting and she shook her head, feeling bewildered. ‘This is Harry. Just a friend,’ she said. ‘But it was Mrs Mackintosh I was hoping to see. Is she still living here? I’ve something to tell her that might help Nelson.’

  Righton looked slightly sceptical at that but after delivering a tray full of drinks to a group of customers he wiped his hands on his apron and nodded to Kate and Harry. ‘Wait there, and I’ll see if she want to see you,’ he said, making his way through the door that led to the upstairs flat.

  Harry turned to stand with his back to the bar and Kate could feel the tension in the room rising. They were being watched and by far-from-friendly faces. Even the elderly dominoes players looked unforgiving. She hoped Abraham would not be long, and Harry Barnard hoped even more fervently that no one in the room had the slightest inkling he was a copper. In the event, they both got their wish when Righton reappeared quickly and nodded them towards the door.

  ‘Take care what you say,’ he said as they passed him. ‘She very upset. Ben still hasn’t been home and she is afraid of the worst. And it very late for her. She should be asleep.’

  They found Evelina Mackintosh slumped in the corner of her sofa. She was dressed in a pink dressing gown, tied with a tight cord around her waist, and to Kate’s horror she seemed to have aged years in the few days since she had last seen her.

  ‘Abraham said you have something to tell me,’ she said, her voice hoarse as if with too much crying. ‘Is it about Ben? Has your friend heard from him, your friend at the school?’

  ‘No, it’s not about Ben,’ Kate said. ‘It’s about the murder Nelson is accused of, the murder of Janice Jones. I found out something which I think might help him. I thought you needed to know as soon as possible, so you can pass it on to your lawyer.’

  ‘Who is Nelson’s brief?’ Barnard asked.

  ‘Mr Robert Manley,’ Evelina said. ‘He’s a good man, and a good lawyer, I am told. So what must I tell him, young lady?’

  ‘I think Kate should write everything down for you to tell Mr Manley,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s very important to get
the details right.’

  ‘Are you a legal man, too?’ Evelina asked.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ Barnard said wryly. ‘But I just came to keep Kate company. She’s the one you have to thank.’

  ‘It is good to know we have some friends,’ Evelina said as she gave Kate a pad of paper and a pen and waved her and Harry to the table where they outlined everything Kate had discovered from Denise Baker.

  Kate signed it and wrote her address and phone number at the bottom. ‘That’s where I live at the moment,’ she said. ‘But I hope to be moving very soon. But you can always contact me through Tess Farrell at Ben’s school if you or Mr Manley need to talk to me.’

  Evelina took Kate’s statement and looked at her curiously. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked.

  Kate shrugged. ‘Your husband was kind to us the night we met him,’ she said. ‘We were a bit lost at the time. And Tess thought a lot of him and your son. We just wanted to help, that’s all.’

  Evelina nodded slowly. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Harry Barnard had driven a subdued Kate O’Donnell back to the party in Holland Park Avenue, picked up her friends and delivered them safely back to the empty house in Argyll Gardens with very mixed feelings. He parked the car outside and went with them to the front door and stood sentry while they opened it. All was dark and quiet inside, and after he had checked that the broken window on the ground floor was now securely boarded up, he left the three of them to climb to the top floor.

  ‘Call me if you’re the least bit worried,’ he had said to Kate, as she lingered behind the others for a moment. He had given her a quick peck on the cheek, which she did not resist. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘I know, and thanks,’ Kate said. ‘We’re going to look at more flats tomorrow. Perhaps we’ll be luckier than we were today.’

  Barnard stood on the top step to listen while Kate locked the front door and pulled the bolts. He knew it would not stop anyone who was determined to break in but he supposed it was better than nothing. He smiled with a wry satisfaction, knowing just how far this girl had got under his skin and how unlikely it was that would get him anywhere. Then he got back into the car, turned round the way they had just come, back to Portobello Road. But when he reached the side turning, intending to go back to Nelson Mackintosh’s cafe, he found the way blocked by police vans and cars, turning the area a pulsating blue, and a crowd of officers going in and out, some of them none too gently pushing and shoving handcuffed prisoners into the vans.