Then Barry had died and she had become the female animal, too late to save her young’s life, but spitting and clawing to protect his name. And the police had sneered about him, and some coroner had stopped her protests and the smoothly dressed filth who said they had known him had lied and lied and lied. They had made out that her shining boy had become like them, corrupted by money and sick for drugs. Nobody had believed her, pretending that she of all people in the world had not really known him. For a long time she had fought, for a long time she had cried, but finally she had retreated into a dark cave of bitterness, clutching her younger son to her, comforting him with her own rage and passing that anger on to him. Because Maureen Kershaw knew who had killed Barry and one day Terry would kill her, however many years it might take.
And now Terry was successful, owing it to no one but himself, just like Barry had been. Together they had left Etruria Street and its intolerable memories, moving first to the better end of Romford and then out to the house in Brentwood. After Terry had married, he and Stephanie had bought a house near her parents in Highgate, lovely but too small for Maureen to live with them, particularly now the twins were nearly twelve. And Stephanie could be … Well, that didn’t matter. Every week Terry came to see her, even occasionally staying overnight. Old friends — scattered by the yuppie revolution which had destroyed the East End — visited from time to time, but otherwise Maureen Kershaw lived alone, a life given meaning beyond mere existence by a dream of vengeance. Only a dream until the woman they hated had come back; now a dream that Terry would realise. For Barry.
*
“I’ve had more time to think, and perhaps I’m going mad.” Louella looked from Tess to Maltravers apologetically. “But I don’t like it.”
“Obviously.” Maltravers handed her a glass of wine. “I knew Caroline — not as well as you — and I don’t like the thought of her being dead. But your not liking is heavier than mine. Why?”
“Because it’s … ” Louella shook herself in irritation, “ … because it’s come at a bad time. Just after you were asking me about Barry.”
“And you can’t just accept coincidence?” asked Tess.
“I know that’s common sense,” Louella admitted. “But from the moment I read that story in the Standard, I’ve not been able to shake off this weird feeling.”
“Based on nothing more than the fact that she was one of the guests at a party umpty-um years ago,” Maltravers pointed out. “A bit thin.”
“Transparent.” Louella looked directly at him. “So tell me I’m neurotic and I’ll shut up.”
“Not neurotic,” he corrected. “But you’re upset and perhaps not thinking as straight as usual. Let’s talk it through. First of all, what was Caroline’s connection with Kershaw? How did they know each other? She never told me much about her past.”
“Caroline was a secretary with a record publisher in those days,” Louella explained. “Several of Barry’s clients were on the label, including Jack’s Spratts and Tony Morocco. She was very pretty and out to enjoy herself. All of a sudden, a woman could sow her wild oats like a man without being classed as a tart and Caroline sowed a lot. There were plenty of us like that, making London swing before respectability and middle age got to us.”
“So the connection was the record label,” Maltravers said. “Anything more to it?”
“Nothing I know of, and Caroline and I had few secrets from each other. She certainly never slept with him or anything.”
“But did she give evidence at his inquest?”
“Yes — and that’s what’s getting to me. She admitted that she didn’t know whether or not Barry used LSD or anything else, but was quite prepared to go along with it at the inquest.”
“Who for?” Maltravers asked sharply. “Who was she protecting?”
“She didn’t know and she didn’t care,” Louella replied positively. “She said she was just grateful the bastard was dead and after a while we stopped talking about it. It was … I don’t know … an extreme example of something out of line which you do when you’re young and stupid and don’t think about later.”
“Very extreme,” Maltravers commented. “But she wasn’t the only one and we’ve been through that. Let’s look at it now. Caroline’s dead and the police seem to think it was an accident. You think it was something worse … So you think that somebody killed her and the reason goes back to Barry Kershaw? Right?”
“That’s what I think” Louella acknowledged. “But does it make sense?”
“Not much, and you know it. Even if somebody had suspected Caroline had been involved in killing Barry Kershaw, why wait this long before doing something about it?” Maltravers shook his head dismissively. “No way. What about other alternatives? The police rang me earlier — they’re working through Caroline’s address book — and asked if she might have been suicidal. I couldn’t help them, but have they called you yet?”
“They may have rung me at home, but I came straight here from the shop,” Louella replied. “Anyway, they can put that right out of their minds. I was with Caroline a couple of weeks ago and she was as suicidal as you are. There must be others who’ll confirm that.”
“Then let’s try another option. Could anyone else have wanted to kill her? The police asked me about her husband, but I don’t know anything there apart from the fact they were separated. When did that happen?”
“Ted and Caroline split up about … what must it be? … a couple of years ago. They’d been married for nearly fifteen years.”
“Messy split up?” Maltravers asked.
“No, perfectly civilised. There were no children — Ted couldn’t give her any — and the marriage had just withered. Caroline launched Scimitar Press and Owen Graham Metcalf kept Ted over-occupied. Their careers got in the way of their relationship. It happens.”
“Incidentally, OGM is the agency behind a television commercial I’ve just done,” Tess said. “In fact, I met Ted Owen. About fifty, very tall, with a little ponytail. Looks like Paul Newman if you get him at the right angle and use your imagination.”
“I didn’t know about the ponytail, but that’s typical of Ted. Always likes to be up with the fashion. Did you meet his girlfriend?”
“Not that I remember.”
“Daphne something … Daphne Gillie. Less than half his age and, according to Caroline, a right little raver.”
“So did she break the marriage up?” Maltravers asked.
Louella shook her head. “No, you can’t blame her for that. She joined OGM after the separation. Caroline suspected Ted had been putting it about a bit — his brains are sometimes between his legs, which isn’t uncommon — but Daphne arrived later. They’re living together now.”
“And does Ted Owen go back to the Kershaw days?”
“Not to my knowledge. He was at Cambridge in the Sixties and Caroline met him not long before they married. I never got to know him all that well. After Caroline married we just kept seeing each other the way we always had. It was part of her life that had nothing to do with Ted.”
“So the break up was amicable and then a new girlfriend arrived,” Maltravers observed. “Happens all the time.”
“There was one thing,” Louella added. “Ted wants to marry Daphne, but Caroline had dug her heels in over a divorce.”
“Why?”
“She was a Catholic. Ted suggested a quickie divorce on the grounds of two years’ separation, but Caroline refused because it would mean her agreeing and she couldn’t do that. She pointed out that after five years he would be able to divorce her whether she agreed or not. Caroline accepted the marriage was over and that eventually they would divorce. It just had to be on terms where she wasn’t an active party to it. Her conscience wouldn’t let her.”
“And Ted went along with that?” Maltravers queried.
“Eventually, but he pressed pretty hard. Caroline came to see me one night after they’d had a row about it. She said he couldn’t seem to grasp there was no pa
nic about marrying Daphne.”
“Did he ever stop pressing?”
“I don’t know, but I assume he must have done,” Louella replied. “He had no choice. Apart from that one night, Caroline hardly spoke about it, so I don’t know why he pushed her in the first place.”
Maltravers pulled a face as he thought round the situation. “Perhaps he wants to make an honest woman out of Daphne, which would be a novel approach these days. Her father isn’t a Victorian hangover threatening to cut her off without a penny for living in sin is he?”
“Her parents are dead,” Louella told him. “Caroline heard that from Ted. They were killed in a car crash when she was about fifteen. I can’t remember the details, but I think she lived with some relatives in Dorset before she went to university, then moved to London.”
“Then I can’t see any urgency in making her the next Mrs Owen,” Maltravers said. “Pity. If I could, there might be a reason for Ted wanting her dead.”
Louella smiled slightly. “Before Ted Owen does anything, he asks two questions. What’s the risk factor and what’s in it for me? If there’s enough in it, he’ll take the risk. But murdering Caroline? Just because she wouldn’t give him a divorce? No way.”
“It wasn’t a serious suggestion,” Maltravers acknowledged. “But while we’re kicking ideas around, how about someone else? Jilted boyfriend perhaps … or a jealous wife?”
“Nothing like that,” Louella told him. “Caroline did her share of fooling around a long time ago and was too intelligent to start again. She had Scimitar Press, a bit of charity work through the Church and her friends. She’d got to the stage where she’d rather go to bed with a good book.”
“Then face it, Louella,” Maltravers said. “You can’t come up with anyone who might have wanted to kill her, and if I hadn’t seen you by chance and talked about Barry Kershaw just before she died would you be thinking the way you are?”
Louella sighed in acceptance. “Probably not. Thanks for letting me talk it out. It’s just that we’d known each other so long and she was such a lovely … ” She blinked and turned away as her voice stumbled. Tess stood up and put a comforting arm round her shoulders.
“Hey, this isn’t like you. Where’s that lady who scares the pants off everyone who walks into Syllabub?”
“Did the act fool you as well?” Louella sounded surprised. “It’s a professional gimmick and they love it.” Reddened eyes were raised to Tess. “But it’s not real. This is me without my mask. I cry over any bloody thing.”
“I never guessed,” Tess told her. “Come on. Sob it out. Supper’s ready whenever you want it.”
Maltravers went into the front room, partly to leave them alone for a few minutes, partly because he felt uncomfortable over the degree to which Louella’s distress was reaching him. His relationship with Caroline Owen had been deeper into friendship than he had realised and affected him more than he expected. Could Louella really be right in thinking there was something wrong about her death? She had no evidence, no reason to be suspicious. He had been talking to her about Barry Kershaw shortly before, but surely that was just coincidence and … On the desk was his tape recorder, ready to play back the Jenni Hilton interview. She had lied about not remembering Barry Kershaw for reasons he could only guess at. What secrets were hidden behind lies that went back more than twenty years? How much had Caroline been involved? She certainly hadn’t committed suicide, so … Had it really been an accident? Because if not …
“You’ve got me thinking,” he said as they sat down to supper. “When I mentioned Barry Kershaw to Jenni Hilton this afternoon, she immediately said she couldn’t remember him. Reaction?”
Louella looked across the table in amazement. “She couldn’t remember? That’s … it’s ridiculous. No, more than that. It’s stupid. She may as well say she can’t remember her own name. Did you press her on it?”
“No — and for the very reason that it was stupid. I wanted to think about it.”
“And what have you come up with?”
“Nothing so far, except that she’s almost certainly worked out that I knew she was lying. I’m not sure how far I can go in that area, but now that Caroline’s dead … ” He shrugged uncertainly.
“You told me I was being irrational,” Louella reminded him.
“It must be catching. Let’s say that it wouldn’t hurt to try and find out more about it. I’ve got to deliver my piece on Jenni Hilton to The Chronicle in a few days. I’ll dig out their crime reporter and see if he can give me any off-the-record stuff on what the police think about Caroline’s death.”
“You think there could be something then?”
“I don’t know, but if there is we’ll talk about it again. Caroline and I weren’t close friends, but we were always happy to see each other. I don’t like to think that somebody might have killed her. There’s precious little to suggest that happened, but Jenni Hilton lied to me about Barry Kershaw and until I know why I’ll keep my options open.”
“Thank you.” Louella smiled at him. “It helps when someone doesn’t just write me off as mad. How is Jenni, by the way? Apart from her memory.”
“Very well, and great fun to talk to.”
“You must tell Louella the story of your youth,” Tess said slightly caustically. “She actually knew Jenni Hilton when all you had were fantasies.”
Maltravers laughed as Louella looked puzzled. “This is embarrassing, but OK. When I was about seventeen … ”
*
When Russell had rung from Exeter, she had only been on the first whisky and ginger and it had been all right; she had even joked about trying to recapture the taste of the Sixties again in the drink. He’d found a new flat which he was sharing with three other students, he’d met a girl called Vanessa (“You’ll like her. I’ll bring her up in the summer vac”). Yes, Dad had written and he was fine, and no, he didn’t need anything; stop fussing for Christ’s sake. A piece in The Chronicle? When? No, of course it wouldn’t embarrass him. Sorry, darling, but most of my friends here have never heard of you. Yes, I am working. You’re getting boring, Mum, you’re becoming middle-aged and conventional. You’ll be showing people your holiday slides next. Look, I’ve got to go. Vanessa is taking me to some pub where they have great jazz. What’s that? I’ve been being careful for years, stupid. Love you.
Now she was on the fourth drink, a mistake because it had started to make her depressed, confusing her thoughts. Russell had gone away and she was back on her own again. Returning to London had not worked; she was yesterday in a city that only knew today. Old friends were delighted to see her, but had only nostalgic fragments of the past to offer. She couldn’t imagine doing a Dusty Springfield and recording with the Pet Shop Boys; a vague suggestion that she might like to play Mrs Darling in this year’s production of Peter Pan had made her feel almost senile. Thinking about a comeback was insane. She should have returned to San Francisco, to Vernon who still wrote his hopeful letters … No, it was none of that. It was the needling, constant worry of Augustus Maltravers and his mention of Barry Kershaw. What had he found out? If he referred to it in his piece for The Chronicle, how could she persuade him to drop it without making him even more suspicious? Because she knew he was suspicious, however cleverly he had immediately pretended to lose interest when she had said she could not remember. That was sick. Of all the things that had happened in her life, Barry Kershaw and his death was more vivid than the whole whirling kaleidoscope of fame, glamour and excitement. Forget Barry? It would be wonderful if she could.
Chapter Seven
It is a fact of life that everybody dies; it is a fiction that the police immediately start suspecting the worst when they are presented with a corpse. Murder is a relatively rare crime in Britain and is only considered if some unusual factor suggests it. Caroline Owen’s death was one of between ninety and a hundred which occur on London’s Underground every year and the most likely explanations were natural causes, suicide or accident. A body punc
tured with stab wounds is obviously a CID matter; otherwise it is probably the result of something non-criminal.
Natural causes — a massive heart attack which killed her even before she went under the train — were ruled out by the pathologist’s report which found she was in very good health. There were no drugs in her body, unexplained wounds or anything else suspicious. Even before Caroline Owen’s friends had insisted it was unthinkable, the police had thought suicide — almost invariably the reason behind such deaths — was unlikely. People who take their own lives by throwing themselves under Tube trains tend to choose times when stations are quiet and stand next to the entrance tunnel to take advantage of maximum speed; the middle of a platform crowded with rush-hour travellers was all wrong.
Which would have left accident with a clear field, but for one small point that a detective inspector noticed. Ted Owen had told the police there had been no real disagreement between him and his wife over her refusal to co-operate in divorce proceedings. But two of her friends insisted she had been upset about it and, while she had not gone into details, had left them with the impression there had been a major row. Feeling he was doing no more than going through the motions, the inspector checked through the papers for the incident.
Having examined the contents of Caroline Owen’s handbag, the police had first gone to Scimitar Press’s offices in Covent Garden, but they had been closed. They then visited her flat in Holland Park, talked to the neighbours and let themselves in with her keys. Her personal address book led them to Owen Graham Metcalf, where someone working late said Ted Owen had left about seven o’clock to join his girlfriend at the Groucho. Staff at the club confirmed he had been there, but had left with Daphne Gillie to have dinner, destination unknown. The police had taken his home address from the club’s membership list and ended up outside a seven hundred and fifty thousand pound Georgian house in Richmond, waiting for him to return.
Murder in Waiting (Augustus Maltravers Mystery Book 5) Page 7