How? Weapon? Maggie Crisp’s eldest has guns. Been in trouble for them. But he’d ask questions and remember afterwards. Couldn’t shoot the thing anyway. She’s young as well, her picture shows that. Have to surprise her … something quick. Want to get away with it as well. No point in going to Holloway if you can avoid it. Doreen Smith went in there after that fight down the Dockers Arms in 1947 when she slashed that slag’s face with a broken stout bottle. Said it smelt. Wouldn’t like that. Worry about that later. Weapon … weapon. That carving knife wouldn’t cut butter. Buy a new one from that ironmongers on the High Street. Saw some in the window the other week. Cheap rubbish though, not like they used to make … Just a minute. Where did that bayonet get to? The one that Barry came home with one day when he was a nipper. Said he found it down the corporation tip and cleaned it up. He loved that. Hung on the wall of his room for years. He sharpened it as well, didn’t he? Did Terry ever have it? No, it got put in one of those boxes with Barry’s other things when we left Etruria Street. Must be in the back bedroom with the other stuff that never got thrown out. That’s it. Barry’s bayonet. Couldn’t be better. It would be like having him there, like him killing her somehow. Just the address, Terry. Just the address.
*
Maltravers and Tess left Porlock after breakfast on Sunday morning and decided to drive up to Dunkery Beacon before returning. It was obviously going to be as hot in Somerset as it had been in London, but high on hills blotched with claret-coloured heather it was a promise, not a threat. They left the car and walked across the moorland to look across Exton Vale.
“Hardy found this brooding.” Maltravers commented as they gazed across bright, morning-fresh landscape. “But he always had that streak of misery in him. After all, he was an architect.”
Tess gave a sympathetic smile. “Joking to cover your feelings? The idea that Jenni Hilton could be a murderer got to you, didn’t it?”
“More than it should have done,” he admitted. “Stupid, isn’t it? Teenage emotions tormenting me when I’m turned forty.”
“You’ll still be a romantic when you’re ninety.” Tess hesitated. “Can you hack it?”
“Of course I can. I’ll just go into detached, journalistic mode. That doesn’t allow you to be emotional … but it makes you critical.” He shaded his eyes as he looked towards where the sun was still yellowing lapis lazuli sky. “It adds up. She loved Jack Buxton, Kershaw had him savagely attacked, she killed in revenge. Then Jack finished with her. She ran away. No holes in that reasoning and if that was all there was to it, there’d be no problem. From what I’ve been told, I don’t give a damn about Kershaw. He was a bastard and there’s an end on’t … but Caroline Owen wasn’t like that.”
“And neither Jack nor Kate could come up with anything special between her and Kershaw, and they’d never even heard of Ted Owen until we mentioned him.” Tess kicked a tuft of gorse. “Not the most satisfactory weekend.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Maltravers squeezed her hand. “Last night had its moments. Let’s see if the comatose state induced by the M4 bubbles anything out of the subconscious.”
Aggravated by roadworks and a dead car transporter, the motorway was more likely to induce a nervous breakdown than inspiration. Having gone through imaginative variations on a wide vocabulary of obscenities, Maltravers abandoned it at Reading, recovered his temper over beer and a good ploughman’s lunch (the only immortal sales gimmick to come out of the transitory world of advertising) at Thame and was restored to the state of human being rather than homicidal maniac trapped in a steel box on wheels by the time they reached Coppersmith Street. As Tess opened post that had arrived after their departure on Saturday, he turned on the ansaphone for the one message it contained.
“My name’s Alan Bedford. I’m not sure if I’ve got the right number, but if you’re the Augustus Maltravers who wrote the article about Jenni Hilton in today’s Chronicle, could you call me on 071 956 1485? Sorry to have troubled you if I’ve got it wrong. Goodbye.”
“Who’s Alan Bedford?” Tess asked as she threw away another offer of a personal pension plan.
Maltravers picked up the phone. “Never heard of him. Wonder how he got my number? The Chronicle certainly wouldn’t have given it out. There are standard rules about that. They’d have just taken his number and offered to pass it on to … “Hello, Mr Bedford? Augustus Maltravers. You left a message.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you for calling. First of all, have I got the right person?”
“Yes, but I’m intrigued as to how you found me.”
“Telephone directory. There’s no one else in it with your name, so it was worth a try. Anyway, now that I’ve found you, I want to ask something about your feature on Jenni Hilton. Is it possible to let me have her address?”
“Why do you want it?” Maltravers silently beckoned Tess to stand close to him so that she could hear Bedford’s end of the conversation.
“Somebody’s asked me to try and find it.”
“That’s only half an answer, Mr Bedford. Who?”
“I’m not at liberty to say that.”
“And I’m not at liberty to tell you anything,” Maltravers told him tersely. “Miss Hilton has strictly requested that her address be kept secret — and even if she hadn’t, I certainly wouldn’t give it to some stranger who rings up out of the blue talking in riddles.”
“If I’ve offended you, Mr Maltravers, I apologise,” Bedford said. “I should have explained at the beginning. I run a private inquiry agency. Perfectly legitimate, we advertise our services in the Law Society’s Gazette. Much of our work is for the courts and I could refer you to very senior Scotland Yard officers who will vouch for me. I have been asked to obtain this information for a client and you’ll appreciate that confidentiality is essential in my business. I cannot tell you who it is.”
Maltravers’s mind raced with new and disturbing questions. “Is it a man or a woman?”
“I can’t even tell you that. It’s a client. One who uses our services regularly.”
“Do you have any idea what you may be messing about with, Mr Bedford?”
“I’m not aware that I’m messing about with anything. I have simply been asked to try and find where someone lives. For all I know, she may be a bad debtor. If you’re unable to tell me, I’ll have to continue inquiries elsewhere. Sorry to have troubled you.”
“Can I come and see you?”
“If you wish. Our offices are just off the City Road. The phone’s switched through to my home when we’re closed. But I’m not going to tell you who I’m working for.”
“I realise that. But I may be able to tell you something. I’ll be in touch.”
“Goodbye, Mr Maltravers.”
Tess stared at him as he rang off. “What the hell was that about?”
“Christ knows. He’s an inquiry agent who’s been asked to find where Jenni Hilton lives. He sounds straight enough. Gives his phone number, offers references. But who’s he working for? And why do they want to know her address? If it was a fan or a friend from way back, they could write to her care of The Chronicle and they’d send the letter on. They wouldn’t use a private detective. That’s … sly.”
“Are you going to let her know? He said he’d make other inquiries. Could it be dangerous if he finds her and passes it on?”
“I can’t at the moment, she’s in Exeter until Wednesday. I’ll go and see this Bedford character tomorrow and spell out a few facts. That might make him think twice.” Maltravers shook himself in irritation. “What the fuck is going on here?”
“Ted Owen’s the type who could hire a private detective.” Tess glanced at him questioningly. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, he is,” he agreed. “But that’s just shooting in the dark. It could equally well be someone we’ve never heard about. Louella said there were — how many was it? — certainly a fair number of people at Kershaw’s last party. It could be any one of them. God alone knows what this feature’s stirre
d up. Jesus, the power of the Press.”
*
The photographic power of the Press, coupled with a passenger casually leaving his newspaper in a taxi, actually betrayed where Jenni Hilton lived. Bedford’s contacts among London’s cabbies were considerable and had frequently repaid the monies he had distributed among them. Waiting for a fare late on Sunday evening, one driver started to read The Chronicle he had found on the back seat; it was not his usual sort of paper, but it had racing in it. Separating out the Weekend section, he first saw the picture and then his eyes caught the name. One of Bedford’s legmen had been asking about her, but had not been able to provide a picture; now it all clicked into place. He’d picked her up in … St Martin’s Lane it had been … a week or so back and half recognised her face. There was nothing special about driving the most famous of fares — it happened all the time — but she’d stuck in his mind because he’d not quite been able to place her. She’d been alone, so there had been no conversation he could listen to for a clue. But he remembered where he’d dropped her, watching her open the front door as he turned round, still trying to identify her. Could be worth a few bob from Alan Bedford — and there was a phone box just across the road. His fare had asked him to hang on, even with the meter running, and there was no sign he was coming yet. Earn a bit more while I’m waiting.
*
Daphne Gillie was in a teasing mood, wriggling away coquettishly as Ted Owen laughingly tried to grab hold of her. She would have been unrecognisable to OGM employees who referred to her as Madame Ceausescu.
“Get off!” She squirmed as he squeezed her breasts. “You can’t have it. It’s too hot.”
“No it isn’t,” he contradicted as she struggled free. “Come here … mind that chair!”
Half deceived, she glanced round and he pounced on her, both of them rolling across the carpet like children until he pinned her wrists on the white bearskin rug in front of the fireplace. She kept resisting for a few seconds, then willing surrender and desire burned in her eyes and she licked her lips provocatively. He relaxed his grip.
“Bully.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Big bully … rich bully … gorgeous bully. Here. Now.”
She pulled his head down, fiercely pressing hungry mouths together, coquette become whore. As they writhed on the soft white pile, each freeing eager flesh from the other’s clothing, a draught from an open window blew a sheet of Saturday’s Chronicle off the sofa on to the floor. Both of them had commented on the appearance of Jenni Hilton so soon after Caroline had died.
*
It was very sharp. Barry had done that. She remembered him borrowing his dad’s Carborundum stone and sitting for hours on the kitchen step into the back yard at Etruria Street, endlessly running it along the bayonet’s edge, scraping the blade gently with his thumb to test its sharpness. Discovering it at the bottom of the box had been like a sign from Barry. Go for it, Mum. You’re right, Mum, you always were right. Find her and do it. Just tell me the address, Terry. Your brother wants you to do that as well. After that, your Mum’ll take care of it. You and Stephanie can just get on with your lives.
Chapter Fourteen
“We’ve found where Jenni Hilton lives, Terry. Twelve Cheyne Street, Chelsea.” Bedford had decided it was too late to pass on the taxi driver’s information when he received it on Sunday evening and called first thing on Monday.
Terry Kershaw experienced a faint feeling of numbness. He was finding it difficult to think straight in an emotional confusion of suspicion about his wife and terrifying demands from his mother.
“Thanks, Alan.” He wrote the address down and stared at it for a moment. “What about the other business? About Stephanie.”
“Nothing to report on Saturday. If she was at Harrods or in the Knightsbridge area, our girl certainly didn’t see her. There are two of them on it now and I’ll let you know as soon as we have anything. All right?”
“Yes fine … Oh, and send your bill for Jenni Hilton made out to me at my home. Mark it private and personal. I’ll expect to hear from you.”
Bedford rang off and looked at the file for Terry Kershaw’s newly opened private account on his desk. Although he had made sympathetic noises when Kershaw had asked him to follow his wife, frankly he had not been surprised. The first time he had met Stephanie Kershaw — only for a few minutes at the office — he had known instantly she was spoiled, callous and self-centred. It was usually wives wanting husbands watched, but the reason was always the same. The Jenni Hilton business appeared to be something different, and Bedford made a note that the invoice was to be a personal one, which meant it was not an Insignia Motors matter. That was unexpected, but if Terry Kershaw wanted to trace her and couldn’t be bothered or didn’t have the time to do it himself, there was nothing to be concerned about on the face of it, although … Bedford read the notes he had made when he spoke to Maltravers, remembering how serious he had sounded when he suggested there was something unspecified the agency could be becoming mixed up in. If Maltravers came to see him, he would presumably say more; in the meantime, it was a pencilled-in question mark, a reminder to be cautious. Bedford’s Inquiry Agency did not put its reputation at risk by undertaking work about which there were any doubts, however well-established and apparently honest the client happened to be.
In his office at Insignia Motors, Terry Kershaw repeatedly drew a frame round the address as he tried to decide what he should do. Simply lying to his mother that Jenni Hilton remained untraceable would be bottling out, a means of avoiding the fury that blank refusal would bring. But she would not let it go — she had never let it go — and eventually there would be no excuses left. Suspicion that he was deceiving her would harden into conviction until she challenged him, twisting his feelings, relentlessly torturing him with bitter accusations of disbelief at his betrayal. Could he resist that?
*
Caroline Owen’s funeral took place on Monday morning. Louella Sinclair spotted Ted the moment she entered the church and flinched with rage when she saw that a woman was sitting next to him in the front pew. Had Daphne Gillie really dared to show her face at … but then the woman turned to speak to him and Louella recognised Jane Root. Having sat down and bowed her head in private prayers containing no conviction of the company of countless saints or Resurrection by the Son — wearing a hat had been her only concession to a religious faith which she and Caroline had stopped arguing over years ago — she looked round. The service was due to start in a few minutes and it seemed that Caroline had attracted about fifty people to make their farewells; not a bad average for a woman with a small family. Apart from Ted and Jane, there was nobody Louella recognised, nobody who looked as though they were the middle-aged version of some half-forgotten youthful face from the Sixties. Pity. That could have offered the opportunity to probe other memories; she had only been able to trace two people from the old days.
As soft organ music played and latecomers discreetly made their way in, Louella thought over what Maltravers had told her when he phoned after the visit to Porlock. His suggestion that Jenni Hilton could have killed Barry had not shocked her; she had always been convinced that somebody had done it, why not Jenni? She may have been one of those people cloaked in the public’s belief that the famous are different, somehow protected from everyday reality, but behind the glitter of their lifestyle, they were like everybody else. Fame offered no magic shield against life’s pressures and insistences.
There was a movement to her right and she looked round to see that Maltravers and Tess had joined her.
“Hello,” he whispered. “All right?”
“Just about. I’m glad there’s somebody here I know.”
“We’ll get through it.” He squeezed her hand and smiled and Tess reached across him to do the same.
“Have you done anything about that detective who is trying to find Jenni?” Louella asked softly.
“I’m going to see him after this and try to find out what’s going on. I d
on’t like … ”
Maltravers stopped as the voice of the priest began to speak from behind them and the coffin was carried down the aisle and laid on trestles in front of the altar. The six bearers — employees of the funeral director who had never met Caroline — stood with solemnly bowed heads and clasped hands for a moment of meaningless salutation to another anonymous body, then they walked out and the service began. Louella had half expected Latin and swirls of incense, but it appeared that Caroline had wanted the barest minimum her church provided. The priest’s genuine personal regret came through his pastoral duty and Louella had caught several tears on the fingers of purple gloves before everyone left the church and walked to a waiting grave and the painful last moments. As the coffin was slowly lowered, she only had thoughts for more than twenty years of shared friendship; as it finished and she watched the priest shake Ted Owen’s hand in sympathy, anger that Caroline was dead flooded back into her. She trembled and felt Maltravers, who was standing next to her, take hold of her arm comfortingly. Tokens of earth fell on hollow wood and Louella wept.
“Come on,” Maltravers said gently as it all finished. “They can’t bury good memories.” Still holding her arm, he led her away from the grave. Jane Root was standing on the path.
“It’s a bastard, isn’t it?” Her voice was weak with grief. Louella smiled sadly in agreement and the two women embraced each other.
Murder in Waiting (Augustus Maltravers Mystery Book 5) Page 14