“There’s no official wake, but I’m going for a drink with a couple of our authors,” Jane told her. “Do you want to come?”
“No, thanks. I think I’d rather be on my own.”
“OK. Keep in touch, won’t you?”
“Of course I will.” Louella looked over Jane’s head and saw Ted Owen walking towards the gate, talking to someone she did not know. “I saw you sitting next to Ted in church. I had the idea you’d come together.”
“No, it was just chance. This is only the second time I’ve met him.” Jane took her hand. “I really need that drink. I’ll call you sometime.”
With a faint smile at Maltravers, she turned and walked to where an elderly man was waiting with a young woman and slipped her arm into his. The trio slowly made their way out of the churchyard.
“Good-morning. If you’d like to go back into the church for a few minutes … ” Trying to speak to all the mourners, the priest had reached them.
Louella looked back at Caroline’s grave, waiting for its smothering of dead earth.
“I won’t find her there,” she replied and swiftly walked away. The priest watched her go unhappily.
“It’s all right,” Maltravers told him. “She’ll appreciate the offer later. It’s just that I think she keeps her God somewhere else. Thank you.”
He and Tess followed Louella out of the churchyard to where she was standing by her car, fumbling in her bag for keys.
“Let me come with you,” Tess suggested. “You really shouldn’t be on your own.”
“I’m all right.” Louella found the keys and unlocked the door. “I’m going back to the shop and the act will see me through.” There was anguish in her face as she looked at Maltravers. “Just find out why they killed her.”
He put his arms round her. “I’ll try. I want to know as well. We’ll be in touch.” Louella kissed Tess then got into the car and drove away.
“How are you going to do it?” Tess asked.
“I don’t know. All I’ve got to go on at the moment is that someone’s trying to find Jenni Hilton. Perhaps there are some answers there.”
*
Maltravers had somehow expected that Bedford’s office would have the traditional seediness of fiction. Instead, the panel in the foyer indicated that the agency was on the third floor, sandwiched between a solicitor and a design company, and he stepped from the lift into a carpeted corridor complete with a well-cared for breadfruit plant in a copper pot next to a door with the agency’s name stencilled on mottled glass. A smart receptionist was operating a word-processor in a spotless office and Bedford himself turned out to have the features of a rather kindly judge and the discreet suit of a bank manager.
“I know you said you’d call, but I trust you realise I’m not going to be able to tell you anything,” he said, waving Maltravers to a chair. “Unless you can convince me that I’ve been tricked into doing something illegal, of course.”
“I’m not sure about convincing you,” Maltravers replied. “But first off, I expect you to keep this conversation as secret as the rest of your business.”
“That goes without saying. Discretion is everything in this job.”
Bedford’s eyes never wavered as he listened; he was obviously absorbing everything. Maltravers restricted himself to essential facts, omitting any suggestion that he suspected Jenni Hilton of murder or any other theories. He could make his point without them.
“And that’s it?” Bedford asked finally. “May I make a few comments?”
“Feel free. A new mind might help.”
The detective leant forward. “At the bottom line what have you got? A man died more than twenty years ago, a woman who knew him around that time died last week. There were inquests into both deaths; in one case it was put down as accidental, the other returned an open verdict. You know of nothing to suggest that the police weren’t satisfied on either occasion. Right?”
“They questioned Caroline’s husband and his girlfriend,” Maltravers reminded him. Bedford waved a dismissive hand.
“They checked them out as part of their inquiry and seem to have drawn a blank. It’s their job to be suspicious and it proves nothing. Let’s get on to what brought you here. You think Jenni Hilton has something to hide because she didn’t want this Kershaw mentioned in your interview, but you don’t know what it is. I’ve been asked to discover where she lives and you’re suggesting a connection. What is it?”
“If you won’t tell me who your client is, I can’t know.”
“And I’ve told you I can’t reveal that.”
“Even if there’s something sinister about it? From what I’ve told you, you’ve got to admit it’s a possibility.”
“With enough imagination, anything’s possible,” Bedford commented. “All I can say is that I’ll bear what you’ve told me in mind and if I have reason to suspect anything, believe me, I’ll do something about it. That’s my best offer … and if you find out anything definite, I’d like to know as well.”
“You will,” Maltravers assured him. “Incidentally, when we spoke on the phone, you said that your client could be someone chasing a bad debt. That suggests he or she is in business. Is that right, or is this a personal inquiry? Or can’t you even say that?”
“Not even that, I’m afraid. And I’m going to have to say that the bad debt comment was nothing more than an example of what it might have been. You picked it up smartly, but don’t read anything into it.”
Maltravers was dissatisfied, but had no other arguments to offer or any reason to become angry. Bedford clearly ran a respectable operation finding information which people had a right to know. Everything about the man indicated that he was honest.
“All right I’ve made my point.” He stood up. “Somehow I feel better having met you. I’d have been worried if you’d turned out to be like I expected.”
Bedford laughed. “Chandler and Bogart have got a lot to answer for. Between serving court summonses, chasing up people who’ve disappeared owing money and tracing witnesses for lawyers, this job’s about as exciting as market gardening. Can you see yourself out? I’ll be in touch if I need to. Believe me.”
Maltravers accepted the assurance and left; Bedford opened a drawer in his desk as he heard him say goodbye to the receptionist, stopped the tape recorder and pressed rewind. Had he guessed it was there? Probably, he was nobody’s fool and Bedford had been grateful that the conversation had not moved into areas where he would have had to lie; he felt that might have been spotted. He played back the comments about Barry Kershaw, then switched the machine off again.
“What are you up to, Terry?” he murmured to himself. “This isn’t just coincidence.”
He pulled a pad towards him and began to make notes. Was there any connection with Stephanie? Unlikely, because that had come after the first request to find Jenni Hilton’s address. This Barry Kershaw — Terry’s brother? cousin? uncle? father even? — had known her, so did Terry just want to meet her for old time’s sake? If so, why hadn’t he said that? Bedford did not have a rule that he must be told clients’ motives, unless he had some reason. In this case, there hadn’t been one. Insignia Motors were good customers, Terry was a damn sight more straight than many in that trade. Every job he’d asked to be done in the past had been legitimate, why shouldn’t this one be as well?
Bedford felt a vague unease as faint alarm bells grew fractionally louder. When he next reported on Stephanie, he’d raise it and see what the reaction was. But he rather wished Maltravers had been to see him before he had passed on Jenni Hilton’s address; knowing what he knew now, he might have pressed Terry Kershaw for some information before doing so.
*
Maltravers went straight from Bedford’s office to The Chronicle, less than ten minutes’ walk away. As he strolled up to Mike Fraser’s desk, the features editor threw down a manuscript he was reading as though grateful for an excuse to stop.
“I should never have commissioned this clown,”
he said. “I ask for an assessment of the new Education Bill and he gives me three pars on that, then eight hundred words of his memories of Winchester and how public schools make a man of you. Prat.”
“A drink will make you feel better,” Maltravers told him. “And I want to bounce some ideas off you and see what you think.”
Fraser looked at him sharply. “Sounds serious for a Monday morning.”
“Perhaps you’ll persuade me I’m over-reacting.”
They went to the Volunteer again, almost empty with more than an hour to go before most people’s lunch breaks, and sat on high stools against a shelf running under the windows. Maltravers had started to explain as they crossed the graveyard, and when they had collected their drinks, Fraser sat in complete silence while he listened to the rest.
“They teach you to keep quiet in the Samaritans, I assume,” Maltravers commented when he finished. “There were a dozen times when a journalist would have wanted to ask questions.”
“I suddenly find I’m wearing both hats,” Fraser replied. “This is worrying you, isn’t it?”
“A lot.” Maltravers sighed and contemplated the beer remaining in his glass. “Bedford’s straight enough. I can’t complain about how he found me, but … has anyone been in touch with the office asking where Jenni Hilton lives?”
“Not as far as I know. The only thing we could have done was invite them to write to us and we’d pass the letter on.”
“Then why didn’t whoever’s hired Bedford do that if they just wanted to contact her? If it was someone she didn’t want to know, she could have ignored the letter of course. So who needs to know where she is? And why?”
“It looks devious,” Fraser agreed. “Have you told her about this? You ought to.”
“I can’t at the moment. She told me she was going away the weekend the piece appeared to see her son in Exeter. She’s due back the day after tomorrow.”
“Then you can assume that she’s safe enough there,” Fraser commented. “There’s also no guarantee that this Bedford character will manage to find the address and pass it on.”
“I’m not counting on that. Even in London, if someone’s looking hard enough they’ll find you eventually. Jenni Hilton isn’t a hermit but her movements will be within a limited area. Bedford’s quite capable of working that out. It’s only a matter of time.”
“Well, you can leave it lie for a couple of days,” Fraser pointed out. “As long as she’s out of town, she can’t be in any danger, even if someone finds her address … And is she really in any danger?”
“Until I know otherwise, she could be.”
Fraser grimaced in agreement. “As I see it, the only person you know of who could be mixed up somehow is this Ted Owen. Why not face him with it? If he’s not involved, there’s nothing lost and if he is but denies it at least he’ll know you’re suspicious.”
Maltravers looked dubious as he tapped his own chest. “This is not the stuff of which Boys’ Own heroes are made. I have no wish to end up down a dark alley with my head bashed in.”
“Bit over-dramatic,” Fraser commented.
“Maybe. But everybody who knew Barry Kershaw is convinced he was murdered. I’ve got a theory that Jenni Hilton did it, but for all I know it might have been Ted Owen. There could have been a connection between him and Kershaw that I haven’t found yet. However, I’m as positive as I can be that he was involved in killing his wife. He could be making a habit of it. Perhaps murder’s like adultery — it’s easier after the first time.”
“You speak from experience?”
“Only of adultery.”
Chapter Fifteen
“Minister, the question many people — including some backbenchers in your own party — are asking is how the Government can propose what they see as cuts in the money available to state schools, while at the same time increasing the tax benefits that public schools enjoy. Labour says this is hurting ordinary people at the expense of the privileged. What do you have to say to these criticisms?”
The politician granted the television interviewer a smile that combined resigned acceptance that such a question should be asked with a faintly sympathetic amazement that any creature able to walk upright could be unable to see the unarguable wisdom of Government policy.
“The first point of course is that there are no cuts,” he said smoothly. “Let that be clearly understood. The White Paper talks of rationalisation, a determination to get better value for money. With regard to the public schools policy, you must completely separate the issues here. It’s very important not to confuse the two, they’re nothing to do with each other. Britain’s public schools are, and have been for many years, centres of excellence. Not the only ones of course — many of our state schools maintain the highest standards — but private education makes an enormous contribution. The Labour party has always refused to recognise this, and when their spokesman says that … ”
Maltravers yawned as the glib response moved away from the question and into political sniping. Told what to say by ingenious civil servants, advised on how to dress, gesture, even comb their hair by experts on personal presentation, senior politicians knew exactly how to appear totally reasonable while defending any policy, however ludicrous or dictated by party prejudice. All sides were as good — or as bad — as the others at doing it. He had turned on Newsnight for another item on Monday evening and was too idle either to turn the set off or even get up and press the mute button on the remote control as he waited for the following programme on Iris Murdoch. As he stared at the screen without taking very much in, Jenni Hilton, Barry Kershaw, Louella Sinclair, Caroline Owen, Jack Buxton, Ted Owen and Daphne Gillie, even Alan Bedford, floated about his mind, tangled and inviting theories. Suppose that … No, that makes no sense. How about … but that can’t be true, because if it were then …
“How bloody stupid!”
Engrossed in an entertaining but questionably accurate piece in Private Eye, Tess jumped as he shouted, then her attention switched to the television screen.
“ … so it is for schools that opt out of local authority control to decide how best to spend their resources. The Government will merely provide a framework, we will not tell them what they should do. And that sort of freedom is exactly what Labour would deny them if … ”
“You don’t usually get so excited,” she remarked mildly. “What did he say that was especially idiotic?”
“He actually said something that made sense … No, I don’t mean that, I’ve hardly been listening.” Maltravers was sitting up in his chair, suddenly animated. “He said that two things — whatever they were — had to be kept separate, that they shouldn’t be confused with each other. That’s it.”
“That’s what?” Tess asked uncertainly.
Maltravers replied rather slowly, thinking through ramifications as he spoke. “We’ve got to separate Kershaw’s death from Caroline’s. Look at them as though they’re absolutely unconnected.”
“But we’ve always thought that … ”
“Precisely,” he interrupted. “Because they knew each other and because both their deaths were suspicious, we automatically jumped to the conclusion that there was a connection and may have been completely wasting time looking for it. But … think of it this way. Assume that I and any one of — I don’t know — probably twenty-odd other journalists in London was murdered tomorrow. If the police traced our careers back far enough, they’d find we worked together at some point. But that wouldn’t mean our deaths had anything in common. We knew each other years ago, but after that our lives had gone their different ways. You see what I’m getting at?”
Tess nodded. “Yes, I do. Louella said she’d been able to trace hardly any of the crowd from the Sixties. They’re scattered all over the place. They’ve lost touch.”
“But Caroline had stayed in London — and kept in touch with Louella,” said Maltravers. “Because that link from the Sixties had remained in place, we’ve been hung up on the idea that th
ere had to be another connecting Kershaw’s and Caroline’s deaths. So kick that into touch and start again.”
“Right.” Instantly grasping the situation, Tess’s mind was working as fast as his. “Barry Kershaw was almost certainly murdered, but that’s nothing to do with Caroline’s death … So was she murdered? Or is the accident theory right?”
“Possibly,” he acknowledged, “but there were doubts about it. The police thought it was worth checking and discovered that Daphne Gillie was near Tottenham Court Road station at the wrong time. But there was no motive they could see and they dropped it. What else is there?”
“There’s the engagement of course,” Tess reminded him. “None of us can understand why that’s happened so quickly — and the marriage is suddenly being arranged in a hurry. Is that relevant?”
Maltravers stood up and began to pace, adrenalising his brain with physical movement. “It’s certainly inexplicable. Before Caroline died, they were prepared to wait, suddenly they go into overdrive … just a minute! There was something that Jane Root told me. She once heard part of a phone conversation between Caroline and Ted. She was saying she wouldn’t go along with a divorce, and … What the hell was it? I questioned Jane about it at the time, because — That’s it. Caroline said something about not caring how much money was involved.”
“You never mentioned this,” Tess said.
“It didn’t seem relevant when we were running around looking for connections with Barry Kershaw. It turned out there was no hassle over money involving Caroline and Ted. Everything had been settled when they split up and Scimitar Press is hardly worth a fortune. He’ll get about twenty thousand pounds top weight when it’s sold. At his sort of income level, that’s not worth falling out over, let alone killing for … so Caroline must have been talking about some other money. So what was it?” “Whatever it was, it seems to be tied up with the divorce,” Tess observed. “Did they own a house, which … ?”
“No.” Frustration that they might be on to something they could not see made Maltravers snap with impatience. “They’d sold the house when they separated and shared out the money. They’d done everything to end the marriage except sign on the dotted line.”
Murder in Waiting (Augustus Maltravers Mystery Book 5) Page 15