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Murder in Waiting (Augustus Maltravers Mystery Book 5)

Page 19

by Robert Richardson


  “Just let me write this down so I don’t forget it.” Maltravers scribbled Terry Kershaw’s details from Bedford’s file. “OK. One more call first though. I’ve left Jenni Hilton’s number at home. Do you still have it?”

  “Move over.” Fraser sat down and logged on to the computer keyboard. He called up a file named “Contacts”, then put “sf Jenni” in the command field. The screen went blank for a few seconds as the machine searched then text flicked back again, the cursor blinking at the end of the name. “There you are.” He pushed back his chair as Maltravers leant forward to read, picking up the phone again to call the number. After holding for a half a minute, he rang off.

  “No reply. She can’t be back from Exeter yet.”

  “So if you haven’t any more panic calls to make, you’ve got time to explain haven’t you?”

  Maltravers leant against the desk as the unaccustomed effort of running caught up with him. “I know who’s looking for Jenni Hilton.” By the time he had finished, he had calmed down, but the situation still frightened him.

  “Let’s take it a step at a time,” Fraser said. “Has this Bedford found her and passed the address on?”

  “I think he must have done — and that must have happened before I first went to see him on Monday. He’s obviously got doubts about what’s going on because he wanted to know more from me. If he hadn’t already given Kershaw the address, he could have handled it himself and refused to if necessary.”

  “All right, so assume that Kershaw knew her address by Monday. Nothing’s happened since because she’s away, but due back today. When?”

  “I don’t know. If she went by train, she’ll arrive at Paddington, but I can’t hang around waiting for every arrival.”

  “You could,” Fraser corrected. “But you might miss her. Why not do a stakeout at her house? On the other hand, you still don’t know why Kershaw wants to find her. There could be nothing to worry about.”

  “We’ve been through that. It’s too devious to be trusted.” Fraser indicated the telephone. “Where did they say he was?”

  “Just out. I didn’t think to ask where.”

  “Let me try.” Fraser took the memo pad from Maltravers and called Insignia Motors. “Mr Kershaw, please. Not there? Is there any way of reaching him? It’s The Chronicle newspaper here and it’s rather urgent … I see. Thank you. I’ll call back then.” He rang off. “Board meeting of some benevolent society. Can’t be contacted. Sounds genuine.”

  “I’ll control my panic for the time being,” Maltravers said. “She’s still not home anyway. I’m meeting Tess for lunch and I’ll try after that. Incidentally, is Matt Hoffman in?”

  “Look in home news. I saw him there earlier.”

  “Thanks. Look, Mike, I’m sorry to come in here like a bat out of hell, but — ”

  “Don’t apologise,” Fraser interrupted. “If you’re right — and I can’t knock down your suggestions — then we’re mixed up here as well. I don’t think the editor would be over the moon at having helped someone to commit murder, however inadvertently.”

  “Murder?” Maltravers winced. “It’s not just me being hysterical, then. You think that as well.”

  “I think it’s safest to think that. Perhaps we’re both wrong. Anyway, I’ve got work to do. Go and see Matt.”

  Hoffman was leaving for lunch, but stopped and listened to Maltravers with increasing appreciation as he told him the story behind Caroline Owen’s death.

  “It could be sub judice in a hurry,” he said. “But there’s still the background stuff after the trial. Remember our deal. Nobody else gets it.”

  “Exclusive to The Chronicle” Maltravers promised. “Eat your heart out, Rupert Murdoch.”

  “See you around.”

  *

  Not many people on the Tube. Wish that man would stop staring at me though. All wrong that. People never look at each other. They read the adverts, look at the floor, even out of the window in a tunnel. That’s better, he’s looking at that girl now. Don’t want anyone to remember me. Who remembers? Close your eyes. Can you remember anyone else in the carriage — apart from him opposite? Of course you can’t. They won’t remember you, either. Where are we? Finchley Road? That’s not on the Circle Line. God, it’s the wrong train. Get off, Maureen. Damn, the doors are closing. What’s the next stop? Can’t see … it can’t be Wembley Park, that’s miles away. You stupid cow. You got on the Metropolitan line at King’s Cross. It’ll take ages to get back … Don’t make a fuss. People will remember that. It’s all right, there’s plenty of time. That’s a joke. After more than twenty years, what’s another half-hour or so? What’s an hour? It’s all right, Barry. Mum made one of her mistakes, that’s all. She’ll put it right. Not long now. Back to … where is it? Baker Street. That’s right. Then make sure you read the signs. Circle Line round to Sloane Square. Barry used to shop there. Bet it’s not as good as it was then. Wait for me there, love. Mum’s coming.

  *

  Reading was the last stop before London and Jenni Hilton picked up the memories which had started when they passed through on the way to Exeter. She’d been singing with the band in … the nightclub’s name still wouldn’t come back, but she could remember its tawdry glitter, the dirt and squalor of the dressing-room with its stench of stale beer behind the cheap sophistication of midnight blue wallpaper, vulgar lighting and plastic fittings of the main room. They’d been introduced as “one of London’s top groups” and the set had been mainly standard rock numbers with only ‘Smoke Gets in Your Eyes’ to slow the tempo down and give the dancers the chance to smooch. While they were packing up afterwards, the compere had said there was a man asking for her and she had nearly refused to see him; letting herself be pulled after every gig had lost its teenage excitement. But she had agreed and it had been Stephen Delaney from Decca, who invited them to record a demo disc. That was when daydream talk of making it had turned into a roller coaster on which you screamed with delight and terror. She never slept with Stephen — Geoff the drummer did that — but he had persuaded her to go solo and held her hand through a lot of bad nights. It was through him that she had met Barry Kershaw.

  As the train pulled out, she opened The Face again, burying the past before it became too agonising and hateful.

  *

  Tess glanced at her watch as Maltravers hurried down the stairs into Joe Allen’s. “I thought you’d got lost. I’ve just ordered salads for both of us and asked them to hold yours.”

  “I want to eat fast,” he told her. “I’ll feel happier when I’m waiting for Jenni Hilton on her doorstep.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I now know who’s been trying to find her address — and I think Bedford may have given it to him. He’s called Terry Kershaw.”

  “Terry Kershaw? Is he a relation?”

  “What else can he be?” Maltravers waved over a waiter and asked for his meal to be served with Tess’s. “He works for a motor dealers on the North Circular near Hanger Lane. My guess is he’s fairly high powered. He could be Barry Kershaw’s son, although Louella never said anything about him having a family. Anyway, whoever he is, he’s trouble. Jenni’s due back today and I want to warn her. I’ve tried calling, but there’s no reply.”

  “But what are you going to tell her?” Tess asked.

  “The fact that someone called Kershaw’s trying to find her should be enough. What she’s prepared to tell me is something else. Oh, good.”

  He leant back as the waiter arrived with their food, said he didn’t want to test the house white and told Tess the details of his visit to Bedford as they began to eat. When they finished, he asked for the bill then went to phone Jenni Hilton again. He was about to ring off when she answered.

  “Jenni Hilton? Gus Maltravers. You’re back.”

  “I’ve only been in a few minutes. I was upstairs when the phone rang. How are you? I loved your piece and thank you for keeping out — ”

  “I’m not calling for
compliments,” he interrupted. “There’s something important I’ve got to tell you. I can come round and explain in detail, but the point is that … ”

  “Pardon? This is a dreadful line. Can you speak up? Did you say … Oh, hell, there’s someone at the door. Hang on a second.” She put down the receiver.

  “Good-afternoon. I’ve come for the RSPCA envelope.”

  “Sorry? What envelope?”

  “We put them through all the doors the other day. It’s for the animals. You know, the charity.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ve been away. Look, I’m just on … No wait a moment. I’ll get my bag.”

  She went into the front room and was searching for her purse when she heard the front door close. It didn’t usually do that on its own. Pulling out a ten-pound note she turned round and saw the woman standing in the doorway.

  “Oh. I didn’t mean … It’s all right. Here you are. You’ve got a tin or something? Oh, in your bag … ”

  In Joe Allen’s, Maltravers stiffened as he heard a scream. “Hello! Hello! Jenni!” There was the sound as though something or someone had fallen and another cry, fainter than the first. “Jenni! What is it? Shit and derision!”

  He slammed the phone down and almost ran back to the table where the waiter was just placing the bill by his chair.

  “Thanks. Keep the change.” Maltravers grabbed a random handful of notes from his wallet, dropped them on the plate and turned to a startled Tess. “Come on.”

  By the time she reached the top of the stairs, she saw him racing towards Burleigh Street. She sprinted after him and caught up as he reached the Strand.

  “What the hell’s the matter?” she demanded.

  “Don’t know, but I think it’s serious.” He waved violently at a taxi, but the driver didn’t see him. “Damn. There’s another … Christ Almighty!”

  He was glaring in frustration as a second cab ignored him, when a piercing whistle shrieked from behind and the driver glanced towards the sound and pulled into the kerb. As he turned round, Tess was lowering the fingers of her right hand from her mouth.

  “Girl Guides,” she explained. “Stopped doing it when I decided it wasn’t ladylike. Tell me inside.”

  They dashed along the pavement and scrambled in. Maltravers stooped forward to speak to the driver through the sliding glass panel, taking out his wallet again. “Twelve Cheyne Street, Chelsea. And this is for breaking all records. We’re in one hell of a hurry.”

  The driver glanced at the twenty-pound note appreciatively and the vehicle made a U-turn across the traffic as though the flashing indicator projected some magic beam which cleared roads instantly as Maltravers half fell back into the seat beside Tess.

  “I take it that something is up,” she said.

  “In spades,” Maltravers replied grimly, and told her what he had heard down the phone. “Christ knows what’s happened. Come on!”

  He groaned as the cab was momentarily stuck behind a bus before breaking free, speeding across Trafalgar Square, under Admiralty Arch and into The Mall. Passing in front of Buckingham Palace, they went through a gap between two cars which appeared narrower than the vehicle itself — a standard manoeuvre among London cabbies — and headed towards Pimlico. The traffic lights seemed endless, but after what felt like an eternity they reached Cheyne Street and pulled up outside Jenni Hilton’s house. Maltravers checked his watch.

  “Under fifteen minutes at this time of day. We picked the right cab. Thanks a lot. Here you are.”

  “Breaks the monotony, this sort of fare.” The driver winked at him as he accepted the money. “Someone having a baby, is it?”

  “That sort of thing.”

  Tess was already at the front door holding the bell down. “What do we do if there’s no reply?”

  “Break a window if necessary. I’m not in the mood to … ”

  He grabbed hold of the brass knocker and hammered it fiercely against the door. “Jesus Christ, answer!”

  A delay of seconds was too long for him. He leapt off the steps to where the cab was about to pull away. “Hang on. We need the police. Can you call them on your radio?”

  The driver looked at him guardedly. “I got you here, friend. I don’t want to get mixed up in anything else.”

  “There isn’t time to explain, but this is a crisis! For Christ’s sake, can you grasp that?”

  As Maltravers glared desperately through the open window, it seemed for a moment as though the cabbie was going to drive off, but then he pushed the gear stick into neutral and reached down for something on the floor by his feet.

  “This isn’t happening. Right?” he said as he stepped out. He went up to the steps and inserted the crowbar he was carrying between door and frame next to the lock then leant his weight against it. Wood protested then split as the door sprang open.

  “If you need the coppers, then you call them,” he said. “I haven’t got time to waste making statements. This is none of my business and you didn’t see me break this door. OK?”

  “Never saw you in my life,” Maltravers agreed. “Thanks a lot.”

  The driver turned away as they entered the house. On the hall table, the receiver was still lying by the telephone. Maltravers took hold of Tess’s arm and pulled her behind him.

  “Careful,” he warned. “I don’t know what we’re walking into.” Keeping close to the wall, he cautiously moved to where he could see into the front room, one eye on the stairs rising out of the hall. Tess watched him, anxious and apprehensive. Maureen Kershaw appeared in the doorway, blood trickling from a cut on her forehead. Maltravers had never seen more hatred in a human face.

  “Where is she?” The question hissed with insane urgency. “Where’s the bitch who killed my Barry?” Her eyes darted to the right and glittered with madness as she saw Tess. It was as though Maltravers was invisible. “There you are. Nowhere to hide now, is there?”

  Stunned by her appearance, Maltravers almost froze as she leapt down the hall. As she passed him and Tess screamed, he savagely kicked the old woman’s leg then collapsed on her as she fell with a cry of pain. The bayonet flew out of her hand and Tess snatched it from the floor.

  “Find Jenni!” Maltravers gasped as he pinned the struggling Maureen Kershaw down. “At least she hasn’t killed her.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tess ignored the front room; if Jenni Hilton had been there, Maureen Kershaw would not have come looking for her. The sitting-room was empty, as was the kitchen at the rear of the house, and the door leading to the walled garden was still bolted on the inside. She dashed back into the hall where Maltravers was helping the old woman to her feet and raced upstairs. As she burst through the first door she saw, there was a cry of terror. Jenni Hilton was standing in the far corner, staring at her in horror.

  "‘It’s all right … Christ, sorry.” Tess threw down the bayonet she was still holding. “I’m Tess Davy. Gus’s girlfriend. He rang you from Joe Allen’s and heard … hold on!”

  She dashed across the room as Jenni Hilton’s eyes glazed and she began to crumple. She caught her below the shoulders. The left arm felt sticky and the woman cried out in pain. Tess instinctively pulled her hand away from the purple material of the dress and saw that her palm was blotched with red.

  “Come on.” She guided Jenni to the edge of the bed and sat her down, then took hold of the edges of the slash in the dress’s sleeve and ripped it wider. The wound gaped like an open mouth but was not deep.

  “My first aid’s rusty, but it doesn’t look serious,” Tess said reassuringly. There was a box of tissues on the bedside table and she grabbed a handful, pressing them on to the running blood. “Got any bandages?”

  “Bathroom,” Jenni mumbled. “In the cupboard.”

  Tess settled her against the headboard of the bed. “Stay upright and hold those tissues in place. Back in a moment.”

  As she stepped on to the landing, Maltravers appeared at the top of the stairs.

  “How are things
down there?” she asked.

  “She’s passed out. Where’s Jenni?”

  Tess indicated the bedroom. “I’m getting something to patch her up. She’s all right.”

  When Tess returned with lint, a roll of bandage, Dettol and sticking plaster, Maltravers was sitting next to Jenni Hilton, holding her hand. He supported her as Tess bound up the wound and made a makeshift sling from a scarf she found in a chest of drawers.

  “That’ll do for the time being,” she said as she finished. “It doesn’t look as though it needs stitches, but you ought to go to hospital.”

  “No.” Jenni Hilton had said nothing while Tess had been treating her, but now her voice was firm and determined. “I just need a drink. Where’s … where’s that woman?”

  “Downstairs,” Maltravers told her. “You know who she is, of course.”

  “No, I don’t. I’ve never seen her before in my life.”

  “Perhaps not, but you still know she’s Barry Kershaw’s mother.”

  Jenni Hilton sank back against the headboard and closed her eyes. “How much do you know?” she asked wearily.

  “Not all of it, but a lot,” he replied. “When I telephoned, I was trying to warn you that someone called Kershaw was looking for you. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you know in time.”

  His head whirled towards the bedroom door as he heard a sound from the hall. “Hell, she’s come round. Wait here.”

  As he reached the top of the stairs, Maureen Kershaw was standing outside the front-room door, supporting herself against a chair. She glared up at him resentfully as he went down.

  “Who are you?” she demanded as he got to the last step. “The Old Bill?”

  “No,” he said. “If I was, you’d be in a lot of trouble. The police don’t like things like this and neither do I.”

  “Then you can get knotted.” The fierceness of her voice still retained the driving force of a rage which had sustained her for twenty years. “This is nobody’s business but mine.”

  “And Terry’s,” Maltravers commented.

 

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