‘No.’ Charmian gazed at the front of her house. ‘But I’ll just take a look round. Where’s the cat?’
‘With Birdie and the dog. She says they are getting on together and not fighting.’
‘It’s never the dog,’ said Charmian. ‘Always Muff.’ The cat was better at it too, a born scrapper, whereas Benjy liked to take life quietly and gently, annoying no one. He came from a long line of distinguished gun dogs, but he was no sportsman. By temperament he would have run with the fox rather than hunted with the hounds.
Kate and George Rewley told Charmian to watch out for the floorboards in the hall as they had been taken up to check on the wiring. Which was all right, she would be glad to hear, so the electrics were useable. If she was determined to go in, that is. They were on their way home, then going to a concert.
‘How’s Dolly?’ she called after them.
‘Working hard,’ George called back.
Once inside the house she could see that a start on tidying after the fire had already been made. The kitchen had been cleaned, with china and cooking pots bright and cleansed.
All over the house the curtains had been taken down and had disappeared, presumably to be cleaned. She could detect Kate’s hand in all this.
She opened drawers and cupboards to investigate her clothes, but having been protected they did not smell of smoke. Well, not too badly. She moved her clothes along the rail to inspect and check.
No, nothing in here needed to be sent away. She might rinse through one or two of the shirts and blouses just to be sure. She didn’t want to sit next to someone at a meeting or a committee and smell of smoke. She held a silk shirt to her nose. No, sweet and fresh. She kept lavender bags on the hangers, which helped.
In front of her was the outfit, no longer in its first use but still nice looking, which had figured in the photograph on Nella Fisher’s wall.
She closed the door on the clothes. She thought of all the things that had happened to her in those clothes, some good, some bad. That had been quite a case.
If she had made an enemy in any case, that would be the one to do it. Jake Henley had been involved, but he had not gone to prison. However, his profits from his criminal enterprises had certainly been slashed for a period. Perhaps more importantly, he had lost face.
She had clipped his wings and insulted him at the same time. She remembered some of the things she had said.
She could not remember the exact words she had used but contempt certainly came into it and other things besides. The newspapers had edited out some of her crisper phrases in their reports of the case.
Of course, a lot of other people had been involved as well, a whole host of minor parasites and hangers-on ranging from the photographers who took the pictures to the people who let their premises be used for the sessions.
As she left the house, she thought about Nella Fisher. If Nella had had that photograph on her wall, then she had known of Charmian and who she was. She must have had a pretty good idea that Charmian was the real person under threat from Jake Henley. Not Dolly Barstow, not Kate.
But she had put on a show, told a lot of different stories. Well, possibly she had had hopes of getting money out of Kate. As she nearly had done. Kate would probably have come across if Nella had not got killed first.
Charmian unlocked her car. Nella was a confused kid, it looks clear to you now, she told herself, but that’s hindsight. Not the same for her, maybe, you had to allow for human blindness. And heaven knows the girl had had reason not to see events clearly.
Charmian started the car. She had to decide where to go now. Back to London?
Unpredictably (she must be more tired than she had thought) she found herself driving past the Incident Room in River Walk. The windows were dark. Not much, if anything, going on there tonight. After all, they had Jake Henley.
Without thinking very much about it, she turned the car round and drove back to Maid of Honour Row. She unlocked the door of her house and went in. She’d take that job on offer here. It went without saying now, the decision had made itself.
She made up her bed with fresh linen, undressed and curled up comfortably.
It was good to be home.
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday, October 26
The next morning, while Charmian was driving off to London, planning a full day of normal work, the street-sweeper’s wife waited for her husband to go off to work, then she put on her coat and packed a parcel wrapped first in plastic and then in newspaper. She made a neat job of it and it fitted on top of her bicycle so that she could push it round to the nearest police station and hand it in, as was her plan.
She had read in the paper about the murders in Merrywick and thought she knew her duty. The rain cape might have something to do with the deaths so she must let the police have it. In any case, she didn’t want to keep it a minute longer. It was an unholy object in her opinion and made her skin creep.
She had given up the idea of taking it to Chief Inspector Father, about whom she had made a few enquiries. Now she knew his rank he seemed too grand for her to call on as a friend, and a mere forgotten bit of his past she would not be. But she had a more personal and feminine reason for avoiding him: she had put on weight and her hair was grey. There were more than a few wrinkles as well. She was no longer the pretty, flighty blonde piece he had known.
Better let that girl rest in peace and not be dug up with a start of surprise. Or worse, he might not recognise her at all.
But she had remembered a young policewoman called Barstow who had been very kind over a little matter of a shop-lifting charge of which she had definitely not been guilty, although the magistrates had been hard to convince. Dolly Barstow had been understanding then and could be counted upon, she thought, to be helpful now.
Besides, she was performing a public service in returning what might be vital evidence in a murder case.
All the same, she felt jumpy as she approached the Alexandra Road police station. Not a place with happy memories. She slowed down to a crawl as she approached.
To her great relief she saw Sergeant Barstow herself in the process of parking her car. With a tentative, nervous smile, she approached to do her duty.
‘Hello, love,’ she said, putting her hand trustingly on Dolly’s arm. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’ She started to fumble at the parcel on the front of her bike.
‘What is it?’ Dolly looked at her. ‘It’s Mrs Arthur, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’ She had the parcel open now. ‘ Here it is. It’s a rain cape. Army stuff, I think. My husband found it in a bin in Merrywick.’
‘So?’
Mrs Arthur was pulling at her exhibit. ‘ I read the papers; I know about the murders. I think it’s evidence.’ She pointed. ‘Look at this blood.’
Dolly opened her mouth to say: If it’s evidence then don’t touch it. But she reflected that if it had been in a bin and been removed by Mr Arthur and packed up by Mrs Arthur, then it was probably too late to worry about fingerprints. Forensic traces would have survived.
‘But it’s this I didn’t like,’ said Mrs Arthur. She was pointing to a stained patch of dried blood to which were stuck a few strands of ginger and white hair. That’s dog. Dog hair.’
‘Right. Come on then, bring it with you and come with me. You’ll have to make a statement,’
‘What, me?’ Mrs Arthur started to pull away. ‘No, no not me. I don’t want to make a statement.’
Dolly took her arm. ‘Come on, I’ll look after you. You’ve got to do it.’ And your husband too, she told herself, but I’ll break that to you later.
The vet from the Windsor and Slough Dispensary for sick animals also read the papers. Not as regularly as Mrs Arthur, but with much the same technique: she saved them up in a pile and got at them when she had time. On the same day that Mrs Arthur pushed her bundle up the hill to Alexandria Road police station, the vet finished her stint of reading for the week.
‘Bet
ter do something about this dog,’ she said to herself, reaching for the telephone. Unlike Mrs Arthur she had no intention of appearing personally.
She got through to the duty sergeant at Alexandria Road who put her through to Inspector Elman in the River Walk Incident Room. She could hear the buzz of activity in the background, but she got an attentive listener.
‘Yeah, the dog was in a bad way. A bitch, actually … A nasty wound, gunshot, I thought, just a glancing blow, a flesh wound but it must have bled … The man? Well, it was a stinking wet night and he was all done up in rainclothes and a cap. Dark spectacles as well. I might recognise him.’
‘Would you know the dog again?’ asked Elman.
‘Oh, I’d know the dog. Never forget a patient. If he’s still got it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If he follows the treatment I laid out, then the dog should make a nice recovery. If he doesn’t, it’ll be dead.’
The two pieces of new information were absorbed by Inspector Elman, who was grateful enough. It was time for the case to move, and these two items might just be a sign that it was about to do so.
‘Never rains but it pours,’ he said. ‘ But still, you couldn’t call this a downpour exactly, could you? Just a few helpful drops from which we might or might not get something.’
He sat back, and accepted a cup of coffee.
‘So, we have a description of the man who is possibly the murderer of Marg Foggerty. Possibly. Then, just possibly again, we have the rain cape he wore.’ He still thought it could have been Jake Henley all togged up like that.
The description of the man and the dog was circulated, while the cape was sent off for intensive study.
By this time both Inspector Elman and Chief Inspector Father knew that Charmian was back in residence in Maid of Honour Row, having been informed of her return by Sergeant Vander.
‘She shouldn’t be there, and I don’t want her there, but she is and we will have to wear it.’ Vander added more cheerfully: ‘Still, you’ve got Henley. Hang on to him, will you?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Elman. ‘ We’re moving him today from Slough Road to a safer nick. Too many friends for comfort, that boyo.’
‘Tell you what, you’d better do your best. Look after the lady. She’s coming your way as a boss.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Elman suspiciously, well aware that Vander had sources of information denied to him. Rumours he had heard himself, but this sounded more definite.
‘I can smell out that sort of thing,’ said Vander.
‘You look after her. It’s your job.’
‘I’ll do my bit, if you’ll do yours,’ said Vander, not quite laughing.
Charmian was not told about the finding of the cape, or of the call from the vet, because there was nothing yet to tell about them.
In the early afternoon of that day, she went out shopping to buy something, anything, frivolous and feminine.
‘As I am a woman, and not a substitute man,’ she told herself, ‘I shall behave like a woman and still do my job.’
She bought herself a red cashmere shawl, edged with fur. It was beautiful, expensive and probably of limited use, but it satisfied a hole inside her, like a cream cake or a rich chocolate might sometimes do.
On the way back to her office, she ran into a colleague. ‘Celebrating the new job?’ she was asked.
The name on the bag which contained her purchase was a giveaway. Browns.
‘Just felt like it.’
‘You won’t find working down there like working in London,’ said the colleague, who always knew the score. ‘Living there, too. Might be a disadvantage.’
‘I might move to live in London,’ said Charmian defiantly.
‘Of course, it’s a plum job. And if a national detective force is formed, as looks likely, you’ll be well in, nicely placed in a very good position.’ A nod of the head. ‘Yes, all in all, you’ve made a good career move. You’ll make enemies, but it‘ll be worth it. Probably.’
As she went into her office, to hide her purchase away from her secretary, Charmian recognised that she had been silently admitted to the bleeding company of career soldiers.
And as she drove home, the red cashmere draped across the seat next to her because she wanted to see it, she acknowledged a truth.
You did make enemies. She had made enemies, there was one outside looking for her now.
‘Having an enemy’ made it a very passive relationship, made you a victim.
Put it differently, she told herself: he is your enemy but you are his enemy. That was active. In other words, don’t sit there waiting for your enemy to attack you, but go and get him. Of course, they had Jake Henley.
Not all the answers, though, and that concerned her. There never were all the answers in matters of this sort, although you wanted to know them.
She parked outside her house in Maid of Honour Row, observing with satisfaction that workmen and decorators had already been active. The windows and door had been restored to normal … Paint had been applied and a notice pointed out that it was still wet.
So she went in through the back door to the kitchen. Here there was still disorder but repair work was under way. But in a methodical thought-out kind of way. It all bore the mark of Kate.
She took herself and her possessions upstairs. On her bed was the cat Muff, who awoke and looked at her, mouthed a silent greeting, then went back to sleep.
She had been right to come home.
She had started to put together a scratch meal from oddments in the refrigerator when the telephone rang.
‘You’re back.’ It was Sergeant Vander.
‘You keep a sharp watch.’
‘Not sharp enough.’ There was a slight pause before he added: ‘You’re staying home tonight, ma’am.’ It was more of a statement than a question.
‘No,’ said Charmian; she knew now what she was going to do. ‘I think I want to take another look round the house where Nella Fisher lived, There’s a question or two in my mind.’ A silence followed, and into the silence she said: ‘ I shall need a key.’
Vander said: ‘You’ll have to get that from Elman. He wants a word with you anyway. I think you’ll be hearing from him.’
Charmian put the telephone down. If it wasn’t a ridiculous idea to have in connection with that man, she would have said he was embarrassed.
Pretty soon she knew why.
Elman rang. ‘I hear you want to take a look where Fisher lived.’
‘Is that all right?’
‘Yes, I can let you have a key. The place is empty now, nothing to see that I know.’
‘I’ll collect the key.’
‘Don’t you bother. I’ll send someone round.’ He hesitated, then came out with it: ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost Henley.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He got away. We were transferring him from one place to another and he got away.’
Charmian controlled her emotions. These were so many and so diverse – anger, fear, outrage, surprise – that she managed a streak of sympathy for Elman. ‘ How did that happen?’
‘I’m afraid he had help … A bad apple of our own. A chap we called Red Rick. He was under investigation. Or about to be. He covered for Henley.’
There was a short, awkward silence before he went on: ‘So I’d rather you stayed home tonight, ma’am. Let me arrange for someone to take you round tomorrow.’
Was home safe then, and tomorrow a better day? ‘All right, I won’t go to Cheasey.’
‘Thank you.’ Elman sounded relieved.
Within ten minutes, and not meaning to be a liar, she was on her way to where Nella Fisher had lived. I’ll just take a look round from outside. Stay in the car. I won’t run a risk.
Behind her, the man placed on guard by Sergeant Vander followed at a discreet distance. ‘Damn her, what’s she up to?’ he asked himself as the traffic lights stopped him and she sped away. At the next junction, he lost her.
&nbs
p; The quiet suburban road in the area which bounded on Slough, Merrywick and Cheasey was lined with cars so that she had the usual job of finding somewhere to park. The street was empty of people. All inside having a meal or watching television, she speculated; a major news story was breaking in Eastern Europe so perhaps it was the latter. Not everyone watched the television news or cared what happened, but there were one or two popular soap operas on the go at this time of the evening too, which were probably claiming an audience.
No one was around as she walked towards the house. She stood at the gate, studying it. Even from here you could tell the place was empty. Silly of her to come here. What was the point?
But something pulled her on. Just nosiness, probably. Or that instinct which had made her a good detective.
She walked up to the front of the house to stare in through the ground floor window. The young couple who had lived here had left it tidy. The place had been rented, part furnished, so the pair had taken what was theirs and left the few remaining pieces of furniture arranged in stiff order.
She walked round the side of the house. The garden looked neglected, but at some time someone had loved it because here were roses in plenty, and shrubs of hydrangeas and fuchsia. These had flowered, and no one had picked the flowers so that they hung dead and brown on the stems.
None of the curtains were drawn so she could see into the kitchen. She could also see that a small side window had not been properly closed; there was enough of a crack for her to be able to lever it open and get in.
She pulled at the window tentatively, not having any firm intention at that point. But the window gave a fraction. Just enough to let her squeeze her hand inside to pull the lever down and open it.
She was inside and standing on the kitchen floor before she thought twice about it.
The house smelled damp and unlived-in as she moved through it. She tried a switch but the electricity was off; however, she could see enough in the light from the streetlamps.
Nothing of interest on the ground floor, but she went upstairs to where Nella Fisher had lived. Nella, who was, one way and another, the start of this affair.
Footsteps in the Blood Page 18