Hung in the Balance (Simpson & Lowe Detective series Book 1)

by Ormerod, Roger

  ‘Are you,’ I heard Nel’s cold and bitter voice behind me asking, ‘making a charge? I’ve heard no warning given. Ain’t you ever heard of Miranda, for Chrissake!’

  ‘No charge is being made,’ said Grossman acidly, ‘as of now. I am asking you, Miss Lowe, not to leave the district, and to surrender your passport.’

  I wanted to get out, out! Into the open air, where my mind could breathe. I wanted somewhere I could throw my head back and scream. I wanted to throw myself on to my bed and weep.

  Fumbling, I dropped the shoulder bag. Nel, on his feet in a second, bent over and picked it up, and the contents spilled out on the floor.

  The pistol neatly separated itself, gleaming proudly.

  14

  I stared at it, unable to move. Grossman heaved himself to his feet and leaned over the desk, peering downwards.

  ‘Inspector!’ he said softly.

  Not looking at me, Oliver walked round, crouched down, and stared at it. He produced a ballpoint pen and put it through the trigger guard in order to lift it. He slid it on to Grossman’s desk. For one second he shot me a startled frantic stare, then he resumed his seat.

  ‘Well now!’ said Grossman. I could detect pleasure in his voice.

  Stupidly, I heard myself say, ‘You can touch it. It hasn’t been fired.’ And I realized I didn’t even know that. I didn’t know anything, not a blind thing.

  ‘I do not intend to touch it,’ Grossman told me, ‘and needless to say I am also confiscating it.’

  ‘It’s mine,’ said Nel gruffly.

  ‘Is it now? Am I to accept that’s the truth, or a Sir Galahad act, Mr Schmidt? I understand you have a tendency towards putting on acts.’

  ‘It’s mine. I brought it over here. It was a bit of a joke.’

  ‘Joke?’ Grossman stared in bafflement at Oliver. ‘He calls it a joke.’

  Oliver said nothing. Grossman sat for some moments in silent contemplation. Then he said to Nel, ‘We haven’t discussed your possible complicity in all this. I hadn’t given it much thought. So…you will both go back to the hotel now, and hold yourself in readiness for whatever action I might decide to take. WDC Lyons will accompany you. Good-day to you both. I think that’s all for now. More than enough.’

  Jennie Lyons had been so silent, standing there beside the door, that I’d forgotten her. She came forward. She smiled. She opened the door for us and followed us down to the car, which took us back to the hotel. Not one word was spoken. They drove away before we’d climbed the steps to the rotating door.

  ‘Phillie…’ said Nel in the lobby. I marched straight ahead up the stairs. ‘Phillie, please.’ I opened my door, stood aside, and motioned him in. He shambled across the room as I slammed the door behind me, leaning my back against it. I knew this was not the time to discuss the situation. Too much anger and frustration were boiling away inside me. Too much shame. Too much indignity.

  ‘Y’ don’t have to worry about the gun, chicko,’ Nel said miserably.

  I turned on him. ‘Gun!’ I said. ‘What does the gun matter, you idiot! The other thing, that’s what matters.’ Then, at his blank response, ‘Costello was your man, Nel, wasn’t he! Yours!’

  ‘Now sweetheart…’

  ‘Wasn’t he? And for God’s sake look at me. I’ve got to know.’

  ‘It’s not really what y’ think.’

  ‘I’ve got to know the truth, damn you. Just one thing in this whole blasted mess, I’ve got to get right. Do you understand what I’m talking about, Nel? For once, no acting, no clowning. I want the truth.’

  He fluttered a hand in weak appeal, tried to look away, then forced his gaze back to meet mine. ‘Yeah, Costello was mine.’

  Even though I’d known, because it had to be, it still struck me like a blow across the face. ‘How could you! We’re partners, partners, Nel. Friends! And you spy on me! No… Don’t interrupt. For God’s sake let me say it. I know it wasn’t me you were spying on, it was Graham. But it was my private life! You had no right. No right, damn you.’

  ‘It was…for us. Sort of. Listen, will ya! You told me all about it — oh yes you did, kiddo. Over the years, a bit at a time I got it all. I knew. An’ when we really wanted finance, well, I said to myself we oughta have a stake in that money. ’Cause it was obvious to me he’d got it, that husband of yours. You didn’t even seem to guess. So all I did was…kind of…feel out the position. You know…if the money was still around we might…might…’ He shrugged himself to silence.

  ‘Might kill him for it?’

  ‘No, no!’ he cried, flapping away like mad. ‘Put some pressure on him. Y’ know.’

  I didn’t know. Not one small part of it. ‘And what did your tame PI report back to you, Nel?’

  ‘Not one thing. Bills for expenses. Nothin’ else.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ I shouted. ‘You knew the situation. So I’ll just tell you what you did about it — shall I? You weren’t in Detroit raising money, you weren’t in Washington or wherever, you were in England. And shut up. Shut your mouth, Nel. I’ve got to say it, and if you interrupt I’ll kill you. You were in England, arranging the money for me. Arranging Graham’s death, alone or with Costello. Graham’s death, then Costello’s. Which hand, which finger, did you put the watch and the ring on, Nel?’ My voice was breaking. I wasn’t going to be able to continue much longer.

  ‘Kiddo!’ he bleated with concern.

  ‘And who came up with a right dinkum theory of how Costello — the man in the car, then — was killed? After you’d heard about the life insurance money! Who, Nel? You did. I should’ve guessed, right there and then. You’d got it worked out, blast you. You’d bloody well done it like that.’

  ‘Now just you hold on right there…’

  ‘And now what’m I going to do? What? You’ve got me trapped and…and… I don’t know what to do!’ I heard myself wailing, tears now blinding me.

  ‘Yeah. Well.’ He was trying to smile, his little boy smile for when he’d been naughty but will make it up. ‘There’s somethin’ we can do. They didn’t take my passport, lover. It’s American, see. So we get in y’r little car an’ beetle off to Lunnon, and go to the American Embassy, an’ I bet they can arrange to marry us…’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Then you’ll be able to get an American passport, an’ we fly off home — and d’you think they could touch us? With what they’ve got?’

  There he was, gesticulating, swaying like a tall aspen stripped of leaves, head tilted, and… It could’ve been the tears in my eyes, because I didn’t see it for what it was, another of his jokey take-offs. The wretched fool was trying to cheer me up, but something went inside, and before I knew it I was screaming into his face, my cheeks hot, my vision blurred.

  ‘Then what? Tell me what then, Nel, damn you. Is this what you’ve planned all the way through? Is this it? Kill my husband so that I get the money. Marry me… Christ, marry me…and then what happens? Tell me that. Do I get a choice? Is it to be a car accident? Or do I fall off a bridge? Would you be prepared to wait a decent interval, d’you think?’

  ‘Come on…lover…’

  ‘Lover! Get out of my sight, Nel. Now. Get out!’

  ‘Let me say —’

  I stood at the open door. ‘Out! And you can use your damned passport yourself. Get out of my life. I don’t want to see you again. Ever. Is that clear?’

  Then I slammed the door on his startled and beseeching face and threw myself on the bed, and nearly stifled myself by clamping the pillow over my face so that I could bellow away without Nel hearing.

  After a long while I found myself lying on my back, and suddenly ravenously hungry. I’d used up a considerable amount of energy. It was lunch time. I sprang from the bed and did a quick repair job, changed the blouse because I’d ruined it, then I swept out and down the stairs with not so much as a glance at Nel’s door. It would be unlocked, I knew. I could walk in…and do what?

  I was aware that I’d gone over the top
, releasing on Nel a nervous tension he hadn’t brought about. But I was not yet in the correct mood for a tentative apology. Not sure he deserved one.

  He was not in the dining room. Catriona wasn’t there either, but Maguire and Fellowes were considering me moodily from the far side. There was no sign of Treadgolds or Tonkins. Suddenly I seemed isolated, even from menace.

  Back in my room, I found my situation had become intolerable. I was as near as dammit to arrest, and unable to do anything about it. Nel…no, let him come to me. I picked up the phone and rang the police station.

  ‘Inspector Simpson, please.’

  ‘Just a moment. Can you tell me who wants him?’

  ‘I want him. Philipa Lowe.’

  There were clicks, a long wait while he assembled his attitude, then, ‘Philipa? What can I do for you?’

  ‘I wish to visit the shops.’

  ‘No harm in that. You’re not confined to the hotel.’

  ‘Shops in Birmingham.’

  ‘Ah! Hmm. Must it be Birmingham?’

  ‘It must.’

  ‘Not something frivolous, like a —’

  ‘I’m not in a frivolous mood, Inspector.’

  ‘Very well.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll escort you myself.’

  ‘There’s no need for that.’

  ‘I can trust nobody to watch you as closely as I would.’

  ‘Then how can I refuse?’

  I hung up. Idiot! Why are you smiling?

  The business suit, I thought. All very elegant and efficient. It wasn’t raining, so I wouldn’t need to wrap my cylindrical package. He was parking outside in ten minutes, and I was down in the lobby to meet him.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘My portrait. I want to get it framed.’

  He paused, his hand on the car door. ‘That’s all you want to go for?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s a picture framer just round the corner, in Carlton Lane.’

  ‘I know. But I want to visit the one whose name and address is on something I found amongst Graham’s papers. An invoice, all crumpled and stuck away with the rest. It relates to the sale of one water-colour painting — £900. Do you think it might be worth the trip, Inspector?’

  Silently, he opened the door for me. I slid inside and tossed the rolled painting on the rear seat.

  We said nothing about the current situation regarding The Case Against Philipa Lowe. He thought the weather was improving. I wondered how it would be in Birmingham. He asked how it would be in New York at this time. I commented on the heaviness of the traffic. He asked if I followed American football, and I said no. I asked if he followed British football. He said no. It was neutral ground, and completely boring.

  Policemen seem to know all the most obscure parking places. Perhaps they feel immune from traffic wardens. Oliver tucked us into a hidden court off Corporation Street, only two blocks away from the address I’d given him.

  The Medici Gallery was a narrow frontage in a side street between New Street and Colmore Row. It did not look impressive, but the single oil landscape in the window, on an easel, was priced at £8,000.

  Inside, the general disposition of light wasn’t good, because it consisted of strip lights over the works that were on offer. Not many, but the one in the window was a fair example of their market value. I guessed, not having that sort of knowledge, that beyond that range of prices there would be the collectors’ items, for which the prices would leap quicker than you could blink.

  The man who came through from the rear was not inspiring. He seemed very close to his dotage, and his suit had reached about the same stage of dissolution. He was even bored.

  ‘Can I help you?’ As though he feared he might have to.

  ‘Do you undertake framing?’ I asked.

  A smile. The eyes met mine, and their twinkle was younger than I’d expected. ‘No madam, but I can have it done for you. What have you — ah, I see. May I?’

  He took the roll from me, slid off the rubber bands, and opened it out. As it had been rolled a long while, and become reconciled to it, it no longer wished to remain flat. He put his fingers on one edge and the heavy base of a desk lamp on the other, then switched it on. The light was a piercing white.

  He bent over it, looked up at me, bent again. Then he sighed, released his end, and allowed it to roll up.

  ‘This is a portrait by Graham Tonkin,’ he told me.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a portrait of you.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘It’s the only portrait I’ve seen by Tonkin. Usually it’s landscapes. Sometimes seascapes. A portrait is rare.’

  ‘I expect it is.’

  ‘You would wish to sell it?’

  ‘It’s rather precious to me.’

  ‘A pity. A great pity.’ Then he smiled, pouring into it all the delight of a man who loves his work. ‘It would be quite valuable, you know. He’s dead, I believe. Died only recently. Which of course puts an end to his output, which is a great loss to the art world. So naturally his paintings will be worth very much more now. And in view of the fact that a portrait of his is a great rarity… I could sell it for £5,000. Possibly more.’

  I heard Oliver hiss through his teeth. Desperately, I clung to my nerve. ‘I’ll consider it, of course. You seem to know his work well.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve sold quite a few for him. His wife would bring them in regularly —’

  ‘I am his wife.’

  ‘You are? Hmm! A young lady would bring them in, then. She did not claim to be his wife. I assumed that. And there was a collector I had, who began to be interested. Very soon, any Graham Tonkin I had in stock he would buy. So naturally I began to raise the prices. Supply and demand, you know. And then other collectors began to look for them. The word had gone round. I hear, you understand, from other dealers. It’s necessary to…umm…control the market. All over the country, Mrs Tonkin. Your husband was becoming rather famous in the art world.’

  ‘Yes. He was, rather.’ I had to say something. His enthusiasm was stripping years from him. ‘They were fetching a good price, then?’

  ‘Oh yes. As much as £2,000 recently.’

  ‘But I thought…for water-colours, something more like fifty…’ I ventured.

  For a second he hesitated. It had occurred to him that Graham’s wife should have known more about her husband. ‘That would be a fair price. Here, of course, I don’t deal with…’ He coughed into his hand, not wishing to complete the sentence: that sort of paltry stuff.

  ‘Pardon me, madam, but I’m not sure I should be telling you…

  ‘I am his wife, you know.’

  And Oliver put in, ‘I can vouch for that. I’m a police officer.’

  ‘Oh mercy me.’ Which indicated his age. ‘The fraud squad! Don’t tell me…’

  Oliver laughed. ‘No, no. Just an ordinary copper, playing escort to what could’ve been a valuable painting.’

  ‘Any way I can help, I’d be delighted.’

  ‘You have helped,’ I assured him.

  ‘And, I assume, you do not wish it framing?’

  ‘Not at this time. I’m sorry.’

  He smiled. ‘If there are any more I’d be delighted to handle them for you.’ He looked wistful.

  ‘You shall have first choice,’ I assured him. ‘And there are dozens. Dozens.’

  He seemed mildly excited. I was searching for the rubber bands.

  ‘Allow me, allow me,’ he said, and he produced a tube of cardboard, into which he neatly slid my rolled painting.

  ‘So you never met him?’ I asked, as he led us to the door.

  ‘No. And I would have been so delighted to. Just his…the young woman.’

  The door closed behind us. Oliver took my arm. ‘That was very neatly done.’

  ‘I couldn’t stop him, once he got going. And I’d already guessed what it was all about.’

  ‘Up here,’ he said, steering me. ‘There’s a coffee bar
I think you’ll like.’

  It seemed that everywhere he went they had a secluded corner waiting for him. We settled in. He said, smiling, ‘Care to tell me about it, or do you think I’ll go rushing to the Super with the information?’

  ‘If you feel it’s your duty, yes, Oliver. At the double. But as it happens I want you to. If, that is, I can rely on what that old fellow said.’

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘An honest man. He didn’t ask to see my warrant card.’

  ‘Can I trust his figures?’

  ‘I should say so. I trust him. I’ll give you a thousand right now, for that painting.’

  I laughed. ‘And make a good profit?’

  ‘And never part with it.’

  I could think of nothing to say to that which would be safe, so I told him what I’d worked out about the money.

  ‘Graham never did have a quarter of a million pounds, Oliver. It was fifty thousand. He was a small cog, so he got a small cut. But it worried him. He had it in five false accounts in five different names, and he was risking the transfer of small amounts to his own account, to launder it. He might’ve been a wizard with a computer, but poor Graham was hopeless when it came to real money and not figures. What did it matter what name it was under? His own, or one of the other five, it was all the same, because he could never show that it had a legitimate source.’

  We ordered Welsh rabbits and tea. Oliver said, ‘Go on.’

  I did. ‘But he started actually selling his paintings. Only small amounts were involved there, but it was genuine income. The cheques came in from the various galleries. I suppose that gave him the idea. He already had Anna taking his paintings to galleries around the country. All he’d need to do was put a high asking price on a few, then he’d go in a few days later and buy them back himself, using the name of one of his ghost accounts. In galleries all over the place, he would be five different people, and he wouldn’t even need to use a disguise. Oh…he’d have loved that. And every penny of that money became legitimate, because it was covered by an invoice, as money received from a gallery.’

  ‘But it didn’t finish there?’