‘Sure, Tony, come in.’
‘I don’t want to raise false hopes, but there’s a chance we might be on to something,’ said Hill.
‘Even a false hope would be better than nothing,’ Castle observed. ‘Let’s have it, Tony.’
The upshot of DC Hill’s report was that, after receiving grudging consent from the surly owner of the garage rented by the late Alan Crowson – on the explicit condition that all damage would be paid for in full – Hill and Radcliffe were dispatched to break down the door. Inside, they found a quantity of shabby furniture, none of which appeared to have any resale value… and a fragment of gilded wood, apparently broken from a picture frame.
‘It does seem as if we’re a little further forward,’ said Jim Castle. ‘Not much, but at least we’ve got a couple of things to check out, which is more than we had this time yesterday. Thanks, love,’ he added as Sukey handed him a glass of wine and offered a dish of assorted nibbles. He sat back in the armchair in her cosy sitting room with a sigh that held a hint of weariness. ‘I’m trying not to build too many hopes on any of them getting us anywhere, though.’
Sukey sat down beside him and he put his free arm round her shoulders. ‘Frustrating, isn’t it?’ she said sympathetically.
‘The piece of picture frame has been sent off to forensics,’ Jim went on. ‘It’s just about big enough to give some idea of the design, and the experts will be able to tell what age it is so there’s an outside chance it can be identified as coming from an item from one of Roddy’s jobs. That at least would suggest a definite link between him and Crowson. And if it turns out that Donna’s visits to her mother coincide with the dates of other robberies—’
‘You’ve already admitted that that would only be circumstantial evidence,’ Sukey pointed out, reflecting ruefully that since Jim had arrived at the house half an hour ago they had spoken of nothing but events surrounding the Bussell Manor robbery and the subsequent deaths of Crowson and Morris.
‘On its own, it doesn’t carry much weight, but added to other factors…’
‘I can’t imagine it would cut much ice with Superintendent Sladden.’
‘You’re right there.’ Jim took a mouthful of wine, put down his glass and helped himself to a crisp. ‘I wish we could get a lead on this chap Wallis.’
‘The one who’s supposed to terrify some person or persons unknown? I take it you’ve checked with Roddy’s firm?’
‘Of course. The name didn’t ring a bell with anyone there. Speaking of Roddy,’ Jim added thoughtfully, ‘I’d give a lot to know where that blighter is at the moment… and exactly what he’s up to.’
It was time for firm action. ‘I’ve just had a brilliant idea,’ said Sukey.
‘You have? Let’s hear it.’
She put down her own glass and nestled against him, bringing her mouth close to his ear. ‘Why don’t we forget about Roddy and Bussell Manor until Monday morning?’ she whispered.
He responded by putting his other arm around her, holding her close. ‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard in a long time,’ he whispered back.
Several thousand miles away, Miguel Rodriguez lay in a bed in Doctor Gundlach’s clinic. Soon, the final remnants of his identity would be taken from him; his appearance would be altered beyond recognition by all but the few who were closest to him. Pepita would not be deceived, he thought in an upsurge of longing but, like so much else that was dear to him, she had been exorcised from his life forever. He was no longer ‘Lucky Roddy’, the light-hearted, light-fingered bandit who could open up the houses of the wealthy without leaving a trace of his presence, but who had never, until the tragic death of the elderly servant, caused harm to a living soul. Miguel Rodriguez was shortly to die on the operating table, to be reincarnated as Ramon Alvarez from Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic, heir to a recently deceased Spanish wine merchant.
Within a few weeks, just as soon as his scars had healed – and El Dueño had assured him that under Dr Gundlach’s skilled hand they would be virtually invisible – Señor Alvarez would be on his way to claim his ‘inheritance’ and establish himself in Spain. Thence he was to travel to England, ostensibly to set up an office but in reality to resume the business of assisting in the process of relieving wealthy art lovers of the choicest items in their collections. It would have been a prospect to be relished, but for one inescapable factor that filled him with dread. No longer could he deceive himself that he was his own man, working in partnership with, but not subservient to, the shadowy Wallis. From now on, wherever he went, he would feel the evil might of El Dueño behind him. So long as he played his part well, he would survive in luxury. One step out of line and who knew what fate awaited him?
Don’t think of failure. Think of pleasant things. Think of Consuela. Consuela with the glowing eyes and husky voice, who had come to the villa every morning to school him in his new role and again in the evening to slip into his vast, silken bed. Her passionate, welcoming body, the smooth pliant limbs interlaced with his, had eased but never entirely assuaged his aching hunger for Pepita. Pepita, whom he had been ordered to forget. He felt a surge of impotent rage as he remembered that even her picture had been taken from him. He had been deprived of everything that was his own: his name, his life, his love. Where was Pepita now? Was she even still alive? He groaned aloud at the thought of what fate El Dueño might have ordained for her.
As he waited to be taken to the operating theatre, the thought came into his mind that it would be better if he should die under the anaesthetic.
Sixteen
It had been the intention that Sukey would be on her own in the house before Fergus returned on Sunday evening from the weekend spent with his father, but at eight o’clock, just as she and Jim were finishing their supper, they heard his key in the door. It was not that the lad was unaware of the nature of his mother’s friendship with the man with whom she had once, before meeting his father, briefly discussed marriage. On the contrary, hard on the revelation of his own first sexual encounter with Anita, he had magnanimously given her his blessing. Just the same, Sukey felt a certain reluctance to make the sexual side of her relationship with Jim too obvious. ‘He’s accepted it, but I don’t want to ram it down his throat,’ she had once said to Jim, and with the sensitivity and understanding for which she had come to love him, he made a point of avoiding overt physical contact with her in her son’s presence.
Fergus came quietly into the kitchen and dumped his overnight bag on the floor. ‘Hi, folks, had a good weekend?’ he asked.
‘Yes thanks,’ replied Sukey and Jim in chorus. ‘How about you?’ Jim added.
‘It was OK.’
‘Did you watch the match yesterday?’
‘Oh yes.’ Uncharacteristically, Fergus showed no sign of wanting to talk about football. His eye fell on their almost empty plates. ‘Any of that left?’ he asked.
His mother got up and inspected the casserole. ‘Just a smidgeon. You’re back early. Haven’t you had any supper?’
‘Oh yes, but you know what Dad’s cooking’s like. This evening it was cold ham and chips from the freezer.’ Fergus fetched a plate and emptied the contents of the casserole on to it. ‘All right if I finish it?’ he said as an afterthought.
‘Go ahead. I’m afraid we’ve eaten all the veg.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll have some bread with it. Don’t mind me if you want to get on with your puds.’ He sat down at one corner of the table and began eating.
‘It’s all right, we’ll wait for you,’ said Jim. Across the table, he and Sukey exchanged glances and a silent message passed between them. ‘On second thoughts,’ Jim went on after a moment, I don’t think I’ve got room for any pudding and I’ve got some unfinished paperwork at home, so I think I’ll be on my way. So long, Gus, be seeing you.’ The lad looked up and nodded, but made no reply.
At the front door, Jim said in a low voice, ‘I don’t know about you, Sook, but I get the feeling the visit hasn’t gone too well.
’
‘I think you’re right. I’ll try and find out what went wrong.’ Sukey reached up and twined her arms around Jim’s neck. ‘Good night, and thanks for a wonderful weekend,’ she whispered.
‘As they say in France, it’s I who thank you. Good night, love. See you tomorrow.’
When Sukey returned to the kitchen she found Fergus staring moodily at his empty plate. She sat down beside him and put an arm round his shoulders. ‘Something wrong, son?’ she asked.
‘Not with me, I’m fine. It’s just… I’m worried about Dad. He’s so quiet and sort of sad these days…’
‘It’s understandable. After all it’s only a few months since the tragedy.’
‘I know, but it isn’t as if he misses her all that much. They were barely civil to one another during the last months before she was killed and he hardly ever mentions her.’
‘Just the same, it was a terrible shock.’
Fergus nodded. He sat crumbling the remains of a bread roll between his fingers. ‘It was a shock for you too, Mum – after all, you were the one who found her.’
‘Don’t remind me.’ Sukey’s mind flew back to that terrible April morning when she had been called to Dearley Manor, the house where her ex-husband and his glamorous and wealthy new wife had lived since their marriage, to deal with what appeared to be a simple break-in but had turned out to be an appalling case of murder. The memory of the bloody, mutilated corpse of the woman who had stolen her husband haunted her for a long time. She often thought wryly that, had she been unable to account for her movements at the time of the killing, she could well have been considered a suspect. Heaven knew she had motive enough.
After his cavalier desertion of her and their son, she had felt little sympathy for Paul on learning from Fergus of the gradual deterioration of his new marriage, but it had been impossible for her to remain aloof as he struggled to come to terms with her violent death. There had even been moments when divided loyalties had put her relationship with Jim under a strain. Thank God those days were past.
Fergus took his empty plate to the sink and inspected the untouched treacle tart that stood ready beside the cooker. ‘What are we having with this?’
‘I thought ice-cream – is that OK with you?’
‘Fine.’ He got out plates and spoons while Sukey fetched the tub of ice-cream from the freezer and cut the tart into slices. ‘Mum,’ he repeated as they sat down again, ‘I worry about Dad, I really do.’
‘Gus, what are you trying to say?’ she asked gently.
‘I think he’d like you back.’
The words came as no surprise, yet they gave her an unexpected jolt. She had long suspected, from odd remarks Fergus had let drop in the past, that she had only to say the word and Paul would come running back to her, begging to be forgiven, to pick up the threads of their old life together, even to remarry. Despite the comfortable relationship Fergus had built up with Jim, she sometimes wondered if that was what her son hoped for as well.
‘Is that what you’d like, Gus?’ she asked gently.
He concentrated on his portion of treacle tart and did not reply for several minutes. Then, pushing his empty plate away, he gave a sigh. ‘In an ideal world, I suppose the answer would be “yes”, but I guess it would never work,’ he said sadly, and she felt a stab of mingled pain and pride at his mature acceptance of the situation. ‘And there’s Jim, isn’t there? He’d be devastated if you chucked him and went back to Dad.’
‘It isn’t only because of Jim.’
‘I know.’ Fergus grabbed his mother’s hand and gave it a fierce, painful squeeze. His eyes were moist and his upper lip, with its carefully nurtured trace of a moustache, trembled.
‘Try not to worry about your father, Gus. He’s feeling a bit sorry for himself at present, but he’ll get by. With any luck, he’ll meet someone else before long.’
Fergus brightened. ‘I think one of the secretaries at the office is quite keen on him, although he makes out there’s nothing in it.’
‘Well, there you are then.’ Sukey stood up and began clearing the table. ‘Let’s get on with the washing-up, shall we? And don’t let’s be too late to bed – it’s work for us both tomorrow.’
Shortly after eight o’clock on Monday morning, DI Castle put his head round the door of the SOCOs’ office to look for George Barnes. On seeing the desk empty he turned to leave, almost colliding with Sukey as she returned from the recently installed drinks machine with a polystyrene cup of tea.
‘Oops – sorry!’ he apologised. He followed her into the room, giving a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure there was no one within earshot, and whispered, ‘Did you sleep well?’
She turned a glowing face to him. ‘Like a baby, thanks. How about you?’
‘Likewise.’ His eyes lingered on hers for a moment. ‘Did you find out what was bugging Fergus?’
‘He’s concerned about his father – says he’s pretty down in the dumps. It’s only natural, of course, but I think it’s a bit much for Paul to burden Gus with his problems, especially as he’s never been one to bother himself with ours.’
‘Don’t let it get to you, love. Gus is a pretty resilient lad, he’ll be OK. Takes after his mother, doesn’t he?’ He gave her hand a surreptitious squeeze and she acknowledged it with a grateful smile. ‘Have a good day – I’ll call you this evening. And will you tell George when he comes in that I’d like a word with him?’
‘Will do.’ There was a sound of approaching footsteps in the corridor. ‘That’s probably him now.’
‘Something’s tickled him, by the sound of it,’ said Castle as a rousing guffaw heralded the arrival of Sergeant Barnes and Mandy Parfitt, both smiling broadly. ‘What’s the joke?’
‘Henry Greenleaf’s place has been done over.’ Barnes handed Castle a sheet from the sheaf of papers he brought with him. ‘How’s that for a bit of poetic justice?’
‘Who’s Henry Greenleaf and what’s so funny about his place being done over?’ Sukey asked Mandy as the two men studied the details of the report with evident relish.
‘He’s a fence, according to George,’ said Mandy.
‘Suspected fence,’ Barnes corrected. ‘He runs what he describes as an antiques business, but it’s really a glorified pawnshop off Barton Street – it looks a dingy little dump from the outside but it seems to support him in a pretty comfortable lifestyle. His father was a goldsmith from central Europe and the family fled from the Nazis and settled in Birmingham just before the war. His son inherited his business acumen but not his skill.’
‘You seem to know a lot about him,’ Sukey commented.
‘We ran a check on him some months ago when one of our officers spotted a suspect in a jewel robbery leaving his premises,’ Castle explained. ‘He affected to be very shocked when we told him the man had form, explained that he hadn’t been trying to sell anything, had only called in to enquire about a clock, swore he’d never have any dealings with him in future and so on. We’ve never been able to pin anything dodgy on him – on the contrary, he’s always been most cooperative about passing on details of stuff he’s been offered that he suspects of being hot. In fact, we’ve picked up several villains as a result of information he’s given us.’
‘So why do you suspect him?’
‘We aren’t convinced that he’s as squeaky clean as he’d have us believe, which makes us wonder whether for every small-time job he tips us off about, there may be something more substantial that he forgets to mention.’ Castle handed the report back to Sergeant Barnes. ‘Keep me posted on that one, George. And there are a couple of other things I want to talk to you about.’
‘Yes, Guv. If you don’t mind waiting a second while I dish these jobs out – can’t have our SOCOs standing idle, can we?’ Barnes glanced briefly through the rest of the reports before dividing them into two and handing them over. ‘You’ve got the Henry Greenleaf job, Sukey. Remember to give him the VIP treatment – the DI’s orders,’ he added with
a wink.
‘Will do,’ she promised.
The glow of happiness was still with her as, humming a tune, she set off on the short drive to the turning off Barton Street where Greenleaf ran his business from a single-fronted shop with the legend ‘Henry Greenleaf Antiques’ in faded gold lettering on a dingy fascia board below the traditional pawnbroker’s insignia of three golden globes. When she arrived at the scene, a minor local drama was being played out, watched with delighted interest by a cluster of schoolchildren on the opposite side of the street. A portly man in an ill-fitting grey suit was standing on the pavement outside the shop, wildly waving his arms and gesticulating at the empty spaces on the shelves and the heavy iron bar lying among the fragments of glass from the shattered window, at the same time hurling abuse at a young constable who was trying, bravely but unsuccessfully, to get a word in edgeways. ‘I run an honest business,’ Sukey heard the man shout as she locked the van. ‘I do my best to help the police and where are they when my shop is attacked? Nowhere to be seen. Why weren’t they here to protect me when I needed them, that’s what I’d like to know.’
‘If you could just come inside for a minute and give me a few details and a list of the missing items,’ the officer interposed when the outraged victim momentarily ran out of steam, ‘our Scene of Crime Officer,’ – he nodded in Sukey’s direction – ‘will be able to start work.’
Still grumbling, Greenleaf allowed himself to be steered towards the entrance to the shop. ‘It couldn’t have happened at a worse time,’ he complained. ‘I’m expecting some important visitors very shortly. What a start to a Monday morning – my place burgled and my assistant hasn’t turned up yet. Ah, there she is, and about time too. Gladys, you’re late!’ he bawled at the thin, middle-aged woman clutching a shopping bag, who had arrived unnoticed and was looking at the damage with her mouth open. ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, get busy sweeping up the mess.’
‘Er, not just yet if you don’t mind,’ Sukey interposed. ‘I’d like to have a look round first – it shouldn’t take too long. I dare say you’ll want to arrange temporary repairs.’
Death at Beacon Cottage Page 12