Death of a Nobody

by J M Gregson

  ‘I understand that you should feel that, George. I’ve been after Berridge for too long to shed any tears over him now. But I think you will understand that we can’t have people taking the law into their own hands. I still have to find out who killed him.’

  The porter considered the proposition, saw the logic of the argument, shrugged his reluctance to accept it. ‘I suppose so. But I’m not a policeman. So personally, I hope whoever killed him gets away with it. I went to see Amy Pegg last night. She’s still devastated by what happened to Charlie. The two of them should have been able to look forward to a decent retirement.’ He spoke with the vehemence of deep feeling. Then, as if he thought such passion indecorous within a porter’s uniform, he said with a sudden bathos, ‘He was a good workman, Charlie. Better than people expected.’

  Lambert realized that it was true: he had been surprised by the quality of the craftsmanship in the units Pegg had installed in the penthouse above them. He said gently, ‘Charlie wasn’t an angel. He spied a bit on people, you know, George. It may even have been that that led to his death, for all we know.’

  He thought Lewis might have defended his friend or professed ignorance. Instead, the porter said, ‘I guessed that. From what you asked me about his notebook, when you came here after his death. He was always a nosey little bugger!’ It was said with affection. Lewis looked out of the window of his office, seeing not the vista outside, but the world he had inhabited with Charlie Pegg thirty years and more ago. ‘He could tell you scandal about anyone in our company in Cyprus, when he trusted you. But he kept it mostly to himself. And he was useful to you, Mr Lambert.’

  The last sentence, as Lewis pulled himself back to the present, was almost an accusation. And with some justification: Pegg would still have been alive if he hadn’t chosen to act as a police snout. But CID men had to take help wherever they could find it, and Pegg had known the dangers. Lambert said gently, ‘He was paid for the help he gave, George. But I’m sorry he died, and I’m glad we got the men who did it. That won’t stop me from following up the murder of James Berridge. Now, it appears that Berridge was killed with his own weapon. Did you ever see him with a pistol?’

  ‘No. He was much too smooth for that. He always presented the image of the successful business tycoon round here.’ That was a common enough pattern. It was often the biggest villains who took care to be eminently, even excessively, respectable when away from the scenes of their crimes.

  ‘You know the layout of the penthouse upstairs?’

  ‘Yes. Better than almost any of the other flats. I’ve been here from the start, you see, and the Berridges had quite a lot of extra fittings put in. I was in and out with the workmen. Mrs Berridge was happy to leave it to me — she wasn’t around that much, even in the old days.’

  Lambert noted that last phrase. He said quietly, ‘In the days before Mr Faraday came on the scene, you mean?’ He saw the hesitation in the smooth face above the uniform. ‘This is a murder enquiry, George. You’d much better be completely honest.’

  Lewis smiled ruefully, as though he was grateful for the reminder of his duty. ‘Yes, I realized there was something going on. He came here to pick up Mrs Berridge occasionally, no doubt when he was sure that there was no chance of his boss being around. It was Charlie who confirmed it for me, though.’

  ‘And how did he know about it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He only mentioned it because he thought I knew about it. And I suppose I did, really. He just confirmed it.’

  ‘The Berridges have an answerphone. Did Charlie listen to the messages recorded on it?’

  Lewis looked uneasy, as if the dead man’s inquisitive behaviour somehow reflected on him. ‘I think he probably did, now. Both in the penthouse and in one or two of the other flats that had those things. But it’s only since you spoke to me about all those initials in his notebook that I realized that. I would have slung him out if I’d known at the time, friend or not.’

  ‘I’m sure you would, George. Now. Where did Berridge keep this pistol of his?’

  ‘I—I don’t know. I told you, I never saw it.’ He looked anxious, as though he feared they might not believe him. ‘I think he might have kept it in the top drawer of his desk, in his study, but I don’t know for sure.’

  It was the second time Lambert had been told the weapon was kept in that drawer. Who had removed it? He said, ‘What makes you think he kept it there, George?’

  Lewis looked uncomfortable. ‘I checked that room, when I let Charlie Pegg into the penthouse to work. Mrs Berridge told me expressly that he wasn’t to go into her husband’s study, you see. And — well, knowing Charlie’s weakness, I went in to check just how secure it was against nosey parkers.’ He looked thoroughly embarrassed by his betrayal of his dead friend. ‘I tried the drawers, to see if they were locked, you see. That top one was. I suppose when you mentioned a gun I thought immediately that there was where it might have been. But I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable enough assumption, if the drawer was locked. Unless he carried it around with him, of course. As a matter of fact, you’re probably right. Mrs Berridge also thought that her husband kept a pistol in that top drawer.’

  The porter’s face lightened, as if that took away from him the responsibility of giving information about the residents, even the worst of residents. Lambert said gently, ‘What time did Mrs Berridge leave here on the night of the murder, George?’

  Lewis said, ‘I told you when you asked me before. I don’t know. For all I know, she was gone long before her husband was killed.’ It was curiously indefinite phrasing from this straightforward man. He looked away from the superintendent as soon as he had spoken, to the noticeboard he did not need, which listed the names of the residents.

  George Lewis understood what the superintendent said about it being his job to uphold the law. But for himself, he still hoped that the killer of James Berridge would not be apprehended.

  ***

  Gabrielle Berridge drove quickly, but she was in perfect control of her vehicle. The red Mazda sports coupe was immediately responsive, precise in its steering as she placed it into bends, holding the road without any tendency to oversteer. She enjoyed that feeling of unity with the car, of the bonding of driver and machine into an effective unit.

  Normally, that is. Today, though she drove swiftly and safely, she did not feel the delight which normally lifted her spirit on the open road. As she approached her destination, she even found herself slowing down, stealing a little more time to organize in her mind what she had thought was already properly planned. Above the first opening buds of the chestnut trees which grew tall in the heart of England, she was conscious of sharp blue sky and flying white clouds. But the spring day seemed to be mocking her mission, as if nature’s brightness was emphasizing the pettiness of human duplicity.

  She felt now that she could not succeed in this, that the attempt could only lead to humiliation for her. But she had said she would try, so there was no alternative. The tourist traffic was not as heavy as it would be in the summer months, though she saw half a dozen coaches in the car park as she drove over the Avon and into the town. The bunting was out across the Stratford streets for the Shakespeare birthday celebrations, and the town presented a bustling, cheerful front to its visitors. She turned away from the great brick warehouse of a theatre, through the narrow streets round the church where the bard was buried with his mysterious inscription and his bland plaster effigy, like the face of a Victorian industrialist.

  Moving ever more slowly, as if she had communicated her reluctance to it, the sleek sports car turned towards where the slow-flowing Avon wound in a huge bend below the town. The streets were quiet here. The houses had the quiet air of discretion which dated from an age before the motor car. Gabrielle composed herself for a moment in the parked car. Then she got out, straightened her blue tartan waistcoat automatically, and went determinedly into the River Crescent Hotel.

  To her relief, the man
she wanted was behind the desk. He might have been anywhere in the building, for this was only a small private hotel and the proprietor had to be a ubiquitous worker. In the early days of her relationship with Ian Faraday, it had seemed the ideal place to avoid attention. She thought that even in the future, they would favour it against more pretentious establishments, for it had served them well and they would love it because of its memories.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Allan!’ she said. She was relieved that her voice did not sound nervous in her own ears.

  The smile on the man’s face as he looked up was genuine, not professionally assumed. As owner and manager, he enjoyed his work. Neat and affable, unflappable whether on public show to his clients or in the stress of the kitchen at the back of this late-Georgian house, he was in control of the situation. He had worked for twenty years to acquire his own establishment, and he was determined to enjoy everything which went with it.

  He meant it when he now exclaimed, ‘How nice to see you, Mrs Faraday!’ He was certain after yesterday of what he had long suspected, that this was not this striking lady’s proper name. But that would make no difference to either the service he offered her or the esteem in which he held her. He looked down at the bookings list in front of him, though he knew by heart which rooms were free. ‘We can give you your usual double room for the next two nights, if you want it.’

  She smiled awkwardly. This would be the first time she had asked anything of this man outside his trade, and the words would not come naturally to her. ‘No, it’s not about accommodation this time, Mr Allan. I — I wanted to ask you a bit of a favour.’

  ‘Anything we can do to help, of course.’ His smile was as broad as ever, but he was puzzled. This elegant woman had always seemed so sure of herself before, so happy in the time she had spent under his roof. Happiness always brought confidence with it, he thought. Now she was unhappy, and he saw her for the first time anxious, even a little frightened, it seemed. Well, she was a good customer, the kind of considerate guest who made his work a pleasure. He would do what he could for her.

  He had been hoping that it would be unconnected with what had happened yesterday. It seemed scarcely possible that this graceful, quietly spoken woman could be involved in anything more serious than a little extra-marital affair. But when Gabrielle said, ‘We stayed with you on Tuesday night,’ he divined where this was going. Already he was regretting that he was not going to be able to help.

  Gabrielle made herself try the line she had thought up on the road from Oldford. ‘I don’t know if you guessed it, Mr Allan, but Mr Faraday is not in fact my husband.’ He shrugged a little, implying that he was a man of the world and these things were to be expected. She wished he would speak, but he did not. ‘Well, for reasons I won’t go into now, it’s important to us that we can establish that we were in Stratford quite early on Tuesday evening.’

  Though he never looked down at them, he was conscious of her fingers twisting on the handles of the black leather handbag, a tiny gesture which made him at once aware of how important this was for her, and of how sharply sorry he was for her. Merely because he felt her willing him to speak, he said, ‘You came here after the theatre. That would establish that you were in the town by seven-thirty. Isn’t that early enough?’

  She smiled, grateful for the sympathy she felt in his tone. ‘It would be, but I get the impression they want some sort of proof.’

  Neither of them defined who ‘they’ were. He said, ‘Well, there’s your booking for the night recorded in our register.’

  ‘Yes. I — I was wondering… Could you say that we popped in here briefly before we went to the theatre? Just to dump our overnight things, you see. As we’ve done on other occasions. It’s suddenly become important for us, you see. We didn’t think it would be at the time. It’s far too complicated to explain, but I—’

  ‘I would have done what I could, certainly.’ It was safe to offer such assurances, now that they could not be tested. ‘But I’ve already told them Mr Faraday booked in by telephone, during Tuesday evening. I said I couldn’t remember the exact time. I suppose it must have been after the performance at the theatre.’

  ‘Told whom?’ Gabrielle felt suddenly cold.

  ‘The police came here yesterday, Mrs Faraday.’ He thought when her face froze that she was going to faint. ‘Do sit down, Mrs Faraday. I’ll get you some coffee.’ He seemed doomed to go on repeating that name which she had acknowledged now was false, as though he was deliberately taunting her.

  She let him take her to the chair by the round mahogany table, but she would not let him escape to the kitchen. ‘What time did you tell them that we came here?’

  ‘It was a uniformed constable.’ He just managed to prevent himself from tacking on that ‘Mrs Faraday’ again. ‘Just a routine check, he said. I told him you didn’t get here until half an hour before midnight.’

  17

  One long wall of the travel agency shop was completely lined with the racks of brochures. Members of the public immersed themselves in these, with that concentration characteristic of the English when they are afraid that someone may try to sell them something. Behind the continuous surface of desk which ran down the other side of the room, three women of different ages tapped busily at their computers, recording and digesting the information which became instantly available to them from all over the country.

  It was a large room, which had once been two. It was long and narrow, with the only natural light coming from the high-street window where some of the more popular foreign package holidays were displayed as bargains. At the rear of the area, strong neon lighting was necessary to ensure that the golden beaches and the azure seas were allowed to make their full effects.

  In the small room behind this emporium of activity, the manager was being questioned about very different things. After the brilliance of the room in which the public moved, this small cell was a surprise. It seemed an odd setting for the chicly dressed figure who sat down before the CID men. Sarah Farrell had plans to turn it into a cosy rest room, but business had been too brisk since she had come here in the autumn for them to give it much attention. It was square and austerely furnished; the curtains were due for replacement and the walls for a coat of paint. The single light bulb above the small table had been given a new shade, but it provided only a dim illumination.

  But perhaps Sarah Farrell had chosen the place for the paucity of its lighting. She had made herself up as carefully as a courtesan to receive them, but it still did not work. As soon as she had seated the two large men on the stand chairs, Lambert said, ‘That looks a nasty bang on your eye. Have you let a doctor see it?’

  She had thought that even if he noticed it he might ignore it. But he was not an ordinary visitor, and this was not an ordinary conversation. His comment was not only a blow to her self-esteem but an indication of aggression. So there were to be no polite preliminaries in this exchange. She thought of that wine stain on the wall of her cottage, and was glad that she had chosen to meet the police here. These men would not have been deceived by a little rearrangement of the furniture.

  She said, ‘It’s not as bad as it looks. I should have learned by now not to move about in the dark at nights.’ She tried the lie oblique, but it seemed no more convincing to her than the lie direct. Perhaps she should have offered no explanation at all.

  Lambert smiled a little, not unkindly. ‘Did that also bruise your wrist, Miss Farrell?’

  She looked down guiltily at the pale skin of her wrist, pulling the cuff of her blouse automatically to cover it, when it was too late. The livid bruising seemed to her to show clearly the imprint of the fingers which had gripped so hard. She thought of the marks they would never see, on her shoulders and back, of the fist in her side which she thought had damaged a rib. Suddenly the deception no longer seemed worthwhile. ‘All right. I was knocked about. By a man, of course.’

  He looked at the greening of the blackness around her eye, thinking that the timing was abou
t right for a connection with this case, to judge by the development of the injury. Years ago, when he had begun as a beat copper in the East End, sorting out Saturday-night domestic disputes, he had become an expert on ‘shiners’. With her blonde hair and white, almost transparent skin, Sarah Farrell was ill equipped to conceal the results of violence. He felt a sudden sympathy for her, when he looked at the efforts she had made with her make-up and saw how ineffective they had been. He said abruptly, ‘When was this? And who did it?’

  ‘It was on Tuesday night, after you’d left me at my home. So you can guess who did it.’

  ‘James Berridge, then. You know that he was found dead the next day?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you know also why we are here. In a murder enquiry, we have to find out everything we can about the movements of the victim in the last hours before his death.’

  She nodded, showing the top of her neatly coiffured blonde head. She had tried at first to pull hair down over her blackened eye, but with the short-cut style that had merely looked ridiculous. Curiously, with the revelation of the truth about her injuries, she felt a welcome composure drop back upon her. In the quiet room, they could just hear the chatter of the computer keyboards from the other side of the wall. She was on her own ground, where people came to her for decisions and she rarely had to hesitate. She was able to give her CID visitors a rueful little smile as she said, ‘I’ve just told you that he knocked me about in the hours before he was murdered. I suppose that’s not a good start for me, is it?’

  Bert Hook, opening his notebook to record what was to come, tried not to feel too much sympathy for this small, neat figure. The combination of the marks denoting her physical vulnerability and the air of calm competence as she prepared to answer their questions was curiously moving to him. He said, ‘You will understand that we need an account of your movements at the time when James Berridge was killed. For elimination purposes, you see.’