by Joan Smith
Loretta was sitting in her office, staring at Zizzy’s phone number, when there was a knock at the door. She looked up and called ‘Come in!’
‘Loretta – is this a bad time?’
It was Sarah Guzelian, an American who had come to work in the department at the beginning of the autumn term on a year’s exchange from Columbia.
‘No. Have a seat.’ Loretta was always glad to see Sarah. ‘I’ve just been talking to Henry about my book – he wanted to know if there’s any sex in it!’ She smiled, expecting the anecdote to raise a laugh, but Sarah was looking sombre. ‘Is everything all right?’
Sarah didn’t answer immediately, but leaned back in her chair, running her hands through her short grey hair. Then she thrust them into the pockets of her trousers.
‘Loretta, I’m gonna be upfront about this. Are you in some kind of trouble?’
‘I hope not,’ said Loretta, looking puzzled. Her immediate thought, so ridiculous that she dismissed it, was that Sarah knew about the call from Detective Sergeant Farr. She’d be believing in telepathy next, she told herself. ‘What sort of trouble?’ she added, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair. ‘Something to do with the department?’
Sarah shook her head vehemently. ‘No – real trouble. The police.’
‘The police?’ Loretta’s mouth fell open.
‘I just had a call from this guy down in Hampshire, seems he’s some kind of a detective –’
‘You’ve had a call?’ Loretta was flabbergasted. ‘I don’t understand – is this –’ She had been going to ask if it was a joke, but saw from Sarah’s face that it wasn’t.
‘Hey, don’t get excited. I didn’t tell him a thing. I guess this is some kind of a political. . . Do you have anything like the ACLU over here?’
‘The – oh, civil liberties. Yes, we call it the NCCL. . .’
‘Maybe you should give them a call. I mean – Christ, calling up people you work with?’
Loretta took a deep breath. ‘What did he want to know?’
Sarah responded with an angry shake of the head. ‘We didn’t get into that. Soon as he said who he was I told him nothing doing. I’m sure as hell no – what’s the word you use? A sneak?’
Loretta nodded glumly. Presumably Farr had been checking up on her, trying to find out whether she was an honest witness. Sarah had acted from the best of motives, jumping to the conclusion that the call was connected with Loretta’s well-known anti-nuclear activities. If only she’d co-operated, Loretta thought ruefully; had told the detective Loretta was a model citizen –
‘This has really shaken me up, I can tell you, Loretta,’ she heard Sarah say, and roused herself from her unpleasant reverie to ask another question.
‘But how did he – I don’t understand how he got your name.’
‘Oh – he called up the department office. Bernard was out and Mrs Whittaker buzzed him through.’
‘Mrs Whittaker?’ Loretta repeated the secretary’s name. ‘What did he – was his name Farr?’
‘Yeah. Know the guy?’
‘I’ve spoken to him.’ Loretta fell silent again, trying to work out what was in Farr’s mind. Why go to this trouble unless he really did suspect her of something, presumably of pocketing cash from Sandra’s suitcase? And how could she ever prove otherwise?
‘Loretta, you OK?’ Sarah was looking more worried by the minute.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said distractedly.
‘You are in some kind of trouble, right?’
‘No, I –’ Loretta suddenly wished Sarah would leave the room so she could ring Ghilardi. ‘I suppose they have to make these inquiries,’ she added, belatedly trying to make light of the call. ‘It’s nothing sinister – just something to do with a car accident. . .’ She tailed off, realizing the police would hardly check on the bona fides of a witness to a straightforward car crash. Sarah was looking unconvinced and she tried a new tack, abruptly changing the subject.
‘Actually, Sarah,’ she said with forced brightness, ‘as you’re here – ’
‘Yeah?’
‘There is something I want to talk to you about. Remember we had a discussion last term about a new course, a set of tutorials on crime fiction?’
Sarah was looking at her oddly, as though she had seen through this diversionary tactic, but she nodded.
‘I’ve been doing some thinking, and it would help me a lot if we could have a chat. You know the American stuff much better than I do . . .’
‘Sure.’ Now Sarah seemed puzzled. ‘I don’t have anything for the next half hour –’
‘I didn’t mean now,’ Loretta said hastily, thinking about Ghilardi. ‘But I’m working on a reading-list –’ She glanced covertly at her watch: twenty past eleven. It would be just her luck if Ghilardi had already gone out.
‘Maybe if you give me an idea who’s on it I can come back with some more names . . .’
‘Dorothy Sayers,’ Loretta said quickly. ‘Margery Allingham. Possibly Ngaio Marsh –’
‘I guess I’m more familiar with the later stuff. If it’s Americans you’re after, how about Sara Paretsky?’
‘I’ve got her. She’s wonderful.’
‘Amanda Cross?’
‘Oh – maybe.’ The conversation was having a calming effect on Loretta, and she elaborated. ‘I’m not so sure about academic mysteries. I tried one by Joan Smith the other day and she got all the details wrong . . .’
Sarah looked blank. ‘Oh yeah? She British? Maybe I should look out for her . . . I know Carolyn, of course.’
‘Oh – of course.’ Loretta realized she would have to tread carefully; she had forgotten that Carolyn Heilbrun, author of the Amanda Cross novels, was a professor at Columbia. ‘I tell you what,’ she suggested, ‘you might even want to teach one or two of the sessions yourself. Why don’t we talk about it next week?’
‘Sure. We need a bit of time, I guess. You free Monday night? For dinner?’ At last Sarah stood up and prepared to go.
‘Yes – I’ve got a lecture at five and that’s it. D’you want to meet here?’
‘OK.’ The American woman paused as though she was about to say something, then appeared to think better of it and opened the door.
‘Oh, and Sarah – thanks.’
Sarah shrugged, waved and went out. Loretta seized the phone and dialled the number of Lymington police station. The switchboard put her through to CID and she demanded rather breathlessly to speak to Derek Ghilardi.
‘Hang on a minute.’ It was a male voice but not, she thought, Steve Farr’s. The man must have put his hand over the receiver for the next words she heard were muffled.
‘Anyone seen Dirty Del? There’s a bird here wants to speak to him.’
Loretta’s eyes widened; she didn’t know whether she was more offended by Ghilardi’s nickname or by being referred to as a ‘bird’. Either way, her impression that the detective was the odd man out at the police station was reinforced. The man came back on the line, chuckling at some joke she hadn’t heard. ‘Hang on, love,’ he said, irritating her even more. ‘Someone’s gone to get him. Who is it?’
She hesitated, then identified herself reluctantly. ‘Over here, Del,’ she heard him call. ‘Loretta Lawson.’ He sang out her name as though she were a nightclub turn.
‘Hello, is that Derek Ghilardi?’
‘Ye-es.’ He sounded cautious.
‘What on earth’s going on? I’ve had someone called Farr on the phone to me, and –’
‘That’s right, inquiries are continuing,’ Ghilardi said in a formal voice.
‘But – ’
‘I don’t think you need worry about that, you’ll be contacted if we need anything else. Thanks for ringing.’
‘Wait a minute –’ Loretta was left gasping with indignation; she slammed down the receiver so hard that for a moment she thought she’d broken the phone. She was relieved to hear the ringing tone when she picked up the receiver, and put it back gently this time. She was aware
of a painful pressure behind her eyes, as though she was about to get a headache, and she massaged her temples with her right hand as she thought about what had just happened. What had got into Ghilardi? Was she so much a suspect that he wasn’t even permitted to speak to her? The phone rang and she snatched it up.
‘Loretta? Derek Ghilardi again. Sorry about that, it was a bit difficult –’
‘What’s going on?’ wailed Loretta, not allowing him to finish.
‘I can’t talk now – sorry. But there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll try and ring you tonight, OK? What’s your number?’
‘I gave it –’
‘I know, but give it me again. 01 . . .’
Loretta filled in the remaining seven digits.
‘Will you be at home this evening?’
‘Yes –’
‘I’ll explain then. Bye.’
Loretta bit her lip, disconcerted by this turn of events. How could she help worrying? Her headache was beginning to get into its stride, thudding away somewhere behind her eyes, and she pulled open a drawer of her desk in search of paracetamol. Painful memories were returning, vivid recollections of the summer before last, the only previous occasion on which she’d had any protracted dealings with the police. She’d been questioned for hours, and at the end of it she hadn’t been believed. . . She found the tablets and got up to fetch some water from the tiny kitchen at the end of the corridor. She had got as far as the door when the phone sounded again, and she went back to answer it.
‘Loretta Lawson? This is Zizzy Fox. Henry tells me you’ve written a wonderful book about Edith Wharton. Why don’t we have lunch and talk about it?’
Loretta arrived home just before seven that evening, and was removing her coat in the hall when she heard the phone. She hurried into the drawing-room before it could be intercepted by the answering-machine.
‘Yes?’ she cried, willing it to be Derek Ghilardi.
‘Oh – Dr Lawson there, love?’ A chirpy male voice with a strong South London accent; it meant nothing to her.
‘Ye-es,’ she said cautiously.
‘Good-o, got you first time. I left it a bit so’s you’d have finished surgery.’
‘Surgery?’
‘Yeah – you’re a doctor, aren’t you?’
‘Not that sort of doctor,’ said Loretta, seeing his mistake. ‘I’ve got a PhD, not a medical degree. Where did you get my number?’
‘In the book, aren’t you? What you a doctor of, then?’
‘English Literature. Look, if it’s a GP you want, I think you’d better try the Yellow Pages. They’re under physicians, I think –’
‘Oh – my mistake. Always happening, is it? People wanting you to look at their bunions and all?’
‘No, as a matter of fact. As I say, I think your best bet is Yellow Pag—’
‘Nah, it’s you I want. Fleming’s the name – heard of me, have you? Bob Fleming?’
Loretta frowned, aware of a flicker of recognition. She had heard the name recently.
Quite suddenly it came back to her: ‘Oh!’
‘That’s the girl! Sandra talk about me, did she?’
‘Yes – no. I mean –’ Loretta hesitated. ‘I’m not sure,’ she finished lamely. What had Steve Farr said? Something about Sandra not wanting to speak to a man called Fleming, no more than that –
‘Oh dear, oh dear. Memory playing up, is it?’
‘What is all this?’ Loretta demanded, not liking Fleming’s tone. ‘If you don’t tell me what this is about,’ she told him firmly, ‘I’m going to put the phone down.’
‘Hang about, hang about – keep your hair on. All I’m after is a little chat.’
‘A little chat about what?’
‘About Sandra,’ he said patiently, as though it was obvious. ‘You know – our mutual friend.’ He chuckled.
‘What about her?’
‘Not on the phone. You can’t have a proper natter on the phone. Come round to your place, shall I?’
‘No!’ Loretta said wildly. ‘I mean, no. I’ve got friends coming to dinner,’ she improvised.
‘Oh – pity. Don’t want to spoil your evening, do I? How about in the morning then? Half ten?’
‘No, you can’t come here – I don’t know anything about you.’
‘Oh dear – that’s not very nice, is it? And me a friend of Sandra’s.’
‘We seem to be going around in circles,’ Loretta pointed out. ‘Why don’t you just tell me –’
‘Look, like I said, I don’t wanna talk about it on the phone. All right, you don’t want me coming round to your place. Fair enough. I’ll meet you anywhere you like – name your place. Can’t say fairer than that, can I? Got a local, have you?’
‘A local? I don’t go to pubs much. . .’
‘All right, make it an art gallery for all I care.’ He put on a posh voice for the middle two words, mocking her.
Loretta hesitated. The telephone directory contained her address as well as her phone number; if she refused to see him, what was there to prevent Fleming from turning up on the doorstep? No harm could come to her in a public place, and she had to admit she was curious. . .
‘You still there, love? I can’t stand here all night watching my hair grow.’
‘I’m thinking,’ Loretta said truthfully. Not a pub, she didn’t feel comfortable in pubs, and certainly not a restaurant – she didn’t want to spend more time with Fleming than she had to.
‘I know,’ she said suddenly, her mind throwing up the perfect place. ‘There’s a little café – the Superior Snack Bar in Holloway Road.’ The place was always busy, and the owners knew her by sight. ‘It’s opposite North London Poly.’
‘North London what?’
‘The polytechnic – Oh, never mind. Do you know this area?’ It occurred to her that she had no idea where Fleming was calling from.
‘Nah. But I’ll find it.’
‘It’s between Holloway Road Underground station and Highbury Corner, on the right as you’re coming towards Islington.’
‘OK. Tomorrow morning, half ten?’
‘Eleven.’ The time was immaterial to Loretta, but she wanted to assert herself.
‘Good girl. See you.’
Loretta put the phone down and drifted into the hall, retrieving her coat from the floor where she’d dropped it earlier. What had she got herself into? She was aware of a combination of excitement and nervousness, a sense of being on the verge of further discoveries about Sandra and a fluttering in her stomach at the prospect of meeting Fleming on her own. He claimed he had found her number in the phone book, but how did he know about her connection with Sandra? Suddenly a thought occurred to Loretta and she hurried into the kitchen to ring Shahin, her downstairs neighbour.
‘It’s Loretta. . . yes, I’m well. And you? I wanted to ask you something – I’m probably being silly, but it’s just possible someone might turn up tonight who I don’t want to see. If he tries your entry phone. . . No, I didn’t think you would. Thanks. . . Oh no, nothing’s wrong, realty.’
Loretta put the phone down, satisfied to have taken this sensible precaution against Bob Fleming’s going back on his word. She glanced at her watch: twenty-five past seven. Should she start supper or wait for Ghilardi to ring? When she agreed to the rendezvous at the snack bar she had done it with the detective’s promise at the back of her mind; the Lymington police obviously knew something about Fleming, and she felt sure Ghilardi would warn her if she was making a dreadful mistake.
She decided to get on with supper, taking the frying-pan out of a cupboard and pouring in sufficient oil to moisten the bottom. She peeled and crushed several cloves of garlic, browned them in the pan with a chopped onion and a sprinkling of dried chillies, and put a pan of water on to boil. Half an hour later she sat down to a plate of penne all’arrabbiata, sprinkling the spicy tomato sauce liberally with pecorino cheese. Afterwards she picked up her glass of wine and carried it into the drawing-room, leaving it on the table
next to the phone while she set up the video recorder. It was a while since she’d watched à film, and she decided to indulge herself with a third or fourth viewing of Rebecca. She was soon absorbed in it, Bertie asleep on her lap, and it was only towards the end of the film that she began to feel restless, aware that time was passing and Ghilardi still hadn’t called. The film finished and she watched the beginning of News at Ten; nothing much had happened in the world and she switched off the television.
What was Ghilardi playing at? Loretta wandered into the kitchen, refilled her glass, and returned to the drawing-room. She stared at the phone, her unease increasing as she faced the prospect of meeting Bob Fleming without knowing a single fact about him. Suddenly the idea came into her head that he was a moneylender, the source of the banknotes in Sandra’s suitcase. Her brow darkened as she remembered a recent World In Action programme on this very subject, exposing the crooks who loaned money to the unemployed at spiralling interest rates and threatened them when they got into debt. If Sandra had been on the dole she might have run out of money quite quickly. . . Loretta shivered, remembering that one of the men featured in the programme made a habit of breaking people’s legs –
She seized the phone and dialled Lymington police station. She allowed it to ring a couple of times, frowning as she worked out what she was going to say, then put out her left hand and severed the connection. As soon as the dialling tone came back she tried a London number instead.
‘Sally?’ Loretta realized she sounded panic-stricken and modified her tone. ‘It’s Loretta. I’m sorry to ring so late but I think I may be in trouble. . .’
She lifted the phone and walked about the room, bringing Sally up to date on her discoveries about Sandra.
‘A moneylender?’ Sally exclaimed when Loretta had finished. ‘And you’ve agreed to meet him? You must be mad, Loretta – you don’t know what these people are like! One of my clients ended up in hospital –’
‘I don’t know he’s a moneylender,’ Loretta interrupted, acknowledging she’d overstated her case. ‘I just thought – I couldn’t think of any other connection between him and Sandra, and there was all that mon-’ She stopped, remembering Sally didn’t know about the cash. She’d been too embarrassed to admit to her search of Sandra’s belongings. ‘She told me she was short of money, I suppose that’s why it occurred to me . . .’