Death Penalties

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Could you do a little detective work for me?’ he asked.

  Sherry looked at him in some surprise. ‘What could I do?’

  ‘Well, you could find out about Hendricks & Leland Limited. Or it might be Leland and Hendricks. They were a public relations company with quite a few international clients, according to Mrs Leland. What I’d really like to get hold of is their client list, and the names of any financial backers they might have had, and their general financial history. It would give me a slant on at least one side of his life. Contacts, things he might have got to know about, secrets he might have had, trouble he might have been in or caused, enemies he might have made – particularly the latter.’

  ‘You say the company is now defunct?’

  ‘Yes. I gather Hendricks closed it down a month or two after Leland died – he’s started up again with someone else. Leland was the creative side of it, Hendricks the administrator.’

  ‘What’s he called now? Hendricks & Something Else, presumably?’

  ‘I have no idea. It might be one of those other kind of names – Prometheus Unbounded, or Zippy-Nifty Fixers, for all I know. I’d be glad of anything you could pick up: facts, rumours, gossip – anything at all.’

  She made a little face, funny but not unattractive, and pretended to glare at him. ‘You mean now I have got to have the Outside Interest Blues, too?’

  ‘Call it companionship,’ he smiled.

  ‘I call it damned cheek,’ she said. ‘What if I get caught?’ ‘Doing what? All you have to do is make a few phone calls and tap out a few enquiries on your magic computer.’ Her face tightened. ‘I’m not supposed to—’

  ‘I know your boss, remember? I know you do half his stuff for him, that you use his access code, act for him when he wants to play golf, even commit funds—’

  ‘Shhhhh.’ She looked really alarmed.

  ‘I wasn’t shouting,’ he said, mildly. ‘I was using a focused voice and only you could hear it.’

  ‘My God, you’re really serious about this.’ Her attitude had undergone a sea change.

  ‘Somebody should be.’

  She leaned back in her chair and studied the absolutely fascinating edge of the elderly table. Around them swirled the after-closing crowd, now well into their third and fourth glasses and considering the dash to Waterloo or the possibility of a few sausages to aid digestion. A rich aroma of claret, mustard, and bangers filled the room, even overcoming the day’s last vestiges of Paco Rabanne and Trader’s Muck Sweat. Nightingale could smell Sherry’s familiar perfume, too, reactivated by her warmth and the wine. He knew what it cost – he’d bought her some the previous Christmas – and blessed the blender while cursing the packager. Its sudden presence told him she was worried.

  ‘All right, look, it was just an idea. If you don’t want to do it, fair enough. I understand,’ he said, carelessly. ‘Really, let it go.’

  She raised her eyes to his face. ‘She has a little boy, you said?’

  ‘Yes. About nine. He was in the car with his father when it crashed.’ He left out the part about the rheumatic fever, thinking it might seem a little over the top.

  ‘The crash that your old policeman thought was deliberate?’

  ‘He thought it was a result of Leland being chased, he never said it was intended. There’s no way of knowing whether it was intended. Not with what we have now.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Sorry, not with what I have now.’ He waited.

  She gnawed her lower lip, rather prettily, then seemed to make up her mind. ‘All right. I’ll poke around a little.’ ‘Thank you.’ He meant it. ‘More wine, or are you ready to toy with a little filet mignon?’

  She chuckled. ‘Those were the good old days, my love. On your present salary, it’s more like a little hamburger.’ ‘Nothing wrong with hamburger, is there?’

  ‘Nope.’ She stood up. ‘Especially when you can pick it up in a bag and take it home with you.’ She momentarily transfixed him with a raised eyebrow as she reached for her coat. ‘Coming?’

  SEVENTEEN

  Tess stayed close to Max for the rest of the day.

  She lay only half asleep that night.

  And nothing happened.

  The next day, leaving Mrs Grimble and John Soame on duty, she went back to work on the McMurdo house, argued with Archie McMurdo, soothed the workmen, shopped at a local supermarket. She came home, cooked dinner, spent the evening with Max, watching television. Slept lightly, waking frequently at the slightest sound.

  And nothing happened.

  Work, again. Research at the V&A. Initial interviews with two new clients, each with different requirements, different expectations, and widely differing budgets. Lists and drawings. An argument with a supplier, happily resolved by a switch to an alternative small-bore central heating system. A sales rep from a German fabric manufacturer with a tumble of rich colours and textures that covered her desk and filled her office with a kind of visual singing. Another rep from a Berwick-upon-Tweed pottery, offering imaginative shapes, amusing ideas, and an excellent discount for bulk purchase. Home again, dinner again, praise for the model castle, edgy laughter, edgy sleep.

  And nothing happened.

  Max had a bit of excitement when his friend from the hospital, the newly-reverend Simon Carter, appeared on the doorstep with a chessboard under one arm. He and Tess gave one another a nasty moment when, on her way out, she opened the front door and found him standing there with his other arm upraised.

  ‘Good Lord,’ he gasped. ‘I was just about to ring the bell.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Tess said, breathlessly. ‘I thought you were about to strike me down.’

  Carter chuckled and lowered his arm. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t usually go around frightening innocent women. Or even sinful women, come to that. Not that I’ve encountered many.’ He sounded rather disappointed about it. ‘I’ve been assigned to a parish in Peckham, actually. Start my duties next week, but I came down a bit early to get used to London. Frightening place.’

  ‘Aren’t you from the city?’ Tess asked, stepping back to let him in.

  ‘No, no . . . a small town lad, that’s me,’ Carter beamed. ‘So, I thought I’d call round and see how the invalid was getting on. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. He’ll be delighted to see you, he’s at the very bored stage.’

  ‘Ah, then my timing is good, for once. Perhaps I’m getting the hang of vicaring at last,’ Carter said, engagingly, removing his coat and unwinding a very long scarf from around his throat. There was a pink rash around the edge of his collar, and a small piece of plaster under his chin where he’d apparently nicked himself shaving. He seemed very young, and eager as a puppy to please. ‘Is he up or down?’ he enquired.

  ‘Up. I’ll show you,’ Tess said, temporarily removing her coat and dropping it over the balustrade as she led him up the stairs.

  Mrs Grimble was waiting for her when she came down. There was a burst of laughter from Max’s room.

  ‘Mr Soame went to the London Library half an hour ago. Who’s that up there with Max?’ she demanded. Tess explained. ‘Well, just so’s I know who’s around the place,’ Mrs Grimble said. ‘All these people coming and going . . . ’ Tess was putting on her coat again. ‘It was very nice of your brother to bring Max the jigsaw puzzle the other day.’ Mrs Grimble flushed. ‘I never invite him,’ she said, defensively. ‘He just comes.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right. I don’t mind it if you have your brother or a friend around for a coffee. But I do like to know . . . the same as you do . . . who’s around.’

  They exchanged a glance of perfect understanding.

  ‘Do I give this person upstairs a cup of coffee?’ Mrs Grimble wanted to know.

  ‘If you’re having one yourself,’ Tess said, with a smile. ‘I’m sure he’d apprec
iate it.’

  ‘Don’t hold with Church, much,’ Mrs Grimble conceded. ‘But I got nothing against it, neither.’ She headed back towards the kitchen. ‘Might make some biscuits this morning. Got everything in yesterday.’

  Tess smiled to herself and went out. She was beginning to think, reluctantly, but gratefully, that Detective Sergeant Nightingale may have been right – the phone calls, perhaps even the booby trap in the wardrobe – had been meaningless attempts by some unknown enemy to cause her pain. And the other things were quite unrelated to it or to each other. Her nerves still twanged with the sense of being watched, manipulated, threatened; she grew annoyed with herself for leaping into the air when someone dropped something, or seizing up with panic whenever the phone rang. She began muttering ‘Pull yourself together’ so frequently that she wondered if she should have it set to music.

  Things were settling down to a familiar routine.

  Why, they even had a vicar visiting.

  Life was returning to normal.

  It would be all right.

  A week after the supposed break-in there was a call from Richard. ‘Still happy with your lodger?’ he asked. ‘Noticed any of the heirloom silver missing, yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any more nasty phone calls?’

  ‘No,’ she said, and wondered why she was lying.

  ‘So everything is perfect?’

  ‘Yes, everything seems to be just fine, thank you.’

  He pounced like a cat on a mouse, familiar enough with the sound of her voice to detect doubt. ‘Seems to be?’

  ‘Well, there was someone sneaking around the house the other night. But there was nothing tak—’

  ‘What do you mean, sneaking around?’ His voice was sharp.

  Already sorry she’d mentioned it, she explained about the break-in, and Max’s nightmare. ‘The police think he was scared away before anything could be taken. They’re keeping an eye on the house now, but Sergeant Nightingale doesn’t seem to think there’s any connection between that or anything else.’

  ‘Oh, doesn’t he? And who is Sergeant Nightingale?’

  ‘He’s been looking into Roger’s accident.’

  There was a moment of silence. ‘What do you mean, looking into Roger’s accident? That was months ago.’

  ‘I know. He came to talk to me in the hospital about it. So, when the local police didn’t do anything about our prowler, I called him. He’s Scotland Yard, you see.’

  ‘And he says what?’

  She sighed. ‘The same as the local police – just a crank caller, an interrupted burglary, and a lot of coincidences.’

  ‘I see. So much for the Met. Tell me, did you find this broken door or did Soame?’

  ‘Oh, John did – when he went down to make some cocoa for all of us.’

  ‘How cosy,’ Richard said, snidely. ‘And how do you know dear, kind John didn’t do it himself and tell you about it later just to make himself look like a hero? Did he offer to spend the night in your room – just to make sure you were “safe”?’

  ‘That’s a rotten thing to say.’

  ‘Not when you take a look at his financial position,’ Richard said.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve had one of my banking friends asking a few pointed questions of some old school chums.’ He sounded unabashed, smug, ready to impart triumph. ‘I’ve just had his report. Want to hear it?’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ she said, picking up a pencil and beginning to doodle on the margin of an invoice from D.H. Listerman, Limited, manufacturers of ceramic ware for the discerning (fancy basins and toilets).

  ‘Oh, yes you are,’ Richard purred. There was a rustle of paper. ‘According to my impeccable source, Soame is in a world of financial trouble. And not for the first time either. Apparently his late wife was quite the spender. His bank is making legal noises about his overdraft, which is in the high hundreds. There are some large withdrawals of cash that might be to cover gambling debts. Apparently your new friend likes a flutter now and again.’

  ‘He told me that he had financial problems,’ Tess said. ‘He’s been very open about it.’

  ‘And there is a tidy sum paid regularly to a Miss J. Wickham. She could be his mistress. Or a blackmailer.’

  ‘Or his dental hygienist. Or an elderly aunt in Brighton.’ ‘Her cheques are cashed on a Barclays branch in Cheapside, actually.’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more, Richard,’ Tess said, quickly, certain there must be some perfectly rational explanation for all these things. Of course there was.

  ‘I’ll bet you don’t,’ he said, harshly. ‘Mr John Soame is obviously not the paragon you thought he was.’

  ‘Neither are you,’ she snapped.

  There was a brief silence. ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ Each word was frozen into a separate icicle.

  ‘All this suspicion, all this sneaking around – I never knew you were like this,’ she said.

  There was silence on the line, and then Richard spoke, repentantly, ‘I’m sorry, Tess. Blame jet lag, if you like. I came back, saw this report, and just snapped. I only had it done because I’m really worried about you. All this sudden determination to make decisions – any decisions – to do things for yourself, to plunge ahead helter-skelter. It scares me, it really does. Whether you like it or not – and for some reason you suddenly seem not to like it – I care about you, Tess. I care very much. I’m still waiting for an answer to my proposal, you know.’

  ‘Well, if you want an answer right now—’ Tess began.

  ‘I don’t,’ he interrupted. ‘Not when you’re in this mood.’ He sighed, and his voice became plaintive. ‘Max’s illness seems to have changed you overnight.’

  ‘If anyone has changed, it’s you,’ she said, tightly.

  He immediately adopted a brisk but cajoling tone, undoubtedly developed for use when facing an awkward client. ‘Look, talking on the phone like this is silly. How about dinner tonight? Unfortunately I have a plane to catch at ten, so our time will be limited, but—’

  ‘My goodness, which country are you conquering this week, Richard?’ she asked, before she could stop herself.

  Silence. Then, ‘Very funny.’ He slammed down the phone.

  By the end of the day Tess decided she hated men.

  All men.

  Adrian was in one of his most peevish moods, having heard that his former friend and partner, the renegade Jason, had secured a very desirable contract to do an entirely fresh interior design for the flat of a rich, newly-arrived American oil executive who had somehow – the mind boggled – secured rooms in Albany. Adrian had been counting on the commission, having been introduced through a mutual friend to the wife of the executive in question – a malleable lady who, it now proved, was less than reliable in her promises. According to Adrian’s contact, a minor Embassy aide, she had been ‘swept away’ by Jason’s ideas.

  ‘Well, she’ll want to sweep them away when she sees them, that’s for certain,’ Adrian huffed. ‘My God, Jason in Albany, it doesn’t bear thinking about. He has no sense of continuity or respect at all; he’ll Art Deco the woman to death, mark my words. It’s his latest craze, he does it everywhere. With anyone. Silver walls and silver balls and little triangular dadoes, that’s how his garden grows.’ And then, whirling on an unsuspecting assistant who had just entered bearing a stack of newly-covered cushions for the window display, he shrieked, ‘I said Delft Blue, not Dark Blue! Take the hideous things out and burn them immediately!’

  The assistant rolled his eyes at Tess, and turned without a word, bearing the offending items away. Twenty minutes later Adrian was stalking around demanding that they be returned with equal alacrity, why didn’t anyone do what he asked around there? Who was in charge, anyway? Who made the decisions? WHO PAID THE BILLS?

  At fo
ur o’clock, weary, frazzled, and slightly deafened, Tess was sorting things into her briefcase when a shadow fell across her desk. Looking up, she saw Archie McMurdo standing there, watching her. ‘G’day,’ he said.

  She stopped and glared at him. ‘Well, what’s wrong now?’ she demanded, slamming her briefcase shut and preparing to do battle. ‘Picture rails not level? Floorboards too dark? Windows too small? Come on, out with it.’

  He looked deeply hurt. ‘I thought maybe you’d like to have a bit of tucker with me,’ he said. ‘But, seeing as you’re packing it in early, maybe you’d prefer tea at the Ritz?’ ‘Why?’

  ‘Does there have to be a reason?’ he asked, a plaintive note in his voice. ‘It’s a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it? I don’t know many people in London, and I have a craving for those little sandwiches and some scones with cream and strawberry jam. Someone told me tea at the Ritz is definitely the bonzer thing to do, so I thought why not do it with someone who’s nice to look at? Sure wouldn’t want to go there with Aunt Dolly, would I?’

  Tess tried to visualize Mrs McMurdo in the marbled and mirrored vastness of the Ritz, bending over one of the little tea tables with pinkie upraised, her red curls frizzing energetically from under an expensive and totally unsuitable hat, her corncrake voice rasping out over the tinkle of the teaspoons and the piano. The visualization was successful, and she giggled.

  Archie beamed down at her, a ray of sun from the window gilding his curly hair and sparking the devil in his eyes. ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘And, frankly, you look pretty jacked. I figure you could use some little sandwiches and a cup of that God-awful perfumey Earl Grey tea they probably serve there. Am I right?’