by Ann Granger
‘That’s right, blame me. Go and take your shower.’
I trailed back to the bedroom and tugged on jeans and a sweater. Ganesh was still locked in the bathroom when I came back, and outside the window, in the basement, the police were back and still searching around. There was a guy fingerprinting the doorway and the windowsill. Like it or not, I was living on a scene of crime. I made coffee against the splashing of water from the bathroom and handed Ganesh a mug as he emerged, his long black hair dripping. I could’ve made coffee for SOCO outside, but I drew the line at that. They were causing me enough disruption.
‘Got a hair dryer?’ Ganesh asked.
‘Do me a favour,’ I said. ‘With a haircut like mine? What’d I do with a hair dryer?’
‘I’ll catch cold,’ he said sulkily.
‘I’ll turn up the gas fire. Gimme that towel.’
He sat in front of the gas fire grumbling as I towel-dried his long hair briskly. ‘Ouch! Ow! That’s my ear, Fran!’
‘Oh, shut up or do it yourself!’
‘He grilled me again, too, you know,’ said Ganesh, emerging from the towel. ‘Harford, I mean. He went bananas over those negatives. Said we should’ve turned them in straight away. But there wasn’t anything on them for us to need to do that.’
‘Conceited snooty prat.’
‘Got your back up, then, I see. I thought he seemed bright enough. He’s probably worried you won’t take him seriously.’
‘I do take him seriously. He’s set to be a real pain. What else did he ask you?’
‘Kept making me go over the same thing over and over again. I began to wish we’d just chucked those photos away.’
‘Harford would love that,’ I said. ‘I wish I knew who the rich-looking guy in them is. He must be the one who was after Coverdale to get them back. Why is he so worried about them? They don’t show anything criminal, just three guys having a drink.’
‘Perhaps it’s to do with the other two men in the pictures? I know you can only see one’s face. Perhaps this other man is the one who wants the negatives back.’
I shook my head. ‘No, the dark one is just a regular thug. The light-haired man with the bright shirt is the important figure. He’s the one we’ve got to worry about.’
Ganesh put down the towel and stared at me in concern. ‘We’ve got to worry?’
‘Yes, of course we have. He doesn’t know where the film is and he’s still looking, right? I bet whoever killed Coverdale went through his pockets and didn’t find it. They know Coverdale ran into the shop to escape his pursuers the other day. They’ll find out pretty quick I work there. Coverdale was ringing my doorbell when his killer found him. What would you make of it all, if you were him?’
Ganesh looked unhappy. ‘I should’ve warned Dilip. He’s looking after the shop this morning.’ They were open for the Sunday newspapers until noon.
‘Dilip’s built like a brick barn,’ I reassured him. ‘He can look after himself.’
A ring at the bell announced that the fingerprint guy whose visit Parry had promised me, was ready for me. He took my prints. ‘Are you the bloke who was with her last night?’ he asked Ganesh. ‘Right, let’s be having yours as well.’
‘My father,’ said Ganesh emotionally, scrubbing black ink from his fingertips when the man had gone, ‘must never know about this.’
‘It’s routine, calm down,’ I said, old hand at this sort of thing as I was by now.
But Ganesh carried on fretting and said he ought to go back to the shop and make sure Dilip was still in one piece. I walked out of the flat with him, through the SOCO, and up to pavement level, ducking under the police tape which still cordoned off my basement. Across the road, someone was taking photographs of the front of the house. He didn’t look like a copper and I suspected he was press.
The road was open to traffic again and, as we emerged, a taxi drew up and out popped the Knowles brothers. They were wearing identical blazers today, with some badge or other on the breast pocket, but by now I could tell them apart, having had the chance to view Charlie so close at hand in my flat. He had the coarser skin and slightly less hair, but he did have his own teeth. Bertie, I noticed now as he bared them at me in rage, didn’t.
‘We knew it!’ they cried in unison. ‘Nothing but trouble! Poor Aunt Daphne! A victim of her own kind heart.’
‘What are you talking about?’ snapped Ganesh, who was in no mood for this sort of thing. ‘Who are these people, Fran?’
‘Oh,’ I said with a sigh, because this was all I needed. ‘Allow me to introduce Bertie and Charlie Knowles, Daphne’s nephews. I did mention them to you before.’
‘And who,’ asked Bertie icily, ‘is this gentleman?’
‘He’s Mr Patel. I work for him.’
‘Work? Indeed?’ said Bertie nastily.
‘Murder!’ Charlie moved in, practically salivating with revenge. He flung out a hand towards the basement and the boiler-suited figures down there. ‘To think poor Aunt Daphne, a solitary, defenceless lady of mature years, could have had her throat cut. And all because of you.’
‘We shall insist,’ said Bertie, ‘that you leave these premises at once! Aunt Daphne cannot be left at risk.’
‘Hey!’ said Ganesh indignantly. ‘She didn’t do anything. It was all a bit of bad luck.’
‘Luck?’ Charlie sneered. ‘I’d say it was your seedy lifestyle and unsavoury connections leading to violence, crime and God knows what else. From the start we told Aunt Daphne she should never have taken in a person like you, straight from the street.’
‘I wasn’t living on the street, I was in a council flat,’ I told them. I was glad they hadn’t seen the flat in question, a condemned high-rise in a block from hell. It was the second of such flats I’d had. The first had been trashed by neighbourhood kids. Before that, I’d always lived in squats. I have what the council likes to call ‘low priority’ on the housing list, i.e., no clout at all.
‘We shall, if necessary, take legal steps,’ chimed in Bertie. ‘Aunt Daphne must be protected.’
At this juncture, the door at the top of the steps flew open and Daphne appeared. She might be frail and in her seventies, incongruously clad in jogging pants and Fair Isle socks, but she radiated authority.
‘Charles, Bertram!’ she called. ‘Stop that at once!’
The twins fell silent and shuffled, shamefaced, like a pair of five-year-olds caught throwing stones.
‘I will not permit you to harass Francesca,’ went on Daphne majestically. ‘She has had a frightening experience for such a young girl. I apologise, Fran. Bertie and Charlie – inside!’
She withdrew and the Knowles brothers scuttled up the steps after her, their voices chiming in duet.
‘Horrified to hear – so pleased to see you unharmed – a dreadful experience – not safe in your own home – warned you about that girl – change all the locks . . .’
The door shut on them, cutting off further accusations against me and lurid scenarios of what might have happened.
‘Weird,’ said Ganesh.
‘I just hope they don’t frighten Daphne,’ I said. ‘She’s been fine till now.’ I glanced down at my feet where the puddle in the gutter still hadn’t dried out and seemed to my eye to have got bigger, spreading out into the road.
‘It didn’t rain last night, did it, Gan?’
‘No,’ said Ganesh. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I was just wondering,’ I said.
‘I’d have thought you got something more to wonder about than the weather!’ was his reply.
Chapter Seven
I walked round to the shop at lunchtime, mainly to avoid having to watch the SOCO scrabbling around in my basement. What’s more, I had a feeling Parry was going to turn up at some point and I really couldn’t cope with him again so soon. Parry’s best taken in small doses.
Outside the house, a notice had appeared, tied on the lamppost. It informed passers-by that a serious incident had occurred, giving tim
e and date, and requested anyone who’d seen anything unusual in the vicinity to notify the local nick. I doubt anyone could’ve seen what was going on in a dark basement well. It made a nice, ironic touch, though, considering the yellow Neighbourhood Watch notices which sprouted in several windows up and down the street. Since none of the neighbours had called the police last night, they’d all been confining their watching to their television screens, presumably.
Two of the local good citizens were standing before the notice, looking serious. ‘Time for a meeting, Simon,’ said one.
That was par for the neighbourhood. Not good on action, but dab hands at meetings.
They were just closing up the newsagent’s when I arrived at twelve, as was normal for a Sunday. Dilip was standing in the doorway with Ganesh.
You can’t miss Dilip. The impression he gives is that he’s as broad as he’s tall. He has a walrus moustache and immensely powerful shoulders. His normal job is running a hot-dog stall and he never has any backchat from the punters.
‘No trouble?’ I asked hopefully.
‘No trouble,’ growled Dilip. ‘But a kid came round asking for you.’
‘For me?’ I was startled.
‘Young girl, skinny, looked like she was going to peg out at any minute.’ Dilip doesn’t approve of skinny people. He thinks everyone ought to be built on the same lines as himself.
It had to be Tig and I was taken aback. I really hadn’t thought she’d get in touch with me. I wondered what had happened to prompt her change of heart and asked if she’d left a note.
He shook his head. ‘She said she’d come in again some time.’
It was a pity and might prove an opportunity missed for good. When someone’s in Tig’s situation, there may only be the one moment when they’re prepared to allow anyone to help. Miss it and it’s gone. From within the shop came a loud clatter and clang and the sound of Hitch swearing.
‘Got the workers in, I see?’ I observed.
‘’Sall right,’ said Dilip. ‘I locked them out of the storeroom and they didn’t argue.’
He took himself off. I followed Ganesh back inside in time to see Marco stagger in from the back yard carrying a lavatory pan. In his arms, it looked like a piece of modern sculpture. ‘Hi!’ he said, smiling serenely at me. I smiled back, all silly.
‘See,’ said Ganesh. ‘It’ll be all fixed up by tomorrow. All they’ll have to do is slap a bit of paint round and finish fixing the wall tiles. It’s going to look really good. Come and see what they’ve done already.’
They’d put in the washbasin and new extractor fan and I had to admit the place was shaping up very well. I still felt a niggle of unease, though about what specifically I couldn’t say, but dismissed it, telling myself it wasn’t my problem.
‘Where’s the old stuff?’ I asked.
‘Taken that to the dump, darling,’ said Hitch. ‘Don’t you worry about that. I’ve taken care of it.’
Ganesh and I went upstairs to the flat over the shop and made sandwiches. We’d talked ourselves to a standstill about Coverdale, so we talked about Tig instead. I explained her situation and why I was worried about her.
‘She ought to go home,’ said Ganesh.
‘It’s not as easy as that.’
‘Still the best chance she’s got.’
I set off back to the flat when I judged the SOCO team would’ve left. They had, and taken away the plastic tape, but I’d forgotten the press. A couple of bored guys in raincoats, sharing a Thermos, leaped into action as I appeared and cornered me at the top of the steps down into the basement.
‘Fran, is it? Could we have a word?’
‘No,’ I said, trying to get past.
Fat chance. ‘We understand you found the body. Did you know him? Why was he in your basement? Had you arranged to meet him? What’s his connection—’
‘For crying out loud,’ I said wearily. ‘How the hell do I know? I met him once. I don’t know how he wound up dead in my basement.’
They exchanged glances. ‘Look,’ one of them said confidentially. ‘He was a journo, right? Like us. He had to be on a story.’
‘If he was,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what it was.’ A thought struck me. ‘Here,’ I said. ‘You’d know which paper he worked for. It must know what he was up to.’
‘Forget it,’ said one of them. ‘He was freelance, was Gray. He had quite a reputation.’
‘Oh?’ I said encouragingly. ‘What sort of reputation?’
‘For news,’ said the other. ‘He dug up some great stories. He could smell ’em out. Knew how to sell ’em, too, to the highest bidder. Editors were ready to give their eye-teeth for some of the stories Gray Coverdale ran to earth.’
He sounded wistful. The thought seemed to have slipped him by that digging out another great story might just have got Coverdale killed. It did seem to occur to them both, however, that they were giving out more information than they were getting.
‘Come on,’ they wheedled. ‘At least tell us how you met him. Go on, it can’t hurt.’ Two false smiles beamed down on me.
‘Are you crazy? The police would go ballistic if I talked to you.’
‘Just general background, you know, something we can take back to our editors. Give us a break.’
They sounded pathetic, ill-used, at imminent risk of the sack if I didn’t give them any information.
I was rescued, if that was the word, by a car drawing up. They swung round eagerly.
‘Right,’ said Inspector Harford. ‘The lady’s got nothing to say. Got that? Nothing.’
I had to ask him in. I had little choice. Watched by the two presshawks, we descended the basement steps and I conducted him into the living area of my flat, a largish room with the tiny kitchenette and bathroom off it.
‘Nice place,’ he said, taking a good look. ‘You’re lucky. How did you find it? I’m trying to find a new place. Where I live now means too much time lost travelling.’
‘I wasn’t just lucky,’ I said. ‘I helped someone out – and later he helped me out. He’s a friend of Daphne’s.’
‘That wouldn’t be Monkton, would it? The old guy whose granddaughter was found hanged in a squat over by the river, Rotherhithe way?’
‘Well, you seem to know all about it,’ I said sourly. But he must do, of course. He’d mentioned it in passing the first time we’d met. This wasn’t my first encounter with violent death and he wouldn’t forget it.
Through the small window at the far end of the living room could be glimpsed Daphne’s back lawn. Due to the sloping topography, it was at eyelevel. Immediately outside the window was a sort of ditch, enabling light to get in. So I shouldn’t look out on to the bare earth wall of the ditch, Daphne had disguised it, not very well, as a rockery. Unfortunately, the plants hadn’t flourished in the sunless, damp ravine. All to be seen were lumps of rocks jutting through mud and suggesting a half-hearted archeological excavation. Sparrows hopped about on them, searching. I was in the habit of chucking crumbs out through the window for them.
Inspector Harford had moved to this window and was studying the uninspiring view.
‘You’ve got no door out into the garden, then?’ He peered through the glass, craning his neck upwards at an unnatural angle which is what you had to do to see anything more of the garden.
‘Not as such. My landlady’s told me that if I want to sit out there in summer I can. But I’d have to go through her place. I could climb through that window, I suppose, by way of a short cut.’
I really shouldn’t have said that bit about climbing through the window. It was just a casual remark, a feeble joke, but he took it very seriously. He rattled at the catch, pushed open the window, which had hinges at the top of the frame and appeared to be making calculations. Eventually he let it drop back into place and secured the latch before turning round.
‘I didn’t,’ I said sarcastically, ‘stab Gray Coverdale on the doorstep, shut myself in and lock the door, go through this room, out that wi
ndow, climb over all the garden walls between here and the end of the street, come back along the pavement and “find” his body.’
He sat in my pine-framed easy chair, rested his hands on the wooden arms, and said, ‘I didn’t suggest that.’
‘You looked as if you were working on it.’ I stared at him resentfully. To be truthful I was surprised to see him. I’d expected Parry. I’d imagined Harford would be at home recovering from a roast Sunday lunch, or doing something healthy and outdoor. He wasn’t wearing his suit today, but M & S chinos, peacock-blue Puma sweatshirt and navy suede Nike trainers. He obviously wasn’t a man who held much truck with brand loyalty.