Running Scared

by Ann Granger

  ‘Why should you kill Coverdale? He was a man you’d hardly met, so you said,’ he asked, managing to imply I’d been economical with the truth the last time we’d met.

  ‘That’s right, I scarcely knew the man. On the one occasion I did meet him, I didn’t know his name.’ I paused. ‘He definitely is Coverdale, then?’

  He nodded. ‘A relative was found to make the identification.’

  I imagined the scene and it was a gruesome picture. Then I wondered who’d potter down to the morgue to identify me if I turned up dead. I didn’t fancy Daphne being asked to do it. I supposed it might be Ganesh. I don’t have any relatives. After my mother walked out when I was seven, Grandma Varady moved in and looked after Dad and me. Dad died first, which was odd because he wasn’t old and he didn’t think he was ill. He’d long had what Grandma called ‘a delicate stomach’ but the list of foods he couldn’t digest got steadily longer. It turned out he had stomach cancer and by the time that was found out, it was inoperable. Grandma and I soldiered on pretty well for a year or so, but Dad’s death had hit her hard and she never came to terms with it. Her mind grappled with it in vain until she descended rapidly into a half-world. She didn’t so much die as fade out, and then I was on my own – out on the street because the landlord didn’t want me in the property. I was sixteen and alone. I’ve been on my own ever since.

  My mind had been drifting, thinking all this. I realised Harford was watching me closely.

  ‘Well, go on then,’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  ‘You didn’t ask a question,’ I said, and realised straight away that of course, he must have done, but I hadn’t heard it.

  I apologised. ‘Sorry, I was thinking – you know about someone having to look at his body and say they recognised him. That’s a pretty lousy job.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ He glanced towards the curtain of plastic strips covering the entry to the kitchenette. ‘Shall I make us some tea?’

  I supposed I should have offered him some. I started to get to my feet, but he waved me back and took himself off and returned minutes later with tea in two mugs. ‘Do you take sugar? I couldn’t find any.’

  ‘I probably haven’t got any.’

  He sat down again. ‘How are you feeling today?’ He’d changed tactics. I was getting tea and the bedside manner now.

  ‘OK.’ I thought about it and decided to unburden myself of the thought which had been nagging at me since Coverdale’s death. ‘I can’t help feeling a bit responsible for what happened, because I didn’t read his note straight away when I found it. If I had, I’d have been here at ten when he came back – and not turned up with Gan, late. Too late.’

  ‘Why didn’t you read it?’ He sipped from his mug, his eyes watching me.

  ‘I was distracted. Someone else was here.’ He raised his eyebrows so I told him. ‘One of Daphne’s nephews.’

  ‘Mr Charles Knowles or Mr Bertram Knowles?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  ‘You’ve met ’em, then.’ I was surprised, but really oughtn’t to have been. We couldn’t have something like this happen without the brothers scurrying round to put in their fourpenn’orth. ‘It was Charlie.’ I wondered if he’d ask what Charlie had wanted.

  He nodded. ‘They sought me out to express their concern about the murder and their aunt’s safety and, frankly, about your presence on the premises.’

  The miserable pair of shysters. They didn’t lack brass neck. I leaned forward, slopping tea, and declared, ‘Well, let me tell you something about Charlie and Bertie, they’re creeps and they’re con men. They’re trying to persuade Daphne to give them this house. Give it to them! Just like that. They’ve told her some spiel about letting her stay on, which has to be a load of rot. I don’t believe them. Is it illegal for them to suggest that to her? If it isn’t, it ought to be. Can you stop them?’

  He shook his head and put his empty mug on the carpet by his feet. ‘That’s a family matter. Naturally they’re concerned about an elderly relative. They’re partners in a firm of solicitors, I understand, so I’m sure they know the law. I wouldn’t, if I were you, go about suggesting that they had ulterior motives. Not unless you have concrete evidence. If they got to hear of it, you could be in trouble.’

  ‘I thought,’ I said bitterly, ‘one was supposed to report anything suspicious.’

  ‘There’s nothing suspicious in suggesting she think about avoiding inheritance tax. Anyone would do it.’

  People with the sort of background he no doubt had did it. People like me, who had nothing to leave and no chance of inheriting so much as a rusty watch chain, had no such worries.

  ‘As a matter of pure hypothesis,’ he was saying, ‘if anyone who wasn’t a registered financial adviser were to urge Miss Knowles to invest money somehow or other, that might be a different matter. But as it is, I wouldn’t meddle, Fran. You’d probably end up burning your fingers.’

  I felt my face flame as I told him that I wasn’t meddling. I was concerned for my landlady. His attitude made me angry. I didn’t like his familiar use of my Christian name and I was doubly infuriated to think the brothers had been complaining about me to him. Then it occurred to me that here I was, complaining to him about them.

  ‘However,’ he was going on, ‘since you’re so keen to report anything suspicious, I’m surprised you didn’t report the incident at the newsagent’s when Coverdale came into the place, injured.’

  So we were back to that again. ‘We explained all that. He didn’t want us to do it.’ I decided it was time I took charge of this conversation. We were in my flat, after all. ‘Have you studied the pics? Do they mean anything to you?’

  I hadn’t expected much of a reply to this, just an official brushoff, but it had an extraordinary effect. ‘I don’t want you talking to anyone about those photographs!’ he snapped. ‘That’s one reason I’m here today, to make that absolutely clear to you. I don’t want you even to mention finding them. Their existence has to be kept secret, right?’

  Hold on, here. I’d hit a nerve. ‘They do mean something to you!’ I gasped.

  He’d reddened. ‘We’re investigating. But I mean what I said, Fran. You’re not to talk about those pictures to anyone at all, not the press, not your landlady, not to your friends. You’re not to say what’s in them or describe the people they show. It is standard practice not to reveal everything in a murder investigation,’ he added belatedly.

  ‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.’

  He simmered down and looked a tad embarrassed. ‘It’s important, that’s all. Police investigations can get completely buggered by gossip.’

  ‘You’d better speak to the builders, then. They found the packet with the film in it. Hitch – Jefferson Hitchens – and one of his—’ What was Marco? Hardly a registered employee with all the paperwork, National Insurance contributions, tax and all the rest of it, involved. ‘Some chap who was helping him out,’ I finished.

  ‘We’re on to that, thank you,’ Harford said primly. ‘Someone’s gone to see them.’

  Parry, ten to one. Harford had wisely left it to someone who’d fare better on that territory. Now he sat back in the chair and changed the subject completely. ‘Parry tells me you trained as an actress, Fran.’

  It seemed like he knew so much about me, he could’ve written my biography. Didn’t they have anything else to chat about down the nick? ‘You keep calling me Fran,’ I said coldly. ‘I don’t remember telling you that was OK.’

  He flushed. ‘Sorry,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘And I don’t see how my having been on a Dramatic Arts course matters to you, either. I was – but I didn’t finish it.’

  ‘Why did you drop out?’ he countered.

  I could have explained about Grandma Varady dying and the landlord throwing me out and all the rest of it, but I didn’t see why I should. ‘I just did,’ I said.

  ‘Pity you didn’t stick to it.’ He had that superior note in his
voice again.

  ‘My business, not yours.’ I was getting more and more fed up. But as I spoke, it occurred to me that if he knew I’d had stage training, he might be wondering how convincingly I could lie. ‘Did you come here just to tell me not to talk about the photos?’ I asked icily.

  He hesitated. ‘That – and to ask you not to talk to the press at all.’ He held up his hand to stem any indignant rebuttal I might make. ‘Yes, I know – they were pestering you and you were refusing to be drawn, which was quite right. They’ll hang around for a couple of days but they’ll soon get bored and move on if you don’t help them out. If they get no news story here they’ll go and find something else.’

  ‘Unless,’ I said, ‘they’ve got wind of what Coverdale was up to.’

  He started to get worked up again, flushing to crimson. ‘If you, or your pal Patel, screw this up for me, I’ll throw the book at you both, remember that.’

  There was no reason why I had to sit here and let him insult me. ‘If you’ve finished,’ I told him, ‘I think you’d better go.’

  He hesitated but got to his feet and made towards the door. Determined to see him well off the premises, I accompanied him up the basement steps to street level. The two pressmen had gone – or were hiding in a doorway until he went.

  Harford looked up and down the street, perhaps checking it out for the missing reporters. Then he said unexpectedly, ‘Someone been washing a car out here?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Just, there’s a lot of water in the road here.’

  He’d noticed it too. Perhaps I ought to mention it to Daphne. Harford was sliding behind the wheel of his own car. I’d imagined he’d be driving some powerful flash motor, but he’d climbed into an elderly Renault. I watched him drive off and decided not to bother Daphne about the growing damp patch outside. She had enough on her plate.

  The rest of the day passed off without incident. I didn’t see either of the Knowles twins nor did any more coppers decide to make nuisances of themselves. I turned in early. I had to be at work the next day.

  It was a pleasant Monday morning, quite mild, with pale sunshine lending quite a cheerful air to everything. Even with all the outstanding unsolved problems, I felt quite cheerful too, until I turned the corner into the street where the newsagent’s stood – and saw the police car parked outside the shop.

  It wasn’t quite eight. I wondered how much hassle of witnesses constituted police harassment. We must be getting near the dividing line. Geared up for battle, I threw open the door and marched into the shop, ready to defend Ganesh’s rights. What I saw stopped me in my tracks.

  Ganesh sat on a chair in the middle of the shop. His head was bound in thick white bandages and he looked badly shaken. Nevertheless, he was doing his best to answer the questions of a policewoman who hovered over him, notebook in hand.

  ‘Gan!’ I shrieked.

  The policewoman jumped round as if stung and nearly dropped her notebook. She was a strapping blonde with legs like a footballer’s in her black stockings. She jammed her hat back on her head and scowled at me.

  A second copper, who’d been prowling round behind the counter, came rushing out and tried to bundle me back out of the door on to the pavement. I resisted.

  ‘Shop’s closed, miss. Didn’t you see the notice on the door?’ He took my elbow in the approved manner.

  ‘Leggo!’ I snapped, wedging myself in the doorframe, my back against one upright and my boots braced against the other. ‘I work here. What’s happened to Ganesh, to Mr Patel?’

  He was unwilling to let me back inside but was obliged to check my claim. He looked over his shoulder. ‘That right?’ he called towards Ganesh. ‘She work here?’

  ‘Yes. . .’ said Gan faintly.

  The copper reluctantly stood back to let me in.

  I hurried over to Ganesh. ‘What’s happened, Gan? Who did that?’ Had someone tried to hold up the shop? First thing Monday morning was a hell of a time to try it. So little business would’ve been done, the takings would be negligible. But thieves weren’t always logical. The culprit might’ve been a psycho or desperate for just enough money for a fix. I felt sick with rage and anger.

  ‘Last night,’ Ganesh mumbled. ‘Intruder . . . down here. Heard a noise. Went down to see what was going on, got laid out by some joker, whoever he was, and ended up in casualty.’

  ‘We think an attempt was made to burgle the shop,’ the policewoman said. ‘Perhaps you could take a look round, if you work here, and see if you notice anything missing. What’s your name?’

  She didn’t like me, I could tell. I told her my name.

  Ganesh, fidgeting, said, ‘I don’t think anything’s gone. I looked in the storeroom and the cigarettes are still up there behind the counter. There wasn’t any money in the till.’ He met my eye as he spoke. I knew what he was telegraphing. Don’t mention the photos or Coverdale’s death. These were ordinary uniformed coppers and they might not know.

  The male officer walked through the shop and disappeared out back somewhere. The woman asked, ‘Shop alarm in order, sir, as far as you know? Only it appears not to have gone off. Isn’t that odd?’

  I fancied Ganesh looked shifty, and had just decided it must be a look of pain, when he said, ‘Fact is, I might’ve forgotten to set it.’

  ‘Forgotten?’ She was both surprised and suspicious. So was I.

  Luckily she was distracted by the return of her partner, bare-headed and breathless. ‘I reckon he climbed over the rear wall. Back door’s open, but not forced. Who’s got a key?’ He stared at Ganesh.

  ‘No one,’ said Ganesh indignantly, and then put a hand to his injured head. ‘Ow! Look, no one has a key but me.’

  ‘You ever have the key?’ The copper turned an accusing eye on me.

  ‘Never!’ I told him.

  The law looked at one another. ‘Chummy might’ve been clever with locks,’ said the one who’d come in from the yard. ‘But if he was, he wasn’t your run-of-the-mill break-in artist. Force entry, grab goods, get out. That’s the usual style. You say he never took nothing?’

  Now they were both looking at Ganesh and disbelief was written all over their mugs.

  ‘You say, sir,’ said the policewoman, ‘that you collided with this intruder on the stairs?’

  ‘I was coming down,’ Ganesh said. ‘And he was hanging about there, right by the bottom step.’ He pointed towards the door which opened on to the staircase leading up to the flat overhead. ‘I started to say something like – I dunno – who’re you? Then he lashed out.’

  ‘He’d got that door open, then?’ The male copper scratched his head. ‘Like he was going to come upstairs?’

  ‘He might’ve been.’ Ganesh sounded wary.

  ‘And how long did you say you were unconscious?’ The copper was consulting his notebook in a theatrical manner.

  Ganesh told him he hadn’t said because he didn’t know. He hadn’t looked at the clock before coming downstairs. He thought he must have been out some time and then it had taken a while before he was compos mentis enough to ring for an ambulance. ‘Because I realised I’d been hurt,’ he said. ‘I was bleeding.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Your call was logged by the ambulance service at ten minutes to five this morning. You must have been unconscious a long time. What do you suppose the intruder was doing in that time?’

  ‘How,’ muttered Ganesh, ‘should I know? I was out cold. Perhaps he’d left.’

  The woman took up the questioning. ‘You’ve got to see it looks a bit odd, at least to us. I mean, more chance of his being caught if he went upstairs to the living accommodation, wasn’t there? You might’ve come round and rung us, or got out of the shop and raised the alarm. Easy enough for him to help himself to a few thousand ciggies and a load of first-class stamps down here, wasn’t it? But he’s not touched a thing, either here or upstairs.’

  ‘He could’ve printed himself out a few lottery tickets for nothing, while he was about it,�
� said her partner. Must have been the canteen comedian.

  ‘Oy!’ I said, thinking it was time I took a hand. ‘It’s not funny.’

  It wasn’t. They didn’t believe Ganesh’s version of the night’s events, that was clear. They’d turned their steely gaze on me. The male officer smirked.

  The woman said in a cajoling voice, ‘Now, sir, you’re sure this wasn’t a domestic?’

  ‘I’m not married!’ Ganesh’s voice rose and again his words turned into a yelp and he put a hand to his bandages.

  ‘You live nearby, do you?’ The man gave me the sort of look they give you when they’re trying to convince you they know the truth and you might as well speak up and save time. It usually means they know sod all and are hoping you’ll be stupid enough to tell them. ‘Weren’t here at all last night, were you, miss?’