by Clare Curzon
And then, she hadn’t cared for Rachel at all, on the brief occasion that they’d met. And afterwards Mr Fitt had opposed the family getting in touch again. Could he really do that? Had he any right?
Certainly it was time he came out in the open with her. There was no reason why she shouldn’t ask him to call, ostensibly to see Emily’s progress and check on her employment of Ramón. An old-fashioned solicitor, he might even disapprove of Emily being intimately cared for by a male helper. Whatever the outcome, she would insist he took her into his confidence. There had been altogether too much taken on trust between them.
Beaumont had trouble catching up again with Mrs Durrant. He rang the hospital’s maternity unit to hear that she had visited earlier that morning and left shortly after ten. No one answered when he rang the bell at her address. Then, advised by a neighbour, he ran her to earth at her daughter’s house where there were two older children under school age whom she’d moved in to look after.
Yes, she assured him; it was certainly a woman she’d seen; not a priest in a cassock or one of those students who wore long arty-crafty coats. The street hadn’t been well lit, but she’d known it was a woman by the way she ran.
And now that she’d thought about it, she was pretty sure the woman had shouted something at the boy’s retreating back. She was breathless and the wind blew the words away. Maybe ‘Stop! Come back!’ Something like that. And the boy hadn’t taken a blind bit of notice. Just ran on.
Mrs Durrant would be a good witness in court, Beaumont considered. If it ever got that far. But still he had to meet up with off-duty Constable Jarvis and get the lowdown on the locality.
They met in the Odeon cafeteria which opened for lunches before the afternoon film show. Jarvis, large and ponderous, was halfway through a pineapple milkshake. Beaumont went across to join him with a cappuccino. ‘They expect you to eat,’ he was warned, ‘but they know me here. You’ll be all right.’
Bloody patronizing for a mere plod, Beaumont considered. ‘So what’s the lowdown on the vacant plot past the car park?’ he demanded.
‘There’s a lotta local politics,’ the PC warned him. ‘That’s where the old council offices used to be before the clearance. A developer made a bid for the site, only he had a brother was an alderman, so they musta bin afraid it could look dodgy. Anyway, they decided to hold it over for a bit. Only nobody else has been allowed to make a bid since. A bit of an embarrassment all round. So if there’s any complaint put in about what goes on over there, they don’t really want to know. A case of everyone lie low and say nuffink. Sort of Brer Rabbit, see?’
Beaumont saw. ‘So what does go on over there?’
Jarvis noisily sucked on his straw until the last of the milky sludge was drained off. ‘Not a lot. A bit of rough dossing down, but there’s no harm in the old fellers. These cold nights they build themselves a fire. I don’t enquire where they get the timber from. They’ve sense enough not to pull down the fence that hides them.’
‘Are they dealing?’
‘Drugs? Nah. Old winos, most of them. A bit of meths when the cash is low.’
‘Any kids there?’
‘Runaways, you mean? I never saw any. That’s not to say they don’t stick them under some tarpaulin when they see I’m on me way.’
It was clear that PC Jarvis took a relaxed view of policing. Beaumont guessed that for him his wage packet and a full belly were the mainstays of life. Beyond that, no hassle. And, a bluffer, maybe he had clout with others on the beat, which was why mention of this setup hadn’t penetrated to the upper echelons. And had that silence even contributed to Micky’s death?
Ironically he thanked Jarvis and rose to go.
‘I thought you wanted an escorted visit.’ He sounded indignant.
‘That’ll do for now. It all sounds harmless enough.’ Beaumont was damned if he’d be trotted round there like an exhibit by this load of lard. Better to wait for dark and turn up in scruff order with a half of scotch to share. They might sniff out that he was Old Bill, but he guessed he’d get more from them than would a man in uniform.
‘When you’re out shopping …’ Alyson had said. And he’d felt diminished in her eyes. But he saw she hadn’t meant it that way.
Keith Stanford sat on in the car, debating with himself. After lunch he’d gone for the curtain cords and tassels Audrey had suddenly decided were vital. Whether sending him shopping was some whim of hers to humiliate him or an example of the mental aberration of a patient nearing the end he couldn’t tell. Anyway he’d discussed colours and silk twists with an androgynous assistant in the furnishing store and was satisfied that what he’d chosen would match the rather shabby old curtains in the lounge. Now he was free.
Parked in one of the designated spaces for doctors at the hospital, he looked across to the stack of apartments above the car showrooms. There was a low light on in the penthouse as the afternoon darkened. Behind the wide window he made out the shape of a man standing, and the head and shoulders of someone a little lower: Emily, in her wheelchair, gazing out. He could go and see her.
Or he could drop in at the ITU.
He knew which he most needed, but he had no excuse. After a moment’s uncertainty he leaned forward, switched on, put the car in gear and eased off the brake. Return dutifully to Audrey; try to shore up her whimsical interest in brightening up the lounge.
She heard the clang of the garage door closing, and still she stayed crouched on the bed, his suits scattered all round her. In her hands, torn and scrunched up, was the retrieved piece of precious evidence: the receipt from the restaurant Da Roma – two starters; two main courses; one dessert; two coffees; a single bottle of wine, but an expensive one – dated Sunday. Her last night imprisoned in the psychiatric unit. And his last night of freedom, as he’d have seen it.
His best jacket lay over her thighs. He’d worn it for his whore. He’d taken her where they’d once dined together: the pink place with low lights and discreet service. She guessed there would be bedrooms upstairs, but she’d never ventured that far. Every detail rewound like a loop of film in her mind, and at each showing she held fast to it with searing relish.
She heard the front door open and he called out, ‘I’m home!’ She crouched lower, stuffing the treacherous, shredded paper in her mouth and gagging as it soaked up all the saliva, making it impossible to swallow.
‘Audrey! Where are you, love?’
That love again! She clamped her jaws together, gulped once more and the wad passed over her tongue, lodged in her dry throat. She was choking. His infidelity would kill her! But not here, like this. There was a better way.
Footfalls on the stairs. He was almost upon her. She tried to scream, sobbed, and part of the wad moved farther down.
‘Audrey, what on earth?’ He took in her distraught state, the jumble of his own clothes strewn about the bed and on the floor. She was crouching, with fear and open venom in her eyes. He couldn’t deny the vindictive intention. She’d meant to destroy his things, but hadn’t managed to find the scissors.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she screamed. As he went forward she stumbled from the far side of the bed and made for the open bathroom door. He followed and held her as her body was racked with convulsions. She vomited in the handbasin, and seemed to be bringing up confetti.
Eating paper. She was demented. He should never have brought her home. She would need sedation, and then he must get Dr Ashton across to assess her.
DC Silver unwrapped another mint humbug and popped it into his mouth. ‘They’ll think you’ve been drinking,’ his partner warned, leaning forward to clear the misted window. ‘How the hell long do we have to keep this up? He’s having a long lie in. We’re on to a dead end here.’
‘Thank the Lord for small mercies,’ Silver mouthed around his champing jaws. ‘We’re out of the Salmon’s reach here and a negative report’s less bother.’
‘Uh-uh!’ They both tensed. Although the bedroom window remained curtained, a burly
figure in leathers had materialized from the side passage to the house and was at one of the double garage doors, removing the padlock.
‘Dressed for the bike,’ Silver whispered.
Allbright went inside, to reappear wheeling the Harley-Davidson. Silver reached for the ignition and gave one or two encouraging but subdued bursts of acceleration. If the man went burning rubber up the motorway they’d be in for a hair-raising chase with little chance of keeping up. As the bike turned into the road their unmarked car slid out of the shadows and fell in some distance behind. Allbright was making for the town centre, circled the central island and turned right for open country. ‘Good,’ Silver decided as they climbed among trailing traffic uphill.
About eight minutes of steady driving brought them to winter-bare fields and sparse farm buildings. Three vehicles ahead the Harley signalled left and turned into a narrow track. The Ford continued past, and fifty yards farther on pulled up by the gate to a ploughed field. From there they’d need to walk back. Silver hadn’t missed the No Through Road sign at the track’s opening.
Untrimmed hedges prevented their view of anything beyond the lane’s twists and turns. It led down to a shallow ford which they splashed through, breaking its fine shell of ice over the grass verge. Then a steep rise and they came on a dilapidated barn with an abandoned cartwheel leaning against its crazily hung timber door. They might have gone past but for the fresh, wet tyre tracks that led along one side and to the rear.
‘What now?’ his partner asked Silver in a low voice. There was too much risk of their being discovered and blowing the operation.
‘We report in, and come back when Allbright’s returned to work. This could be just what we’ve been looking for.’
Back in the car DC Silver radioed in to Control and was put through to CID office where Beaumont had just come in. ‘Better hang around until he emerges,’ the DS advised. ‘See if he’s moving anything out. Then follow him back home. He’ll need to turn up for the night shift at the warehouse.’
Two of the six beds in ITU had come vacant, due to a death and a stabilized arrythmia. Alyson took advantage of the brief lull to ring Fitt’s office from one of the public telephones in the hall. ‘What can I do for you, m’dear?’ he asked.
She explained that the art evaluation expert might be able to answer a question that had arisen about her missing care-worker. If Mr Fitt would give her the man’s phone number she would make the enquiry direct.
There was silence at the far end of the line. Alyson waited. Surely she wasn’t demanding a breach of legal discretion?
‘A missing care-worker? So you are understaffed at present?’
‘No, Mr Fitt. I’ve found a substitute. Rather a better one, in fact. That’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. But I’m not happy about what’s happened to the helper I had before. Nobody seems to know where she’s gone.’
‘She left without giving notice? There was no disagreement?’
‘It came completely out of the blue. And she wasn’t paid up to date.’
‘I see. That is disquieting.’ He paused. ‘But this art evaluation expert. Who was he?’
‘He’s the one you wrote to me about.’
‘Miss Orme, there appears to be some misunderstanding. I know nothing of any such person. Nor have I written to you recently. Am I to believe that someone claiming to have those credentials has actually visited Miss Withers?’
He sounded alarmed. But not as appalled as Alyson, gripping the phone so tightly that her hands started to shake. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘That is what happened. I believed you’d authorized the visit. And he was to visit on Sunday afternoon. The day Sheena Judd went missing!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
It was his wife’s bridge evening, so Timothy Fitt would be dining out in any case. The sight of onetime allies engaged in cut-throat recrimination after a game had strengthened his determination never to be drawn in. There were still in his life a few whose friendship he valued unconditionally. One of these was Emily Withers, once so redoubtable but now needing his protection.
From Alyson Orme’s alarming phone call it seemed that Emily’s valuable paintings were attracting criminal attention. He would need to strengthen security at the penthouse. Any break-in could endanger Emily herself. It wasn’t clear whether the incursion had been only exploratory or if a theft had already occurred. The collection would need fresh verification.
Recently there had been other suspicious happenings which couldn’t be passed off as coincidental. Within his own office, loss of the key to Emily’s strongbox, for one thing. And could not Emily’s missing care-worker be connected?
Alyson had insisted that the art expert had authorization in writing. The forgery of Fitt’s own signature on the firm’s headed notepaper must surely involve someone inside Callendar, Fitt and Travis with access to their stationery; so too did the missing strongbox key which normally was kept in his own locked desk. It seemed unlikely that any client visiting the office would have the opportunity, or be sufficiently familiar with the internal layout.
He pondered what precautions he should take, while lifting the succulent white flesh off his sole grilled on the bone, and sipping a pleasing Montrachet at the Conway Restaurant. Perhaps the time had come when he should be more open with young Alyson regarding her family’s quite appalling history. She had fulfilled his intentions regarding Emily’s welfare, and he hoped the girl was well-balanced enough to accept the revelation of past scandals.
He took out a pen and notepad, to jot down from memory some of the relevant dates. It had all happened so long ago, and most of what he knew was hearsay, gleaned from his own father and the original Callendar who founded the firm.
Henry Withers, Emily’s father, had considerable wealth inherited from his shipping forebears in Bristol. They had brought back treasures from the Far East, and were involved in the lucrative transport of slaves from Africa to the New World. He, a Victorian autocrat, had been equally callous towards his own kith and kin. Emily, the elder daughter, had been seventeen when she fled his roof, unaccountably pregnant. He had not allowed her name to be uttered in his presence again.
Timothy Fitt sighed, gently dabbed the linen napkin over his greying moustache and nodded to the waitress that he was ready to settle the bill.
Although Mrs Judd had been unable to recall what her daughter had been wearing when she left the house for work on the Sunday, Zyczynski was able to pick up a recent photograph. It did away with asking the woman to identify the body at the mortuary. Sheena had been fleshy and big-boned with short, fair hair. According to Beaumont’s description the dead woman was dark, thin and possibly older too. DI Salmon was going to spit blood when he couldn’t connect this body with the missing care assistant.
Mrs Judd couldn’t say what blood group her daughter belonged to, but she knew she had it written down somewhere, if only she was given time to search. It was with all that stuff about inoculations and so on. Maybe later on …
Zyczynski returned to base and reported direct to Yeadings while waiting for Beaumont to phone in Prof Littlejohn’s preliminary findings from the post mortem. So far no similar missing person had been reported, and the college had failed to claim the dead woman as a mature student or member of staff, yet it was unlikely that a total stranger would walk in off the street for the purpose of jumping from the roof. Some knowledge of the building would be needed. She hoped that a press notice would bring a response from the public leading to an ID.
A call from Control switched her interest to the Micky Kane case. The two DCs detailed to keep a watch on Allbright’s house had returned after tailing his Harley out to a farm building some eight miles north of the town. Informed of this, Yeadings began organizing a team to examine the building after dark when Allbright would be on night duty. He dispatched DC Silver to a magistrate to obtain the necessary search warrant.
‘Are we likely to get it?’ Z doubted.
‘It depends whom we ask,
’ Yeadings said blandly. Which probably meant that he’d added his weight to the request.
When they met up with the DI, ‘I want to be in on the search,’ Z insisted.
‘Just myself, Beaumont, if he’s back in time, and one of the DCs already involved,’ Salmon said shortly. ‘You stay with the college body, in case anything comes up.’ It seemed she was to blame for supplying proof that the suicide wasn’t Sheena Judd. ‘Shoot the messenger,’ she murmured under her breath.
She looked towards Yeadings for a reprieve, but he was gazing elsewhere. When she left the CID office he strolled after her. ‘I’ve just heard informally from the Prof,’ he murmured, falling into step alongside. ‘In advance of tomorrow’s post mortem report, it seems your lady couldn’t have jumped. Death was from manual strangulation. Which must have taken some finding, considering the state of the body. So we have another murder. It struck him we could make a move on that while he’s tied up with cataloguing all the breakages and internal injuries.’
He cast a cautionary glance over his shoulder. ‘I suggest we visit the college.’
Getting a step ahead of the DI on this one, Z hid a smile. The Boss relished any opportunity to abandon his desk and get to the coal-face. And, for herself, there could be advantages in being sidelined from the other case.
Mr Fitt had arranged to visit Alyson at half past eight. She came straight home off duty, checked that Emily was comfortable, then asked Ramón to stay on and meet the solicitor. After that he’d be free to go out if he wished.
Ramón picked up on the hint and decided he could afford to see the blockbuster film advertised at the Odeon. With this in mind he went to remove his coat from the airing cupboard where he’d left it damp with snow. The woollen scarf was still hanging there, which Nurse Orme had said was the doctor’s. And towards the back there was something else quite unaccountable. He stood staring, and puzzled over what it could mean. Then, as the buzzer sounded for the front door, he retired to his room to await being called in.