“Her neighbours are a real mixed bunch and there’s motivation like an epidemic but none of them seem the types. You know the business with the air-raid shelter? Your firm of solicitors were in correspondence with both parties.”
“That’s been going on for years, long before I joined the firm. The Swantrys have been clients since they moved into The Beeches, sometime in the late Fifties.”
“Any chance of looking at their file?” I never missed an opportunity.
“They’re supposed to be confidential,” Cleo said dubiously. She was obviously thinking I had scored a lot of Brownie points recently. I deserved something.
“But it’s not like a doctor,” I put in quickly. “It would be helpful and I wouldn’t get you into trouble. You could just leave the file on the desk and go outside for a moment. There’s probably nothing in it, a bit of conveyancing, wills…”
“Perhaps, I don’t know …”
“Think it over, Cleo. No hassle. A few minutes, not a second more.”
She was thinking it over but not saying, wondering if she dare risk her job but wanting Ursula off her back too.
“By the way, I bet my mother hasn’t mentioned her sister, Rosie Broadwater. She’s got an elder sister. They haven’t spoken for years.”
“A sister? Rosie? Does she live in London?” I had that feeling. I knew the answer. The vibes were in the air. I was already buying my ticket.
“How did you guess? She lives near Clapham Common, that’s South London. I’ve got her address. I always send her a Christmas card.”
“Why aren’t they on speaking terms?”
“Ursula would never say, always clammed up. A taboo subject. Here’s her address: 104, Park Side South, Clapham Common. Mrs. Rosie Broadwater. She’s a widow.”
Mr. Frazer was making good progress with the books but I made him go home. I wanted to shut shop and spend the evening planning my route for the morrow. A day wasn’t long in London when you had a lot to do.
“I sold the china shepherdess to a man while you were out,” he said, handing over six pounds. “He pointed out the chip and I pointed out the 1906 date on the pedestal. I said he’d be lucky if he was only chipped after a hundred-odd years of handling. He was convinced.”
I had to laugh. “You did well. Thank you.” I gave him the first edition of the obscure poet. “Call it commission,” I said, when he hesitated about taking the slim book.
“Well, thank you very much,” he said, clearly chuffed.
I took an early train to London the next morning, squashed between commuters doing the crossword, reading newspapers, chatting on mobiles or catching up on their sleep. It was a good opportunity to write up my notes and check my route. I never wasted time asking permission but armed with Cello tape and tacks, put handbills for Ben Frazer in good strategic spots… underground exits, shop entrances, along escalators, by lift bells. If they lasted a few days, that would be good enough. Most posters got defaced or torn down by then if not protected by glass. But the graffiti mob had started scratching glass.
The terminal stations were the centre of all movement so I concentrated on them, even took some copies into the office of the transport police. They were helpful even though Mr. Frazer hadn’t officially reported Ben as missing.
“A very delicate domestic situation,” I explained, not explaining. “Too complicated to go into. It would take me half-an-hour.”
They hadn’t got half-an-hour, nor had I, but they kept a handful of leaflets which they said they would distribute among their officers. A good start.
I also went round some of the homeless hostels which was depressing. They shook their heads. No one recognized Ben. One homeless young man was much the same as any other. I even put some posters up outside Harrods. I wasn’t fussy.
After a tuna and salad sandwich at a cafe, I took the Morden line to Clapham Common, strap-hanging with the commuters, still scanning faces for that open toothy smile. There were plenty of aimless youths drifting the underground, undernourished, roughly dressed, nowhere to go, no jobs in view. But none of them were Ben.
Rosie lived in a stone-faced Victorian terrace house, a solid two up and two down, in a long string of houses that backed onto the railway line. Rosie had geraniums in pots and the doorstep looked as if she scrubbed and whitened it daily. Perhaps this house-proud gene ran in the family. Didn’t run in mine.
I rang the polished doorbell and heard footsteps of the person coming to answer. The woman was tall with a mop of wiry-grey hair like Ursula, but there the resemblance ended. She carried more weight, had a pleasant, homey face with eyes that were bright and keen. Not the kind to waste her time sending hate mail to a sister, even if they were estranged. I knew that straight away.
I introduced myself, giving her a card. “I’m investigating a case of hate mail which is being received by your sister, Ursula Carling, and I’m wondering if you’d mind answering a few brief questions.”
“Hate mail? I’m not surprised. Ursula is not the world’s most popular person. But you don’t think I’m sending it, do you?” she asked briskly. “I wouldn’t waste a stamp on her.”
“No, no,” I said hastily. “The mail is all posted in Latching or Chichester. You’d hardly keep making that journey just to post a letter.”
“I could have an accomplice,” she suggested. “Send the stuff to a friend in a jiffy bag. Get them to post it at intervals. There’s always a way round these things. I read a lot of books, you know, mostly detective stories.”
“But you’re not a suspect,” I assured her. But the thought took root. She could be sending it to Cleo. “I need you to fill in a few gaps in Ursula’s life. I don’t think she has been exactly up front about telling me everything.”
“I bet she hasn’t. She wouldn’t be up front about the day of the month. Come in, whatever you said your name was.”
“Jordan Lacey.”
“Come in off the doorstep, Miss Lacey. I was just making a pot of tea. I expect you’d like some. What a wind. North-easterly they said on the weather forecast, enough to bite the bone.”
She showed me into a back sitting room. It was a comfortable room with a couple of deep but well worn armchairs, several bookcases crammed with books, a corner television, small tables and a forest of house plants and dried flower arrangements. The room had a genuine lived-in look, so different from Ursula’s antiseptic, don’t you dare breathe on anything, germ-free environment.
Two large tabby cats were curled round each other on one of the armchairs, tail over tail, paws crossed.
“I’ll sit there,” said Rosie, giving the cats a friendly push to one side. “They’re moulting. You don’t want hairs all over the seat of your trousers.”
I went down on my haunches to stroke their bony heads. They were big cats, ink striped fur, pampered and well fed. They broke into throbbing motorbike purrs, nudging my hands for more, competing for attention.
“They’re lovely. What do you call them?”
“Bill and Ben. Oh, I know it’s hardly original but they’re brothers. How do you like your tea?”
“As it comes. Hot and wet.”
Rosie brought through a tray with two unmatched cups and saucers, a plate of tumbled chocolate digestive biscuits and a solid brown earthenware teapot straining in its knitted cosy, spout steaming.
“Do you live alone?” I asked.
“Yes, except for these two monsters. They’ve taken over the entire house.” The cats had spread again so she pushed them aside. One climbed onto her lap, taking possession. The other squeezed himself into the space down the side of the chair. Rosie was completely hemmed in. “My husband died a long time ago. We didn’t have any children. I worked in the post office but I’m retired now. Would you mind pouring, dear? I can’t reach the pot.”
I poured the tea and put her cup on a convenient table. I crunched a chocolate biscuit and the sweetness immediately raised my energy level. Post office? Could be convenient.
“Now the garden takes up all
my time and I’ve a nice little greenhouse. I grow most things from seed,” she added proudly.
“Would you mind telling me why you and your sister are estranged?” I didn’t like asking but it was what I’d come to find out. The tea was hot and strong. I started to feel at home. Bill - or was it Ben - got tired of being squashed and overheated, jumped down and hauled himself up onto my lap, digging his claws into my leg as if it was a tree. I swallowed the needle-sharp pain. He did a few circuits before rolling up and going back to sleep.
“Ben likes you,” said Rosie with satisfaction. “He doesn’t go to many people.”
I like to think it was Ben’s approval that launched Rosie into her story, though hesitantly at first. She peered into her tea as if looking into the future or was it the past?
“I’m six years older than Ursula so we were never really close. And she was such a goody-goody, even as a little girl. I missed my dear husband and grieved for him when he died. You see, we hadn’t been married long. I never thought I would meet anyone else. Didn’t want to really, never looked around. But working in the post office, you get to know lots of people by sight, the regulars you know. One of the gentlemen was always very pleasant, tall and good looking with lovely manners. I liked him.”
She paused as if reliving her memories. I dare not speak in case she changed her mind. It was causing her some distress and she seemed too nice a lady to suffer. The room was filled with a milky stillness.
“Well, we met by accident in the library. I was changing my books. I didn’t recognize him at first, not being over a counter you see, but he knew me. He was one of my regulars. We seemed to have a lot to talk about and it was very enjoyable.”
Her voice dropped and I could see that the memories were painful. But she had to go on. I had to make her talk. I wanted to know everything. “Yes?” I prompted gently. “Then …”
“I suppose you could say he began courting me, gave me a little pot plant of African violets, so pretty it was, then my favourite Turkish Delight. Several times he treated me to tea and scones at a Lyons Tea Shop. I was very happy - for a while. Then Ursula came to stay with me. She’d got fed up being in service and found herself a job in London and it seemed sensible that she should lodged with me, cheaper and more convenient. But that was the end of my gentleman friend. From the moment she set her eyes on him, she was after him. He didn’t stand a chance, poor lamb. They were married within a year.”
“You mean, he was Cleo’s father?”
“Yes, he was Cleo’s father. Ted Burrows, my gentleman friend. She stole him from me. I saw Cleo a couple of times when she was little. He brought her to see me. Nice little girl. She has his dark looks and gentle ways. But I’ve never spoken to Ursula since. She knows what I think of her.”
“What a sad story,” I said.
“I’ve got over my anger and hurt now. But she’s not my sister anymore and I won’t have anything to do with her. And if someone is sending her nasty letters, then good luck to them.”
“What happened to Ted Burrows? She married Arthur Carling at some point, didn’t she?”
“Oh, Ted died. Some accident at work. Yes, Arthur Carling was her second husband. I never really heard what happened to Ted. I’m sure Cleo missed him a lot. She was only a little girl when he died and he was a good father to her. I think Ursula was jealous. We lost touch for a time. But Cleo sends me a Christmas card now. Never any address. I don’t know where she lives.”
“I suppose you know that Ursula has been widowed again? Arthur Carling died in January. A heart attack. And for the last few months she’s been getting all this hate mail, really nasty stuff.”
“No, I didn’t know Arthur had died. I’m sorry about that. Another nice man, I believe. She seemed to attract the good ones, can’t think why. But I won’t say I’m sorry about the hate mail. She deserves all she gets.”
“She thinks Cleo is sending it to her.” I didn’t mention the dead cat and the carbon monoxide poisoning.
“Stuff and nonsense. All her imagination. Probably sending it to herself to get attention and sympathy.”
“But that’s hardly worth employing me at my daily rates.”
“No, that’s true. And Ursula’s always been tight with money. Can’t bear parting with it. You make sure she pays you regular.”
I thought I ought to go. I’d upset her enough. Rosie insisted on giving me a couple of Busy Lizzie plants for my flat and a bag of cherry tomatoes from her green house. I stroked Bill and Ben and was reminded of the other Ben, showed her his photo.
“Never seen him,” she said. “Good looking lad. Pity, isn’t it, these days, the way they go off.”
“Shall I tell Ursula that I’ve seen you?”
“Heavens no. But you can tell Cleo, if you see her. I expect she has grown up into a nice young woman.”
“Yes, she has,” I said warmly. “You’d like her.”
It was a quiet journey home to Latching although the train was making its usual racket over the rails and people were talking and idiots were making mobile phone calls, broadcasting their extremely boring personal business to all and announcing their whereabouts as if being on the train was next door to the moon. I watched the quiet, dark countryside flashing by, my thoughts in a turmoil. My client was not a very nice person. I was beginning to think I might leave her to wallow in her hate mail but I needed the £50 a day and trying to asphyxiate her was a crime.
I couldn’t find a single suspect. It all pointed back to Cleo but I felt it couldn’t be her. My senses were against it. Everything told me she was innocent even though she had a strong motivation and Ursula had been unkind to her for years.
As for Ursula sending the stuff to herself… it was difficult to believe she would commute to Chichester for months to use the postal service.
Latching Station was deserted by the time I arrived back. There weren’t even any yobbos about. They were still in the pubs, drinking themselves legless. I hurried down the side streets and alley ways, my hand tight on the biro in my pocket. Stick it up someone’s nose and the pain would make them think twice about attacking you.
An unmarked police car cruised alongside me and slowed down. “Are you kerb crawling?” I said coldly. “Don’t you know that’s an offence?”
DI James put his head out of the open window, face half shadowed. “Do you want a lift, Jordan? The pubs will be out soon. We’ve had word there’s a mob war on tonight.”
“Oh dear. Am I going to need my trusty biro?”
“Don’t joke. Get in the car and I’ll give you a lift home. Be sensible for once. Hanging about the streets tonight is asking for trouble.”
I got in the back of the car. He had another officer in the front passenger seat who grinned over his shoulder at me. “Hello, Jaws.”
“Been sleuthing?”
“I have had a very successful day.”
“Found a dog-end with tell-tale lipstick?”
I ignored him. I was too tired for juvenile jokes. The back seat was dark and smelly with all the stench from the half-washed, the petrified, the drunk. The sooner I got out for a lungful of fresh air, the better.
“I live here,” I said, as we reached the corner of my road. “This’ll do.” The back of James’ head was unnerving. I might reach up and touch it, knowing the cropped hair would feel like velvet. He affected me as if the full moon held magic. My unattended body shrank a whole size.
“Go straight in, Jordan,” said James abruptly. “Don’t hang about.”
“Sure,” I said. “And just as I was planning a midnight walk along the beach. Wanna come?”
“I’ll take a rain check on that one,” he said, looking straight ahead as I slammed the door shut. He still didn’t look at me. Some blank wall would be more inviting.
“Don’t reckon on it,” I said to the night air. “You may not get asked again.”
The moon was an orange globe, solitary in the darkness, hung and glowing.
Damn the man. I watche
d the car drive off, waited till it was out of sight. I was suddenly nervous of being a woman.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A cloud bank lingered off the coast the next day, holding down the fog with its wet tentacles. It was inexpressibly melancholy with the debris of the night’s yobbo fighting littering the sea front, broken bottles, crushed coke cans, sprayed paint, broken panes of glass in the beach shelters.
I needed an early morning walk to clear my head. I wrapped up in thick fleecy sweater, track suit bottoms, scarf and trainers but still I was cold. It came from not eating properly and drinking too much tea and coffee. Yesterday had been a biscuit day, all day, not exactly nutritious but indulgent and now I felt carbohydrated and fat. It was time I had a decent breakfast.
My hair was wet from the damp air by the time I’d run-walked to Flood Point and back. A heavy storm in the 1930s had flooded the sea front and people had needed rowing boats to negotiate the area. It was difficult to imagine the scene, though there were faded brown photographs in the public museum that showed the level of the severe flooding. This morning there were just a few puddles.
Maeve’s Cafe was on the point of opening. Mavis was pulling up the blinds, taking chairs off the tables and standing them on the floor. She unlocked the door and beckoned me in, already in a gaudy plastic apron.
“Breakfast, Jordan? I’ve put the kettle on. How about orange juice, scrambled eggs, toast, honey, coming up on the double? Anything else? I don’t suppose you’ve eaten for days. I could eat with you if there aren’t any customers. Or do you want to be left alone?”
“No, I’d like some company, Mavis. My mind’s buzzing. It might settle down if I had some civilized conversation.”
“Got a tricky case?” She didn’t comment on my use of her real name.
Tricky case? What was she on about? I’d never told her about my work. The Latching grapevine was at work here and Mavis had receptive ears. She picked up a lot while waiting at tables, standing behind the counter serving drinks and sandwiches. People didn’t watch what they said. They thought she was a plastic dummy and no one was listening. But Mavis was.
Jordan Lacey Mystery 01 Pray and Die Page 13