by Ian Simpson
‘I don’t want Vanessa upset further,’ he said, occupying the leather swivel chair behind the table. He crossed his legs and sat back. ‘Well, what is it?’ he barked.
Flick was not going to be intimidated. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat in the balloon-back chair facing him. ‘What were you doing between three and six on Sunday afternoon?’
He sat forward and glared. ‘I can’t believe you asked that question.’
‘Well I did. What were you doing?’
‘I was at home.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘No. I live alone, and no one was visiting. Does that satisfy you?’
‘Have you ever been married?’
Parker was silent for a moment. ‘That’s none of your business, but I suppose you’ll be able to find out anyway. I was divorced some years ago.’
‘How would you describe your relationship with Richard Noble?’
‘Best friends. Had been since university.’
‘Never a cross word?’
‘That’s a fatuous question.’ He sat back again. ‘Of course we had disagreements, but nothing serious, nothing that lasted. We ran a very successful business together.’
‘Do you have any idea about the terms of Mr Noble’s will?’
He answered quickly and his eyes flashed to the right. ‘None whatsoever.’
‘Lastly, how would you describe your relationship with Mrs Noble?’
Parker’s face had been getting redder with each question. He stood up, his fists clenched. Flick could see that he wanted to attack her and prepared to move quickly.
Speaking very quietly, he said, ‘Of all the impertinent questions you have asked, that is the most abominable. I refuse to dignify it with a reply.’
Flick smiled at him as she rose. ‘Thank you, Mr Parker. This interview has been most informative. I shall see myself out.’
Instead of getting into her car, she walked over to Gill. ‘Who’s the family solicitor?’ she asked.
‘Marcus Ramsay. He’s in Guildford,’ Gill replied without hesitation.
Pleased that her stock with Gill had risen, Flick walked slowly to her car, aware of Parker’s highly-coloured face framed by the study window.
* * *
‘I fail to see the point of this, Sergeant, but if you tell me it is relevant to your inquiry I shall, of course, give you all the assistance I properly can.’ Marcus Ramsay was not the stereotype family solicitor. He was tall, with a round, fresh face and panda eyes. His golden tan ended abruptly at polo-neck level. Flick noted his athletic movement as he resumed his seat after shaking her hand. Tie-less and jacket-less, he sat back and looked inquiringly at her across an uncluttered desk.
This lawyer is a lot more fanciable than the one I have at home, she thought. ‘It is relevant,’ she said, poker-faced, noting the absence of a ring on his left hand.
‘I thought someone they’re calling Crimewriter was responsible.’ He spoke with an unforced public school confidence.
‘That’s just the press and Twitter. It may be one person, but we have to look at each crime individually. If we didn’t, Crimewriter’s brief would take us to the cleaners.’
‘I’m jolly glad I don’t do crime. A good friend has gone into that game. He defends all sorts of ghastly people. I couldn’t do it, I don’t think.’ He flashed a brilliant white smile. ‘If a client ends up in court, for any reason, I reckon it’s a defeat.’
A likeable lawyer, Flick thought, if a bit posh. She said, ‘Could you tell me about Richard Noble’s will?’
‘Not much to tell. Apart from a few legacies that are not particularly big, everything goes to Vanessa.’
‘How old is the will?’
‘Just over ten years.’
‘Had he been thinking of changing anything?’
‘Spot on, Sergeant.’ He gave her another view of his gleaming teeth. ‘He had been consulting me regarding Inheritance Tax planning. I believe Vanessa was against him running that marathon, and, frankly, I saw her point. Richard liked his food. He kept a very fine cellar, too. I mean, he wasn’t a drunk, or anything like it, but he carried a pound or two more than he should have. Anyway, it having dawned on him that he was not immortal, he came to see me and we discussed the options. After some humming and hawing, he went for a trust tied up with a bond. His two daughters were to be the only beneficiaries. That involved an immediate payment of £300,000 to set up the trust. He had to realise some investments and was doing that when he died. The paper-work was in draft form, and the process could have been completed within a fortnight.’
‘Do you know if he discussed this with Lionel Parker?’
‘I have to be careful here, but Richard told me that setting up the trust now meant putting on hold plans the agency had to expand. In New York, I believe. He did say Lionel was cross with him.’
‘Have you any knowledge of a relationship between Mr Parker and Mrs Noble?’
Unsmiling, Marcus said, ‘I hope you don’t expect me to gossip, Sergeant.’
Flick pushed on. ‘Did Richard Noble have any suspicions that he shared with you, Mr Ramsay?’
‘No. If that’s all …’
Noting the polite but icy tone, Flick decided not to outstay her welcome. In the car, she reflected that it might be necessary to re-visit the handsome Mr Ramsay later in the inquiry.
* * *
Baggo sat in a coffee shop round the corner from The Ritz, trying to spot Alan Trelawney as he arrived after lunch service. All the likely candidates had company or joined a table. At length, a tall, sharp-featured young man came in. His jet-black hair was unfashionably long, and he brushed it back as he looked round. His black leather jacket hung loosely, revealing an open-necked check shirt and jeans with a white belt. To Baggo, he seemed like a sort of urban Heathcliffe, a man with pulling power. He went over to him, introduced himself, showed Trelawney to a table apart from other customers then went to buy two coffees.
‘Cilla’s a good mother,’ Trelawney said defensively, once Baggo had explained the purpose of their meeting.
‘No doubt, but we need to know a bit more about her.’
‘Try asking her.’ The Cornish burr came across strongly.
‘We have spoken to her and her mother. Hopefully, we will be able to eliminate her from our inquiries once we have learned some more. I gather you were working in Cornwall when you met her and her sister?’
‘That’s right. Fifteen Cornwall. A great training. Got me to The Ritz.’
‘And they were on holiday?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you not date Penny, the sister who died?’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes.’
‘Yet, Cilla got pregnant?’
‘Stuff happens.’ Nonchalantly, he sipped his coffee.
‘Are you sure the little girl is yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Have you had a DNA test?’
‘No. But I’m sure. What does that have to do with these murders?’
‘We have to know the full picture, Mr Trelawney. Does Cilla bring Penny down quite often to see you?’
‘Yes. Roughly twice or three times a month, depending on my shifts. Usually she drops Penny off on Sunday afternoon and picks her up on Tuesday morning. I don’t know what she does between times.’
‘Last Sunday, do you remember when she dropped Penny with you?’
Trelawney’s hooded eyes narrowed to a slit. ‘It was quite late in the afternoon, I believe.’
‘Can you be more precise?’
He scratched the stubble in front of his left ear. ‘It was definitely after four. Perhaps nearer five.’
‘Is there anything that helps you pinpoint the time?’
‘I remember it was time for Penny to be fed. I’d made fish fingers for her.’ He gave an earthy chuckle. ‘Not as good as packet stuff, naturally.’
Baggo sat back and shook his head. ‘Chiva
lry could land you in very hot water, Mr Trelawney,’ he said.
Trelawney screwed up his face. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What I say. Ms Pargiter has already told us when she dropped Penny with you.’
‘Oh.’ He drained his cup. Avoiding Baggo’s stare, he said, ‘All right. The fish fingers must have been for lunch. Sorry, I forgot.’
‘Mr Trelawney, if you mess me about you could find yourself behind bars, and this does Cilla no good. No good at all. Now, I’m going to give you a list of dates and I want you to tell me as much as you can about each of them. Do you have your diary here?’
He nodded. They spent the next twenty minutes going through the dates when agents had been murdered. Penny had been looked after by her father at the time of each killing. Trelawney repeatedly stressed that he had seen nothing suspicious and that Cilla was an excellent mother. He promised to contact Baggo if he remembered anything relevant, but they both knew his memory would not extend beyond details that were exculpatory.
* * *
The hour between five and six was officially Cocktail Hour in the Roman Road pub, but the last time a customer had asked the barman for a screwdriver, he had wanted to stab someone. Osborne sat at the back, waiting for Weasel. A few shifty-eyed regulars occupied the other end of the pub, glancing in his direction as if he carried the plague.
‘I just tell ’im a load of rubbish,’ Weasel hissed at them as he limped past. ‘The drinks’ll be on me when the fat bastard slings ’is ’ook.’
He sat beside Osborne, and said quietly, ‘This you ’ave to ’ear, Noelly, but it’ll cost you. The word’s out that I’m helping you. I tell everyone I just give you rubbish, but I still got a slap.’ He rubbed his left leg. ‘Wot’s this?’ He looked with derision at the forty pounds Osborne had slipped under a beermat.
After that sum had been doubled, and Weasel had taken another twenty to buy a large whisky and a coke, he got down to business.
‘Fifth of March. That’s Johnny’s release date. On licence, of course, but that’s not going to stop him coming after you.’
‘Really?’ Osborne’s bowels loosened. He wished he had something stronger than coke in his glass.
‘Yeh. And he reckons you’re itching to expose his crap alibis and fit him up as Crimewriter, who’s been killing them agents. He’s certain there’s a prison officer who’s ready to squeal. I don’t know who that is. Now, you’ve got to know just one important thing, but it’ll cost you.’
Another eighty pounds found its way to Weasel’s pocket, with another twenty to buy, this time, two double whiskies.
‘I thought you were off this stuff, Noelly.’ Weasel placed the glasses reverently on the table. ‘It’ll be the stress, I reckon. I’d be blinking stressed if I had Johnny after my guts in a couple of weeks.’
The standard blend barely touched the sides of his throat as Osborne drained his glass. As the heat radiated from his stomach, he breathed deeply and scratched his crotch. ‘What is it, damn you?’ he hissed.
‘All in good time, Noelly. All in good time.’ Weasel swirled round his tongue the Speyside malt he had ordered for himself. Seeing Osborne was fit to burst, he leaned towards him. ‘You ain’t never going to pin Crimewriter on him, because the ’Arvey Nicks murder took place about lunchtime on fifteenth February, which just ’appened to be the date of his final Parole Board hearing. I think that was in the afternoon. He’s told his mates in Littlepool, that whether you fit him up as Crimewriter or not, you’ll be dead meat by Easter. He’s serious about you, Noelly. I’d watch out if I was you. Either that or put my affairs in order.’
‘Could you get a message to him, from me, saying I promise he won’t be accused of being Crimewriter?’
‘That’ll be a ton. And it won’t work. ’E’s mad because you fitted him up for the stretch he’s finishing.’
‘Tell him anyway. And I only have sixty. You’ve cleaned me out.’
Weasel shook his head. ‘Seeing as it’s you, Noelly. But remember to bring plenty the next time.’
It was time for a change of tactics. Speaking quietly and slowly, in the way that had encouraged many to confess in the days before interviews were recorded, Osborne said: ‘Remember who it is you’re dealing with, you poisonous little scrote. Still collecting other people’s credit cards, are you? When were you last in the Scrubs? Now, I don’t give a barmaid’s tits about the truth. I want evidence that’ll sink Johnson. Once he’s out, the rest of the cons’ll be at each other like ferrets in a bag, trying to become the jail’s top bloody ferret. Now, I want to know who’s going to win that battle, and I want them on my side, getting me the evidence I need. I can help them, Weasel, arrange for stuff to be found on particular persons. You know the score. And you are going to help me to help them. Right?’
His face twitching, Weasel nodded feverishly. ‘Right, Noelly, right. No offence meant, big man.’
‘None taken. Yet. Be in touch.’ Osborne stood and walked out slowly, conscious that every eye in the pub followed him.
As soon as he had gone, Weasel scurried over to the regulars.
‘Who wants a drink on Inspector No? Probably your last chance to get one. Dead man walking, ’im.’
16
‘Mrs Smith for you, Sarge,’ Danny Peters called.
‘Who?’
‘Says she’s from Sandwich. Something to do with the Debut Dagger.’
‘Oh, that Mrs Smith. Could you transfer the call?’
Half an hour later, Flick was heading for lunch at Sandwich with ‘that charming young Indian officer’ in the passenger seat. Not in the mood for Chandavarkar’s chatter, she turned on Radio 2 then mentally switched off.
The weekend had left her unsettled. Tom, who had drunk a lot of good claret at Sunday lunch, had complimented her on her parking (‘You are clever. You know, you park like a man,’) and had taken umbrage when she complained about him being pompous, sexist and patronising. Half an hour later, they had ended their relationship with a blazing row. She didn’t mind him dismissing her political correctness, as he sometimes expressed himself with scant regard for others’ feelings, but the accusation that she had no sense of humour hurt.
‘You only laugh if someone else puts up a big sign with “joke” written on it,’ he said. Of course she took life more seriously than most, but did it go further? Did she laugh at all if other people didn’t? When had she last laughed on her own? Why did she find Chandavarkar vaguely irritating, when everyone else smiled at his way of speaking? Why did she prefer not to call him Baggo? In short, did Tom have a point?
He wasn’t so bad, she told herself. Just over-influenced by his arrogant fellow barristers. He was no more sexist than most men, and much more considerate than many. He talked intelligently, read widely, remembered her birthday. His politics, like her own, were Liberal, and his basic instincts were sound. His personal habits were not coarse. She had been comfortable with him, most of the time anyway. He had proposed to her once, but she had turned him down so emphatically that he hadn’t raised the subject again. A few months ago, she had wondered if, after all … But he persistently spoiled himself with silly, unfunny remarks.
Beside her, Chandavarkar, no, Baggo, chuckled at something Ken Bruce said on the radio. She forced herself to smile. She had nearly gone alone to see Mrs Smith, but she had clearly wanted to see Baggo. She had also wanted to meet the Inspector, but Flick had drawn the line at bringing him. Quite apart from having to put up with him in the car, he was likely to antagonise their host so she would give them no more help. She was sure he was drinking again, and she couldn’t understand his approach to the inquiry. In fact, she couldn’t understand why he was still in charge of it. He vetoed any inquiry into Pyotr’s Place or the Russians, despite the leads Chapayev had given them, and he was impatient for someone to pinpoint a writer so that he could throw the proverbial book at them. Perhaps, if he made a complete mess of things, he would be forced to retire. Would that bli
ght her career too? Certainly, it would do her no end of good to be seen as a driving force behind a high-profile success, but that was a distant prospect.
Flick gasped at the mass of brilliant red blossom on the camellia in front of which they parked. The few weeks since their first visit had seen many changes in Mrs Smith’s garden. Yellow and blue crocuses blanketed the grass beside the driveway and a forest of green spears promised an abundance of daffodils.
‘Spring is in the air, Sarge. It is good to be alive,’ Baggo said, stretching and inhaling the fresh, seaside air.
Flick looked across the car roof. Baggo was smiling and swinging his arms. He has a point, she thought. ‘You’re right, er, Baggo,’ she said. ‘I bet we’ll get a good lunch at least.’
The Smiths, Jane and Arthur, as they insisted on being called, gave them a warm welcome.
‘Guess what little extra I put in it?’ Jane beamed as appreciative noises greeted her chilli con carne. ‘Dark chocolate,’ she carried on. ‘It’s amazing how it goes with strong meats. It can lift venison. I think I might use it as a way of inserting poison into a dish. In my next novel, of course.’
‘She threatens to practise on me,’ Arthur said, dead-pan.
Flick caught herself smiling after Baggo had chuckled.
The inquiry was not mentioned during the meal. Jane asked various questions about how police procedure had changed over the last seventy years, then Arthur and Flick had a lively discussion about rugby. ‘I’m Scottish, actually,’ he explained. ‘I was named after a wonderful rugger player. I was a fly-half, you know. Just missed out on a place in the Varsity Match.’ They both reckoned England and Scotland had a way to go, and that France would probably win the Six Nations.
After lunch had been cleared, Arthur left for his office. On his way out he passed an imaginary ball to Flick, something neither officer could imagine when they had first met him.
Jane brought more coffee to the sitting room. ‘May I ask how your inquiry is going?’ she said. ‘These murders are causing great concern in the publishing world.’