by Ian Simpson
‘I’ve never heard of anything like that in my life,’ Cumberland squeaked.
‘This is no ordinary inquiry, sir.’ Palfrey said firmly.
‘We would have to pay for it,’ Flick added. ‘But it can probably be done for less than ten thousand.’
‘Ten thousand!’ Cumberland looked appalled.
‘Ms Lenehan, Jane Smith in real life, has sounded out Cameron McCrone, the author, and Tara Fisher, an editor with a big publishing house, and they’re willing to attend the retreat full-time with her. She’s tried to get an agent as well, but hasn’t had any luck so far.’
‘And where would this retreat take place?’ Cumberland asked.
‘Ms Lenehan knows an hotel in Pitlochry. In Scotland.’
‘Scotland! But would we not have to involve the Scottish police?’
‘It might set a good example of cross-border cooperation, sir,’ Palfrey said.
Flick added, ‘And the suspects would be more likely to take things at face value. If we held it in Kent, let’s say, they would be more likely to suspect that we were behind it.’
‘But, but, wouldn’t this be one of these, these entrapment, agent provocateur situations?’ Everyone could see Cumberland was clutching at straws.
‘No, sir. We wouldn’t be encouraging the criminal to do anything illegal,’ Flick said.
‘The defence will see this as a sort of trickery, won’t they? “Fruit of the poisoned tree” and all that.’
Palfrey snorted. ‘Even if some head-in-the-clouds lawyer were to say we couldn’t use something the killer said on the retreat, at least we’d know who we were after.’
‘And we’d get them with old-fashioned methods,’ Flick interjected, nodding towards Osborne, whose eyes widened with surprise.
‘I’d like to think about it,’ Cumberland said.
Flick grimaced. ‘Time is very tight, sir. Ms Lenehan is ready to push the button as soon as she hears from me.’
Palfrey said thoughtfully: ‘I think we have to move quickly, sir. We’ve had four murders in the last month. If this works, I can see it being hailed as a huge success for innovative policing, involving partnership with members of a threatened community and close working with Scottish colleagues. And it won’t be that expensive, compared with conferences, for example.’
Eyes closed, Cumberland rested his chins on his chest. ‘Very well, but I don’t want this to cost a penny more than necessary,’ he said at length, then turned angrily to Osborne. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this, Inspector? You’re supposed to be in charge of this inquiry.’
As Osborne opened his mouth, Flick cut in: ‘The Inspector generously allowed me to put the idea forward as I had liased with Ms Lenehan, sir.’
‘Oh. Good, good. And Inspector, report to Superintendent Palfrey in connection with this retreat. She will give me a full account once it’s over.’ Cumberland looked at his watch, rose slowly to his feet and sailed majestically out of the room. Flick rolled her eyes at his back.
After Palfrey had also left, Osborne and Flick faced each other.
‘Thanks for that, Sergeant,’ Osborne muttered.
Flick shook her head. ‘How did that man get where he is? He’s a penny-pinching, petrified behemoth of correctness,’ she spluttered.
Osborne grinned. ‘Did you have a dictionary for breakfast this morning? To me he’s just a fat wanker.’
18
Baggo made himself comfortable as the train rattled north out of London. He had slept for only a couple of hours, having spent the night reading Buried Alive. The previous afternoon he had phoned the bookbinder who had confirmed that Mrs Dalton had indeed collected the book for her husband’s birthday at the time shown on the credit card slip. The man sounded elderly, and he would have talked happily about books all afternoon, but Baggo had stopped him. He had Laurence Robertson’s computer and phone to deal with. These contained no more surprises. Unobtrusively, he had put the file marked ‘Buried’ on to a memory stick and taken it home. Now, on his first day off for weeks, he was heading to Newcastle to learn more about the girl who had kept him from sleeping.
The train was hot, and he nodded off, but woke with a start as the train pulled away from a busy platform. The man beside him reassured him that it had been York, and he was fully alert by the time he descended from the train at Newcastle.
The taxi ride to Jesmond was quick. On the Pargiters’ doorstep, Baggo asked himself what on earth he was doing. His previous off-piste adventure had nearly ended in disaster, for him if not for Patrycja. If he mishandled the conversation he was about to have, the whole inquiry might be compromised. As for his career …
Margaret Pargiter raised her eyebrows when she opened the door, but let him in and showed him into the sitting room. She did not offer tea, but sat opposite him on the edge of an armchair. Her hands were smeared with different colours of paint, and a streak of light blue above her left eye continued into the unruly hair above it.
‘I am sorry to disturb you, but is Cilla in?’ he asked.
‘No. She’s at work and Penny’s at nursery.’
‘Is Cilla short for Priscilla?’
Margaret frowned. ‘Why, yes. Have you come all this way to ask that?’
‘Are you sometimes known as Peg or Peggy?’
‘As are most Margarets, yes.’ Her eyes half-closed, she looked at him carefully.
‘You knew Laurence Robertson, didn’t you?’
‘No.’ Sitting up straight, she stared at him, defying him to contradict her.
‘Does Cilla know him?’
‘No,’ she said vehemently. ‘Where is all this leading?’
‘I found her book,’ he said quietly.
‘What book? Where?’ Her voice, full of indignation, rose in both tone and volume.
‘The book that someone e-mailed him. It was still attached to the e-mail. Who is [email protected]?’
Her head drooped and she twisted a lock of hair round a paint-stained finger. ‘Mostly me. Cilla occasionally uses it. I heard about Laurence’s death on the radio this morning. There was a policeman with a high voice talking.’ She looked at Baggo. ‘Laurence had a deep voice, you know. Would you like tea?’ She asked, her voice weary, resigned.
‘I’d like the truth.’
She pushed herself up. Standing over Baggo, she said, ‘Well I need a cup of tea before I tell you that.’
During the five minutes she was out of the room, Baggo stood in front of the painting of the twins. Framing Cilla’s face with his hands, he could see, in the mouth particularly, a younger version of Robertson. Margaret was a skilful artist; she had captured the essence of a particular, opaque look that defined her daughter’s face as it had made the dead man distinctive. Was he Cilla’s father, or some other relation? He wondered how much of the truth he was about to be told.
‘I made some fairy cakes yesterday,’ Margaret said as she returned. She set the tray on the table, sat down and carefully poured tea into hand-painted china cups. ‘This is a bit of an occasion,’ she explained.
Baggo sensed that it would be a mistake to hurry her. He ate two cakes and drank his tea in silence, waiting. At last, Margaret set down her cup and spoke.
‘Please don’t tell Cilla this unless you have to,’ she said.
‘I cannot promise anything like that, but I will keep your secrets if I can.’
She shook her head. ‘I suppose that will have to do.’ She clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. ‘Cilla believes I do not know who her father is. Or was. I have always told the twins I was in a commune in which we believed in free love. In fact, well, you must have guessed, Laurence and I were lovers. We actually lived quite conventional lives, in Bristol actually, and were going to get married. But he met someone else, and … I was devastated and just wanted him out of my life. Completely. I came up here then discovered I was pregnant. My parents were dead and I had no one. That’s when I joined the commune. T
he twins arrived, I registered the birth, giving “unknown” as the father. For their first three and a half years, the twins lived in the commune. And they were loved by everyone. All the men acted as dads. They competed for the twins’ affection.’
For a moment she paused, a sad smile on her face. ‘But it wouldn’t have worked in the long term, and I decided to come up here, back to my roots, and bring the twins up “properly”. One thing I never deviated from was that Laurence Robertson should never know about them, and they should never know about him. Well, Penny died, then Cilla was struggling to get her book published. I realised that Laurence had become a successful agent. I hated doing it, but I wrote to him, explaining everything. Did you find that letter? No? I bet he destroyed it. He wrote back, asking me to e-mail the book to him. I had a copy on my computer, so that was no problem. That was last November, and I haven’t heard a cheep from him, and I’m sure Cilla would have told me if she had. Cilla knows nothing about any of this, and I begged Laurence not to tell her. That’s the truth, like it or not.’ Her voice caught, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and looked imploringly at Baggo. ‘Please keep it all secret. Particularly as Cilla can’t know her father now, even if she wanted to.’
‘I’ll try,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her shoulders relaxing. ‘Now, please go. I don’t want to have to answer awkward questions about what you wanted.’
‘I have to ask, was Cilla in London on Monday?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice and face drained of emotion.
‘Forgive me, but I would like to know your whereabouts early on Monday evening.’
Margaret started then smiled. ‘You want to eliminate me from your inquiries, I suppose? I had a migraine and went to bed. No one can vouch for me, and, as I turned all the lights off, the house will have appeared unoccupied.’
As Baggo got up, she put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m not heartless. I know I should feel something, Laurence being murdered like that, but I can’t feel anything for him. It’s been a long twenty-five years. Very long. And I am scared, for Cilla, that she’ll get the blame. Can you see that?’
He tried to read her expression. Was there guilt there, as well as fear and pleading? ‘I do see,’ he said.
Baggo was still stunned when his train was half way back to London. And he didn’t know if he could or should keep Margaret’s secret.
* * *
‘Yes!’ Flick said to herself as she put down the phone.
‘Anything I should know about, Sergeant?’ Osborne stood beside her desk. He had a smile on his face.
‘Er, yes. I was about to tell you.’
‘Well come with me and tell me in the car.’
‘In the car? It’s nearly lunchtime and Palfrey will be here at two.’
‘I know, Sergeant, but I think you’re going to like this.’
Flick got up and followed Osborne to the car pool. To her surprise, he already had keys and climbed into the driver’s seat. Once she had her seatbelt on and he had started the engine, he said, ‘We’re going for lunch. Together and on me. We need to talk.’
‘But, I …’
‘Please, Sergeant.’
Flick was aghast, but there was no way out without appearing hopelessly petty. ‘Right,’ she said.
They drove in silence to a street leading from Worple Road, rich in old-fashioned food shops. A greengrocer, a butcher, a fishmonger and a general store, all had Asian names above windows cluttered with fresh produce and bargain notices. Osborne slowed and bumped down a narrow, pot-holed lane. At the end was a patch of waste ground where he parked. As Flick got out, Osborne smiled at her. ‘I can see what you’re thinking, but my ex liked this place and she hated most curries.’ He set off back down the lane, towards the street.
Some years earlier, Flick had sworn she would never again set foot in an Indian restaurant, but when Osborne led her to the garish red door of a restaurant called Abdul’s and opened the door for her, she set her face and went in.
‘Ah, Mr Osborne! How are you today, sir? Your usual table?’ The beaming waiter, dressed in western shirt and slacks, showed them to a table in an alcove deep within the restaurant. Flick shuffled away from Osborne along a bench upholstered in worn draylon and found herself facing a blown-up picture of an Indian couple, presumably Abdul and his wife, holding hands on the white bench in front of the Taj Mahal where Princess Diana had once posed in solitude.
Only two other tables were occupied, both by Caucasian men casually dressed. The menus, like the table covers, were plastic, and Flick noted that everything seemed clean.
‘Cobra or water?’ Osborne asked. ‘Cobra’s Indian beer, like lager,’ he added, fidgeting with the menu.
Flick sensed that he was as nervous as she was. ‘Water’s fine, thanks,’ she said.
He asked for two bottles of mineral water.
‘Popadums,’ he said, as a plate of bread-like wafers arrived. ‘You’d be best with mango on it.’ He selected one of the sauce dishes accompanying the popadums and pushed it across the table. ‘The lime’s good too.’ He helped himself and put it down beside Flick. ‘You’re not a veggie, are you?’ Crunching a popadum, she shook her head. ‘Then I’d advise Kashmir chicken, if you like chicken. It’s got spice in it, but it’s not hot. My ex had a fancy for Malayan chicken, too. It’s mild.’
The waiter took their order, Osborne requesting his ‘usual’, then they finished the popadums. Flick was determined not to break the increasingly awkward silence that followed.
‘Why did you help me out yesterday?’ he asked eventually.
‘Because I want you to actively support Lavinia Lenehan’s plan.’
‘What did you mean by saying that we could get the criminal using old-fashioned methods?’
‘I wanted to annoy Cumberland.’ She saw his grin and grinned back.
‘But why did you go off to check alibis without telling me?’
‘In case you said no. I was sure it had to be done immediately.’
‘We’ve got to get the right person, you know, and there’s one that stands out.’
‘Do you think so? Francis gives me the creeps; Wallace is seriously angry with life; Dalton is a mass of contradictions. Pargiter’s strange. She cuts out reports of the murders, and her sister drowned in odd circumstances. I think they were competing against each other for the man who’s her daughter’s father. So … well, it’s hard to say.’
‘You haven’t mentioned Johnson.’
‘You know him better than I do, but why should a man about to be paroled from a life sentence risk killing a lot of literary agents? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Believe me, he’s our man, Flick.’ He paused, letting the significance of her preferred name sink in. ‘He’s evil through and through, with a helluva lot of nerve.’
‘What about the Harvey Nicks murder? Do you think he could have done the rest, and the Russians ordered the hit on Swanson?’
‘He did the lot, Flick. Mark my words. And I’m going to prove it.’
‘Well, he’s a likelier suspect than Mrs Lawson, though she cossets her husband like a mother hen. She’d kill for him, I reckon, but I see her as our least likely suspect. And she has a good alibi for Harvey Nicks, so if she did the rest, that would put the Russians in the frame for Swanson.’
‘Forget the Russkies, Flick. That man Chapayev is off his rocker. He’s just playing politics. Trust me.’
Flick opened her mouth to respond, but the food came and by the time the plates had been arranged, she had decided to stay silent. To her surprise, she found the Malayan chicken tasty and good. Trying to ignore the aroma wafting from Osborne’s prawn vindaloo, she finished all but some rice and sauce.
Osborne ordered coffee and the bill, which he paid in cash. He told her about how he had come to love Indian food, without wanting ever to go to India. A loud belch as they left the table reminded Flick that their alliance would only be temporar
y. But it was an alliance, and in the car she updated him on her morning’s work. When they returned to the station, she thanked him politely, pleased that she had managed to avoid calling him either sir or, worse, Noel.
* * *
‘This weekend? How on earth have you managed that?’ Palfrey was taken aback. After a disasterous press conference the previous afternoon, she expected that, mauled by journalists, Cumberland would distance himself from the inquiry, leaving her as the senior fall-guy. She was determined that would not happen. She had no illusions about making Commissioner, but she felt she had at least one more promotion in her. She had demanded an up-date every day at two.
Flick said, ‘Not me, ma’am. Lavinia Lenehan, Mrs Smith. She had everything primed in advance before the Chief Super agreed to go along with it, and she doesn’t want any more agents to be killed.’
‘But how did she explain this to the suspects? Are they all coming?’
‘We’ve yet to hear from Sidney Francis, but the rest are all set. Mrs Smith can be very persuasive, ma’am. She told them that the judges were overwhelmed by the high standard of entries, and they couldn’t pick a winner without seeing more of the shortlisted writers’ work. Then she invented all sorts of reasons involving the judges’ schedules why it had to be this weekend. She reckoned they’d be so flattered and keen to win they’d go for it, and it seems they have.’
‘What if Francis doesn’t play ball?’ Osborne asked, stifling a burp. ‘Won’t that destroy the whole thing?’
‘We’d still learn a lot about the rest, and that would be useful,’ Flick replied. ‘But yes, we do want them all to be there.’
‘Tell us what’s been arranged so far, Sergeant,’ Palfrey said.
‘The hotel’s called The Pride O’ Atholl.’ She glanced at Osborne, expecting a reaction that never came. ‘It’s at the north end of Pitlochry, which is above Perth on the map.’