Windsor Red

by Jennie Melville

  ‘Is her husband not home yet?’

  ‘Coming soon. She had a telephone call. From Aberdeen, I think it was. Cheered her up a lot, she’s better when she has something to look forward to.’

  ‘Aren’t we all?’

  ‘Well, there’s the cassoulet.’

  He brought it to the table in a great brown casserole which Charmian recognised from the shape as one thrown by Anny. It was the classic recipe too, based on a goose. She was surprised. Half wondering if it might not have been a vegetarian cassoulet. But no, here was the genuine thing.

  ‘And the goose? Where did you get the goose?’

  ‘From my mother-in-law. She has a butcher’s shop.’

  ‘That’s surprising for a woman.’

  ‘She inherited it from her father. But it’s not such a difficult trade to learn. A woman can do it. It’s skill, knack. Occasionally you need a bit of brute force. I help out at times.’

  A woman can do anything, thought Charmian, as if you didn’t know it already. Even chopping up a body. Only I don’t want to believe it. Not of Kate.

  You don’t have to believe anything, a detached cold little voice said in her ear, speaking as from space, just keep your eyes open and use your brain. Something is being offered to you, see it. Life is stranger and darker than you suppose.

  They ate the cassoulet, and the child slept and made no sound. Jerome went in and looked at him once, coming back with a smile. ‘Sleeping.’

  ‘Goodness, how you love him.’

  Jerome smiled again, no words to express what he felt, but he touched her hand. ‘You would too.’

  There was no pudding, because cassoulet is a filling dish, but he had cheese and fruit to offer. Conversation was casual and easy, not touching on the murders, or the missing babies, or her study of the women recidivists.

  It’s domestic, thought Charmian. We are having an evening like any ordinary, normal family. But, of course, we can never be that. There is no real link between us. It’s a make-believe. Nothing can come of it, except dashed hopes. I wouldn’t even be a good mother.

  ‘Can I fill your glass?’

  Perhaps he interpreted the look on her face as thirst. ‘ Thanks, Jerome.’ She held out her glass. ‘I’ve learned to like wine, it took me a bit of time, I wasn’t born to it, but now I do.’ She sipped her wine, it was quite an ordinary red wine, nothing special, but it made her want to talk. ‘I’ve got a problem. Harold English, who has no power over me professionally, in theory, but yes, probably has in practice, has come up with a suggestion. I don’t want to follow it but I am going to have to. My supervisor thinks so.’

  ‘And this is?’

  ‘There is going to be a press and TV interview the day after tomorrow on the torso case. Scene of the crime, pictures, a call for witnesses. The sort of thing TV does so well. It will go out live and also on radio. There will be an audience. Public invited. Tom Bossey who has set it up thinks he will get a big response. Perhaps the breakthrough.’

  ‘Get a lot of publicity, anyway.’

  ‘He’s not averse to that either.’

  ‘And the suggestion is?’

  ‘That I take the Girls, Laraine and Co. This is so that as many police officers as possible see their faces without the Girls knowing they are being looked at. Harold English seems to think this is a good idea.’

  ‘He’s a cold man,’ said Jerome thoughtfully. ‘ But clever. Out for number one. And do you think it a good idea?’

  Charmian shrugged. ‘I accept it.’

  ‘But will they come?’

  ‘I think they might. For some reason they are anxious to oblige me.’ Or Laraine was, and the others followed her lead.

  ‘Well, it’s interesting.’ He poured himself some more wine and laughed as he drank. ‘Fancy old Bossey coming up with the idea of audience participation. He’s another one. Always grinding his own axe. I might look in myself if I can get a sitter. Just tell me where and when.’

  Charmian let her hand rest on the table. ‘Do you think you’ll stay in Wellington Yard?’

  He thought about it. ‘No. Probably not.’

  ‘You’re worth something more.’

  ‘You think so? That’s nice. But it’s more a question of time and place. This is right for me now.’

  His hand was on the table, their fingers touched. Charmian looked at him. Jerome was so many things, as well as an ex-policeman he was a loving father, a shop-keeper, occasional car hire driver, and amateur hairdresser, that she found him hard to sum up, but she was always aware of the strong virility behind the gentle manner.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘ Very much yes.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘But it’s the child, you see. Not with the child here.’

  Charmian moved her hand fractionally back. ‘I suppose that’s not my style either.’ But all the same, she felt rebuffed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ON THE NEXT DAY , while Charmian went about her unexceptionable business, two encounters took place.

  Young Robertson, convalescent from his nasty attack of chicken-pox, told to seek fresh air, but bored with his own company, strolled down Peascod Street. He had had plenty of time to think during his days in bed, and he had diverted his mind with thoughts about the mystery of the bodies. His moment of fame had come with his story of the black sack on Dr Cook’s doorstep and the woman looking at it. People had listened to him, asked him questions and taken him seriously. But now events had bypassed him. Or so he felt. Perhaps they no longer believed he had seen anything.

  ‘Don’t believe me,’ he told himself, as he walked around Marks and Spencer’s. ‘Think I’m just a kid,’ he said as he bought chocolates in Woolworth’s. ‘But there was a woman and a sack and I did see her,’ he announced as he entered Boots the Chemists for a look at their computers. He was a keen student of computers and meant to have his own one day. And that day was not going to be far off if he had anything to do with it.

  Because he lived in a shop which sold newspapers he knew all the details of the torso murder mystery and of the cases of the missing babies. His family had a personal interest here. Details about the importance of the breastfeeding of the infants had filtered through to the shop where they had been keenly discussed by Mrs Robertson. He had listened, marvelling at the way grown-ups went on, also at their dullness of perception. They only seemed to see what they thought was there, a boy saw what was really there.

  From personal observation he had decided that there was more in the arrival of Charmian Daniels than met the eye. He did not approve of women police officers, they should leave it to men, but he recognised that they had their place. They could look after women and babies. Female children preferably. Leave the men and boys alone. So he had concluded that Charmian had really come here to investigate the missing babies. It was a proper thing for her to be doing, and he would have a word with her about this when he was able, because on this subject also he thought he knew something. Not much, but something.

  He wandered out into Peascod Street and decided to take a look at Wellington Yard before going home. He liked the Yard, always had, even in the days when it had been derelict and before Jerome and all the others had moved in. He had played there, pretending to be a horse in the old stables. Anny and Jack and now Charmian lived on that spot.

  As he turned down the hill towards the Yard he saw a familiar figure ahead of him looking in a shop window. Something about the stance and the clothes reminded him of the person he had seen staring at a black plastic sack outside Dr Cook’s.

  So that’s who it was, he thought. He hurried his pace. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Hello, Brian,’ she said.

  ‘Peter,’ he said. ‘I’m Peter.’ She was only interested in babies, not really in boys. He had noticed, having felt the cold touch of indifference before.

  In the Armitage Clinic in West London a young woman doctor was talking anxiously to a colleague.

  ‘I know it was her. She came in under an
other name, but it was her.’

  ‘You could be mistaken.’

  ‘I’m not. We were at college together. I haven’t seen her since, but still …’

  ‘We are supposed to be absolutely confidential and discreet here. It’s one of the things we charge for.’

  ‘I know that.’ They were both part owners, together with two other doctors, of the clinic.

  ‘If you got it wrong, it could be bloody embarrassing. She wasn’t on your list, I hope?’

  ‘Adam Farmer got his assistant to do it. She was only six weeks on so it was a breeze. She was out the same evening.’

  ‘Have we had a direct enquiry from the police?’

  The young woman looked towards the desk where their receptionist was at the telephone. ‘Minna says we have. A constable called. She put him off, but he’ll be back.’

  ‘I should keep out of it, if I were you. You’re only guessing after all.’

  She had made her decision. ‘No, it can’t be done. It’s murder, after all, and it could be important evidence. I have to say.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  NOTHING IN CHARMIAN ’ S LIFE had prepared her for the writing of her thesis. She was glad to leave it behind for today’s outing. It was still early days but she was labouring. As a student she had written essays, as a police officer she had made careful notes from which she had then compiled a report. But it was no preparation for what she was doing now. She had written an outline of her first chapter: Character and Background, she called it, but filling in the outline felt like writing a novel. She hoped it wouldn’t read like one, but whoever heard of a novel with footnotes?

  Even done in a straightforward way, character by character from Laraine and Nix through to Yvonne, there was no denying she had her favourites. She liked Nix, feared Laraine and was sorry for Yvonne. About Baby, Andrea as she must try to call her, she mercifully did not have to write since she was not included in the group.

  It was meant to be factual, dispassionate, the work of a scholar. Well, she wasn’t one, it was becoming tiresomely clear. She would write her thesis, it would be presented in due course, she had promised that to herself, but it would never be accepted. Humphrey would have been proved right: she should have chosen some other cover.

  If it was a cover. Laraine for one was showing more and more scepticism. She was sitting next to Charmian now, on one of those hard official chairs, looking quietly pleased with herself. Another new suit too, Charmian noticed. Pale blue linen with a dark blue shirt, and big pearls with matching earrings. False, she presumed, unless Laraine had robbed either a bank or a jeweller’s. Hadn’t she been seen staring into a jeweller’s shop? There had been a report of that surely?

  ‘When does the show begin?’ she murmured to Charmian. ‘ I thought coppers were supposed to believe in being punctual.’

  ‘Here they are now.’

  The Chief Constable, a Chief Superintendent whom Charmian knew by sight, and Tom Bossey filed in. A supporting cast of lesser characters came in behind, to assist those who had already been sitting waiting like the rest of the audience. ‘And they are on time.’

  ‘Only because of the television crews,’ said Laraine. ‘I suppose they’d go on overtime if they were kept waiting.’ She seemed interested and excited in spite of her words. ‘Some familiar faces in that lot that just came in.’ She sounded amused.

  They were in the front row where they could be seen easily and Charmian had arranged her group in order as suggested by Harold English. Nix and Laraine on her left, then the others on her right. As expected, they had made no fuss about coming. The idea had amused Laraine as she knew it would.

  No trouble about getting leave from their jobs, either. It was becoming increasingly clear to Charmian that they did not expect to be staying in them much longer.

  She had brought them in as a group, again following Harold English’s suggestion, and she had felt like a mother hen with a group of strange birds.

  Jerome was sitting two rows behind and slightly to her left. But she was very conscious of his presence. He had looked them over speculatively as they came in, getting a quick stare back from Laraine in return. Dark suit, curly hair brushed, he was at his best.

  Another friend was sitting in the back row, almost out of sight. Baby, now to be called Andrea, wearing dark spectacles and a new hair style, possibly a wig, had put in a discreet appearance. Not surprising, but interesting.

  The Chief Constable stood up, introduced himself and his colleagues and explained, in the lucid, polished manner that had got him his job, the purpose of the meeting, asked for the help of all concerned in ‘this terrible crime’ and sat down.

  Tom Bossey then took over. His manner was not polished; he threw the words at his audience as if he hated to part with them. But he got across what he had to say.

  He went through the case from day one. He told of the finding of the limbs contained in the sack in Wellington Yard, then he moved on to the discovery of the cases on the farm out beyond Datchet. He even made a little joke which got a polite murmur, no more because you could tell he didn’t think it funny himself but only put it in because a light touch was good lecturing style.

  He recounted the finding of the torsos, minus their heads. Then on to the search of the house belonging to Dr Rivers in Charlton Street which had strongly suggested that the bodies had been cut up there. It was probable, he said, that the deaths had taken place in that house.

  But they had problems. He listed them.

  They did not know for sure who were the dead couple. They all knew who was missing, he did not have to tell them. Still, he did so. Dr Cook and Dr Rivers were well-loved local doctors, everyone must feel involved, he wanted help and he knew he would get it. That was what this was all about. Yes, questions could be allowed.

  His audience, in which local ladies were well represented, drank in all those details which they might have missed or which might not have been available to them. Molly Oriel was there, taking notes, Charmian saw.

  Blood groups? Yes, work was being done on this, but had not proved conclusive. Delicately, he brought in the matter of the signs of recent abortion on the female corpse.

  This certainly was an area where he expected help. Someone had to come forward with information, because it was there in the records somewhere, someone knew, it had been a professional job.

  Yes, they had officers going around to all likely clinics and hospitals but so far nothing definite had come out.

  In time it would do, but publicity would help. He needed the assistance of both the TV and radio on this one, please.

  Photographs of various scenes in the story appeared on a wall screen, and the television cameras at once took them up. There was Wellington Yard, the farm where the cases had been found, the ditch and the road leading to the farm and finally the inside of the house in Charlton Street.

  No pictures of the torsos, it was not that sort of a show and if anyone present had been hoping for a quick horror then they were disappointed. Charmian looked at her watch; she knew the strict timetable would be kept to which meant that all would be over in a few minutes.

  From the back of the room an elderly woman stood up and asked about the kidnapped babies. Was there any progress? Did the police see a connection?

  ‘Not my case,’ said Tom Bossey smartly, ‘ but I understand we are satisfied there is no connection. The investigation is proceeding. But I can offer no more answers.’

  Laraine sniggered. ‘I bet not.’

  Dolly Barstow looked at Charmian across the room, and shrugged her shoulders.

  There could be one link anyway, Charmian thought, and that could be Amanda Rivers. Bossey knew this and was probably lying.

  Nix said: ‘This lot couldn’t kipper a herring. But I could fancy that one in the white shirt with big stripes.’ This was the Chief Superintendent. ‘A brute but tasty.’

  ‘You always like a bit of the rough stuff,’ said Laraine contemptuously. ‘You can keep the lot
of them. Scratch a policeman and you’ll find a killer.’

  ‘Oh rubbish,’ said Charmian

  ‘Some of the time, not all of the time.’

  ‘You do go on,’ said Nix tolerantly. ‘ We all know you hate policemen.’

  She hates all men, thought Charmian, but not nearly as much as she hates herself.

  ‘I can look around me now and see at least two that are capable of it. One I know about, oh he did it strictly legal and in the way of duty, I believe he got a medal.’ That made it the Chief Constable, but it was years ago. ‘And as for the other,’ she shrugged. ‘Maybe he’s done it. I wouldn’t know.’

  There was a final explosion of questions with microphones thrust under Tom Bossey’s nose from all sides, and then it was over. Equipment was rolled up and there was a rush for the stairs.

  ‘And who’s that then?’ demanded Charmian as they started to file out. She caught Jerome’s eye and smiled at him. She didn’t want him to think she was any different after what had happened. Or hadn’t happened.

  Laraine looked at her slyly. ‘ Try guessing.’

  Yes, she hates men, Charmian thought, and she hates herself and now she hates me.

  Nix put her arm round Laraine’s shoulder. ‘Do as much bird as she’s done and you’d be as daft as she is. That’s a nice suit. Buy it for Ascot?’

  Laraine pushed her arm away. ‘Get off.’ She began to walk away, colliding with Baby, also making one of her fast exits.

  Charmian caught up with them. ‘What did you mean in there? You can’t just say things like that and get away with it. What am I to guess?’

  ‘You don’t know anything about people. You’re really thick. Think you can understand us? Or anyone? How you ever caught anyone beats me. Don’t you see anything, ever?’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I tell you what I’ve seen. I’ve seen a man who killed a dog because it killed a cat.’

  ‘I might do the same.’ Or feel the same, but probably not do it.