‘I …’
‘We’ll make it easy for you, Cliff,’ put in Chipchase. ‘You can omit the postcode.’
Enslow sighed heavily. He thought for a protracted moment, then said, ‘All right.’
Chapter Forty-two
NOT ITALY. NOT even Scotland. Ailsa Redpath lived in London. Harry and Barry left Enslow to make his way home and hurried back to the station, arriving short of breath but in ample time for the 5.20 train.
At Paddington, Harry bought his second London A–Z in as many days and traced Ailsa Redpath’s address to a chunk of Chelsea between King’s Road and Fulham Road. They could be there within the hour.
Enslow had maintained his attempt to mislead them had been motivated by nothing more than a desire to avoid causing his landlady any trouble for fear she might review his rent. Harry was not so sure. He thought it distinctly possible that Mrs Redpath had asked Enslow to divert any enquiries concerning her. He also thought Enslow might already have reported their visit of the day before to her, even though he had denied doing so. But the real question was not whether she had taken active steps to guard her privacy. It was why she might have done. And there was only one way to find out.
It was gone seven o’clock on a cool, grey evening when they emerged from the Underground at South Kensington. A stiffish march through quietly affluent residential streets took them within half an hour to Elm Park Road – and a white-stuccoed, black-railinged Victorian terrace of well-worn gentility.
‘How are we going to play this, then?’ Chipchase asked, pausing before the steps leading to the gleaming blood-red front door of number 27.
‘By ear,’ Harry replied, striding up the steps and pressing the bell. ‘Just follow my lead.’
Harry had time for a second, longer press before the door opened. A tall, grey-haired man of middle years, with a fine-boned face, piercing eyes and the dashing looks of an ageing film star, regarded them unsmilingly, almost challengingly. He was dressed casually but expensively, with a glittering chunk of Rolex lolling from the wrist of the hand he had wrapped round the edge of the door.
‘Yes?’ A faint upward twitch of the eyebrows accompanied the peremptory greeting.
‘We’re, er … looking for Ailsa Redpath,’ said Harry.
‘Who are you?’ There was the hint of a Scottish accent buried deep in the man’s clipped, cosmopolitan voice.
‘My name’s Harry Barnett. This is my friend, Barry Chipchase.’
‘Never heard of you.’
‘There’s no reason—’
‘I’m Iain Redpath. Ailsa’s my wife. I know all her friends … and acquaintances. I don’t know you.’
‘We’ve never actually met your wife, Mr Redpath. We are old friends of the late Lester Maynard, however. He bequeathed her a house in Henley, as you’ll be aware. It’s in connection with Lester that—’
‘Ailsa isn’t here.’
‘No?’
‘She’s gone away.’
‘Really? Where to?’
Redpath’s grip on the door tightened. His gaze narrowed. ‘None of your business.’
‘Are you always this hostile to visitors, squire?’ put in Chipchase.
‘What?’
‘It’s not as if Harry’s stepped out of line. We’re only making a few polite enquiries.’
‘This is very important, Mr Redpath,’ said Harry, emolliently. ‘To your wife as well as us. We need to get in touch with her. Urgently. If you could just tell us—’
‘I’ll tell her you called. OK? Barnett and Chipchase. Old friends of Lester Maynard. I’ve got that right, haven’t I?’
‘Yes. But—’
‘Want to leave your number in case she decides to call you?’ His tone implied this was so unlikely as to be inconceivable.
‘We don’t actually … have a number.’
Redpath looked them both up and down. ‘Why am I not surprised?’
‘But we could … come back.’ Harry ventured a smile. ‘When you’ve had a chance to talk to your wife.’
‘Yes. I suppose you could. But I can save you the bother. There’s nothing Ailsa will want to discuss with you. I can guarantee it.’
‘If you could just see your way to—’
‘Goodbye.’ With that – and the faintest of smiles – Redpath closed the door in their faces.
‘That went well, I thought,’ said Chipchase as they wandered away along the street, retracing their steps in the vaguest of default modes.
‘He’s hiding something,’ grumbled Harry.
‘His wife, you mean?’
‘We’ll go back.’
‘He’s already told us what answer we’ll get if we do.’
‘We’ll go back.’
‘OK, OK. We’ll go back. For all the bloody good it’ll do us. How about a drink in the meantime? I could murder a—’
‘Hi.’ The door of a rust-pocked Ford Fiesta parked at the kerbside a few yards ahead of them had swung open and the driver had climbed out into their path. He was a podgy, round-faced young man with short, greasy hair, John Lennon glasses and several days’ growth of beard. His leather jacket, T-shirt and trousers were a uniform shade of matt black. There was a sheen of sweat on his high forehead and a skittering look of nervousness in his eyes. This last feature Harry found strangely endearing after Redpath’s glacial show of contempt. ‘You’re looking for Ailsa, right?’
‘We might be,’ Chipchase replied.
‘We are,’ said Harry definitively.
‘Me too,’ said the young man. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Her husband’s a tight-lipped bastard, isn’t he?’
‘To put it mildly.’
‘What d’you want with Ailsa?’
‘We could ask you the same.’
‘Yeah.’ Another wipe of the mouth. ‘I suppose you could.’
‘How about we trade answers?’
‘Well …’
‘Over a drink,’ said Chipchase.
Chapter Forty-three
DURING THE SHORT drive to a nearby pub, little more than introductions were exchanged. The young man’s name was Mark Howlett. He lived over the river in Bermondsey. Chelsea was not his normal stamping ground, something the contrast between his car and most of those parked in and around Elm Park Road had already made obvious. He said no more for the moment, but a stack of posters which Harry found himself sharing the back seat with hinted at the cause of the stress he was clearly under.
HAVE YOU SEEN HER? was printed above a head-and-shoulders photograph of a woman about Howlett’s own age, with short fair hair, delicate features and a calm, almost studious expression. Beneath was the imploring message HELP ME FIND KAREN SNOW – PHONE MARK 07698 442810. There looked to be at least fifty copies. Discreetly, Harry folded one up and slipped it into his pocket.
The Anglesea Arms was full without being overcrowded. Harry bought the drinks while Chipchase navigated a path through the ruck to a table by the window, Howlett trailing distractedly behind him. The lad’s hangdog air seemed of a piece with the pitiful note struck by the poster. It was possible to believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that he was more parlously placed than they were.
He took a large gulp from the lager Harry delivered to him and accepted the offer of a cigarette from Chipchase. Then his gaze swivelled to and fro between them and he asked, ‘Who are you guys, then?’
‘We already told you,’ said Chipchase. ‘He’s Harry. I’m Barry.’
‘Yeah, but … who are you really?’
‘Old National Service chums of Ailsa Redpath’s late benefactor, Lester Maynard,’ said Harry.
‘Who?’
‘Lester Maynard.’
‘The name doesn’t mean a thing to me.’
‘What about … Peter Askew?’
‘Askew?’ Howlett’s eyes lit up. ‘You know Askew?’
‘We used to,’ said Chipchase, before theatrically running his forefinger across his throat.
‘He’s dead?’
‘Got off a train while it was still moving up in Scotland last week. Moving at top bloody speed, actually. Very bloody, for poor old Askew.’
‘Askew’s dead?’
‘It was in the papers,’ said Harry.
‘I haven’t … been following the news. I …’ Howlett rubbed his eyes. ‘When was this?’
‘A week ago yesterday. He was on his way to an RAF reunion in Aberdeenshire. I was on the train myself. Barry and I both served with him. Back in the fifties.’
‘In the RAF?’
‘Strange as it may seem,’ said Chipchase, rolling his eyes.
‘Friday?’
‘How did you know him, Mark?’ Harry asked mildly.
‘I didn’t. It’s just … the name. Karen, my girlfriend, knew him. Well, met him.’ A frown of uncertainty formed on Howlett’s face. ‘I think.’
‘Where’s Karen now?’
‘I don’t …’ He licked his lips. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Hence this?’ Harry took the poster out of his pocket and unfolded it.
Howlett’s mouth sagged open. He nodded. ‘Yeah. She’s been missing more than a week now. Since the day before your friend died, actually. No one seems bothered about it. Except me. If Askew’s dead …’ He raised a hand to his face. ‘Christ, what does that mean for her?’
‘When did they meet?’
‘The evening she went missing. Thursday. Well, I don’t know for a fact that they met, but …’ He sighed. ‘We were supposed to be going to the cinema that night. She phoned and cancelled. Said she had to meet a guy who might be able to give her some information about the Haskurlay mystery. She didn’t actually name him, mind. I got that from the jotter beside the phone at her flat. Askew, 7.30, Lamb. The Lamb’s a pub she sometimes goes to after work. She’s a palaeontologist at the British Museum. Anyway, she—’
‘Hold on,’ Harry interrupted, backtracking furiously in his head. ‘What’s the … Haskurlay mystery?’
‘Oh right. Yeah. I suppose you don’t know. Though that was in the papers as well. Four years ago this month.’
‘You’ll have to fill us in, Mark.’
‘OK. Right. Well, Karen was at Leeds University then. So was I. That’s where we met. Anyway, she went off during the Easter vac with some other archaeology and palaeontology students to do a dig on Haskurlay. It’s an island in the Outer Hebrides. Uninhabited now, but there are remains of ancient settlements, including a burial mound. So, they got digging … and turned up something … they didn’t expect.’ Howlett paused to slurp some lager.
‘Which was?’
‘A couple of skeletons … from the recent past … buried in the mound along with the prehistoric bones.’ Howlett took another gulp of lager. ‘Recent … as in about fifty years old.’
Chapter Forty-four
HOWLETT PEERED AT Harry and Barry in turn, studying the bafflement and disbelief that must have been written on their faces. ‘You sure you don’t remember this?’ he asked. ‘There was quite a bit of media interest at the time.’
‘I was out of the country,’ said Harry.
‘And I guess the Racing Post didn’t send a correspondent,’ said Chipchase. ‘Assume we know zilcho, Marky.’
‘OK. Right. Well, there were holes in the skulls of these skeletons. Like they’d been shot. I mean, like murdered, y’know? They were dated to … forty or fifty years ago. The last of the island’s population left closer to a hundred years ago. So, the police had a double murder on their hands. Nothing to do with Karen, really, except … she was the one who actually found the bodies … and got her face on the telly … and … always hankered for an explanation.’
‘Did she get one?’ Harry asked.
‘Not exactly. The police identified the bodies eventually. They belonged to a crofter and his son from Vatersay – the nearest inhabited island – who’d gone missing on a boat trip. Everyone thought they’d drowned, but … it seems they hadn’t. Several crofters from Vatersay and its larger neighbour, Barra, grazed sheep on Haskurlay at the time, apparently, so—’
‘What time was that?’
‘Oh, didn’t I say? The spring of 1955.’
‘’Fifty-five?’
‘Yeah.’
Chipchase’s gaze met Harry’s. ‘Busy around then north of the border, wasn’t it?’
‘There can’t be any connection with Operation Clean Sheet, Barry. We were on the opposite coast, for God’s sake.’
‘I know. But there is a connection. I feel it in my bones. So do you.’
‘What’s Operation Clean Sheet?’ asked Howlett.
‘We’ll tell you later,’ Chipchase replied. ‘Meanwhile, spell Haskurlay for us.’
‘Spell it?’
‘Just humour a dyslexic old man, son. How do you spell Haskurlay?’
‘H-A-S-K-U-R-L-A-Y.’
‘H-A-S-K-U-R-L-A-Y,’ Chipchase repeated after him. ‘I make that nine letters. Harry?’
‘It can’t be.’
‘It bloody can.’
‘But—’
‘What are you two going on about?’ asked Howlett, sounding increasingly exasperated.
‘Finish your story first, Marky,’ Chipchase replied. ‘Then we’ll tell you ours.’
‘What were the crofter and his son called?’ Harry prompted.
‘Munro. Hamish and Andrew Munro. There were surviving relatives, so the police were able to use DNA tests to identify them. As to who shot them … they hadn’t a clue. There were rumours, but …’
‘What sort of rumours?’
‘Oh, that there was some kind of … military presence on Haskurlay. Secret stuff … that the Munros blundered into. The MOD said no way, absolutely not. And the police went along with that. I guess they had no choice. There’s actually no sign anything even vaguely military took place there, according to Karen. So, it’s a … total mystery.’
‘Where does Ailsa Redpath come into it?’
‘Hamish Munro was her father. Andrew was her older brother.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Chipchase. He looked round at Harry. ‘That has to be the reason Maynard left her his house.’
‘Yes,’ said Harry. ‘It does. But … I still don’t get it.’
‘Karen’s never given up trying to figure it all out,’ said Howlett. ‘She went up to Stornoway last autumn to address a conference on Pictish culture. Well, that was her excuse. But I know for a fact she stopped off in Barra. There’s a causeway linking Barra to Vatersay now. They’re basically one island. So, I reckon she asked around about the murders while she was there. Maybe she visited Haskurlay again. Maybe she spoke to Ailsa’s younger brother, Murdo. He still lives on Vatersay. Maybe, one way or another, she did enough … to attract the attention of your friend Askew.’
‘Maybe. Though the truth is, Mark, we have no idea why Peter Askew should have contacted her – or what he might have told her.’
‘It has to have been something to do with the murders. She said so.’
‘Really?’
‘See for yourself.’ Howlett pulled a piece of paper from his wallet, unfolded it and held it out in front of them. It was a sheet from Karen Snow’s phoneside jotter. Askew 7.30 Lamb was not the only thing she had written on it. HASKURLAY was written at the top in deeply scored capitals and, beneath that, Check with Ailsa.
‘It was all to do with the murders,’ said Howlett. ‘Askew had the answer she was looking for.’
‘We can’t be sure of that.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘So what are you doing about it?’ put in Chipchase.
‘I’ve told the police, but they don’t want to know. They reckon Karen’s taken off somewhere without telling me, so it’s none of their business. I’ve asked around. All her friends. Colleagues at work. They’re baffled, but they don’t know what to do. I’ve stuck the poster up in as many shops, bars, clubs and pubs near her flat as’ll let me. No response. No news at all, good or bad.’
‘Have you contacted he
r family?’ Harry asked.
‘She’s an only child. Parents separated. Mother’s seriously loopy. Suggested Karen had gone to ground to get away from me. Fucking bitch. No idea where her father is. So, the family’s a write-off.’
‘Which leaves you with Ailsa.’
‘Yeah. I found her listed in Karen’s address book. That and the wording of the note – Check with Ailsa – made me think they’d been in touch more often than Karen had ever let on. So, I went round there. Got the brush-off from her husband. He said Ailsa was away. Wouldn’t say where. Offered to let her know I’d called. But you could tell he didn’t mean it.’
‘We got the same spiel.’
‘The way I see it, she’s gone into hiding. I thought it was just Karen’s disappearance that had spooked her. But if we add Askew’s death to the mix …’
‘Where do you think she’s gone?’
‘I wondered if she was just lying low at the house. But I’ve kept watch there for hours every day. No sign. No trace. I reckon she must have gone away. Somewhere she feels safe.’
‘Any idea where?’
‘Vatersay. The family croft. I phoned the brother, y’see. Spoke to his wife. Well, she said she was his wife. And she was adamant Ailsa wasn’t there. But he might not have a wife. That could have been Ailsa I spoke to, covering her own tracks. See what I mean?’
‘Thought of going there to find out?’
‘’Course I have. But it’s a long way to go if it’s actually a wild-goose chase. I might miss her here in London while I was away. Or I might miss a lead on Karen’s whereabouts. It’s too long a shot.’ Howlett’s shoulders slumped. ‘On the other hand …’
‘You’re running out of alternatives.’
‘I think I have run out.’
‘Look, Mark, we know of nothing linking Peter Askew to the Outer Hebrides fifty years ago. He was in Aberdeenshire, with us. But so were Lester Maynard and another bloke we all served with, Leroy Nixon. Yet Maynard left his house in Henley to Ailsa when he died – a woman he had no known connection with. And Nixon, like Maynard, took numerous trips to Scotland over the years. On one of them, Nixon drowned. Lost overboard from a ferry. We don’t know what route the ferry was on, but my guess is that if we checked … we’d find it was going to or from Vatersay. And Askew? Maynard entrusted him with a secret before he died, encrypted on a computer disk under a nine-letter code. The disk’s lost, but I think we just cracked the code, don’t you? Haskurlay.’
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