Find the Lady

by Roger Silverwood

  A door banged shut on the floor below. It prompted him to move along the corridor smartly. He passed number twenty, which had been Harrison’s flat, to the one next door, number nineteen. As he approached, he could hear music blaring out from inside.

  He knocked on the door.

  He had to wait a little time, then it was opened by a pretty young woman in a short pink house-coat, long, white uncovered legs and imitation fur slippers with rabbits heads on them. She was holding a child aged about a year. Its eyes were closed and it had a comforter in its mouth. The radio blared out loudly behind her.

  Angel blinked.

  The young woman had a ready smile and a bright twinkle in her eyes. ‘Yes? What can I do for you?’ she said.

  ‘Miss Gaston? Margaret Gaston?’ he shouted.

  ‘Yes. Sure. Come in,’ she said pulling the door open wide.

  ‘Thank you,’ he shouted over the blaring radio. It was something as loud and incomprehensible as The Arctic Monkeys. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Angel from Bromersley Police.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said with a smile.

  She had even, white teeth, a lovely mouth and long blonde hair hanging partly over her face like a film star of yesteryear. She looked straight into his eyes.

  She carried the sleeping child with one arm, closed the door, reached down to a transistor radio on the floor, pressed a button and switched it off.

  The silence was golden. Angel blew out a quantity of breath with relief.

  ‘I’ve already given a statement to Trevor,’ she added, looking concerned. ‘Wasn’t it all right?’

  Angel licked his bottom lip. It had not exactly been a statement, and he was a little irritated to hear her refer to DS Crisp so familiarly. Young people talked that way. He knew it was his age.

  ‘That was fine,’ he said. ‘There are some other matters.’

  She looked down at the child in her arms. ‘I’ve just got him off to sleep.’

  Angel looked round the little room. It was sparsely but adequately furnished with brightly coloured plastic bricks scattered on the rug by the hearth, two teddy bears on the floor by the door, and baby clothes everywhere.

  Margaret Gaston carefully put her baby in a cot, pulled up a blanket to cover him and lifted up the cot side. She kicked off the rabbit slippers across a rug on polished bare boards and flopped onto a huge leather settee and lifted her legs onto the length of it. Her bare feet showed bright red toenails. She went through the business of pulling down her housecoat to cover her underwear. Angel had noticed and tried to remember he was old enough to be her father.

  ‘Phew! It’s taken me an hour to get him off,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’

  There was only the one easy-chair opposite, so choice wasn’t a problem.

  She leaned forward to the settee arm, picked up a packet of Silk Cut, shot one out, looked at Angel and waved the packet.

  Angel shook his head. ‘No thanks.’

  She clicked a disposal lighter into life and then pulled hard on the cigarette. Then she laughed and said, ‘If he doesn’t want to go to sleep, it doesn’t matter how tired he is, he just won’t bloody go.’

  Angel nodded sympathetically.

  ‘What do you call him?’

  ‘Carl Alexander Gaston.’ She said it like making an announcement, and enjoying the way it sounded. ‘What’s yours?’ she added taking a big drag on the cigarette.

  ‘Detective Inspector Angel.’

  ‘No. Your first name.’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘Michael?’ she said thoughtfully. ‘It’s a nice name. But it’s so old-fashioned. Now, Carl Alexander is, sort of, cool and posh, isn’t it?’ she added with a smile.

  ‘Aye, it sounds very good,’ he said politely and pulled out an envelope and a ball-point. ‘There are some questions I need to put to you.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. It’s dead awful about Alicia. Perfectly dreadful. However will Charles manage? Have you found out who’s done it yet? Is it that Reynard that they keep on about on the telly?’

  ‘We haven’t found out yet, but we will. Now you used to clean for the Prophets didn’t you?’

  Her eyes suddenly flashed. ‘Still do, I hope.’ She said, her mouth dropping open. ‘I have to have money, Michael. I get some from Social Security but it isn’t anything like enough. You think he’ll still want me to do the house and that, don’t you? I’ve never let him down, and I wouldn’t let him down now that she’s … that he’s on his own.’

  Angel shook his head and wondered about his next question. Those long, shapely bare legs and feet moving about on the dark leather were distracting his concentration. She seemed to be unaware of it. He tried to look somewhere else.

  ‘I do three hours a day for four days a week. I do Tuesdays to Fridays inclusive.’

  ‘Yes. So you didn’t go to the Prophets on Monday last?’

  ‘No, Michael. Not Mondays.’

  He blinked when she called him Michael. Hardly anybody ever did. He was not sure whether he objected. He let it go.

  ‘Who looks after Carl when you’re at the Prophets’?’

  ‘I take him with me. That’s what made the job so great. He’s happy in his pram. He would sleep most of the time. Alicia didn’t mind. She said she enjoyed the company. If he woke up, I either fed him or changed him. Alicia was very good about it.’

  ‘Did you ever see Mr Prophet?’

  ‘Oh yes. Not often, though. He was almost always at the office. He’s a lovely man. And so handsome. It’s a tragedy. When I heard about Alicia yesterday, I was gutted. I had to phone him. I had to tell him how sorry I was. And I wanted to say I’d do anything for him to help out while he got sorted. You know. More hours or different times … whatever he might have wanted, but I couldn’t get past that cow at the office.’

  ‘So you haven’t spoken to him since Mrs Prophet was found dead?’

  ‘No. Karen Kennedy wouldn’t let me. She always said he was with a client. Didn’t matter what time I rang, he was always with a bloody client.’

  ‘You’ve met her – Miss Kennedy?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I’ve seen her.’

  She pulled a face.

  ‘You don’t like her?’

  She pouted and said, ‘She’s all right, I suppose. It’s just that she’s always there. I can never even get to speak to him, when she’s there.’

  Angel rubbed his chin.

  ‘And would you say Mr and Mrs Prophet had been happily married?’

  ‘Oh yes, I should think so. Don’t really know, do I? I didn’t see much of them together, but what I saw … they both seemed to get on very well. It was difficult for him, of course, Alicia, being blind.’

  He nodded.

  She stubbed the cigarette out in the ashtray and said: ‘You know, Michael, I told Trevor all this. Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Indeed, he did. But bear with me. I won’t be much longer.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘There’s no rush, Michael,’ she said pushing a shiny clump of hair out of her eye. ‘I don’t mind. You know I could go for days up here and see nobody … nobody at all. And I like older men. They talk more … intelligently, you know. Women talk about their kids and schools and clothes and how expensive things are. Men talk about … well, they talk about … well, different things,’ she said with a giggle and smiled at him. She crossed, stretched and then re-crossed her legs. She glanced across at the cot. She was pleased to see baby Carl was sleeping peacefully.

  Angel rubbed his chin. He thought it was time his questions were asked, answered and that he got the hell out of there. ‘During your time at the Prophets’, did you ever see Lady Cora Blessington?’

  ‘Lady Cora Blessington? Sounds very posh. No. Who was she? Trevor asked me that?’

  ‘A tall, blonde woman, in a long blue dress and trainers, frequently seen at the Prop
hets’.’

  ‘No, Michael, I never saw anybody like that,’ she said thoughtfully. Then she added, decisively, ‘And being a blonde, believe me, I would have taken special notice of her.’ She laughed.

  ‘Did you ever hear either Mr or Mrs Prophet talk about Lady Blessington, refer to her, or to anybody like her? Her first name was Cora, by the way. Did they refer to anybody called Cora? Does that ring any bells?’

  ‘No, and I’m sure I would have remembered someone with a name like that.’

  ‘You never saw a letter or an envelope, took a message, saw a photograph or a card, with the name Lady Cora Blessington on it?’

  ‘No, Michael. And I would have remembered a posh name like Lady Blessington.’

  Angel squeezed an earlobe between finger and thumb. He really had expected Margaret Gaston to have met and seen the missing woman and thereby have filled in the many gaps. The annoying thing was that the person who knew the most about Lady Blessington was Alicia Prophet and she was dead. Lady B was just like the lady in the three card trick. Now you see her, now you don’t. Some people had seen her, at a distance, fleetingly. Some people had never seen her at all. Angel had had some unusual cases over the years, but this was proving to be one of the most extraordinary.

  ‘Anyway, who the hell was she?’ Margaret Gaston said earnestly.

  ‘I wish I knew. There’s something else. There were some oranges in a plain white plastic bag found in the wheelie bin at Mr Prophet’s house on Monday last, the day Mrs Prophet was murdered. They appear to have been dumped there. They were bought from a particular stall in Bromersley’s open market. On that same day, Monday, at about two o’clock, you bought some oranges from the same stall. Were they the same ones?’

  Her mouth dropped open.

  ‘You’ve been checking up on me. No. I told you I didn’t go near the Prophets’ house on Monday. Monday is my day off. Anyway, why would I want to buy oranges and then throw them in the bin?’

  ‘I don’t know, Margaret. You tell me. Where are they now?’

  ‘I’ve eaten them.’

  Angel sighed. His eyes narrowed. ‘When did you eat the last one?’

  ‘Last night, while I was watching the telly.’

  ‘What did you do with the peel?’

  ‘The peel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Put it in the waste bin. Under the sink. In the kitchen.’

  ‘Ah. Good. I’ll have a look.’

  ‘It’s too late. I emptied it early this morning. It’s been collected. I saw the dustbin lorry drive away.’

  He pursed his lips and let out a long sigh.

  She looked across at him.

  ‘What’s so special about orange peel? You didn’t believe me. You were going to check up on me.’

  ‘If you were the Archbishop of Canterbury I would have checked up on you.’

  She rested her head in her hand and said, ‘I suppose you have to.’

  ‘Yes. I have to.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea or coffee?’ she said. ‘I’ve got a drop of sherry somewhere, if you’d rather,’ she said mischievously. ‘It would relax you, Michael. You’re so tense. Are you like this at home? Are you married, Michael? What’s your wife like?’

  She wriggled up the settee, turned to face him, supporting her head with a hand and her arm on the armrest.

  ‘Nothing for me to drink, thank you,’ he said quickly. ‘There’s only one more thing,’ he said.

  ‘Are you hungry? I can do you a bacon sandwich.’

  He shook his head quickly.

  ‘The man who was living next door—’

  ‘Number twenty. Yes. I heard he’d been murdered. Outside The Three Horseshoes. It’s almost as if murder is following me about, isn’t it?’

  Angel thought about her last remark. If it was, she didn’t seem at all phased by it. ‘Did you know him?’ he said.

  ‘No. Saw him once come out of the lift. Looked a lonely, miserable little sod. Walked with his head down and his hands in his pockets. Didn’t speak. Very quiet.’

  ‘Did he have any visitors?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Never saw anybody. Never heard anything. Never even heard his telly through the wall. He must have heard mine.’

  He rubbed his chin. ‘Margaret. I’m going to have to ask you to vacate this flat tonight. It’s for one night at least, although it could be for longer.’

  Her face straightened. She sat bolt upright and stared at him. Her bottom lip quivered. ‘You’re not arresting me, are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s for your safety, that’s all.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘It’s to do with your next door neighbour. We are expecting his place to be visited by somebody.’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to go.’

  He pulled his chin into his chest. ‘It’s really a matter of being extra careful, that’s all. I’ll make all the arrangements. Just assemble all you need for yourself and young Carl for, say, twenty-four hours. It’s may not be as long as that. I’ll get a WPC to come round and pick you up in an hour or so. She’ll take you to our safe house. You’ll be very comfortable. All mod cons. Telly, nice bathroom and everything. And absolutely safe.’

  Her fingers went to her lips. She swivelled off the sofa. There was a flash of her long legs and white underwear. Angel tried to look away. He stood up.

  She found the rabbit slippers and hurriedly pushed her feet into them. She shuddered, stood up and reached out for a cardigan hanging over a chair.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ she said, stabbing an arm into a sleeve. ‘Carl won’t settle. He’s never been away from here.’

  Angel smiled at her. ‘You’ll be all right, just for a night.’

  She wasn’t happy.

  ‘I don’t want to go. Carl won’t settle.’

  ‘Just one night,’ he said gently. ‘It’s for his and your safety.’

  She nodded.

  Angel glanced at an open door. ‘Can I have a look around while I’m here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He opened the door behind him. It was the kitchen. There were a few pots in a bowl in the sink, otherwise unremarkable. He came back into the room and looked at the next door. It was ajar.

  ‘That’s my bedroom,’ she called out unnecessarily.

  He didn’t look back. He stepped forward a pace and pushed at the door. The hinges squeaked as it slowly swung open to reveal an unmade bed, a baby’s cot with a mobile hanging over it and clothes strewn everywhere, both on the furniture, on the bed and on the floor. Then there was something that made Angel suck in a short intake of breath and which set his pulse racing. On the wall above the head of the bed was a picture. It was the painting of a young woman in a long blue frilly dress. She had blonde hair and a straw hat.

  Margaret Gaston came forward. She saw that something had startled him.

  ‘I haven’t had chance to tidy round yet.’

  He took a couple of steps up to the picture, pointed to it and said, ‘Who is that?’

  She looked up at it as if she’d never thought about it. ‘I dunno. It was there when I took the flat. It’s nobody. It’s only a print.’ She looked round the room at the explosion of clothes. ‘I can tidy up. It won’t take me long.’

  Angel ran his hand through his hair.

  ‘Do you mean it’s always been there?’

  ‘Since I’ve been here, it has. Do you want it, Michael? It’s of no value, you know. It belongs by rights to Mother Reid, I suppose. If you want it, take it up with her.’

  He sighed. He unhooked it off the tiny nail in the wall. It left a white mark on the dusty distempered wall. It weighed very little and was only about 20” by 30” on stout cardboard, framed by a thin wooden dowelling. He turned it over. There was a gold-coloured sticker on the back with black printing on it. ‘1930s Lady of Leisure. From the library of Joshua Pickering Galleries, 120-132
Argument Street, Farringdon, London. Stock No. 2239429.’

  ‘What?’ Angel bawled. He was surprised. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  Scrivens stood by the office door looking like a man who had won the lottery but lost the ticket.

  ‘I said there’s no such thing as 212 Huddersfield Road, sir. The numbers finish at 210. What’s the point of that?’

  Angel’s lips tightened against his teeth. ‘The point of that, Scrivens, is to validate Simon Spencer’s existence dishonestly to the welfare state for free doctoring, free hospitals, subsidised dentistry and whatever other handouts he can get, without the exchequer and the judiciary being able to get back at him for taxes, fines and in this particular instance, fraud. And fraud big time.’

  Scrivens raised his head.

  ‘We have ourselves a very ambitious crook,’ Angel said. ‘And, I think, a murderer.’

  ‘He may have murdered his partner in crime, Harry Harrison, sir?’

  ‘It’s getting to look that way. So hop off down to the Northern Bank. See the manager, Mr Thurrocks. Get the best possible description of Simon Spencer, you can. And get a photograph of him. Get a hundred prints of it with his description on it run off in time for this meeting at four o’clock, all right?’

  Scrivens looked up as if a Roman candle had been fired up his trouser leg.

  ‘Four o’clock, sir!’ he cried, looking up at the wall clock. ‘That only gives me an hour and a half.’

  ‘Well, later than four would mean that the meeting would be pointless, wouldn’t it? Come on, lad. Chop. Chop.’

  The door closed.

  Angel rubbed his chin. It wasn’t looking good for Simon Spencer. He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out an envelope. There were some notes on the back of it. He ran down a list. He seemed satisfied that he had checked off all the points he needed to cover in preparation of the four o’clock briefing. He pulled out another envelope and began to check down that one. He found something. It was a telephone number. He picked up the phone and tapped it in.

  ‘A1 Taxis,’ a pert woman’s voice replied.

  ‘I want to speak to Maisie.’