Corpse in Waiting

by Margaret Duffy

  FIVE

  It appeared that while the house was still a crime scene all matters concerning its sale were definitely frozen. I confirmed this when I rang the agents to impress on them that I was still interested in purchasing it. Polite persistence on my part elicited the information that a higher offer had been received but, as before, matters were on hold. I was desperate to know whether it was the owner’s solicitor who had panicked when the price had been dropped so drastically in an effort to get a sale or whether they had been acting on the instructions of someone else – the nephew who might be due to inherit? – as surely the owner, the old lady, was incapable.

  Carrie returned, we established that Katie had a slight temperature and some of the other children were away from school with bad colds so she was popped into bed and instantly went to sleep. TLC and something tempting to eat would be administered later. The youngest, also fast asleep by now, was laid in his pram in the garden. Their mother, actually feeling light-hearted, happy even, that she had established a link between Alexandra and someone who was nasty enough to make veiled threats, went back to work.

  I sobered up, fast. This woman knew where I, we, lived. Did one confront her with what had happened? No, she would deny any involvement and accuse me of making yet more trouble. She would insist that she did not know my mobile number. How had she got hold of it? Had Patrick given it to her for some reason? At least that could quickly be established.

  There was one completely unbiased element in all this: James Carrick.

  ‘You’ll have to get Patrick on board,’ was his advice. ‘I haven’t had time to do any checking on her – as usual I’m up to my ears in work. Sorry to be a bit blunt but you are folk also with the means of finding out such things. But I promise I’ll get back to you, Ingrid, when things aren’t so manic here and help if I can. And please be careful.’

  I then called Michael Greenway only to be told by his deputy, Andrew Bayley, that he had taken a two days’ well-earned leave. He went on to ask if he himself could help. I decided not to involve him: he worked mostly in the main office and I did not want to risk my worries being aired to all and sundry. Men gossip.

  Patrick rang.

  ‘I might be a bit late. I’m going to give James a hand for a while longer but with something that isn’t really anything to do with the case as he’s snowed under. And Alex has had some photos she took when we first met emailed from London by a friend. As they include some of the rectory and Mum and Dad I thought I’d take a look at them with a view to having them ourselves.’

  ‘That’s fine. You and I can eat later,’ I said.

  ‘No, it’s all right. You have yours with the family. I’ll have a pie and a pint, or something.’

  I was stung to say, ‘But surely she could email them to you.’

  ‘She says she doesn’t know how to. See you later.’

  I did not throw my mobile across the room after this conversation, it doesn’t like it.

  ‘But she runs an agency of some kind,’ I heard myself say out loud. ‘A business. How can she not know . . . ?’

  ‘The house owner’s nephew’s name is David Bennett,’ Patrick said, coming into the kitchen where I was having an early breakfast. ‘He was due back from New Zealand last week but for some reason hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’ I enquired.

  ‘I leaned on the solicitors handling the sale. The SOCA ID card seemed to do the trick.’

  He had arrived home at a little after ten the previous night, apparently looking very tired – I was writing, or trying to, and had not seen him come in – had not had his usual chat with his father, and then gone to bed. By the time I had gone up he had been fast asleep.

  ‘Did you find out anything else about him?’ I asked. ‘D’you want toast?’

  ‘Please. Yes, he has dual British and New Zealand nationality and goes out there quite a lot where it would appear he has business interests.’

  I fixed the toast.

  Buttering busily Patrick then went on to say, ‘While it’s still iffy whether Irma and Imelda Burnside are the same person or not I think I’ll go up to London later this morning and work from HQ. Carrick’s happy for me to meet this man at the airport and interview him there if I can find out when he plans to return to the UK. It will be easier to do that checking from London too.’

  ‘Better intelligence?’

  ‘Of course. Provincial forces simply don’t have the resources SOCA does.’

  ‘You won’t be able to arrest him though.’

  ‘No, unless he refuses to answer questions.’

  I sat down at the kitchen table opposite to him and regarded him steadily. Then I said, ‘What were the photos like?’

  He looked a bit blank for a few seconds. ‘Oh, those. They’re not very good. She takes lousy pictures, chopping off people’s feet and heads. I don’t think I’ll bother with them.’

  ‘It was all a bit of a con then.’

  He loaded on marmalade. ‘No, not really. There were a couple of good ones of the village street.’

  I carried on gazing at him. It was a bit like having a remote control with flat batteries and the TV channel would not change.

  He glanced up, mid-spread and our eyes locked.

  I said, ‘You know, up until now I really thought you weren’t like other men. Silly of me.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I’d thought you were of above average intelligence too.’

  He dropped his gaze and shrugged.

  ‘Where are you, Patrick?’ I asked softly.

  He said nothing.

  ‘She’s reduced you to this,’ I said. ‘She’s taken my husband, the man I love more than anyone in the world and brought him down to this level; ordinary, sheepish, just any old bloke in the street. It’s a disease. It’s a kind of character POX!’

  I had bellowed the last word and he actually jumped.

  I went on, ‘I don’t know whether we were talking about houses, or husbands, but you’re really the only one I can tell that I had a heavy breathing kind of phone call from a man who told me that whatever Alex takes a fancy to, she gets. I was encouraged to remember that. Any thoughts on the matter?’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday afternoon, around three.’

  Patrick put down his knife. ‘You should have rung me immediately.’

  ‘I think I got a bit bloody-minded at that moment and there was rather a lot of domestic things going on as well as Katie coming home from school not very well.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘She’s only hatching a cold.’

  After a pause Patrick said, ‘We shall have to look into that call you had.’

  ‘Well, Alexandra’s obviously taken a fancy to the house. I get the impression she’s set her heart on you as well.’

  ‘Oh God,’ he muttered. There was another little silence and then he added, ‘Confession time. I got a bit sloshed last night.’

  ‘But you’re not supposed to drink yet! Not after you were ill. She knows it too.’ So that was why he had not said goodnight to me.

  ‘She had some Islay twenty-year-old single malt that’s reckoned to be one of the crown jewels of whisky. They only make around two dozen cases a year.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘I did tell her, again, that I’d been banned from drinking for a few months but she said a little nip couldn’t possibly hurt,’ he went on, addressing the opposite wall. ‘Even talking about it makes me feel like some pathetic git on a reality TV show.’ He gave me a – yes, sheepish – glance. ‘I think the idea was to get me into bed.’

  ‘And do I take from the wording of that that she failed?’

  ‘Of course!’

  ‘You said you’d slept with her before,’ I said stonily, really needing to know.

  ‘Sorry, that wasn’t true.’

  ‘I’m sorry too.’

  He looked surprised. ‘For what?’

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nbsp; ‘That we’re having this kind of conversation.’

  People speak of ‘death wish moments’ and this was how I felt now. I was the woman with good advice who was usually proved correct, ’er indoors, the mother of his children, the one who represented his responsibilities. Whatever the truth, the magic in our relationship suddenly wasn’t there any more.

  ‘Look, I’m in a real quandary here,’ Patrick said, finding me a little later in the dining room again failing to concentrate on writing. ‘As I said earlier, I think I ought to work on the case from London. But now this has come up. I got clearance from Mike to get the call to your mobile traced and established that it came from another that had been reported stolen from a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl in Hounslow. The poor kid was mugged by a man in broad daylight close to her home as she walked to meet friends. This phone, according to the wizards at GCHQ, is now dead, presumed destroyed. The fact that Alex’s name was mentioned rather puts her in the frame. When you chatted with her just after we met at the spa did she say anything about anyone else in her life?’

  ‘She said that as of the previous week she had been on her own,’ I recollected. ‘In her own words, “the rat went and found himself someone else.”’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘Is there a description of this mugger?’

  ‘A hoodie, that’s all. She didn’t really get a good look at him as he pushed her over before running off.’

  ‘Did you give Alexandra my mobile number?’

  ‘No, why on earth should I do that?’

  ‘Well, she must have given it to someone else.’

  ‘Not necessarily. It’s perfectly possible this originates from someone you know.’

  ‘But I haven’t discussed any of this business with anyone else. Only your mother.’

  ‘And James?’

  ‘Yes, and James. But he has no axe to grind.’

  ‘No, obviously, it couldn’t be him but someone might have overheard the conversation.’

  ‘But who the hell else in this neck of the woods would care a toss about Alexandra Nightingale?’

  After an edgy pause Patrick said, ‘The quandary’s to do with the fact that I shall have to ask her about this. And about this man.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘And you must understand that I shall have to carry on being friendly, otherwise I won’t get anywhere.’

  ‘You don’t usually bother with cosying up to suspects,’ I declared. ‘I’ve actually been present when you’ve mentally, and sometimes physically, taken them apart!’

  ‘Look, I know you’re annoyed about this but—’

  ‘No, I’m not annoyed, I’m absolutely furious and also scared. For myself, your parents and for the children.’

  ‘You said you were going to pull out of buying the house. Have you?’

  ‘No, not yet. I’m undecided.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should think of your own priorities.’

  I stared disbelievingly at him. ‘Are you saying that I ought to call off the sale because of the phone call?’

  ‘It might be the sensible thing to do.’

  ‘And you? Shall I give her a ring and say she can have you as well?’

  He made no comment and left the room.

  He was right up to a point; I had to get my priorities right. I shut down the computer having made a few notes of ideas for the plot that had, oddly, just come into my head, mechanically tidied the desk and then went into the entrance hall in time to see the front door close. A quick peep through a window told me that Patrick was just getting into the Range Rover. Unless he had loaded it earlier he did not appear to have any luggage with him. This suggested he was going to talk to Alexandra, if indeed she was still at her hotel, before returning the vehicle and calling a taxi to take him to the station. Good, not that he usually drove to London.

  It was a surprise then when he came into the kitchen a minute or so later.

  ‘I’ve just had a call from Carrick. David Bennett’s due to arrive on a flight from Johannesburg at thirteen hundred hours today. I’ll have to talk to Alexandra another time and catch a train.’

  ‘I’ll drive you to the station,’ I offered.

  ‘Oh, all right.’

  Patrick seemed a little surprised when I parked the car on double yellow lines, went right into the station with him and, very shortly, waved him into a first-class carriage. When I got back a traffic warden was just about to write out a parking ticket.

  ‘Serious Organized Crime Agency,’ I said, waving my warrant card beneath his nose. ‘Sorry, but it’s a top priority case.’

  For some reason this worked and I felt even guiltier when he practically bowed me into the car.

  Alexandra was staying at the Albany hotel which was in the city centre, not far from the Orange Grove.

  ‘I have an appointment with Miss Nightingale at eleven thirty,’ I told one of the young women on the reception desk. ‘But I’m dreadfully early. Is it all right if I wait here for her and perhaps order coffee?’

  ‘Yes, of course, madam. I happen to know she’s out at the moment. I don’t usually remember guests but she has such brilliant blue eyes her name stuck in my mind.’

  ‘She didn’t say where she was going, I suppose?’ I risked asking. ‘Only I’ve come quite a long way and if she’s forgotten . . .’ I assumed a rueful expression.

  ‘No, I’m sorry, she didn’t.’

  ‘Excuse me, but are you talking about the lady in Room 354 who went out a little while ago?’ said another receptionist.

  The girl to whom I was talking said we were.

  ‘I don’t think she’ll be all that long. She asked me the way to the nearest hairdresser’s. Apparently the hairdryer in her room isn’t very good so I said I’d attend to it for her.’

  From her expression I knew that Alexandra had given her a tongue-lashing about it.

  ‘So would that be the Fine Cuts place I noticed?’ I asked, the name the first I could remember.

  ‘No, I sent her along to Lovelocks. It’s a bit more classy and on the right hand side of Milsom Street about halfway up.’

  I already knew where Lovelocks was, an establishment that positively dripped designer chic. This author has her hair cut in a tiny salon in the village by a Milan-trained and somewhat world-weary gentleman who can nevertheless make you look and feel as though you’re heading off to Cannes Film Festival.

  It seemed unlikely that even Alexandra would be able to bully her way into such sacred groves without an appointment, but one never knew. I decided to wait for her return, whenever that would be, having no intention of starting a war among potentially dangerous chemicals in case she started throwing them at me.

  I had my coffee, pretending to read a newspaper, in a small lounge to one side of the reception area where I had a very good view of all comings and goings. It was fairly quiet. Three-quarters of an hour went by and soon it was almost eleven thirty. Then I saw her, outside, talking to a man. She appeared to have had her hair done somewhere or the other. They parted and she entered the hotel; long strides, body rigid, head held high, eyes flashing, as mad as hell.

  By this time I had positioned myself by the reception desk, reckoning that she might not start yelling straight away in front of others.

  ‘Sorry to further ruin your morning,’ I said, turning to face her as she approached.

  ‘You!’ she hissed.

  ‘That seems to be your usual greeting,’ I said, going on to say before she could interrupt, ‘Patrick was going to interview you but had to catch a train to London instead. He probably sends his love but I don’t yet know that for sure. I suggest we talk down here.’

  ‘I have no intention of talking to you.’

  ‘There’s no choice as I work for SOCA too. This is official. So is it here or down at the nick?’

  The woman noticed that the receptionists were trying not to look as though they were all ears, gave them a thousand-watt glare and then said to me, ‘Five minutes, no longer.�
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  I led the way to where I had been sitting, making sure that she followed.

  ‘Well?’ Alexandra snapped when she had perched herself right on the edge of a chair.

  ‘Who was that man you were talking to outside just now?’

  ‘It’s none of your bloody business!’

  ‘Was it the same one who mugged a schoolgirl in Hounslow the day before yesterday, stole her mobile phone and used it to make a threatening call to me?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to think about it for a moment.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘He told me you always got what you fancied, a fact that I was to remember. He didn’t add “or else” but his tone did.’

  ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Making threatening phone calls is a criminal offence.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘It’s obvious that this man is someone you know.’

  ‘Well . . . perhaps I did sound off to someone about being at risk of losing the house.’ Then, with a toss of her head, she added, ‘I’ve hundreds of friends – I talk to them all the time.’

  ‘Did you mention it to the man I saw you talking to outside?’

  ‘No, Stefan’s—’

  ‘What?’ I demanded to know when she stopped speaking, no doubt mentally kicking herself for letting the name slip out.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Look, I do have the power to arrest you.’

  ‘He works for me, that’s all – an employee,’ she said, none too convincingly. ‘He’s looking for a business premises for me in this area.’

  ‘What is your business?’

  ‘I’ve told you already. I run an agency.’

  ‘Yes, but what kind of agency?’

  ‘For domestic staff, nannies, home helps, that sort of thing.’ She started to rise. ‘I’m going now.’

  ‘Sit down.’

  Slowly, she did so.

  ‘How many of your friends are ex-cons?’ I enquired.

  The woman actually went a little pale. ‘Why, none of them, of course!’

  ‘A first offender then, this man who mugged the child. Someone who was described as a hoodie.’

  ‘All this has nothing to do with me!’