Veronica disappeared with alacrity.
Lineham, behind Mrs Hodges, rolled his eyes at Thanet in mock despair.
Thanet ignored his clowning with difficulty. ‘You knew she left stuff here?’
‘Well of course. Why shouldn’t I? There’s only one small bag … I felt sorry for the girl,’ she added defensively. ‘I may not have liked her, but I did feel sorry for her, with a father like that. She could hardly blow her nose without asking his permission first. As for doing any of the things girls usually do … And she did ask my permission—didn’t she, love?’ She turned to Veronica, who had just returned, a large nylon shoulder bag dangling from one hand.
‘To do what, Mum?’
‘To leave that here.’ Mrs Hodges nodded at the bag.
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘It was only a few bits and pieces of clothes. Some jeans and that … and some make-up. Her father would have locked her up rather than let her wear trousers, wouldn’t he, Veronica, and as for make-up … He’d have thought she was on the streets or something.’
‘So when did she wear them?’ said Thanet. ‘She could hardly have gone out in them, in case it got back to her parents.’
‘Indoors, mostly,’ said Veronica. ‘She’d come round on a Saturday, change into her jeans, put some make-up on and we’d play pop records.’
‘To tell you the truth,’ said Mrs Hodges, ‘I encouraged it. Made me feel she was more normal. It was just a harmless bit of fun, that’s all.’
Harmless? Thanet wondered. Or had it fed Charity’s fantasies, encouraged her secret rebellion? Had those stolen moments been so heady, spiced as they were by the knowledge that she was breaking out of the rigid guidelines laid down by her father, that she had grown to hunger for more dangerous ways of defying him?
‘You said, “Indoors, mostly” …’
‘Well, she did wear them on the way home from Dorset at Easter,’ said Veronica. ‘She couldn’t have worn them at the Holiday Home, trousers weren’t allowed for girls.’
Mrs Hodges made a clicking sound of disgust. ‘Ridiculous,’ she muttered.
‘She changed in the toilet, on the train,’ Veronica added.
‘And this weekend?’
‘She wasn’t wearing them when she left, but she was when she came back.’
‘And presumably she changed back into her normal clothes when she called here on the way home from the station?’
‘Yes. And washed her make-up off.’
Thanet held out his hand for the bag. ‘May I see?’
She handed it over. Thanet could feel Lineham’s attention riveted to the bag with the quivering anticipation of a terrier watching a rat-hole. Normally, at this point, Thanet would have left, returned to the office to examine its contents at leisure. But today he didn’t. He rather thought—hoped—that he would have to question Veronica about something that was in it. He lifted it on to his knees, unzipped it and rummaged about inside. Ah yes, here it was … His fingers closed triumphantly over the small oblong shape and withdrew it.
The other three stared at the wallet as if mesmerised.
Turning aside a little so that its contents were not visible to the two women, Thanet flicked through it, his calm, unhurried movements betraying nothing of his inward agitation. If he was right, this small leather object could hold the key to the riddle of Charity’s death. He had to be right … But it didn’t look as though he was. The letter he had hoped to find was not there, and the wallet contained only a bundle of five-pound notes (he’d check how much, later) and, in a separate compartment, a polaroid photograph. Perhaps this would help …
He took it across to the window, to have a look at it in better light. Charity smiled up at him. She was wearing jeans and a yellow crash helmet and was sitting astride a motor cycle. And yes … He gave a satisfied nod. The registration number was clearly visible. He handed the photograph to Lineham, who immediately saw the point. They exchanged a gratified glance.
‘Let Veronica take a look, will you, Sergeant?’
Thanet waited while Mrs Hodges and the girl studied the photograph together.
‘Do you know whose motor cycle that is?’
Both women shook their heads.
‘Unless …’ said Veronica.
‘Yes?’
‘It could belong to the chap she picked up at Easter. She told me he had one—and he was carrying a crash helmet when I saw him at Paddington, I told you.’
Thanet retrieved the photograph. No point in wasting time asking questions. It would be a simple enough matter to check. There was just one other point he wanted to bring up, though.
‘I asked you last night if Charity knew anyone—a man—who wears pebble-lensed glasses.’
Even before he had finished speaking Veronica was shaking her head. ‘I told you, no.’
‘I wondered if, having had time to think about it overnight …?’
But she was equally emphatic. No. And he was equally certain she was lying. It was pointless to persist at the moment, she obviously wasn’t going to budge.
He thanked them both for their help and left.
‘Why d’you think she’s lying about the chap with glasses?’ said Lineham, when they were in the car.
‘Protecting him, perhaps?’
‘But why should she?’
‘Fellow feeling? He could be another of Charity’s victims. Blackmailers rarely stop at one, once they get a taste for it. If Veronica knows him, likes him, even, and is aware that Charity had some sort of hold on him …’
‘Could be, I suppose. Bit of luck with the photograph though, sir, wasn’t it?’
‘Being able to read the registration number, you mean. Yes. As soon as we get back, you can ring Maidstone, get them to run it through the computer.’
‘With any luck, we’ve got him!’ Lineham exulted.
‘Perhaps.’ Over the years Thanet had learned that it was safer not to expect too much.
All the same, he knew the excitement in Lineham’s face was reflected in his own when the sergeant put the phone down and said triumphantly, ‘Got it, sir! David Williams, 10, Bryn Mawr Terrace, Cardiff.’
14
‘There’s the Severn Bridge, sir.’
Thanet knew that the note of satisfaction in Lineham’s voice was caused not by their first glimpse of the famous suspension bridge but by what it signified: they were nearing the end of their journey.
He eyed the soaring, swooping curves appreciatively. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’
As soon as the computer had come up with Williams’ address, Thanet had decided to drive down to South Wales that very afternoon. Lineham had been against the idea from the start.
‘What’s the point, when we know he lives in London?’
‘But we don’t know where, do we? This seems as good a way as any, of finding out. So just get a move on and arrange clearance for us, will you? I’d like to be away between one and two, if possible.’
‘But … two hundred miles there and two hundred back, just for an address?’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that.’
‘But why can’t we just get Cardiff to check it out for us, sir?’
‘I agree, we could. But I’d prefer to go myself.’
‘But …’
‘If you say “But” just once more, I’ll … Look, Mike, we’re going, and that’s that. At least, I am.’ Then, more gently, ‘Mike, I appreciate that this is not a good time for you to be out of Sturrenden. If you’d prefer not to come with me, I’d quite understand.’
Lineham flushed. The gynaecologist had confirmed that an induction would be necessary, but had refused to commit himself as to timing. Louise would be kept under constant observation, her case under daily review, and that was all he was prepared to say at present.
‘It’s not that, sir. Oh, hell, to be honest, I suppose it is. Not that they’ll do anything now before tomorrow.’
‘You’re thinking of not being able to visit her tonight, I sup
pose?’
Lineham nodded miserably.
‘In that case, why not stay here? I can easily get another driver.’
‘But I’d like to come, sir …’
Thanet swallowed his exasperation. ‘Look, why don’t you nip along to the hospital now, see if they’ll let you in to see Louise for a few minutes?’
‘Do you think they would?’
‘You can but try. They might well, in the circumstances …’
They did, and three-quarters of an hour later Thanet and Lineham were on their way. They shared the driving, changing over when they stopped for a quick cup of coffee at Membury Service Station, and so far the journey had gone without a hitch. The M25 had been almost deserted and although the tedious stretch along the A322 through Bisley, Bagshot and Bracknell had been slow, once they were on the M4 they’d been able to keep up a steady 70 mph and were now only half an hour from their destination.
‘They say people used to queue for hours to cross on the old ferry, before the bridge was built,’ murmured Thanet, gazing out across the glittering expanse of water.
‘Why did you say, “it is not quite as simple as that”?’ said Lineham suddenly.
‘What?’
‘When I said it wasn’t worth driving two hundred miles there and two hundred back, just for an address …’
‘Ah, yes … Well, if you don’t mind, I’d rather tell you later. On the way back. I may be wrong …’
Lineham frowned. He hated being kept in the dark. Thanet, equally, hated giving explanations before he was ready for them. And it was rather a long shot, after all …
Thanet once more gave his attention to the scenery. He’d never been to Wales before and now he regretted that he was approaching it at such speed and on such an errand. Road signs in Welsh began to flash by, giving him a sense of entering a foreign land, and already the character of the landscape was changing. Hills dotted with sheep loomed ahead and he began to sense the nearness of the mountains. Even the grass in the fields looked tougher, coarser, less groomed, subtly creating the impression of a greater wildness to come.
As they skirted Newport Thanet thought how much pleasanter it would have been if Joan had been with him and they had been setting off on a holiday weekend, just the two of them, and they could have made a more leisurely approach, through Chepstow, perhaps …
‘Cardiff,’ said Lineham with satisfaction. ‘This is where we turn off.’
‘Straight through the city centre, they said. Though we haven’t exactly chosen the best time of day, have we?’
It was a quarter to five and the traffic was thickening by the minute. They crawled along the Newport Road into the heart of the city, paid their courtesy call and emerged with directions to Bryn Mawr Terrace. They reached it just before six o’clock.
‘Don’t think much of the local architecture, do you?’ Lineham said.
‘Depends what you’re used to, I expect.’
This, Thanet supposed, was the Welsh version of the Victorian Terrace: narrow little houses built of ugly rough stone blocks, with the window surrounds picked out in a variety of garish colours. Number ten sported a particularly virulent shade of orangey-pink. The net curtains at the downstairs window twitched as Thanet knocked at the door.
‘Mrs Williams?’
The woman peered up at him like a suspicious sparrow. She was middle-aged, her sharp face and skinny body all knobs and angles. Her head was encased turban-style in a blue chiffon scarf punctuated by the ridges of plastic rollers.
‘What do you want?’
‘We’d like a word with Mr David Williams, please.’ Thanet introduced himself, offered identification.
She glanced up and down the street. ‘You’d better come in a minute.’
The hall was so tiny that there was barely room for the three of them to squeeze into it, but she did not offer to show them into the sitting room. She shut the front door behind her and turned to face them, folding her arms across her chest.
‘What do you want with our Dai?’
Thanet had no intention of telling her in any but the vaguest terms and there followed a few minutes of sparring, each of them in his own way enjoying the contest. Eventually she capitulated.
‘He works at a garridge round the corner,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Mechanic. He’ll be home any minute now.’
Thanet carefully avoided giving Lineham a ‘told you so’ look.
‘You’d better wait in here.’ She squeezed past them to open a door, led them in.
A motor cycle roared up the street, cut off outside.
‘That’ll be him.’ She scuttled off, closing the door behind her, and there was a murmur of voices in the hall. When she came back in, followed by her son, she was carrying a sheet of plastic which she draped over one of the armchairs.
‘I’m not having you dirtying my nice clean chair with that filthy old pair of jeans.’
She was determined to stay and listen (‘It’s my right, he’s my son, isn’t he?’) and it wasn’t until Thanet courteously pointed out that he, too, had his rights and one of them was to take the boy away and question him at the police station that she reluctantly left them in peace.
David Williams was in his early twenties and certainly fitted the description Veronica had given them. Thanet could see why Charity would have been attracted to him. He was a wellbuilt, good-looking boy with an air of slightly swaggering virility. He had adopted an almost aggressively nonchalant pose, sitting well back in his chair with the ankle of one leg resting on the knee of the other. He was chewing gum with the non-stop, rhythmic movements of a cow chewing the cud.
Thanet decided that he couldn’t be bothered to waste a lot of time in preliminary skirmishing. He and Lineham still had a long drive ahead of them tonight. He produced the polaroid photograph.
‘That your motor cycle?’
Williams’ jaw stopped moving for a moment, then began again, more slowly
‘What if it is?’
‘Oh come on, Williams. Don’t you read the newspapers?’
The boy’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’re you talking about?’
He really didn’t know, Thanet was prepared to swear to it.
‘That girl, in the photograph … She’s dead.’ He caught the flash of relief in Williams’ eyes before the boy said disbelievingly, ‘Dead?’
‘To be precise … Murdered.’
Williams stopped chewing altogether and for a moment his jaw hung down. Then he sat up and with an impatient movement took the gum from his mouth and flung it in the direction of the empty fireplace. It landed on the hearth where, thought Thanet, its presence would no doubt later earn Williams a sharp rebuke.
‘You’re having me on.’
Thanet shook his head. ‘And as we found that photograph amongst her belongings …’
‘’Ere, what you getting at?’
‘… we’d like you to tell us about your relationship with her.’
‘Relationship!’ Williams gave a bark of sour laughter. ‘Oh boy, I like that. Relationship! Look, Inspector, that bird was a good screw, that’s all. A one-night stand, no more, no less.’
‘People don’t write letters to a one-night stand,’ said Thanet. He shook his head reprovingly. ‘Most unwise, to commit yourself to paper like that.’
Williams was looking frightened now. Thanet glanced at Lineham.
‘Of course,’ said the sergeant smoothly, ‘we don’t make snap judgements. We can’t afford to. Especially in murder cases.’
‘I didn’t even know she was dead till you told me, a minute ago! I told you, I only ever met her once, and that was months ago.’
‘Once could be more than enough, in certain circumstances,’ said Thanet.
‘What … circumstances?’
‘Suppose you tell us?’ said Lineham gently. ‘Perhaps we’ve got it wrong.’
Little by little Lineham teased out the sorry tale. Williams had been working in London and had driven down to Dorset to deliver back
to its owner a motor cycle which had been involved in an accident. Charity had picked him up on the train back to Paddington. He had taken her out for a Chinese meal and then they had gone back to his room, where they had spent the night together. The photograph had been taken “for a lark”, next morning.
‘Did you know she was under-age?’
Williams stared blankly at him for a moment, then groaned, put his head in his hands.
‘Did you?’
Williams raised his head, eyes blazing. ‘What do you think? Look, Inspector, I don’t want to sound like I’ve got a swollen head, but I don’t have no problems finding birds, see? I don’t have to go risking trouble with the law running after little girls. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have touched her with a bloody bargepole!’
‘Oh come on, Williams, you must have suspected, surely. After all, she was a virgin.’
‘Virgin!’ Williams was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘I don’t know what fairy-tales you’ve been listening to about her, but believe me, Inspector, someone’s been leading you up the garden path.’
‘Well of course, you would say that, wouldn’t you. It lets you off the hook.’
‘It’s the truth!’ shouted Williams. ‘That little bitch knew her way around, I can tell you. That’s why …’ He stopped abruptly.
‘That’s why what?’
Williams shook his head. ‘Nothing.’
‘You were going to say, that’s why you didn’t believe her when she told you that she was pregnant and that you were the father.’
‘If you bloody well know it all, why are you going on at me like this?’ snarled Williams.
‘We want the details,’ said Thanet. ‘This is a murder case, remember.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll give you the bloody details, if it’ll get you off my back … Like I said, she left next morning and I didn’t see her again, not once, from that day to this. There was something about her …’ He shook his head, as if to erase the memory. ‘Once was enough, that’s all.’
‘Yet you wrote to her.’
‘To try and shut her up! She was a real pain, that girl. Kept on and on writing me letters, always the same garbage … How much she’d enjoyed herself with me, how much she was looking forward to seeing me again, blah, blah … how difficult it was for her because her old man was so strict … As if I cared! Far as I was concerned it was over, finito!’ A complacent little smile curled the corners of his mouth. ‘Had other fish to fry, didn’t I?’ The grin disappeared. ‘Then she writes and tells me she thinks she might be able to get away over the Bank Holiday. We’d be able to have the whole weekend together, she says. She had it all worked out—what time she’d arrive, where we’d go, what we’d do … Well, that did it, I’d had it up to here. This time I did write back and told her straight, I wasn’t interested, I’d found someone else, I’d be away that weekend anyway—well, you’ve read the bloody letter, you know what I said in it.’
Close Her Eyes Page 13