Death Speaks Softly

by Anthea Fraser

  'It'll be the Arts building,' Webb told him, primed by Marshbanks.

  'What's French got to do with drawing?' Jackson demanded, but he turned the car in the direction indicated and they drove into the car park. Inside the building, they approached the porter's desk and the man looked up from his newspaper.

  'Yes, gentlemen? What can I do for you?'

  'Chief Inspector Webb and Sergeant Jackson. We'd like a word with Professor Warwick, if it's convenient.'

  'Ah, you've come about Miss Picard, I suppose. Worrying business. You want the French corridor, sir. Up those stairs and through the swing doors on your left. The secretaries will help you.'

  However, when they reached the first floor, it was to learn that the Professor was lecturing. Webb asked instead for Mr Duncan.

  He was a broad-shouldered Scot in his mid-thirties, with a thatch of dark hair and a small beard. He did not seem overjoyed to see them.

  'There's not much I can tell you,' he began discouragingly as they seated themselves. 'I hardly know Miss Picard. I can't imagine why you think I can help you.'

  'She mentioned your name, sir,' Webb said stolidly.

  The man looked alarmed. 'To whom?'

  'A girlfriend.'

  'I can't think why. She sometimes sits at my table in the refectory, but I've no other contact with her.' 'What's your impression of her?'

  'Och, she's a bright enough girl. Cheerful and friendly.' 'Any particular friends?'

  He shrugged. 'Charlie Peterson, Mike Partridge . . .' His voice tailed off.

  'Do you ever see her off the campus, sir?'

  Duncan flushed. 'I'm a married man, Chief Inspector. With children.'

  Webb smiled slightly. 'That hardly answers my question.'

  'I thought it did. But if you want it more plainly, no, I do not see her outside working hours. And hardly at all during them.'

  I'm not sure I believe you, Webb thought. The man was quite presentable, and Arlette herself much sought after. It would be natural for them to come together. Yet he couldn't probe further in the face of such firm denial. Not yet, anyway. He tried another tack.

  'Where were you, sir, between ten a.m. and two p.m. on Tuesday?'

  The flush deepened. 'Why?'

  'Because that's the time we're interested in.'

  'As it happens, I'd a dental appointment at eleven.' He looked at them belligerently. 'If I'd known she was going missing, I'd have changed it.'

  'And your dentist is—?'

  For a moment, Webb thought he'd refuse to reply. But he sullenly gave name and address.

  'And you came straight back here afterwards?'

  'No. The surgery's not far from where I live, so I went home for lunch. As my wife will verify.'

  Jackson marvelled that anyone could still think a wife's evidence would exonerate him.

  'So what time did you get back, sir?'

  'About two. I'd a tutorial at two-fifteen.'

  Webb nodded without comment. 'Did Miss Picard mention being homesick, or any family worries?'

  'Certainly not to me.'

  Webb felt the wall of the man's resistance. Was it merely a clash of personalities, or had he something to hide? He said easily and with no inflection of irony, 'Thank you very much for your time, Mr Duncan. You've been most helpful.'

  'Like a stone giving blood,' added Jackson, as the door closed behind them.

  'Not everyone appreciates us, Ken. A policeman's lot, and all that.'

  'If you ask me he's been having it off with her. See how red he went?'

  'Let's not jump to conclusions. If we need to come back, we will, never fear.'

  Arnold Lightbody was a different proposition. In his late forties, he wore thick pebble spectacles. He had tufts of straw-like hair round the sides of his head, but his high forehead stretched back as far as his crown. He smiled continually, showing yellow teeth.

  'Well now, gentlemen,' he began, before Webb could say anything, 'you're worried about our little Arlette. So are we all.'

  'I'll be grateful for anything you can tell us, sir.' 'A charming girl. Most attractive, if you understand me. And very popular.' 'With women too?'

  Lightbody smirked. 'Now that you ask me,' he said coyly, 'I should say the young ladies are less enthusiastic. Possibly because she has the male population eating out of her hand.'

  'Including you, Dr Lightbody?'

  Lightbody laughed merrily, stopping when the policemen remained serious. 'I'm a little old for that kind of thing, Inspector. No, I was referring to postgraduates. Her contemporaries.'

  'And the other tutors?'

  'Dear me, I never thought of that. I suppose it's possible.'

  While appearing to give them full cooperation, Lightbody told them very little. He had apparently been on campus throughout the crucial time on Tuesday. Like Duncan, he claimed surprise that Arlette should have spoken of him.

  Somewhat dispiritedly, the policemen made their way outside and stood for a moment looking about them. Ahead of them was the administrative building, and beyond it, grassy banks sloped fairly steeply down to the river. On the opposite bank, the old town basked in the spring sunshine, its Cotswold stone glowing cream and gold.

  'Do these kids know how lucky they are?' Jackson asked rhetorically. 'A bit different from Leyton Road Grammar! I never knew what I was missing.' He turned to Webb with a grin, his envy vanishing. 'Mind, I know what I'm missing now, and that's food! Any good pubs hereabouts, Guv?'

  'I think we'll try the Barley Mow. It's that grain barge moored on the quayside. All the young bloods frequent it —we might learn something to our advantage. Look,' he added, 'there's Sergeant Hopkins. Let's have a quick word.'

  The gloomy-faced sergeant, with a young constable beside him, had just emerged from the faculty building and turned towards the car park. Webb and Jackson quickened their footsteps to catch up with them.

  'Good morning, Sergeant. How's it going?'

  Hopkins nodded a surly greeting. 'Not too bad, sir. We managed to track down a couple of names on your list, with leads to the others.'

  'Anything of interest?'

  'Hard to tell. They don't seem unduly worried. Think she's probably gone off on a whim and will turn up when it suits her.'

  'Has she done that before?'

  Hopkins shrugged, but the young constable spoke up, blushing as he did so. 'I think it's just that she's such a cheerful girl, sir. People can't imagine anything happening to her.'

  'Let's hope they're right,' Webb said grimly. 'You going back to May bury Street?' Hopkins nodded. 'Tell DI Ledbetter I've seen Duncan and Lightbody, and will be in touch later.'

  There was nowhere near the barge to park the car. They left it by the viaduct and walked back along the riverside, enjoying the sun on the water and the warmth of it on their backs. Children ran, calling, along the narrow path towards them, a small dog yapping at their heels, and on their left some half-dozen cottages nestled into the hillside, their neat little gardens blazing with flowers. On the far side of the river, the grass bank reached up towards the buildings they'd just left, its green expanse dotted with colour as groups of students relaxed in the sunshine or ate an al fresco lunch.

  As they neared the pub, the path widened into biscuit-coloured cobbles and there were tables with umbrellas and groups of people eating and drinking.

  'We'll hear more if we go inside,' Webb murmured, and they walked together up the gangplank and into the little boat.

  A wide, polished staircase led below into what had once been the hold of the barge. Jackson followed Webb down and looked about him approvingly. The conversion was imaginative, keeping a nautical flavour while providing a pleasant and unique bar, with tables round the walls beneath the small round portholes. On the walls were framed prints of barges and steamboats, and at the end hung a lifebelt with the name Barley Mow painted on it, flanked by port and starboard lamps. The room was filled with a laughing, chattering crowd of customers.

  Webb and Jackson hit
ched themselves on to bar stools, ordering beer and Cornish pasties. A burst of laughter sounded from the table immediately behind them as some ribald joke reached its conclusion. The average age of the clientele was well below thirty, Webb guessed, and he felt more conspicuous than he'd have liked. Then, as the crowd behind lapsed into brief silence, a girl's voice reached them from another table.

  'The fuzz were up at the Uni this morning—did you know?'

  Webb slid off his stool and moved further down the bar, ostensibly to help himself to cruet.

  'About Arlette?' asked another voice. 'Do you think something's happened to her?'

  'God knows. If it has, my money's on Jane! I thought she'd kill her there and then, when she waltzed off with Mike!'

  'You can laugh,' said the second girl, 'but it sounds pretty serious to me. Someone said her parents are coming over.'

  The noisy table had started up again, blotting out any-further comment. Webb caught the bartender's eye, saw that his eavesdropping had been noted.

  'You know this girl that's gone missing?' His hand moved to his breast pocket for identification, but the man waved it aside.

  'I know who you are, mate. Yes, I've seen her. She's often in here.'

  'When was the last time?'

  'Sunday, I reckon. Lunch-time.'

  'Was she with anyone in particular?'

  The man shrugged. 'Hard to tell. There was a crowd of them. Six or seven, mostly blokes.'

  'Any names?'

  'Didn't register any—except Daisy, a little dark girl who's usually with them.'

  'And you've not seen the French girl since?'

  'No. Monday's my day off and she wasn't in Tuesday. Two lads were talking about her, though. One of them had seen her in the town, and said she wasn't coming.'

  Webb leant forward. 'He'd seen her? On Tuesday?'

  The barman looked surprised. 'That's right.'

  'You're quite sure?'

  'Yeah. It was quiet in here at the time. I heard him quite clearly.'

  'He didn't say where he'd seen her?'

  'Don't think so, but I wasn't paying much attention. Hold on a moment. That's the lad, over there.'

  Webb turned quickly, saw a dark young man, pint mug in hand, leaning against a wall and talking to a girl.

  'And that's her, and all,' added the barman eagerly. 'That's Daisy.'

  Webb put down his fork and edged his way through the crowd, Jackson falling in behind him.

  'Excuse me.'

  The man turned and his brows lifted. 'Police?' 'That's right, sir. Webb, Shillingham CID.' The young man nodded. 'I know Simon Marshbanks. I'm Peter Campbell, and this is Daisy Drew.' The girl nodded nervously.

  'The barman tells me you saw Arlette Picard on Tuesday morning. Is that right?'

  'Quite right. Is it important?' 'It could be.'

  'Well, she didn't say much. She was in a hurry—said she was meeting someone.'

  'Where and when was this, sir?'

  'About ten-thirty, I suppose, outside the Library. I was going to visit a client—I'm an accountant.'

  'Did she say who she was meeting?'

  Campbell looked rueful. 'No, she wouldn't tell me.'

  'You mean you asked her, and she refused to tell you?'

  'Not exactly refused. She just laughed and shook her head.'

  'And she didn't say where she was going?' ‘No.'

  If she'd been in a hurry then, it was nothing to do with Marshbanks. Their date was for the afternoon. 'What direction was she going in?'

  'Towards Gloucester Road.' Campbell paused and added sombrely, 'Was I the last person to see her? I never thought.'

  'The last we've traced so far, by twenty minutes. How did she seem?'

  'Full of the joys, as usual. Oh, she did say, "Simon's taking me to see the horses later." I remember thinking:

  Good old Simon, stealing a march on me again.' He finished his drink. 'If there's nothing else, I'd better get back to the office.'

  Webb nodded. 'We have your address, if we need you. And you, Miss Drew,' he added, as Campbell patted the girl on the shoulder and moved away. 'Do you know anyone Miss Picard was in the habit of meeting?'

  Daisy shook her head, but Webb felt she knew something. He said more gently, 'She might be in danger, you know. You won't get anyone into trouble who doesn't deserve to be.'

  'There was really only the crowd we go round with, Steve, Mike, Charlie and Alan.' She wasn't meeting his eyes.

  'There's someone else, isn't there?' But she would not be drawn.

  'Very well,' Webb said heavily. 'If you remember anything, you can get me at the police station.'

  'Bet you it's Duncan the Bruce she was thinking of,' Jackson said, as they came up the stairs again into the sunshine.

  'Might be, but we couldn't press her any more. Now—' he looked at his watch—'we've just time to report back before we meet that train.'

  CHAPTER 4

  At ten past three that afternoon, Jackson parked the car in the station forecourt and he and Webb went into the booking hall. A tall, dark-haired man with a slight stoop came towards them.

  'Good afternoon, gentlemen. I take it you're the police? Bernard Warwick, Broadshire University. Sorry to have missed you earlier.'

  Webb took his hand, introducing himself.

  'From Shillingham?' The Professor raised an eyebrow.

  'The local police asked for assistance, sir. They're under-strength at the moment, due to an accident.'

  'And have you any news of this girl?'

  'Not so far, I'm afraid. We're tracing everyone who has any contact with her, but it's a slow business. Do you know her yourself?'

  'Only by sight. I've had no direct dealings with her.'

  The three men walked slowly out on to the platform. 'I'm not looking forward to this,' Webb said frankly. 'I'm glad you're here, sir. I don't speak the lingo and there's no saying how good their English will be.'

  'I'll do what I can,' the Professor said smoothly. Webb glanced sideways at him. It was an oddly unexpressive face, and although the man had met his eyes as they shook hands, his own had given nothing away. Webb sensed an iron self-discipline and pondered the necessity for it.

  In the distance the yellow disc of the engine appeared. The three men straightened and stood waiting. The train was a through one to Gloucester, and not many alighted here, but by coincidence they were opposite the right door. Catching sight of the couple standing there, Webb braced himself—no hysterics, please God—and beside him heard Warwick also draw in his breath.

  The woman in the doorway looked to be in shock. There was a murmur from behind her as her husband urged her forward, but, having arrived, she seemed reluctant to step from the train. Webb moved forward and took her arm. 'Permit me, madame.' (Surely, he hoped, the same in any language.) Her husband handed down his cases to Jackson, and as he stepped after his wife on to the platform, the guard blew his whistle and the train moved away. Webb turned for help to the Professor, but the man seemed as much at a loss as himself.

  'My colleague and I are from the police,' he said perforce, speaking slowly and distinctly. 'We very much regret the reason for your visit, and assure you we're doing all in our power to find your daughter.'

  The Frenchman nodded in general understanding. 'Professor Warwick?' Webb prompted. The man moved forward at last and launched into a fluent stream of French. The woman kept her eyes on him as he spoke, but her husband's fell away, and to his disquiet Webb noticed they were wet. As Warwick stopped speaking, they turned by mutual consent and walked back to the car. Webb saw that a dark blue Porsche was parked at the far side of the forecourt— no doubt the Professor's. He said in a low voice, 'It would be better if they went in your car, Professor, since you can speak to each other. We'll see you at the hotel.'

  Warwick turned. 'I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, I have to get back now. I've explained that you'll look after them.'

  Webb stared at him. 'But, sir, we can't conduct an interview without you!
That was the point of your being here.'

  A tactical slip, as he immediately realized. 'On the contrary,' the Professor said coldly, 'I'm representing the university as a matter of courtesy, but you're in charge of the case, and interviews are police business. I certainly haven't time to attend them.' He nodded formally to the French couple and strode to his car.

  'Bloody hell!' Jackson said under his breath. 'What now, Guv?'

  Webb, aware of his own inability to deal with the visitors, held down his anger. 'We'll take them to the hotel, and phone for an interpreter. It's a bloody waste of time, but it can't be helped.' He turned to the French parents. 'Forgive me, we were under the impression the Professor was coming with us. If you'd like to get into the car—?'

  Jackson, having put the cases in the boot, was holding open the rear door, and as the couple bent to step inside, Webb was able to take a longer look at them. The woman was small and dark. Her hair, which even he could tell had been expertly cut, had touches of silver at the temples, an effect which paradoxically made her face look younger. Now, she was pale and strained-looking, her huge brown eyes dark-circled, but she was still a very attractive woman. It was from her husband, fair and blue-eyed, that their daughter took her colouring.

  But what the hell was he going to do with them? God knew how long it would take to get an interpreter from the university. Might Chris Ledbetter know of one? However long it took, he and Jackson would have to stay with the Picards till someone came. Chiefly because they needed all the information they could get, and secondly on humanitarian grounds.

  He glowered out of the window as Jackson drove towards the hotel. A set of traffic lights changed to red as they approached, and Webb drummed his fingers impatiently, staring out at the imposing stone building alongside, which a board informed him was a Gallery of Modern Art. And at the familiar figure coming down the steps.

  In the same instant he flung open the car door. 'Wait a minute!' he threw over his shoulder, and then, 'Hannah!' She raised her head, stopping in surprise, and waited for him to reach her.