On the first Sunday in October, after Hackett had been working for four months, he told me that he thought he might have located Rosemary. A woman of her description was living on a small estate in the South of France, called Villa Fleur.
“How did you manage to track her down?” I asked.
“Letter mailed by her mother at her local mailbox. The postman kindly allowed me to have a look at the address on the envelope before it proceeded on its way,” Hackett said. “Can’t tell you how many hours we had to hang around, how many letters we’ve had to sift through, and how many doors we’ve knocked on in the past four months, just to get this one lead. Mrs. Kershaw seems to be a compulsive letter writer, but this was the first time she’s sent one to her daughter. By the way,” he added, “your wife has reverted to her maiden name. Calls herself Ms. Kershaw now.”
I nodded, not wishing to interrupt him.
“Williams flew out to Cannes on Wednesday, and he’s holed up in the nearest village, posing as a tourist. He’s already been able to tell us that Ms. Kershaw’s house is surrounded by a ten-foot stone wall, and she has more guard dogs than trees. It seems the locals know even less about her than we do. But at least it’s a start.”
I felt for the first time that Jeremy Alexander might at last have met his match, but it was to be another five Sundays, and five more interim reports, before a thin smile appeared on Hackett’s usually tight-lipped face.
“Ms. Kershaw has placed an advertisement in the local paper,” he informed me. “It seems she’s in need of a new butler. At first I thought we should question the old butler at length as soon as he’d left, but as I couldn’t risk anything getting back to her, I decided Inspector Williams would have to apply for his job instead.”
“But surely she’ll realize within moments that he’s totally unqualified to do the job.”
“Not necessarily,” said Hackett, his smile broadening. “You see, Williams won’t be able to leave his present employment with the Countess of Rutland until he’s served a full month’s notice, and in the meantime we’ve signed him up for a special six-week course at Ivor Spencer’s School for Butlers. Williams has always been a quick learner.”
“But what about references?”
“By the time Rosemary Kershaw interviews him, he’ll have a set of references that would impress a duchess.”
“I was told you never did anything underhand.”
“That is the case when I’m dealing with honest people, Mr. Cooper. Not when I’m up against a couple of crooks like this. I’m going to get those two behind bars, if it’s the last thing I do.”
This was not the time to let Hackett know that the final chapter of this story, as I plotted it, did not conclude with Jeremy ending up in jail.
Once Williams had been put on the shortlist for the position of Rosemary’s butler, I played my own small part in securing him the job. Rereading over the terms of the proposed contract gave me the idea.
“Tell Williams to ask for fifteen thousand francs a month, and five weeks’ holiday,” I suggested to Hackett when he and Matthew visited me the following Sunday.
“Why?” asked the ex—chief superintendent. “She’s only offering eleven thousand, and three weeks’ holiday.”
“She can well afford to pay the difference, and with references like these,” I said, looking back down at my file, “she might become suspicious if he asked for anything less.”
Matthew smiled and nodded.
Rosemary finally offered Williams the job at thirteen thousand francs a month, with four weeks’ holiday a year, which, after forty-eight hours’ consideration, Williams accepted. But he did not join her for another month, by which time he had learned how to iron newspapers, lay place settings with a ruler, and tell the difference between a port, sherry, and liqueur glass.
I suppose that from the moment Williams took up the job as Rosemary’s butler, I expected instant results. But as Hackett pointed out to me Sunday after Sunday, this was hardly realistic.
“Williams has to take his time,” explained the Don. “He needs to gain her confidence, and avoid giving her any reason for the slightest suspicion. It once took me five years to nail a drug smuggler who was only living half a mile up the road from me.”
I wanted to remind him that it was me who was stuck in jail, and that five days was more like what I had in mind, but I knew how hard they were all working on my behalf, and tried not to show my impatience.
Within a month Williams had supplied us with photographs and life histories of all the staff working on the estate, along with descriptions of everyone who visited Rosemary—even the local priest, who came hoping to collect a donation for French aid workers in Somalia.
The cook: Gabrielle Pascal—no English, excellent cuisine, came from Marseilles, family checked out. The gardener: Jacques Reni—stupid and not particularly imaginative with the rose beds, local and well known. Rosemary’s personal maid: Charlotte Merieux—spoke a little English, crafty, sexy, came from Paris, still checking her out. All the staff had been employed by Rosemary since her arrival in the South of France, and they appeared to have no connection with each other, or with her past life.
“Ah,” said Hackett as he studied the picture of Rosemary’s personal maid. I raised an eyebrow. “I was just thinking about Williams being cooped up with Charlotte Merieux day in and day out—and more important, night in and night in,” he explained. “He would have made superintendent if he hadn’t fooled around so much. Still, let’s hope this time it turns out to our advantage.”
I lay on my bunk studying the pictures of the staff for hour after hour, but they revealed nothing. I read and reread the notes on everyone who had ever visited Villa Fleur, but as the weeks went by, it looked more and more as if no one from Rosemary’s past, other than her mother, knew where she was—or if they did, they were making no attempts to contact her. There was certainly no sign of Jeremy Alexander.
I was beginning to fear that she and Jeremy might have split up, until Williams reported that there was a picture of a dark, handsome man on a table by the side of Rosemary’s bed. It was inscribed: “We’ll always be together—J.”
During the weeks following my appeal hearing I was constantly interviewed by probation officers, social workers, and even the prison psychiatrist. I struggled to maintain the warm, sincere smile that Matthew had warned me was so necessary to lubricate the wheels of the bureaucracy.
It must have been about eleven weeks after my appeal had been turned down that the cell door was thrown open, and the senior officer on my corridor announced, “The governor wants to see you, Cooper.” Fingers looked suspicious. Whenever he heard those words, it inevitably meant a dose of solitary.
I could hear my heart beating as I was led down the long corridor to the governor’s office. The prison officer knocked gently on the door before opening it. The governor rose from behind his desk, thrust out his hand, and said, “I’m delighted to be the first person to tell you the good news.”
He ushered me into a comfortable chair on the other side of his desk, and went over the terms of my release. While he was doing this I was served coffee, as if we were old friends.
There was a knock on the door, and Matthew walked in, clutching a sheaf of papers that needed to be signed. I rose as he placed them on the desk, and without warning he turned around and gave me a bear hug. Not something I expect he did every day.
After I had signed the final document Matthew asked: “What’s the first thing you’ll do once they release you?”
“I’m going to buy a gun,” I told him matter-of-factly.
Matthew and the governor burst out laughing.
The great gate of Armley Prison was thrown open for me three days later. I walked away from the building carrying only the small leather suitcase I had arrived with. I didn’t look back. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the station, as I had no desire to remain in Leeds a moment longer than was necessary. I bought a first-class ticket,
and phoned Hackett to warn him I was on my way. During the short wait for the next train to Bradford I savored a breakfast that wasn’t served on a tin plate, and read a copy of the Financial Times that had been handed to me by a pretty salesclerk and not a petty criminal. No one stared at me on the train—but then, why should they, when I was sitting in a first-class carriage and dressed in my new suit? I glanced at every woman who passed by, however she was dressed, but they had no way of knowing why.
When the train pulled into Bradford, the Don and his secretary, Jenny Kenwright, were waiting for me on the platform. The chief superintendent had rented me a small furnished apartment on the outskirts of the city, and after I had unpacked—not a long job—they took me out to lunch. The moment the small talk had been dispensed with and Jenny had poured me a glass of wine, the Don asked me a question I hadn’t expected.
“Now that you’re free, is it still your wish that we go on looking for Jeremy Alexander?”
“Yes,” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “I’m even more determined, now that I can taste the freedom he’s enjoyed for the past three years. Never forget, that man stole my freedom from me, along with my wife, my company, and more than half my possessions. Oh yes, Donald. I won’t rest until I come face to face with Jeremy Alexander.”
“Good,” said the Don. “Because Williams thinks Rosemary is beginning to trust him, and might even, given time, start confiding in him. It seems he has made himself indispensable.”
I found a certain irony in the thought of Williams pocketing two pay envelopes simultaneously, and of my being responsible for one while Rosemary paid the other. I asked if there was any news of Jeremy.
“Nothing to speak of,” said Donald. “She certainly never phones him from the house, and we’re fairly sure he never attempts to make any direct contact with her. But Williams has told us that every Friday at midday he has to drop her off at the Majestic, the only hotel in the village. She goes inside and doesn’t reappear for at least forty minutes. He daren’t follow her, because she’s given specific instructions that he’s to stay with the car. And he can’t afford to lose this job by disobeying orders.”
I nodded my agreement.
“But that hasn’t stopped him having the occasional drink in the hotel bar on his evening off, and he’s managed to pick up a few snippets of information. He’s convinced that Rosemary uses the time when she’s in the hotel to make a long-distance phone call. She often drops in at the bank before going on to the Majestic, and comes out carrying a small pack of coins. The barman has told Williams that she always uses one of the two phone booths in the corridor opposite the reception desk. She never allows the call to be put through the hotel switchboard, always dials direct.”
“So how do we discover who she’s calling?” I asked.
“We wait for Williams to find an opportunity to use some of those skills he didn’t learn at butlers’ school.”
“But how long might that take?”
“No way of knowing, but Williams is due for a spot of leave in a couple of weeks, so he’ll be able to bring us up to date.”
When Williams arrived back in Bradford at the end of the month, I began asking him questions even before he had time to put his suitcase down. He was full of interesting information about Rosemary, and even the smallest detail fascinated me.
She had put on weight. I was pleased. She seemed lonely and depressed. I was delighted. She was spending my money fast. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic. But, more to the point, Williams was convinced that if Rosemary had any contact with Jeremy Alexander, it had to be when she visited the hotel every Friday and placed that direct-dial call. But he still hadn’t worked out how to discover who, or where, she was phoning.
By the time Williams returned to the South of France a fortnight later I knew more about my ex-wife than I ever had when we were married.
As happens so often in the real world, the next move came when I least expected it. It must have been about 2:30 on a Monday afternoon when the phone rang.
Donald picked up the receiver and was surprised to hear Williams’s voice on the other end of the line. He switched him to the speaker phone and said, “All three of us are listening, so you’d better begin by telling us why you’re calling when it’s not your day off.”
“I’ve been fired,” were Williams’s opening words.
“Playing around with the maid, were you?” was Donald’s first reaction.
“I only wish, Chief, but I’m afraid it’s far more stupid than that. I was driving Ms. Kershaw into town this morning when I had to stop at a red light. While I was waiting for the lights to change, a man crossed the road in front of the car. He stopped and stared at me. I recognized him immediately and prayed the lights would turn to green before he could place me. But he walked back, looked at me again, and smiled. I shook my head at him, but he came over to the driver’s side, tapped on the window, and said, ‘How are you, Inspector Williams?’”
“Who was it?” demanded Donald.
“Neil Case. Remember him, Chief?”
“Could I ever forget him? ‘Never-on-the-Case Neil,’” said Donald. “I might have guessed.”
“I didn’t acknowledge him, of course, and since Ms. Kershaw said nothing, I thought I might have got away with it. But as soon as we arrived back at the house she told me to come and see her in the study, and without even asking for an explanation she dismissed me. She ordered me to be packed and off the premises within the hour, or she’d call the local police.”
“Damn. Back to square one,” said Donald.
“Not quite,” said Williams.
“What do you mean? If you’re no longer in the house, we no longer have a point of contact. Worse, we can’t play the butler card again, because she’s bound to be on her guard from now on.”
“I know all that, Chief,” said Williams, “but suspecting that I was a policeman caused her to panic, and she went straight to her bedroom and made a phone call. As I wasn’t afraid of being found out any longer, I picked up the extension in the corridor and listened in. All I heard was a woman’s voice give a Cambridge number, and then the phone went dead. I assumed Rosemary had been expecting someone else to pick up the phone, and hung up when she heard a strange voice.”
“What was the number?” Donald asked.
“Six-four-oh-seven-something-seven.”
“What do you mean, ‘something-seven’? barked Donald as he scribbled the numbers down.
“I didn’t have anything to write with, Chief, so I had to rely on my memory.” I was glad Williams couldn’t see the expression on the Don’s face.
“Then what happened?” he demanded.
“I found a pen in a drawer and wrote what I could remember of the number on my hand. I picked up the phone again a few moments later, and heard a different woman on the line, saying, “The director’s not in at the moment, but I’m expecting him back within the hour.” Then I had to hang up quickly, because I could hear someone coming along the corridor. It was Charlotte, Rosemary’s maid. She wanted to know why I’d been fired. I couldn’t think of a convincing reply, until she accused me of having made a pass at the mistress. I let her think that was it, and ended up getting a slapped face for my trouble.” I burst out laughing, but the Don and Jenny showed no reaction. Then Williams asked, “So, what do I do now, Chief? Come back to England?”
“No,” said Donald. “Stay put for the moment. Book yourself into the Majestic and watch her around the clock. Let me know if she does anything out of character. Meanwhile, we’re going to Cambridge. As soon as we’ve booked ourselves into a hotel there, I’ll call you.”
“Understood, sir,” said Williams, and rang off.
“When do we go?” I asked Donald once he had replaced the receiver.
“Tonight,” he replied. “But not before I’ve made a few telephone calls.”
The Don dialed ten Cambridge numbers, starting with 0223, using the digits Williams had been able to jot down, and inserting t
he numbers from zero to nine in the missing slot.
As it happened, 0223 640777 turned out to be a school. “Sorry, wrong number,” said Donald. In short order, 717 was a chemist’s shop; 727 was a garage; 737 was answered by an elderly male voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” Donald repeated; 747 a newsagent; 757 a local policeman’s wife (I tried not to laugh, but Donald only grunted); 767 a woman’s voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” yet again; 777 was St. Catharine’s College; 787 a woman’s voice on an answering machine; 797 a hairdresser—“Did you want a perm, or just a trim?”
Donald checked his list. “It has to be either 737, 767, or 787. The time has come for me to pull a few strings.”
He dialed a local Bradford number, and was told that the new deputy chief constable of Cambridgeshire had been transferred from the West Yorkshire Constabulary the previous year.
“Leeke. Allan Leeke,” said Donald, without needing to be prompted. He turned to me. “He was a sergeant when I was first promoted to inspector.” He thanked his Bradford contact, then rang directory enquiries to find out the number of the Cambridge Police headquarters. He dialed another 0223 number.
“Cambridge Police. How can I help you?” asked a female voice.
“Can you put me through to the Deputy Chief Constable, please?” Donald asked.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Donald Hackett.”
The next voice that came on the line said, “Don, this is a pleasant surprise. Or at least I hope it’s a pleasant surprise, because knowing you, it won’t be a social call. Are you looking for a job, by any chance? I heard you’d left the force.”
“Yes, it’s true. I’ve resigned, but I’m not looking for a job, Allan. I don’t think the Cambridge Constabulary could quite match my present salary.”
Collected Short Stories Page 49