by Moody, Susan
‘Funny you should ask,’ she said. ‘Dr Swift is on the phone every day, complaining about it, telling us we need to get our collective finger out. Having fielded two or three of his calls, I can tell you he has a wide and extensive knowledge of ripe language.’
‘And was the message he’s getting the same one as Dame Dorcas was moaning about?’
‘Indeed it was.’
‘Sounds like our perp is emerging more and more out into the open.’
‘Just what Garside said this morning.’
‘What do you know about Swift fils?’
Most of what she told me I already knew via Mr Fuller. ‘The father was going on about some hussy who’d targeted his son last year, said she thought she was on to a good thing, since Ned wasn’t short of a bob or two, liked to throw it around. Dad seemed to think it might have had something to do with his murder.’
‘What do you think?’
‘The man’s talking through his hat. Funny thing about him, and his wife. Quick … neither of them seemed to be that concerned.’
It had been a long busy day. Time to go home and collapse.
NINETEEN
Driving home, I asked myself if I’d turned up anything useful. I had a feeling that I’d been told something vaguely new, maybe even helpful, but like a splinter in the thumb, since I couldn’t bring it to mind, I was going to have to wait until it had worked its way out, rather than trying to probe for it in the recesses of my brain. Or was I? As I drove along the familiar roads, through the residential districts into the shopping area, down Castle Street and into the by now almost deserted High Street, I grew increasingly irked at not being able to recall what it was that might prove to be a lead worth pursuing.
Once home, I sank into the comfort of my sofa, then lifted the phone to dial Sam Willoughby and ask him if wanted a nightcap.
He did. When he arrived, I laid all the information I had in front of him.
‘Hmm …’ he said, sipping whisky. ‘What do we know about this Ned Swift? Poor bloke.’
‘At least his death was quick,’ I said.
‘That’s some compensation for being dead, I suppose.’ He slipped a dram or two more into our glasses. ‘You know, you’d think someone would have noticed our murderer, wouldn’t you? He’d have to have been covered in blood.’
‘I don’t know. You do your dirty work, you exit the warehouse, pulling the door to behind you, you stow your victim into your boot – possibly having covered it with a plastic sheet beforehand – you drive to your previously chosen dumping ground, dispose of your body and take off, none knows whither.’
‘And he wouldn’t necessarily be someone who lives locally,’ Sam said thoughtfully. ‘But it would more or less have to be someone who knew the area, however superficially, because otherwise—’
‘–how would the killer have known about the warehouse?’
‘Exactly.’
‘How do you feel about organized crime in general, the Chinese Triads in particular?’ I asked.
‘Pretty negative.’
‘If it was them, surely we’d have noticed them hanging about the place.’ I picked up the whisky bottle and poured us each a second wee dram of single malt. I was beginning to feel a pleasant buzz, composed of exhaustion allied to alcohol.
‘Why would we? For a start, they wouldn’t be hanging about. They’d come discreetly, do what they have to do, and depart equally discreetly. And I can tell you that from my vantage point in the middle of Longbury High Street, for pretty well eight hours a day, I’ve never seen any oriental gentlemen wandering up and down, except for the occasional guided party of Japanese tourists, come to take selfies of themselves on the ramparts of the Castle.’
‘Let me put this another way,’ I said. ‘Do you think I’m barking up the wrong tree, attributing Tristan’s death – and Ned Swift’s, because he must have died by the same hand or hands – to Triads or people like them?’
‘Honest answer? Yes.’
‘But, Sam, there are so many links to Tristan’s time in Hong Kong.’
‘They could all be purely coincidental.’
‘The way he was killed … all those cuts to his body. It was you who gave me the info in the first place … Triad rituals and so on. Killed by myriads of sword … it seems to be one of their classic methods of dispatching a traitor.’
‘There could be other explanations for his death, and the killer who might have carried it out, is all I’m saying. And you’ve had your mind so fixed on some kind of Asian connection that you haven’t bothered to look elsewhere.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’ I groaned. ‘Oh God, I just can’t start all over again.’
‘Then don’t. Leave it to the rozzers. Your mate Inspector Garside, for instance. That’s what they’re paid for.’
‘You don’t know Dimsie Drayton the way I do,’ I said. ‘But the hell with it. I’m not going to think about it at the moment, I’m too tired.’
Sam moved closer. Put his arm round my shoulders. Pushed my hair back from my face, pulled me against him. I heard the beat of his heart, the pulse of blood in his veins. Breathed him in. ‘Dear Sam,’ I murmured, ‘you always smell so good.’
‘So do you.’ He nuzzled my face. His lips touched my cheek.
‘I’m whacked.’ I closed my eyes. Drifted. ‘Know what? I’m going to go to sleep right here.’
‘Not really a good idea.’ He shifted. ‘I’d better go.’
‘No, Sam. Don’t go. Not just yet.’
‘Then let’s get you into bed.’
When I woke the next morning, it was still early, the sky outside the window only a shade or two brighter than dark. There was no sign of Sam. I was wearing a nightdress. I still had my knickers on. Getting up to deal with an overfull bladder, I saw that he had washed last night’s glasses and left them to drain. Along with the dirty dishes I had embarrassingly left in the sink two days ago. He’d think I was a real slut.
Back in bed, I wondered if ‘anything’ had taken place. Or if Sam had spent some of the night in my bed. Was I misremembering warm arms, a hand on my breast, breath against my cheek? But Sam wasn’t the sort of man to take advantage of a tired and slightly pissed woman. I was glad. If ‘anything’ was ever to take place between us – not that it was likely to – I wanted to be fully aware.
In that mad swirling way that one’s thought processes have in the early morning, before the affairs of the day start crowding in, I reflected how nice Sam was, how very much I wanted to stop looking into Tristan’s death, Dimsie or no Dimsie, what the Norwegian fjords would be like at this time of year. I thought of the am-dram group, of the toothsome Milo Stanton, chess pieces, bungee jumping, Chris Kearns, puppets, Sam playing rugby. And it struck me that, however deeply Tristan might be involved in matters oriental or criminal, the likelihood of Kevin Fuller being similarly embroiled had to be just about non-existent. So why had he too been tortured and killed? What was the justification for his death?
I had fallen back to sleep when the phone rang. ‘Quick,’ I mumbled, barely awake.
‘It’s Milo here,’ a voice said.
‘Milo! Hi! How are you?’ I came to fast. I knew I was sounding over-bright, all exclamation marks, like Yvonne Landis. What would have happened last night if it had been Milo who’d undressed me, undone my bra, eased off my jeans, surveyed my underwear. Oddly, I didn’t find the prospect remotely erotic.
‘Long time no see and all that crap,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Just fine, thanks.’
‘Sorry to ring so early, but I got an email from Chris Kearns inviting me over to see a one-off rehearsal of his pantomime, along with some of the theatre group. How about it?’
‘When?’
‘Like today.’
‘Kind of early to be starting to rehearse for Christmas panto, isn’t it? It’s only September.’
‘Long lead time,’ he said.
‘Well, I’m not a panto buff.’
‘Oh, come on, it�
�ll be fun,’ he said.
‘Hmm …’ Why didn’t I come right out with it and say I didn’t want to traipse over to some sleazy seaside resort or wherever to see some cross-dressing thesp prancing about the stage and flaunting his huge frilly knickers or enormous knockers?
‘I’ll pick you up this evening at six,’ he said firmly, and put down the receiver before I could protest.
There were six of us in the people-carrier. Milo was driving, with a vapid new recruit beside him in the front passenger seat. Dolly, she was called; long blonde hair cascading loosely over her shoulders, a sensuous mouth, a frequent and irritating giggle. She was born to play the young ingénue. In the back were Charlotte Plimpton, Ricky Hadfield, me, and a bearded bloke whose chief attributes were a stomach of Falstaffian size and a Father Christmas laugh, known far and wide as Fred, although his parents had named him Timothy Timm. Which might have been why he preferred to be called Fred.
‘Can’t say I’m particularly looking forward to this evening,’ Char muttered. The two of us were in the back seat, behind Fred and Ricky.
‘Nuts and bolts time, dear,’ rumbled Fred. ‘We all need to know what goes on backstage.’
‘Why?’ I asked. We were all keeping our voices down in the hope that Milo wouldn’t hear us.
‘Yeah, why? It’s a bit pointless for me,’ said Char. ‘I have no ambitions whatsoever to run the show.’
‘Suppose the entire management team dropped dead at the beginning of Act Two,’ said Ricky. ‘What would you do?’
‘I’d cancel the show.’
‘Or they all went down with virulent food-poisoning?’
‘I’d still cancel.’
‘Whatever happened to the idea that the Show Must Go On?’ wondered Fred.
‘We’re not professionals,’ said Ricky, loudly enough to be heard from the front seats.
‘Speak for yourself,’ said Milo.
Oh yes, and when did you last appear in legitimate theatre? I thought. Then also thought No! Stop! I must not be catty. Yes, I’d voluntarily joined the group, giving in to urgings from Char Plimpton on the grounds that I ought to get out more. But that didn’t mean I enjoyed being dragooned into this kind of senseless outing.
‘Looking forward to the evening?’ Milo asked.
‘Yay!’ we chorused.
‘It’s good of Chris to invite us, don’t you agree?’
Muffled agreement from the back. There was a silence, during which Dolly giggled. Perhaps it was a nervous tic.
‘Well, I can tell you that he really is as genial as he looks,’ said Milo from the front. Dolly giggled again. ‘He’s had a hard life in many ways but he seems to have things on an even keel now.’
‘Good.’
‘Have any of you managed to read his book?’
‘I have,’ I said. I did wish Milo would concentrate on the road ahead, rather than twisting around in the driver’s seat to talk to those of us in the back.
‘And?’
‘I found it very interesting. And well-written. He’s certainly had a few knocks over the years, so more power to him for managing to get himself back on track. And he doesn’t seem in the least bit self-pitying, which is a plus.’
‘Hear, hear,’ agreed Milo.
‘Ever wish it was you, Milo?’ asked Ricky. ‘Starring in your own sitcom, giving your Widow Twankey or Ugly Sister?’
‘Do you mind? I’m aiming a lot higher than that, thank you.’
‘Lear? Hamlet? Macbeth?’
‘All or any. Whatever. And believe me, guys. I don’t wish. I know. One of these days, there I’ll be. Red carpets, fans flocking, name up in lights, beautiful women throwing themselves at me. It’ll happen, trust me.’ He seemed deadly serious.
Not happening yet, I thought, so simmer down, Olivier.
Beside him, Dolly giggled. As well she might.
Chris Kearns was on hand to greet us when we eventually straggled into the theatre. ‘So pleased you could come, darlings,’ he said, jittering about like a Mexican jumping bean. ‘Now, sit yourselves down in the third row of the stalls, and take notes. All got pen and paper? Good. If you get bored, creep out … there’s a pub just round the corner. Otherwise, come backstage after, and we’ll have a quick one before you leave. And by quick one, in case anyone thinks I’ve fallen off the wagon, mine’s a vodka and tonic without the vodka!’
He slapped Milo on the back and spun away, while we settled into our seats. I was expecting one of the more boring evenings of my life, and by God, I was right. The whole occasion was even worse than I had anticipated it would be. To start with, thanks to work commitments, only three quarters of the cast was present, which robbed the occasion of any animation or glamour it might have had. There were some flat jokes, some uninspired backchat, and plenty of displays of temperament. Dear, oh dear. And this was only a familiarisation pre-pre-pre technical run-through, intended as no more than a way to get the cast into a receptive frame of mind. What it’d be like when they began to rehearse for real three or four weeks from now, I didn’t like to contemplate.
I made a firm resolution that if I stuck with the uni drama group, it would be in make-up or wardrobe. I’d hate to find myself part of this kind of egotistical one-upmanship on a regular basis. Or to be thought of as someone who was. I was definitely not an actor – though given the fact that I was no longer one, I flattered myself my Police Inspector On the Case performance had been pretty convincing.
The evening rolled slowly on. There were long periods when absolutely nothing was going on, while people clustered round other people, some holding scripts, others with bits of chalk. Every now and then, Chris Kearns came to the front of the stage, shielded his eyes from the half-lit footlights and asked if we were all right. To which Milo replied enthusiastically that yes thanks, we were. I longed to shout out that, speaking personally, I wasn’t, that I was suicidally bored, that I wanted to go home and curl up with a good book. But of course I was much too well brought up to do any such thing. Besides, Milo had the transport.
When Char leaned towards me and murmured that she couldn’t take much more of this, was heading for the pub and did I want to …?, before she’d even finished speaking I had assumed that crouching stance that people employ when shuffling along a row of theatre seats, even though there was nobody sitting behind us.
‘I don’t want to hurt dear Milo,’ Char said, when we were sitting with drinks in front of us, round the corner from the theatre. ‘But honestly …’
‘Sigh,’ I said.
‘I have no ambitions to be a thesp,’ said Char. ‘And in any case, even if I were to become the star attraction in of the group’s productions, I would only be a big fish in a little pond.’
‘In my case, I’d be a little fish in a tiny pond. I only joined because you more or less forced me to.’
‘In my case, it was my mother. She’s desperate to get me married off again. Bridge or drama, she said firmly – she’s a very firm person – and I’ll babysit. So I chose what I thought would be the lesser of two evils.’ She sank half the contents of her lime shandy. ‘No, it’s quite fun, really, but life’s too short to spend an evening like the one we’re in the middle of. Apart from this bit of it.’ She smiled at me.
‘What do you think of Chris?’ I asked.
‘What do you?’
We looked at each other. Shrugged. Made that turned-down-lower-lip pout that usually goes with a shrug. Didn’t want to be negative, even if we felt it, because the man was Milo’s chum.
‘As an actor, or as a person?’ asked Char eventually.
‘Either. Both. Seems OK to me,’ I said. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’
‘On the whole, I do. Mind you, I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.’
‘Why not?’
‘He reminds me very much of my former husband. As nice as pie, everybody’s best friend, until somebody gets across him. Then pow! Watch out for fireworks!’
‘Short fuse, eh?’<
br />
‘It’s much deeper than that – with my ex, at least. Obviously I’ve no idea about Kearns.’
‘Interesting,’ I said. Or was it?
TWENTY
The following few days passed without murder-related incident. I finished my final texts. Put the anthology together. Picked out – as instructed by my publisher – three paintings, one of which would be chosen to grace the front cover. Drove over to ArtWorld Books to discuss things with Cliff Nichols and his assistant Elaine.
The outcomes were extremely positive. On the downside, I intensely missed Helena Drummond, my former collaborator, who had been murdered last year. Her knowledge, her humour, her warmth. I wanted to have a simple dedication on the copyright page: For Helena, and Nichols was happy to go along with it. There were a couple of niggles about three of the paintings I’d chosen but I had anticipated their objections and brought along alternatives which we all found acceptable.
So a good week, overall.
Until the phone call.
I was dragged out of sleep by the insistent beeping of my mobile on the table beside my bed. Only half awake, I squinted at the green glow of the digital display. It was well after one o’clock. What the f …? I snatched up the phone, pressed the right buttons, lifted it to my ear.
‘Quick.’
‘Fliss here, Alex.’
She only called me Alex in times of significant stress. ‘What is it?’ I said, alarmed. Anxiety swelled inside me like a toxic fungus.
‘Joy’s just got back from work.’
‘At this hour? They certainly make sure she earns her crust of bread, don’t they?’
‘It wasn’t the department, it was the police who kept her.’
‘My God, Fliss, what on earth has she done?’ I was wide awake now. Fliss’s partner, Joy, was aptly named, one of the world’s life enhancers. Happy, witty, clever, stunning in every way. To think of her being questioned by the police for some crime or other was—
‘Not her, for Christ’s sake, Alex. But someone.’
‘What’s this someone done then?’
‘There’s been another murder.’