‘That was the lead which was so promising?’ The sharpness in Menton’s voice clearly came over the telephone.
‘I never described it in such terms, sir, even though I hoped it would be that.’
‘What is it now? A fortnight since the murder and no appreciable progress made?’
There was still the Templeton lead, but Fusil had never placed much faith in that: Templeton was a fast talking con-man, not a brutal wage-snatcher.
‘I wonder if you fully appreciate the seriousness of this case, Fusil?’
‘I can assure you . . .’
‘Look how you concerned yourself in a case of little consequence, relatively speaking . . .’
Menton said the same thing more than once before he finally came to an end and rang off. As Fusil replaced the receiver, Kerr came into the room. ‘D’you have any luck?’ he asked.
‘Not so much as a sniff, sir.’
‘Then, goddam it, stop looking so cheerful.’ He relaxed. As Kerr would say, in ten years’ time it would all be forgotten history, so why worry.
‘The only thing of any interest I picked up was a bit of gossip. D’you know the name of Fawcett?’
‘Is that Alexander Fawcett?’
‘I don’t know about the Alexander part,’ said Kerr breezily. ‘But the bloke I’m talking about is very wealthy.’
‘Then you are talking about Alexander.’
‘He was Fiona Allbright’s boyfriend.’
‘Boyfriend?’ For the first time that day, Fusil laughed. ‘Fawcett’s sixty, if he’s a day.’
‘According to the woman who lives opposite, he turned up looking for his regular slice of nooky and found she’d suddenly left to go and look after her mother, who’s been taken very ill.’
‘When was this?’
‘When was he last there? On the Sunday. She quit the flat on the Saturday.’
‘Last Saturday?’
‘That’s right.’
Fusil spoke slowly. ‘Hasn’t it occurred to you that that date could be significant?’
Kerr saw no point in openly admitting that until now it hadn’t occurred to him.
Could there be a connection? wondered Fusil. The sudden and unexpected departure of a woman from a flat O’Connell had recently visited, less than twenty-four hours before he died? Or was he grasping at straws, a stubborn man stupidly accepting the slightest coincidence as proof of what he wanted to believe . . .?
*
Fawcett’s house was on the northern edge of the suburb of Pendleton Bray, overlooking the golf-course: large, beautifully kept garden, four-car garage, hard tennis-court, and swimming pool with pool-house.
As Fusil parked, in the drive, Kerr said: ‘When my rich uncle leaves me his all, I’ll buy a place like this.’
‘Have you got a rich uncle?’
‘Not that I know of.’
They left the car and walked up to the front door. There was a very short wait after Fusil pressed the bell-push, then the panelled door was opened by a woman whose dark complexion and raven-black hair suggested she was foreign, probably Spanish. She showed them into a large, south-facing room, elegantly and attractively furnished. There were inlaid display cabinets, a lacquered cabinet, mahogany secretaire bookcase, a set of four Dutch side-chairs, and matching red leather easy-chairs: a pair of Chinese carpets glowed with colour; four paintings looked like old masters.
Fawcett was dressed to make the best of a tall, military carriage and no one would ever mistake his suit for anything but top tailoring. His face held the smooth self-assurance of wealthy authority. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ He was crisply polite, but not friendly. ‘Please sit down. Now, what is it you want?’
‘We’re making certain enquiries . . .’ began Fusil.
Fawcett suddenly crossed to the nearest window. ‘Damned dog is rolling in something again. It’ll come in stinking like a sewer.’
‘Those enquiries concern Miss Fiona Allbright who lives, or lived, in a flat in Seaview House.’
Fawcett turned and looked hard at Fusil, an expression of angry annoyance on his face. He brought a slim gold cigarette-case from his pocket, opened it and lit a cigarette.
‘I believe you know her?’ said Fusil.
‘Yes.’
‘How well do you know her?’
‘That is not a matter which need concern you.’ He stared challengingly at Fusil.
Fusil stared back equally challengingly: he had never bowed before either rank or wealth. ‘On the contrary, it does concern us.’
‘In what way?’
‘You last visited her flat on Sunday and discovered that she had left because her mother had suddenly been taken ill?’
‘You’ve obviously been talking to that damned busybody who lives opposite and hasn’t anything to do all day but pry into other people’s lives. Yes, I discovered on Sunday that she’d unexpectedly left the flat. But her reason for going was not that her mother was ill.’
‘Are you certain of that?’
‘Her mother died some years ago.’
Fusil looked at Kerr. Kerr said: ‘She definitely said she was told it was the mother, sir.’ Fusil seemed to become lost in thought.
‘What’s all this about?’ demanded Fawcett.
Fusil looked up. ‘We need to get in touch with Miss Allbright over a certain matter and at the moment can’t discover where she’s moved to—I take it you can’t help us there?’
‘I cannot.’
‘Where did her family live?’
‘In Sussex.’
‘Did she ever say whereabouts in that county?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘Mr Fawcett, did you pay all or part of the rent for her flat?’
‘That’s quite immaterial,’ he snapped.
‘For how long have you been paying it?’ asked Fusil, as if the previous answer had been in the affirmative.
Fawcett finally said: ‘A few months.’
‘Weren’t you very surprised to discover she’d left without a single word to you?’
For a moment there was a puzzled, hurt expression on Fawcett’s face.
‘You’d no inkling she was intending to leave?’
‘None.’
‘Looking back, have you any idea why she left so suddenly?’
‘No.’
‘Are you expecting to see her again?’
He did not answer.
‘How did you originally meet her?’
‘Through a mutual friend.’
‘May I have that friend’s name?’
‘You may not.’
Fusil was silent for a long while, then he stood. ‘That seems to cover everything. Thanks for your help.’
Fawcett cleared his throat and for the first time there was some uncertainty in his manner. ‘I . . . I hope there’s no need to pursue this matter any further?’
‘Naturally I can’t say for certain, but I shouldn’t think so, provided we manage to trace her family soon . . . By the way, that does remind me of one last question. Have you been able to remember which part of Sussex Miss Allbright’s family came from?’
Fusil had spoken blandly, but Fawcett accepted his words as an implied threat and for a while it looked as if he were going to voice his anger. But in the end he said: ‘I never knew any more than that they lived in a small village somewhere at the back of Worthing.’
Later, as Fusil drove out on to the road, he said: ‘I wonder what his wife’s like?’
‘Rides to hounds and breeds snuffling pugs,’ suggested Kerr.
Fusil accelerated past a van and then cut in sharply because of oncoming traffic; the van-driver hooted. ‘You’d better have another word with your Miss Datchett and see if you can learn anything more from her,’ he said, as he shot the lights.
Chapter Fourteen
Miss Datchett was again wearing a flowery dress, but this one didn’t seem to billow quite so much. ‘Good morning, young man. This is a surprise for a Sunday morning. These days I f
eel too old to go to church every week, so would you like me to make you some coffee?’
‘I would indeed,’ Kerr answered, as he entered the flat.
She led the way into the sitting room. ‘I suppose you’ve come back here because of Fiona?’ Her inquisitiveness was as sharp as ever. ‘Can you tell me, has she done something . . . Well, bad?’
He smiled. ‘Not to our knowledge. All we want is to have a quick word with her over something which doesn’t even really directly concern her.’
‘Oh!’ She was clearly disappointed and she looked at him with something close to reproach before she left to go through to the kitchen.
Later, over his third cup of coffee, Kerr said: ‘We can’t discover where Fiona’s gone to after leaving here and it could help if you’d tell us anything more you know about her. For instance, did she ever chat to you about her past life?’
‘Not really. If she ever spoke about it, it was really only to say that she’d travelled a great deal. She was a very . . . well, self-possessed kind of a person: so much so that I didn’t think she could have many friends—after all, one has to give to make friends, doesn’t one?—and that’s why I used to go and have a little talk with her every now and then. I always thought she liked this until the last time . . .’
‘The last time?’ he prompted.
‘The last time,’ she said, suddenly speaking stiffly, ‘I unfortunately had occasion to wonder.’
‘What happened?’
‘How was I to know she was entertaining? The door was not locked.’
‘She had someone in the flat?’
‘I’m certain I’d never trust him, even if he was, perhaps, quite good-looking.’ She nodded. ‘Of course, he was a foreigner, which perhaps explains it.’
‘Explains what?’ he asked, confused by the course of the conversation.
‘I know things aren’t as they used to be when one didn’t hold hands until one was engaged unless one wanted to be considered very fast, but they were embracing very . . . If you can understand what I mean?’
‘I think so,’ he replied cautiously.
‘Of course, one does see so much on television that . . . But I still think people should behave in a more restrained manner.’
He wondered if it had occurred to her that the couple had logically expected to be on their own and therefore had seen no reason for restraint.
‘He spoke very loudly to me, in a kind of English: the worst kind.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I hope he did not really understand what he was saying.’
‘Have you any idea who he was?’
‘I am happy to say, none whatsoever.’
‘Did Fiona ever mention him?’
‘We did not speak to each other very much after that, except when she said she was leaving and she gave me the things she did not want, like those cigarettes you had. I know that then she was trying to be nice—to make up for what that man had said—but she ought to have told him at the time that I’m not the kind of person to pry into other people’s lives.’
*
At nine o’clock on Monday morning, Kerr went into the offices of Bellows and Mathieson. He winked at the brunette behind the reception desk and after careful consideration she smiled back. ‘Local CID,’ he said. ‘I’d like a word with whoever can tell me about the tenancy of flat six a, Seaview House.’
‘Mr Lever handles our lettings. I’ll see if he’s come in yet.’ She spoke over the internal telephone, then said to him: ‘Yes, he is in and can see you now. I’ll show you where his office is.’
He followed her, admiring the swing of her hips, along a couple of well lit corridors and into a bleakly furnished office. Lever was small and bouncy, with tight curly black hair; his bow tie was in red and white polka-dots. ‘Miss Fiona Allbright? A very attractive young lady. What would you like to know about her? But no obvious questions answered!’
‘I’m trying to find out why she left the flat so suddenly and where she’s gone to.’
‘Sorry, but I can’t answer either question. She was on a six-monthly tenancy—hopefully to keep the tenancy out of the Rent Acts—and right up to the day she quit I thought she’d be there for the whole term. Since then, I’ve had no word from her except the note explaining the money and there was no address on that.’
‘What money was that—the rent?’
‘No, that was payable three-monthly in advance and was up-to-date. This was to meet any liability under the state of premises clause. The flat was furnished and she was responsible for making good at the end of the lease. We’d had a hundred-pound deposit, but she left a further hundred in case the work we had to do came to more.’
‘Wasn’t that a bit unusual, leaving more money without checking whether it was necessary or even whether there might be something due back on the deposit?’
‘Yes, it was. There’re plenty of tenants who’d just have pushed off and to hell with the repairs. And in this case the extra won’t be needed because the flat was left in very good order.’
‘So what do you do with whatever’s left over if you haven’t a forwarding address?’
‘We’ll have to hold it for whenever she claims it; a nuisance.’ He chuckled. ‘But not so much of a nuisance as if she’d left behind five hundred quids’ worth of repairs and redecoration and only the deposit to pay for ’em.’
‘What was her previous address?’
‘Once again, I’ve no idea. When she took the tenancy she said that she’d been moving around a lot, much of the time abroad, so she’d no permanent address.’
‘I suppose she gave you references?’
‘Only from the bank. They said she was credit-worthy and that was good enough for us.’ He laughed. ‘In this day and age, one doesn’t ask how an attractive young lady earns her money!’
*
The assistant bank-manager was middle-aged, rather pedantic and careful, to think out what he said. ‘Yes, I do remember the circumstances of Miss Allbright’s opening an account. She told me she’d been travelling a great deal, especially on the Continent, but now she was intending to settle down in England. She had no family living and therefore hadn’t had a fixed address in years. In a case like this we obviously are very careful, but as she was intending to live locally I agreed to open an account in her name. I did warn her, though, that for some time she would have strictly to maintain it in credit.’
‘How did she pay in money?’ asked Kerr.
The assistant bank-manager picked up several sheets of statements and briefly glanced through them. ‘Originally, she paid in traveller’s cheques. After that, it was always cash.’
‘Do you know where she’s moved to?’
‘As I said earlier, I wasn’t even aware that she’d left her flat.’
‘Is her account in credit now?’
‘Yes. It has been in credit throughout.’
‘Can you tell me how much she’s got?’
‘No, I don’t think I’m prepared to give you that figure.’
Kerr thanked the other and left. He walked past several shops and then stopped in front of one which sold electrical goods. Two days ago, he remembered, with momentary and uncharacteristic bitterness, Helen had said she needed a deepfreeze and when he’d told her they couldn’t afford one she had, for the first time in their marriage, complained bitterly about his job, which exposed him to danger but didn’t pay him nearly as well as would other jobs in which there was normally no danger . . . Hell, he thought, his normal carefree cheerfulness returning, better a poor copper than a rich automaton on a conveyor-belt . . .
He returned to the station and reported.
Fusil began to pack his pipe with tobacco. ‘We’ll have to ask Sussex to try to trace her through her old home.’
Chapter Fifteen
Requests for information from other forces were always received with resentment because the work involved could never directly benefit those who had to carry it out. Thus it was that a DC attached to the divisional CID in Wort
hing saw his job of tracing down the Allbright family as nothing but a bloody nuisance. He telephoned the local councils rating department. There were four Allbrights on the records. Further telephone calls proved that of these four only one could possibly be the family he was interested in, listed under the name of Basil Allbright, who had lived in the village of Steventon until five years ago, after which their name was no longer on the records. He checked through the latest voters’ lists. No Basil Allbright.
‘Skipper,’ he said wearily to his sergeant, ‘I’ve worked all afternoon on Fortrow’s request and it’s a complete dead-ender. Ten to one, it’s only an off-chance, anyway.’
Normally the sergeant would have said, Yeah, it was obviously only an off-chance, so tell ’em all enquiries had failed, but his wife had nagged him that morning and he was not averse to working off some of his resentment. He blasted the surprised DC for lack of initiative and told him to contact every pensions office in the county to find out if Basil Allbright was still in receipt of a pension or, if not, when his death grant had been paid.
At ten-fifteen on Tuesday morning, the DC finally learned that Basil Allbright was now living at number fourteen, Ponders End Lane, Hove.
A CID aide was detailed to interview Allbright. Allbright was seventy, but in appearance and behaviour he seemed a very tired eighty. It took the CID aide a long time to persuade him that the police were not out to have his pension stopped because he was living with a widow to whom he was not married, but once satisfied on that score he was prepared to say what he knew. Unfortunately, his memory was poor.
‘The wife,’ he mumbled, ‘she died last year.’
‘It was three years ago last August,’ said the widow, a plump, cheerful woman who looked after him with a mother’s affectionate firmness.
‘Have you got a daughter?’ said the CID aide.
‘Her!’ He began to chew at his upper lip.
‘After his wife died,’ said the widow, ‘he and Fiona didn’t get on together. You know what it can be like in a family? She told him, she wasn’t going to stay at home doing nothing but look after him, so she cleared out.’
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