‘How long will the recuperation take?’ Wolfgang asked from behind the screen as, with difficulty, he put his trousers back on.
‘Oh, that depends on a number of factors,’ Baxter replied casually.
‘Can you say if it will be days, weeks, months?’
‘Hard to say. But let’s not worry about that now.’ He looked up, a reptilian smile on his face. ‘Let’s just get the operation done first, shall we?’ He tore a sheet off the pad in front of him and held it out as Wolfgang appeared around the screen. ‘Here’s my fee for the initial consultation. Please pay the receptionist before you leave. And I prefer cash. Good day.’ With that, the little man was dismissed.
The receptionist was still sitting behind his desk and a cigarette was still smouldering in the ashtray. He gave Wolfgang another cold smile. ‘Ah, you have come to pay. ‘I trust everything was satisfactory?’ Wolfgang, rather shaken and taken aback by the experience, just nodded and reached into his jacket for his wallet. The man took the proffered notes. ‘Now your details please.’ Wolfgang gave him the address at the boatyard, and reminded himself to tell the yard owner that a letter would be coming for Monsieur Meunier.
Chapter 12
An Escritoire or Secretary Desk is made of a base of wide drawers topped by a desk with a hinged surface.
They had driven down in Bates’s bottle green Morris J type van, Atkins riding in the passenger seat, Sammy sitting on a pile of blankets in the back, wedged uncomfortably between boxes and tins. The three-speed gearbox, the noise from the straining engine and the weight in the van had made the journey long and tedious and they had arrived tired and scratchy. Even so, Atkins had insisted that they hide the van in the smaller of the two barns. So, with much grumbling, they had moved assorted junk and a couple of lumpy pieces of rusty farm machinery out of the way, making enough space for Bates to back the van in, and then closed the doors.
Baker had done his best to make the farmhouse comfortable. He had found some hessian hop pockets in one of the outbuildings and stuffed them with straw that was just on the dry side of mouldy. With the blankets they had brought they made up beds that were acceptable although Sammy, who had shared a room with Bates, had complained about his snoring. In the morning they had a fry up with sausage, egg, bacon and tomatoes and were all feeling much more settled.
They had brought enough supplies in the van to last for several days: tins of corned beef, spam, mushy peas, baked beans, and for dessert, peaches and mandarins; a sack of potatoes; tea, milk and sugar; a couple of loaves of bread, rashers of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, marge, jam and lard; plates, mugs, saucepans and cutlery. And of course, four crates of bottled beer and six bottles of whisky. ‘That should keep us going,’ Atkins had said, when they’d unloaded it.
Earlier he had insisted that the windows at the front of the house were covered, so an inquisitive passer-by wouldn’t see that anyone was inside. Bates and Sammy had been despatched to search in the outbuildings and had come back with some dirty, frayed cloth and more sacks. With a hammer and nails from the van they had fixed them roughly in place. Although it made the rooms gloomy, Atkins was satisfied that it would shield them from prying eyes.
‘Well, this is a bit of all right,’ he said, cup in hand, looking round. A fire was lit in the grate and it was burning merrily, cheering the room. Baker smiled his appreciation. Butcher Bates and Sammy the Screwdriver sat either side of the table, each with a chipped mug of tea. The empty plates had been cleared away and were piled in the sink. Atkins walked across to the table. ‘C’mon Butch, budge over. Yer takin’ up two seats.’ The big man shifted his bulk, the wooden chair creaking ominously. Baker joined them on the last vacant chair. ‘Right, lads,’ Atkins began, spreading a map out on the table. ‘This is the plan.’
-0-
The Wolseley bumped along the cobbled street and Russell had to reach up and hold on to the grab handle to stop his head connecting with the roof of the car. After an uncomfortable few minutes Weeks brought the vehicle to a halt outside The Old Storehouse in Watchbell Street. They got out and walked up the flagstone pathway to the front door. Russell lifted the dolphin-shaped brass knocker and rapped three times. Silence. He tried again. Still nothing.
‘Can I help you?’ The policemen looked round. A small neat woman in her late sixties with a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles perched on her nose was peering through the gateway. ‘She’s not there you know,’ she said sharply.
Russell walked towards her. ‘Who’s that, madam?’
The woman looked him up and down and frowned. ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Detective Inspector Russell…’ he held out his warrant card, ‘…and this is Detective Constable Weeks. Are you talking about Helen McDermott?’
‘That’s her name – yes.’
‘And you say she’s not at home? How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I’m feeding her cat whilst she’s away.’
‘Oh, I see. So when did she go?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘And do you know where she’s gone?’
‘What’s it to you?’ the woman said suspiciously.
‘Madam,’ Russell began, keeping his voice even, ‘I am afraid I can’t divulge any information of that nature. Let’s just say it would be a great help if you would tell us as much as you know.’
The little woman visibly relaxed. ‘In that case, do you want to take a look inside? I’m sure Helen wouldn’t mind.’
The policemen glanced at each other. This was unexpected but most welcome. The woman introduced herself as Mrs Denise Major, and produced a key from the pocket of her floral housecoat. She put it in the lock and opened the door. ‘You stay here,’ she instructed, holding up an admonishing finger, ‘while I make sure Cleopatra is shut away. She doesn’t like strangers, you know.’ With that she disappeared inside and closed the door, leaving Russell and Weeks standing in the porch. After a few minutes she returned. ‘You can come in now; just don’t open the kitchen door. I don’t want the puss getting out. There would be a terrible to-do if she escaped.’ The policemen stepped inside the hall. The floor was covered with encaustic tiles, in terracotta, cream and blue and a small table, with just a Bakelite telephone on its surface, stood between two doorways. Weeks politely wiped his feet on the doormat. ‘This is the lounge.’ Mrs Major said expansively, opening the first door. She reminded Russell of an estate agent. They entered a small neat room.
Several watercolours of local views hung on the walls. He peered at the nearest. It showed the windmill at Nottery Quay, silhouetted against the sunset with the outline of boats, sitting on the mud alongside the wharf, in the foreground. The painting was well-executed although he didn’t recognise the signature. ‘Very nice,’ he muttered. There was little furniture; just a pair of armchairs, covered in a dark fabric with an understated pattern, and what appeared to be an escritoire against the wall, with the hinged flap, which served as a writing surface, closed shut.
After giving them a few moments to look round, Mrs Major bustled out of the lounge. ‘Come along now, here’s the dining room.’ It was again small, and tastefully decorated. A dark, polished wood table stood in the centre with four matching chairs.
Russell slid one out and held the back. ‘Would you sit down please Mrs Major, then perhaps we can ask you a few questions?’ The woman sat meekly, although she folded her arms defensively across her bosom. Russell remained standing but motioned for his DC to sit. ‘Would you get Mrs Major to give us some information about Helen McDermott. I’m just going to have another look at that painting. I’m sure I recognise the artist,’ he said, and left the room before the woman could protest.
She hugged herself tighter. ‘What do you want to know, young man?’
Weeks took out his notebook. ‘How long have you known Mrs McDermott?’
‘Oh no!’ she said sharply, unfolding her arms and leaning forwards. ‘She’s not Mrs, she’s Miss!’
‘Oh, I see.’ Weeks made a note on h
is pad. ‘How long have you known Miss…’
‘Just over a year,’ she cut in. ‘Ever since she moved here.’
‘Do you know where she moved from?’
The woman furrowed her brow. ‘Not exactly, she never said, but I think it was London somewhere.’
‘Oh, right.’ He wrote that down. ‘And do you know if she works; what she does for a living?’
‘Not really. She doesn’t do anything regular, like.’ Mrs Major frowned again. ‘She does go off for a few days at a time though – leaves me to look after Cleo.’ Weeks looked up. ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I’m happy to do it. It’s no trouble.’ The words tumbled out in a staccato rush. ‘Besides, she always makes sure I’m not out of pocket.’ Seeing the policeman’s questioning look she quickly added, ‘I buy fresh fish and milk you know. Cleo is a very particular cat.’
While this exchange was taking place Russell had gone into the lounge and, ignoring the watercolour, went straight over to the escritoire. Carefully pulling out the two wooden supports he lowered the flap until it was resting on them in a horizontal position. Like the room, the interior of the desk was tidy; just a fountain pen, a dark blue bottle of Quink, some plain envelopes and a blotter. There was no notepad and Russell did not think he had enough time to open any drawers to look for one – he was concerned that Mrs Major would suddenly appear and he was sure her co-operative mood would quickly vanish. Then he spotted some faint writing on the corner of the blotter. Written in blue, in a neat hand, he could just make out:
Meet SH
Victoria Station
6.45 Sunday
by the clock?
He made a mental note, quickly closed the lid and joined the others in the dining room. Weeks was putting his notebook away and rising from his chair. ‘Thank you, Mrs Major,’ he said, ‘you’ve been most helpful.’
Just as they were leaving Russell turned. ‘By the way, when is Miss McDermott due back?’
‘Didn’t I say?’
‘No, you didn’t.’
Mrs Major pulled back the cuff of her pale pink cardigan, revealing a small, octagonal gold wristwatch. ‘Any time now.’
Russell started. ‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. She never goes away for long.’
‘We’ll say goodbye then.’
Russell was just walking along the hall wondering what to do when the front door swung open and there stood Helen McDermott. It was difficult to say who was the most surprised. They stood in silence for several seconds then Helen spoke. ‘Sonny! What on earth are you doing here – in my house?’
Russell actually blushed, then stammered, ‘Er, Mrs Major let us in.’
‘Yes, but why are you here?’
Weeks peered round his boss and took the initiative. ‘It’s just routine, Miss McDermott. We’re following up enquiries.’
‘Enquiries into what?’
Russell regained his composure. ‘There was an unpleasant accident at the Buddhist retreat you attended. A man was seriously injured. We’d like to know if you can help in any way.’
Helen looked baffled. ‘Really? What happened?’
‘Perhaps we’d better go and sit down,’ Russell said, holding his arm out to her. They made their way back along the hall. As they again entered the dining room he realised that the neighbour was still with them. He turned to her. ‘Thank you for your help Mrs Major, you can leave us now’. The woman sniffed; her pursed lips made her look as if she had sucked a lemon. Turning on her heel she left without a word.
They sat round the table and Weeks opened his notebook. He started the questioning. ‘We understand you left the retreat early. Why was that?’
‘I wanted to get home – to my cat.’ She peered round, a concerned look on her face. ‘Where is Cleo?’
She was just rising from her chair when Russell put his hand on her arm. ‘Don’t worry, your neighbour shut her in the kitchen. She’ll be fine.’ Helen relaxed. ‘You left with another person from the retreat, Laurie Baker. I presume he’s a friend of your?’
‘What? No, he’s not.’
‘Then why did you go with him?’
‘Why, oh, he heard me enquiring about a taxi to the station and offered me a lift, that’s all.’
‘And what about the injured man – Elsdale?
‘Who?’ Her face was blank.
‘Dave Elsdale. He wasn’t part of the retreat. He turned up on the Saturday morning.’
Helen’s expression turned to one of uncertainty, then recognition dawned. ‘Oh him. I saw him briefly – in the dining room. What happened to him?’
‘He sustained a nasty injury.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh! What happened?’
‘I’m sorry. I can’t go into details.’
‘Is he all right?’ The hand had come down and there was a look of genuine concern on her face. Russell was struggling to keep his composure.
Weeks spoke. ‘He’s off the critical list but is still gravely ill.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But I don’t know how I can help you.’ She held her hands out, palms uppermost.
Russell couldn’t understand the effect this woman was having on him but with an effort he managed to keep a grip on his feelings. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Miss McDermott,’ he said formally. ‘That will be all for now but we may need to talk to you again.’
She smiled. ‘That’s fine. Any time.’
The two policemen got up from their chairs and as she was showing them out of the house she turned to the younger man and said: ‘By the way, we haven’t been introduced.’
‘It’s Detective Constable Weeks, Ma’m,’ and he held out his warrant card.
She peered at it and noted the initial ‘J’.
-0-
As soon as the policemen had gone Helen turned the key in the lock on the front door and started pacing the small hallway. She was furious with Mrs Major for letting them in. She had no right to do so. But… she didn’t want to upset the woman as she was useful when she had to go away. But what was more troubling was the younger policeman, Weeks. Something didn’t feel right. Something about him was nagging at the back of her mind. As she paced an idea came to her.
She had felt a little uneasy when Tommy had told her he’d found a getaway driver; but no one knew him or had come across him before. Tommy had assured her that he was kosher. She remembered that he had told her about the man embezzling money from the family firm. She had a friend who worked in the Stock Exchange who might be able to help. Now what was the name of the firm? She stopped pacing and leant against the wall, thinking hard. Hardcastle? Holborn? Headingly? What was it? She resumed pacing, thinking back to the conversation she’d had with Atkins a few days earlier, before he’d gone off to the hide-out. Then it came to her. Holloway! That was it, Holloway and Son. She pulled open a drawer under the table and took out a small address book. Flicking through it she found the entry she was after. She put the book down on the table and smoothed the pages flat. Picking up the receiver she dialled a London number. The call was answered on the third ring. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘can you put me through to Dennis Smart?’ She waited a few moments until he picked up. ‘Hello Dennis. How are you?’ After the pleasantries were over she asked about Holloway and Son and the supposed embezzlement. He said he’d look into it and would ring her back. After thanking him she was unable to relax so opened the door into the kitchen so she could make some tea. Thoughts of the Siamese cat had gone out of her head and she almost tripped over her.
‘Oh Cleo!’ she cried. ‘I’m so sorry, I’d clean forgotten all about you. Let me get you some cream.’
-0-
They bumped back along the cobbles, the interior of the car too noisy to make conversation easy, so Russell didn’t speak until they reached the smooth metalled surface of the main road and the atmosphere quietened. However, he used the time to meditate on what they had learned. He was still struggling to admit that Helen wasn’t what she had at first appeared and part of him didn�
�t want to believe it. But, he thought, sighing inwardly, he needed to put emotion aside and let the policeman in him come to the fore.
‘What do you think, Sir?’ There was no response. ‘Sir? Are you all right?’
He realised that Weeks was speaking to him. ‘Sorry! What did you say? I was miles away.’
‘I said, what are your thoughts about this meeting at Victoria station? And who is SH, do you think?’
They were now on the road back to Collinghurst. ‘I’ve no idea. But there is something that did occur to me…’
‘What’s that, Sir?’
Aren’t you supposed to be in the Queen’s, waiting for a call from Atkins at seven on Sunday?’
‘That’s right.’
‘That’s just after this meeting with SH.’
‘True.’
‘What if the two things are connected?’
Weeks concentrated on the road for a while then spoke. ‘Do you think Miss McDermott – Helen – is involved somehow?’
Russell sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’
‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Sir?’ Weeks could be surprisingly insightful. Normally Russell welcomed this ability but he found it rankled in this case.
‘Certainly not!’ he said more sharply than he’d intended. ‘No, of course not,’ he said, in a gentler tone, ‘it’s just that I’m struggling to see how she can be involved. She seemed so… nice.’
‘Appearances can be deceptive, Sir.’ Again, that insight.
The sigh this time was more heartfelt. ‘Yes, of course you’re right. Anyway, let’s suppose this meeting in London has some bearing on Atkins’s plan. What should we do about it?’
‘I can’t go. I need to be in the pub, near the telephone.’
‘And it’ll be difficult if I go. After all, she knows what I look like.’
‘But what’s the alternative? Send Bonnie or Clyde?’
Blood on the Shrine Page 11
