Miss Pink Investigates series Box Set Part Two

by Gwen Moffat

  ‘How devious of you.’

  Doreen preened herself. ‘I must admit that when I went up there after lunch I was hell-bent on a flaming row and when I saw young Jakey washing her car, I almost turned back, I was so furious. After all, Jakey’s only fourteen. But I had to see how things were going, so I decided to play it off the cuff. Then, when she’d given me a drink and they’d started on the fur coat bit, and I watched their eyes, I realised that all I had to do was to play along with her. Give her enough rope and she’ll hang herself. If she comes down here and talks the same way, no one’s going to touch her with a barge-pole, but no one.’

  ‘Very shrewd,’ Miss Pink murmured. ‘What was Jakey Jones doing there?’

  Doreen was too preoccupied to ask her how she’d come to meet Jakey. ‘He’s by way of being her odd-job boy—what an unhealthy sound that’s got in the circumstances! Cuts the grass and so on. Not that I’m worried about Jakey; I doubt if even she can corrupt him any more. He’s beyond parental control; most of the petty theft and vandalism in Abersaint can be traced back to Jakey or Oswald Hughes. Myfanwy Hughes has been most unfortunate. I don’t know whether it’s worse not to know who your father is, like Ossie, or to have one who thinks he’s the Lord’s Anointed, like Caradoc Jones. So—’ she finished evilly, ‘—Jakey has gravitated naturally to the mill cottage. I understand there’s a strong link between prostitution and crime; something to do with social outcasts?’

  ‘No doubt. Someone said last night that Samuel was a frequent visitor at the mill cottage.’

  ‘Did they? He has curious tastes. He wasn’t there this afternoon.’

  ‘What does he do?’

  Doreen looked at the sun on the water. ‘I think you should ask him.’ There was no hostility in her tone. Miss Pink tried another line.

  ‘What’s Rachel got against Sandra?’

  ‘What has anyone?’ After a pause she qualified this. ‘She’s jealous of Samuel going up there; he’s an old family friend. And she’s highly strung. She’s—on—tranquillisers, at the moment. You have to understand that the nuclear power business took an awful lot out of us, out of Rachel most particularly.’ The sentences were jerked out of her as if she were retreating, step by step, through defences. Her distaste for the subject was in sharp contrast to her acid volubility in respect of her visit to the mill cottage, and with the arrival of the main course she started to talk about gourmet dishes and stubbornly resisted all attempts on Miss Pink’s part to revert to personalities.

  They separated after dinner and Miss Pink was sitting over a quiet brandy in the bar when someone said jovially: ‘Will you have another of those, Miss Pink?’ It was the large reporter whom she’d met at the cottage.

  He saw her effort at recall. ‘Waterhouse was the name. Allow me to buy you a brandy.’

  She didn’t protest. He wanted to talk, and the mechanics of this situation were intriguing. He returned with whisky and brandy.

  ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Your very good health.’

  He sighed comfortably, settled his chins and peered at her. ‘I’m too fat for this heat.’ She looked sympathetic. He went on, with studied carelessness: ‘They’d have been picking your brains this morning: how to handle the publicity angle. I know who you are, you see; checked up. Gothics, isn’t it? My wife reads ’em. You must find this business interesting—not to put too fine a point on it. Come up with any advice?’

  ‘To contact their agent.’ She was equable.

  ‘Only thing you could say, wasn’t it? He’s still missing though.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s abroad—or in transit.’

  He nodded. ‘In transit, abroad. He’ll be back when the story breaks. Someone’s double-crossed him.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘Obvious. No, not obvious, but highly likely. Look: the leak didn’t originate with him because he’d have warned them. Besides, the timing’s wrong; she wasn’t meant to be run to earth at this point. They weren’t ready for us. So someone other than the agent tipped off the Press; someone trying to throw a spanner in the works.’

  ‘What could be the motive for that?’

  He raised massive shoulders. ‘Who knows?’

  ‘What form did the leak take?’

  ‘Telephone call last night: at half twelve. No chance of tracing it, of course. It was received at our Fleet Street office and the chap who took it can’t say whether the caller was a man or a woman. The message was that there was a t— a lady calling herself Sandra Maitland, professional name Cynthia Gale, writing a book that would make headlines, that she had a flat in Westminster but was living down here under this assumed name.’

  ‘Did you tell Sandra this?’

  ‘No.’ He shot her a glance. ‘She might not have said so much if she’d known it wasn’t her agent made the call.’

  Miss Pink said at length. ‘I don’t see what they stand to gain.’

  ‘Who? Sandra?’

  ‘No. This person who rang your office. Could it be revenge: to stop her making a lot of money? But she can still make it. The book exists—presumably—and can be sold when she’s finished it. What was the point of that call?’

  ‘You worry too much.’ He hadn’t really been listening. ‘I’m not worried. The story’s coming along nicely; we’re digging. She talked quite a lot this afternoon. She is a call-girl and there is a book, no doubt on that score. My editor had the bright idea of ringing round the publishers and they’ve found one who’s actually seen the first couple of chapters. They turned it down flat. The book exists all right, but it’s too hot to handle.’

  Chapter Seven

  The B. B. C. made no mention of Sandra on the eight o’clock news programme next morning. Miss Pink was not surprised. She was grinding her coffee when Roderick rang and asked her to take him to the mill cottage. He sounded subdued. She nodded sagely at the receiver.

  ‘You’ve lost your tenants.’

  ‘God! Who told you?’

  Over-playing it, she thought; dragging the last bit of relish from the situation. She was short with him. ‘Sandra was a liability and you’re well rid of her. If—’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  She spelled it out for him. ‘The village would suffer in the long run with that kind of publicity. One good thing: they’ll have taken the Press away with them. . . . I suppose you want me to see in what kind of state they’ve left the place: check the contents against the inventory, is that it?’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. She was about to ask if he were still there when he said ominously: ‘I want you to meet me on the Riffli track and take me up to the mill.’

  She sighed. She had been looking forward to a full day on the headland. ‘Why me, Roderick? Can’t one of the family take you? I have no authority if they’ve walked off with articles, you know; it would be a police job.’

  ‘No, Mel, this is not about stolen articles. It’s rather worse than that, d’you see. The place burned down in the night.’

  She gaped at the telephone. ‘What place?’

  ‘The mill cottage.’

  ‘I don’t—’ She checked. After a moment she asked: ‘Was someone—injured?’

  ‘There’s some doubt on that score. I’ll start walking now; you come up the track and meet me.’

  She met him in Riffli’s woods: a gnome-like figure in climbing breeches, walking with the help of a stick. She backed the Austin among the bluebells and turned. He got in beside her, his face stiff.

  ‘Did they get out?’ she asked, before he’d settled himself.

  ‘Keep going; I don’t want the others to know where I’ve gone.’ She threw a quizzical glance at him but engaged gear. ‘They’re too young,’ he said lamely, then with more spirit: ‘Rachel is.’

  ‘They were—are—in the cottage?’

  ‘There’s no car outside the place.’

  ‘In that case, they’ve gone: nipped away in the night to dodge the reporters. Th
at’s obvious.’ Her words seemed to echo in the ensuing silence.

  He stared through the windscreen as they descended to the village, crossed the bridge and turned up the main valley. After a few hundred yards, when they were in the trees, he said: ‘Turn right in a moment.’

  She did so and found herself on an unsurfaced track. Still he said nothing. She didn’t like that.

  ‘Who discovered the fire?’

  He stirred. ‘Some television people. Came up here about nine o’clock this morning. She made the appointment with them last night.’

  ‘What did they have to say?’

  ‘Don’t know, in detail. They told the police there’d been a fire; the police rang me. They say the chap who reported it on the phone sounded odd. Shocked.’

  The track dipped to the bridge but the cottage was screened by foliage bowed above the car. Then the gradient levelled and there was the green glade, the white walls, but less white now, and bare rafters like a charred rib cage. Wisps of smoke rose from the interior into a translucent sky. Only the trellised chimneys were untouched.

  They crossed the turf to the place where the door had been. The sun was blasting down on the glade but Miss Pink felt cold. She remembered her companion’s age.

  ‘We’ll wait for the police,’ she said firmly. He took no notice.

  They stood in the doorway. The stairs had collapsed, and the bedroom floors. In the desolation lay two sets of bedsprings, the metal discernible among fallen slates. That on the left was narrow but the other was the remains of a double bed. There was something more than slates on this.

  Miss Pink said carefully: ‘It’s impossible to tell.’

  ‘We have to face it, Mel.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She forced her brain to concentrate but still she stared for some time before she continued, with the same careful enunciation which was not so much the result of a thought process as an interpretation of images: ‘Yes, that has some relation to a human shape . . . and that might be a hand. But what else would you expect to find on a bed?’

  She touched his arm. Tacitly they turned and stepped out into the sunlight. She removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes which were smarting from the smoke. They walked to the bridge and sat on the parapet listening to the water. A pied wagtail flirted on the bank.

  ‘Which one is it?’ he asked.

  They looked at each other.

  ‘The Spitfire’s gone,’ she said.

  ‘What does it mean, Mel?’

  A police car came down the track and stopped on the bridge. They regarded the occupants without interest. Another car, unmarked, crept up behind.

  ‘Morning, Mr Bowen.’ The sergeant in the first car was alert and cheery; he would have seen a lot of shock. ‘You’ve been inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there someone—?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  The man nodded. ‘These chaps said as much.’ He indicated the second car. Miss Pink realised that this was the television team. ‘A bad business,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’ll park the car.’

  The men in the second car stared blankly ahead as they passed. They looked frightened.

  The two policemen walked across the turf to the cottage. The birds in the woods seemed very loud. The watchers stood immobile. No one spoke.

  After a while the police emerged from the singed doorway and the constable went quickly round the gable-end. Someone sighed heavily. Miss Pink yawned. The sergeant looked at the trees and eased his collar. He wiped his hands with his handkerchief and kept on wiping them as he approached. The television men took a step nearer. The sergeant halted and stared at Roderick with shocked eyes.

  ‘Not as bad as it looks,’ the old man said easily. ‘Asphyxiation first; remember yer First Aid. Unconscious by the time the fire gets to them.’

  ‘You think so?’ It could have been a child speaking.

  ‘Yer see a lot worse in motor accidents. It’s all over; got to get on with the formalities.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Me daughter-in-law will have her address. Name was Sandra Maitland. Don’t know the age.’ He paused.

  Miss Pink turned away. Poor fellow; despite Roderick’s assurance, motor accidents were no kind of preparation for what lay on that bedspring—unless they involved burned-out vehicles.

  She drove Roderick back to the village. Alone in the car, he repeated his question. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘I haven’t had a chance to think.’

  ‘First impressions then.’

  She slowed for a string of dry potholes. ‘A lot of people die in bed: smoking, drinking. She drank brandy; that’s highly inflammable.’

  ‘Where’s Thorne?’

  ‘And the Spitfire. The first impression is that he took it.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ After a while he asked: ‘Why?’

  ‘Either he escaped from the fire,’ she said slowly, ‘or he wasn’t there when it started. He came back to find the place burning, couldn’t save her, and he drove away. . . . He couldn’t face a police investigation—because of his background. He may have a record.’

  ‘That seems a likely explanation.’

  ‘I can’t think of any other.’

  This was untrue. Her mind refused to contemplate any other.

  *

  ‘How do you know Thorne escaped? There could be a second body under the debris.’

  They were in the Bowens’ sitting room on the first floor of the hotel. The younger Bowens had listened to the account of the disaster with mounting horror and then Doreen put the question about Thorne.

  ‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Rupert told her with distaste. ‘They’ll send forensic people down.’

  ‘But if there are two bodies,’ she insisted, ‘who took the Spitfire?’

  Roderick, looking lost in the middle of a huge settee, glanced at Miss Pink. ‘What’s Ted Roberts’ number?’

  ‘He’s in the Pyrenees,’ she reminded him. ‘He won’t be back until next week.’

  ‘You think we need him?’ Rupert was doubtful. ‘What’s wrong with your own man?’

  ‘No!’ It was wrenched out of Doreen. She put her fingers to her lips, then asked coldly: ‘What on earth do we want with a solicitor?’

  No one answered her. On the leads outside the window a gull cleared its throat and gave a tentative scream. The sound of the holiday makers rose to them, and the long wash of the sea.

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ Doreen said without expression. ‘We’ll need some sustenance if the police are on the way.’ She looked towards Miss Pink but not at her and her eyes were stark with horror. When she’d gone, Rupert brought brandy and glasses from a corner cupboard, apologising for not thinking of it before. He started to talk desultorily about insurance and the question of rebuilding the cottage while Roderick studied his knees and Miss Pink’s gaze ranged the room, attracted by colour but not really absorbing it. The settee and armchairs were in white leather, the carpet was beige; there was blue glassware on perspex shelves. It was a light modern room without much character and would have been most impracticable with open fires. She winced at the thought.

  Doreen returned with the coffee. Rupert, about to close the door behind her, stopped short at the appearance of the angular receptionist.

  ‘There’s two gentlemen, Mr Bowen—’

  A voice Miss Pink recognised greeted Rupert with a genial ‘Good morning, Mr Bowen!’ and Detective Superintendent Pryce walked into the room with the solid assurance of a man whose job gave him the right to be there without invitation. He was followed by Sergeant Williams. She’d met them when they’d investigated the murders at her own adventure centre.[1]

  Roderick knew Pryce and, without rising, he barked introductions from the settee.

  ‘We’ve met Miss Pink,’ Pryce said, shaking her hand. ‘They told me you were here, ma’am. Tragedies follow you around, don’t they?’ He smiled deprecatingly. ‘I see Mr Roberts occasionally; seem
s you’ve had your fill of criminals lately, one way and another. Now, what have we here?’

  He sat down, accepted a cup of coffee and regarded them cordially. Williams seated himself at the table. His hand moved to his pocket and came away empty. His lined face grew more lugubrious as he tried to make his own decision regarding the taking of notes. Pryce ignored him.

  The superintendent was a florid rubbery man, balding and with a paunch. Neither looked healthy, nor even very effectual but a closer study of Pryce revealed that his eyes were not in the least jolly despite the fruity voice, the expansive manner. He was observing Roderick.

  ‘A nasty shock for you, sir. They told me you were up there. With Miss Pink.’

  The old man stirred. ‘Friend of the family,’ he mumbled.

  ‘I’m on holiday,’ she contributed. ‘I’ve taken a cottage in the village.’ Why did she have to justify herself? Because everyone felt a measure of guilt in the presence of the police?

  ‘Why C.I.D.?’ Roderick asked, his head on one side like a chaffinch.

  ‘Sir? What did you expect?’

  ‘But it was an accident!’ Rupert exclaimed.

  ‘Faulty wiring?’

  ‘The place was all re-wired last winter,’ Roderick said flatly.

  ‘Not faulty wiring then.’ They stared at Pryce, fascinated. Miss Pink had the feeling of being caught up in pre-ordained events. She didn’t realise that she was still shocked. ‘We were interested in your tenants before we heard about the fire,’ Pryce was saying. ‘You’d expect that, wouldn’t you?’ He beamed at them and Doreen nodded quickly. ‘You’ve seen the papers, of course.’ The tone was conversational. Rupert said yes, they’d seen the papers but Miss Pink and Roderick shook their heads; they hadn’t had time. ‘So,’ Pryce continued, ‘I found that very interesting indeed, particularly as it’s on my patch. A call-girl writing her memoirs, involving prominent men—’ he looked shocked, ‘—a bit off-centre, that. I was on the phone to The Sketch when news came in about the fire, not to speak of some question that there might be a body in the cottage. I thought it was worth a trip down here.’ He looked at them blandly. ‘And when we get here, we find one person missing—and the car.’ There was a pause. ‘The book’s gone too,’ he added.