by Amy Myers
‘He was willing to invest in the hotel as well as the club?’
‘Only to persuade Patrick to pull out of it, in order to give Matt Jones a free hand. If he could achieve that, Richard felt he could then safeguard his investment in the aviation club by getting Patrick to concentrate on the one project. The other two, John Standing and Vincent Blake, felt the same. Alas it was not to be, and Richard lost quite heavily over the club.’
‘So none of the three would have had reason to kill Patrick, in fact rather the contrary?’
‘Indeed. The club was in so much debt that only Patrick with his charm and contacts could have pulled it round, provided he accepted the necessary financial discipline. The hotel was not in the same position. There he was a liability.’
‘I understand that Patrick was not the most faithful of husbands,’ Georgia began tentatively.
‘I imagine not. Richard kept a strict silence before me on such matters, much as I know he enjoyed them with his friends. “Honour among gentlemen” I believe it’s called.’ Sylvia laughed. ‘Being on the stage with its constant beady eye on such matters, that highly amused me. He did mention that Patrick had had an affair with somebody, which was causing trouble. He wouldn’t say who – and,’ Sylvia smiled, ‘I can see you already know about it. Just as you found out about my having been his girlfriend for at least two weeks.’
‘I absolve you of coming back thirty-five years later to take your revenge,’ Georgia laughed.
‘Elephants and women have long memories, Georgia. But you’re right to exclude me. I only went to the aviation club once or twice when Richard asked me to attend open days. I opened an aeroplane, if that’s the term. I wasn’t keen on posing on the wings as the semi-naked young ladies do on car bonnets, but I am extremely good at opening shows, cutting ribbons and signing my name. That’s how Richard and I first met in fact. He was a great autograph collector. He asked me for mine after a show, so I always sign everything handed to me now, in memory of that day. Save for blank cheques,’ she added gravely.
Georgia laughed. ‘On that I’ll leave you.’ She rose to her feet and Helen appeared as if by magic to show her out. ‘Do you live upstairs?’ she asked. ‘Do you have a Wallace and Grommit contraption to shoot you downstairs instantaneously?’
Helen laughed. ‘No such fun. I’ve been in the kitchen.’
‘Mary Fairfax, Patrick’s daughter, told me rather wryly about her brother leaving the work of caring for her mother to her, so I thought you and your sister might both be installed here,’ Georgia explained.
‘Not quite the same set-up. My mother hasn’t done quite so well. I live in Buckingham, my twin emigrated to Australia and my brother Harvey and his wife Anne only live here part of the time. Fortunately my mother has a series of devoted slaves who daily press unneeded attentions on her.’
‘I can see why they’re devoted,’ Georgia said sincerely.
‘Yes. We all are,’ Helen said simply.
Georgia left the house for the tube station, glad she had at last spoken to Sylvia Lee, even if the meeting had pinpointed her as witness only, which was all Peter had claimed to want. It was odd, however, that if she had so little to say about Patrick, she should have been so instantly willing to see her. Probably for no reason – she must be used to making herself available to the world and his wife. Nevertheless, she should not forget that, genuine though that charm was, Sylvia Lee was an actress. Had there been more to discover beneath that charm? For instance, wasn’t it odd that her first comment when told of Jack’s death was: Why?
She glanced at the platform indicator. Upminster train, one minute. That would take her to Embankment to change for Charing Cross main line station. The rush-hour crowds were gathering now, and used though she was to it, she had a sudden feeling of claustrophobic panic as people gathered around her, all peering forward to see if the train was approaching. One push from behind and – the perfect murder. It had happened in fiction, as it had happened no doubt in real life. Train approaching, people pressing harder now. She couldn’t move. Yes she could – and must. She turned, just as the train approached, fighting her way to the rear of the crowd, oblivious to angry murmurs of disgust. She was breathing heavily, sweat running down her face, legs trembling as she ran to squeeze into the next carriage. No way was she getting in the first one. As she leapt through the door, she glanced over at the crowd pushing into the adjoining carriage, anonymous-looking raincoats, hooded anoraks, young, old, teenagers, men and women. One of them – had she imagined it? – had had a hand placed ready at her back.
Chapter Nine
They used to be called the dog days. The weeks in July and early August during which the Dog Star rose, dogs went mad, and the days were so hot that the mind was becalmed like a sailing ship on a flat sea. That didn’t seem to happen too much nowadays, but today was the exception. Which way to go and did it matter? Georgia restlessly tried to force herself into mowing her tiny patch of lawn. Too much effort. She’d do it later. Weed? It was well into July, they could grow a bit longer. Dead-head the roses? Now there was a job for a would-be Miss Marple – perhaps later. It wasn’t that she herself felt flat, but the case most certainly did. The spur that meeting Sylvia Lee had brought with it had evaporated into the wake of Jack’s murder. Even her chilling experience at the tube station had receded in her mind. Ten to one it was only her reaction to a somewhat emotional encounter.
Today everything seemed to be waiting. Peter was still waiting for news on the phone number of Alan Purcell, and Luke was still waiting to hear whether his revised offer on the house would be accepted. It was the holiday season, so the agent had said apologetically. Well, good luck to those who could go on holiday. She and Luke hoped to squeeze in a few days after the fate of the house was known, so that too was in limbo. Meanwhile Marsh & Daughter were waiting for something to take them forward. Every time she stared at her notes, each avenue seemed blocked. And yet she sensed the way through lay there somewhere. Overgrown it might be, but the yellow brick road that would lead them to their own particular Land of Oz must exist somewhere. All they had to decide was where it lay.
She had a nasty feeling that Peter shared her frustration. It was a tell-tale sign that for some days now Suspects Anonymous hadn’t been on the screen, and Peter was involved in reading something that had nothing to do with the case. When she had asked what it was, he had merely replied, ‘The Mammoth Book of King Arthur, darling. Edited by Mike Ashley, published by Robinson. Anything else you’d like to know? The ISBN perhaps?’
She had been silenced except to mutter that this had little relevance to Hell’s Corner in 1940, 1975 or even today. He had agreed, and the discussion ended.
Yesterday had proved the last straw in her becalming. She and Peter had gone to Sevenoaks to meet Jack Hardcastle’s guru. He was no Charlie Bone. Michael Hastings looked as though he would be more at home in the Bodleian Library than enmeshed in the web of computers that surrounded him in his ground-floor office in a rambling Victorian house. In his fifties, with a high forehead and forbidding look, he could well have been a retired academic – but then academics never retired. They were like old soldiers, and just faded away. They didn’t turn to computers, save as a tool for advancing their pet theories.
Michael had proved friendly enough, and they had spent some time talking about Jack and his death, before explaining their own role.
‘Jack told me,’ he had said at last, when they had finished. ‘Are you getting anywhere?’
‘Yes and no,’ Peter blithely stonewalled.
Michael had seemed to be brooding on this equivocal reply as though Pythagoras had just put forward a new theorem. ‘Do you believe there’s a link between Jack’s death and what you’re investigating?’ he said at last.
No brooding for Peter. ‘There’s nothing to support it except the fact that we’d seen him recently and that although he claimed he wanted nothing to do with the new biography of Patrick Fairfax, we now know he was involved
in a new project with one of the 362 Squadron pilots. It was one in which his earlier material about the squadron would be relevant.’
Georgia had watched Michael Hastings carefully as he thought this over too. A chess player perhaps, or was he just cautious?
At last he spoke. ‘You said on the phone that you thought Jack might have left back-up files with me. Had they been wiped from his computer?’
‘We don’t know. The main computer is in police hands,’ Peter had answered, and had then explained their problem over Purcell’s address. ‘Jack must have kept the real address and phone number somewhere. I hope with you.’
‘Why me? He could have jotted it in a notebook, memorized it even.’
‘That’s true, but he was obviously a computer-conscious worker. I should warn you though that if anyone else asks you for this information it might just be Jack’s murderer.’
Michael Hastings wasn’t easily shaken. Again he took his time in answering. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Jack was worried about something. I don’t know what, but he was edgy the last time I saw him. That does suggest it might be work-related. So if it helps . . .’ He pulled open a drawer, which Georgia could see was full of floppy disks. ‘Jack still used floppies, as do a lot of my clients. I keep back-up files for them all, and here are Jack’s.’ He showed them a batch of about thirty floppies. ‘Where do you want to start?’
Georgia had looked at them. Even then she had had a terrible feeling that this was going nowhere. Still, they had had to do it. Hastings had slotted the disks into his machine, and they watched in silence while he studied the contents list of each one. When it came to the now familiar files on 362 Squadron, they opened up each pilot’s document, each of which looked depressingly familiar. Even Alan Purcell’s. There it was: Ste Marie de Faux. The same old false avenue.
‘Do you mind if we open them all up to see the actual texts?’ she asked Michael in desperation. ‘It’s possible Jack might have slipped something into these back-up disks that he didn’t want on his home computers.’
‘Go ahead. I’ll leave you to it.’ Michael allotted them a computer on another desk, but two hours later they had come up with nothing. ‘These are the only files he’s left with me, I’m afraid.’ Michael seemed genuinely regretful.
‘Thanks anyway,’ Peter said, and Georgia added her own, even though she was fuming at the waste of time and lack of progress.
‘I liked Jack Hardcastle,’ Michael had said unexpectedly as they left. ‘Keep in touch, will you? If there’s any chance his death was connected to this case you’re looking into, let me know. I’ll ring if anything occurs to me.’ He fidgeted as he politely watched Peter manoeuvring himself into the car, and Georgia noticed that he was still watching as they drove off.
And that had been that. The chances of anything at all occurring now seemed to be zilch. Georgia could hear the internal phone ringing on her office desk and, glad even of that distraction, she abandoned the garden and went inside to answer it. After all, it might be good news.
It wasn’t.
‘Jacob can’t find any trace of an Alan Purcell.’ Peter’s voice betrayed that he was feeling as glum as she was. So that was that. The online French telephone index needed an address for a search, and so they had rung Peter’s old friend to check the French Minitel computer terminal system, which wasn’t so picky about its prior requirements for searches.
‘So what’s next?’ she asked Peter.
‘I’m going back to King Arthur.’
She put the phone down, and wandered back into the garden. Almost immediately the landline rang. Probably a phone call from Luke to say the house deal had fallen through. She picked up the receiver.
‘Don’t tell me. It’s all off,’ she said.
A surprised silence greeted her. Then: ‘DI Pullman here, Kent Police Darenth Area. Are you around if I come over?’
She laughed at herself and apologized. ‘Of course. Is it about Jack or Patrick Fairfax?’
A pause. ‘Hardcastle and Fairfax.’
*
‘Well, at least something’s happening,’ she said brightly to Peter, having deflected him from King Arthur with some difficulty.
‘I doubt it,’ he grumbled. ‘He isn’t coming to help us, only I suspect to clear Patrick Fairfax from the frame. It’ll be sticky going.’
‘Then I’ll get some strawberry tarts for tea from the butchers.’ Pat Mulworthy, the Haden Shaw butcher’s wife, did a good sideline in savoury pasties, but had recently added a summer specialty of cream and fruit tarts to her repertoire. ‘No one can be sticky going while struggling with one of them. It puts us in control.’
‘Very funny.’ Peter wasn’t amused. ‘Just be sure Pullman isn’t coming to put you in the frame.’
Pullman was definitely the ‘spies everywhere’ sort of policeman, Georgia thought as he arrived. Watchful, suspicious, and dour. He was dubious about sitting in the garden, but since Peter’s office was hot this afternoon, he was persuaded.
‘You don’t have neighbours who’d want to sell the story to the press, do you?’ he asked suspiciously as he dubiously took a garden chair.
‘Only me,’ Georgia said blithely. ‘There’s a lane the other side. The village chat machine might be lined up, ears pressed to the wall, but I doubt it. Anyway Haden Shaw’s idea of gossip is whether the village shop will close down. And at the end of this garden there are only sheep.’
‘Long may that continue,’ Peter said. ‘Have a strawberry tart.’ He proffered the plate to Pullman.
‘Not for me, thanks,’ Pullman said. Obviously he intended to remain in control. ‘I’ll wait. Business first.’ Signs of humanity at least, she thought hopefully.
‘We’re following up this Fairfax line of yours,’ he began. ‘I’ve read the files from Downs Area, and Mr Manners and I have talked.’
‘What persuaded you?’ Peter munched happily. ‘All other lines closed?’
He received a cross between a glare and a reproving look. ‘PC Diver told us about those files you copied, Miss Marsh, so we compared the laptop with the computer files. The files about Patrick Fairfax had vanished from the main computer, but it could have been Jack who deleted them, of course.’
‘Why should he, and if he did then why not the laptop too?’ Peter asked.
‘Perhaps he hadn’t got round to it,’ Georgia suggested, playing devil’s advocate.
‘Fair enough,’ Pullman conceded. ‘It’s worth looking into though. The timing could just be coincidence, but if not there’s a link with Fairfax’s death. Which leads to the possibility at least that Jack Hardcastle had evidence pointing towards who killed Fairfax.’
‘True.’ Peter poured more tea.
‘Which means that whoever killed him was probably present at that hotel in 1975, and probably guilty of Hardcastle’s murder.’
‘A lot of probablys there,’ Peter observed.
‘You think I’m building up from thesis to facts rather than the other way round, do you?’ Another glare.
‘There’s always a risk of that with cold cases in my experience.’
‘Not with me. You can be sure of that,’ Pullman said drily. ‘I’ve read those files on the laptop.’ A grudging nod towards Georgia. ‘I can’t see they’re relevant to Fairfax’s death, save one perhaps.’
‘We agree,’ Georgia said frankly. ‘Loads of information, but not leading anywhere – yet, at least. Which did you think relevant?’
‘Easy. Those pilots are all in their dotage now; I don’t see any of them dotting a healthy younger man like Hardcastle on the head. But the file on the Wormshill Aviation Club had also vanished from the main computer. Paul Stock appears on that, and there’s evidence there were words between him and Fairfax on the day of his death, so we had him in for questioning. His statement for 1975 admits he was with Matthew Jones and still in the hotel at the time of Fairfax’s death. We checked the forensic evidence, though, and there was no residue on Stock’s hands, and the footprints didn
’t match, so despite the fact that there was trouble of some sort between him and Fairfax, there was nothing to hold him on.’
Peter glanced at Georgia, and she nodded. ‘There were two stories about that row,’ Peter said. ‘One that they’d fallen out over the finances of the club, because he’d been fiddling the books, and two, that they had a row over Paul Stock’s former wife, Janet Freeman. We believe the second.’
‘Who did you hear that from? Nothing in the statements about it that I recall.’
‘Various sources,’ Peter replied. ‘It wasn’t in the statements because even if they knew about it, gentlemen didn’t prattle about fights over mere women.’
Pullman frowned. ‘Janet Freeman? She made a statement too. I remember the name. Nothing about this. What was the fight about?’
‘Probably because she was having an affair with Fairfax and intending to spend the weekend at the hotel with him.’
Pullman looked interested. ‘Lovers’ tiff? That could put her in the frame, as well as Stock.’
‘For killing Jack?’ Georgia reminded them.
‘Depends. If Hardcastle knew that together or separately they were mixed up with killing Fairfax, why not? Fairfax was married, so it could be she thought him more serious than he was. Happened before.’
‘She told me serious is what she didn’t want at that time,’ Georgia put in.
‘She would, wouldn’t she?’ Pullman said stiffly. ‘I’ll check where she was when Hardcastle was killed.’
‘Any idea yet what the blunt instrument was?’ Peter asked.
‘Mrs Hardcastle has realized there’s a bronze sculpture of a Hurricane missing. If this Janet Freeman is a strong woman, she’s not out of the wood because of her sex.’ He said that with some satisfaction, Georgia sensed.
‘Nor perhaps should the pilots be because of their age. Besides, they all have family and carers,’ Peter pointed out. ‘Someone could be acting on their behalf.’
