‘I've heard from my friend, in the morgue, that the police have come unstuck with their suspect, Mrs Brigstock's nephew. He's been crossed off the list.’
‘It wasn't murder then?’
‘Oh, it was murder all right, suffocation. But he didn't do it.’
‘Come on,’ I said when he paused, ‘what's the punch line?’
Hubert smiled; he liked making me wait for bits of information. ‘He couldn't have done it because … he was in a Glasgow prison doing time for burglary.’
‘Oh,’ I said. I was only slightly surprised. Even so, my stomach had lurched downwards and seemed to dance the tango with my uterus. ‘So that means our … man … is definitely a murderer.’
Hubert peered at me, his thin neck pushed forward, his brown eyes glistening like sun on a muddy stagnant pool. I stared back at him.
‘Why are you looking like that?’ he asked.
‘Like what?’
‘You went all pale.’
‘Hubert,’ I said, ‘I think he's after me too.’
His head sprang back as though pulled by invisible elastic. ‘Right, that's it. I'm going to the police. They'll find the bastard—’
‘But will they?’ I interrupted. ‘Vanessa's so-called paranoia hasn't just started. She was in hospital she …’ I paused. The hospital – the psychiatric hospital! Where else would anyone expect to find obsessive psychopaths or social deviants … or potential murderers?
Hubert too caught on. ‘You're not going to any mental hospital on your own, Kate.’
‘Don't be silly,’ I said. ‘I've worked in them.’
‘That doesn't mean much. How many times were you attacked?’ ‘Never,’ I said, and it was true. I'd been very lucky. Anyway the majority of patients bordered on the timid and the more aggressive ones seemed to hurt themselves rather than others. I supposed that in the average mental hospital there were a few capable of murder but probably no more than in the general population of the supposedly sane. And of course the known criminally insane went to maximum-security hospitals.
‘You're not going on your own,’ repeated Hubert.
I didn't answer. I wasn't exactly planning just to visit, I hoped to work there.
Making Hubert a promise that I would keep him informed, he left to organise one of his more flamboyant funerals, what he called a ‘black horse job'. And I rang Vanessa.
‘I'm still here Kate,’ she said. ‘Has something happened?’
‘No, Vanessa, nothing's happened. I tried ringing your sister but there's no reply. I can't go to see her unless I'm sure she's in, can I?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Vanessa. Then she added quietly, ‘Someone followed you, Kate. Did you know?’
So I wasn't imagining it. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but he's gone now.’ I tried to sound casual because I didn't want to say that I felt that he was out there somewhere – watching and waiting. I changed the subject abruptly. ‘Which hospital were you treated in for your depression, Vanessa?’
There was a long pause during which I had to check that she was still there.
‘It was Pinetrees, in Tettering,’ she murmured. ‘Why? Do you think I need to go back in? I won't be a voluntary patient again, Kate, so please don't suggest it. They'll need a strait-jacket if they come for me.’ Her voice lacked both conviction and passion; she was giving up, surrendering to the witch-doctor in her mind.
‘I only wondered,’ I said, ‘because if I found out that Colin Tiffield wasn't responsible or had an alibi, maybe one of their expatients could be our Mr X.’
‘It's a bit of a long shot, Kate.’
‘You're probably right,’ I said, fearing that it was indeed just that. Just before I rang off I asked, ‘Did you get the window fixed, Vanessa?’
‘Frederic is going to do it for me. He's putting up some plywood temporarily.’
‘Good. I'll ring you tomorrow. Perhaps I'll have some news for you.’
‘I hope so, Kate, for both our sakes.’
‘I'll ring then.’
‘Yes, do that. Bye, Kate and thanks.’
And she was gone. The line dead in my hand. My imagination was playing tricks on me, or was it? Her tone of voice had a sort of finality about it. I dismissed the idea as fanciful for what really mattered was that Vanessa was still alive and I had to keep her that way.
Chapter Eleven
The next morning I tried phoning Vanessa's sister again. There was still no answer. I sat for a while and stared out of the window. Bitter March winds were still blowing, chasing grey clouds across the sky, only to be replaced with more grey clouds. It was a good day for a funeral and when I saw the black horses arrive I knew I couldn't resist seeing them leave.
Hubert came up minutes later just to show off. He stood in the doorway in black tail-coat and a top hat with long black shiny ribbons. He smiled self-consciously.
‘Do a twirl for me,’ I said.
Obligingly he turned slowly and as he did so the ribbons drifted slightly as though in some final wave.
‘Very impressive, Hubert. You really look the part. I'm surprised black horse funerals still take place.’
‘There's been a revival,’ said Hubert. ‘For the rich of course.’
‘Of course.’
‘What are you planning to do today?’ asked Hubert.
‘I had planned to go to Derbyshire but there's not much point if her sister isn't there. Why is it life never works out as you plan it?’
‘Nothing's easy,’ he said glumly. ‘It's all sod's law. You'll just have to do something else instead.’
‘I suppose I could see Paul Oakby again. Perhaps I was wrong to have believed anything he said.’
Hubert looked at me sourly. ‘You don't fancy him, do you?’
‘Hubert! I'm surprised at you. I only meant in the line of duty, just for something to do. I like intrepid men, not rough diamonds.’
‘I thought all women liked a bit of rough,’ muttered Hubert as he turned to go.
‘Funerals are your strong point, mein landlord,’ I said, thinking I'd got the last word in.
But he had to have a parting shot. ‘Pity detecting isn't yours,’ he said.
The funeral procession left shortly afterwards which was just as well because it did take my mind off the problem of what to do next.
Hubert walked slowly in front of the four black horses. The carriage with the coffin trundled behind and the numerous mourners, all in black, walked three abreast behind the carriage. The wind whipped at Hubert's ribbons and at the horses' plaited manes, lifting them and dropping them in bursts that seemed to match the steady rhythm of their walk. A drum roll would not have been out of place.
Traffic and pedestrians stopped in Longborough High Street. Two elderly men removed their hats and bowed slightly as the coffin went by. Drivers waiting in their cars drummed on their steering-wheels in irritation, or used their car phones, or simply sat and waited. Eventually the procession moved out of sight and with it went my excuse for sitting doing nothing.
I rang the Derbyshire number again. Still no reply. Then I rang the Berkerly Agency hoping I could work at Pinetrees that night.
I could almost hear Pauline shaking her head. ‘Pinetrees is well staffed, Kate. Being private they always seem to have more than their fair share. I'll do my best, though; just occasionally they need a trained nurse to do some “specialling”.’
‘Well if anything does come up I'd be most grateful. I'll even do domestic work if necessary.’ I sensed she suppressed a laugh as the phone went down.
The morning passed slowly. I debated with myself for some time about ringing Paul Oakby and decided that it wouldn't achieve anything. The person I had to find was Colin Tiffield.
Thankfully at lunchtime Hubert reappeared. I was so pleased to have someone to talk to that I forgave him his crack about my detecting skills. He was wearing his usual black pinstripe and he looked well pleased with himself.
‘That,’ he said, ‘was some funeral. Really
tasteful. The mourners thought it was a lovely send-off.’
‘Who was the lucky recipient?’ I asked. Usually I don't want to know but this funeral had obviously been rather special.
‘The Longborough rag and bone man – Arnie Shorter. Great character. We'll never see his like again. He had two sons, neither following in his footsteps: one's an accountant, the other's an estate agent. Makes you think, doesn't it?’
‘It certainly does, Hubert. I can remember the time when being an estate agent was more respectable than being a rag and bone man.’
A smile flicked across Hubert's mouth as quick as a tic and then he said good-naturedly, ‘Just for that, Kate, you can buy me a pint at the Swan.’
‘Well, I would buy you a pint but it doesn't seem right for me to be out enjoying myself with my only client holed up inside her house expecting a madman to put in an appearance at any moment.’
‘Try not to enjoy it then,’ Hubert responded, and I gave in. The Swan boasted only four customers and a very gloomy landlord. One customer was complaining bitterly about the latest increase in the price of beer and the others agreed.
‘It's not surprising our lads who go abroad are known as lager louts, is it? Can't bloody well afford to drink in this country, can they?’
‘You're right, mate,’ joined in a thick-set man in denims. ‘I think it's a plot, a government plot to stop us going out at all. All us workers are expected to do is work and the poor buggers who've got no work are supposed to stay home watching the box.’
The previous speaker gave a loud ‘Huh!’ and thumped his glass back on the table. ‘If they've got a home. If it hasn't been repossessed by the grasping building societies.’
Hubert ushered me away from the bar at this point.
‘I'll order you chicken and chips,’ he said. Then he added, ‘And a cider.’
I was about to disagree – I would have preferred a brandy – but then I realised that I still had the rest of the day to work and I needed a clear head to decide exactly my plan of action.
The pub landlord himself brought our food over to us. He was still very gloomy. Hubert had chosen home-made steak and kidney pie; it didn't look very home-made to me but I thought the accompanying carrots looked hand-chopped. Why is it, I wondered, that something and chips is never quite so disappointing as other meals. And, as much as chips are vilified in the press, at least no one gets food poisoning from them.
We didn't talk much until we'd almost finished our meal and then Hubert launched into his plans for funeral modernisation and one-upmanship over the Co-op.
‘We could have a catering suite and a florist on site,’ he mused, ‘we could offer a complete package.’
‘I'm sure you're right, Hubert,’ I agreed. ‘You do have to be competitive. It's like my job – if anything happens to Vanessa the whole of Longborough will find out and I'll be hard pressed to attract other clients.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said Hubert. ‘They'd have to put up with you, wouldn't they? You've got no competition at all.’
‘Thanks, Hubert. You fill me with optimism.’ I finished my cider. ‘I'll get you that pint I promised you now,’ I said, standing up and putting my hand out for his glass.
‘Oh no, you don't,’ he said. ‘I don't like to see women getting drinks at the bar.’
He walked off just as my mouth dropped open in surprise. When he came back with the drinks and continued with his funeral updating chat I guessed buying me lunch and drinks made him feel justified in monopolising the conversation.
During a lull as he supped his beer I said, ‘I get the impression, Hubert, you don't want to talk about my one and only client.’
He looked at me steadily for a moment and then glanced towards the bar as though expecting a sudden influx of eavesdroppers.
‘You surprise me at times, Kate. I mean you're a woman of the world and yet it doesn't seem to have crossed your mind, as it did mine at the funeral, that—’
‘That what?’
‘That the most obvious person to have murdered Mrs Brigstock was the person who was supposed to have found the body.’
‘That's ridiculous,’ I snapped. ‘She couldn't possibly … I mean the writing on the mirror … she was in shock …’ I tailed off, trying to think clearly. Hubert didn't reply and after a few moments I said, ‘She's far too nice to murder anyone, especially one of her own patients. And why employ me?’
‘Perhaps she thought you wouldn't come up with anything.’
‘Meaning I'm not a very good investigator. I'm learning all the time and, believe me, if there was a course in detective work I'd take it—’
‘Now then, Kate,’ interrupted Hubert. ‘I didn't mean to upset you. I was only suggesting that perhaps your client is, well … madder than you think.’
I was silent for a moment. Vanessa was worried, slightly depressed and who wouldn't be, but she wasn't mad, of that I was quite sure.
‘How do you explain my being followed?’
‘Followed?’ queried Hubert, his eyebrows raised in surprise.
‘Yes. I told you about it.’
Hubert shook his head. ‘You didn't,’ he said.
‘I'm sure I did,’ I mumbled, half to myself and not sure at all.
‘Did you actually see his face? Could you describe him?’
‘Well, no … but I knew he was there.’
‘How?’
‘Stop it, Hubert, you're confusing me. I know I was being followed. I could feel he was there.’
Hubert held his head questioningly on one side. ‘The power of suggestion can be very strong. Vanessa tells you she is being followed and after a while you begin to look over your shoulder too.’
‘I'm not that susceptible and you've forgotten one thing.’ I paused then for maximum effect. Hubert was trying to undermine my confidence or so I thought. ‘I have heard his voice on the phone. He made threats …’
‘He did what?’ asked Hubert with one of his exasperated ‘Why am I always kept in the dark' frowns. ‘What exactly did he say?’
‘It wasn't really what he said, Hubert, it was the fact he knew who I was and where I lived.’
Hubert wasn't to be fobbed off with that. ‘Come on, Kate. What threats did he make?’
‘Oh, all right, if you must know he said I'd better get a slab ready for myself.’
Hubert's small mouth tightened into pencil-line thinness and he stared into space for a moment. Then he said thoughtfully, ‘She could have paid someone to make that call, you know. To convince you that a man does exist …’
‘A man does exist. She's named him and I shall find him.’
‘As I see it,’ said Hubert slowly, ‘there might well be a man but how do we know he means Vanessa any harm? He's made threats against you. Has he made any threats against her?’
Well had he? I tried hard to remember what Vanessa had said were his exact words. He'd professed love, I remembered that and he'd promised they would be together soon. And he'd said, ‘I'm always watching you.’ Did that mean literally? I wondered. Was he poised somewhere with a pair of binoculars? Across the road perhaps, or at the back. There were alleyways at the back of the houses in Percival Road …
‘Another drink?’ Hubert was saying.
I nodded.
As he went to the bar I imagined the bar as it had been before the recession really took hold. Groups of men holding forth on the economy, on sport, on their plans for expansion. Respectable men, men from offices and banks, men with emotional problems, sexual problems, lonely men … men who might be obsessed with the pretty district nurse they saw often in Longborough. Did they have a penchant for uniform? Or was it just nurses they liked? Or just the one nurse? Or? And then the thought struck me … I had been thinking about men, not man. Men in the plural. Perhaps
Chapter Twelve
On my way back to the office Hubert asked me what my plans were for the afternoon.
‘I'm not sure,’ I answered. ‘Make a list, drink coffee and try th
at Derbyshire number again. Then if I can psych myself up for it I shall pay visits to a couple of Vanessa's ex-boyfriends and finally I shall go round to Percival Road and surveille number thirty-six. Will I be earning my money doing that, Hubert?’
Hubert nodded. ‘I was just thinking,’ he said, ‘if you weren't that busy perhaps you could help me.’
‘Doing what?’ I asked, mildly horrified.
‘Just driving,’ said Hubert. ‘One of the Daimlers. A driver's gone off sick.’
‘No, definitely no,’ I said. ‘Next you'll be asking me to do a bit of pall-bearing dressed as a man.’
Hubert tried not to smile and I realised why he'd been so keen to buy me lunch. He asked me one more time but I was adamant.
‘I'll do it myself then,’ he said.
‘You do that, Hubert.’
He left me at the side entrance muttering, ‘Just you wait till you want some help.’
In my office I made coffee straight away, organised myself with paper and pen and wrote a list of impending jobs. Once I'd done that I felt quite self-righteous. First on the list was ringing my client's sister. There was no reply, but I did have the satisfaction of ticking off number one on my list. Numbers two, three and four were the three men I knew who lived in or around Longborough: Ray Potten, Andrew Norten; and Paul Oakby, I thought, deserved one more meeting.
I made three calls. Andrew Norten's phone went unanswered, Paul Oakby was on patrol and I left a polite request with the desk Sergeant for him to ring me as soon as possible. Then I struck lucky: Ray Potten was in.
Feeling pleased that I could at least begin some sort of elimination process I drove to Station Lane to find Ray Potten.
Station Lane was well named: it was near a station but only a derelict one. The houses nearby had obviously been built for the rail workers; now they were overgrown with weeds, some had boarded-up windows and although I'd never seen a squatters' paradise, this was surely it. Number two looked both uninhabited and uninhabitable. The front door had rotted at the hinges, the window-sills had fist-sized holes and the brickwork needed not so much repointing, as replacing.
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