‘What comes next – a confession of guilt?’
‘Let’s not be greedy, Joe.’
‘We can but hope. At least, we’ve made enough progress to keep Chat off our backs. He might actually be pleased with us for once.’
Marmion laughed. ‘I don’t believe in miracles.’
They were about to leave the room when the door was suddenly flung open and Claude Chatfield walked in with a gleam in his eye.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I’ve caught you together so you can both hear the good news. I’ve discovered a suspect that neither of you even considered. His name should go straight to the top of the list.’ His smirk oozed with self-congratulation. ‘I had a feeling that I’d have to come here to do your job for you.’
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Audrey Pattinson read the newspaper report yet again as if expecting new details to emerge about the murder. None appeared, however, and her hopes were dashed. The killer was still at liberty. That’s what alarmed her most. Inspector Harvey Marmion was once again quoted, asking for anyone with information that might be germane to the inquiry to come forward, If the police were still seeking the assistance of the public, Audrey feared, they had made little progress. When she heard her husband descending the stairs, she put the newspaper quickly aside and went out into the hall.
‘What time will I expect you back, Martin?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Will you be dining at your club again?’
‘I haven’t decided.’
Taking his hat from the peg, he stood in front of the mirror while he put it on. Pattinson was immaculately dressed and his black shoes shone like glass. His attention to his appearance was one of the first things Audrey had noticed about him and it had made her more conscious of the way that she dressed. When her husband walked into a room, he made an immediate impression. She, by contrast, melted into invisibility. Without being asked, she took the clothes brush from the stand and used it on his shoulders and lapels. All that she got was a curt nod.
‘What are you going to do today?’ he asked in a voice that betrayed no real interest. ‘Will you just mope in here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Go out and get some fresh air.’
‘I may well do that, Martin.’
‘Moping won’t bring him back. You have to accept that.’
‘I know.’
He opened the door and, after brushing her cheek with a feeble imitation of a kiss, he went out. Audrey watched him stroll purposefully along the road then she closed the door behind him. She went back to the newspaper for another doomed search then let her mind drift back to happier times when she’d played the piano for a man she considered to be the finest dancer in the country, and watched him develop the talents of his pupils. It all seemed an age ago now.
Brought abruptly out of her reverie by the sound of the doorbell, she needed a moment to compose herself before going to see who it was. Standing outside with a hopeful expression was Colette Orme. She was relieved when invited in.
‘I wasn’t sure if I should come, Mrs Pattinson,’ she said.
‘You’re very welcome, Colette.’
‘I don’t think your husband is quite so pleased to see me.’
‘He’s not here at the moment so you can forget about him. How are you?’
‘I’m still the same. What about you?’
Audrey nodded. ‘The pain just won’t go away.’
They went into the living room and sat down. Colette first of all thanked the older woman for calling in to see her when she did. It had been a great comfort. What she really prayed for, she said, was the arrest of the person who’d hacked Simon Wilder brutally out of their respective lives and left them barren as a result. Audrey sought to offer reassurance.
‘Your life may seem empty now, Colette, but you have a bright future ahead of you. You must keep on.’
‘That’s what Dennis keeps saying.’
‘Mine is a different story,’ said Audrey, sadly. ‘I’ll never find that degree of pleasure again. Mr Wilder was unique. When I played for him, he made me feel as if I was important.’
‘You are important, Mrs Pattinson,’ said Colette, squeezing her arm. ‘Without you, the studio wouldn’t have been the same. I enjoyed dancing with Mr Wilder to gramophone records but I haven’t forgotten all those times when you played for us.’
‘Thank you, Colette.’
‘But I’m not here to brood about the past. I need some advice.’
‘I can recommend a couple of good dance schools.’
‘This is not about me,’ said Colette. ‘It’s about my brother. I’m worried that he’s drinking far too much.’
‘What does your father say?’
‘Daddy doesn’t mind because he’s fond of a glass of beer himself. Sometimes he takes Dennis to the pub with him.’
‘Your brother is old enough to make his own decisions,’ said Audrey, gently.
‘That’s exactly what he said when I challenged him about it. And he’s done so much for me that I hate criticising him. I have to keep biting my tongue all the time.’
‘Does he get aggressive when he’s drunk?’
‘Oh no,’ explained Colette, ‘he just passes out. They had to carry him home last time and there have been a couple of times when he’s fallen so deeply asleep at a friend’s house that they’ve let him stay the night. I worry every time he goes out because I never know when Dennis will come back or what state he’ll be in.’
‘The question to ask is why he drinks so much.’
‘He says he has to keep pace with his old army friends. Like him, they’ve all been wounded at the front. One of them – Peter Seymour – lost both legs. Compared to the others, Dennis didn’t get off too badly.’
‘Perhaps he drinks to forget his disability, Colette.’
‘No, it’s not that. He copes very well on his walking stick.’
‘He pretends to for your benefit, perhaps, but it must irk him that he can’t live a normal life.’
‘But that’s exactly what he intends to do, Mrs Pattinson. He does exercises to improve his bad leg and he doesn’t spend all his time talking about the war. Whenever he can,’ she went on, ‘Dennis goes off to see his girlfriend.’
‘What does she think of his drinking habits?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t touch a drop when he’s with Harriet. Her father won’t have strong drink in the house. Dennis is as sober as a judge there.’
‘So he goes from one extreme to another.’
‘Yes, I suppose that he does in a way. What can I do, Mrs Pattinson?’
‘Well, I don’t know that I’m the best person to ask,’ said Audrey, modestly. ‘Unfortunately, I never had children so I can’t speak with authority. But one way you might get your brother to moderate his drinking is to say that you’ll tell his girlfriend.’
‘That would be cruel.’
‘The question is – would it work?’
Colette was dubious. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll think about it. But I’m so glad that I caught you alone,’ she went on. ‘You’re the only person I can really talk to about Mr Wilder. You understand, Mrs Pattinson. I could never speak to Mrs Wilder in the way that I can to you. Have you been in touch with her?’
‘Yes,’ replied Audrey, ‘I went to offer my condolences. I wanted to ask if I could play at the funeral but I never had the opportunity. What about you, Colette?’
‘I saw her for a few minutes,’ said the other, still embarrassed by the memory. ‘I didn’t feel at all welcome. Mrs Wilder used to be nice to me at one time but she’s very cold now.’
Audrey drew back from making a comment. She’d known Catherine Wilder much longer than her visitor and knew how capricious she could be. But she was too loyal to a woman who’d been glad to employ her at the dance studio and with whom she’d been on friendly terms at the start.
‘There are so many things I’d like to ask her but I can’t somehow.’
‘We must always remember that she’s a grieving widow. She’s lost a husband as well as a business partner. It will take time to get used to it.’
‘How long will it take us to get used to it, Mrs Pattinson?’ asked Colette in a voice dripping with pathos.
Audrey reached out to pull her close and hold her tight.
‘The rest of our lives,’ she murmured.
Claude Chatfield was cock-a-hoop. The roles were reversed for once and he relished the fact. Ordinarily, he stayed in Scotland Yard and issued orders. It was left to detectives like Marmion and Keedy to gather evidence and hunt down killers. Now, however, instead of merely delegating, the superintendent was in a position to divulge significant information that he’d collected by his own diligence. It was a moment in which to luxuriate and Chatfield did just that.
‘His name is Godfrey Noonan,’ he said, chest inflated with self-importance, ‘and you should have found out about him by now.’
‘Who is he, sir?’ asked Marmion.
‘He is – or was – Wilder’s agent. They had a successful partnership for years until Wilder sued him for non-payment of fees and for fraudulent accounting. Noonan was filled with righteous indignation at the charge, apparently, but he was completely routed in court. Wilder won the case and substantial damages.’ Chatfield grinned. ‘They did not part on the best of terms.’
‘When did all this happen?’
‘Four or five years ago, I believe.’
‘It’s surprising that Mrs Wilder didn’t mention this gentleman.’
‘I don’t think the lady would ever refer to him as a gentleman, Inspector. By all accounts, Noonan is something of a rough diamond. He made his clients call him “God”, so that gives you some idea of the sort of man he is. Once I’d lighted on his name, I did some digging into his past. He hated losing the court case because it brought him a lot of bad publicity and cost him some of his other clients. Report has it that he’s a man who nurses grudges and gets his own back, no matter how long it takes. Quite naturally, he’s been sick with envy at the way that Wilder’s career reached new heights since they parted. Noonan has been unable to have a share of the money or of the glory.’
‘All this is very interesting, sir,’ said Keedy, ‘but it doesn’t convince me that he’s definitely our man. While Mr Noonan should be interviewed, he mustn’t take preference over our other suspects.’
‘You didn’t let me finish, Sergeant,’ chided the superintendent. ‘I took the trouble to look at a list of Noonan’s clients and one name jumped out at me – Tom Atterbury. Could the two of them be in league together?’
‘It’s conceivable,’ admitted Marmion. ‘We must add God, as he likes to be known, to our growing list of suspects. When the sergeant interviewed him again, one of them moved closer to the top of that list this morning.’
‘Oh?’ Chatfield rounded on Keedy. ‘Who might that be?’
‘Allan Redmond, sir.’
‘I thought you’d discounted him.’
‘New evidence came to light.’
‘I can’t wait to hear it.’
Keedy reminded him about the assault on Odele Thompson and how different Redmond had been at their second meeting. The longer he went on, the more irritated Chatfield became as he realised that the candidate he’d put forward as the killer had a legitimate rival in Allan Redmond. Seeing his discomfiture, Marmion exploited it.
‘Did you happen to notice if Mr Redmond is a client of Noonan’s, sir?’
‘He is not,’ grunted Chatfield, ‘but Atterbury is. That’s telling.’
‘I’ve met both of them,’ said Keedy, ‘and my guess would be that Redmond is far more capable of committing a murder than Atterbury. He’s younger and stronger, for a start. I watched Redmond playing tennis and he has a fearsome forehand. With a knife in his grasp, he could easily have inflicted the injuries we saw on Wilder.’
‘Noonan could also be involved,’ insisted Chatfield, ‘if only tangentially.’
‘You may be right, sir.’
‘I am, Sergeant.’
‘Then you’ve done us a favour, Superintendent,’ said Marmion. ‘In bringing this man to our notice, you may have explained something that puzzled me. Let me walk yet another potential suspect past you.’
‘Who is he?’
‘It’s a lady, sir – Catherine Wilder.’
Chatfield snorted. ‘That’s a ludicrous suggestion.’
‘I thought that until I met Wilder’s first wife. She gave me an insight into his domestic life that made me look at the woman afresh. Hear me out,’ he added as the superintendent tried to respond, ‘and you may change your mind.’
Marmion gave him an attenuated account of the conversation with Gillian Hogg, taking care to omit details of Wilder’s promiscuity that he’d been ready to pass on to Keedy. He knew that he was making headway when Chatfield stopped shaking his head in disbelief and clicking his tongue. By the end of the report, he was forced to accept that Marmion’s judgement was not as awry as he’d imagined.
‘Don’t you see what this means, sir?’
‘Frankly, I don’t,’ said Chatfield, sullenly.
‘It answers the question the inspector put earlier,’ said Keedy. ‘If Wilder’s former agent is such an obvious suspect, why didn’t Mrs Wilder give us his name?’
‘It may well be,’ continued Marmion, ‘that she’d put the legal dispute with him out of her mind, but there is another possible explanation and it marries your theory to mine, Superintendent.’
‘Stop talking in riddles.’
‘The reason Mrs Wilder made no mention of Noonan might be that the two of them were acting in collusion? Atterbury could be part of the conspiracy.’
Chatfield rallied. The suggestion that the agent could, after all, be guilty made him feel that his research had been vindicated. He went through the list of suspects in his head – Tom Atterbury, Martin Pattinson, Allan Redmond, Godfrey Noonan and Catherine Wilder. The people who seemed to knit most easily together were Atterbury and Noonan, two men with strong motives to want Wilder permanently removed. If they had been assisted – or even suborned by – the victim’s wife, they would have been given accurate information about their target’s movements. It took the superintendent a few minutes to reach his conclusion.
‘Find me a link,’ he decreed. ‘Find me a link between Mrs Wilder and one or both of these men. Then they can go off to the gallows together.’
Expecting her brother, Catherine Wilder opened the front door to greet him. But it was not Nathan Clissold standing there. It was the rotund figure of Godfrey Noonan in one of his more flamboyant suits. He swept off his hat and smiled at her.
‘Hello, darling,’ he said, grandiloquently. ‘May I have a moment of your precious time?’
All of the national newspapers were available in the reading room at the club. Martin Pattinson went through each one of them to see what they said about the murder in Chingford. One of them carried a photograph of Inspector Marmion while another featured the postman, Denzil Parry, standing beside the spot where he’d discovered the body. Speculation was rife. The crime was described variously as a random attack by drunken thugs, the work of a foreign spy, an act of revenge by someone in Wilder’s past, the wicked deed of some sinister devil-worshipping cult and a simple case of mistaken identity. Pattinson observed that the murder was still not given the prominence it merited. Having earlier been overshadowed by details of the air raid the same night, it was now given far less column inches than the accounts of the latest surge by British troops in France. As a former soldier, Pattinson read those with interest as well.
When he’d finished, he went through into the lounge and saw a familiar figure in one of the high-backed leather chairs. After an exchange of greetings, he sat down beside his friend. A waiter was summoned and drinks were ordered. Pattinson’s friend leant across to him.
‘I was hoping to see you in here today,’ said Tom Atterbury.
Marmion’s visit to the bank
did not take long. What he was really hoping to find was a safe-deposit box in which Simon Wilder had kept things of a private nature that might contain clues as to the identity of his killer. The inspector was disappointed. According to the manager, Wilder had no cache of documents hidden away and no secret bank accounts. Because he was keen to protect the confidentiality of his dealings with Wilder, the manager was not prepared to divulge all the information he held and Marmion did not press him. His primary interest had been in the possible existence of a safe-deposit box that would help to solve the crime.
It was time to look elsewhere. With Chatfield’s orders still ringing in his ears, therefore, he got back into the car and asked the driver to head for central London.
Keedy was not looking forward to another meeting with Odele Thompson but it was unavoidable. He not only had to tell her about his encounter with Allan Redmond, he wanted to bring up the name of Simon Wilder’s former agent. Keedy warned himself in advance to be on his guard. Given the slightest encouragement, Odele could not merely become a nuisance. She could represent a serious threat. It was not the first time that he’d aroused female interest during a murder investigation. When he and Marmion had investigated the untimely death of a young art student, Keedy had been helped by a friend of the deceased who worked at the Slade School of Art as a model. Indeed, when the sergeant had first seen her, she was posing in the nude and he couldn’t help admiring the generous contours of her body. She, in turn, began to admire him and make covert advances to Keedy. He recalled the difficulty he had in shaking her off. Odele, he feared, might not be so easily dispatched.
In the event, she was not waiting to ambush him. When she opened the door, he could see that she’d been crying. Invited in, he noticed that she’d been drinking as well. Odele read the question in his eyes.
‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘I am grieving but it’s not because Simon is dead. It’s because of the consequences. I’ve just been going through my diary and seen all of the exhibition dances that will have to be cancelled. The ones at large halls were particularly lucrative. It’s all gone, Sergeant,’ she said with a vivid gesture. ‘What would you do if the income on which you were relying suddenly dried up?’
Dance of Death Page 18
