by Ann Granger
There was no one at the desk. But voices could be heard from the office area to the rear of it. Above them all came that of Wpc Jones.
"Come on, don't be stingy. We want to get him something decent!"
Markby's heart sank. The murder and Emma's disappearance had combined to thrust from his mind the problem of his impending promotion and the desk-bound glory which awaited him. As he had feared, somehow the word had got out.
A face appeared briefly round a corner and vanished again. A scurry and much whispering. Jones, red-faced, reappeared.
"Good afternoon, sir. We've been trying to contact you."
"Oh yes?" said Markby sourly.
From somewhere unseen behind Jones came a crash and the sound of coins rolling across the floor. Someone swore. Another person hissed "Shut up!" Scrabbling fingers and scraping chairs conjured up a picture of frantic crawling around to retrieve the money.
Wpc Jones looked bland but something in her eye
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defied him to ask any questions or make any comment on the noises.
"Sergeant Pearce was called out and left a note." Jones reached out a piece of paper. "Miss Collins phoned 999 and the sergeant thought he'd better go straight away."
Markby snatched the note, scanned it briefly, swore and ordered, "Get me a car and driver! My car's at home, dammit! Go on, snappy!"
"Yes, sir!" said Jones, giving him a look which indicated if he went on like this, his leaving present was likely to be very modest indeed.
Markby ran up the stairs to the flat above the shop two at a time and burst in. As the door flew open, he spied Margery Collins sitting on a chair shakily sipping tea and Pearce, notebook in hand, attempting to take a statement.
At his sudden appearance Margery squeaked shrilly and spilled tea and Pearce spun round. Then he put his notebook away and said with relief, "There you are, sir! I tried to raise you on your car radio."
"I was on the phone at home." Markby's gaze raked the disordered room.
"I tried there afterwards."
"Then I'd just left—for crying out loud!" Markby threw out a hand to indicate the disarray all around them. "What the dickens has been going on here?"
"Miss Collins came and found it like this, sir. She's, ah, very upset as you can see." Pearce rolled his eyes towards Margery.
"I'm scared!" whispered Margery, fixing them both with her saucer-like eyes.
"Yes, yes, very unpleasant but you're all right now!" said Markby rather brusquely.
"He's been everywhere, in the kitchen, in the bedroom—he took out all of Ellen's lovely new clothes and just threw them down on the bed! He's broken the lock
of her desk. That's a valuable desk, she told me. It's an antique!"
44 Ah yes, well, you might be able to claim on the insurance. Get Mrs. Danby on to that. They may or not pay up now Ellen's dead. Don't see why they shouldn't." Markby drew Pearce to one side. "Any idea who? And how did they get in?"
"I can answer the second bit," said Pearce. "There's a window forced downstairs at the back. It leads into a storeroom and from there into the back passage leading to the shop."
4 'Get it fingerprinted. Any hope of footprints?"
"Yessir, fingerprint chap is on his way. No footprints, outside area under the window is all concrete."
4 'Anyone see suspicious characters hanging about?"
"Haven't had a chance to ask around yet, but sir—" Pearce glanced meaningly at Margery again. 4 'Something's odd. She keeps saying 4 he' as if she knew who it was and when I got here she was in a real old state. She'd barricaded herself in and it was five minutes before she'd open the door to me! She's terrified, not just scared. I think she does know, or thinks she knows, who did this. The trouble is, what with being frightened and shocked and I don't know what else, she doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I think we'll have to get a statement later. One minute she's rabbiting about the clothes from the wardrobe and the next about Ellen trusting her and keeping faith—and then she says she's in danger."
Markby stared thoughtfully at Margery who was blowing her nose.
"Okay, I'll have a word. Chase up the fingerprint chap and then go and have a word with the shops either side. Whoever did this might have made quite a bit of noise moving the furniture and so on."
He walked over to Margery, pulled out a chair and sat down. "Well, now, Miss Collins," he said cheerily, hoping she'd relax. 4 'Feeling a bit better?"
Unfortunately he'd asked the wrong question.
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"No!" said Margery fiercely. She set down the cup and stuffed the bunch of tissues in her fist into her bag. "It's awful!"
"It sometimes happens after a serious crime or an advertised death. Some joker reads about it in the local paper and thinks he'll break in while the place is unoccupied and see what he can find."
He was watching her closely as he spoke and saw that, if anything, her manifest terror had increased. She was slowly shaking her head, contradicting his words. She knows a lot more than she's told us so far! he thought with some satisfaction. Now it'd led to this she didn't know what to do, whether to speak up and ask for their help or run the risk of staying silent.
Encouragingly he asked, "Have you had a chance to check yet and see if anything is missing?"
She reddened, swallowed and muttered, "Don't need to."
"What's that?"
"Don't—don't have to check. I know, I know what he wanted."
"And who is he, Miss Collins?"
She was scrabbling in her handbag, he supposed for a fresh supply of tissues. Suddenly she stopped and looked up, more mouse-like than ever, her pointed nose trembling. "It was because Ellen trusted me, Mr. Markby!"
"That she left you the business? Yes, I dare say it was."
"No—yes! Not just the business!" Margery glanced about them in a hunted way. "I keep feeling as if she were here and could hear us, see us. I know she trusted me. She thought I wouldn't tell."
"Wouldn't tell what, Margery? Is this something we should have known all along?"
"No, not all along because I didn't know it all along. I only knew it the other day! Look, Mr. Markby, when we were looking over the books—I didn't understand it, honestly, not then. Because I didn't know about the
other thing then. But since then I've been thinking . . . Ellen was—was doing something she shouldn't, wasn't she?" She fixed him with apprehensive eyes.
"Possibly. We don't know. Someone is currently looking them over who knows more about that sort of thing than I do. There does appear to be unexplained money paid into the bank through the business. There may be a simple explanation."
He felt he could almost hear the wheels going round in her head. When she didn't reply he prompted, "What is it you want to tell me, Margery? You'll feel much better when you have."
"I suppose so. You see, it's like I said. Ellen trusted me. That's why she left everything, not just Needles, but all her affairs, papers, that sort of thing, to me. She thought I'd be discreet. And so when the bank gave me her safe deposit box and I opened it, I really wouldn't have told anyone what it contained if—if this hadn't happened." She gestured at the room with her free hand, the other still rummaging in her purse.
"But this means that he knows about it, that I've probably got it because he couldn't find it here."
"Who is he and what is the thing he wants, Margery?" Markby asked with suppressed impatience.
"You won't be angry? I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I thought it wasn't necessary—that it wouldn't hurt to keep it—to protect Ellen's reputation. It's—I've got it here."
She withdrew not the expected bunch of tissues, but a stiff folded sheet of paper from her bag and handed it over with a shaking hand.
Markby took it and unfolded it. She watched his face, holding her breath. He refolded the paper and put it in his pocket.
"Okay, Margery, now listen to me. You've done the right thing in handing this to us. You are
quite safe and no one is going to hurt you. But you are an important witness so I think perhaps you shouldn't go back to your rented room. Apart from anything else, I think you'll
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feel more at ease if you stay somewhere else. Have you a friend you could go to for a few days?"
She shook her head and he tried again, "How about someone from your church?"
"I don't want them to know! I don't want them asking me questions!" She was becoming agitated again.
"All right, all right!" he soothed her. "Then this is what we'll do. I'll take you to a hotel, we'll try The Crossed Keys. We'll book you a room and you stay put in it. A woman police officer will go to your own place and pack a few things for you, an overnight bag. You can have your meals sent up to your room and we'll keep in touch. You will be quite safe. We'll explain to The Crossed Keys that no one is to be given any information about you or allowed to go up to your room. This is all just a precaution because I don't think he'll harm you. But he is probably frightened himself and he might come and ask you for this—" Markby held up the folded sheet of paper. "Or he might just try and find out if you do have it."
"Aren't you going to arrest him?" cried Margery desperately.
"Well, we may. But not just yet. Evidence is a funny old thing, Margery, and unless we find his fingerprints here we can't even prove he was the one who broke in."
"But that—"
"Now leave it all to us. All right?"
An hour later Margery was safely established in The Crossed Keys and Wpc Jones dispatched to get a coherent statement out of her and to then go to Margery's rented room and pack a bag for her. Markby and Pearce sat in Markby's office. Markby took the sheet of paper Ellen had given him out of his pocket and put it on his desk.
"Give you three guesses, Pearce."
"Haven't a clue!" said Pearce, painfully and obviously eaten up with a burning desire to know.
"Come on. Official bit of paper. I've had one of these
in my time and you haven't yet. You will. Come on, what do most of us do sooner or later? Give you a clue. What are the three occasions which get most of us into church in our lives even if we never ever set foot in there otherwise?"
"Baptised and buried," said Pearce. He paused. "Married?"
4 'Married, Pearce." Markby held up the paper. "A marriage certificate, twenty-one years old. An Australian marriage certificate showing the legal conjoining of Ellen Marie Novak and "
He turned the sheet, holding it open and held up for Pearce to read.
"Cripes," said Pearce. "Denis Fulton!"
Eighteen
There was nothing so blatantly commercial and workaday as a reception counter at Springwood Hall. Instead a tall, slightly horsy female with ash blonde hair expertly cut in a shoulder-length bob, and turned out with understated elegance in Country Casuals, presided over the entrance lobby at a probably genuine antique walnut table. As Markby entered she rose to her feet and glided across the beautiful new carpet towards him with a welcoming smile and sharply assessing gaze.
"I'd like to see Mr. Denis Fulton," said Markby. "Chief Inspector Markby."
But she had recognised him now. The sharp look had gone and she had relaxed, her smile less professionally mechanical. She also looked less horsy and really very attractive. Markby realised he was doing his own summing up and mentally ticked himself off. As for policemen of any sort requesting to see a guest, she was well-trained. She didn't bat an eyelid. It might be the most normal thing in the world.
However, just to put the record straight, Markby added with a smile, "We're acquainted. It's not official visit."
"Of course," she said as if such a vulgar thought had never crossed her mind.
He wondered if she was shrewd enough to realise his disavowal was, in its way, a he. Not completely so. For the time being he wanted to keep this informal and off the record. Denis was far more likely to cooperate in that way and Denis, after all, as far as anyone knew, hadn't done anything criminal.
210 Ann Granger
Except a trifling matter of bigamy.
Markby thought about Leah Fulton. This was a very tricky situation. "Is Mrs. Fulton in?" he asked casually.
"Mr. Fulton went across to the swimming pool, sir, about fifteen minutes ago. I haven't seen Mrs. Fulton. Would you like me to ring up?" She stretched out a hand to a phone on the walnut table.
"No, no!" he said hastily. "It's Mr. Fulton I wanted to see."
"Do you know the way to the swimming pool, sir?" She was all hovering solicitude.
"Yes, yes. I'll find him. Thanks."
The interior of the building housing the swimming pool suggested a Kew Gardens greenhouse in the middle of which someone had chosen to sink a large rectangular lake. The temperature was tropical. All around the edge of the pool stood tubbed palms and banks of potted flowers lending an exotic jungle touch and spreading heady perfumes which disguised, though not completely, the faint odour of chlorine. Music, faint and pervasive, filtered through some unseen system. It was relaying the Birdcatcher's aria from the first act of The Magic Flute and the piece seemed entirely appropriate.
The pool itself was lined with turquoise tiles and clever subsurface lighting was designed to turn the swimmers into golden-limbed naiads disporting themselves in translucent Elysian waters. As it shimmered and rippled, distorting the square lines of the tiles on the bottom, the pool threw strange reflections on to the ceiling. Markby found this ethereal, topsy-turvy world strangely disorientating.
However its only occupant was distinctly unethereal: Denis, swimming slowly and determinedly up and down its length in the way of a man taking exercise because it was good for him and not because he was enjoying it particularly.
"Denis?" called Markby, dropping on to his heels at
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the top end of the surrounding tile border of the pool. His voice echoed cavernously in the empty chamber.
Denis splashed and briefly disappeared. He popped up again, red-faced and spitting water, and began to trawl back towards Markby. When he reached him he turned on his back and floated, paddling his hands and staring round-eyed up at his visitor in sea-otter fashion.
"Hullo, Alan!" he said unhappily.
"Glad of a word if you've got a moment. Is Leah about?"
"No—no, she's resting. I'll come out. Give me a minute."
Denis doggy-paddled over to the steps and hauled himself out. He shook his plump body like a spaniel and padded off towards the changing rooms leaving a trail of wet footprints. Gazing after him, Markby judged there was no way Denis would try to make a run for it. He found himself a white-painted wooden recliner comfortably lined with thick turquoise blue cushions and settled down. He wished he had time for a swim.
Denis came back wearing a towelling bathrobe. His hair, ruffled by brisk rubbing, stood up on end. He took the chair next to Markby's and gave him a nervous smile.
"Know what I've come about?" asked Markby gen-tly.
"No!" Denis jerked at the tie-belt of his bathrobe almost cutting himself in half. "Well, yes, I suppose I do!"
"You were wasting your time. It wasn't there and as a matter of fact, we have it."
Denis's face was a picture of misery. He said, "Will you tell Leah?"
"If she doesn't know, Denis, I think now is the time for you to tell her. I take it there was no divorce?"
Denis shook his head. "The tabloids will get hold of it. It'll be the end of Leah. The scandal... All her friends knowing. I'll have made her look a fool. For
God's sake, Alan, does it have to get out?"
"That rather depends on how much it has to do with Ellen's death."
"Nothing!" Denis shouted and his voice echoed round the pool area like a yodeller's across a mountain pass. "I didn't kill her, I swear!"
"Well, if it has nothing to do with it, then I'm not bothered but you will have to tell Leah and arrange a quiet remarriage. After all, you are free now. You're a widower."<
br />
Denis's face crumpled. "What makes you think Leah will agree to a remarriage? She'll leave me. She'll probably sue me. She'll hate my guts for doing this to her. I didn't mean it."
"Want to tell me about it?"
The sound system was relaying a Lehar waltz, Gold and Silver. Denis threw himself back despondently on his recliner and began to speak, staring up at the patterns of light thrown across the ceiling by the softly surging water in the pool.
"It was years ago, more than twenty. I was in Australia researching a book. You see, a lot of people were starting to take holidays over there, visiting relatives and so on, about that time. I persuaded my publisher that a guide to eating out in the major Australian cities and a bit of other general guide-book stuff thrown in would be a good idea. They said go and do it, so I did.
"I wanted to cover the widest possible range of restaurants from the most pretentious to the humblest. I included ethnic restaurants and offbeat ones. I even took in a couple of 'barbies.' And I included, naturally, a chapter on vegetarian dining out. That's where I met Ellen. In a vegetarian diner."
Denis sighed. He shifted in his recliner and folded his arms as if he were cold although the temperature in here could well have been turned down a degree or two in Markby's judgement. He took off his own jacket and hung it on the back of his chair while he waited for Denis to go on.
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"It was one of those stupid things," said Denis suddenly. "She was a good looker, you know. Even later in these last years. But then she was a stunner. She was a dancer of sorts. Well, between you and me, she was a stripper."
"Was she?" exclaimed Markby.
"Oh yes, but I didn't realise that. She made it sound quite, you know, upmarket, at least corps de ballet stuff. I suppose a fellow quicker on the uptake than I was would have sussed out the situation straight away. But I've—I've never been a ladies' man, far from it! I'm not good around women. I say the wrong things or nothing at all. I'm not good-looking. I'm not charming. I'm a bit of a lost cause. But Ellen seemed to like me. It was, as they say, a whirlwind romance. We got married after one week's acquaintance. You can call me an idiot if you like."
