Wonderful period for designers, George was enthusing: Cartier, Boucheron, Tiffany, though none of them, in his opinion, was worthy to be mentioned in the same breath as Fabergé. Court jeweller to the Imperial Court of Russia before the terrible events of the revolution, he had worked in enamels and gold, precious and semi-precious stones, excelling in the creation of enamelled and gem-studded objects of vertu of the most delicate kind, restrained and elegant. Not to mention a whole series of marvellously carved hardstone animals, now fetching incredible prices.
'Oh yes, those beautiful jewelled eggs!' Abigail said.
'The Imperial Easter Eggs – you know about them?'
'There was an exhibition I saw ... I remember one egg with a mechanical bird inside. Intriguing.'
'Oh, certainly. Most of them were designed as gifts from Tsar Nicholas II to the Tsarina Alexandra, and from Nicholas to his mother. But beautiful?' George's eyebrows lifted. 'Many of them were, yes. And the craftsmanship of them all is incomparable – but frankly, unlike his other pieces, some of them were hideously vulgar. One marvels at the expertise,' he remarked with a wry smile, 'but not the taste. If you want to see his most exquisite creations– ' He stopped, pulling himself up short. 'Never let an old man talk about his ruling passions!'
'Why not? I find it fascinating.' Abigail smiled, speaking with perfect truth. 'I've always admired that sort of thing – and Victorian jewellery.'
'I think you did once sell more modern stuff, though, individually designed?' Mayo put in, taking the cue.
George became at once very still. After a moment, he sat down on one of two chairs reserved for visitors and gestured to the other. Mayo nodded to Abigail to take it, and remained standing, arms folded, in the way he had, which perhaps he didn't know was forbidding. Yes, George admitted presently, they had, but it had been a mistake, and shut his mouth with an air of finality.
Mayo's expression warned Abigail to wait. They sat without speaking and a little clock somewhere ticked away several seconds before George gave in. 'It was a venture that didn't come off, unfortunately,' he said at last, with a small sigh. 'Nigel had the idea that selling original jewellery, taking individual commissions, would be a good idea.' The girl who made it, he added, was very young, but had had talent of a truly original sort, though that had been the trouble ... Lavenstock wasn't ready for that sort of innovation. Or ready to pay the price, which had, perhaps, been more to the point. They understood and were willing to pay for a good diamond or sapphire which would keep its value, but not for experimental work which might date. The whole idea had been a disaster.
George spoke guardedly. He'd been led into this and was afraid of inadvertently revealing more than he should of what he had kept pushed down into the depths of his mind, until the murder had forced it to the surface. Since then, he'd been able to think of little else except that last terrible quarrel, of coming into the shop to intervene, standing in the doorway unobserved, and seeing Nigel with his hands round that delicate young throat. Nigel had seen him then and pushed the whimpering girl away and George had backed out, to his everlasting shame. The next morning, Nigel told him she'd left. For years George had had nightmares, wondering if he'd murdered her.
Just for a moment, he was strongly tempted to tell everything, but what would be gained by it? 'Who was she?' he asked, repeating the question that he realized Mayo had just put to him. Then, not being able to think of a reason for withholding that at least, he told them. The name meant nothing to either of them, yet.
'Why did she leave, Mr Fontenoy?' Mayo asked.
But George, deciding he'd said enough, took refuge in prevarication. 'Oh, I don't know, why do girls of that age do anything? No sense of purpose, no loyalty.'
'Was there a quarrel?'
The old man hum-ed and ha-ed and cleared his throat, looked anywhere but at his questioners, which Mayo took to mean yes.
'What was it about?'
'Bit of a misunderstanding, that's all, would've all blown over if she'd stayed. But no, they throw everything up the minute there's trouble, nowadays.'
'Mr Fontenoy, what was this quarrel about?'
'I don't know. Can't be expected to remember so far back, at my age ...' Suddenly he clutched his chest, a contorted expression crossing his face. 'M'pills,' he gasped. 'Glass of water, please.'
You old rogue! Abigail thought as she rushed into the kitchen to get the water, you damned old rogue ... Just when we were getting to the crunch. But don't you dare die on us yet, George! Because somebody knew the answers – some of them at any rate, and she'd bet she wasn't far out in thinking that could be George Fontenoy.
He recovered, as she'd known he would, with amazing rapidity, but they stayed with him until they were sure it was safe to leave him in the care of Mrs Anderson, summoned by telephone from her house round the corner. There was no question of any further interrogation.
Abigail gave a last frustrated look at Cedar Antiques as she got into Mayo's car. He negotiated it into the stream of traffic, then, when they were clear, he asked soberly, 'Why am I getting such a sense of urgency about this case? A feeling that somebody has left some unfinished business?'
It was as near to admitting a premonition as she'd ever known from Mayo, and it struck chill in her heart. The implication that an undiscovered killer might still be at large, might even be prepared to kill again, wasn't something to contemplate with comfort.
'Should he be left alone there? Wouldn't he be better back with the Wildings?' she asked, and then felt a further chill as, simultaneously, the thought occurred to her that the old man might not, in fact, be much safer there. If the murder had originated from one of the suspects living at Ham Lane, it would be a simple matter, supposing George to represent any threat, to get rid of him, to stage an accident. To push him so that he pitched headlong down a flight of stairs, say, and broke his neck. She shivered.
'Oh, that's all right. I had a word with Mrs Anderson in the kitchen. It seems her son's a full-back with Lavenstock Lions, and she's promised to get him to sleep in until further notice.'
Why didn't I think of that? wondered Abigail. And, having stirred up her apprehensions, why did he now make her feel as though she was being foolishly over-cautious?
She wasn't to know that Mayo's thoughts had been momentarily distracted by catching a glimpse, as they passed the end of the street, of the interior decorating shop belonging to Alex's sister, Lois French, closed while she was away. She was looking for a new partner and finding it difficult to settle on anyone since the one she really wanted was Alex, to which end she'd been pursuing a relentlessly wearing-down process for some time now. Alex wasn't a person easy to wear down, as Mayo knew to his cost, but Lois had had plenty of opportunity while they'd been away together, while Alex was in a very vulnerable state. His hands tightened on the wheel and then he put his private life firmly back in its own compartment.
Since that shocking day when her best friend had walked under a bus, when they were both sixteen, still at school and going around in a gang, Sharon Wallace had done some growing up. Now a smooth and sophisticated twenty-one, she worked in PR at the nearby television centre, had her own flat, drove a red Fiesta and had her straight, short hair tinted a rich mahogany, sculpted and cut to curve under at the ends and fall across one eye.
Jenny Platt had been detailed to interview her and had made an appointment to meet her at home, after work. Arriving a little early, she sat in her car outside the block of flats until she saw a young woman drive up, guessed who she was and waited until she'd had time to get indoors before following and ringing her bell.
Sharon had slipped off her shoes, but hadn't yet had time to change and was still wearing the white suit and emerald shirt she'd worn to work. She poured gin and tonic on to ice for herself, the same for Jenny, without the gin. Not a young woman to lack confidence on the face of things, she was, for some reason, very nervous.
'Why do you want to talk about Judy? She's been dead six years!'
<
br /> 'It could have a bearing on some other inquiries we're making. We thought you'd remember her death and might help us.'
Sharon's eyes clouded. 'How could I ever forget? She was my best friend, we did everything together! Of course I'll help. I've put flowers on the railings near the spot where she died every year since then.'
'That's nice,' smiled Jenny, whose own 'best friend' days were not too far behind. 'But there must have been some things you didn't share. One or two secrets.'
'None that matter, now.'
'You told Nan Randall – Mrs Petheridge – you thought she was seeing an older man,' Jenny prompted. 'Did Judy tell you who it was?'
The ice-cubes clinked against the sides of her glass as Sharon swirled it around. The wing of her hair fell forward, obscuring her face as she bent her head. She had pale skin and wore a lot of dark lipstick. When she looked up, her lower lip was trembling and her big brown eyes were full of tears.
'I told her she was playing with fire. She wouldn't say who it was, not in so many words.'
'What gave you the idea it was Nigel Fontenoy?'
'Nigel Fontenoy?' Sharon veered like a startled horse, then met the sympathetic yet adamant face of the young policewoman. She hesitated. After a moment, she said, 'Well, she came to the school dance, wearing what she said was an antique bracelet ... I mean, you had to believe it was the real thing, sparkly stuff and little pearls and everything, not the sort of jewellery any of us could afford, even if we'd wanted it. I thought maybe it was her mother's, that she'd lent it to her, but she said no and went all mysterious. After that, I just sort of put two and two together and guessed who'd given it to her – which turned out to be a big mistake.'
'A mistake? You guessed the wrong person?'
'No, no! It was just that Judy was very quiet, you know, and a bit shy, she didn't have any boyfriends. She had to be making it up, hadn't she, just so we wouldn't pity her?'
'That's possible. Sharon, how do you account for the way she died?'
'It was an accident, they said so at the inquest! She just crossed the road without looking!' Sharon was becoming very agitated. She was still very young under the thin veneer of sophistication.
'You didn't think it was an accident at the time, though, did you? You told Mrs Petheridge why you thought she'd done it.'
'I was over-reacting and imagining things!'
Jenny said, 'Where did you think she got the bracelet, then?'
'Maybe her parents bought it for her, in spite of what she said. Her father used to spoil her rotten, but he said no, they hadn't, and that they hadn't found it among her things after she –' She broke off. 'It's because Nigel Fontenoy's been murdered, isn't it? That's why you're asking all these questions – that's why –'
'Her father told you that?' Jenny interrupted. 'When?'
'Oh, recently. About a month ago, I suppose. It was the first time I'd seen him since Judy died.'
'How did you come to be discussing this? Had he specifically arranged to meet you and talk about it?'
Sharon stared at her. 'Judy's dad? Good heavens, no! He's Tom Callaghan, didn't you know? We just happened to bump into each other when I was trying to start my old car one night after work, only it wouldn't. I've got a new one now. He was coming out of the TV centre and had a look at it. He said I was wasting my time trying to start it and offered me a lift home. He's really great, isn't he?' she asked, dazzled by fame and a smooth tongue. 'He suggested stopping off for something to eat and asked me if I'd join him. We had a bottle of wine and, well ...'
'You began to talk about Judy?'
Colour rushed up under the pale, polished make-up. 'He was the one who first mentioned her, not me! I mean, I'd have been scared of upsetting him, but he said it helped to talk about her. He asked me if I really believed she'd commit suicide and I said no, not now, though I had at first. And I told him why.'
'What was his reaction?'
'He was very nice about it, but he agreed with me that I'd been reading too much into things. He said Nigel Fontenoy was a family friend and agreed there was no way Judy would've killed herself, and that she must have made up the story about the bracelet.'
'Where do you think she got it, then – and what's happened to it? If her parents don't have it, who does?' Sharon's big brown eyes were troubled. 'You have it, don't you?' Jenny asked, gently.
'She – she asked me to look after it for her when she wasn't wearing it because she didn't want her parents to see it.'
'May I see it?'
'I haven't got it now. Her father asked me for it ... I didn't want it, anyway, reminding me of Judy every time I looked at it.'
17
Carmody poked his head round Abigail's office door, waving papers, looking so like a bloodhound that had got the scent that she couldn't forbear to smile. 'From Forensics, and about time,' he announced. 'Knew you'd want to see it straight away.'
She swallowed the last of the warm croissant she'd picked up at Selina's Sarnies round the corner by way of breakfast, drained her coffee and put aside Jenny Platt's report, which opened up interesting speculations about Tom Callaghan's involvement in Fontenoy's murder. She'd done a good job there, and was now on her way to see the woman Callaghan alleged he'd spent the night with, for what it was worth. A good girl, Jenny, dependable, tough as old boots under that innocent face and mop of curls – and shrewd. As she'd pointed out, with the revelations about the bracelet, Callaghan had more than enough to convince him that Judy had in some way been secretly associating with Nigel. Add to that the fact that Nigel was old enough to be her father, and claimed to be one of Callaghan's best friends – well, any father would have felt like killing Fontenoy.
Abigail picked up the papers Carmody had left with her, pushing aside a couple of bulky files on her desk to make more room. Surrounded by computers as they were, it was a constant source of wonderment to her why the stacks of paper never seemed to lessen. After she'd read the report through and absorbed the information it contained, she scooped it up and took it in to Mayo.
'So it was blood in the truck, Abigail.'
'Well, yes,' she said doubtfully. No doubt about it, the stain
Carmody had seen was blood, human blood, but Group O – the group to which Nigel Fontenoy had belonged – along with Abigail Moon and half the CID and a fair percentage of the rest of the population. 'But it'll take weeks to complete a full DNA probe.' And yet, if the analysis turned out to be positive, it would show that this particular blood had only about a one in eight million chance of not being that of Nigel Fontenoy.
'Life's too short to let that hold us up,' Mayo decided. 'For the time being, we've enough supporting evidence to proceed on the reasonable assumption that it was Jake Wilding's truck which transported Fontenoy's body to Nailers' Yard. Hair and fibres from his clothing found in the truck, plus the gravel extracted from the grazes on his face – which I see Dexter says comprises brick dust and cement.'
'You'll also see they found minute traces of soil in Fontenoy's office. Red, sandy. The same soil as that on Wilding's building site. It looks as though Fontenoy was stabbed there in the office.'
Mayo went on to read the rest of the report. The square of carpet which had been removed hadn't yielded sufficient uncontaminated blood to be of use, but the SOCO team had uncovered a further identical type bloodstain on the A4 pad on his desk, one spot which hadn't been noticed by the murderer, because it had fallen directly upon the ink stain which had been soaking through the pad. The killer, carefully cleaning up the office, even to the extent of neatly recapping Fontenoy's gold fountain pen and cleaning the carpet with biological detergent, the sort guaranteed to remove oil, egg, blood, sweat (and even toil and tears, who could tell?) had missed that stain, masked as it was by the ink.
Mayo looked up, frowning. 'Don't you find that odd, Abigail? Somebody as meticulous as that neglecting to clean up the blood on the bottom of the pick-up? Unless he was disturbed, and couldn't get back to it.' If, for instance, the
truck had been "borrowed" by someone.
'Or unless he was incredibly confident that the bloodstains would never be recognized as such – and certain that the truck would never be connected with the murder, anyway.'
An assumption the killer might have got away with, too, all things being equal ...
'There's something else you ought to know about friend Wilding. We've been checking his alibi, and guess what we found?'
Mayo wanted to talk to Jake Wilding himself, but it was early evening before they were able to go up to Ham Lane once more.
Abigail drove, to the accompaniment of a sad little piece by Ravel in a minor key, emanating from Mayo's radio, permanently tuned to Radio 3. Classic FM, interspersed with adverts, he scorned as upmarket wallpaper music. Serious music was an occupational hazard when driving with Mayo. He claimed it helped to oil the workings of his brain, which was why he preferred to close his eyes and let someone else take the wheel.
October was well advanced and although the clocks hadn't yet gone back it was rapidly growing dark. The long, dry summer and the big storm had completed an early leaf fall, and the trees were bare-branched against the darkening sky. Boys were knocking the few remaining conkers from the horse chestnuts outside the park gates. There was a strong nip in the air, a sparkle of frost on the tarmac, a foretaste of winter.
The two Wildings and Callaghan, Mayo was thinking behind closed lids. Matthew Wilding, who had the carrot of a promised inheritance from Fontenoy as motive, but who had allegedly been drunk and incapable that night. Young, immature, but murderously inclined? Debatable. And his father, against whom the evidence was steadily piling up, his motive so far unclear, unless it was to rid himself of the debt he owed to his cousin. It wasn't a motive Mayo was inclined to give credence to. And was Wilding the sort to be capable of this murder? Mayo could see Jake using his fists, or even the traditional blunt instrument, but a stiletto? Wasn't there something a bit too subtle about that for Jake? On the other hand, if it had simply been there, when a quarrel arose ...
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