by Joan Smith
In that case, nagged a dissident voice, why had Bridget asked Loretta to supply her with an alibi for the very Thursday afternoon Paula Wolf arrived in England? Loretta recalled Bridget’s anger when she refused to lie on her behalf, to say they had met for lunch and walked on Port Meadow. There was also, insisted the unwelcome voice, the small matter of the computer log; she had forgotten the technical term Tracey used, but it showed Sam quietly working in his office throughout the afternoon. If it wasn’t Bridget who went to Paula’s rescue, who was it?
The big car slowed on the approach to the A40, waiting for a gap in the busy evening traffic. Loretta nibbled her lower lip, picking at a piece of loose skin until it peeled away and left a tender patch. She thought about Bridget’s reaction to the discovery of the body, her spectacular bout of vomiting in the garden at Thebes Farm, and told herself such a display could not have been put on; Bridget was a hopeless actress, a creature of impulse whose responses sometimes embarrassed and even irritated her friends. As for the cassette tape, such a small, portable object hardly proved anything—it could have been lying around at Thebes Farm when Paula arrived, innocently picked up by Bridget a few days later, after the murder.
“Dr. Lawson?” Inspector Queen touched her lightly on the arm as they approached the Headington roundabout. “What’s the best route to Jericho? Marston Ferry Road?”
“Mmm.” Loretta glanced at her watch and was astonished to discover it was only twenty past seven; they had done the journey in record time. Several years ago, when she lived in Islington, she had learned a relaxation technique at a yoga class which she now tried to put into practice, unsuccessfully attempting to regulate her breathing.
“Your neighbor comes in to feed the cat, is that right?”
“What?”
“Mrs.—the woman two doors down.”
“Mrs. Mason.”
“She looks after him when you go away, that’s very convenient.”
They passed the Cherweli School on their right, pulling out to overtake a slow-moving van.
“I prefer dogs myself,” Inspector Queen prattled on as they reached the junction with Banbury Road. “Big ones like Labradors, I haven’t got any time for those yappy little things. Though with the hours I have to work . . . My sister’s got a cat, a big tabby. What color’s yours?”
“Gray.” Loretta didn’t bother to point out that the Inspector had almost fallen over Bertie on the stairs when she came to the house the previous week.
“And the canal isn’t a problem? I suppose cats don’t like water, do they?”
“No.”
“One of our divers got Weil’s disease from the canal. You know, that thing you get from rat’s urine. He was off for months.”
The lights changed and they crossed Banbury Road. Loretta glanced north at the solid Edwardian villas leading up to the Summertown shops; everything looked so ordinary, a young Chinese woman in jeans crossing the road, an elderly woman carrying a Yorkshire terrier, the yappy kind of dog Inspector Queen had just disparaged. Loretta’s fingers closed on the door handle, responding to her unformed wish to escape from the car, and the Inspector gave her a sharp look.
“Left here?” said the driver at the end of Moreton Road, only the second time he had spoken since they all got into the white Rover.
“Yes. And then right into Polstead Road or St. Margaret’s, it doesn’t matter which.” Loretta shrank into her corner, trying to remember whether the police needed a warrant to search a house. If she made enough noise opening the front door, made it clear she was not alone, maybe Bridget would take the hint and hide—although it was hard to imagine a pregnant woman squeezing under a bed or concealing herself in the narrow wardrobe in the spare bedroom.
“Sorry?” she said, turning her head.
“I asked how long you’ve lived there, Southmoor Road.”
“Oh, three years.”
“And you don’t mind commuting to London?”
“I don’t go every day. Not this one,” she added hastily, seeing that the driver was about to take the first turn into Southmoor Road, “there’s a one-way system.” Without acknowledging her advice he changed up a gear, drove on a hundred yards and turned into Southmoor Place. The short road ended in a T-junction and the car halted while the driver peered at a carelessly parked Volvo which overhung the junction by a yard.
“The way people park,” said Inspector Queen, and the car inched round the corner, steering a narrow course between the Volvo and an old Citroeë parked opposite. The driver cruised along the street, keeping an eye on the numbers, and bumped up onto the pavement behind Loretta’s green Golf.
“That’s yours, isn’t it? You’re lucky it hasn’t been pinched, they love those GTIs at Blackbird Leys.”
Loretta ignored her, too busy trying to spot Bridget’s maroon car. As the engine died she gave up looking and leaped out, her keys already in her hand as she hurried round the Rover to her front gate. She heard the Inspector call her name, glanced up the street to see a uniformed policewoman getting out of a parked car, and bolted up the path, throwing open the front door and dropping her carpetbag as she got inside.
“Bridget,” she called in as loud a whisper as she dared, “Bridget, where are you?” She looked fearfully back at the front door, wondering why the detectives hadn’t caught up with her, and saw that her abandoned carpetbag was preventing them from opening the front door.
“Hang on, ma’am, something’s in the way,” said Blady’s voice and Loretta took advantage of the delay to move further down the hall, straining for the least sound of occupation on the upper or lower floors. She heard nothing, neither footsteps nor the creak of a floor-board, and she almost cried out in the hope that Bridget had gone out, that what she was listening to was the eerie silence of an empty house.
“Dr. Lawson? What’s going on? What’s the hurry?” Inspector Queen strode down the hall to confront Loretta, angry and suspicious.
She turned. “Urn, nothing. The answering machine’s in there.” She pointed through the open door of her study, then swung round, her heart pounding, as she heard a noise from the kitchen. Loretta and the Inspector stood very still for half a minute, their eyes fixed on the bend in the stairs, and Loretta almost laughed out loud when the gray cat appeared, tail high and grumbling volubly about her three-day absence.
“Bertie.” Loretta scooped him up, held his sturdy body against her chest and gently unhooked his claws from the thin fabric of her shirt. She said inanely: “Who’s a good boy then?”
Inspector Queen rolled her eyes upwards and stepped into Loretta’s study. “In here, you say?”
Loretta followed, carrying the cat. She was aware that Blady was behind her, close enough to feel his breath on her neck, and she moved swiftly out of range, hurrying across the room to her desk where the green message light blinked at her in the artificial dusk created by the lowered blind. The cat squirmed and she allowed him to slip from her arms, chewing her lip again as she leaned forward to raise the blind. The evening sun filled the room with a rosy glow but Loretta was in no mood to admire the effect, worried now in case Bridget had phoned with a message about her current whereabouts.
“Ready?” she asked, turning to the Inspector, and was just in time to see Blady slip out of the room. She sighed, thinking there was little point in challenging the legality of the search, and pressed the “message play” button on the answering machine. From the time the tape took to rewind she guessed there were half a dozen messages on the machine, although the first two or three should be safe enough, left over from earlier in the week. The machine beeped and a deep, slightly familiar American voice began to speak.
“Loretta, this is Dolores del Negro calling from Berkeley on Monday morning. I guess it’s Monday evening your time. I got your message Friday and I was hoping to catch up with you today. Maybe if I leave my home number you can call me there. Talk to you soon.”
Inspector Queen frowned and tapped her foot as the American woman
dictated a long number, hesitated and then repeated her work number in case Loretta did not have it to hand.
The machine beeped and someone coughed into the tape. “Hello, Laura, it’s Jenny, just ringing to say happy birthday. I did get you a card but Anthea’s got chicken pox and now Kate’s starting it as well, you know how it is. I expect you’re out having a lovely time, and if I don’t hear from you I’ll try again later in the week. Bye.”
“My sister,” Loretta explained as Jenny finished speaking.
“Hello? Hello? This is L. D. Taylor, electrical repairs . . . your radio’s ready if you’d like to collect it. It’s half past two on Tuesday and if you get this message today we’re open till five thirty. Thanking you.”
“Loretta?” Christopher’s voice, very agitated. “I know you’re not home, I thought you might have left your number in Paris . . . Could you wait a moment, please, can’t you see I’m talking? Sorry, Loretta, all hell’s broken loose here—the cops just took Sam away, they said something about murder. OK, in a moment—I have to go, Loretta, call me as soon as you get home.”
Inspector Queen said: “News travels fast.”
The tape wound on. “Hi, er . . . this is John Tracey. Listen, Loretta, I’m supposed to be getting a flight to Moscow but those wankers at the embassy are messing me around about a visa . . . I just got a call from a freelance in Oxford and your mate’s husband, Boris Becker or whatever he calls himself, apparently he’s been arrested. I called the cops and all they’ll say is he’s helping with inquiries but it doesn’t look good. Um, it’s Wednesday morning by the way, eleven . . . ten past twelve.”
The answering machine beeped and Loretta closed her eyes, half expecting to hear Bridget’s voice. Instead she heard Tracey again, more hesitant this time: “Loretta, it’s me, I’m still at the office. I called him back, the freelance, and this DC he knows says they’ve got half of CID looking for Bridget. Christ, I wish you wouldn’t disappear like this—ring me as soon as you get in, OK? I don’t want you doing anything stupid. The Moscow trip’s off, by the way, you can get me at the office or I’ll call you later.” The machine beeped twice and began to rewind.
“John Tracey, doesn’t he work for one of the Sunday papers? How do you know him?” Inspector Queen sounded suspicious.
“I used to be married to him.” Loretta leaned forward and pressed the “store” button so the messages would not be erased.
Blady appeared in the doorway. “Nothing, ma’am.”
“Nothing at all? No note?” The Inspector glanced at Loretta.
“I went through the post, it’s on the kitchen table.”
“What about upstairs?”
“No, ma’am.”
The Inspector’s shoulders sagged; all the animation went out of her and she looked drained, middle-aged. She stared into space for a moment, her eyes half-closed, then said tiredly to Loretta: “Will you be here for the rest of the evening, Dr. Lawson? You’re not going out?”
Loretta shrugged. “I suppose.”
“You’ll ring us if you hear from Dr. Bennett?”
Loretta said nothing.
“You do know the penalties for obstructing the police?”
Loretta lost her temper. “For God’s sake, why don’t you leave me alone? You grab me at the airport, force me back here, search my house—what more do you want? Blood?”
Inspector Queen flushed, but she kept her temper. “Blady,” she said curtly, nodding towards the door. “I’ll see you outside.” She folded one arm across her chest, supporting her chin on her clenched fist, and remained in this contemplative position until they heard the front door close. Then she lifted her head and looked directly at Loretta.
“You won’t help her, you know. Not by doing anything stupid.”
Loretta turned away, walked to her desk and stared out of the window.
“Where do you think she can hide? She’s pregnant—there’s the baby to think of.”
Loretta breathed heavily, struggling against tears.
“She needs medical treatment, I’ve talked to the hospital. You’re not doing her any favors, her or the baby—”
“Get out.”
“Dr. Lawson—”
“Get out.”
To her surprise, the policewoman did not argue. Loretta heard her move to the door, pause as though she wanted to say something else, then walk down the hall to the front door. She waited until she heard footsteps on the path, the clang of the gate as it opened and closed, then snatched up the phone. Her hand was trembling so much that she misdialed, gasping with frustration as she attempted John Tracey’s direct line at the Sunday Herald a second time. Behind her the cat leapt onto a filing cabinet and let out a series of yowls, furiously demanding attention, but she barely heard him.
“Come on, come on. That’s not John Tracey, is it?”
“No, I was passing his desk. Rosie, has John left? Sorry, love, you’ve missed him.”
Loretta pressed down the rest and tried Tracey’s home number. It rang three or four times and then the machine answered: “Hi, John Tracey speaking. I’m also taking message for Terese McKinnon.”
“Oh, God,” Loretta moaned as he listed his other numbers, unable to contain her impatience. “John, it’s me, it’s”—she looked at her watch—“it’s ten to eight on Wednesday evening. Oh, God, where are you? Ring me as soon as you get in, I’ve got to speak to you—” She swallowed air, choked and put the phone down.
There was a noise in the hall and she ran to the front door, almost tripping over the cat who followed and entangled himself in her legs. She seized the sheet of paper lying on the mat, read the first line of a flyer advertising an itinerant knife-sharpening service and crumpled it into a ball. In her study the phone rang and she ran to answer it, her heart pounding.
“Laura? You sound out of breath—is everything all right?”
“Jenny.” Disappointment flooded through her and her one thought was to get her sister off the line. “Can I ring you back? I’m sorry, I can’t explain—”
“You sound awful. What’s happened?”
“Jenny, I can’t talk now.”
“Hang on, Laura, I am your sister, if something’s wrong—”
“Please, Jenny.” Loretta could hardly believe that Jenny, who was usually preoccupied with her own domestic concerns, was suddenly and inopportunely offering sympathy. “I’m expecting a call and I’ll ring you tomorrow. Bye.”
She replaced the receiver, breathed out heavily and wondered what on earth to do next. Tracey might not ring for hours; he often ate out in the evenings instead of cooking for himself, or he might even have got his Russian visa and be on his way to Moscow. She ran through a mental list of the people she could ring—Christopher Cisar, Audrey Summers, various friends of Bridget in Oxford—but decided she didn’t know any of them well enough to tell the truth. Anyway, she didn’t want to block the line in case Tracey arrived home and found her message. She stood irresolute, drumming her fingers on the desktop, horribly frustrated by her inability to act.
The phone rang again and she snatched it up. “John?”
“No—it’s me.”
Loretta let out a yelp. “Bridget. Where are you?” A thought occurred to her and she said rapidly: “No, don’t say. They may be—it’s not safe.” She knew nothing about phone-tapping, whether it took days or hours for the police to get a warrant, but she didn’t want to take the risk. “Oh, God, Bridget, the police were waiting for me at Heathrow, they’ve only just left. I don’t know how to tell you—”
“I know. I played back the messages on your machine.”
“You what?”
“Christopher, then John Tracey . . . I knew they’d think of you and I just ran.”
Loretta’s relief at this news was swiftly replaced by anger. She blurted out: “Where were you that Thursday? What are you trying to hide? Don’t you trust me?”
“Loretta, stop.” Bridget began to cry. “I’m so frightened and I don’t know what
to do. You’ve got to help me.
“All right, wait a minute.” Loretta tried to think clearly. If Bridget had left the house at lunchtime she could be anywhere—the other end of the country. What they needed was a code, a way of conveying information which would mean something to the two of them but give nothing away to an eavesdropper.
Bridget seemed to be thinking along the same lines for she suddenly said, in a calmer voice: “Remember Professor Lai, Loretta? I’m at his house.”
“Professor who?”
“Professor Lai.”
“No, I don’t think—” Comprehension dawned and she said triumphantly: “Yes, I do, I’ve got it. I’m on my way.” In a hasty attempt to throw any listeners off the scent, to mislead them about where she was going, she added: “It’ll take me, what? A couple of hours?”
“A couple of hours?”
“Oh, never mind.”
“What do you mean, a couple of hours?”
“Oh, God, forget it.” She would be able to explain the subterfuge face-to-face in a matter of minutes. “Look, I’m leaving now, OK?”
“OK. Loretta, come round the back, won’t you? I daren’t open the front door.”
The line clicked and Loretta put down the phone. She hurried into the hall, knelt by her carpetbag and removed her purse and checkbook. She opened the purse and took out a wad of notes, pulling a face when she saw that most of them were useless French francs; Bridget would need cash, but there was no time to waste on finding a cash dispenser. Two minutes later she was ready to leave, her purse transferred to a small shoulder bag and no clear plan in her head beyond getting to Bridget’s side. She opened the front door, started down the path and froze: there, parked three or four car lengths up the street, was a police patrol car. The house was still under observation; Loretta turned and darted back inside, appalled that she had not foreseen this complication. She stood in the hall, trembling and uncertain whether she had been seen. Thirty seconds, then a minute, passed without incident and she began to relax, turning over the problem of how to get out unobserved. The house formed part of a short terrace, with no access to the road apart from the front door; there was a row of semis further down Southmoor Road and she briefly considered a route over her own garden fence and those of her immediate neighbors until she came to a house with a side gate.
