‘Did he make any other comment?’
‘Only that he’d like to get his hands on the bastard that sold it him.’
Not dealers themselves, then, but perhaps a motive for blackmailing those who were.
‘Do you know anyone who didn’t like the twins – had it in for them?’
‘Only rival fans. There used to be punch-ups sometimes.’
‘Did your brother go with them to matches?’ A Preston had not been mentioned among the gang.
‘No, he’s not into football. He goes dog-racing.’
‘One more thing, Dolores, then we’ll go. This may be painful for you, but could you tell us the first thing that came into your head when you heard they’d been killed?’
‘That I was glad they went together.’
‘They were that close?’
‘Yeh. It was spooky.’
‘But you’d no idea who could have killed them?’
‘No. It would only have made sense after a match.’ She knuckled her eyes in a touchingly childish gesture. ‘I hope you get who did it,’ she said.
CHAPTER 10
George Latimer believed firmly that there was no such thing as a free dinner. On the other hand, evenings at home were stultifying and Monica, as he’d learned at lunch-time, was playing hostess to Justin yet again. He intended to put a stop to that once they were married. If they ever did marry.
He sighed; she’d seemed to need him the other night after her anonymous phone calls, but her dependence had been short-lived. The danger was now over; that was why she’d telephoned, and the measure of relief with which he’d heard the news was in proportion to the anxiety he’d felt.
All the same, he thought ruefully, it had been good to feel he was needed. And in the stress of the moment, she had agreed to a weekend away. He’d remind her of that, next time they spoke.
Now, though, he had other things on his mind, such as how, after a good meal, impartiality could be maintained regarding the increased loan which he was sure was behind the invitation.
At least, he thought as he got into the car, his clients had drawn the line at taking him to The Gables, where Monica was bound this evening. No doubt there were grades of restaurant for entertaining possibly compliant bank managers. Someone should do a sociological survey on it.
Frecklemarsh, a village eight miles south-west of Shillingham, owed its fame to The Gables, a small but highly regarded hotel renowned for its cuisine. It was a popular choice for wedding receptions and twenty-first parties, but its clientele was mainly drawn from businessmen on expense accounts who wished to impress foreign clients, and by wealthy families wanting a base from which to explore the Broadshire countryside.
The ambience was that of a country house, with genuine antiques, comfortable chairs and, in winter, log fires burning in the grates, and the relaxed atmosphere was due in no small measure to its proprietor, Oliver Pendrick.
He made it a practice to greet all his clients personally, and was as usual in the hall when Justin and Monica arrived with the two Frenchmen, father and son, who were their guests.
‘Mr Teal!’ Pendrick came forward, holding out his hand. ‘Good to see you! And Miss Tovey. How’s your mother?’
Monica watched with admiration as Justin introduced the Clériots and the proprietor slipped easily into French, immediately putting them at ease. He was, she knew, a widower, a tall, well-built man in his early fifties, with thick red-brown hair hardly touched with grey, and deepset eyes.
‘How’s Henry?’ Justin was asking, as Pendrick himself led them through to the restaurant.
‘Doing very well. He’s spending a year at the Georges V and loving every moment of it.’ He stopped at their table and pulled out a chair for Monica. ‘Enjoy your meal!’ And he left them to attend to the next arrivals.
‘Henri is the son?’ Monsieur Clériot inquired in French, as a waiter shook out a napkin and laid it across his knees.
‘Yes; following the family tradition, as you’ll gather.’
‘The Georges V is a formidable training-ground!’
The pleasantries over, the talk turned almost immediately to business and Monica, steering clear of the more exotic dishes out of deference to her migraine, allowed her thoughts to wander. How wonderful it had been to drive here this evening without the knowledge that a police guard was of necessity following her, to walk fearlessly without looking back over her shoulder. That anxious time had lasted only five days, but the memory of it would, she knew, be long-lasting. At least it had taught her to take nothing for granted.
Half-listening to the soft cadences of French, she thought back to that morning and the Chief Inspector’s visit. Why had the fact that Justin travelled abroad interested him? For that matter, what did he suspect the White twins had seen which was to lead to their death? Who else’s windows had they cleaned?
She conjured them up in her mind – clipped blond hair, blue eyes, the cocky, defiant stance. They’d been so young; she’d hoped to be able to reform them in time, but had not been given the chance. More importantly, neither had they.
Justin claimed her attention with a query, and she reentered the general conversation.
‘It was my fault; I shouldn’t have asked you.’ Eloise lay back on the chaise-longue, her body barred with shadow as the evening sun filtered through Venetian blinds.
‘It’s never been a problem before,’ Harry replied. They were in the upper room at the Carlton Gallery, surrounded by stacked canvases waiting to be hung the next day.
‘But she resented the short notice, you said.’
‘Oh, it was a combination of things; having the lunch all prepared, looking forward to a lazy day –’
‘Yes, I should have known better than ring so late. The point was, of course, that I hadn’t intended to invite you; I’d phoned Mother first thing. But then, well, the pressure was building up. I needed to see you, and didn’t stop to think.’
‘You couldn’t have known Claudia’d react like that.’
‘You don’t think it’s serious, though?’
‘I don’t know; I keep wondering if she could have heard something.’
‘What, for heaven’s sake, since no one else knows? We’ve always been so careful.’
‘We’re not being too careful now, meeting this evening. Specially since you’re supposed to be prostrate with a migraine.’
She shrugged her bony shoulders. ‘Justin knows that’s an excuse. My noble sister stepped into the breach as usual.’
‘What about her migraine? That was genuine enough.’
‘Better now, apparently. Oh, and that man she’d seen by the van phoned her last night. And guess what? He’s not the murderer after all!’
Harry retrieved his shirt which had slid to the floor and tossed it on to a nearby chair. ‘Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
‘The police seem to believe him. Apparently he found the van in a lay-by and stole it.’
‘And got more than he bargained for? That should teach him a lesson.’
‘So they’re back to square one on the real killer, and Justin’s still worried about it. He thinks it’s too much of a coincidence, the bodies being left where they were, when Monica’d had dealings with them.’
She looked up at him and trailed a long finger down his back. ‘And talking of Justin, he suddenly remarked last night on what a good friend you were.’
‘My God! What brought that on?’
‘I don’t know; he said he’d been thinking how badly he and I treated you all those years ago, and that it said a lot for you that we were still friends.’ She paused. ‘He also made some comment about wondering if you still regretted what had happened.’
‘That’s a bit near the bone, particularly coming on top of Claudia’s wobbler. Perhaps we should play it down for a while, once tomorrow’s over.’
‘Is everything ready? For tomorrow?’
‘Except for those.’ He indicated the unhung paintings.
�
�You do think it’ll go off all right?’
‘No reason why it shouldn’t. Heaven knows, enough planning has gone into it. Even,’ he added with a smile, ‘to the extent of booking Home Cooking for the refreshments. So in the meantime –’ he turned towards her – ‘if we’re going to have to cool it for a while, let’s make the most of this evening.’
They were a pleasant enough couple, the Davidsons, and George was quite enjoying himself. The husband, a bluff rather hearty man, was a bit of a social climber, and George knew well enough that the loan around which he’d been skirting so dextrously all evening was intended to offset public school fees for his sons. However, he was good company, and he’d splashed out on an excellent bottle of wine; another point which required finesse when entertaining one’s bank manager.
Mrs Davidson was clearly nervous, picking at her food and anxiously watching her husband for any sign that she wasn’t fulfilling her duties as hostess. Meanwhile George, with no particular worries on his mind, was savouring his meal. They had reached the cheese course when, as he casually glanced across the room, he caught sight of Jeremy Teal.
Although he’d never discussed them with her, George shared Monica’s distrust of her nephews. Too plausible by half; if they worked for him, he’d keep them on a pretty tight rein. He craned his neck, trying to see if the decorative and empty-headed Primrose was also present. She was not; Jeremy’s companions were two dark, sallow-skinned men, who appeared to be deep in conversation with him.
What was the boy up to? Had he been alone himself, George would have been tempted to stroll over to their table simply to see Jeremy’s reaction: because something in the set of his shoulders spoke of tension, and quite possibly an unwillingness to be spotted by anyone he knew.
‘More wine, Mr Latimer?’ Davidson held up the bottle invitingly.
‘No, thank you, I’m driving. It was very good, though. I must watch out for that label.’
‘No doubt it was supplied by Rayner & Teal. They seem to have this area nicely sewn up, and good luck to them. Aren’t they related to the Tovey family?’
‘I believe so,’ George said distantly. He had no wish to enter into conversation about his friends.
‘Dreadful thing, those bodies being left outside the house,’ Mrs Davidson said in her quick, nervous voice. ‘In a place like North Park, too. It makes you wonder if any where’s safe these days.’
‘And mark my words, they’ll never find those responsible,’ Davidson opined. ‘The first few days are crucial in a murder case; once the trail’s gone cold, the police might as well throw their hand in.’
‘Oh, surely not, Phil,’ his wife protested. ‘You often hear of people being caught years later.’
‘Only if they’re in prison for something else, and bragging to their cellmates. You’ll see: it’ll stop being newsworthy in another week or so, and everyone’ll forget it.’
‘I doubt if the police will,’ George commented. ‘They’re probably pulling all the stops out, even if it’s not reported in the press.’
‘Gang warfare, if you ask me; known football hooligans, getting what was coming to them.’
‘Really, dear, I don’t think that’s quite fair. They –’
George’s attention strayed and he glanced again in Jeremy’s direction. The discussion was still going on, with one of the men doing a fair amount of hand-waving. That a deal was in progress was certain, but George was unsure who was buying and who selling.
At their own table, Mr Davidson was signalling for the bill, and as, minutes later, they walked towards the door, George excused himself for a moment and made a detour to Jeremy’s table. None of the men noticed his approach.
‘Good evening,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Enjoying your meal?’
Jeremy spun round, his hand knocking over his glass, which was fortunately empty. ‘Oh – George,’ he said weakly.
George waited, smiling, for the introductions which would surely follow. They were not forthcoming. Instead, Jeremy muttered something vague about business colleagues and the men across the table smiled and nodded. There was nothing for it but to smile and nod back and rejoin the Davidsons who were awaiting him by the door.
It would be interesting, George reflected, to see if Jeremy referred to the incident when they met the next evening at the Private View.
At The Gables, too, there had been an unexpected meeting. A middle-aged French couple who were being shown to a table further down the restaurant caught sight of the Clériots, and descended on them with much exclaiming and shaking of hands.
They were introduced as Monsieur and Madame Beynaud, near neighbours from Saumur.
‘Incredible that we should meet this way!’ gushed Madame. ‘We had no idea you were visiting England. Since Madame your wife is not with you, I presume it is a business trip? Ourselves, we are on holiday. A charming region, is it not?’
It was several minutes before they remembered the maître d’, patiently waiting to show them to their table, and, amid a deluge of expressions of mutual goodwill, allowed themselves to be led away and the Teal party resumed their meal.
And now it was drawing to an end and they were sitting over coffee, petits-fours and brandy. Monica, having declined coffee, sat contentedly half-listening to the conversation and idly tracing the pattern on her plate. Its distinctive style and colouring proclaimed it instantly as Broadshire Porcelain, as was all the china at The Gables. Mr Pendrick believed in supporting home industry and doubtless the firm received many export orders as a result of his loyalty.
Pendrick was in the hall as they left, and as he shook her hand, Monica remembered Webb’s message. ‘Chief Inspector Webb asked to be remembered to you,’ she told him, and felt the jerk of his hand in hers. Startled, she looked up, catching a fleeting expression which she couldn’t analyse. Then he smiled a little grimly and said, ‘Nice of him. We crossed swords a few years back.’ He paused. ‘I hope yours was a social meeting?’
‘Unfortunately, no. It was in connection with the White murders.’
‘Of course – how clumsy of me. I’m so sorry.’
She smiled and moved towards the door that Justin was holding open for her. But as she settled herself in the car, she could see Pendrick through the glass door of the hotel still looking after her. It was the last time she’d pass on a message from a policeman! she thought feelingly.
Eloise Teal would have been surprised, even startled, to know how much the members of her catering team knew of her personal affairs. It was not that the young people were overly curious, merely that, doing the local circuit in a dozen or so homes, they were more or less bound to pick up titbits of information.
Occasionally they witnessed surreptitiously linked hands beneath the table, the swift passage of a note, expertly palmed, a hurried drawing apart as they entered a room. But although they exchanged the odd ribaldry with each other, they were unfailingly discreet.
The girl, Diane, was the sister of one young man and the girlfriend of the other. Business was thriving as news of their expertise spread, and the Tuesday morning found them rapidly preparing the canapés for the Private View before dashing out to serve lunch for six at Chedbury.
‘Give me a dinner-party any day,’ Graham grumbled.
‘All these little bits and pieces are so time-consuming. What was the final figure – a round two hundred?’
‘That’s right,’ his sister confirmed. ‘Mr Reid said we can have the offices at the back to serve from. They’re interconnected and I don’t think there’s much room, so we’ll need all the stacking trays we can find.’
‘He said they’ll open the doors to the courtyard if it stays dry. It’d help if people moved outside to eat, but since there’s nothing to look at out there, they might not.’
‘Bet Mrs Teal won’t throw one of her “migraines” this evening,’ Diane remarked with a smile. ‘She never does, when there’s anything interesting. Mind over matter, they call it.’
‘Or something!’ Nic
k grinned. ‘Just as well we’re the Three Wise Monkeys – See All, Hear All, Say Nowt!’
‘Too true,’ Graham agreed. ‘If they realized how much we knew, we’d have to sign the Official Secrets Act.’
Diane’s thoughts had moved on. ‘They’ve got some lovely things in that gallery,’ she said guilelessly, looking up from the prawns in aspic. ‘And it’s my birthday soon.’
The young men snorted in unison. ‘Nothing doing there, hon. The way those prices go, you’ll have to wait till we’re doing snacks at Buck House!’
At 11.30 that morning, George received an urgent phone call at the bank. His mother had collapsed and been rushed to the General Hospital.
It took him less than five minutes to terminate the interview he was giving and pass the rest of his morning appointments to his deputy. Then he set off on foot for the hospital. Mid-morning Shillingham was so congested with traffic that he reasoned it would be quicker to walk than try to manoeuvre his car through the clogged streets.
Sunday’s threatened thunder had not materialized and now the sun was back, reflected glaringly in shop windows and beating down on his head as he hurried along.
He shouldn’t have left her last night, he thought in an agony of remorse. She’d said she didn’t feel well. But then she always said that when he went out, and he’d learned to harden his heart. She wouldn’t like being sent to the General, either; many was the promise she’d extracted from him that ‘if anything happened’ she’d be taken to Birch Lawn, the private nursing home.
Franklyn Road was jammed with people strolling along, pausing to chat, blocking the pavement outside the Arts Centre to read the notices of forthcoming events. Was he the only man in the world in a hurry?
He stepped off the pavement to avoid an animated group, and received a warning honk from an indignant motorist. Then, at last, he reached the corner of Carrington Street and turned thankfully into it.
His mother, he learned from the desk in the entrance, was in Intensive Care, but she was asking for him. Perspiring freely by now, he went up in the lift and was escorted to her bedside. She looked ghastly, he thought, his alarm deepening. A series of tubes linked her with ominous-looking machines and she was wearing an oxygen mask. He sat down on the chair beside the bed and took her hand in both his.
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