by Ann Granger
There was a silence. ‘The cops are treating it as murder, then,’ I said at last.
‘Looks like it, don’t it?’
More silence. ‘There’s something else,’ I said and told her about my visit to the hostel and meeting with Jessica Davis.
Susie shook her head. ‘You need help on this one, Fran. I’d offer but I don’t know any more about this than you’ve told me. It seems to me the person you ought to make common cause with is Lottie Forester.’
‘I don’t think she wants to see me again,’ I said. ‘She sort of seems to hold me responsible for Duane’s death. I can’t blame her, not that I had anything to do with it. I didn’t invite the idiot to go tracking me down. But he did die because he was looking for me and I did find him.’
‘All the same,’ said Susie. ‘I reckon you should give that girl out at Teddington a bell and arrange to have a chat with her. She’ll want to find out who bumped off her boyfriend and she’s the one who knows who hired him to follow your old bag lady.’
‘Yeah, you’re right, of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone her tonight. I just hope she’s there. I told her to ask the police for protection and if she is a material witness they may just have whisked her off somewhere nice and private already.’
But Lottie was at the Fulwell address when I phoned later that evening.
‘I’ve got to make a living, haven’t I?’ she snapped when I asked whether she was planning to move out temporarily. ‘I’ve got to be here to deal with enquiries. If clients try to reach me and can’t, they won’t try again. I’m in business on my own now, aren’t I? I can’t just hand everything over to some secretary. I haven’t got one!’
‘All right, all right,’ I said hastily, cutting into this flow. ‘Then can I come and see you?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was crisp. ‘We do need to talk. I’ve been thinking about things since you left. I want to know who did this to Duane and I’m not sitting around here just brooding about it. I want to bloody do something.’
A girl I could do business with.
The weather was treating us to a fine drizzle when I set out the next morning. The temperature had dropped several degrees. Teddington looked damp and grey; even the Fulwell golf course was bedraggled.
Lottie had taken my strictures to heart. Although she knew I was coming, when I rang the bell she replied by hanging out of an upper window to check who it was.
‘Hang on a sec!’ she called down.
She was all in black today, tight black pants and a top made of some flimsy material which floated about when she moved. Perhaps this signified mourning. She still wore the boots. Her manner was slightly friendlier. She had decided we had something to trade and was ready to do business. At least, I hoped I was reading the signs rightly.
I thought she’d take me back to the office but instead she led me to the far end of the hall and opened the door into a large comfortable kitchen.
‘We might as well sit in here,’ she said. ‘We can have a coffee and it’s a bit warmer. The office is cold without any heating on.’
She busied herself making our coffee while I sat and took in my surroundings. The original kitchen had been enlarged by the addition of a glazed extension. It led to a garden which must have been pretty once, in Granny’s day, but was sadly neglected now. Roses rambled in wild profusion over trellis work which sagged and needed a prop and a few nails to keep it from inevitable collapse. The lawn was in need of a trim and between the patches of long grass the bright green cushions of moss were visible. Weeds sprouted between the flags of a pathway. There were a couple of large glazed pots but nothing now grew in them except more weeds. Even so, this was still a highly desirable property and if the detection business didn’t prosper, Lottie could sell the place for a tidy sum and have the funds to take her time thinking what she did next.
The furniture in the kitchen was mostly pine of a style which was fashionable years ago when people living in urban areas wanted to pretend they lived in a Cotswold cottage. Every worktop was cluttered: dishes and pots, paperwork, bottles and a tiny television set. Dusty bunches of dried flowers dangled from hooks. Copper pots in need of a rub decorated the walls. There could be no greater contrast to the office I’d seen previously. That had been meticulously tidy but, professional surroundings aside, Lottie was no housekeeper.
I’d been thinking about my grandfather’s studio portrait recently and now my eye was taken by a collection of what I assumed to be family photographs framed and hung in a careful display on one wall. Some looked old. One was of a stout man in very formal dress with a watch chain draped across his waistcoat. He had a square face with a bulldog expression and glared at the camera. I was rather glad I had never met him. There were a couple of wedding groups and a pretty baby sitting on a rug in a garden.
‘You?’ I asked, pointing at the picture, as Lottie returned with the mugs.
She looked vaguely surprised and stared at the portraits as if she’d forgotten they were there. She probably had. They had been there all her life.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Who are all the others?’
Lottie walked to the collection and I followed her pointing finger. She indicated the ferocious old fellow with the watch chain first. ‘My great-grandfather.’
‘Oh?’ I said rather feebly. There wasn’t much I could say. My own grandfather’s portrait had possessed a certain rakish charm. This old bloke, a generation older certainly, didn’t suggest any charm.
Lottie had moved to the wedding groups. ‘This later group shows my parents and the earlier one shows my grandparents.’
‘That’s the grandma who left you this house? Was she your dad’s mother or your mum’s?’
She was looking a little resentful. She didn’t like being quizzed.
‘I was brought up by my grandmother,’ I explained. ‘She was my dad’s mother.’
‘Oh?’ For a moment she looked mildly interested. ‘Lilian was also my father’s mother. She didn’t like being called Grandma or Gran or any of those names. I always called her Lilian. Does any of this matter?’
I like old photos so although I didn’t ask any more questions, I took a last good look. Her parents’ group showed a conventional white wedding with a seventies stamp on it. The groom’s hair was nearly as long as the bride’s and he wore disastrous flares. The bride had on a mediaeval sort of floaty gown with full sleeves and a high round collar. Her long straight hair was garlanded with flowers. Peace, man . . . and all the rest of it.
I looked at the earlier wedding group as a contrast. This was a register office do. The bride wore a wasp-waisted suit with a pencil skirt. They were as thin as rakes, those nineteen-fifties women. She had a round flattish saucer hat like the traditional Chinese coolie’s. She was an attractive woman but I judged her a tough one. There was a thinness to her mouth and surely, on her wedding day, she could have raised a smile. Her husband was an unexceptional fellow with a balding dome and moustache. He looked as if he ought to have been a bank manager, whether or not he was.
I didn’t know whether bride or groom had the dubious distinction of being the offspring of the scowling man with the watch chain and felt I couldn’t ask any more questions.
‘Those old pictures have had their day,’ said Lottie now rather brusquely. ‘Duane and I planned to turn everything out when we did up the house. All those old pics are for the bin along with most of the rest of the junk in this house.’
She plumped herself down on a chair opposite me across the table and pushed aside a collection of magazines and old newspapers. ‘We didn’t get round to it. We were always busy.’ A hint of sadness touched her voice.
I thought she might later regret throwing away old family photos. Sentimentality aside, perhaps she ought to get some of the china and stuff valued before she chucked it out. I was remembering the old blue and white bowl in the hallway. But that wasn’t for me to suggest.
‘Private investigation business good around here?�
� I asked.
‘We’ve been doing all right. I told you, Duane was a good detective.’
We sipped coffee and eyed each other speculatively.
‘Look, Lottie,’ I said, putting down my mug. ‘We’ve got to work together. Just to show you I’m on the level, I’ll tell you what happened to me yesterday after I left here.’
I told her about Jessica Davis. I watched her closely but she didn’t bat an eyelid. If she knew the name she was good at hiding it.
‘You don’t know her?’ I prompted.
‘All news to me,’ she said. ‘Never heard of the woman. Who is your client?’
‘I swear I’m not working for anyone on this. Honestly, I’m looking into it all for my own satisfaction. That is, it was just for my own satisfaction but now, in view of what happened to Duane, it might be for my own preservation.’
She fiddled with her mug, turning it round and round. ‘The police came to see me yesterday, early evening,’ she announced baldly. ‘They’d got a report from the autopsy on Duane. They think it’s possible someone knocked him out and then stuck a lethal shot into his arm. I’d like to get my hands on whoever did it!’ she added viciously.
‘Come to that, he might like to get his hands on you,’ I reminded her. ‘Not that I want to scare you or anything.’
‘I don’t scare that easy.’
Bravado keeps the spirits up but it doesn’t keep away the bad guys.
‘Are you sleeping here in the house?’ I asked.
She nodded. ‘Absolutely, anyway . . .’ She looked up and the grey-green eyes met mine calmly. ‘We want whoever it was to contact me, don’t we? Flush him out? Think of a goat tethered out in a jungle glade to tempt a tiger. That’s me, the goat.’
‘I hope the cops didn’t suggest that!’ I snapped.
‘Of course they didn’t. They want me to move out, just like you said they would. But I told them, I’m staying here.’
The moment had come. ‘I have to know the name of your client,’ I said. ‘I have to know who asked you and Duane to track down Edna.’
‘We’re working together on this?’ The grey-green eyes challenged me.
‘We’re working together. You haven’t got Duane. You can’t trust Les. You need me.’
‘How much of a cut do you want out of our fee?’
I hadn’t thought about the fact that it was a paid job to her, not just a personal matter as it was to me. ‘I don’t want paying,’ I said. ‘I want to walk down the street without looking over my shoulder all the time. You should have the entire fee. You’re entitled to Duane’s share.’
She cheered up. She was a businesswoman, after all.
‘All right. My employer is Henry Culpeper.’
‘Culpeper?’ I asked. ‘Is that on the level? It’s not an alias?’
‘No!’ she retorted impatiently. ‘Of course not. I check out clients. I’d be daft not to. I might end up working for any dodgy sod. His name is Henry Culpeper.’
‘OK, OK.’ I held up a placating hand. ‘It’s just that I seem to have heard the name somewhere.’
‘Culpeper’s Herbal,’ said Lottie. ‘It’s a famous old medicine book.’
‘And what does Mr Culpeper want to do, now that Duane’s dead? When I last saw you, you hadn’t spoken to him but I’m assuming you’ve spoken to him now.’
She fidgeted. ‘Not directly.’
‘Oy!’ I protested. ‘You can’t hold out on your client like that! He thinks he’s hiring two ’tecs, not one. Anyway, if he reads his Evening Standard . . . I assume he does live in London?’
She interrupted me. ‘I’m not holding out on him! If you’d give me a minute to explain? I don’t deal with Mr Culpeper directly. I deal with his representative. Henry Culpeper knew me when I was a kid. That’s why he was happy to deal with us - through his intermediary. ’
I stared at her thoughtfully until she began to fidget again and give me uneasy glances from the grey-green eyes.
‘Why can’t he deal with you directly?’
‘He’s in poor health. He asked his grandson to find a reliable private investigation agency. To be absolutely honest the grandson, Adam Ferrier, came to us, Duane and me, because he already knew me of old. He was a sort of boyfriend once, before I met Duane - nothing heavy,’ she added hastily, ‘just a couple of dates. Anyhow, his grandfather asked him about using a private detective. Adam said not to worry, he knew me and that I’d set up an agency with Duane. He’d take care of it. His grandfather was pretty pleased to think we’d be the investigators. The bill is being paid by old Henry but we - I report to Adam. It’s simple.’
It wasn’t simple; it was another layer in a concealing fog. Somewhere behind all this was someone who wanted to be kept out of it. But was it old Henry Culpeper? And how many old gentlemen were interested in Edna’s whereabouts? Jessica Davis was working on behalf of an elderly man in poor health. Did Edna have a secret geriatric fan club? Lottie had denied knowing anything about Jessica. But old Henry might have more than one iron in the fire. Perhaps he hadn’t been completely convinced by his grandson’s recommendation of Duane and Lottie? Had he decided to take out a little insurance and consulted Jessica? But more to the point, why go to so much trouble?
‘Why does Mr Culpeper want to know where Edna is? What more does he want?’
‘I don’t know, Duane and I didn’t know, why he wants to find Edna Walters. He just does and that’s our job. He would like to meet her. Duane was supposed to track her down and bring her out here, that is, persuade her to come with him and Adam would take her to his grandfather.’
‘And what about Adam Ferrier, where does he live?’
‘He’s got a flat in Docklands but he comes over here to visit his grandfather pretty often, so does Rebecca.’ Seeing my raised eyebrows, she added, ‘Rebecca is his sister. She and I were at school together.’
‘Well, well, well,’ I said sourly. ‘Isn’t this just pally and girls’ old-school-tie?’
‘No, it’s not,’ she retorted crossly. ‘If you want to call it anything, call it networking.’
I could have told her I went to a good school once. My father and Grandma had scrimped and saved to send me to a place with a reputation for turning out educated young ladies.
‘We’ve not had many failures,’ the headmistress finally announced regretfully, ‘but sadly, Francesca, we are unable to count you among our successes. Such a pity. It could all have been so different.’
I didn’t mention it. But I was getting uneasy. It’s one thing to deal with a straightforward client and agency relationship. It’s quite another where there are old friendships mixed in the brew. What had Duane thought about this ex-boyfriend of Lottie’s who turned up with a job offer?
‘I’d like to meet Adam Ferrier,’ I said firmly. ‘Can you fix it?’
She blinked at me in that slow appraising way she had. ‘I can ask him. It’s up to him if he wants to meet you.’
‘I’d be obliged,’ I said, ‘and as soon as possible.’ I got up. ‘I need to go back now but you can ring me—’
I remembered that the Duke agency was currently off limits thanks to the police. ‘You can’t ring the agency. I’ll give you the number of the payphone in the house where I live. People there are quite good about passing on messages.’
She read the details I wrote out for her, her expression full of misgiving. I thought she’d decided I was about as trustworthy as Les. She probably regretted letting me into whatever she was working on. But she didn’t have Duane any longer and Les’s role in all this had yet to be fully investigated. Hobson’s choice. I was the horse nearest the door.
‘OK,’ she said. She twisted the scrap of paper in her fingers back and forth. ‘I’ll discuss it with my principal,’ she said.
‘Mr Culpeper?’
‘Well, no.’ She looked a little uncertain for the first time since we’d met. Perhaps it was dawning on her at last that Duane’s death had left her in a curious limbo. ‘I told you,
I don’t speak to Mr Culpeper, only to Adam. It’s Adam you want to meet and you can’t meet his grandfather any more than I can. He’s ill, I told you.’
‘Then speak to Adam,’ I said.
I wasn’t accepting that I couldn’t meet aged Grandpa Culpeper, but that encounter would have to be arrived at without Lottie and Adam interfering, and was for the future.
‘Tell Mr Ferrier,’ I said, ‘that we need to talk soon.’
Chapter Eleven
I made my way back into London and my flat. Bonnie was pleased to see me, bouncing around like a furry football. ‘All right, take it easy, I’ll take you for a walk,’ I promised her. There was a note pushed under my door. It was from Ganesh.
