by Clare Curzon
Emerging from the lift, Mr Fitt had his briefcase with him, and followed Alyson through to the lounge, declining her offer of a drink.
‘Before we talk business,’ she told him, ‘I’d like you to meet the care assistant I’ve taken on in place of the woman who left. He’s a Filipino and I’ve looked at his work permit. Everything seems to be in order, but you may like to check for yourself. As I said, he’s very efficient, and Emily has taken to him well. In fact she’s been quite talkative of late.’
‘Thank you. Certainly I should like to see the man, yes. And I’ll look in on Emily, of course, before I leave.’
Ramón appeared to pass muster, having changed into a fresh uniform jacket for the interview. He was hesitant, as ever, in answering the solicitor’s questions but gave a good account of himself, Alyson stressing the years he had worked for the two doctors in Manila.
‘I hope he will prove as suitable as he appears,’ Fitt said when he had been dismissed. ‘One drawback is his limited command of spoken English, but his comprehension seems adequate. Now, my dear, tell me again, in as much detail as possible, about this bogus insurance man who claimed to have an introduction from myself.’
He examined the letter which Alyson produced, and hummed doubtfully over it. The signature was certainly false, but not the stationery. This was disquieting.
‘And the only person who could describe him to us is the missing Miss Judd? How very inconvenient. What steps have been taken to discover her present whereabouts? Have the police been notified?’
Alyson explained how they assumed Sheena had gone off with a newly acquired man friend. ‘Her absence may have no connection with the other business,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid she was very slack about some things, though this does seem the limit, even for her.’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Fitt said, broaching a new subject, ‘that I should confide to you some of the background to Miss Emily’s – er, unusual life. You are aware, I believe, of the circumstances of her leaving home as a young woman?’
‘My grandmother did mention it, but I doubt she ever knew very much, being just a child at the time.’
‘And then being sent to live in Italy with her mother’s sister until the outbreak of World War II.’
‘For so long? I’d understood it was no more than a prolonged holiday. But after she died I did come across her marriage certificate to my grandfather. On it her maiden name was given as Adriani. Elena Adriani. When she should have been plain Ellen Withers.’
‘Her name was changed by deed poll. That, and the removal to Italy, was to shield her from the publicity of her father’s tragic death.’
‘I knew nothing of that. What happened?’
Fitt, clearly discomfited, gave a little nervous cough before embarking on the story. ‘I’m afraid he was murdered; in his home; bludgeoned with the base of a silver candlestick. Yes, quite shocking. The more so because the police believed it a family matter. For a while his widow, your great-grandmother, was thought to have been responsible. Then Emily, by then barely twenty, suddenly reappeared and claimed to have visited him that night in secret, been attacked and had killed him in self-defence. Whereupon her mother disputed it and pleaded guilty herself.
‘It was a very difficult case to investigate, with two independent confessions, no witnesses and no material evidence. The candlestick had been handled by the butler and the local constable first on the scene.
‘Emily claimed that she had meant to heal the family breach, bringing photographs of her baby daughter, but her father had become violent and she struck him in fear for her life. Eventually her story was accepted. She was tried and found guilty of manslaughter, not murder, but sent to prison despite her tender age. She stayed there for over eight years, until her mother’s death when a servant came forward to testify that she’d overheard a passionate argument between the couple shortly before Henry was found dead in his study.
‘The case was reviewed, Emily was granted a royal pardon and released. One is left wondering how many were unjustly found guilty and actually executed in those days. Because of official embarrassment and the scandalous nature of the full story the matter was hushed up, as was possible then.’
‘Do you mean the fact of Emily’s illegitimate baby?’
Fitt paused, looking at her with weary eyes. ‘More than that, I’m afraid. I hadn’t intended telling you so much, but perhaps you have the right to know. It concerns the parentage of the child. It appeared that Teresa, Mrs Withers, discovered that her husband had been paying considerable sums of money every month into a secret account in his daughter’s name, despite her supposed banishment from his life.’
‘So he had actually forgiven his daughter and was supporting her in her exile?’
The solicitor shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it was something much less charitable than that. Teresa became convinced that her husband had fathered his own daughter’s child, and had been abusing her from childhood.’
‘Incest?’
‘And statutory rape. Emily has never denied it. I once was bold enough to ask, but she simply smiled and said, ‘I was a bad girl.’
‘I suppose I shouldn’t be astonished. We hear enough about child abuse today. But then! People appeared so proper.’
‘Henry was a dyed-in-the-wool autocrat, incapable of seeing himself in the wrong about anything. He was raised in a period when hypocrisy was prevalent. No; if anything amazes me it is that Emily had given in to him. Such a firebrand rebel, as I remember her. She must have been very young when he first seduced her.’
‘Rigidly brought up to honour her father. And afterwards it would have taken enormous courage to run off as she did. To face everything alone and damned in the eyes of respectable people.’
‘Indeed, such condemnation seems unthinkable in these days. Her child, a daughter, Eunice, was a timid little thing with none of her mother’s spirit. But undeniably beautiful. At twenty-five, in 1957, she became the second wife of a much older man, an art collector in Edinburgh where she had been at school and lived with Emily.’
Alyson nodded. ‘And their only child was Rachel, whom I met when she called here to see Emily. She told me there were a half-brother and half-sister, twins from her father’s first marriage.’
‘It was a curious, extended menage, since Emily and Howard’s first, divorced wife also made up the household.’
Alyson frowned, remembering. ‘Rachel said the twins were cruel to Emily after the others died; that the boy, Martin, teased her and used to lock her in a dark cupboard. I’m inclined to believe that, because sometimes she remembers it and shouts to be let out.’
‘She was getting frail by that time, after her first stroke. But I’m disinclined to believe that version of the story. Rachel, if anybody, was the one who resented her. This is why she must never be allowed in here again. She is the only natural descendant, and too eager to inherit. As Emily once ironically reminded me, she has bad blood in her.’
Alyson stared at him. Normally so hesitant, weighing each word, he was suddenly forthright, even risking slander. The mild, kindly face looked grimly decisive. ‘And now,’ he demanded of her, ‘what are we to do about this other unwanted visitor, with his interest in Emily’s art collection?’
‘Is it so valuable, then?’
He smiled wryly. ‘It is a clever mixture of the genuine and the fake. I have access to a catalogue with full provenance and valuation of each piece. When one of the two keys to the strongbox containing this went missing I took the precaution of relocating the box elsewhere. And I informed a senior policeman whose discretion I trust.’
‘So you believe that the bogus insurance man was also involved in taking the key? But if so, why would he need to come here and re-value the pictures himself? And is he planning to steal them?’
‘So many questions. I wish I had the answers. None of the papers contained in the strongbox was missing, but they might have been copied. There is no way of knowing, but I am sure the photocopier
in our office was not used for this purpose. A tally is kept of all documents put through the machine. So perhaps the window of opportunity never occurred, and whoever took the key was unable to make use of it.’
‘But some of your stationery was removed, and a specimen of your signature was obtained.’
‘Pointing to someone on my staff; which I am loath to believe. Or else our security has been breached from outside. That is why I have asked for discreet help from my police – er, contact.’
‘Do you suspect professional art thieves?’
Fitt ran a hand over his chin and hesitated; then, ‘Perhaps. Or amateurs about to become professional.’ He fell silent again.
‘How did Emily come to have such a collection in the first place, Mr Fitt?’
‘Her son-in-law, Angus Howard, the father of Rachel and her half-siblings, was a dealer, with a gallery in Edinburgh. Some of his exhibits Emily bought or was given at various times. Other, contemporary pieces, she acquired direct from the artists or their agents. She had a keen eye for what was marketable, and used to attend auctions all over the country.’
‘That explains why she’s so fond of some of the pictures.’
Fitt smiled. ‘Not that those she values most would necessarily be genuine or would fetch a high price. Emily admired a good imitation. She might cherish it from a mischievous pleasure in the skill of the forger. Nothing about Emily is simple, you see. She will always remain an enigma.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Oliver Markham had found a slot to park the new 4x4 right outside his flat. It meant that the old Nissan had to be left in the yard at the stationery warehouse until the man who’d shown some interest made an offer. The police patrolman, sent for the rug which Markham had stuffed back in the boot, interrupted him frying an early supper before visiting more defaulters. While he argued on the doorstep his smoke alarm, oversensitive to bacon, went off.
‘Hadn’t you better answer that?’ the constable suggested as Markham faced him out, fists balled.
‘Buggrit,’ Markham snarled. ‘Wait a bit.’ He slammed the door in the PC’s face. He was no sweeter-tempered when eventually he reappeared in his leather trench coat and with a smear of tomato ketchup on his chin. The patrolman had returned to the warmth of his car, prepared by now to be awkward.
‘My car’s not here,’ Markham began, not intending to lose his 4x4’s kerbside parking at this time of day.
‘So?’
‘It’s across town. You’ll need to give me a lift.’
The policeman replied with a long, uncompromising stare.
‘Unless you’re not bothered about the bloody rug anyway.’ Markham bit off a further sneer, furious at the way ‘bloody’ had shot out automatically.
‘Get in. Mind your head.’ His partner climbed out of the front passenger seat and went round to sit beside Markham as if he was under arrest. Show business for the neighbours’ benefit. A customer emerging from the nearby greengrocer’s looked across incuriously as the car door slammed. Markham gave the driver directions to the warehouse yard.
‘Elston’s,’ the driver muttered. ‘What’s your car doing there? That’s not public parking.’
‘I used to work in the warehouse way back.’
‘You got a current permit?’
‘Not as such. There’s an understanding.’
‘Funny, that. They’ve asked us to check on unauthorized use of the yard. Getting tired of old crocks being dumped there.’
‘If they were really bothered they’d fit a gate and CCTV.’ Markham sat back, surly and resentful. At the yard he unlocked the Nissan’s boot and handed over the rug. ‘Much good will it do you.’
He might have guessed they’d drive off at that, leaving him stranded.
At the college Yeadings met the Principal who passed him over to the senior porter, Alex Crowe. Jim Anders was, understandably, resting at home and accorded leave after the shock of finding the body.
Together Yeadings and Zyczynski were given a tour of the main building with an explanation of access and prohibited areas. They reached the roof by a series of staircases, the final one lying behind a locked door on the top corridor.
‘How does this meet fire precautions requirements?’ Yeadings asked.
‘The lock’s electronic. All members of staff have a card-key like mine. And we’ve a buzzer in the porters’ lodge. The Principal had to balance student safety against fire hazard. The system has been passed by the local authority.’
‘Yes, I suppose the roof would present a challenge to some of the wilder youngsters. How often do the access cards go missing?’
‘Perhaps two or three times a term somebody reports one’s lost. Usually that happens during a check, after students have gained entry to the roof for smoking or some kind of minor mischief. There’s not been any serious trouble until now.’
Yeadings nodded. There was never going to be a foolproof security system. He thought he’d seen all he needed here. SOCO’s report would cover any fine details regarding the roof itself. It remained only to return to the Principal’s office, thank him and pick up the full list of students and staff which his secretary had been printing out.
As he was leaving, the superintendent turned back. Doing a Columbo, Z noted, hiding a smile. ‘Does the name Markham mean anything to you?’ he asked.
‘I’m afraid not. If he was ever here it must be before my time, Superintendent. I was appointed Principal only eighteen months ago, but I pride myself in knowing everyone here by name, if not always by facial recognition.’
‘I recall Mr Markham,’ the secretary confided, showing them out. She was in her late fifties, tidily old-fashioned in her dress and with keen, black boot-button eyes. ‘I would need to look up his year of admission, but it was some considerable time ago. He took the shorter Civics course. I remember him because afterwards he was appointed as usher to our local police court, and I was pleased he’d made something of it. Rather an unprepossessing young man, he’d struck me.’
It all seemed to be coming together. Next morning DI Salmon was almost purring with satisfaction when told of Markham’s familiarity with the college, especially since Allbright’s country hideaway had yielded evidence of someone having slept there in what was a large, quite cosily insulated workshop with all mod cons. A computer with access to the web had been brought back for examination by a police IT expert.
So, Salmon considered, with two murders about to be rapidly solved in parallel, this would look good on his annual assessment.
Cars were sent to bring in both Allbright and Markham for further questioning. On arrival the former refused to speak beyond demanding a solicitor. He was tense and freely sweating, seeming almost relieved when sent to wait, alone, in a cell.
Markham’s interview was also delayed, until Beaumont was free to share it with the DI. He had brought with him the eagerly awaited lab reports, one giving the blood type of the woman pushed off the college roof. This was the of the rare AB, rhesus negative group. The second, an analysis carried out on the rug sample, had revealed two types of blood: not only the same rare AB negative but also the commonest O positive group.
‘Two different victims,’ Salmon barked. ‘We could be getting a serial killer!’
‘Unless Markham himself bled on to it,’ Z warned. ‘But if so, why didn’t he simply claim it all as his own blood? We know 0 wasn’t Micky Kane’s blood group, and his is our only other body.’
‘What we do have,’ Yeadings pointed out with ominous calm, ‘is two unsolved murders, not necessarily connected, of a male adolescent and an older female; plus a reported missing female who may, or may not, have been abducted. And hers is an unknown blood group. I suggest DS Zyczynski rings the mother again to find out if she’s chased up that information yet.’
Z found the number in her notebook and the others waited while she got through. Her approach was friendly-casual as she worked towards the crucial question. ‘So you still have no news of Sheena? I’m sure
you’ve no cause for concern, Mrs Judd. As you said yourself, daughters nowadays don’t confide everything to their mums. And she is, after all, of a sensible age.
‘I’ve checked that Sheena’s not been taken to any of the local hospitals and we’re still asking around generally. Perhaps, as an added precaution, you’d give us her blood group? If it’s turned up yet?
‘It has? And you’re quite certain? All of you the same? Your ex-husband too? I see, thank you. I’ll be keeping in touch, Mrs Judd. Try not to worry. Take care.’
She rang off and faced the others. ‘For what it’s worth, Sheena’s was O, rhesus positive, just like the second sample found on the rug. But, for all we know, it could still be Oliver Markham’s.’
‘Blow that for a dandelion seed,’ Beaumont put in doggedly, ‘at least we can bring him in for the college death, whoever the woman turns out to be. If he’s shaken enough he may put his hand up for Sheena Judd as well. And tell us where he’s disposed of the body.’
‘Meanwhile,’ Yeadings reminded his DI, ‘the Micky Kane case is dragging on. You’ll need to get Allbright talking as soon as his brief turns up. Since Beaumont has something else to follow up, I want Z to sit in with you on this, as the only one of us who met Micky alive.’
‘So what’s your new line?’ Z asked Beaumont, on her way to collect sealed tapes for the interview-room recorder.
The Pinocchio face was at its perkiest. ‘You wouldn’t want to know. There’s this lowlife old queer I met half-stoned last night. He dosses down at a squalid little shack down on the vacant lot beyond the Odeon that’s home-sweet-home to the local derelicts. I think that’s where young Micky ran off to.’
