Thelma was a brunette with a strikingly beautiful face and a figure that could wear any bikini. She spoke with a lisp that at first was rather attractive but which quite soon became irritating. She agreed, without any sign of embarrassment, that she was the girl in the photographs. She said she had left Abbotts because of ‘better opportunities.’
‘A girl’s got to live,’ she said, and played with the large diamond ring on her finger.
‘Of course,’ said Doherty. ‘How d’you get on with Joe Abbotts? Did you like him?’
She regarded the D.I and her big brown eyes seemed to widen a little. ‘What a funny question.’
‘I… why…’ said Doherty, unable for the moment to say anything more coherent.
‘He wasn’t very sympathetic, if you know what I mean. And also he was a little mean.’ She looked down at her diamond ring.
Both the D.I and the divisional detective thought that if the diamond was genuine, she now had no cause to complain about opportunities.
‘I suppose you met Bill Rafferty?’ said Doherty.
‘Once or twice.’ Reluctantly, she let go of the ring. She brushed some hair away from her forehead. ‘I didn’t like him. He always seemed a little cruel to me.’
‘Did they ever talk about the Decker family?’
‘Sometimes it seemed as if when they was together they never talked about anything else. Bill was the one, though. It was daft. When a bloke has as much money as him, what’s he got to worry about? From the way he’d go on, you’d think he was a little boy. Like the time he kept on boasting. They’ll have to do with us now, he kept saying, and stuff their bloody airs and graces.’
‘When was this?’
‘During the summer, I guess. It must have been, mustn’t it, ’cause I was only with Joe from February. We were in the sitting-room, drinking. Joe used to drink like his stomach hadn’t a bottom to it. Don’t drink so much, Joe, I’d say. Try holding back Niagara, he’d answer and laugh like a drain.’
‘Can you remember anything else they said at that time?’
‘Not really. You know what it’s like when you’re drinking and there’s a bloke around you wouldn’t call your best pal. You don’t listen. I could do Joe, but not Bill Rafferty. When I read he’d shot himself, I thought it was a good thing. It’ll give his wife a chance, won’t it? She’ll be rich and able to enjoy life. It’s funny how people get together. Joe and Bill wasn’t a bit alike, but they chummed up and not just for work. They even went abroad together, just the two of ’em. I mean, if me and Daphne had gone as well it would’ve made more sense, wouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose it would have done. When was this?’
‘Wasn’t all that long ago. In the summer, I guess. Whilst they was gone, I got lonely and met my friend.’ She played with the diamond ring once more.
‘Can you remember which month you left Abbotts?’
‘About August.’
‘They’ll have gone abroad just before that, then?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Have you any idea where they went?’
‘I did hear, but the name of the place was odd and I’ve forgotten it.’
‘Is there any chance of digging back in your memory and recalling it?’ Doherty did not, at that moment, think the answer would hold any special significance.
She pursed her mouth and when she spoke her lisp was more apparent than before. ‘It was in France. A kind of a funny name… Something like plimsolls, I guess.’
Doherty wondered how tortured was her pronunciation? He vaguely tried to think of towns in France beginning with P. Paris, Perpignan, and Perigueux were the only ones he could remember. Then, as he was about to move on to another question, there came to him a fourth name: Plincennes. ‘Was it Plincennes?’
She stared at him. ‘You’re right! Now isn’t that clever of you.’
*
Quincy’s room at H.Q was large and airy and he shared it with one of the two H.Q detective chief inspectors. When Doherty went in, only Quincy was present.
The detective superintendent leaned back in his chair. ‘What have you got to tell me that won’t give me heart failure or apoplexy?’
‘Not much, sir, that wasn’t in my last written report.’
‘Then you’re running true to form, Sam, and there’s a fact. I saw the A.C.C yesterday. He demanded a report on the Decker business and I told him that nothing on this earth would give me greater pleasure than to be able to give him one, but that until my D.I took all eight fingers out it didn’t look as if anyone would ever know anything.’
‘What were his reactions?’
‘He blew his cheeks out, got a bit red in the face, and asked me how you and I liked the force and whether we meant to stay on in it.’ Quincy jerked himself forward. ‘Sam, I’ve a wife and kids and I want to live to enjoy my pension with them. So make some progress, but make it safe, eh?’
‘I want to go to France, sir.’
‘What the hell for?’
‘I don’t really know.’
Quincy stood up and walked round his desk. ‘Sam, against my better judgement I like you, but so help me, I could take you by your Irish neck and throttle you. I’m on the rack because I’m stupid enough to have the faith in you to leave you to run the Decker case and all you can do is…’
‘Abbotts and Rafferty went this summer, on their own and leaving wives and girlfriends behind, to a place in France called Plincennes.’
‘So am I supposed to get all excited?’
‘The Decker father died in Plincennes in nineteen-fifty-nine.’
Quincy returned to his chair and sat down. He picked up a ruler and slapped it against the palm of his hand. ‘And?’
‘And nothing definite, sir. But there must be a connection. Because I can’t see the connection yet, I must go over rather than put through the usual request for information.’
‘It could just be a coincidence.’
‘Like the coincidence of Rafferty and Abbotts both being “accidentally” killed in precisely the same way?’
‘If you don’t know what you’re looking for, how the hell do we frame the request to the French police?’
‘I think that’s your pigeon, sir, since you’re the boss.’
‘Trust an Irishman to stab a bloke in the back.’
‘If he does stab a friend or two, sir, there’s usually a very good cause.’
*
Julian was down by the water meadows. The farms here were all let and because the land was frequently flooded during the winter it was held officially that the rent must be very low: three pounds an acre. Yet the flooding covered the land with rich alluvial deposits that made the grass grow in the summer almost as if it were com: the tenants sub-let fields at up to twenty pounds an acre and so showed a very considerable unearned profit.
Julian watched several wigeon rise from the river, nowhere near flooding level, and fly downwind. He wondered what had disturbed them, then saw the head of Doherty appear above a fold in the ground.
‘Good morning, sir,’ said Doherty, when within speaking distance. ‘It’s a cold wind today, like the forecast said it would be.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to come along to bother you, but there’s a question I must ask.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Which members of your family went over to France when your father died?’
Julian shivered. He stared again at the water meadows, but this time he was no longer wondering when the estate could either regain possession of them or else charge an economic rent: he was wondering whether they would even belong to the estate in a few months’ time.
‘Did you go over there?’ asked Doherty.
Julian turned. The blue eyes of the detective would have missed none of his reactions to the questions. Not that it really mattered, he thought, what they had seen. The detective must have begun to uncover the truth or he would never have put the question.
‘Did you?’ per
sisted Doherty.
‘I went to France, yes.’
‘Before he died?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry to keep prying, but where was he buried?’
‘In Plincennes, where he died.’
‘Isn’t it usual… I mean, his body wasn’t brought back to the family burial ground?’
‘There’s a tradition in the family of being buried in the country in which one dies,’ said Julian harshly.
‘Did any other members of the family go to France, sir?’
‘My mother and my brother attended the funeral.’
‘Thank you very much for telling me, sir.’
‘Have you…’ began Julian, but stopped himself. The detective waited for a moment, said good-bye, turned and left. Julian inconsequentially thought how mournful Doherty’s face had been looking.
Julian walked along the river bank to the road, half a mile away. He felt sick, as if someone had hit him in the stomach. What would Fawcett’s reactions now suggest? Would the inevitable disaster break his mother, or would her tough spirit prove even greater than he had ever believed it to be? Yet surely she could not see the Deckers lose Hurstley Place and retain her faith?
He reached the road and the parked Vauxhall shooting brake. One of the tenants shouted a greeting as he climbed into the car. That farmer, as had his father before him, fought the estate as hard as he could, demanding impossibly expensive repairs and insisting that the slightest increase in rent would ruin him. He owned a three litre Rover and his daughter ran two show jumpers.
Julian drove along the lanes to the entrance gates of Hurstley Place and there, acting on impulse, he braked the car to a halt. It suddenly came to him how little he wanted to go back to the house.
He reversed the car on to the road and drove in the general direction of Ashford until he could take a southerly route round the town to Barbara’s house. The housekeeper there told him that Miss Harmsworth had left the house about an hour ago, but that she should soon be back.
He thanked the housekeeper and returned to his car, started the engine, and was halfway round the drive when an M.G sports car came in from the road. He stopped and went across to the M.G. Despite the cold, the hood was down and Barbara’s hair was tangled and her face was flushed from the wind. In the passenger seat was Toby, looking pompous.
‘What a wonderful surprise,’ said Barbara. Then she noticed the lines of worry on his face. ‘What’s wrong, darling?’
‘Barbara, let’s go up to the Devil’s Dyke?’
‘Of course. Push Toby into the back seat.’
He climbed into the front after overcoming the dog’s resistance to being relegated to the back. Barbara rested her hand on his. ‘Is it something to do with us?’
‘Not directly.’
‘Then it can’t be desperate. That’s the only thing which would be desperate for me, Julian. You know that, don’t you?’
He nodded.
As they drove towards the hills, Julian watched her face. She had strong features, in profile, and these accurately depicted her character. She was intensely loyal and quite unmovable in her defence of someone she loved. When she had first met Lydia Decker there had been a clash of personalities, but there had soon been peace when both women realised how necessary it was for them to get on with each other. Before long, they had grown to respect, and so like, each other.
They climbed the road to the top of the hills and to the Devil’s Dyke, as some called it, where the devil was said to have landed on one foot after his fall from Heaven. In summer, this was a noted beauty spot which attracted onlookers by the score, but in winter it was usually deserted, being windy and somewhat desolate.
They parked opposite the centre of the deep fault and for a short while they were silent as they stared down at the view: a mosaic of fields and houses, with the distant sea looking dirty under the ugly grey clouds.
‘What’s the trouble?’ she asked softly. ‘The family will soon be in a bit of a stinking mess.’
‘Well?’
‘I thought you might like to break off while things are still quiet?’
‘How d’you mean, Julian?’
‘Break off the engagement. As my fiancée, you’re bound to get some of the mud flow round you.’
‘Is the trouble to do with the two shootings accidents?’
‘Partly.’
‘They weren’t accidents, were they?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘And you think Fawcett shot them?’
He did not answer.
‘Look at me, darling.’
He turned and looked straight at her. ‘Don’t keep things from me. I don’t care what anyone in your family’s done, any more than I care what you’ve done. I’ll stand by you whatever’s happened. How could you imagine I’d do anything else?’
‘You’re… you’re rather wonderful.’
‘I just happen to love you.’
‘We could lose Hurstley Place.’
‘I’d hate it for your sake, but not quite so much for mine. If we do live there, I’ll always feel that one of us is only your mistress.’
He managed a smile. ‘They do say that a mistress has a darned good life.’
Chapter Eleven
Doherty had a great fund of common-sense and therefore knew perfectly well that Paris could not match up to the image of Paris in his mind: nevertheless, when he looked around a little of the city and found it so unexciting, he felt disappointed and even a little depressed.
In the afternoon of his arrival, he went to the H.Q of the Sûreté Nationale in the Rue des Saussaies. After a short wait, he was shown into an office on the second floor and introduced to a liaison member of the French National Central Bureau of Interpol. He was received with a formal politeness, but ill-hidden surprise when he admitted that he was not certain what evidence he was looking for. In that case, said his host, would it not be a little difficult to find it? A little difficult, agreed Doherty, but the quality of French help was so high that there could be only one possible outcome to his visit – a satisfactory one. The Frenchman accepted the compliment gracefully, but also with a manner that suggested nothing more than the truth had been spoken. He said that the next day Doherty should go to Plincennes, see the Commissaire de Police, and request such aid as he wanted. If necessary the assistance of the regional Police Judiciaire could also be called for. It was to be hoped that, said the Frenchman, Monsieur Doherty thus would find whatever it was he sought: always provided, of course, he could recognise it when he found it. The Frenchman shook hands with great cordiality.
Later, Doherty went to a nightclub. As he watched an inferior cabaret, he remembered how Peggy had pointedly twice talked about the temptations of Paris. As he paid the grossly inflated bill for the bottle of poor champagne he had had to buy, he sadly wished that at least some of the mythical temptations had been put before him so that he could have had the pleasure of virtuously refusing them.
The next morning, he caught an electric train from the Gare du Nord to Plincennes. A taxi took him to the central police station and there he met the Commissaire de Police, a middle-aged man whose English was as rusty as his French. They shook hands several times and assured each other of a number of things, without understanding what the other said. After a few minutes, a third man, in uniform, came into the room.
The newcomer spoke to the Commissaire, after which he introduced himself to Doherty. He spoke English with a heavy accent. ‘Senior Inspector Chauvin. It is a charming occasion to meet you.’
‘How d’you do,’ replied Doherty, prosaically.
They all sat down. Coffee was brought in.
‘Now,’ said Chauvin, ‘we wish to hear what it is you would like. The boss had a long telephone call from the Directeur de la Police Judiciaire asking us to give you every assistance. We of the Sûreté Urbaine will be delighted to help you in every way. If by some strange chance there is something we cannot accomplish, we shall call in someone from
the Police Judiciaire, but in Plincennes we do not usually need to ask for help.’ He switched to French and spoke rapidly.
He finished speaking to the commissionaire and looked expectantly at Doherty. Doherty cleared his throat. ‘It’s a little difficult,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘The trouble is, I’m not quite certain what I’m looking for.’
‘You are not what?’
As briefly as possible, Doherty explained what had happened and how it seemed that two separate trails in the Decker case crossed in Plincennes. ‘The two dead men were here this summer,’ he finally said, ‘and we’ve been quite unable to find out why they came here. Some years ago, Fawcett Decker, the father, died and was buried here. There must be a connection between these two facts.’
The two Frenchmen spoke together for some few minutes.
‘We will investigate the papers of Monsieur Decker’s death,’ said Chauvin. ‘We will also discover where these two men stayed during the past summer.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘It is a pleasure to assist a friend and workmate from England,’ replied Chauvin, not to be outdone in politeness.
Doherty left the police station and walked slowly along the main street. There was a market in the square, before the church, and he wandered amongst the stalls. He bought a hundred grammes of Gruyere and ate it there and then, continued along the street to a cafe where the pavement tables were protected from the weather by glass screens. Here, he ordered a coffee. As he waited, he wondered whether he would discover anything of importance and, if he did not, how worried he would feel on that score.
*
Chauvin picked up Doherty at the hotel at 4.30 that afternoon. He drove a Peugeot with the brutal skill traditionally ascribed to all Frenchmen.
‘We are going to see the doctor who certified death,’ he said, as he cut in front of a light van. ‘He lives on the Isle.’
Death in the Coverts Page 11
