London Rain

by Nicola Upson

  ‘Only in a minor role.’ Murray handed Rygate a piece of paper. ‘Here’s a copy of the statement we’ll be issuing after we’ve spoken to the staff at midday. As you can see, we’ve chosen to concentrate on everything that Anthony Beresford achieved in his career. His record is unblemished and it speaks for itself – twelve years of unsurpassed loyalty and dedication.’ It was a shame that Beresford hadn’t applied himself to his marriage with equal diligence, Penrose thought; if he had, he might have deferred his obituary for a few more years. ‘I hope we can rely on you to support the message we’re sending out?’

  Rygate nodded. ‘Yes, of course, and I’d like to give you both my personal assurance that the case against Mrs Beresford will proceed as swiftly and as quietly as possible.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Murray paused, as if there were something else that he wanted to say. ‘Obviously we have to be careful about how we do this, but it might be worth our while to remind everybody of Vivienne Beresford’s maiden name and what happened to her sister. I have some contacts in the press who would be willing to help with that.’

  ‘But this has got nothing to do with her sister,’ Penrose objected. ‘She did what she did because she was unhappy in her marriage. How can Olivia Hanlon’s death possibly have any relevance to that?’

  ‘You don’t think a violent past is relevant? You know as well as I do what went on at the Golden Hat, Penrose – drugs, sex, gang wars. Olivia Hanlon had trouble in her genes and why should her sister be any different? She was nothing until she married Anthony, and blood will always out.’ The hypocrisy of the conversation infuriated Penrose; Murray and Reith were not involved personally, but they could surely not be ignorant of the fact that many people from the BBC had been very happy to frequent the Golden Hat and other clubs like it. ‘Anyway,’ Murray continued, ‘am I not right in thinking that she shot Anthony with her sister’s gun?’

  The information in Vivienne Beresford’s statement was confidential, and there was only one way that anyone at the BBC could have gained access to it. Penrose glared at his boss, and tried to keep his voice even and measured. ‘Let’s not fool ourselves about this. Regardless of any efforts we make to contain what has happened, the press will go to town on Vivienne Beresford. If we taint her any further with a scandal that was not of her making, or link her with illegal clubs when she had nothing to do with that lifestyle, it will be impossible for her to get a fair trial. There will be a witch-hunt.’ He might have imagined the look of satisfaction that passed across Murray’s face, but somehow he doubted it. ‘What happened to the path of wisdom and uprightness?’ he asked, more sarcastically than he had intended. ‘Or is that inscription downstairs out of date now?’

  He hadn’t meant it as a rhetorical question, but Rygate stepped in before anyone could offer an answer. ‘Once again, we will do everything in our power to make it clear that the BBC is not at fault here,’ he said. ‘Won’t we, Penrose?’

  Reith got up and walked to the window, absent-mindedly straightening the rug on his way. ‘I’m not sure that’s entirely true,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘We are culpable to some extent. We should never have given Mrs Beresford such a demanding and responsible role. It was clearly far too much for her to cope with, on top of her duties at home.’

  Penrose looked at the Director General in astonishment, but he was sincere in what he had said. ‘Her husband’s infidelity drove her to this, sir, not a tight deadline.’

  Murray looked at him sharply. ‘Surely you’re not trying to tell us that Anthony Beresford deserved this, Chief Inspector?’

  Penrose felt his superior’s eyes drilling into him and knew he had gone too far. ‘Of course not,’ he said, as contritely as he could manage, and turned back to Reith. ‘Anthony Beresford had resigned, hadn’t he?’ he asked, and Reith nodded. ‘Because he was getting a divorce?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You must have been sorry at the prospect of his leaving. Weren’t you tempted to make an exception? After all, divorce isn’t so unusual these days. People move with the times.’

  ‘We’re not here to question the Director General’s employment policy, Penrose.’

  ‘It’s a reasonable question, Commissioner, and I’m happy to answer it. The BBC isn’t obliged to propagate ideas just because they’re modern, Chief Inspector. Lots of our listeners don’t find it quite so easy to “move with the times”, as you put it.’

  His tone was patient, but strained, and Penrose sensed in him a weariness that was to do with more than the current situation, almost as if his creation were becoming too much for him. John Reith was the driving force behind all that the BBC had achieved, steering the Corporation to its position as a public institution and ensuring that the whole nation now turned to its wireless in times of celebration and crisis. The last few years alone had seen some remarkable milestones – the first Empire broadcasts, the Jubilee, the death of the King, which Reith had announced personally – and the coronation broadcasts should have set the seal on a glittering career. Who could blame him if Beresford’s death made him question if it was all worthwhile? ‘We found some travel tickets and a passport in Mr Beresford’s briefcase. Did you know what he was intending to do after he left?’

  ‘No, he didn’t discuss his plans with me and I didn’t ask,’ Reith said. ‘But I was very sorry to lose a man who had brought so much to the Corporation – and to answer the question you’re not asking, I’m also sorry to lose his wife. I respected her achievements and liked her personally, but I’m sure you must understand that my first duty is to protect an organisation which is more important than any one individual.’

  Rygate stood up, keen to close the meeting on a note of truce, which was more than he had hoped for. ‘We’ll keep you fully informed of any developments,’ he promised. ‘And don’t hesitate to contact Penrose if there’s anything else we can do.’

  ‘I’d like to see Mr Beresford’s office before I leave,’ Penrose said, as keen to shake off his boss as he was to learn more about the dead man. ‘Don’t let me hold you up, though, sir. I’ll see you back at the Yard.’

  They parted company at the lift, and Penrose followed Murray up another flight of stairs to a smaller office on the Langham Street side of the building. The first thing that struck him was how sparse the room was, almost as if it had been cleared already; the only embellishment he could see was a single vase of flowers, something he had come to recognise as a hallmark of Broadcasting House, and he doubted it was a feature that Beresford had chosen, or even noticed. It was a stark contrast to the tasteful domesticity of the Director General’s office, and, although everyone worked in different ways, the lack of any individual touches surprised Penrose; it wasn’t what he expected from someone whose success had depended in part on his personality. ‘He didn’t believe in making himself at home, did he? Is the office always this bare?’

  ‘Or have we been round with a fine-tooth comb first, you mean?’ Murray grinned. ‘No, it’s been like this since the day we moved in. Anthony hated clutter. I don’t ever remember walking in here and finding a thing out of place.’ He paused to light a cigarette, more relaxed and open now that he was away from Reith. ‘I often thought it had something to do with the way he lived his life, you know. Everything had to be in its box, tidied neatly away. Nothing left open to confusion.’

  It was a perceptive comment, and Penrose wondered how well Murray – or anyone else, for that matter – had actually known his colleague. ‘Was his affair common knowledge here?’ he asked.

  ‘Affairs. Miss Gray was the latest in a healthy line of women, and none of them lasted long. But yes, lots of people knew that he had other interests, and he never went to any great effort to hide it.’

  ‘That must have been hard for his wife.’

  ‘I have no idea how she felt about it, or about Anthony. She’s always kept herself to herself here, never really mixed with anyone, and perhaps that’s how she coped. But you know what these things are like – it’s
known, but never spoken about, at least not in front of the people concerned.’

  ‘Until last week.’

  ‘Oh?’ Penrose told him about the incident in the green room, grateful to Josephine for supplying him with a piece of information that had somehow escaped Murray’s omniscient attention. ‘I hadn’t heard about that,’ he admitted, ‘but it was inevitable, I suppose.’

  ‘Could you give me a list of the women he was involved with?’

  ‘I could tell you who some of them were, but you have your killer so I’m not entirely sure why I should.’

  Penrose wasn’t sure either. Conscious of behaving more like a defence lawyer than a policeman, he accepted defeat graciously and walked over to the desk which dominated the room, a strikingly modern piece of furniture with concealed lighting and a secret swivelling shelf that cleverly hid the telephone. He took some gloves out of his pocket and opened the drawers one by one, finding nothing but a history of Beresford’s recent broadcasts in note form, all meticulously dated and filed. Just as he was about to give up hope of anything more interesting, he saw a set of car keys tucked towards the back of the top left-hand drawer; he pulled them out and something else came, too – a small lead soldier, caught up in the key ring. The paint was faded and chipped, but the figure was still recognisable as a Coldstream Guard, identical to one that Penrose had owned himself as a boy. Surprised, he looked up at Murray. ‘From what you tell me, Mr Beresford wasn’t the sentimental type. Why would he keep an old toy in his drawer?’

  Murray shrugged. ‘I really don’t know, but he didn’t drive a car, either, so I don’t think any of that can be his.’

  The idea of someone else’s belongings finding their way into a private office made even less sense to Penrose. ‘Then I’ll hang onto these, if you don’t mind. I’d like to know if Mrs Beresford recognises them.’ He took a bag from his pocket and put the keys and toy inside, then stood to leave. ‘I’ve finished here for now, but, as the Assistant Commissioner said, you’ll be kept fully up to date with developments.’

  His sarcasm wasn’t lost on Murray, who gave him a wry smile. ‘We’re both just doing our jobs, aren’t we? None of this is personal.’

  ‘Perhaps not for us,’ Penrose said, ‘but I’m not sure Vivienne Beresford would agree with you.’

  3

  Many of London’s shops and offices were still closed for the Coronation holiday, and it seemed to Josephine that everyone with leisure time on their hands had chosen to spend it in the streets around Cavendish Square. Wide pavements allowed for two lanes of pedestrians, one close to the shop windows, drifting aimlessly past the goods and mannequins, the other nearer the curb for people who actually had somewhere to go. Still, the crowds were larger than the space allowed and Josephine threaded her way impatiently in and out, keen to get on with the task she had unwittingly set herself.

  The address that Julian had given her was in a small quadrangle of four-storey houses tucked behind the smart shopping and elegant facades of Wigmore Street. In other parts of London, buildings of identical size and date would probably be regarded as slums, but these were lovely, a gentle combination of red-and-cream brick with brightly painted front doors and window boxes that hid many of the panes with flowers. Even a basement flat here was an enviable prospect, small but close to Millicent Gray’s work at the BBC and just a stone’s throw from the West End, and Josephine wondered if Anthony Beresford’s salary had contributed to the rent. If so, convenient digs would be one of the more minor casualties of his death.

  She opened the iron gate in the railings and walked down the steps, noticing how quickly the noise from the street disappeared as soon as she got below ground level. Shrubs in painted tubs stood at intervals along the path to the door, and there was a tiny table and chairs placed to catch the afternoon sun, but the actress had resisted the bunting and other coronation regalia that embellished windows higher up the building; either she wasn’t a royalist, or she had had other things on her mind. Josephine knocked and waited, but there was no answer except for the insistent mewing of a cat from the hallway. The curtains at the window were partially drawn and she peered through the crack, looking into a tiny kitchen. Only the brightest of days would have thrown light into the room, and the heavy grey cloud-cover offered very little help, but she could just make out a set of breakfast things washed up on the draining board and a tray on a small table along the back wall, laid ready with an open tea caddy, a plate of biscuits and three cups. As she peered in, wondering whom Millicent Gray was expecting, the cat – a beautiful, black Persian – jumped up onto the windowsill and stared out at her with beseeching yellow eyes. ‘Sorry, puss,’ Josephine said, putting her finger to the glass, ‘I don’t think I can help you.’

  The quiet of the flat was beginning to concern her. Anxiously, she retraced her footsteps and tried the other window, but the curtains were pulled tighter here and the glass was so grimy with dust that she could see very little. ‘Morning!’ called a jovial voice from above and Josephine looked up, embarrassed to find that a girl of about twenty was leaning out of a first-floor window, watching her every move. ‘I’ll throw the key down if you hang on a minute.’ Josephine opened her mouth to argue but the girl had already disappeared back into the room, returning a few seconds later with a key on a piece of red ribbon. She must have seen the hesitation on her caller’s face because she smiled reassuringly. ‘Millie likes us to keep this so we can let her friends in. It happens all the time, so don’t worry about it. You’re one of the theatre lot, I suppose?’ Josephine nodded, wondering what marked her out so clearly. ‘Thought so. She’s probably just popped out to get something, so you can wait or leave a note. Here it comes.’ Josephine caught the key and thanked her, feeling guilty about the fraudulent way in which she was gaining access to a stranger’s life, and torn between curiosity and conscience; either way, if she ever found herself with a neighbour as helpful as this, she really would have to move. ‘Just leave it with Millie when you’re done, or run it back up. I’ll be in all day, recovering from last night. It was quite some party, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, it was.’ The girl obviously had no idea just how significant the day had been in her neighbour’s life, and Josephine wondered how well she actually knew Millicent Gray. ‘Have you seen Millie today?’ she asked, managing not to stumble over a familiarity she had no claim to.

  ‘No, but I’ve only just got up. I shouldn’t think she’ll be long. She always takes a nap when she’s got a job in the evenings, and she’s been looking forward to this one for ages.’

  The girl left her to it and Josephine knocked loudly one more time, just in case it was the nap that was keeping Millicent Gray from her door. When there was still no response, she put the key in the lock and let herself into the hallway. The flat was dark and she switched on the light, noticing that the corridor smelt faintly of a rich, musky perfume. She bent down to stroke the cat, who rubbed round her legs and led her through the nearest door to the kitchen, where two empty bowls sat side by side on the floor by the sink. The first cupboard she tried proved a lucky guess, but the eagerness with which the cat devoured the food concerned Josephine; somehow, she didn’t think that Millicent Gray was out shopping, and it seemed unlikely that she had spent the night at home. In a matter of minutes, her dread of coming face to face with the actress had transformed itself into an urgent wish to see her.

  There were three more doors off the hallway, and Josephine took the rooms in the order they came. The first was a small but comfortable sitting room, with French doors leading out to a tiny courtyard. Some of the furniture had been painted cream to match the walls, and all the colour in the room came from the fabrics it contained – rugs and oriental cloths, a divan piled high with embroidered cushions. The effect could have been overpowering, but it wasn’t; Millicent Gray obviously had the flair for design which comes naturally when things are done for personal taste rather than effect, and Josephine admired its individuality. An incense burner hung
from the ceiling, the source of the scent which she had believed to be perfume, and the room was dotted with objets d’art that suggested its occupant loved nothing more than poking about in junk shops and flea markets – odd bits of china, a set of very old liqueur glasses, and several shelves of second-hand books. Millicent Gray’s identity was stamped all over the room, and it wasn’t at all what Josephine had expected: the narcissism of actresses was a cliché, but she knew enough of them personally to understand that it had its basis in fact, and its absence here was striking; there were no playbills or stage shots, and no subtly framed cuttings from the Radio Times to highlight the many notable successes she had had. It was unmistakably the room of a woman who felt she had nothing to prove, to herself or to anyone else, and Josephine wondered how that tallied with the emotional vulnerability she had witnessed so briefly just a couple of days before.

  The photographs which had earned a place here were all natural and informal – varying combinations of family shots, some taken in this country, others obviously abroad. A young man in a wheelchair featured in many of them, often wrapped in a hug and always smiling at the camera, and there was a strong enough resemblance to suggest that he was a younger brother. Unusually, the pictures made no attempt to hide his disability; instead, they seemed to celebrate the obvious bond he shared with his sister – protective, happy, and loving, and Josephine liked Millicent Gray all the more for it. She looked round the room again, surprised by the absence of two things in particular: she would have expected someone who worked in radio drama to own a wireless, but the only form of entertainment was a gramophone and a stack of well-used records; and there was nothing whatsoever to indicate the significance of Anthony Beresford in Millicent’s life. Feeling every bit the intruder she was, Josephine left the sitting room and went next door to the bathroom, but again she found nothing to suggest that Beresford spent any time in the apartment; the toiletries in the cabinet were exclusively feminine – no gentleman’s razor, no aftershave, not even a spare toothbrush. Perhaps the actress was simply being discreet, or perhaps all evidence of the affair was confined to the bedroom, the one area of the flat that Josephine had not yet seen.