by Nicola Upson
It was also the only door that was closed. She hesitated outside, aware that to open it would be to overstep the boundaries of privacy and respect that she valued so highly in her own life, but driven now by more than curiosity. The silence of the flat closed in around her, heavy and suggestive, taunting her with a sudden, overwhelming premonition of tragedy. If Millicent Gray had learned of her lover’s death, alone and with no one to confide in, what might the shock and the grief and the guilt have led her to do? Josephine knocked twice, then – when there was no response – put her hand on the door and opened it gently, resisting a childish urge to close her eyes as the light from the hallway fell on the carpet, the bedside table, the crumpled sheets.
For once, reality made light of her imagination. The actress lay on the bed, face down with her feet towards the pillows, her right arm outstretched towards the door. Her body was awkwardly contorted, a parody of the writhing, twisting dragons that covered the oriental bedspread, and her clenched fingers clutched at the sheets as if she could somehow drag herself free from the agony of her death. Her head was turned slightly to the right, and Josephine forced herself to meet the blank, glassy eyes that strained from their sockets, grotesque and doll-like in the carefully made-up face. Two thin trickles of blood, dried black as pitch, ran down from her nose and ear, tracing the contours of a mouth stretched wide in protest, before losing themselves in that final, silent scream.
A man’s white evening scarf was still wound tightly around her neck, and Josephine could see deep scratch-marks on the skin where Millicent had clawed in vain at the silk. The air in the room was oppressive, making it an effort to breathe, and now she did close her eyes, fighting the mixture of shock, incredulity and horror that threatened to overwhelm her. When she opened them again, the violence seemed more intense than ever, the colours artificially bright; she stared at the livid dance of blue and purple on Millicent’s neck, at her red hair, which now seemed unnatural and vulgar against the pallor of her skin, and wondered if she could really be looking at another human being. She longed to run but the horror of the scene paralysed her, and only when the cat jumped softly onto the bed did she come to her senses. It was a welcome reminder of the everyday, but the tableau of death remained so vivid and so disturbing that it was life which seemed out of place, and Josephine scooped up the animal and left the room, stumbling as if she were drunk.
Ignoring its cries of protest, she shut the cat in the kitchenette and picked up the telephone, but her hands were shaking uncontrollably and it took her three attempts to dial Scotland Yard. Her call was soon answered and she opened her mouth to speak, but her tongue refused to form the words, as if the scarf which had killed Millicent Gray were wrapped around her own throat, too. The voice came again, impatient now, and this time she managed to explain. ‘I want to report a murder,’ she said. ‘The woman’s name is Millicent Gray, and she’s been strangled in her flat. I’ve just found her body. Please come quickly.’ Try as she might, she couldn’t remember the address, but she found it eventually on the newspaper she had brought with her, proof if she needed it of Beresford’s death; the moment when her greatest fear had been breaking the news to a distraught mistress seemed a lifetime away, and she reiterated her need for help. ‘Will it be Detective Chief Inspector Penrose?’ she asked. ‘I’m a friend of his.’
The words sounded childish and pathetic in their context. ‘I’m afraid I can’t say who’s available, ma’am,’ the desk clerk said, his tone somehow making it clear that policemen couldn’t be booked like hairdressers, no matter who she was.
‘Of course not. But this might be linked to another case he’s working on and I think he’d want to know as soon as possible.’ There was a pause on the line, followed by a satisfying change in attitude, and Josephine gave the details and her name. She replaced the receiver, hoping that the promise of immediate assistance would hold good.
There was no way that she could wait in the flat with the body. She took her cigarette case out of her bag and went outside, making sure that the front door was firmly closed behind her. The light summer rain was a relief, and she lifted her face to its cool, gentle solace, inhaling the smoke and trying to rid her mind of the haunting, insidious images that crowded it. Above her, she heard the first-floor window open again and wished after all that she had chosen to stay inside. ‘Just pop the key through the letterbox if you’ve finished,’ the girl called, but her cheerfulness subsided when she registered the expression on Josephine’s face. ‘What’s wrong? Didn’t Millie come back?’ Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared and joined Josephine downstairs. ‘Has something happened? Please tell me. You look awful.’
She made a move towards the basement, but Josephine stopped her. ‘I’m so sorry. There’s no easy way to say this, but Millie’s dead.’
The girl gave an odd, high-pitched laugh. ‘Dead? Don’t be silly, she can’t possibly be dead.’ She looked at Josephine in disbelief. ‘What’s happened?’ she demanded again. ‘What have you done to her?’
‘Nothing. I haven’t done anything. I just found her in the bedroom. She must have been there a while.’ The girl snatched the key from her hand and Josephine could do nothing this time except follow her back into the flat and witness the horror all over again, this time through the eyes of a friend. ‘We shouldn’t be here,’ she said gently, leading the girl back down the hallway. ‘The police are on their way and they’ll take care of Millie. Perhaps we could wait in your flat? I’ll make us some tea.’ The girl nodded, too shocked to argue. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name. I’m Josephine.’
‘Euphemia,’ she said, ‘but everyone calls me Effie, thank God.’ She held out her hand, and the formality of the introduction seemed to steady her, restoring some sort of order to a world that suddenly made no sense. ‘Come upstairs. I’m sorry about the mess, but some friends came back with us last night. The others had to work today and I haven’t got round to clearing up.’
The first-floor flat did indeed give the impression that the party had merely been suspended. ‘How many of you live here?’ Josephine asked, looking round at the half-drunk cocktails, cast-off evening wear and ashtrays brimming with cigarette butts.
‘There’s three of us. Vi makes most of the mess, but her parents are the reason we can afford the rent so we forgive her for it. Then there’s Lou – she works at Heal’s, so she gets a good deal on furniture. And me. I work evenings at the Hippodrome, so my contribution is to clear up every day. Worth it for the peace and quiet alone.’ Her face clouded again as the small-talk faded, and she made no attempt to hide her tears. ‘It’ll be even quieter now, I suppose. I’ll put the kettle on. Sit down, if you can find somewhere.’ Josephine moved some clothes off a seat by the window, where she could watch for the police car. ‘Bugger tea,’ Effie said, returning almost immediately with the dregs of a bottle of gin. ‘I need something stronger. It’s not often there’s anything left the morning after, so we might as well make the most of it.’ She divided the contents meticulously between two glasses and handed one to Josephine. ‘I can’t believe we’ll never have another drink together,’ she said, sitting down on the floor. ‘Millie was such a laugh once you got to know her.’
‘When did you last see her?’ Josephine asked.
‘Tuesday afternoon, it must have been. We had a cup of tea before she got ready to go to the BBC, and she helped me put this lot up for the party.’ She gestured towards the bunting and souvenir posters that decorated the walls, smiling at the memory. ‘Actually, she teased me about it. Said we were crowning the wrong king and people shouldn’t be so ridiculous about divorce. She would say that, though, wouldn’t she?’
‘Yes, I suppose she would.’
‘I bet it was that bastard she’d been seeing.’
The accusation was sudden and direct, and it shocked Josephine. She realised now that she had been too sickened by her discovery to give any thought to who might be responsible for it. ‘What makes you say that?’ she a
sked, trying to decide if she would have come to the same conclusion herself eventually, and wondering when Millicent Gray had been killed. Even if she had died before Beresford, it was still hard to imagine the broadcaster finding time on the most important day of his professional life to pop round and strangle his mistress. And anyway, why would he want to? If the rumours at the BBC were true, he had never had any trouble before in moving on from a woman he tired of.
‘He messed her about right from the start. Far too comfortable at home with his wife, I reckon, but she wouldn’t have a word said against him. Not until recently, anyway.’
‘Oh?’
‘Yes, she said he was making a fool of her, but she’d found a way to get back at him.’
‘Do you know what it was?’
Effie shrugged. ‘Telling his wife, I suppose. Bursting their little bubble, she called it.’
Whatever motive Beresford might have had, it certainly wasn’t that one, but Josephine didn’t want to stem the tide of information by arguing. Again, she wondered if the broadcaster could have found time to commit the murder; if he had, that would also have given him the opportunity to remove anything personal that related to him from the flat. ‘Was he here a lot?’ she asked.
‘Hardly ever. I only saw him a couple of times, and then I couldn’t understand what the fuss was about. Millie liked him, though. She liked him a lot.’ Effie finished her gin in one go, and took the cigarette that Josephine offered. ‘Christ, if it was him I hope he swings for it. I’ll be first in the queue to see the notice go up.’
She obviously didn’t know what had happened yesterday, and Josephine doubted if she even knew who Millicent’s lover had been. ‘Did she have any other visitors in the last couple of days?’
‘Only a woman. I saw her going down the steps yesterday as we were leaving. It was about half past nine, I suppose, but I didn’t take much notice because we were late and Vi was already cutting up rough about getting a good place in the crowd.’
‘What was she like?’ The description – a middle-aged woman, dark-haired and smartly dressed – could have fitted thousands of women, but it certainly didn’t rule out Vivienne Beresford and Josephine’s heart sank. Before she could press for any more details, she heard the sound of a police siren nearby and two cars turned in from Wigmore Street, shattering the quadrangle’s mendacious peace. Leaving her gin in good hands, she went down to meet them, more pleased than she would have thought possible to see Archie get out of the second car.
‘Josephine! Are you all right?’
He touched her shoulder, oblivious to the curious glances from his colleagues. ‘I’m really not sure,’ she said honestly. ‘It was such a shock.’
‘Of course it was. But what on earth were you doing here?’ Josephine told him about the conversation she had had with Julian, and gave as succinct an account as she could of what she had found. ‘Was there any sign of a break-in?’ he asked when she had finished.
‘No, nothing. It’s all very calm until you get to the bedroom. She must have let whoever it was in, unless he or she had a key.’
‘And you’ve left everything exactly as it was?’
‘Yes, except the bedroom door. It was closed when I got there, and I think I’ve left it open. Oh, and I shut the cat in the kitchen, but you’ll find a good home for it on the first floor. One of the girls who lives there is called Effie and she was friendly with Millicent. She’s quite shaken up and she’s running out of gin, so I think some company will do her good.’
‘All right. I’ll go and talk to her as soon as I’ve had a look inside. Did she tell you anything interesting?’
‘She thinks Beresford killed Millicent to shut her up before she could tell his wife about their affair. But that hardly makes sense, does it?’ Archie shook his head. ‘How is Vivienne?’ Josephine asked quickly, seeing that he was impatient to leave her and go inside. ‘I’m assuming it is Vivienne you’ve got in custody?’
‘Yes, it is. She’s shattered by what she’s done, but the consequences are only just beginning to hit her.’
‘I think she was here yesterday,’ Josephine said quietly.
‘What? How do you know?’
‘Effie saw someone going down the steps yesterday morning, and her description could easily have been Vivienne.’
Archie rubbed a hand over his eyes, and Josephine was struck by how concerned he seemed. ‘I didn’t think it could get any worse for Vivienne Beresford, but this will make my boss’s day and the BBC will keep the flags up for another week. They’re already intent on throwing her to the wolves.’
‘Do you think she might be innocent, then?’
‘It depends what you mean by innocent. I’ve no doubt she shot her husband, but there is such a thing as provocation and I want her to have a fair trial.’ Another car drew up and a police photographer got out. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go, but I’ll telephone you later. Will you be at Marta’s?’
She smiled awkwardly. ‘A lot’s happened since we last spoke. Now isn’t the time to explain, though. I’ll go back to my club for a bit, and then I’ll be at the BBC. Can I tell Julian what’s happened? It seems trivial to worry about the play, but he’ll need to ask Lydia to stand in.’
‘You can tell him what’s happened in the strictest confidence, but only the facts. Don’t repeat any of the speculation about who was here or who might have done it. And give me a couple of hours before you say anything. If Julian Terry finds out before Reith knows, I’ll be looking for a new job. Right now, I’m not sure I’d mind.’ He smiled at her. ‘Is that all right? Lydia can step in at the last moment, can’t she?’
‘Oh yes,’ Josephine said, and she wasn’t proud of the bitterness in her voice. ‘Lydia can fill anyone’s shoes at the drop of a hat. It’s what she does best.’
4
Penrose sat at his desk and looked through the photographs of Millicent Gray’s body. It always astonished him that no matter how meticulous the Yard’s photographers were in recording every small detail of a crime scene, these stark black-and-white representations of death never quite did justice to its horror. Had he not been there to experience it for himself, he would never have known the sadness that hung around that room, the sense of despair at another life wasted or the suppressed outrage in the dead woman’s ugly, distorted features. Perhaps he carried sorrow with him to every body he viewed, and that was why it remained stubbornly immune to a camera, but somehow he thought not: whenever he was with a murder victim, in those few precious moments before the body was moved and analysed, he felt their anger as a physical force, a tangible presence in the room that demanded a response – and it was that, not duty or abstract notions of justice, which drove him.
The full post-mortem results would not be available for some time, but Spilsbury had been confident in his estimate at the scene: Millicent Gray had died approximately twenty-four hours before she was found – no more than thirty, no less than eighteen. Before bringing Bill Murray up to speed with the latest turn of events, Penrose had asked him for a detailed schedule of Beresford’s last day. He didn’t want the BBC to construct an alibi around its own reputation rather than the truth, but, as it happened, there seemed to be no need. From the moment he arrived at Broadcasting House, Beresford had been involved in a constant round of meetings and briefings, followed by the broadcast itself. He had had just half an hour alone in his office to go over his notes, and the switchboard confirmed that some of that time had been spent on the telephone. Once he moved to Constitution Hill, he had taken part in hourly soundchecks, and an engineer had confirmed that it was Beresford’s voice on the line each time; the hour in between each test was unaccounted for, but it scarcely gave him time to get through the crowds to Wigmore Street and back again. Thinking back, Penrose wasn’t sure that he had ever had to construct an alibi for a dead man before, but what he had come up with would have been the envy of most living defendants. Things looked bleak for Vivienne Beresford, and the pressure on him to extract a s
econd confession from her was greater than anything else he had experienced in his entire career.
There was a brisk, familiar knock and Sergeant Fallowfield put his head round the door. ‘They’re ready for us downstairs, sir.’
‘All right, Bill. Let’s get on with it.’
Penrose picked up the files he needed and walked with Fallowfield to the interview room, wondering why he was suddenly so reluctant to do his job. He had never been afraid to analyse his own motives, even if they showed him in a poor light, and he knew now that he simply did not want to be wrong. He liked Vivienne Beresford, sympathised with her situation, and admired the way in which she had acknowledged her crime. And he had always despised men like her husband, who took whatever they wanted and moved through life with no awareness of the devastation they left behind. His objection wasn’t a moral one. It came from years of clearing up the mess that a combination of selfishness and power created: the suicides of abandoned women; the husbands who killed unfaithful wives in a moment of jealous rage; and occasionally – like now – the wives who fought back. Beresford’s death had been swift and functional, almost merciful when compared with the years of pain which his infidelity had inflicted. Millicent Gray’s murder was altogether different – spiteful, cruel, and out of proportion to what she had done. If Vivienne Beresford proved to be capable of that, there was a side to her that he had never believed was there.
She looked pale and tired today, and he knew that she had had to be sedated overnight. Tall, and still elegantly dressed, she seemed somehow shrunken against the WPC who sat beside her, as if her flesh were responding instinctively to the emotional turmoil of the last two days. He had seen it before in the accused, this steady disintegration of body and soul, and it had nothing to do with innocence or guilt. He found it hard to put into words, but by the time a court appearance came, it sometimes seemed to Penrose that the prosecution was trying a ghost.
