Watching Perrot’s skilful ministrations, the vicar began to feel not only de trop but utterly useless. He moved awkwardly across to where Iris was lying, sat down on the fringed pouffe and took her hand. In spite of the hot, stuffy room, it was icy cold. She did not open her eyes or appear even to notice his presence.
He was reminded of that other occasion, ten days ago, when he had found himself in a similar position at the house next door. He had been of no help there either. And the result of his daily prayers for the restoration of order and the wellbeing of each and every parishioner in Fawcett Green had been yet another violent death. If the Reverend Bream had ever doubted that God worked in mysterious ways, he doubted no longer.
“My wife,” he said, clearing his throat with nervousness. “Food. Anything at all, happy to bring. If you would like to come and stay, just for a few days. I mean, that is, as long as you like . . .”
Everyone ignored him.
Perrot, having placed a cup of tea in Reg’s hands and made sure he was grasping it firmly, sat close by, talking quietly. He also offered plenty of encouraging silence, which Reg occasionally broke. Perrot explained that the police might very well need to talk to both him and Iris again, but there would be no pressure. He, Perrot, would ask to be present if they felt it would help. Should they go to stay with relatives or friends, please make sure to let him know.
The vicar whose eye, having once been snagged by the leaping butterfly clock, found it could now settle on little else, was glad when the dog started whining and scratching again and he had a practical task to perform.
On Perrot’s advice he took her into the back garden. Shona, already shamedly conscious of her disgrace in the hall and desperately afraid she was about to disgrace herself even more profoundly, streaked off down the path with a yelp of gratitude. She relieved herself on Reg’s flawless green lawn, dragged her bottom around on the grass then stood up. She looked expectantly at the vicar who stared uncertainly back. Neither he nor Mrs. Bream cared for animals although they did look after the Sunday School hamster when the necessity arose.
There was a sudden flash. Rightly suspecting a concealed photographer and mentally composing the subsequent headlines, “Vicar Abducts Bereaved Parents’ Sole Comfort,” the Reverend Bream hurried back into the house.
Barnaby was in the canteen squaring up to two tomatoes, some wholewheat bread, a small wedge of Double Gloucester and a Cornice pear when the news came through from Heathrow that a witness had come forward. Someone who had seen not only Brenda Brockley on the night she died but also Alan Hollingsworth. A double whammy. The girl, a counter assistant in an ice-cream parlour on the Terminal One concourse, finished her shift at three thirty.
The first part of their second drive to the airport in as many days took place in virtual silence. Barnaby was lost in recollections of the case so far, mixed with hopeful anticipation of what might shortly be thrown in his lap. Sergeant Troy was seeking a grievance to while away the fleeting hour.
After picking a few over, he settled for an old favourite, the iniquities of the car mileage system. Or: Why Did They Always Have To Use The Rover? Forty-two point one pence a mile allowance straight into the gaffer’s pocket. A nice lump sum every twenty-eight days, even after you’d taken the petrol off. And it wasn’t as if he needed it. Fat salary, pension assured, no kids, mortgage paid off, but would he be driven around in Troy’s Cosworth? Would he buggery. OK, OK, he’s a big bloke and the Cossie might be a bit of a squeeze but the response had been the same whatever car Troy had had.
Course he was music mad, old Tom. And there was no doubt the equipment in the Rover was stellar. Waste of space, though, with the tapes he’d got. So-called singers warbling and gargling like canaries on speed. Musicians—musicians—scraping and sawing and twanging away.
As if reading his sergeant’s mind, Barnaby reached out, slipped a tape in the deck and turned up the volume. Rich and full, the singer’s voice filled the confined area of the car and poured out of the window on to the still summer air. She kept it up until they were entering the slipstream of traffic aiming for the Short Stay Car Park. Troy had to admit it was one of the less offensive numeros. At least she stayed in tune, which was more than you could say for some. Big Lucy and his football aria excepted.
“She can give it some welly, chief,” said Sergeant Troy as he searched for a parking space. “That that Cecily Bertorelli, is it?” He tried to remember the odd name. Show an interest.
“No,” said Chief Inspector Barnaby. “That’s my wife.”
Barnaby had decided to talk to the girl in her place of work, where she would be more relaxed, rather than in the police offices. Also he would need, at some stage in the interview, to look at the scene from her point of view.
They were offered delicious iced coffee in the Haagen-Dazs spotlessly clean kitchen. Eden Lo, a pretty Chinese girl, was taking off her maroon overall and yellow-banded forage cap. The three photographs which the Causton CID had circulated lay on a freckled Formica table with those of Alan Hollingsworth and Brenda set a little apart.
“These are the people that I saw.” She pointed at the two pictures.
“They were here, in the café?”
“Not together. He was in the café. She was, well, sort of hiding. At least I got that impression.”
“How was it you saw her then, Miss Lo?”
“I came out to clear just after I had served this gentleman with his coffee. She was standing behind the notice-board outside the fish restaurant next door. I noticed because she was so,” she hesitated, being a kind girl, unlike Bambi, “different looking.”
“Quite.”
“Also she was peering over this way. As if she was keeping an eye on someone.”
“And the man you served. Tell me about him.”
“That was rather strange as well. He took his coffee to the middle table. The circular one that runs—”
“Show me, would you, please?”
They left the kitchen to stand behind the chill cabinet and Eden Lo pointed out the round rim table overlooked by the blow-up of the radiantly lascivious half-dressed guzzlers. Sergeant Troy had a knee-jerk reaction (well, to be honest, it wasn’t his knee) and transferred his jacket to his other arm where it could be more tactfully disposed.
“And then,” continued the Chinese girl, “he didn’t drink it.”
“You mean he just sat there, waiting?”
“No. He sort of leaned against the stool for barely a second. Put the cup down and walked away.”
“Which direction?”
“Towards those stairs. When the girl who was watching realised he’d gone, she rushed after him. I saw her on the steps staring down all over the floor. She was really upset. I heard her cry out, ‘Oh, what’ll I do? What shall I do?’ ”
“Was that the last you saw of her?”
“Of both of them, yes.”
“And what happened to the coffee?” asked Barnaby, leading the way back to the kitchenette.
Sergeant Troy raised his eyebrows at the frivolity of such a question. If he’d asked it there’d have been a bloody lecture afterwards on how not to waste a witness’s valuable time.
“That’s the odd thing,” said Miss Lo. “When I looked again there was this old woman drinking it. I thought, what a cheek!”
“What was she like?” Barnaby leaned forward, intent and purposeful.
“Really dirty. Some old bag lady.”
“Had you seen her before?”
“No. The airport police are quite strict about people like that. They usually move them on.”
“I meant before, that same evening. In the restaurant.”
“Not really. She just seemed to appear out of nowhere. To tell you the truth, I wondered if she’d been hanging around in Garfunkels. Or maybe the Tap and Spile next door, keeping an eye out for a half-empty glass, that sort of thing. It’s all open here, as you can see. She could have spotted a coffee going begging and just nipped across.”
“How tall would you say she was?”
“Oh dear, I don’t really . . .”
“You don’t have to be precise. Just a general impression.”
“For a woman I would say tall. Quite a bit taller than me.”
“And did you talk to her?”
“Well, I started to go over but when she saw me coming she picked up this grotty string bag and hurried away.”
“Now, this could be very important, Miss Lo. Did you notice if the man who bought the coffee had a bag or case of any sort with him?”
“He certainly didn’t have one with him at the counter. He used both hands to carry the tray.”
“But he could have put it down by the table he intended to occupy?”
“He could have but I didn’t see that. I’m sorry.”
“So the first time you caught sight of the string bag was when this old woman ran off with it?”
“That’s right.”
“Did you get any idea of the contents?” Barnaby didn’t have much hope. The whole incident seemed to have happened within seconds.
“Um, just newspaper, really. Parcels wrapped in newspaper.”
“Little parcels?”
“I’m sorry.” She opened her arms, turned up the palms of her hands and shrugged.
“Did you clear the coffee cup away then?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And you’re sure of the date on this?”
“Quite sure. My friend on the Air Indonesia desk has been trying for ages to get me a cheap flight to Hong Kong and it was Monday it came through.”
“Could you give me a time at all?” asked the Chief Inspector.
“Not really. I came on at eight and I’d been here maybe an hour. Maybe longer.”
Brenda had rung her parents at nine o’clock. Barnaby tried to fit this into the fragment of knowledge, far too slight to be called a pattern, that had just now come his way.
It wasn’t easy. If she was trailing Hollingsworth, she would hardly have risked losing him by taking time off to make a phone call. So it must have been made later after Brenda, by then “really upset,” had completed her survey from the top of the staircase. Had she spotted Hollingsworth in that great swarming mass of people? Caught up with him? Arranged to go for a meal? It seemed unlikely but if she hadn’t, who was the friend she had talked about?
“Was there anyone else on duty with you, Miss Lo?”
“Yes, but not out front at the time it happened. They were working in here.”
“Right. I’m going to ask you to come along to Heathrow police station and sign a statement. And you may also be asked if you could assist in compiling an Identikit picture of this elderly lady.”
“But 1 only saw her for a second.”
“That doesn’t matter. Just do the best you can.”
She collected a white lacy cardigan and they left together by way of the steps that first Alan and then the frantic Brenda had descended.
But Barnaby was never to know about the dark-skinned boy in the sweaty T-shirt. The boy who had agitated the war machines and asked for change and laughed at Brenda’s distress and who could have helped them most of all. For he had long since taken a flight into Egypt.
Chapter Nine
By the following morning there had been a considerable falling off in sightings of Simone Hollingsworth. Plainly she was becoming yesterday’s news. And Brenda’s death, in spite of all the tabloids’ nudging, exclamatory prose hinting at a possible connection, had not obtained the same imaginative grip. This made for a rather less frenetic atmosphere in the incident room which did not please everyone. Sergeant Troy, for example, blossomed when the adrenaline flew.
Information both positive and negative was still coming in but was proving helpful rather than exciting. Clearing useless stuff out of the way rather than shedding light into dark corners.
The man with the white van phoned to say he was innocent of all knowledge of what he called “the missing Mrs. Haitch.” She was definitely not the blonde who had been seen climbing into his vehicle outside Bobby’s department store on the afternoon of her disappearance.
He rang anonymously on 999, unaware that the number from which all such calls are made is automatically displayed to BT as they come in. He was furious when someone from the station later called at his house. But not as furious as his wife who had thought he was working on the Friday in question over at Naphill.
The check on the possible purchase that same day in Causton of a pink jacket and auburn wig had also proved negative. The nearest the inquirers could manage was the sale of a size 20 cerise blazer with diamanté buttons and sequined lapels from the British Heart Foundation shop. A coronary causing little number if there ever was one.
Mid-morning Barnaby received a call from the coroner’s office to say that a death certificate had now been issued for Alan Hollingsworth and the remains released for burial. In the absence of the deceased’s wife, notification had been made to his brother.
There was some news on Simone Hollingsworth’s first husband although he had not yet been physically traced. While not actually the “bad lot” as described by Hollingsworth to Gray Patterson, Jimmy Atherton, born and dragged up in Cubitt Town, certainly seemed to be swilling around somewhere near the bottom of society’s barrel. Runner of iffy errands and deliverer of highly flexible packages; selling from a suitcase in the West End; bookie’s messenger; bag carrier and front man for a casino near Golden Square; street trading from a suspiciously mobile lorry and kiting dud cheques.
The word on the street was that Jimmy’s wife had been mad about him and he was mad about her and both were mad about money but he was worse. And so, when a new project with the possibility of immediate potential and long-term growth came up, you didn’t see him for the proverbial. She cried fit to float a P&O liner but he still cleared off.
Incredibly, given such a profile, this jammy dodger had somehow managed to convince Australia House that he would be an asset to the country’s community. Consequently, a mere six months ago, Atherton had set off, via Quantas, along the well-worn convict trail to the Antipodes. Had this not been the case, the Chief Inspector would have got a search going, for Jimmy sounded just the sort to be mixed up in a plot to raise a stack of the readies on the exmissus.
Thinking along these lines, Barnaby experienced a sudden powerful sense of coincidence which directed him back to Dr. Jennings’ surgery. Once more he attended to the descriptions of Simone Hollingsworth’s bruised arms and her distressed condition. He found his notes and checked out the date of her first visit. March the ninth. He pulled a keyboard towards him, scrolled through Sarah Lawson’s statement and hit on the lines: “Simone rang up and said she wouldn’t be coming again. I think she’d been crying. She certainly sounded very subdued. I got the impression Alan was standing over her.” That had been early March too, both incidents taking place just over a week before Simone had been given the necklace.
The pattern was not unfamiliar. A bullying partner brings pressure to bear to get his or her own way. Once achieved, at whatever the cost to the recipient, the victor is all smiles and affectionate generosity. Loving assurances are made that such a thing will never happen again. Gifts are quite frequently offered—in this case, one would have thought, of quite disproportionate value to the petty victory gained.
This train of thought led Barnaby to dwell on the disappearance and possible theft of the jewels. Their illustration in Harpers was being well circulated by the police both in legitimate and highly suspect circles but so far to no effect. And surely if they had been stolen, Hollingsworth would have reported it, if only for the insurance.
The Chief Inspector’s opinion was that Simone had taken the necklace with her. No doubt she felt she’d earned it and it would certainly have fitted into her handbag, or even her pocket. This notion went well with the theory that she believed she was off to start a new life with a new partner, albeit without much in the way of luggage. Then one was le
ft with the problem of why, with two hundred thousand smackers worth of razzle dazzle in his hot little hand (and perhaps the ring as well) the man had persisted with a possibly risky kidnap and ransom demand. Unless, as was so often the case, the original request was scheduled to be the first of many.
At this point in his reflections an update from Heathrow was put on Barnaby’s desk. Of the two registration numbers he had left with Inspector Fennimore, one had come up trumps. Alan Hollingsworth’s Audi convertible had definitely checked into the Short Term Car Park. A ticket found in Brenda Brockley’s Mini indicated that she had been barely minutes behind him. There was no record of the second number, which belonged to Gray Patterson.
A fax of the Identikit portrait of the bag lady drawn with Eden Lo’s assistance also arrived. This had only been in circulation around the airport for an hour or two so it was unrealistic to expect much feedback as yet. Barnaby drew it towards him and switched on his Anglepoise for a closer look.
It was not a pretty sight. The Chief Inspector was reminded of the drawing in the final box of the Have You Got Your Pension Sorted adverts. A jolly smile in the first, a couple of faintly sketched frown lines in the second, a much more definite network of anxiety as our improvident hero flirts with middle age, and finally something resembling a man with a densely woven spider’s web stuck to his face.
This was a female, of course. Seamed and wrinkled as a walnut, wearing a patterned headscarf loosely tied under her chin. Clothing listed alongside: stained dark skirt, shabby cardigan with some sort of design which might, Miss Lo suggested, have been Fair Isle. An ancient jumper, colour not remembered. Dirty tennis shoes.
Not bad for a glance lasting a couple of seconds. Barnaby, duly grateful, prayed that someone somewhere would recognise the woman and that the police would then be able to lay hands on her. He leaned back and closed his eyes, picturing the scene in the Häagen-Dazs café.
Hollingsworth coming in, buying a coffee, taking it to a table and walking away. Almost immediately the woman crosses over and starts to drink it. At Miss Lo’s approach she hurries off carrying a string bag holding parcels wrapped in newspaper. It was not known whether she brought this in with her.
Faithful unto Death Page 27
