He refused to budge. ‘You don’t have to do this, love. It’s not a pretty sight.’
Lucy climbed the stairs with a determined expression. ‘I’ve got to know – one way or the other.’
With the greatest of reluctance her husband finally stepped aside and let her pass.
She approached the body stealthily, almost as though it might even now spring to life and do her some ill. Having made her identification she came back down the stairs, the blood drained from her cheeks.
‘Well?’ I asked, as gently as I could. ‘Is that him?’
‘Yes,’ she replied in a tiny voice. ‘It’s all over.’
Then she collapsed in a half-swoon into Trevor’s arms.
CHAPTER THREE
‘I wonder what finally pushed that boy over the edge?’ mused Mother the following morning, stirring her tea and gazing out at the snow-dusted garden with a melancholic expression. ‘Did he finally realize that Lucy would never return his affections? Or was it exam pressure?’
‘As he didn’t leave a suicide note it’s difficult to say,’ I replied, ‘I’m not a psychiatrist.’
‘Have the police informed his parents yet?’
‘Yes, they’re travelling down from Yorkshire to identify the body,’ said Mo.
‘How awful for them,’ sighed Mother. ‘What a terrible waste of a young life.’
‘I’m afraid Lucy’s reacted rather badly,’ I remarked. ‘She’s taking some time off work to recover from the shock.’
‘I think that’s very sensible. Mind you, Alice Elkbourn will find it a struggle without her.’
‘Which reminds me; I thought I’d give her the news about Owen in person, rather than over the phone. She’s been extremely helpful throughout, and it’s the least I can do.’
‘When are you going?’ asked Mo.
‘Straight after breakfast. But you don’t need to come. It shouldn’t take very long.’
An hour later I was in the cramped staff room at Visage, addressing both Alice and Chloe.
‘On the positive side, we’ve managed to track down the stalker. His name was Owen Phillimore – he was a student at Downing College.’
‘Was?’ queried Alice sharply.
‘Yes. I’m sorry to say that he was dead when we found him.’
‘Oh God!’ gasped Chloe, covering her outsized mouth with both hands. ‘What happened to him?’
‘He’d committed suicide.’
‘Suicide? Are you sure?’ she asked, looking slightly relieved. ‘It wasn’t murder, then?’
‘He hanged himself in his room. Why, were you expecting him to be murdered?’
‘No,’ said Chloe, getting up abruptly. ‘I’d better go back to my client now. It’s Mrs. Budd – she doesn’t like being left alone.’
With that she disappeared upstairs. Alice and I exchanged perplexed glances.
‘That was rather an odd reaction,’ I said, after a pause.
‘Yes. I think the strain must have caught up with her.’
I nodded thoughtfully. ‘Now that we’re on the subject of Chloe I’d like to sort out one little discrepancy with you – it’s been bothering me.’
Alice looked surprised. ‘What kind of discrepancy?’
‘You told me that Owen left a plastic bag behind him, on that occasion when he came to the salon?’
‘That’s right, he did. It was one of those supermarket carrier bags.’
‘What happened to it in the end?’
‘I don’t know, to be honest.’
‘Because Chloe claimed there was no bag; and she was actually sitting at the reception desk – where you say Owen left it. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t see why she should lie about something like that.’
‘No, nor do I. Perhaps you could ask her to come down again when she has a second. I’d like to have another chat with her – in private.’
‘Of course. I’ll get her now.’
Chloe returned after a few minutes looking very defensive, even scared. I decided the best way to get the truth out of her was to go on the attack immediately.
‘What happened to that carrier bag, Chloe?’ I asked sternly. ‘You know – the one Owen gave you? I want a straight answer this time.’
She folded her arms and pursed her lips obdurately.
‘Look, a man is dead. You could be in serious trouble – very serious trouble – if you conceal anything that is relevant. Surely you understand that? Wouldn’t it be better to deal with me, rather than the police?’
Suddenly the girl’s unyielding expression crumpled, and she burst into a storm of tears.
I remained impassive.
Having recovered her composure a little she got up from her seat, went over to a locker, and withdrew a plain, white plastic bag.
‘There!’ she cried, tossing it at me. ‘Are you satisfied?’
Inside was a photograph album containing dozens of snaps of Lucy Paxton, in a variety of settings: gambolling in a park, walking through a college court, enjoying a meal in a restaurant. My attention was particularly drawn to a shot of her reposing in a punt, taken by someone standing at the other end. She was wearing a revealing dress and pouting provocatively.
But the real bombshell came when I turned to the very last page of the album. Here was a black and white photo of Lucy strolling along a sea-front, hand-in-hand with a young man who looked disturbingly like Owen Phillimore.
When I saw that I began to feel rather sick. At a stroke the entire case had been turned on its head.
‘This is a vital piece of evidence – why on earth did you hold it back?’ I demanded, glaring at Chloe.
‘It was a shock – finding out Lucy really was seeing Owen,’ she replied, sniffing and dabbing at her red eyes with a handkerchief. ‘I didn’t want to get her into any trouble.’
‘With Trevor, you mean?’
‘Yes. He’ll go mad when he sees those. He’s incredibly jealous. And violent.’
‘So, in order to protect Lucy you hid the photos, and went along with her pretence that she didn’t know Owen?’
‘Yes.’
‘And let everyone go on believing the poor chap was some kind of deluded psychopath?’
‘Yes.’
‘And now he’s committed suicide.’
‘What else could I do?’ she wailed.
‘Does Lucy know about the photos?’
‘No, I haven’t shown them to her.’
‘Perhaps you’ve been saving them for a rainy day?’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Chloe, manufacturing an offended expression.
‘Well, you could easily have blackmailed her with them – forced her to turn down that manager’s job, so that you could have it instead. However, I’m not particularly interested in your motives at the moment.’
I picked up the album and headed for the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To confront Lucy. She’s got one hell of a lot of explaining to do.’
I was just setting off in the car for Lucy’s house when the mobile buzzed.
‘Hello, is that Mr. Webster?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Mrs. Pardoe here – Dr. Klüver’s secretary. Do you remember me?’
‘Yes, of course. How can I help?’
‘Something very odd is going on.’
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘It’s difficult to explain on the telephone. Could you come over to the surgery?’
‘I’m very busy at the moment, Mrs. Pardoe,’ I said. ‘Won’t it wait till this afternoon?’
‘Not really.’
‘Alright,’ I agreed with a sigh, ‘I’ll be there in about ten minutes.’
I did a U-turn and drove over to Klüver’s little establishment next to the Catholic Church. As I walked through the reception door Mrs. Pardoe looked up from her desk and let out an exclamation of relief. She seemed most agitated.
‘Right, so what’s the trouble?’ I asked in
a soothing voice.
‘It’s Dr. Klüver. I’m very concerned about him.’
‘Tell me the whole story.’
‘Well, I arrived a bit earlier than normal this morning,’ began the old girl in a quaky voice. ‘Dr. Klüver already had somebody in with him – which was strange, because his first patient wasn’t due until ten o’clock. It didn’t sound at all like a consultation, more like an argument. I’m afraid I listened at the door.’
‘And what did you hear?’ I asked.
‘Dr. Klüver said: “You can’t scare me. I don’t want any part of this.” Then the other man started shouting and swearing at him. There was a lot of bumping and banging about – as if they were fighting each other. I got alarmed and went out into the street to find a policeman.’
‘Couldn’t you have phoned the police from the office?’
‘I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘I see. Please go on.’
‘Well, I must have been looking for about ten minutes – without luck. Then, just as I was returning to the surgery Dr. Klüver came out of the street door and walked straight past me without saying a word! I called after him, but he wouldn’t stop.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Very peculiar – staring into space. He’d left this note on my desk.’
She showed me a slip of paper bearing the following hurriedly dashed off message:
SICK. GONE HOME. PLEASE CANCEL ALL
APPOINTMENTS.
‘I still had your card, so I decided to telephone you. What do you think it means, Mr. Webster?’
I reflected for a while. ‘Where does Dr. Klüver live?’
‘Trumpington.’
‘So he might be home by now?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I should give him a call.’
Mrs. Pardoe hesitated. ‘But what do I say? I don’t like to pry.’
‘Simply enquire after his health.’
I handed her the receiver as an encouragement. ‘Go on – it’s the only way to find out what’s happening.’
She nodded, and dialled the number. After an eternity of ringing Klüver answered, and a short conversation ensued. He did most of the talking.
‘Well, what’s the verdict?’ I enquired, after Mrs. Pardoe had hung up.
She frowned. ‘He sounded drunk – extremely drunk. He said he didn’t know when he was coming back to work – maybe never. I asked why. He said he’d got himself into a terrible mess, but that he would get even.’
‘Get even?’ I repeated. ‘With whom?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Well, this certainly is a curious turn of events. You were right to let me know.’
‘But what’s to be done?’
‘I should go home and try to relax. Staying on here will serve no purpose. If you give me Dr. Klüver’s address I’ll look in on him some time this afternoon.’
I returned to the car and resumed my journey across town to Lucy’s house. On the way I called Mo and brought him up to date concerning the incriminating photograph.
‘So Lucy did know Owen – she’s been lying to us all along?’ he reacted hotly.
‘That’s what it looks like, yes.’
‘What are we going to do about it?’
‘I’m driving over there now – to see what she has to say for herself.’
‘Can I join you?’
‘No, I’d like you to research this Dr. Klüver for me. He’s been behaving in an eccentric fashion today. Ring up the Institute of Psychiatric Medicine in Cape Town. Find out anything you can about him. I’ll ring again in about an hour.’
Lucy came to the door of her house in Madingley Road wearing a dressing gown, and without a trace of make-up on her pale, delicate face.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, hardly able to muster a smile.
‘May I come in?’
‘Yes, if you want.’
We went through into the living room.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she offered vaguely, hovering near the bar.
‘No thanks. The reason I’m here, Lucy, is this,’ I said, handing over the photo album without preamble.
‘What is it?’ she asked innocently.
‘Take a look inside – the last page especially.’
Her large round eyes grew even larger as she surveyed the contents. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Owen Phillimore handed it in to the salon. You lied about not knowing him, didn’t you? Perhaps the reason was understandable – you were afraid of Trevor’s reaction. But the result was the tragic death of a bright young man. You’ll have to live with that for the rest of your life.’
‘No!’ shouted Lucy, throwing the album onto the floor. ‘You’re wrong! I didn’t know him.’
‘What’s the point in denying it? That photograph is conclusive.’
‘It’s a fake. They’re all fakes. They’ve got to be.’
‘You don’t really expect me to believe that?’
‘It’s the truth!’ she cried, pulling at my arm. ‘I don’t remember being in any of those places. I haven’t been in a punt since I was a girl.’
She grabbed the telephone and started dialling feverishly.
‘Who are you calling?’ I asked.
‘My husband. I want to explain everything to him – before you do.’
Eventually she got through to Trevor’s office. From the ensuing conversation I gathered he wasn’t in, and hadn’t been all day. No-one knew where he was.
Just as Lucy came off the phone there was the sound of a key turning in the front door.
‘Ah, that must be him!’ she exclaimed, rushing out into the hall.
‘Hello, princess,’ came Trevor’s stentorian voice, a few seconds later. ‘I bought some flowers; to cheer you up.’
‘Where have you been?’ asked Lucy. ‘You weren’t at work.’
At that point Trevor walked into the living room and caught sight of me.
‘Oh, Mr. Webster again. Come for your wages? I put a cheque in the post yesterday.’
‘He hasn’t come for that,’ said Lucy, picking up the album from the carpet.
‘What then?’
‘He brought this. There are some photos of me – but they’re fakes. Take a look for yourself.’
Trevor turned the first few pages with an inscrutable expression, but when he saw the most damning shot he flushed and glared at his wife accusingly.
‘How can that be a fake?’ he demanded.
‘Owen must have put my face onto someone else’s body,’ theorized Lucy desperately. ‘I’m sure it can be done.’
Trevor mulled over this far-fetched explanation for some time.
‘Yes,’ he said at last, snapping the album shut, ‘it must be trick photography.’
‘Are you serious?’ I asked incredulously.
‘My wife does not lie,’ stated Trevor, slowly and emphatically.
Before I could argue any further he guided Lucy out of the room. ‘You’d better get some rest upstairs, love. You know what the doctor said – you mustn’t get overtired.’ Turning back to me he added: ‘I think it’s best if you go now.’
‘Very well,’ I replied with a shrug. ‘If that’s the way you want it. Could I possibly use your phone before I leave?’
‘Help yourself.’
I called Mother’s house again and asked Mo to give me the results of his South African research.
‘Interesting stuff, Sherl!’ declared my colleague. ‘Apparently Klüver never completed his course at the Institute. He was booted out!’
‘What for?’
‘There was a scandal involving a female patient. He abused her while she was hypnotised.’
‘Does that mean he’s not really a doctor?’
‘No more than I am. Also, somebody else from England was making enquiries about him only a few months ago.’
‘Who?’
‘No name given.’
‘I see. Listen, Mo, I’d like you to meet me at K
lüver’s house – you can borrows Mother’s car. He lives in Trumpington. Number eight, Gladstone Close. Start right away.’
I gathered up my coat and the photo album and headed for the door.
Trevor, who had overheard the whole conversation, said: ‘Why are you making more work for yourself? Your job is over. The stalker is dead.’
‘I know, but there’s a loose end that has to be tied up – for my own satisfaction more than anything else. Don’t worry, I won’t charge for my time.’
‘I should bloody well think not,’ he muttered, pouring himself a drink.
Klüver’s house was suburban and unexceptional. His car was in the garage, which was a hopeful sign. I buzzed at the door. There was no reply, so I went around the back, peering in through all the windows. The lounge curtains were drawn, but there was a gap through which I could just discern someone, presumably Klüver, lying on the sofa. I tapped on the glass, but he did not move. Fortunately the french windows were unlocked, so I effected my entry, as silently as possible.
I need not have used stealth, however, because Klüver was in an intoxicated slumber, surrounded by empty bottles of wine and whisky. I sat in an easy chair and kept a vigil over him, while the last wan rays of the winter sun played against the walls.
It gave me a chance to consider the various pieces of the jigsaw which made up this complex case, and fit them together so as to make an acceptable whole.
By the time Mo arrived, some twenty minutes later, I felt I had made significant headway in that direction. I showed my colleague straight into the living room.
‘This is our soi disant doctor,’ I declared, pointing to the snoring figure.
Mo bent down to examine him. ‘Looks as if he’s had a skinful.’
‘He has. It will be quite a task to revive him. I may need your help.’
‘You know, there’s one question I’ve been asking myself all the way here,’ said Mo, eyeing me intently.
‘What’s that?’
‘Is there a link between the fact that Klüver’s a fake, and the business between Owen and Lucy? Presumably there is, otherwise we wouldn’t be here.’
I smiled. ‘Very astute of you, Mo. Yes, I believe there is such a link – but I won’t be in a position to confirm it until we’ve spoken to our inebriated friend. So would you be kind enough to get a jug of cold water from the kitchen?’
The Sherlock Effect Page 12
