by Laura Wilson
When Stratton looked at her, the words poule de luxe appeared in his mind. He wasn’t sure of their precise meaning, but they were certainly appropriate. Golden-haired, manicured and undeniably gorgeous, she was evidently as expensively maintained as the flat. She was also disarmingly friendly, very bright and extremely self-assured, with a slight accent that Stratton couldn’t quite place but which slipped out now and again despite her best efforts to hide it.
She’d insisted on making him a cup of coffee – ‘I’ve got a new type of machine – imported from Italy – just wait till you taste it!’ – and, his cursory glance round the upper floor completed, Stratton sat in the sunny window watching a chauffeur in shirtsleeves polishing an Alvis on the cobbles. He pictured Perlmann as he’d left him, lying supine in his hospital bed while nurses bustled about him, and thought of his conversation with Maxine Perlmann, who’d been feverishly pacing the corridor outside the ward and who’d pounced on him the moment he’d emerged. Perhaps ten years younger than her husband, she was slender and long-legged, with a delicate pink-and-white beauty. An English rose, Stratton had thought, surprised: despite the accent he’d heard on the phone, he’d somehow expected someone more foreign-looking.
She’d looked askance at his eye, but said only, ‘Danny thinks he’s dying.’
‘Yes,’ Stratton had agreed cautiously, ‘and he’s clearly not well, but that doesn’t necessarily mean—’
‘What do you think?’
‘People recover from heart attacks, Mrs Perlmann,’ he’d said authoritatively.
‘He went to see a specialist and they gave him some heart pills, but I never thought … He always said there was nothing to worry about. You know,’ she added with a wan smile, ‘that specialist died a couple of months ago – a heart attack. When Danny heard about it he couldn’t stop laughing. I’ve never seen him laugh so much.’ A smile, bright with the happiness of the memory, had flickered momentarily across her face.
‘Do you think they’ll let me see him now?’
‘I’d leave it a bit if I were you. The nurses were with him when I left.’
‘Why? What’s—’
‘Just routine,’ Stratton had said soothingly. ‘He says he needs to speak to Stefan Laskier.’
‘Stefan? For business – now?’ She’d blown out her lips in exasperation.
‘He was very insistent, Mrs Perlmann.’
‘That’s what’s done this. The worrying, rushing about the place, staying out all night every night. The war – what he went through – weakened his heart, and all of this is making it worse. What did he want to talk to you about, anyway?’
‘He was worried about the trouble last night. I think I managed to put his mind at rest.’ Stratton’s main aim in saying this had been to avoid alarming Mrs Perlmann who, he felt, had enough on her plate already with worrying about her husband. Thinking about it now, he still had no real idea what it was that Perlmann had been trying to tell him, and – more importantly – why. No wonder Laskier always looked so unhappy, thought Stratton. Ever since Perlmann had told him, he’d had the picture in his mind of the hanging woman, feet dangling uselessly, and the note – he imagined a pathetically small scrap of paper, curled at the edges – pinned to her clothing. What about her family? Had she known, or been able to find out, what had happened to them? Did Laskier and Perlmann know what had happened to theirs, or had there come a point when they realised that there was simply no way that they could have survived? Lola can’t sleep, won’t go outside … She thinks when Stefan goes out, someone will take him – that she will never see him again. The enormity of it was too much to think about in any rational way. There weren’t words – or, if there were, Stratton did not know them.
He tried to concentrate on remembering what else Perlmann had said. He doesn’t know … What didn’t Laskier know? It was after he’d broken the news of Mrs Rutherford’s death that Perlmann had insisted that he must see Laskier, so maybe it had to do with that. Laskier had said that Mrs Rutherford – or anyway her family – had lent Perlmann money. Perhaps that was something to do with it. And Laskier had said something about Perlmann doing deals and forgetting to mention them afterwards …
While April Scott fussed with coffee cups, Stratton took another look around the room: fancy furniture upholstered in green and gold, and a huge golden harp standing in one corner. He had no idea whether you could actually get a tune out of the thing, but it certainly looked as if it might have cost a bit. Had Rutherford paid for it? Perhaps Fenella had been wrong and he did have money of his own … Otherwise, all of this – plus, presumably, the running costs, which wouldn’t be cheap – must have been paid for by his wife, without her knowledge.
April passed a cup and seated herself opposite him, fluffing out her skirt and making sure that he had ample opportunity to admire her legs. ‘How can I help, Inspector?’
Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on her face – as if that wasn’t quite distracting enough – Stratton said, ‘I take it you’ve heard about Mrs Rutherford?’
‘Yes. It’s very sad.’ Her aura of self-assurance seemed, somehow, to have crystallised so that, for a moment, she appeared to him like a ventriloquist’s dummy: bright and alert but devoid of expression, the beautiful features hard and shiny. Rutherford, he thought, had primed her for this conversation. Did she, he wondered, hope to become – after a suitable interval – the man’s next wife? Somehow, he doubted that Rutherford, however infatuated, would consider marrying a woman without money, and he’d lay a bet that April’s only assets were her looks.
‘Mr Rutherford says he came to see you last night. What time was that?’
April rearranged her legs, then gave him an up-from-under look that he was sure came straight out of a film magazine. Finally, she said, ‘Well, I’m not entirely sure. I think it must have been about half past ten.’
‘Why?’
She turned her head sideways and started playing with the bracelet she was wearing on her right wrist. It was made of gold chain and had a heavy-looking medallion attached to it. Stratton found himself wondering whether it was a present from Rutherford and, if so, whether it was inscribed. Sensing the direction of his gaze, she flashed him a tight smile. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘What makes you think it was half past ten, Miss Scott?’
‘Well, you know …’ The smile became more intimate. ‘It was Saturday night, and, to be honest, I’m not usually at home.’ She paused, fiddling with the bracelet again, allowing him to imagine an infinity of glamorous possibilities. ‘I washed my hair, and listened to some music …’ She gestured towards several long-playing records scattered about the carpet beside the record-player. Cocking his head, he read: The King & I, Salad Days, The Boyfriend. All musicals, and, he thought, several years old – Rutherford’s taste, perhaps, rather than hers. There was some classical music too – Vivaldi and Bach. Rutherford definitely hadn’t seemed the type for those, he thought. Perhaps April was going in for a spot of self-improvement. ‘I didn’t really notice what time it was,’ she said now. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see Giles.’
‘Does he often turn up without making an appointment?’
His choice of words had been deliberate, meant to be insulting, but April remained unruffled. ‘He’d told me he had to go to some function or other. To be honest, it sounded pretty boring, and I wasn’t really paying much attention. I’d assumed he’d be there all evening, so …’ She shrugged.
‘You didn’t make other plans?’
April twiddled the bracelet a bit more, then said, ‘I thought it would be nice to have an evening to myself.’
She’s confident, Stratton thought. She knows she’s protected. ‘What did you do when he was here?’
She gave him a saucy smile. ‘What do you think, Inspector?’
Two can play at that game, thought Stratton. In his most courteous tone, he said, ‘You spent the entire time fucking, did you?’
For a moment April’s eyes opened wide in s
urprise, but she covered it well, saying, with a little giggle, ‘Not quite all the time. We had a drink, and he said he was hungry, so I made him some bacon and eggs.’ She reached for her handbag, a large, cream-coloured leather affair standing on the carpet beside her chair, and, removing a compact, began powdering her nose.
‘Did you talk at all?’
April looked up from the hand-mirror. ‘Well, of course.’
‘What about?’
Inspecting her face once more, she said complacently, ‘Giles said that the party was dull so he’d come to see me instead.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘I don’t really remember.’ She dropped the compact back into the handbag and closed it with an expensive-sounding snap. ‘Nothing very important.’
‘When did he leave?’
April looked vaguely round the room, then said, ‘About midnight?’
‘Are you asking me or telling me, Miss Scott?’
‘Oh …’ She tried the saucy smile again. ‘I can’t really remember. We’d had some champagne, you know …’
‘How much?’
‘I’m not sure. A bottle, I suppose.’
‘Did he seem drunk to you?’
‘I wouldn’t say so. He was a bit fed up.’
‘Why?’
‘Just about the party. He said that his … that Mrs Rutherford had wanted him to go with her, but the whole thing was a washout.’
‘And at that point you didn’t know anything about the party, where it was, or …’
‘Not then. He told me later, when he telephoned.’
‘When was that?’
‘About a quarter to three, I think. He woke me up.’
Just after I’d left him, thought Stratton. ‘And how did he seem then?’
‘Well, he was very upset and he’d been drinking. He wanted to come over but I told him not to. I didn’t think,’ she added, primly, ‘that it would be right.’ And, thought Stratton, you were worried about how it would look if anyone found out. ‘He told me about the fighting, too. I was a bit surprised when he said he’d gone to a party in Notting Hill. I mean, it’s not exactly a nice area, is it?’
‘Not like this,’ said Stratton. April Scott, he guessed, was very keen on – and shrewd at – feathering her own nest, and not very much interested in things that didn’t pertain directly to herself. ‘Does Rutherford own this place?’
April looked down at the bracelet, contenting herself, this time, with merely turning her wrist so that it slipped round a bit, then said, ‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh,’ said Stratton genially, ‘I think you do – clever girl like you. I can’t believe you haven’t made it your business to find out. And,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘because you are such a clever girl, you’ll certainly know that it’d be the work of … oh, ten minutes or so … for me to find out, and you’ll also know –’ here he widened his eyes and nodded for emphasis – ‘that lying to the police is not a good idea and can get you into lots and lots of trouble, no matter who your friends are.’
April stared at him imperiously for a moment, then, seeing that this wasn’t going to work, said, ‘This flat belongs to a man called Danny Perlmann.’
‘Really?’ Whatever Stratton had been expecting, it wasn’t that. Now all sorts of possibilities swam into his head. ‘And do you know Mr Perlmann?’
April tossed her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that. I’ve met him.’
‘Oh? Where?’
‘I can’t exactly remember.’
‘I’m sure you can if you try.’ Stratton sat back and crossed his arms. ‘And if you’re going to keep me waiting, I’ll have another cup of that delicious coffee.’
The implication that he wasn’t going to move until he got what he wanted did the trick. ‘At his club.’ April was staring at him now with barely concealed hatred. ‘Maxine’s.’
‘Anywhere else?’
She hesitated a fraction of a second too long before replying. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Here, for instance?’
‘Well … Giles may have brought him here a few times.’
‘Why? Was it a ménage à trois?’
‘They were playing cards,’ snapped April. ‘There were other people as well.’
‘Gambling?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to. So Rutherford pays rent to Perlmann, does he?’
‘I suppose so.’
Stratton rose. ‘Thank you, Miss Scott. You’ve been most helpful.’
Turning at the front door, Stratton stuck out his hand. When April Scott responded in kind, he held onto her firmly and, using his other hand, grabbed the medallion on the chain round her wrist and turned it over while she yelped in indignation and tried to squirm free. ‘To gorgeous April from Danny. 12.8.58,’ he read aloud. ‘Looks as if the flat isn’t the only thing round here that’s owned by Mr Perlmann. Does Mr Rutherford pay rent for you as well?’
The last thing he saw was her open mouth, pink, clean and outraged – like a cat’s, he thought. Without bothering to wait for a reply, he clattered down the stairs and out into the street. ‘He doesn’t know!’ April shouted frenziedly after him. ‘Danny doesn’t know!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
‘It was pretty strange, sir. Perlmann was talking about how he’d not been given British citizenship, and he told me about Laskier’s wife who committed suicide six months ago. I think Mrs Perlmann’s right and he believes he’s dying. He’s definitely trying to protect Laskier from something, but I’m not sure what. It could be to do with the Rutherfords – when I told him what had happened to Mrs R he demanded to see Laskier at once – but I think it’s something bigger than that. Oh, and Giles Rutherford’s been playing around with Perlmann’s mistress, April Scott. And on that subject, I’m not at all sure that she’s telling the truth about Rutherford being there last night.’
‘You think he wasn’t there?’ asked Matheson. Standing in his office, sipping a cup of coffee, he looked as neat and spry as usual.
‘I think he probably was there at some point,’ said Stratton cautiously. ‘It’s the timing I’m wondering about.’
‘The new statements ought to help us there,’ said Matheson. ‘At least, if it was before all the rumpus. He must have said goodbye to someone at the party before taking his leave.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Stratton. ‘I think the only reason he admitted that he’d gone to see Miss Scott was because I’d caught him on the hop – he realised he needed some sort of alibi but he wasn’t sober enough to come up with anything else on the spur of the moment … Which, I have to say, suggests that if he did have anything to do with his wife’s death it wasn’t premeditated. I don’t think it’s anything to do with Perlmann, by the way – I mean, Virginia Rutherford’s death isn’t. I think that may have caused problems for him rather than the other way round.’
‘But you say Rutherford was seeing Miss Scott behind his back?’
‘Yes, but I’m pretty sure Perlmann isn’t aware of it. Miss Scott made a point of telling me that. I think that Giles Rutherford enjoys the good things in life and he doesn’t care too much if they happen to belong to other people, but I can’t see why he’d have killed his wife. Unless he has money of his own – the general opinion seems to be against – it would be tantamount to killing the goose that laid the golden eggs.’
‘Unless she was going to remove the source of the golden eggs by divorcing him – or he’d spent a lot of her money without her knowledge and was about to be found out.’
‘Possible,’ said Stratton. ‘What was Rutherford like this morning?’
‘Well, he’d obviously got a sore head,’ said Matheson, ‘and he did seem pretty upset, although I had the impression he felt more sorry for himself than his wife. Said a couple of times that it was just his luck that it should have happened.’
‘His bad luck, you mean?’
‘Definitely. The implication was that she’d failed him. He
said that she hadn’t been herself recently, and …’ Matheson wagged his head significantly, ‘he also admitted he’d left the party because she was – as he put it – making a fool of herself with Etheridge.’
‘Well, we know that she was keen on him, sir. We saw that at the nightclub. Rutherford didn’t seem to be paying much attention at the time, but that might have been a deliberate ploy.’
‘Yes,’ said Matheson thoughtfully, ‘it might. But the “bad luck” business suggests that he sees his wife’s death as a bad thing – for him at least.’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Sorry to disturb, sir,’ said PC Dunning. ‘Telephone call for DI Stratton. It’s an Irish bloke, sir. Says it’s urgent but won’t give his name or talk to anyone else.’
Picking up the receiver with a surge of hope, Stratton could hear the faint sound of chatter and the rattle of glasses in the background. ‘Inspector Stratton?’
‘Speaking. Can I help you?’
‘O’Driscoll, sir, from the pub. It’s about that car.’
‘Hello, Joseph. The green van?’ said Stratton. ‘Tell me.’
‘No, sir. The other.’
‘The Bentley?’
‘That’s the one. I thought you’d like to know. I saw it again last night.’
‘You’re sure it was the same one?’
‘Sure as I can be, sir. It’s like Mr Norris told you, we don’t see too many cars like that around here. I couldn’t swear it was the same man driving, but I think so. He’d two other fellows with him – one beside him and one in the back.’
‘What time was this?’
‘After closing time.’
