by Laura Wilson
‘And that would have been …’ Stratton thumbed back through his notebook, ‘about ten to three.’
‘I should think so. I was going to call my brother, because it’s daytime in Australia, but before I could pick up the phone it started ringing. I thought it might have been Stefan, but it was a man – he said he was sorry about Danny and then he said he needed me to sign something because Danny owed him a lot of money and there was nothing in writing.’ Her voice rose, shrill and panicky. ‘I said I didn’t know what he was talking about and he’d have to talk to Stefan, and then straight after that another man phoned.’ She shook her head, blinking away tears. ‘I couldn’t take any of it in, I was so …’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Perlmann. Do you know the names of these people?’
‘No. I didn’t catch them. All I know is that Danny’s dead and I don’t know why all this is happening. I said to them, I can’t help you, you have to talk to Stefan, but they wouldn’t listen. They were threatening to come here.’
‘It’s all right, Maxine.’ Mr Hythe, next to her, glared at Stratton and made damping down motions with his hands. ‘I’m sure we can sort it all out. I really don’t think, Inspector, that now is the time to go into—’
‘No,’ said Stratton, ‘it isn’t. But could you tell me exactly what happened after you took the calls, Mrs Perlmann?’
She blew her nose. ‘I suppose I must have sat there for a while, and then the phone started ringing again and Bonita came in. I told her not to answer it. I remember I went upstairs and sat on the bed after that … Then Bonita came up and said Giles Rutherford had arrived.’
‘And what time was that?’
‘About an hour later, I suppose, maybe more.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘Bonita said that Gertner was with him—’
‘Gertner?’
‘Jan Gertner. He works – worked – for Danny. Bonita said that they’d gone straight into the sun lounge and she couldn’t stop him. Danny works in there, you see, in the summer, and sometimes he leaves papers and things. He doesn’t like it if anyone goes in there and tidies up, so Bonita’s very careful … I went downstairs to see, and there was quite a lot of stuff – more than usual – and Giles was in there shovelling it all into a case.’
‘What was Jan Gertner doing?’
‘Nothing. He was sitting on one of the chairs. He was upset … kept asking me if it was true that Danny was dead. When I asked Giles what he thought he was doing, he turned on me like a madman and told me he had to take it all, and then he said he was trying to protect me … I told him, you can’t just come in here and take things, and I tried to make him put the papers down. He was shouting, and he kept saying how he’d helped Danny in the past and now I had to help him, and then Bonita came in because of the noise and I said to her to take the papers upstairs, but when she tried to pick them up he snatched them. I thought he’d gone mad. And then Jan …’ Maxine Perlmann took a deep, ragged breath. ‘All the time Giles and I had been arguing he’d just been sitting there, and then suddenly he was towering over us, pushing us apart, shouting in Polish. Giles was trying to calm him down. He kept saying, “I’m doing it for Danny.” I don’t think Jan understood what was happening any more than I did, but by that time I was really frightened. Bonita was hysterical so I told her to go upstairs, and I was going to call the police when Gerald arrived.’
‘When Mr Perlmann said to you,’ said Stratton carefully, ‘that you should give Mr Laskier “the things from the house”, do you think he meant the papers that Rutherford tried to take?’
‘Yes. I couldn’t think of anything else he might have meant, because there’s no safe here. When Gerald arrived, I told him about Giles and Jan—’
‘And I said I’d go and talk some sense into Rutherford,’ finished Hythe.
‘And this was when?’ asked Stratton.
Hythe looked at him with irritation. ‘About an hour and a half ago, I should think. That girl arrived just after I did.’
‘April Scott,’ said Maxine Perlmann wearily. ‘You know perfectly well who she is, Gerald, and so do I. I told him,’ she said to Stratton, ‘to let her in. I suppose I wouldn’t have – ordinarily, I mean – but I wanted to see if she had any idea of what was going on with all these wretched people.’
‘And did she?’
Mrs Perlmann shook her head. ‘She said she didn’t, and I believe her.’
‘After about half an hour, I went in and asked her to leave,’ said Hythe. ‘She wasn’t helping, and it wasn’t … right for her to be here, but she wouldn’t budge – just stared at me as if she was halfwitted.’
‘I must have forgotten to lock the car,’ said Maxine Perlmann. ‘I didn’t realise she’d been sitting there until Gerald told me just now.’
‘I see. Right.’ Stratton stood up. ‘I think that’s all for the time being, Mrs Perlmann, so I’ll leave you in peace.’ To Hythe, he said, ‘I’d like to have a look at the sun lounge, please, so if you would be so kind as to accompany me …’
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
As soon as they were in the hall and out of earshot, Hythe hissed, ‘I hope you’re pleased with yourself, bullying a distressed woman.’
‘But taking advantage of her distress and confusion in order to swindle her is all right, is it?’
‘I’m doing nothing of the sort,’ said Hythe. ‘I’m trying to protect her.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Stratton firmly. ‘In the meantime, I’ll ask the necessary questions. Now, where’s this sun lounge?’
*
The room was a large, conservatory-like structure, painted white, lush with greenery and full of rattan furniture of the type Stratton associated with the outposts of Empire. The double doors, one of which was open, led onto a patio, and the only incongruous note was a large wooden table in the centre, littered with stray pieces of paper, more of which were strewn across the floor. Beside it, a briefcase lay open, face down, as if it had been upended and the contents shaken out of it. Several of the chairs, Stratton saw, stood at odd angles, as if they’d been shoved or pushed aside in the course of a struggle, and one of the plant pots was tipped over, scattering a ragged semicircle of earth on the tiled floor.
‘Did you have a fight?’ he asked.
‘I told you,’ said Hythe. ‘I was trying to make him see reason. Gertner did that,’ he pointed to the tipped-over plant, ‘blundering about.’
‘So what were you trying to get Rutherford to do, exactly?’
‘Stop him taking the papers, of course,’ said Hythe.
‘Sure about that, are you?’
‘Of course I am. The man had gone mad. He’d just killed his wife.’
‘How do you know that? Did he tell you?’
‘He didn’t have to. Everyone knows.’
‘Who’s everyone?’
‘For God’s sake, Inspector! I arrived to find Maxine being threatened by a dangerous lunatic – a murderer – and I did what anyone would have done.’
‘But you didn’t, did you? “Anyone”, in the situation you’ve just described, would have called the police at once. Unless, of course, they had a good reason not to. Did you have a reason, Mr Hythe?’
‘Of course not!’ A mottled flush was spreading up Hythe’s neck. ‘You can see what’s been going on here—’
‘That’s just it,’ said Stratton. ‘I can’t. What I can see, however, is that Mr Perlmann has, unfortunately, died, and you lot – alerted, I imagine, by Mr Nash at the Condor – have descended on the place like a plague of locusts. Mr Rutherford is a business associate of yours, isn’t he?’
The flush, which had now reached Hythe’s face, blotched damson and red across his cheeks. ‘Certainly not.’
‘What about the Porchester Building Society?’
‘That’s nothing to do with Giles.’
‘His former father-in-law is a director, Mr Hythe.’
‘That’s completely irrelevant.’
‘The Porchester Building Society operates within the law, Inspector,’ said Hythe triumphantly, ‘and I deny any wrongdoing.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
It was twenty-five to ten when Stratton arrived back at Harrow Road Station. Somewhere in the tangled mess of Perlmann and Rutherford’s affairs lay the answers to who had killed Bert Hampton, the Hon. Virginia and very likely Clyde Johnson as well, but he was too tired to think about it any more. He still had to deal with Pearson, Larby and the rest of them as well as Etheridge, Gertner and – when he’d emerged from hospital – Rutherford.
Stumbling on leaden legs through the knots of people waiting in the foyer, he would have failed to register that Curtis, the desk sergeant, was calling his name if PC Dunning hadn’t tugged on his sleeve. Turning, he saw that Fenella Jones was standing at the desk, looking worried.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked Curtis. ‘Where’s Irene Palmer?’
‘She’s here, sir. This lady says she’s supposed to collect her, but we’ve not had any instructions about it.’
‘I went to West End Central to collect Irene,’ said Fenella, ‘but when I arrived I was told she’d been brought here. They wouldn’t tell me why, so I thought there must have been a mix-up and I’d better come over here, but they won’t let me take her and I didn’t want to just abandon the poor girl, so …’
‘… you’ve been here all this time,’ finished Stratton, appalled. ‘I’m very sorry you’ve been messed about like this. I’ll find out what’s going on.’
Sergeant Curtis, who had the mulishly virtuous look of one who finds himself in trouble for following orders, said, ‘The duty sergeant says there’s no authorisation, sir, and no one else knows anything about it.’
‘When was she brought in?’
‘Twenty-five to seven, sir.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Fenella. ‘If I’d got there a bit quicker …’
‘We’re the ones who should be apologising,’ said Stratton. ‘Who’s on duty?’ he asked the desk sergeant.
‘Sergeant Matthews, sir. He told the night Duty Sergeant to leave it to him.’
I bet he did, thought Stratton. He’s getting his own back for those fucking identity parades. ‘Where’s Miss Palmer?’
‘With Policewoman Jenner, sir.’
‘Well, that’s something, I suppose. What are you waiting for? Go and fetch her.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s just that Sergeant Matthews said unless it was the girl’s family, it had to be through the proper channels, and—’
‘You’re looking at the proper channels, you idiot! Now get cracking. I really am sorry,’ said Stratton, when he’d gone. ‘I left clear instructions at West End Central, so I can only think that wires must have got crossed.’
‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter.’ Fenella looked, given the circumstances, remarkably fresh and unflustered. In fact, she looked lovely, whereas he must look – and, in all probability, smell – like something dragged off a rubbish tip, added to which, she must now think him an incompetent fool. Seeing that she was gazing at him intently and presumably rapidly revising whatever good opinion she’d previously held, he was about to offer another apology when she said firmly, ‘Really, it doesn’t matter. I know these things happen, and it obviously wasn’t your fault.’
‘Miss Jenner’s very nice,’ said Stratton. ‘I hope,’ he added, ‘that Matthews hasn’t been bullying Irene for the names of her parents. He can be a bit of a … a so-and-so, and she’d got quite enough on her plate without that.’
‘Is she the one you were telling me about in the cafe?’
‘Yes,’ said Stratton, surprised she’d remembered.
‘So the man you said was killed, was he her … her lover?’
Stratton spent the next few minutes filling in the sketchy precis of events he’d given her earlier, and then Curtis reappeared, by himself and looking flustered.
‘Where is she?’
‘On her way, sir. Sergeant Matthews isn’t best pleased,’ he added. ‘Says you should have talked to him first.’
‘Well, he needn’t worry,’ said Stratton grimly, ‘because I’ll certainly be speaking to him later. Is DS Matheson about?’
‘No, sir. Not for another hour, he said, but he left a message for you. If you could excuse us, madam,’ he said to Fenella, who smiled at Stratton and went to sit down on one of the benches. ‘It’s about Knight and Halliwell, sir. They’re downstairs. And they’ve found the van, sir.’
‘That is good news. Where were they picked up?’
‘Leaving the White Defence League place, sir, about two hours ago. The van was in the yard behind, under a tarpaulin. They’re having a look at it now, sir. Turns out it’s registered to Halliwell’s father.’
‘Even better. Have we managed to get hold of him for—’
Stratton broke off as Miss Jenner appeared, Irene at her side. Dressed now in a blouse and skirt, she was no longer shaking but looked paler and less substantial even than before, her legs and arms like white twigs and her drooping head too large for the slender neck beneath it. Her eyes widened in terror as Stratton took a step towards her, and she grabbed hold of Miss Jenner’s arm.
‘It’s all right,’ said Stratton gently, ‘I’m not …’ He stopped, realising that Irene wasn’t looking at him but at something behind him. Turning, he caught a blurred snapshot of Mrs Halliwell, teased-up black hair and blazing eyes, charging towards him, but before he or anyone else could stop her she tore straight across to Irene and, pulling back her right hand, walloped her squarely across the face. Cowering, Irene staggered back against the wall, taking Miss Jenner with her.
‘You bloody little bitch!’
‘Stop right there!’ Mrs Halliwell whirled round, arms flailing, clawing like a wild cat as Stratton leapt forward to catch hold of her. He felt a hot, piercing pain beneath his left eye as the sharp edge of her handbag hit his face and, bleeding and unbalanced from the blow, he cannoned sideways into Dunning, who had rushed across the foyer to help. There were gasps and yells of mixed excitement and fear from the waiting crowd as he and Dunning crashed to the ground and Curtis, above them, frantically pressed his buzzer and bawled for help.
As Stratton struggled upright there was a crash and a clatter as PC Jellicoe, accompanied by Illingworth, barrelled through the swing doors. After a few seconds’ mêleé of arms, legs and curses, with Mrs Halliwell swinging her bag like a scythe and kicking out at their shins with her pointy-toed shoes, the two policemen managed to pinion her arms behind her back.
‘What do you want us to do with her, sir?’ panted Jellicoe.
‘Interview room,’ said Stratton. ‘I’ll deal with her in a minute.’
As Jellicoe and Illingworth manhandled the still struggling woman towards the swing doors, she made a sudden lunge towards Irene and, thrusting her head forward, spat directly into the girl’s face.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
‘Right,’ said Stratton. ‘So far, you’ve obstructed an investigation, assaulted a member of the public and caused an affray in a police station. Added to which –’ he tapped the Elastoplast he’d hastily stuck over the gash on his cheek – ‘you bloody nearly blinded me, and if you don’t want to find yourself trying to explain all that in court, you’d better start telling me what the hell is going on.’
Mrs Halliwell, seated on the other side of the table with PC Jellicoe and a policewoman standing in attendance, her spider-lashed eyes alight with fury, said, ‘Never mind that, what you done with Tommy?’
‘If you mean your son,’ said Stratton, ‘he’s downstairs and we’ll be speaking to him later.’
‘She’s the one should be down there, not him,’ spat Mrs Halliwell. ‘She’s the one caused all this.’
‘She?’
‘You know bloody well who I’m talking about. Irene.’
‘And what does Ire
ne have to do with you?’
The hostility in Mrs Halliwell’s eyes was replaced by a look of calculation. ‘She hasn’t told you, has she?’
‘Told me what?’
‘That she shopped her brother,’ said Mrs Halliwell triumphantly. ‘Not such a poor little innocent now, is she? Pure spite, telling lies about her own brother.’
‘Are you saying,’ said Stratton, ‘that Irene Palmer is your daughter?’
‘Calling herself Palmer now, is she?’
‘Yes, she is. Is it her father’s name, Mrs Halliwell?’
‘Yes, my first husband. But Frank – Mr Halliwell – adopted them when we were married. Treated them like they were his own. You ask Tommy. He thinks the world of Frank. Not like her, the vicious little cow. She told lies about Frank right from the start, then she run away from home and took up with a nigger so I can’t even hold my head up in front of the neighbours, and now she’s telling lies about my Tommy. Always going on about her precious dad, she was, and when she come to me saying disgusting things about Frank, I told her I wasn’t having none of it.’
‘How do you know she wasn’t telling the truth?’
‘The truth!’ Mrs Halliwell’s entire face seemed to swell with indignation and the words burst from her, shrill and vehement. ‘Given you the sob story an’ all, has she? Well, I can tell you what the truth is, all right. Reg Palmer – oh, he was wonderful, he was. To hear Irene tell it, the sun shone out of him, but he never done a day’s work in his life unless it was bent, and when he weren’t doing that he was down the pub. Used to worry me sick, how I was going to put food on the table, never mind if he’s going to come home, or if he’s got himself nicked or gone off with some woman – oh, yes, he used to do that too, just bugger off for days, weeks, sometimes, and leave me with no money. We come this close,’ she pinched together a thumb and forefinger, ‘to losing our home, and I couldn’t sleep with the worry … And then he gets carted off to hospital because his liver’s packed up, and that’s it. What I’d have done if Frank hadn’t come along, I don’t know. How many men would take on a woman with two kids? Frank’s a hard worker, he’s reliable, and he’s ten times the man that Reg Palmer ever was. I won’t hear a word said against him by Irene or anyone else.’ Closing her mouth with a snap, she sat back and folded her arms defiantly, challenging Stratton to argue. There was no doubt that she’d meant every word, but throughout the diatribe, he’d kept hearing Irene’s voice in the back of his mind: She called me a liar before I’d even said it – like she knew what I was going to say.
