see Kate and Dolly.
She had used threats, and offered a dangerous story to sell. And
as a consequence of that, someone had killed her.
Perhaps Nella had also been looking for a quick death.
Driving back to Windsor, she felt a distinct and wandering itch
up and down her leg.
That damned Timmy.
When Charmian got home she had a very hot bath, in which she hoped that any Cheasey fleas were floating. She would have bathed anyway, somehow Cheasey needed washing off you.
The great majority of the inhabitants of Cheasey neither knew her nor cared about her, but that little group connected with Nella both knew her and disliked her.
She had at least one enemy there: Jake Henley in The Grey Man, and she felt the force of his dislike. Hate, even.
She avoided the bathroom scales as she dressed; she had made her appointment with the doctor and that was that. But she felt a sudden chill as if her inside was being searched with cold, sterile steel.
She sat down and rested her head on her hands. In her profession you were allowed to be a woman, but not too female. But whatever it meant to be a woman, she suddenly felt very female indeed.
On her dressing table were the two tickets for a Mozart concert which Humphrey had sent. ‘I’d hoped we could go together,’ he had written. ‘ But it’s not to be. I hope you will use them.’
She’d go. She dressed carefully, and booked herself a table in the French restaurant near to the concert hall in Waterloo Street.
After all, Humphrey had sent her flowers. There was a box on her doorstep. Flowers to wear? She started to open it.
No, wait a minute, not flowers. Inside was a bottle. An unpleasant-looking bottle. Small, dark, and with a handwritten label, VITRIOL, it said.
A faint smell of cigar smoke seemed to cling to the paper. Or was that just her imagination?
When she examined it carefully, with gloved hands, she was convinced that the liquid was not vitriol. On a closer scrutiny it did not have the right smell or look. Of course, it would have to be checked professionally, but she was convinced it was a fake.
No joke though. The threat was there. She felt the reality of it. No acid thrown at her this time, but some time soon? That was what the bottle was saying. Watch it, Charmian Daniels, you are an object of my hate.
She went to the concert, but she did not enjoy it.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday, October 10, to Wednesday, October 11
Dolly, Dolly, Nella, Nella, Kate, Kate, the names ran through her mind like a song with one strong melody. It even got into the concert, weaving in and out of the concerto, each different theme sounding: AIDS, Nella, Kate, Dolly, Jack’s gun.
But in the end Mozart was triumphant, consoling and soothing to the spirit, wiping out the names and horrors so that Charmian slept well, a peaceful cat bedding down beside her. She ate her breakfast toast while she made a list of what she needed to do that day.
First thing, she put the vitriol in a plastic bag, ready to be collected. Then she informed both the local police and her own Metropolitan unit about the implied threat of the vitriol. She was pretty sure, by that time, it was not vitriol.
An officer from the Datchet Road station was despatched to interview her at home.
On the telephone, The Met Unit briefed her on the security measures she should be taking herself. Checking her car, seeing the house was properly locked up, treating packages with suspicion. All things she knew.
‘Again,’ the London man said with some emphasis. ‘Told you this before. Don’t think you take it seriously.’ Although the speaker was much junior in rank to Charmian, his work was of so important and sensitive a nature that he took himself very seriously indeed.
‘Oh I do,’ said Charmian.
‘Good. I’ll liaise with the Windsor unit, Eddie Vander is the local man, I’ve worked with him before. Might be the Henley chap doing it but one can’t count on it. Good that you recognised him. Or it could be a villain from up here that’s got it in for you. More likely, I’d say. But we’ll see.’ He was pretty confident of his ability to find her frightener, it was his business to be reassuring.
Dolly was next on her list. Charmian felt a certain urgency about this, because she wanted to get on to Kate herself and Dolly, who was coming to be a kind of obstacle, had to be cleared out of the way first.
Pretty, hard-working, ambitious Dolly was usually a support. Not this time, however. Something was getting in the way.
The visit to the unlovely suburb of Cheasey had added extra shading to her picture of Nella Fisher, provided a motive for the girl’s desperation, for her feeling that she must get money.
It had even fleshed out her story of the threatening man, possibly given him a face. The man called Jake Henley.
Maybe also put a name on the killer. It could be Henley himself. Or, as Dolly Barstow seemed to believe, the bent policeman with whom he was supposed to be in contact.
It was time to put Inspector Elman and Sergeant Bister in the picture so that they could dig deep into the background of Jake Henley and flush up evidence about this corrupt relationship.
But first things first. Dolly Barstow seemed to know more than she was telling and had better part with this information.
Dolly heard her out on the phone, picked up all the tension and reservations, and said briefly that she’d be over soon. Soon as she could polish off what was on her desk. Charmian might be able to call the tune, rearrange her work, but such pleasures of seniority were not for Sergeant Barstow.
A difficult new case had come in: the theft of some major and important jewellery from an illustrious house in the Great Park that should be free from such depredations. Dolly had interviewed the chief suspect and was writing up her notes. She would not continue on the case, it was too tricky, too important, too secret. A bloke was coming down from London to take over. Meanwhile, she must record her first impression, even if it meant keeping Charmian waiting. It was easy for her, Dolly thought a touch enviously, since she was top of her particular tree.
As a matter of fact, Charmian had not found it easy. A little prevarication had been necessary on the telephone. A committee could be missed, she was not in the chair, an appointment put off, letters and memos dictated over the telephone, but it wasn’t something to be done too often.
She had enough worldliness to do it without offering an explanation. She would have done so once, entangled herself in a variety of excuses, but not now. Now she just got on with what seemed right and let people make what they liked of it.
Underneath, she was aware that a resolution was forming about the new position on offer: she must be going to accept. Silently she was moving away from the London end and repositioning herself.
She dressed carefully in a thin Italian jersey suit made in the subtle yet vivid colours which Missoni used. She dressed well now and she knew it. Books might furnish a room, but clothes did prop up a woman.
Dolly arrived unexpectedly soon, ‘Can’t stay long.’
‘Work piling up?’ Should she tell her about the vitriol? No, later.
‘That, too. Someone has nicked the Crown Jewels. No, not really, but nearly as good as,’ said Dolly, ‘but my real problem is my car has packed up and George Rewley gave me a lift, but he’s in a hurry. On his way to an interview. He’ll be back in about an hour.’ She looked at Charmian. ‘So?’
‘I’ve been out to Cheasey. Inspecting where Nella lived.’
‘You didn’t take George?’
‘No.’ Charmian poured them both some coffee. She didn’t have to explain herself to George Rewley. Although he might have been useful.
‘George says Cheasey is a thieves’ kitchen.’
So they were back to George, were they, relationship warming up again? Kate’s own fault if she’d lost George who was so well worth keeping.
‘He’s right. And I think it might be as well to send a man there to have a look at t
he cars parked along the kerb outside the Fishers’ house. It’s Rivers now, by the way. Mrs Rivers.’
‘You think the cars are stolen?’
‘Some of them, not others.’ The battered ones hadn’t looked the sort of car anyone would want to steal; no market for them, not without a bit of work on them which none of the Rivers-Fisher clan seemed likely to do. ‘But there’s something odd about them.’
She didn’t call me here just to tell me that, decided Dolly. I’ll see to it. Is that what you wanted me for?’
‘No, and you know it. I can read your face, Dolly. George Rewley isn’t the only one to be able to read body signals. I studied the notes on Nella Fisher’s last days. Thank you for getting them to me. She was certainly on the move.’
‘Restless,’ said Dolly.
‘She had something on her mind. And now we know what it probably was.’
‘The positive blood test? HIV positive. Poor kid.’
‘I agree. She was desperate. I think that’s why she wanted money. To get away, to get out, or just to make her life more tolerable. She could see what was coming and didn’t like it. She may even have hoped somehow she would be killed. Quicker, easier.’
‘She could have been tempting someone to kill her. Consciously or unconsciously. I think I can understand that.’
‘She more or less told her mother that. She was going to die, she said to her mother.’
‘As, one way or another, she was.’
‘They thought of suicide.’
‘They knew about the blood test?’
‘I think that’s why they didn’t come to the funeral.’
‘Probably thought they’d catch something,’ said Dolly sourly.
‘No, I don’t rate them as bad as that. I think it was a sign of their distress. In their way I think they loved Nella. Not in everyone’s way, but I wouldn’t call Mrs Rivers completely unfeeling.’ Not a lot of evidence one way or another, but Charmian had that conviction. She had seen something in Mrs Rivers’s eyes of distress and grief. Kindness too, After all, even the flea-ridden cats were still there, housed and fed.
She went on: ‘ When I was in Cheasey, I dropped in at a pub called The Grey Man.’
‘Ah,’ said Dolly.
‘Yes, you kept something from me there, didn’t you, Dolly?’
Dolly gave a small shrug.
‘And I’ve been asking myself why.’
‘I was thinking things over,’ said Dolly.
‘I sat in that bar and I didn’t like the feel of it at all. All eyes on me. Not a nice place. Then a man called Jake Henley came in. I don’t know if that is the name he is using now, but he used it once. He has a record for porn dealing, drugs, the lot. Not a nice man, I think you’ve sat in that bar, Dolly, and that it was where Roger met his contact, and that Henley was that contact.’
‘Yes,’ said Dolly, with a sigh. ‘That’s where they met. Nella Fisher worked there for a bit. I think that’s where she picked up her tale of the threats. If she didn’t make it up just to get funds.’
‘I don’t think she made anything up,’ said Charmian quietly. ‘Although she may have got things wrong. Do you think Henley killed Nella?’
‘I think he might have done,’ said Dolly. ‘But I cannot be quite sure. No proof. But he’s got the touch.’
Dolly’s face looked troubled. She put her coffee cup down unsteadily so that the coffee spilled on the table. She mopped at it with a tissue, not meeting Charmian’s eyes.
‘But it could have been Roger. Roger was there when Nella died. I saw Roger.’ The words came out slowly as if she did not want to utter them.
Look at me, Dolly, thought Charmian, but did not say so aloud, ‘Yes, so I remember you saying.’
‘And then, she put herself on the spot with a story about seeing someone walking with Nella. Admitted it. To me, that was a confession.’
Charmian was startled. ‘ What’s that you said?’
‘Yes, her. She. WPS Margery Foggerty. Roger is a woman. You never thought of that, did you?’
Over coffee, they talked. The question was, why had Roger come forward with the story of seeing a figure walking with Nella?
‘I think she believed someone might have seen her from a window and she’d better get her story in first.’
So the killer of Nella could be, they reasoned, Sergeant Foggerty herself. Dolly seemed to think it was likely, but proof was another thing.
Charmian considered. She didn’t like it.
‘Why didn’t you tell me all this before?’
‘Foggerty saved my life once. Early in my career, knocked over a chap whom I was trying to question and who came at me with an axe. She was brave and quick. I owed her.’
Charmian shook her head. Police loyalty, man to man, and now woman to woman. It was a good thing, but it could go too far.
The front-door bell rang. Loudly, twice. Charmian went to answer it. There on the doorstep was a messenger from Security. ‘Parcel to collect.’
She handed over the packet containing the bottle of vitriol. The poisoned message, the threat that she didn’t want to admit to worrying about. Silly stuff, no need to bother over it, that was how she ought to feel but could not.
‘Sign, please.’ He held out a form. Everything in Security was signed and recorded, sometimes in triplicate. ‘And a note from Sergeant Vander, ma’am.’
It was a polite message from Eddie Vander, whom she knew very slightly, asking for a meeting.
Dolly looked up curiously.
‘Someone left a bottle of vitriol on my doorstep last night.’
‘What?’
‘Well, I suspect it’s not vitriol, but the threat is there. I’m meant to be frightened.’
I am not frightened, she said to herself. Not yet.
‘I don’t know if it has any connection with Nella Fisher’s murder, but it might be connected with my visit to Cheasey. They didn’t like me there. Warning me off might seem a good idea.’
Dolly stood up. ‘I’ll get to work on Foggerty. I shall have to go through channels. I’ll report what I saw. But I think it’s not going to be an enjoyable time.’ A faint note of protest was sounded there.
‘No.’ Did she expect it to be, thought Charmian with a touch of irritation. Why did both Dolly and Kate have this conviction that somehow, for them, all paths would be cleared? ‘And Jake? What about him?’
‘Well, it will all be in the report, but in addition, I’ll talk to Elman. Better him than Bister.’ Although he would have to be faced as well, and she could see that she would have to go all the way up to Chief Inspector Father, and fatherly he probably would not be. Life was not going to be agreeable. The career of Sergeant Dolly Barstow had taken a step backward. ‘There will be an enquiry. Dirty linen coming out to be washed. Everyone will hate that and a bit of nastiness will wash off on us all.’
‘Yes, a grubby business.’
‘I dropped myself in it. I should have spoken about Foggerty ages ago.’ No self-pity but still a bit of a surprise that life should be hard for such as Sergeant Dolly Barstow.
‘Yes, you should.’ She’ll learn, Chairman thought. Sympathy was one thing, but overlooking an error of judgement, even if you understood it, was another. ‘Go on,’ she said to Dolly. ‘Go off and set the machine in motion.’
That put Kate Cooper in the clear, she thought.
‘It’s got a sharp cutting edge, that machine,’ said Dolly wryly. Muff rubbed against her legs and she bent down to pat the hard little head. ‘I can always retire and keep a cat farm.’
But it was not all right, Charmian thought. Foggerty might have killed Nella Fisher, but there was still this story of the threats. Had it been Foggerty and Jake planning to damage Dolly, who had seen them together?
But what about Kate’s story that Nella had talked about Jack? And Kate’s gun?
It was time she looked in at the Incident Room in River Walk and spoke to Bister, and Fred Elman if he was there. Perhaps they would let her b
orrow Rewley again. In fact, they would probably insist on it. Let Chief Superintendent Charmian Daniels wander around on her own? Never.
She watched Dolly Barstow drive off with George. While she herself decided what to do next.
As if on cue the telephone rang as Dolly left. It was Kate.
‘Oh Kate, I want to talk to you.’ Question you, she meant, hardly bothering to disguise her intention. There were times, and this was one of them, when her police training showed through more than it should. But it was part of her now, built into her, Charmian Daniels, woman police officer, successful and influential. Not everyone liked that side of her, she didn’t always like it herself.
‘I’m glad you’re there. I thought you might be in London.’
‘I shall be later in the day.’ This was true, she had a late appointment in London. ‘Where are you, Kate?’
‘I’m at Mother’s. Will you come over?’
Jack and Annie Cooper lived in Wellington Yard which was off Peascod Street, a cobbled area of small shops, dwelling places, and the studio and art gallery belonging to Annie. Charmian had lived there once herself as Annie’s lodger when she was doing a research degree at the university. It had been a happy time in her life, her first break into the bigger, metropolitan world. From then on, her career had gone up and up. Yes, she liked Wellington Yard and had enjoyed her stay with Annie, quarrelling occasionally as old friends can without breaking the link.
But Jack was different. She was afraid he disliked her now, for reasons she could not quite grasp. Just for being herself probably, the most dangerous reason of all.
‘Anything wrong?’ she asked Kate. More than usual, she meant, since Jack and Annie fought and were reconciled all the time. Sometimes Jack left home, sometimes Annie took off for Paris or Rome or New York, returning usually in an excellent temper and having forgotten what the quarrel was all about. No wonder Kate was so often on the wing. Like mother like daughter.
‘Yes. Dad’s gone off. No, really missing this time. Not in any of his usual haunts. I’ve checked.’ When Jack departed in a temper, as a rule he did not go far since he had none of the financial resources of his wife and daughter. Jack did not sponge on the family money. For his own personal use he had only the money he earned. This was small and irregular in amount. ‘He’s been in a raging foul mood lately. Hating us all.’
Footsteps in the Blood Page 9
