Sloan opened the folder and pulled out the photograph of the face of the girl pulled from the river. ‘Have you ever seen this girl?’
Joe took it in both hands and studied it carefully. ‘No, I don’t think so…ah…wait a minute, wait a minute. Yes, I have. The girl with the auburn hair.’ He handed the photograph back to Sloan. ‘I remember her now. She was at Granny’s funeral. Why do you ask?’
‘Did you speak to her?’
‘Not really. She dropped her handbag in the churchyard and I picked it up and handed it back to her.’ He screwed up his face in an effort of recollection. ‘I think she must have thanked me but that’s all.’
‘I see, sir. Did you notice anything else about her?’
‘Apart from her hair,’ put in Crosby unnecessarily. He had cleared the plate of toasted teacakes and was eyeing a chocolate bun.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Joe Short simply. ‘I was a bit preoccupied at the time – they were getting ready to lower the coffin in the grave just then and I had to go on.’
‘And afterwards?’ prompted Sloan.
‘I didn’t see her afterwards. She certainly wasn’t at the bunfight at the Almstone Towers Hotel. I’m sure that I would have noticed her if she had been there. She was very pretty.’
At the mention of the word ‘bun’ Detective Constable Crosby’s hand descended on the plate.
Chapter Thirteen
Joe Short arrived at The Old Post Office at Staple St James that evening armed with a bunch of flowers and a bottle of sherry. William Wakefield met him at the door and welcomed him with a hearty handshake.
‘Come along in, Joe,’ he said, steering his guest towards the sitting room. He’d changed into comfortable slacks and an open-necked shirt and looked quite relaxed.
‘Thank you.’ Joe Short indicated his rather stiff suit. ‘Sorry to be a bit overdressed but I came to Berebury for a funeral and wasn’t expecting to stay.’ He waved his hands and explained about the theft at The Shipwright’s Arms. ‘And now I’ve got to go to London tomorrow to try to get a new passport or permit to travel, or something issued instead.’ He grimaced. ‘And I can’t go back to Lasserta until I do.’
‘Bad luck, that,’ said Bill Wakefield. ‘You’re obviously not used to our friendly little English ways with other people’s passports.’
‘True.’ He pulled the corners of his mouth down. ‘Out in Lasserta I assure you that they don’t bother stealing passports. It’s money they’re after as a rule. And with some of the native tribes really deep in the jungle it’s their enemies’ scalps they go for.’
‘That sounds gruesome,’ exclaimed Janet Wakefield, coming through from the kitchen still in an apron. Her appearance had undergone something of a sea change since the return of her husband. Gone was the rather businesslike suit she’d worn that morning – now she had on a soft green dress. She was being altogether more domestic in her manner now, too.
Bill Wakefield laughed. ‘We’ll have to talk about that over supper. Jan’s been slaving over a hot stove for hours.’
‘Don’t you believe it, Joe,’ said Jan. ‘You’re only getting a simple casserole. Nothing elaborate.’
‘Sounds lovely,’ Joe said politely.
Her husband gave an expansive sigh. ‘I can assure you that anything home-cooked is an improvement on what I’ve been living on in the Amazon hinterland. What about you, Joe?’
‘Oh, the food’s not too bad in Lasserta, but it gets a bit monotonous and Mathabo – that’s the place on the island where I’m working – is really remote. Supplies take their time getting through to us, and unless they’re tinned, often enough they’re bad by the time they do. That’s the trouble.’
‘Give him a drink, Bill,’ said Jan, ‘and I’ll be with you in a minute.’
William Wakefield stood back and regarded Joe Short with a long appraising look. ‘So we’re both from the same stable, are we, Joe?’
Joe Short shrugged himself out of his coat and said lightly, ‘Well, if we were Arab stallions I think we could say we’ve come from the same bloodline, that’s all.’
‘But a bit way back,’ said Wakefield.
‘So I’m told,’ said Joe Short, ‘although with regard to appearance my mother always said I favoured her side of the family.’
‘And she wasn’t a Short, of course,’ said William Wakefield.
‘No, no, but she wasn’t actually – what is it they call it these days? – wasn’t vertically challenged, that is to say she was quite tall.’ He smiled, displaying a row of white, even teeth. ‘They do say all boys are taller than their mothers and I did manage that – just.’
‘Anyway,’ said Bill Wakefield, ‘it was my mother and your father who were first cousins so it doesn’t apply to the two of us so much.’
‘True,’ agreed Joe.
‘But you haven’t both got the same colour eyes,’ said Janet, who had come back into the room without her apron. ‘Bill’s are blue and yours are brown. What colour were your grandmother’s?’
‘Search me,’ said Joe. ‘Boys don’t notice that sort of thing.’
‘Except in girls,’ teased Janet. She put her arm round her husband’s shoulder and said affectionately, ‘Bill’s my blue-eyed boy, anyway.’ She straightened up. ‘Now that we’ve got that sorted out, Bill,’ she said, ‘why don’t you stop talking and give Joe that drink while I dish up the supper?’
William Wakefield moved obediently towards the sideboard. ‘What can I offer you, Joe?’
Joe Short spread out his hands in a negative gesture. ‘Nothing but a soft drink or water for me, thank you.’
William Wakefield raised a quizzical eyebrow and said, ‘Water rusts ships, you know.’
Joe said, ‘I’m driving and I’m well aware that I’m not in Lasserta now.’
‘No speed cops and breathalysers there, then?’
‘No cops at all to speak of,’ he said. ‘They’ve got some, of course, in the capital but where I’m working, if anything really awkward crops up, they call out their tribal chiefs. They’re the real boss men out there.’
‘What about the firm’s boss men?’
‘Like all boss men the world over, I guess. Oh, they’re not bad really. Just like everyone else out there – working hard for their retirement somewhere else. Anywhere else where living’s not so darned uncomfortable and you can have a wife and children with you.’
‘Join the club,’ said William Wakefield feelingly. ‘And have you got a wife hidden away somewhere?’
‘Not yet but I daresay it won’t be long before I do. Not just now, though. And if she’ll have me, of course.’
‘Quite, quite,’ said William Wakefield hastily. ‘And is there what is delicately called “a British presence” in Lasserta?’
‘Sort of.’ Joe Short frowned. ‘At least, there’s an ambassador, a chap called Anthony Heber-Hibbs. I must say they were all very decent at the embassy after the plane crash – sent messages of sympathy and flowers, that sort of thing – although the man himself was on home leave by the time they had the big memorial service. Jan’s told you about that, hasn’t she? United Mellemetics, who I was working for at the time, were pretty good, too. They gave me instant leave for as long as I needed which was a great help.’
‘You’re in mining, I think Jan told me,’ said Bill.
‘In a way. I’m an engineer with Cartwright’s Consolidated Carbons now and we’re mainly prospecting for new seams of querremitte. It was more looking for new sources of oil at United Mellemetics, although I can’t say we ever found that much. And you?’
William Wakefield waved a hand. ‘My firm? We prospect for plants.’
‘Plants?’
‘Well, plants with prospects,’ he admitted. ‘Perhaps I should have said plants with potential.’
‘For what?’
‘Pharmaceutical use, mainly, but for any other developmental purpose that might come up…we use plant biologists and ethnobotanists and chemists…those sort of specialists.
’
‘For “development” you can read “exploitation”,’ said Janet tartly as she came back. ‘Supper’s ready, you two. It’ll be getting cold soon.’
‘Well, we’re not exactly looking for querremitte for fun ourselves,’ admitted Joe Short. ‘It’s a pretty valuable commodity these days.’
‘That’s enough business talk for tonight,’ ordered Janet Wakefield. ‘So, Joe, when did you last see your grandmother?’
He wrinkled his brow. ‘It must have been nearly three years ago now. After the crash, anyway, when I had to come back to clear my parents’ house. I’d come over on leave before, while Granny was still living in her house in Calleford, but she got ill while I was there and had to go into hospital. Actually I saw quite a lot of her in there. Mind you, my parents were around then, too, which helped.’
‘Now, tell me,’ said Bill Wakefield, ushering Joe Short into a chair, ‘exactly how much do you know about the famous Kemberland Trust.’
‘Not a lot, except that I understand that there was one hell of a row about it at the time it came to an end with great-great-grandmother’s death.’
‘Me, too,’ said William Wakefield. ‘I’d heard a bit about that but not everything, I’m sure.’
Joe leant back in his chair. ‘I was told that when Granny’s mother died it had to be wound up, and then at that point the rest of the family wouldn’t give Granny her share of her grandmother’s trust fund, and challenged her right to it.’
Bill nodded. ‘And I was told that all her brothers and sisters or their heirs objected to Josephine having her share of it except my grandfather, who’d always been on her side.’
‘Rotten, really, when you come to think about it,’ said Janet Wakefield, passing a dish of vegetables in Joe’s direction.
‘It seems that there was quite a lot of money involved – at least I know that just her share put my grandmother on her feet financially for the rest of her life,’ said Joe. ‘Dad always said things were more comfortable for them all round after that.’
‘I knew there was plenty of dosh about then, too,’ said Bill Wakefield. ‘I remember my parents telling me that my own grandparents were distinctly chuffed at the time.’
‘I understand from what the solicitor told me that Granny went into property with her inheritance,’ advanced Joe, ‘which, when you think about it, at the time was pretty smart of her.’
‘And don’t say “for a woman”, or you won’t get any more supper,’ said Janet sharply. ‘Either of you.’
‘Before the property surge anyway,’ said Bill Wakefield.
‘What about your grandparents?’ Joe asked Bill. ‘What did they do with it all?’
It was Janet who responded with a light laugh. ‘Nothing so enterprising as property, Joe. No, they educated Bill at all the best schools and universities and then put the rest in a new trust they set up themselves. They put most of it beyond reach, you might say.’
‘Entailed for the education of at least two generations of heirs of the body male in the first instance,’ explained Bill.
Joe frowned. ‘That’s you, then, isn’t it?’
‘It’s just me now and any children I may have,’ said Bill Wakefield, carefully not looking at his wife.
‘I see,’ said Joe Short.
‘They sort of kicked the capital into touch,’ amplified Bill. ‘Quite legally, of course.’
‘And what about in the second instance?’ asked Joe lightly.
‘The reversion if there aren’t any children, you mean?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to seem inquisitive…’ began Joe apologetically.
‘It reverts to other descendants of my grandfather,’ said Bill.
‘More cauliflower?’ interrupted Jan.
‘Thank you,’ said Joe even though his plate was already piled high. He tactfully changed the subject. ‘Now, tell me what it’s like up the Amazon.’ A cloud passed over his face. ‘We’ve got some tropical jungle in Lasserta, too.’
It was much later – while they were taking coffee in a sitting room that was just a little bit too tidy – when Joe told them about being asked if he had recognised a photograph of a girl that the police had brought round to the Bellingham Hotel.
‘We were asked, too,’ said Janet. ‘I told them I’d only ever seen her at the funeral and that I didn’t know why she was there anyway.’
‘Me, too,’ said Joe. ‘She definitely didn’t come on to the Almstone Towers or I would have noticed her there, I’m sure. She was very good-looking. I just wondered, though, if you knew why they were asking us at all.’
‘No. Do you know?’ asked Bill.
‘No.’ Joe shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nor why she was at the funeral either.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Talking of hotels, I think I’d better be going. The hall porter at the Bellingham goes off duty at twelve midnight. You have to knock him up if you’re back later than that and I’m told he doesn’t like it.’
‘Quite right, too,’ said Janet. She chanted the old proverb ‘Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.’
‘Then I must definitely be going, mustn’t I?’ he said, rising to take his leave. ‘Otherwise I shall be bound to be ill, poor and daft and that wouldn’t do at all, would it?’
Dr Angus Browne was sitting at his desk when the two policemen were shown into his consulting room the next morning. He pushed a blood pressure instrument out of the way and turned towards them, raising a bushy eyebrow quizzically in their direction.
‘Well, now, gentlemen, and what can I be doing for you?’ he said.
‘You can be telling us about the late Josephine Eleanor Short who died last week in the Berebury Nursing Home in St Clement’s Row,’ responded Sloan in kind.
‘I ken fine when and where she died,’ said the doctor irritably. ‘I wrote her death certificate, remember?’
‘Ventricular fibrillation, I think was what you put,’ began Sloan.
‘And ventricular fibrillation was what she died from,’ said the doctor combatively. ‘She’d had it ever since she came into my care when she arrived at the home. Is anyone saying anything different?’
‘No, no,’ said Sloan hastily. ‘We just need it confirming, that’s all. And that it was only that and nothing more.’
‘Of course it wasn’t only that, man,’ snapped the doctor. ‘By the time these old ladies get to their great age they pretty well all have some form or other of multiple pathology.’
‘That sounds nasty,’ said Crosby, diverting his attention from an eye test chart on the wall which he had been trying to read with one eye. ‘Whatever it is.’
The doctor favoured him with a penetrating look. ‘Multiple pathology, Constable, means that there are – or in her case, were – coexisting conditions.’
‘Two for the price of one?’ suggested Crosby.
‘I’ll have you know that there are quite often more than two,’ countered the doctor briskly, ‘and that the confusion of symptoms arising from several different conditions can sometimes make diagnosing them quite difficult.’ He added after a pause, ‘To say nothing about the problems of treating them and countering the side effects of the multiple medications at the same time.’
‘Quite so,’ said Sloan peaceably. He had never made the mistake of supposing that the police were the only ones with difficult and demanding jobs.
‘She was having trouble with her chest, too. She’d had a continuous series of infections – none of them quite bad enough to carry her off.’ Dr Browne gave Sloan a very straight look. ‘They used to call pneumonia the old man’s friend, you know, but as it happens she didn’t die from that.’
‘It wasn’t the cough that carried her off,’ chanted Crosby under his breath. ‘It was the coffin they carried her off in.’
‘Then, Doctor,’ intervened Sloan speedily, resolving to overlook this only until he got Crosby on his own, ‘presumably in your opinion there were no unusual circumstances arising around her death?’
> The general practitioner sat back in his chair and considered the question. ‘None that I am aware of, Inspector. She talked a lot about “all gone, the old familiar faces” as the poet puts it so well but she never mentioned suicide and I had no cause to suspect that. Besides in any case she knew she was dying and therefore didn’t need to…’
‘How come she knew she was dying?’ asked Crosby inelegantly.
‘Because she wasn’t stupid,’ retorted the doctor testily. ‘She was an intelligent woman and she must have been aware that her heart was failing – these attacks were becoming more and more frequent and she lost a little more ground each time.’
‘Two steps forward and one back,’ suggested Crosby.
‘More like one step forward and two back,’ returned the doctor swiftly. ‘And, of course, she actively wanted to die, which sometimes – but not always, naturally – accelerates the process.’
Detective Inspector Sloan, erstwhile schoolboy, knew about that ‘not always’ qualification. There had been that poor old man in Chaucer’s ‘Pardoner’s Tale’ forever seeking Death and not finding him. Or her, he added subconsciously.
‘That I do know…’ the doctor was saying.
‘Do you mean she had said so?’ interposed Sloan again before Crosby could say anything more.
‘Many times. She often told me that she had had enough of life.’ The doctor stroked his chin. ‘A lot of patients say that, you know, but they don’t usually mean it. Josephine Short did. After all, her sight was failing along with her heart and chest, she was very deaf and she had told me only a week or so ago that she was just waiting to die.’
‘I can see that might be the case, Doctor, in her condition,’ said Sloan, aware that he was still too young and committed to life to dispute the point. Besides, he wanted to see his son grow up. ‘But…’
‘But even so I can assure you that I did nothing to bring her death about before her time.’ He regarded the policeman with a beady eye. ‘Is anyone suggesting that I did?’
‘No, no, Doctor,’ said Sloan hastily. ‘These are just routine enquiries as a result of something else coming up.’
Past Tense Page 12
