by L. C. Tyler
Elsie considered this. ‘Except,’ she said, ‘isn’t Johnston in fact a master of disguise, in the sense that he is an actor, used to making himself look and act like somebody else? Wasn’t there somebody who was caught on camera leaving the alleyway?’
‘He looked much too young.’
‘You could really tell that?’
I thought back to the blurred images. What had convinced me of his youth? The way he moved? The leather jacket? If anyone could disguise himself, then Johnston could.
‘It didn’t look like him to me,’ I said.
‘I wonder what Cynthia knew that she wasn’t telling us?’ said Elsie. ‘Why was she the last one to disbelieve Vane? There has to be something. She wasn’t stupid. She wasn’t vindictive. She must have had a reason. I’m going to ask her again why she didn’t think it was him. And this time she’s going to tell me the truth.’
‘I’ll see if she’s picking up now,’ I said. ‘It would be helpful to talk to her today, anyway.’
I rang her number. It switched immediately to answerphone. I left another brief message asking her to call as soon as she got it.
It was about fifteen minutes later that the phone rang to let me know it had received a text message. Only it wasn’t Cynthia.
‘It’s Ogilvie,’ I said. ‘He wants to see me urgently.’
‘I thought you saw him the other day?’
‘I did. Must be something new. If I get the Tube now I can see him and still make my train to Chichester.’
I took a biscuit. Now I was doing the circuit for the second time, I was aware of the relative attractiveness of the bakery products on offer. I was as happy with these bright circles of hard icing as anything.
‘The police seem fairly sure that it was Roy Johnston,’ I said.
Ogilvie nodded. ‘I’m aware that they have asked people to notify them if he is spotted. The artist’s impression made him look like most people that the police are seeking.’
‘They’re still looking for an up-to-date picture. I think they’ve tried to age the passport photo a bit, which is all they have.’
‘Well, I have no doubt they’ll find him. That wasn’t, however, what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘I’m happy to help in any way I can.’
‘I never doubted it. You see, I’m Roger’s executor.’
‘Yes, I’d assumed you must be. You clearly drew up the will.’
‘It doesn’t follow automatically, but I am the only surviving executor – his brother would have been the other – and I’m now doing what all executors do: I’m gathering in information about what Roger owned and starting to pay any funds into our executors’ account.’
‘There’d be quite a bit there, I suppose.’
‘Yes, there is. About a million pounds in his current account.’
‘Not bad.’
‘As you say. Not bad at all. But we’d expected closer to two million. We’d been in touch with Roger’s agent and we know what he’d paid in. Roger had not had the opportunity to spend very much since regaining access to his account.’
‘So, a million has gone missing?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you don’t know where?’
Ogilvie pushed a bank statement across to me. ‘There it is. That transfer there. One million pounds exactly.’
‘Who is it to?’
‘We had to check with the bank who owned the account it was transferred to.’
‘Which was?’
‘Cynthia Vane.’
I took a sip of tea and placed the cup back onto its bone china saucer.
‘She was his niece, after all,’ I said. ‘Maybe he felt guilty about having cut her out of his will?’
‘A million pounds worth of guilt? I would have thought he could have just rewritten the will, leaving the estate to her again if he thought she had been unfairly disinherited. And maybe a small bunch of roses from Dansk Flowers in Upper Street. And let’s not forget she was still stating very publicly that he was an imposter. She continued to accuse him of fraud to the very last. Actually, I’m not sure why he should have been in any way inclined to do anything for her under the circumstances. But he seems to have given her a million.’
We looked at each other for a moment. There was an obvious thought, at least if you’re a crime writer.
‘Blackmail?’ I asked.
‘Only if she could have proved he was a fake, which he clearly wasn’t and she clearly couldn’t.’
‘No, I mean, what if the real Roger Vane had something to hide? Plenty of people involved in this business seem to have.’
‘I hope you don’t include me in that?’ said Ogilvie.
I paused, then said: ‘No, of course not. But it’s possible, isn’t it? She could have overheard something years before. Maybe she tries this piece of information on him as her final test and when he proves he knows all about it – whatever it is – she decides the best way to get the money to repair her mother’s cottage is blackmail. She demands half his accumulated royalties, net of perfectly reasonable agency deductions, to keep quiet.’
I wondered if this was one speculation too far. Ogilvie certainly pulled a face.
‘She was his niece,’ he said. ‘Blackmail would have been in very bad taste.’
‘She wasn’t a blood relation.’
‘You know that?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘OK – it’s not something the family tended to talk about but it’s true. Still, what could she possibly know that he’d want to keep quiet? Roger wasn’t easy to embarrass.’
‘I suppose it depends how many years you could spend in prison for it,’ I said.
‘That’s true,’ he said. ‘She’s not returning my calls, by the way.’
‘Nor mine,’ I said. ‘Nor Elsie’s.’
‘Of course, you can go quite a long way on a million pounds,’ he said.
The second text came as my train drew into Chichester.
IF YOU’VE GOT A FEW MINUTES TO SPARE AND YOU’RE NOT UP IN THE SMOKE, PLASE DROP IN TO THE STATION. I’VE GOT SOMETHING NEW TO SHOW YOU.
‘Take a look at this,’ said Joe.
The screen again showed East Street. There was police tape across the road and you could see a police car parked, lights still flashing, to one side. It looked cold. Somehow it always looks cold on CCTV, but this looked really bleak. It seemed to have started raining.
‘This is about an hour after the footage you saw before,’ said Joe. ‘We looked at it up to the point where we knew Roger Vane had been killed, then a few minutes beyond. Then we looked at other cameras nearby. It was only after that that we thought to watch what happened here in the hour or two after the murder.’
We saw a few passers-by gawp at the police cars and then look in the direction of the alleyway, out of our view. They moved on. A man walked by with an umbrella, head down. We saw a policeman appear, go to the car, check something, then return the way he had come. He rubbed his hands briskly as he did so.
‘I assume it gets a bit more interesting?’ I asked.
‘Maybe,’ said Joe.
For a long time the street was empty. Then a figure emerged, indistinct at first, walking quickly towards us. The woman headed for the police tape, then stopped and looked around. A policeman appeared and she spoke to him briefly. She nodded at his reply. The policeman left. For a moment she remained where she was, staring towards the alleyway, then glanced up at the camera. She looked very worried indeed. After a while, she went back the way she had come, turning up the collar of her raincoat.
‘Any idea who that was?’ asked Joe.
‘It was Cynthia Vane,’ I said.
‘We wondered about that,’ said Joe. ‘Thank you. That was very helpful.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
I was already on the bus heading for West Wittering when my phone rang yet again. I took it out. The number was not one I recognised. I accepted the call.
‘Hello? Hello?’ said a vo
ice.
‘Hello. Ethelred Tressider here. I can only just hear you.’
‘Hello?’ it repeated. ‘Hello? Hello? Drat the thing. Hello?’
‘I can hear you,’ I said. ‘But only just. Can you hear me?’
‘Hello? Hello? Is there anybody there? Oh, maybe if I hold it the other way up … Hello?’
‘Hello,’ I said. ‘That seems to be better. Ethelred Tressider here.’
‘Is it? Well, why didn’t you say so before?’
‘I did.’
‘Did you? It’s the phone. It doesn’t seem to work the other way up. Sorry, I don’t use it much. But you gave me your number when you came to see me, so I thought I’d try to phone you. I’m not at home so I can’t use a proper phone. But these things work anywhere, don’t they?’
‘They work in most places,’ I said.
‘Anyway, I thought we might meet up. You said you’d like to.’
‘Is that Dr Slide?’ I asked.
‘Wasn’t that what I said?’
‘I don’t think you did. I didn’t recognise the number, but I recognise your voice.’
‘The number? Can you do that? See who is phoning you?’
‘On most phones. Maybe not on the older ones. I can’t remember.’
‘This one’s quite new – not more than ten or fifteen years old. I bought it at a car boot fair. I was there to buy books but I ended up with a phone. A bit of a bargain, I think – not quite the latest model but it works perfectly well. You’ll have to show me how to find out who is phoning you. I don’t know how you’d do that. Anyway, this isn’t sorting out when we’re going to meet.’
‘I’m not sure I’m free this week,’ I said. ‘Maybe …’
‘This is important,’ he said. ‘I need you to explain to the police that I didn’t kill Roger Vane.’
‘Have they accused you of doing it?’
‘Not to my knowledge. The point is that you need to prevent any such thing from happening.’
‘I really have no influence with the police. Why don’t you go and visit them yourself?’
‘Because I don’t want to do that. I want you to do it. I’ll see you at ten tomorrow. Ten o’clock on the dot. Maison Blanc in South Street. You’re not busy, are you? There’s only that book you’re writing. I’m sure it will wait a day or two.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m not busy.’
I had just ordered my second cup of coffee when Dr Jonathan Slide came through the door. He was wearing what I took to be the holiday version of his schoolmaster’s tweed jacket and flannels. He had on a white linen jacket and an old, shapeless panama hat with a blue and red band. He wore, over a crumpled white shirt, an orange and yellow tie. His trousers were khaki drill, surprisingly with very sharp creases down the front. His shoes were leather loafers. He carried a stick of a practical rather than decorative nature. There was in fact no element of his dress that you could not have bought in a menswear shop in Chichester fifty years before. I wondered if he possessed a pair of jeans. Probably not, though they too had been available in Chichester for over fifty years.
He looked around vaguely and had started, with some confidence, to approach an elderly balding gentleman sitting alone on the far side of the cafe, when he suddenly seemed to spot me and change direction.
‘Ethelred Tressider!’ he said, as if expecting to be congratulated on this feat of memory. ‘You’re early. We agreed ten-thirty.’
‘You said ten,’ I told him. ‘And it’s a little after ten-thirty now. But it’s not a problem that you’ve been held up. I know the buses don’t always arrive on time.’
‘Ours do,’ he said indignantly. ‘I’ve no idea what the West Wittering buses are like, but ours are very punctual in Selsey. If yours aren’t, you should do something about it, not sit there, drinking coffee all morning and complaining.’
‘They’re fine,’ I said. ‘The Witterings bus service is very good. Anyway, I came in by car today.’
‘Is that why you arrived half an hour early? Don’t expect me to pay for all the coffees that you’ve been drinking before I arrived.’
‘The coffees are on me,’ I said.
‘Are they? All right. I’ll have one of those frothy things with chocolate on them. A large one.’
The waitress placed my flat white on the table and I ordered a cappuccino for Dr Slide.
‘So,’ he said. ‘What have the police told you?’
I looked at our neighbours on both sides, intent on their own conversations. It seemed unlikely that they would pay us much attention or that it would matter if they did.
‘It’s all in the papers, anyway,’ I said, ‘but they are looking for a man called Roy Johnston.’
‘He plays Gascoyne in the television programmes, doesn’t he?’
‘Well done,’ I said, genuinely impressed. ‘He did, in the first series. But not many people seem to remember him. Another actor took over from him for series two.’
‘Oh, so there was a second series, was there? I only watched the first one.’
I could understand that. I could see Slide anxiously watching the first series, waiting for his namesake to appear and humiliate him, only to discover that the production company’s lawyers had advised very much against it. Then, relieved or disappointed, he would have lost interest.
‘Yes, there was a second series,’ I said. ‘There have been about fifteen, I think.’
‘Didn’t know that. Fifteen? Why do they think it’s him?’
‘Roy Johnston was fired from the series. Roger dumped him as a boyfriend. His career was wrecked. Then, having stayed away for years as far as we know, he suddenly arrived in England shortly before Roger was killed. And before he was killed Roger received a call from an unidentified mobile. He seems to have been lured by the caller to the alleyway in which he was murdered. So the assumption is that he knew the person concerned. Finally, Johnston has now vanished – no trace of him.’
‘It sounds as if it was Johnston, then,’ said Slide dismissively. ‘Can you get food here?’ He was looking over at the serving counter, where the pastries were displayed.
‘Would you like a croissant or something with the coffee?’ I asked.
‘That’s kind of you. Yes, a chocolate one would be nice. Actually, you may as well ask her to bring me two while she’s doing it. Just in case I’m still hungry after the first one.’
I caught the waitress’s eye and ordered two pains au chocolat.
‘But why do you think that the police would suspect you?’ I asked. ‘You were in Selsey, I assume, and have witnesses to prove it.’
Slide took a sip of coffee. ‘Ah …’ he said. ‘No, not exactly. I was in Chichester that evening, as it happens. At a bar I know. I’m sure that you and Ogilvie wouldn’t have mentioned anything to the police about my being here. Still, it might be awkward if either of you had.’
‘But you have witnesses?’ I repeated.
‘For some of the time. Indeed, for a great deal of the time. But I may have gone to another club later on … Where I’m not known so well. The first place was a bit quiet. Not like it used to be. Ah, those must be my pains au chocolat!’
For a couple of minutes he sat, silently devouring the pastries.
‘Not bad, these. You should have had one yourself,’ he said.
‘I had breakfast earlier,’ I said.
‘So did I. Now this phone thing – how can I tell who is phoning me?’ He produced a phone of a type that I had not come across for ten years and handed it to me.
‘Well, you’ll see the number come up on the screen here,’ I said.
‘And their name?’
‘Only if you’ve entered it in your contacts list.’
‘Where would I find that?’
I brought up the contacts list. It was empty. ‘Have you never put any contacts into the list? That makes it easier to phone them.’
‘Didn’t know you could. I thought you just dialled the number. So you can see the number of whoev
er is phoning you?’
‘Yes. Haven’t you noticed them come up?’
‘I don’t get many calls. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever had any calls. Not on this. I do on the other phone, of course. The proper one at home.’
I flicked through the menu. ‘No,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t look as if anyone has ever phoned you on this.’
‘You can tell that?’
‘Yes, there’s a list of incoming calls. And outgoing ones.’ I switched to the records of calls made. ‘See, you made a call a couple of days ago. Actually a couple of calls to the same number.’
‘Can you tell who it’s to?’
‘No, just the number.’
He sniffed. ‘So, not so clever after all, then. As it happens, it was the cab company I sometimes use down here.’ He picked up the last corner of his pastry, popped it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
‘Do you want me to put it in your contact list? That might be useful for you. What’s the name of the company?’
‘Thank you,’ he said abruptly. ‘But that won’t be necessary. I’ll have that back if you’ve finished playing with it.’
I passed the phone across the table.
‘Where was Roger Vane killed?’ he asked as he stuffed it in his pocket.
‘In an alleyway, just off East Street. Why, were you close by?’
‘East Street? Not close, exactly. Not very close, anyway.’ He was thoughtful, then he said: ‘Vane told me once he’d lost his virginity in an alleyway just off East Street.’
‘Is that true?’
‘How would I know? I wasn’t there. It sounds unlikely. But it’s perfectly possible. People lose their virginity in all sorts of places. He came down to Sussex with me more than once, so he’d been to Chichester before. He knew it very well.’
‘So, what you’re saying is that the killer might be the person he lost his virginity to? Is that it?’
‘Why would you think that?’
‘Because the alleyway would have been a strange place to meet somebody at that or any other time. But if it had some meaning for the two of them …’
