Trudi still hesitated. She realized she was frightened where her growing intimacy with Dacre might lead. Would she have the strength not to confide her troubles to him? Did she have the right to risk involving him?
Whistling quietly to himself, Dacre took a turn round the room as though to give her time to think. He stopped in front of a heart-shaped mirror pierced with a painted arrow and studied his reflection as though it were a gallery painting.
‘Of course, if you’re busy,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Mr Usher’s giving you work to do at home. What kind of chap is he, by the way?’
As if in answer, the door opened and Stanley Usher appeared.
‘Good Lord,’ he said. ‘Don’t say we’ve got ourselves a real live customer?’
‘Afraid not,’ said Dacre. ‘Just a friend of Mrs Adamson.’
Trudi introduced the two men, feeling absurdly guilty at being discovered alone with Dacre.
He excused himself after a couple of sentences of meaningless chat with Usher. At the door he said interrogatively, ‘Tonight, then?’
‘Yes. Fine,’ said Trudi.
‘I’ll pick you up at seven.’
With a cheerful wave, he left.
‘Nice chap,’ said Usher. ‘I should have asked. He’s not in the finance business, is he? I thought he looked familiar and the most I see of other fellows is when I’m trying to raise a loan from them.’
‘No,’ said Trudi. ‘I don’t think so. I haven’t known him long.’
Why she made this disclaimer, she did not really know, nor why she did not impart the little bit of information she had acquired about Dacre’s job. In fact, through the long dull afternoon, sitting with no work and nothing for company but her book and her multiple reflections, she found herself at a loss to explain most of her reactions in the past few months. There had been extraordinary events and revelations, that was true, but when she examined her own behaviour, it was just as extraordinary. Concealing a killing, getting drunk with her husband’s mistress, meeting a man through a dating agency – these alone in prospect would have had her rushing for medical help a year ago! But it was at a less dramatic level that she perceived perhaps the most worrying changes. She no longer knew how she was going to react to the ordinary circumstances of everyday life. She no longer felt in full control of her own thought processes. For instance, how was it possible that she, Trudi Adamson, whose attitude to sex had always been more dutiful than enthusiastic, could find herself slipping off into reveries about what James Dacre would look like naked and how it was going to feel as he entered her! And the real shock came when she realized that these hypotheses were not just idle, but anticipatory. It was going to happen, possibly – no; probably tonight.
By the time he came to call for her, a strong reaction had set in and she received him rather coolly. He did not seem to notice, but accepted a glass of sherry and an invitation to take a seat while she completed her preparations with a friendly smile.
Looking at herself in her dressing table mirror she found she was straining her ears for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.
You’re going mad! she told her reflection. It’s the menopause or something!
She jumped up and grabbed her handbag. The sooner she got out of the house the better. Then she started violently as the front doorbell rang.
As she went down the stairs, James Dacre came out of the lounge.
‘It’s all right. I’ll get it, James,’ she said.
When she opened the door, she saw two men standing there, one behind the other. The nearer, who wore a belted raincoat and had a sharp, not unfriendly face beneath a thatch of salty grey hair, said, ‘Mrs Adamson?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Inspector Workman, ma’am.’
He produced a card which he held out for her inspection. It had a photograph and quite a lot of print. She registered the photograph but little else. Her eyes were drawn to the second man, at present little more than a silhouette familiar in Viennese winters of square fur hat and heavy overcoat with a thick fur collar.
As if interpreting her gaze as a question, Workman said, ‘And this is a colleague, Herr Walter Jünger of the Austrian Justice Department.’
The fur-hatted man moved forward so that the light fell on his face and Trudi felt light and substance begin to slip away from her. She leaned against the doorjamb and grasped at the solid wood both for support and reassurance.
For a second she had been certain that she was looking at the man whose frozen body had fallen out of the freezer at Well Cottage.
‘Are you all right, ma’am?’ said Workman anxiously.
‘Yes, of course,’ she lied, her eyes still fixed on Jünger’s face, her mind telling her that the similarity was superficial, and in any case this man’s round, rather squashed up face was marked by a long scar from the left corner of his mouth to the underside of his jaw which definitely had not been on the corpse.
Jünger, who looked to be about sixty, gave a little bow and said in German, ‘I am delighted to meet you.’
‘English, please,’ said Workman gently. ‘May we come in?’
‘We were just going out,’ said Trudi.
‘We’ll try to be as quick as possible,’ said Workman.
Trudi led them into the lounge. James Dacre stood aside at the door and said, ‘Shall I wait out here?’
Before Trudi could reply, Workman said, ‘And you, sir, are?’
Trudi interrupted to say coldly, ‘This is Mr Dacre, a friend of mine. No, James, I think I should prefer you to stay in here, if you don’t mind.’
She glared at Workman, challenging an objection.
He turned away indifferently and murmured something to Jünger.
‘What’s this all about, please?’ enquired Trudi.
‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said Workman. ‘It’s just that we’re helping the Austrian authorities with some enquiries they’re making. A couple of questions first, just to make sure there aren’t any crossed lines. Do you know a woman called Astrid Fischer of …’
He consulted a piece of paper and with some difficulty read out Astrid’s address.
‘Yes, I do,’ said Trudi.
‘Have you seen her recently?’
‘Yes. I saw her, when was it? A week last Friday.’
‘And not since?’
‘No. I left Austria on the Sunday, and Astrid was going away on a ski-ing holiday on the Saturday. Look, what’s this all about?’
‘Why did you go to see her, may I ask?’
Trudi felt both anger and fear welling up inside her. She glanced towards Dacre, who must have read this as an appeal for help.
‘I really think that if it’s Mrs Adamson’s help you want, you ought to make the nature of the enquiry clear before she answers any further questions,’ he said gently.
‘Why? Has Mrs Adamson got any reason not to be absolutely frank with us?’ said Workman, irritated.
James Dacre laughed. He had a rich deep laugh, slightly unexpected from his rather dour and guarded expression.
‘We’ve all watched too much television to be bothered by that old insinuating stuff, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Mrs Adamson has every reason not to reveal details of her private business to a couple of strangers who may be investigating nothing more serious than a drunk driving charge.’
‘You don’t find drunk driving serious?’
‘Not as serious as invasion of privacy,’ said Dacre, with sudden force.
‘James, it’s all right. I don’t mind answering their questions. But I would like to know what it’s all about. Is Astrid all right? Nothing’s happened to her, has it?’
Workman glanced at Jünger, who shrugged and said in accented, but very correct English, ‘Astrid Fischer did not join her friends for the ski-ing holiday. At first they did not worry. They thought she must simply have been delayed. But by Monday they were worried and started making enquiries. They rang hospitals, enquired about road accidents, checked with her office. There
was no trace of her. Finally they contacted the police. This was last Thursday. Even in Austria, Frau Adamson, citizens do not cooperate readily with the police.’
He smiled faintly, the unscarred end of his mouth curving more than the other.
‘So finally on Friday, the police, concerned that there may have been an accident to Fraulein Fischer in her apartment, broke in.’
He paused.
‘And?’ said Trudi impatiently. ‘Did they find her?’
‘Oh yes. They found her, Mrs Adamson,’ said Jünger.
He leaned towards her and despite herself she saw once again the figure toppling slowly forward out of the freezer. Perhaps he glimpsed this fear in her eyes and interpreted it as a sign of guilt, for his voice suddenly grew hoarse with an accusatory vehemence.
‘They found her on the floor near the telephone. Not that it would have helped her much if she’d got to it, Mrs Adamson. A massive overdose of heroin had been injected into her veins and once that happens there’s no turning back, is there?’
‘You mean she’s dead?’ said Trudi foolishly.
‘What do you think? Yes, she’s dead! Of course, she’s dead! Like your husband, Mrs Adamson!’
She took a step towards a chair, but it was too far away. The light was ebbing once more. Neither Jünger nor Workman attempted to move and James Dacre was too slow to catch her as she fell.
2
When Trudi woke up, she was lying on her bed still fully clothed except that her shoes had been removed and her blouse unbuttoned at the throat. Also there was a cold wet hand towel neatly folded and draped around her brow.
She could hear voices somewhere in the house. She sat up and felt pain stab at her forehead, but not unbearably. The towel fell on to her lap and she saw there was a smudge of blood on it.
Immediately the memory of Astrid came into her mind and she screwed up her eyes in a pain much stronger than the physical one.
The door opened and Dacre came in.
‘Are you all right?’ he demanded. ‘Lie back.’
‘How long have I been like this?’
‘Ten minutes. You fainted. Also you banged your head on the coffee table as you went down. I don’t think it’s much, but you should see the coffee table.’
He smiled. Reassured she lay back, then sat up again immediately.
‘Those men …’
‘I’ve given ’em their marching orders,’ said Dacre grimly. ‘I suggested that their heavy-handed methods had done enough damage for one day and told them that the only person you’d be talking to tonight was the doctor.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Yes. I thought we’d better get a quack to look you over. I’m sure it’s just a cut and a bump, nothing more, but best to be sure.’
The doorbell rang.
‘That’ll be the doctor. Lie still.’
The doctor was a fat, breathless man smelling of pipe tobacco. He examined her with a thoroughness which might have surprised or even annoyed her if she had been in the frame of mind to take much notice.
Finished, he packed his bag, nodded farewell, and left.
A few moments later, James Dacre returned.
‘All decent?’ he said.
‘Yes. He looked at the oddest places for someone examining a bump on the head.’
‘Did he? Well, he’s one of the old school. Slow but thorough.’
‘Is he your doctor then?’
‘That’s right. I didn’t know who yours was or even if you’ve got one. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ said Trudi. ‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing to worry about. You’ll have a bit of a swelling, and a bit of a headache, but a couple of aspirin and a good night’s sleep will see you right. I’m afraid our trip to the pictures will have to wait till another night.’
He glanced at his watch. She was suddenly terrified that he was going to leave her.
‘James, you’ll need to eat something. Let me cook you a meal.’
‘No way,’ he said. ‘A kitchen is no place for a dizzy woman. I use the term medically, of course. No, I’ll scramble us some eggs later if you feel up to it. All right?’
‘That’d be fine,’ she said. ‘Fine.’
Dacre realized she had started to cry almost before she herself did.
‘Here, what’s the matter?’ he said, sitting on the bed and putting his arm rather clumsily around her shoulders. ‘My cooking’s not that bad.’
‘Scrambled eggs,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s what Astrid made for me that last time I saw her. I went to quarrel with her and we ended up getting drunk and eating scrambled eggs and then she … then she …’
She leaned her head against his chest and sobbed uncontrollably. He held her tight and did not speak till the outburst died away.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she gasped.
‘That’s all right,’ he said gently. ‘She must have been a good friend, this Astrid.’
‘A friend?’ She laughed only slightly hysterically. ‘Oh no. Not at all. Like I say, I went round to quarrel with her. You see, I’d found out she’d been having an affair with my husband!’
After that the whole story came out, about Trent’s death, Astrid’s visit, Trudi’s discovery at Six Mile Farm, her trip to Vienna, the confrontation in the apartment.
That was where it should have stopped, but with the floodgates open, reticence seemed impossible, and she found herself telling James Dacre about the attack in the repository, Werner’s clinic, Eric Blair’s account and the body at Well Cottage.
Finally she reached an end and fell silent.
He was regarding her with a look of mingled bewilderment and perplexity.
‘Well, that’s done it,’ she said in a wide miss at cheeriness.
‘Done what?’
‘You’ll be going to Mrs Fielding and asking for your money back.’
He smiled, then his expression became grave.
‘Trudi,’ he said. ‘Do you know what any of this means?’
She shook her head.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said in a small voice.
‘Are you asking for my advice?’
She said, ‘I’ve no right to involve you. I’m sorry.’
He said, ‘How much of this will you tell Workman and the Austrian when they come back tomorrow?’
‘I don’t know. Most of it’s nothing to do with Astrid killing herself, is it?’
Her voice rose on the ‘is it?’ He regarded her steadily without speaking.
After a while, she nodded and said dully, ‘Yes, I can see that too. She wasn’t about to kill herself after I left. I know that. And they wouldn’t have sent a man all the way over here if it was simply a matter of suicide, would they?’
‘It doesn’t seem likely, Trudi,’ he said.
‘I’d better tell them everything.’
He considered this, then to her surprise shook his head. ‘No. I mean, at least sleep on it before you decide.’
He rose with a look of decision.
Alarmed, she said, ‘You’re not going?’
‘Only to the kitchen,’ he said.
‘And afterwards?’
What she sounded like, she did not know.
He said, ‘Don’t worry. I won’t leave you by yourself. Not tonight.’
She ate a little of the scrambled eggs, drank some tea. She screwed up her face when he told her no alcohol but did not make an issue of it. Her head was throbbing gently but she felt well at ease in his company.
Finally he gave her a couple of aspirin and a glass of water.
‘Get those down,’ he ordered. ‘And then get into bed. I’ll just be next door, so if you want anything, just shout. Good night.’
‘Good night, James,’ she said.
She didn’t anticipate a restful night, but in the event she slept soundly. When she woke up, there was a slight residual headache but nothing more. She rose and went to the bathroom. When she came out, Dacre was standin
g in the open doorway of the bedroom next to hers. He was dressed only in his underpants, with a blanket draped over his shoulders.
‘I thought I heard a noise,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine. Did I wake you? I’m sorry,’ said Trudi.
‘No. It’s time to be up.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Nearly eight o’clock. I gave myself a generous nightcap of your Scotch last night. I’m afraid it did the trick!’
‘How was the bed?’
‘Fine. Only thing was, I couldn’t find any sheets and the blankets were a bit tickly.’
She said, ‘James, when I asked you to stay last night, well, I wouldn’t have minded if you’d really stayed. With me, I mean.’
He studied her carefully and suddenly she was aware that all she had on was a flimsy cotton nightdress. But instead of shrinking modestly, she forced herself to stand still and look at his deep chest with its crucifix of dark hair running down across a slightly thickening belly to join with the line of crinklier hair just peeping over the band of his Y-fronts. She recalled Janet’s joke about St Michael and smiled.
He said, ‘I wouldn’t have minded either, but not in those circumstances.’
‘Circumstances?’
‘You were unwell, upset.’
‘Chivalry, was it?’
‘If you like.’
She smiled.
‘I think I do like. Thank you,’ she said. ‘But that was last night. This morning I’m not upset and I feel fine.’
Is this really me talking? she asked herself in amazement. And if it is, why am I talking like this?
There seemed one possible answer, or at least an answer that might seem possible to Dacre.
She said, ‘I’m sorry. Look, I was forgetting what I told you last night. I shouldn’t have involved you like that. And I’m glad we didn’t get involved even more. Thanks for being such a help. Perhaps we can get in touch again when I’ve got all this nonsense sorted out, if you want to hear the end of the story, that is.’
He smiled and shook his head.
‘No,’ he said.
‘No?’
‘No, I don’t want to hear the end of the story. I want to be in it. For a while anyway.’
He stepped forward, the blanket fell from his shoulders and he kissed her passionately. When he stepped back, the Y-fronts were looking inadequate.
Death of a Dormouse Page 13
