Running Scared

by Ann Granger

  I judged her quite a bit older than her brother, a stocky woman of middle height with greying hair cut short and glasses. She reached out a hand for the flowers. ‘Is there a card?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m not delivering them from a florist’s,’ I explained, hanging on to the bunch. ‘They’re from me personally. My name’s Fran Varady. I – I knew your brother slightly.’

  ‘Oh?’ She hesitated, looking me up and down. ‘Well, you’d better come in, then.’

  That got me over the doorstep. I handed over my flowers in the hall. She thanked me and murmured something about just putting them in the sink for a moment. Then she disappeared into, presumably, the kitchen. I looked around. It was all very neat and tidy. The cloakroom, in which the incriminating loo seat was to be found, was off to my left. To my right I could see, through an open door, a comfortable sitting room.

  Mrs Stevens returned and ushered me in. We took facing armchairs and studied one another. She was wearing a dark green dress with a cowl collar which did nothing for her, but was presumably a sign of mourning. She wasn’t in any way remarkable – a middle-aged woman like thousands of others –and that a close relative should have been knifed in my basement seemed incongruous. I wasn’t quite sure how I was going to break that bit of news to her, about it being my basement, or even if I should.

  She spoke first. ‘Are you a journalist?’ When I denied this, she went on, ‘Because my brother, being freelance, knew a lot of press people. I thought you might be one of them, a reporter or something.’

  I supposed I did look disreputable enough to represent one of the more downmarket tabloids. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said, ‘whether to call him Graeme or Gray.’

  ‘His name was really Graeme, of course, but he’s – he was always called Gray, right from childhood.’ She faltered slightly.

  Feeling bad, I told her sincerely that I was very sorry for her loss.

  ‘I’m sure he always took unnecessary risks,’ she said. ‘He was always the same, even as a boy. There was a twelve-year age gap between us so I was the older sister who had to keep an eye on him. He arrived rather late in my parents’ marriage and they found him a handful. He was always better with me. Giving him a home here seemed natural. Although he was hardly ever here.’ She paused. ‘May I ask how you know Gray, if you’re not a journalist?’

  ‘He came into the shop where I work a little while ago. He sent a note saying he wanted to see me again – but –’ I searched desperately for the words, but she made the connection.

  ‘Are you the girl he was trying to see, when he – when he was killed?’ She leaned forward.

  I admitted it and decided to throw myself on her mercy. ‘Look, Mrs Stevens, I’m really sorry to bother you. I don’t know why such a dreadful thing happened to Gray. I don’t know what sort of thing he’d got into, but whatever it was, I think it may affect me. In fact, I’m sure of it. I know your house was broken into last night. Someone tried to get into my flat last night, too, only I had a dog in the place and the intruder was scared off.’

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ she said, then, ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  I thought of Tig hanging about in the cold down at the shopping precinct. But the offer of tea meant Mrs Stevens was prepared to talk. I accepted.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, when she’d brought the teatray, ‘I really know nothing either. Gray didn’t confide in me. I told the police all this because they were asking, too. He used to go on trips a lot, but often didn’t say where he’d been. Sometimes he’d let me know when he was coming home and sometimes he’d just turn up. He was like that. I realise – I realise that this time he must have been doing something dangerous.’ She paused and looked down at the cup and saucer she held on her lap. ‘The police asked if anything had been taken from his room, but I had to tell them, I’d no idea. I didn’t know what Gray kept up there. When I first called the police – the local police – they didn’t want to believe I’d had a break-in. They said the place was all too tidy and nothing was missing. I told them, tidy maybe, but not tidy enough! Then there was the downstairs toilet. He’d used it, I know, because he left the seat up. Do you know,’ she was getting heated at the memory, ‘the young policeman who came actually laughed when I told him that!’

  ‘I believe it,’ I said.

  ‘I told him, I didn’t think it was funny. Someone had definitely been in my house! Anyway, I could sense it, if you know what I mean. I just felt someone had been in while I’d been out. I still don’t think they’d have taken me seriously if I hadn’t told them about Gray’s death. Then they got on to the other police – the ones investigating Gray’s murder. They came out here and they were very sympathetic.’

  ‘When did Gray come home this time? Had he been away long?’ I asked.

  ‘He’d been away about a month. Quite early on, he sent me a postcard from Switzerland, from Zurich. After that I didn’t hear a thing until he turned up in his usual way, just a week before he died. I had a phone call from the station half an hour before he arrived to let me know he was on his way. I just had time to go up and make up his bed. He was very suntanned. I asked if he’d been skiing or something like that in Switzerland. He said, “I’ll tell you—”’ She broke off and fumbled for a handkerchief. ‘He said, “I’ll tell you all about it one day, Jo!” and that was all he said.’

  I waited while she dabbed at her eyes and nose. ‘I hate doing this,’ I told her, ‘but can I just ask, did he seem different in any way when he came home this time?’

  She considered this as she tucked away the handkerchief. ‘I must say, he did seem pleased with himself. But one morning he smartened himself up – because to be frank, he was a very untidy dresser – and said he was going to have lunch with a contact, he called it. When he came back,’ she paled at the memory, ‘he had a dreadful black eye! I asked what on earth had happened. He said, he’d tripped getting out of a car and hit his head on the kerb. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not.’

  I reflected that Gray Coverdale had been a practised liar. He knew to put an element of fact in his story, in this case, his abrupt exit from the Mercedes. Even a smidgen of truth adds confidence to the liar’s voice, and it’s always difficult to disprove a story that’s partly true. I wondered what sort of journalism he’d gone in for. The sort that tracked down MPs in secret lovenests and interviewed the partners of men who’d been convicted of lurid crimes, I suspected. It all made sense. I was willing to bet he’d been following up some kind of dodgy story – only this time his luck had run out.

  ‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘A friend’s waiting for me. I’m truly sorry about your brother. I expect the police will get it sorted soon.’ I didn’t believe any such thing, but you’ve got to say it. ‘Would you mind,’ I went on, ‘not mentioning my visit to you to the police? They’re sort of fussy.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ she said. ‘I won’t say a word. They did tell me not to talk to journalists, but then, you’re not a journalist, are you?’ She gave a rueful smile. ‘I’m used to not talking about Gray’s business, partly because I knew so little about it, and partly because he wouldn’t have liked it. Poor Gray. My father wanted him to be an accountant, you know? It would’ve been a lot safer.’

  I made my way back to the shopping precinct, wondering whether Tig would still be there. It was quite dark now and had got a lot colder. Some of the shops, including the florist’s, had closed up for the day, but a supermarket was still open and brightly lit. No one was sitting on the benches. I wondered whether she’d gone off to find a coffee or perhaps gone into the supermarket to buy a can of Coke or something. At least, I hoped she’d buy it and not try and slip it in her jacket, but by now, I realised I couldn’t rely on her. As I approached the store entrance, I heard a familiar voice.

  ‘Got any change?’

  My heart sank. There she was, hanging by the exit, wearing that tragic look and waylaying shoppers. I grabbed her and hauled her away.

  �
�What do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Hullo, Fran,’ she said. ‘You were a long time and I got bored. I thought I could get back the money you spent on those flowers, but they’re a stingy lot round here. I only made just over a quid. We could try somewhere else.’

  ‘We’re going home,’ I said. ‘Before you get us both arrested!’

  The two days left before my trip to Dorridge passed off uneventfully, to my great relief. I worked extra hours at the shop because we were really busy now, Christmas being so close. We did a brisk sale in festive cards, decorations and wrapping paper, boxes of chocolates, all the things people pour out money on, grumbling all the while about how expensive a time of year it is. Tig behaved herself (or as far as I knew she did). She walked Bonnie by the canal and didn’t encounter Jo Jo. With luck, he’d found himself another girlfriend by now. He hadn’t looked to me the sort who’d pine.

  I did go over to the nick to look at their book of criminal mugshots. At first they left me alone to study it but after a while Parry came in and asked if I wanted a cup of tea. I said yes, please. He brought it in polystyrene cup and hung around for a few minutes until I told him he was distracting me. After that I had more time alone until Harford turned up.

  ‘How’s it going, Fran?’ He took a seat beside me.

  Normally I’d have given him the same treatment I’d given Parry, but by now, I was getting bored with looking at one broken nose, cauliflower ear and schizophrenic stare after another, so I took a break and said I was sorry, but really, so far I hadn’t seen anyone remotely like the man who’d tried to break into my flat.

  ‘Keep trying,’ he encouraged. He moved his chair a little closer, his knee not touching mine, but not that far away either. Hmm, I thought. Now what?

  He’d begun to turn the pages. ‘Was he anything at all like this one, or this? You know, a year or two can make a difference and some of these mugshots are quite old.’ He leaned towards me. He smelled quite nice, of expensive aftershave, unlike Parry who always seemed to niff of sweat, high-tar cigarettes and cough lozenges. He was also starting to confuse me. One minute I was getting the big freeze, the next he was trying to be friends. Well, I was prepared to be friends. I’m prepared to be anyone’s friend. But, don’t get me wrong on this, I’m not desperate for a shoulder to lean my head on and I like to know where I am with people. If Harford would stick to being snooty, it would be easier. At the moment, it was like the ‘nice cop, nasty cop’ scenario, all rolled into one man. I wondered if he’d quite got the hang of it.

  I told him I really was trying, and we persevered onward through the book. Parry reappeared in the doorway midway and, seeing us with our heads cosily together, gave us a funny look.

  ‘Yes, sergeant?’ asked Harford crisply, looking up.

  ‘Just come to see how she’s getting on, sir,’ said Parry, his look now indicating that he thought Harford was getting on all right, even if the identification exercise wasn’t. ‘OK, Fran?’

  ‘All right, thank you!’ Harford answered for me. Parry gave me a reproachful glance and left.

  I did wonder vaguely whether Harford’s hand might eventually stray to my knee, but he had more style than Parry – or Parry’s interruption had put him off. We reached the end of the book without a word or move which could have offended a Victorian dowager.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not even allowing for old pics, blurred pics or plastic surgery. He’s not there.’

  Somehow, I wasn’t surprised, and I could see that neither was Harford, who closed the book, looking resigned.

  ‘If he’s foreign,’ he said, ‘he might have arrived in this country only weeks ago. In fact, he probably has.’

  I asked him why he was so sure of this. He replied evasively, because the man hadn’t had time to get into trouble yet officially.

  ‘No form,’ as he put it, sounding a little self-conscious as he used this well-worn scrap of police jargon.

  ‘Well, I’ve done my bit as good citizen,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘I’ll run you home,’ he offered. I nearly accepted, but then I remembered Tig back at the flat. If I turned up yet again with a plod in tow, she’d freak out. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘I’ll walk. I’ve got a spot of shopping to do.’

  I did fancy he looked a little disappointed. But perhaps I was only flattering myself.

  So Sunday dawned and Tig and I went over to Marylebone for me to catch the Dorridge train. It was early morning and none too busy at the weekend. Being at Marylebone awakened memories in me, however, and I found myself looking around the place, my eyes searching for ghosts.

  ‘Who’re you looking for?’ asked Tig, ever suspicious.

  ‘Someone who won’t be here. I met an old wino here once, Albie Smith, he was called. I was just thinking about him.’

  Tig wasn’t interested in my past life. She pointed up at the smart computerised arrivals and departures screen, new since my last visit, and drew my attention to the platform number which had appeared alongside my train time.

  ‘It’s in, you’d better go on.’

  I don’t know why she was in such a rush. At that time of the morning and on a Sunday at that, it wasn’t going to be full.

  ‘Don’t make a fool of me, Tig,’ I said, before it drew out. ‘Be here when I get back.’

  ‘Promise,’ said Tig. Bonnie, attached to a length of string and sitting on the platform at Tig’s feet, gave a short bark of support. The train drew out and she waved at me. I had to trust her.

  I sat back and reflected that even if I was successful in fixing up Tig’s return, she’d declared herself unable to take the dog with her. I was going to be left with Bonnie on my hands. Still, getting Tig off my hands would be a start.

  It was a long journey, much of it through nice countryside, but my head was filled with the forthcoming meeting with the Quayles. If Ganesh was right, I’d be met by a reception committee, probably including their solicitor and a magistrate or two who just happened to be their good friends. According to Ganesh, I oughtn’t to be surprised to find a tactical response unit in body armour.

  Tig had given me precise instructions on how to find the house. She hadn’t described the place itself, but I’d guessed it would be a lot like Shaker Lane back in Putney, and it was. The house was thirties-built with bay windows and, even in winter, the front garden looked neat and cared for. Every other house in the street looked the same. Some had cars in the drive and all of them were polished and new. I felt out of place and apprehensive. There hadn’t been that much money left over from Tig’s savings once I’d bought the train ticket, and my fee was negligible. I was earning it several times over.

  I approached the glass porch and rang the bell. The front door on the further side was opened almost at once. She must have seen me hovering outside as I sized up the place. We stared at each other through the porch door, then she came towards me and opened it up.

  ‘Miss Varady?’ she asked.

  Her voice trembled. She was a small, slightly built woman and I could see Tig in her. Mrs Quayle must have been in her forties but had hung on to her figure. Her hair was done by a hairdresser, the grey rinsed away, and her very fine skin, starting to become lined as such skins do, was carefully made up.

  I acknowledged my identity and said I was glad she’d agreed to see me. I wondered where Colin Quayle was.

  She ushered me inside. The hall gleamed with new paint, new-looking carpets and shiny furniture redolent of the sort of perfumed wax you spray from a can. It made Mrs Stevens’ place look scruffy. I had the feeling I ought not to come into contact with any of it, but shimmer across space a few inches above the ground in a sort of levitation experience.

  As it was, I clumped my Doc Martens way into a painfully tidy drawing room (there was no other term for it) and sat down in a velvet upholstered armchair with snowy white, starched, crocheted protectors to save the soiling touch of the human hand. I could certainly see why Bonnie wouldn’t be welcome in here.

  �
�Coffee?’ asked Mrs Quayle, still nervous. She stood in front of me, eyeing me in much the way the coppers had eyed Bonnie, as if I’d bite given half a chance.

  ‘That would be nice,’ I said, because I felt that was the answer she wanted. Still no Mr Quayle. I asked, ‘Isn’t your husband going to be here?’

  ‘He’s gone to church,’ she said. ‘He’s a sidesman today. He’ll be here shortly.’

  She scurried out to make the coffee. I leaned back uneasily in my chair and studied the room further. There were china figurines of Edwardian belles on the mantelshelf and a photograph of a little girl in a ballet tutu.

  I thought of Tig as I’d last seen her on the platform at Marylebone, in worn jeans, Doc Martens like mine, a grubby donkey jacket and holding on to a piece of string with a scruffy terrier attached.

  Mrs Quayle was coming back. I got up to help her with the tray and she mumbled thanks. The coffee was in a cafetiere, the cups were bone china, the spoons were proper coffee spoons with enamelled plaques at the end of the handles depicting flowers. There was a plate of homemade shortbread biscuits.