Dead Gorgeous

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘Ah. The District Line?’

  ‘The Piccadilly.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Impossibly overcrowded at that time. I say, are you alone? Isn’t there anyone with you?’

  ‘I’d rather be left to myself, thank you.’

  ‘You’re quite sure there’s nothing I can do? Rest assured that the company will fulfil its obligations to the letter. To the letter, Mrs Bell. I presume there will have to be an inquest. We are obliged to wait until after that, you understand. Forgive me for saying so, but how providential that your husband didn’t surrender his policy when I called last week. God moves in mysterious ways, doesn’t He? Then if you’re absolutely certain I can’t be of any practical help . . .’

  He backed away as if he couldn’t wait to escape, for all his professions of concern. In seconds he was pedalling his bike so fast up the street that his dynamo lamp put out a beam like a searchlight.

  Several more times in the next few days Rose’s nerves were tested by unexpected callers. Each time she expected to be arrested. The vicar called on Friday and recommended talking to God as a remedy for grief. On Saturday morning two men in raincoats looked so like detectives that she actually did send up a prayer. They turned out to be colleagues of Barry’s from the Stationery Office, calling to express their condolences. She made some coffee and they all said that Barry was a fine man struck down in his prime. The same morning one of the neighbours called and asked her to sign a petition to have the hoarding across the street removed. When she saw the sheet of paper in his hand she thought it was a summons.

  By degrees she started to believe that her arrest was not, after all, imminent. She busied herself writing to everyone who needed to know about Barry’s passing. He hadn’t made a will, so she asked the bank for legal advice and they offered the services of their legal department. She phoned her parents after Evensong on Sunday. They wanted her to leave everything and come to the Rectory, but she said she preferred to stay busy, and there was plenty to occupy her in Pimlico.

  Daddy asked if she had some friend she could rely on to help her through this ordeal. She answered yes and thought of Antonia. She couldn’t have faced it without.

  Hector was listening to the Brains Trust. He habitually tuned in on Sunday afternoons at four. He didn’t listen much to the wireless, except for the news, preferring to spend his evenings working upstairs in his office. He found comedy programmes like ITMA, which always had Antonia shrieking with laughter, impossible to follow. But Professor Joad and the others talked good sense at a speed he could understand.

  To his surprise, Antonia had joined him in the drawing room beside the set. She’d arrived midway through with tea on a tray, which he was afraid would bring his listening to a premature end, but she sat in silence until he switched off at the end.

  She asked, ‘Was it as riveting as usual?’

  ‘Better than last week. Better questions.’

  ‘Let’s have a Brains Trust of our own. I’ve got a question for you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What would you do if I was dead?’ He sniffed. ‘Funny question.’

  ‘On the contrary, my swain, it’s serious. I can hardly wait to hear your answer. Suppose I hopped the twig. Would you be able to manage without me?’

  He gave her a pained stare. ‘Why do you ask me such a ghastly thing?’

  ‘Be honest, Hec. You’d be a free man again. No one to tear strips off you when you came in late. No enormous bills from Harrods and Fortnums at the end of each month. You could live the life of Riley.’

  Hector’s logical mind hadn’t got past her first proposition. ‘You are not ill?’

  ‘God, no.’

  ‘You wouldn’t kill yourself? That time we talked about the tube, it was a joke?’

  She felt the colour rise to her face. ‘The tube? A joke, yes – forget about that. Dismiss it from your mind. I already have.’

  ‘Then I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘It’s hypothetical.’

  ‘Sometimes, Antonia, I find you impossible to understand.’

  9

  Rose’s thoughts couldn’t stretch beyond the inquest. She dreaded having to appear in public, trying to seem convincing as the devoted widow in front of all those experts and professionals. The letter arrived on Monday, a stiffly worded notice from the coroner’s office asking her to attend the court on Thursday at 11 a.m. It terrified her. On Wednesday night she had the worst nightmares of her life.

  Mr Burden, one of the senior people from the depot where Barry had worked, decently arranged to collect her in a taxi and accompany her to the court. He was an overbearing man who talked nonstop about Barry and what marvellous company he’d been with his saucy stories and witty remarks. Rose looked out of the window.

  It turned out to be unlike anything she had expected. Barry’s was only one of a series of deaths that were up for consideration. The case wasn’t called until nearly noon. Inside there were no wigs or robes to be seen and the coroner looked and sounded like a variety turn. He could easily have passed for one of the Western brothers, such was his air of suave, world-weary irony.

  Rose was more alarmed than reassured. When the main witness, Albert Abbot, a street vendor, was called there was a question about the goods he sold. Abbot insisted on using the term ‘haberdashery’ and the coroner said he presumed the witness meant nylons on the black market. The comment was mean considering that there were police witnesses present. Abbot was obviously used to looking after himself and he wouldn’t be drawn, but Rose knew that when her turn came she was most unlikely to get away with any evasions.

  Abbot’s evidence was crucial. He had been on Knightsbridge Station standing close to Barry on the evening he was killed.

  ‘I was taking the tube to Earl’s Court like I always do round about that time.’

  ‘What time, Mr Abbot – or is that something else you wish to conceal?’

  ‘Quarter to six, and I’ve got nothing to conceal. I seen him regular down there. Handlebars out to here. Couldn’t miss him, could I? Always got himself a seat in the end carriage. When the train come in he was through them doors like a jackrabbit.’

  ‘But not on the evening in question.’

  ‘That’s obvious, isn’t it?’

  ‘I am endeavouring to establish what you saw on that occasion, Mr Abbot.’

  ‘Right. When I come along, he was in his usual spot, nicely placed for the doors. He’d worked out the right place to stand, right opposite the Sandeman poster. As a matter of fact, I always made a point of getting as close to him as I could.’

  ‘Because you assumed he was likely to be one of the first aboard the train?’

  ‘Didn’t I say that? I like to get into the train quick, so I can stand my suitcase containing my haberdashery just inside the doors where people won’t fall over it. It’s a fair size, that case. All right, your honour, I’m coming to it. Upon the evening in question, to use your words, I wasn’t quick enough to get right behind him. Some doll steps in first.’

  Rose twisted two fingers in the strap of her handbag and tightened them. She was beside Mr Burden, three rows from the front. She’d borrowed a black coat for the inquest and found a small matching hat to which she had sewn stiffened net to veil the upper part of her face. It made her conspicuous, but she couldn’t risk giving the impression that she was anything but griefstricken.

  ‘If this is the young lady who featured in the fatal incident, you will need to furnish a better description than “some doll”, Mr Abbot.’

  ‘Right you are, your honour. She was quite tall, dark coat, brown, I think, with a belt. She was wearing a scarf on her head, so I don’t know what colour hair she had. I didn’t see much of her face either, but you can take it from me she was twenty-five or thereabouts. Nine times out of ten you can tell from the back.’

  There was some subdued amusement at this.

  ‘What I or anyone else can tell from the back is of no consequence, Mr Abbot. It is you
r assessment that matters, and if you tell us that the young lady was twenty-five, so be it. At this point I should inform the members of the jury that despite extensive enquiries by the police, they have been unable as yet to trace the person just described.’

  Rose swallowed and looked straight ahead.

  ‘Kindly continue, Mr Abbot.’

  ‘Well, like I said, she was standing behind the bloke with the handlebars, and I was right behind her. To be honest, it’s always a bit of a scrum when the train starts coming. She sort of took a step back when I was about to move forward. I got an elbow in my ribs and she half turned round and yelled at me to stop pushing.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘Strewth, no. I say that on my word of honour.’

  ‘I hope everything you have told us is on your word of honour, Mr Abbot. It had better not be otherwise. What happened after she complained?’

  ‘She seemed to lose her balance. She put out her hands and gave the poor beggar a shove in the back. He was taken by surprise and what with his briefcase and umbrella he couldn’t do nothing to save himself. The train was just coming in and he fell straight in front of it. He must have been killed outright. He didn’t suffer.’

  ‘Thank you for your reassurance on that point. However, we’ll hear the opinion of our medical witness before reaching a conclusion.’

  ‘Just as you like. I was there.’

  ‘That is not in dispute. And did you notice the young woman’s reaction to the incident?’

  ‘She had her back to me, like I said. She screamed. She said something about getting some help. Then she pushed past the woman next to her and I didn’t see where she went after that. There was women screaming and some people running away and others wanting to have a look.’

  ‘You are quite certain that she said she was going for help? There is no evidence that she stopped to report the incident to anyone.’

  ‘She must have panicked and run off.’

  The coroner was letting nothing get by. ‘You’re not here to give an opinion, Mr Abbot. Do you remember precisely what she said after she stopped screaming?’

  ‘Not every word, no. I was trying to see what happened to the poor bloke under the train, wasn’t I?’

  ‘However, the gist of what she said was that she intended to go for assistance?’

  ‘For help, yes.’

  ‘I think there is no purpose in persisting with this. Unless the jury have any questions they wish to put to the witness, he may stand down. Thank you, Mr Abbot.’

  A second witness, a soldier, gave evidence next and added nothing to Abbot’s version of events. He was questioned closely about what he had observed of the fatal push. He had seen the woman in the headscarf sway back and forward and he was satisfied that she had reached out because she had lost her balance.

  A London Transport official described the procedure for getting the public safely aboard trains in the rush-hour. It was agreed that Knightsbridge was one of the busiest stations, with passengers streaming in from either end of the platform. However this was the first time such an incident had occurred there. The edge of the platform was paved with ribbed stones to prevent people slipping and most people stood back a yard or so until the train stopped.

  The coroner asked whether it was reasonable for someone to take a step backwards when the train came in.

  ‘Somebody standing close to the tunnel might. You get a gust of air as well as the sound of the train.’

  ‘But most people stand their ground?’

  ‘Experienced travellers, yes.’

  A pathologist from St George’s Hospital took the stand and reported on the postmortem examination. In spite of what had been suggested, he said that death was not caused by electrocution. The impact of the train was the primary cause. The deceased had suffered multiple injuries, including a fracture to the cervical region of the vertebral column. Death had been almost instantaneous.

  The coroner glanced up at the clock. ‘In view of the evidence already given, I don’t think it will be necessary to call Mrs Bell, the widow of the deceased, to give evidence. This might have been pertinent if there had been any possibility that the deceased took his own life, but it is evident that we can rule out suicide entirely. For the same reason I shall not be calling his employer or his doctor. I thank them for attending the court.’

  Rose closed her eyes and felt the tension drain from her muscles. The relief was profound. It was a reprieve. In the state she was in she’d have given herself away, she was certain.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I shall presently ask you to reach a decision as to the probable cause of this man’s unfortunate death. The sequence of events leading up to the fatal incident is not in dispute. He took up a position at the edge of the platform close to the tunnel from which the train arrived. There was some movement behind him precisely as the train was about to enter the station. The young woman immediately to his rear appeared to lose her balance and press her hands against the back of the deceased, who plunged off the platform. The train struck him and killed him. It is a matter of regret that the police have been unable to trace the lady concerned. It would have been helpful to have heard her account of the incident.’

  He paused and looked around the court.

  Rose sat still and looked back at him. Her veil was trembling like a web in the wind.

  The coroner resumed. ‘One might postulate a number of explanations, one of which I am bound to invite you to consider, however remote it may appear. If the young woman felt some malice towards the deceased, it is not impossible that she could have followed him to the station with the intention of causing his death.

  ‘Should you feel that this hypothesis has any relevance whatsoever, I must advise you to bring in an open verdict, there being insufficient evidence to reach any stronger conclusion. I would then instruct the police to redouble their efforts to trace the woman. If, on the other hand, you take the view that there was no malice involved, then there can be no other verdict than accidental death.’

  Rose looked across at the jury. They didn’t even retire to consider the verdict. The foreman conferred with them and stood up.

  ‘We believe it was an accident, sir.’

  10

  A sleek white Bentley Mark VI drew in smoothly to the kerb in front of St James-The-Less Church in Moreton Street where Rose had been waiting almost twenty minutes. Antonia was at the wheel.

  ‘Hop in, darling. We’re about to go slumming across the river. A pint and a pork pie in the Prince Regent. Do you know it?’

  Rose didn’t know it. Nor did she know the man sitting beside Antonia. His presence threw her into angry confusion. Her first impulse was to turn and march away, and ten days ago she wouldn’t have hesitated. Having it brought home to her that she was now incapable of such a simple act of independence incensed her even more as she got into the back seat. The man turned and grinned at her in a way that was meant to be friendly. He got a cold stare in return. She was in no frame of mind to be sociable. Antonia was the bloody limit. This wasn’t meant to be a pub-crawl with some fancy man in tow. It was her first chance to talk to Antonia after the hellish week she’d been through.

  Talk? Rose didn’t trust herself to speak.

  The car had turned and started across Vauxhall Bridge before she could bring herself to take another look at the man, and then her thoughts weren’t charitable. Probably about her own age, he had the sort of fine black hair that would start receding before he was thirty. The deep-set brown eyes and tanned skin made her think of Italian prisoners of war in work-parties she had seen from the windows of trains. She’d always ignored their waving and whistling.

  Meanwhile Antonia carried on as if it was a party. ‘Say hello to Vic, darling. He’s the dishiest man in London, as you can see, and I’ve been dying for you two to meet.’

  He turned and offered his hand. It was broad, with strong-looking fingers and a crop of dark hair. Rose put hers out mechanically and had it gripped.


  ‘Poor Rosie lost her hubby last week. A frightful accident in the tube. She’s had a basinful of sympathy, so you needn’t say a word.’

  In Rose’s estimation Vic didn’t look as if comforting words were on the tip of his tongue.

  She said, ‘I don’t want to go into a pub.’

  ‘Nonsense, darling. A drink will do you the world of good.’

  The lunch-hour was noisily in session in the Prince Regent. People stood face to face bellowing at each other. They were three-deep at the bar and there was so much smoke you could have taken it for the gun deck of a man-of-war. Why Antonia had suggested this as a place to talk was beyond Rose’s comprehension.

  Vic took their orders and joined the throng at the bar.

  ‘He’ll be ages. How are you coping?’

  ‘Can’t we go somewhere more private?’

  ‘Nobody’s listening. Now it’s all over you’ve got to return to the world of the living.’

  ‘Barry isn’t buried yet.’

  ‘I know that, love. You’ve got to pick up the death certificate, correct? We’ll do it this afternoon.’

  ‘Both of us?’

  ‘You want some moral support, don’t you?’

  ‘Is it wise?’

  ‘Calm down, Rose. It’s perfectly normal for someone else to tag along, a friend to hold your hand, so to speak. When’s the funeral?’

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll have a couple of drinks with Vic and I’ll drive you over to the registry office. Have you filled in the insurance claim yet?’

  ‘The bank are looking after that for me.’

  ‘You bet they are, the sharks. Remember that’s your money. Don’t let them do you for a single penny.’

  Antonia was wagging her forefinger like a schoolmistress. She finished by tapping the back of Rose’s hand. Then she grasped her wrist and squeezed it.

  ‘We pulled it off, my flower!’

  Vic had cleverly succeeded in getting served at once and was edging through with a tray of drinks and slices of pie. Antonia waved her white kid gloves.