Puppet for a Corpse

by Dorothy Simpson

  “Thank you.”

  Marilyn came in, handed a slip of paper to Thanet and swayed out, buttocks visibly caressed by green silk.

  “Uh … this way out.” Solly ushered them through a door in the far corner of his office.

  “Where does she live?” Lineham asked as they emerged on to the street.

  Thanet glanced at the piece of paper in his hand. “Maida Vale. It looks as though we’ll have to get clearance again. We’d better find a telephone … Then,” he added recklessly, “we’ll take another taxi.”

  Lineham grinned. “I’d like to see the Super’s face when he gets our expenses sheet,” he said.

  10

  The house in front of which the taxi drew up was in a Georgian terrace which had, like so many London streets, suffered the indignity of neglect and was now in the process of becoming fashionable again.

  Many of the houses sported newly-pointed brickwork, gleaming white window frames and front doors painted in glossy, sophisticated colours. These, Thanet guessed, were privately owned, testaments to the loving care of their occupants. Number four was clearly rented out and looked like a poor relation, with peeling paint and a general air of neglect. Thanet peered at the row of bells. CHIVERS was the bottom one. He pressed it.

  When the door opened Thanet’s first impression was of a younger version of Servalan in “Blake’s Seven” (one of Bridget’s favourite programmes). Deborah Chivers had the same pointed chin, beautiful high wide cheekbones and immaculate cap of glossy black hair cut so short it might almost have been painted on. A deliberate imitation? he wondered. Certainly the effect was dramatic and made even more striking by the girl’s clothes: black corduroy-velvet knee-breeches, ribbed tights and a sheer white cotton blouse with a froth of ruffles at neck and wrist. Had she made a special effort on their behalf? Probably not, he decided. Deborah Chivers cared very much how she looked and would habitually make every effort to achieve the effect she wanted.

  “Hi,” she said. “You the fuzz?”

  Thanet was tempted to say, “Sure am, baby,” but thought the better of it. He introduced himself formally, showed her his identification.

  She was amused. “It was a joke,” she said. “Come on down.”

  She turned to lead the way, plunging with the abandon of familiarity into a short, dark stairwell leading to the basement. Thanet and Lineham followed more cautiously. At the bottom she threw open a door.

  “Maison Chivers,” she said. “Make yourself at home.” She plumped down cross-legged on to a huge, squashy black floor cushion.

  The two policemen instinctively looked around for more conventional forms of seating and found none. Gingerly Thanet lowered himself on to a scarlet cushion. Red for danger, he thought with amusement. If the boys in the office could see me now! From the corner of his eye he noted that Lineham had chosen a yellow perch and with straight face had already taken out notebook and pencil and settled down with an air of calm expectancy. Ten out of ten for self-possession, Thanet thought. Studiously ignoring the mischievous gleam in the girl’s eye, he looked about him.

  The room was large and was obviously bedroom, sitting room, study, workroom and kitchen, all rolled into one, though attempts had been made to hide the fact. Thanet recognised the type of bed which folds up and pretends to be a bookcase and guessed that the kitchen was hidden away in the far corner behind a wooden screen on which had been pasted dozens of theatre programmes. The brick and plank bookshelves were well stocked, mostly with paperbacks, and there was evidence of industry: under the window was a long work-table covered with drawings and sketches, jars of poster paint and a scattering of pencils and brushes. Pinned up on a large cork board beside the window were more sketches, each with a moustache of multi-coloured wools tacked to it. The girl must be some kind of fashion designer. His eyes swivelled to a clothes rack on castors standing against the wall. Hanging on it were half a dozen women’s sweaters which at first he had taken to be the girl’s own clothes.

  “That’s right.” The girl was smiling at this lightning scrutiny, aware of his conclusion. “It’s my sideline. I sell them to boutiques.” She scrambled to her feet, unhooked one of the sweaters and held it against her. “Like it?” It was one of the scenic sweaters currently in fashion.

  Thanet did. Very much. “It reminds me of the Dordogne.” He and Joan had spent their honeymoon there and had loved it.

  She was pleased. “As a matter of fact, it is the Dordogne. Some friends of mine have a cottage there and I spent a few weeks with them, last summer. I’m surprised you recognised it.” She stroked the sweater. “I adore doing these. They really are fun. I’ll be sorry when the craze is over.” She replaced the sweater on the rack and returned to her cushion.

  “You do this in between plays?” Thanet said.

  Her mouth tugged down at the corners. “’Fraid so. It’s a terrible profession, acting. Too many people chasing too few jobs. Most of us are driven to doing something else, in between. You name it, actors do it, to eat. Unless of course you’re up in the stars and then you don’t have to worry. I should be so lucky.”

  “But the last play you were in. That was a good part, surely?”

  “Away Day? Yes, that was a good one, right enough. But unfortunately it didn’t quite catch the public fancy enough to have a long run. So, it was back to the old knitting needles.” She grinned. “Is this part of your softening-up technique, Inspector?”

  He liked her directness. He smiled back at her. “Yes and no.”.

  “Why yes and why not?”

  “Well, I find that people are always more cooperative, if I can get on good terms with them. But it so happens that Away Day is very much what I want to talk to you about.”

  “OK. So we’re on good terms. What about Away Day?”

  “To be more precise, I want to talk to you about Gemma Shade.”

  Deborah Chivers had particularly expressive eyes, he thought. They were a clear, pure blue, the colour of southern skies. Now he could have sworn that they darkened by several shades.

  “What about Gemma?” she asked warily. “What’s she done?”

  “Nothing, to my knowledge,” said Thanet truthfully. “But we do rather need to know a little more about her life on the stage.”

  “Why come to me? Why not ask her agent?”

  Thanet sighed. There was no point in beating about the bush with this girl. “Because her agent might be biased.”

  Deborah gave a great shout of laughter and rocked to and fro on her cushion, hugging her knees. “Biased! Oh boy, that really takes the biscuit! Believe me, if you want an unbiased view of Gemma Shade, I’m the last person you should have come to!”

  “Why?” said Thanet softly.

  Deborah stopped grinning and sat up. “Because she pinched my man, the old witch. And believe me, Inspector, it hurt. It still does.”

  “Wouldn’t she be, well, a bit old for him? Unless, of course, he’s much older than you.”

  “Just a year, that’s all. He’s twenty-three. Oh yes, she’s too old for him, right enough. But that makes no difference to her, I’m afraid. Gemma Shade likes them young, always has. It’s common knowledge in the profession. And she doesn’t waste time worrying about whether they’re someone else’s property, either.”

  “That would be Rowan Lee you’re talking about?”

  She winced. “Yes.”

  “Do you happen to know if she’s still seeing him?”

  “I don’t know … but yes, I think so. The word is, he’s still unavailable, so I guess she hasn’t finished with him yet. You’d think she’d have more … dignity, now that she looks like the back of a bus.”

  “The baby, you mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago did this affair begin?”

  “Hey, look, why the interest in Gemma’s love-life? This isn’t going to get Rowan into trouble, is it?”

  “I told you, it’s Miss Shade we’re interested in. So please, how long ago?”


  Deborah didn’t notice the evasion. The opportunity to talk freely about Gemma was clearly too good to be missed. “Soon after we opened. Say … eight or nine months ago.”

  “What’s she like as a person? Leaving aside this predilection she has …”

  Deborah shrugged. “As I said, I’m not really the best person to ask. But she’s a first-rate actress, I’m bound to say that even though I can’t stand her. But she’s, well, I suppose the best word for it is greedy. She wants everything—fame, fortune, money, adulation, lovers, husband …”

  “I read somewhere that she’d always said she didn’t ever want to get married.”

  “That was before the Doc turned up. And, as you may or may not know, he is loaded. And his … well, wooing is the right word for it, old-fashioned as it may sound—his courtship of Gemma, then, was really something, or so I’ve been told. That was before I worked with her, of course.”

  “But if she prefers younger men?”

  “For fun, yes. But, let’s face it, they’re usually broke. So when it came to choosing a husband …”

  “You really don’t like her, do you?”

  “No I don’t. And I don’t mind admitting it. I don’t care for people who trample over other people, just use them and throw them on the rubbish heap when they’re finished with them …”

  “So it didn’t surprise you that she married Doctor Pettifer?”

  “Well, I told you, I didn’t know her at the time, though I knew of her, of course. But, in retrospect, no, it doesn’t. She lost nothing in terms of career, freedom, and gained in terms of security. I know he’s older than she is, but that simply means he’ll die first and she’ll have more stashed away for her old age.”

  Obviously she hadn’t heard about Dr Pettifer’s death. Thanet sensed Lineham shift uncomfortably beside him and knew that the sergeant was expecting him now to break the news to her. But it wasn’t the right moment. To do so would disrupt the whole tenor of the conversation, bias and distort her response. He couldn’t afford to have that happen.

  “I must say,” Deborah was saying, “I was surprised she didn’t have an abortion when she found out she was pregnant.”

  “Why?”

  “Because nothing, nothing whatsoever matters more to that woman than her career. And also because, well, a friend of mine was in the same production as Gemma when the doctor came a-courting, and she says that Gemma told her that one of the reasons why she had decided to accept his proposal was because he didn’t expect her to become a breeding machine, was how she put it. In fact, he didn’t like children, was positively anti having them and had made quite sure she felt the same before he proposed. ‘So I’ll be spared that, thank God,’ she said. Gemma, I mean. So you see …”

  “Yes,” Thanet said. “Yes. That is interesting.” He shrugged. “Well, they obviously changed their minds.”

  “And the other thing that always surprised me was that Gemma had married a GP. I mean, boy, is she neurotic about illness!”

  “Can’t stand blood, you mean? That sort of thing?”

  “Oh no. Miles worse than that. If you had a cough or a cold you couldn’t go within half a mile of her—in fact, unless it was an actual performance, she’d refuse to go on stage with you. And as for anything infectious, like measles or mumps … She just couldn’t bear anything to do with being ill. D’you know, while we were doing A way Day one of the young stage hands had an accident, broke her thigh. We were all very sorry for her because it was her first job in the West End and as you can imagine she was heartbroken about having to drop out. Her family lives up north, so we all took it in turns to go and visit her in hospital, to cheer her up. Except Gemma. She made all sorts of excuses and then, in the end, said straight out that she couldn’t bear illness, she couldn’t stand hospitals and nothing, but nothing, would induce her to go near one.” Deborah grimaced. “So you can see why it surprised me, when I found out she’d married a doctor.”

  “Perhaps she thought he’d keep her healthy,” said Lineham with a grin.

  Deborah looked surprised. It was the first time he had spoken and now she gave his youthful good looks an assessing, appreciative stare.

  Thanet was amused to see his sergeant flush. Lineham had always been susceptible to a pretty girl, had never been at his best in dealing with them. Thanet and Joan had sometimes wondered how he had ever plucked up sufficient courage to ask Louise, his wife, out in the first place.

  “That’s a thought,” Deborah said. “D’you know, you could just be right. It would tickle her to think she had her own private physician.”

  Thanet wondered if it was only Gemma who evoked this kind of acid response in the girl. A pity, if not, to be soured, so young. Certainly she’d shown no sign of it until Gemma’s name was mentioned. And if she really had been in love with young Lee, it was scarcely surprising that she should feel bitter towards the older woman.

  “Well, thank you, Miss Chivers,” he said, struggling to rise with dignity from his floor cushion. “You’ve been most helpful. There’s just one other thing …”

  “Yes?” She came to her feet gracefully, in one supple, fluid movement, smiling and looking up at him expectantly.

  He cast a slightly embarrassed glance at Lineham. “Those sweaters you make. Er … How much do you charge for them?”

  “Thirty pounds,” she said promptly. “And that’s a fair price. In the shops, individually-designed hand-made ones like this go for double that. And that’s not just sales talk, you can check for yourself. I can cut the costs because I haven’t the overheads, of course. Why? Do you fancy one?”

  “My wife would.”

  “Come and have a look.” She beckoned him across to the rack with a tiny jerk of her head. “What size is she?”

  “Er … medium. Not fat, not thin …”

  She laughed. “A typical male answer!” Quickly she flicked through them, extracting three in all. “These should fit, then. Do you like any of them?”

  One of them reminded Thanet of the beach where he and Joan had spent many golden afternoons. There were those towering cliffs behind which the sun had sunk each day in a final dazzle of splendour, there were the silken waters of the Dordogne river lapping at the rocks which plunged sheer into the water. On one occasion he and Joan had swum right across to touch them … There, too, in the foreground was the wide, pebbly beach overhung by trees. Why, that looked like the very spot where …

  “That wouldn’t be Meyraguet, by any chance?” he asked.

  Her eyes lit up. “Yes, it is! D’you know it?”

  “Very well indeed.” That settled it. “My wife would love that one. I’ll take it. You won’t mind a cheque?”

  Rivulets of light rippled across the burnished cap of hair as she shook her head. “Not at all. No tax evasion for me. Believe it or not, Operation Knitting Needles is entirely legit. Blame my Methodist upbringing.” She folded the sweater carefully into tissue paper and gift-wrapped it.

  In the taxi Thanet sank back against the upholstery and glanced at the colourful parcel with delight. He couldn’t wait to see Joan’s face … He turned to Lineham.

  “Now then,” he said briskly. “Tell me what you thought of Miss Chivers.”

  11

  The children spotted the gaily-wrapped parcel the moment Thanet stepped through the door.

  “A present!” they cried. “Who’s it for, Daddy? Who’s it for?”

  Thanet was glad to see that tonight everything seemed normal. Both of them were bathed and in their night-clothes—Joan always allowed them to stay up until six-thirty to wait for their father—and there were savoury smells issuing from the kitchen.

  He laid a finger across his lips. “Shh … It’s for Mummy. Come on.”

  They followed him in a conspiratorial silence into the kitchen. The radio was on and Joan obviously hadn’t heard him arrive home. She was chopping something on the work surface near the cooker, with her back to him.

  He tiptoed up behind her, exagge
rating his movements for the children’s entertainment. Then, lifting his arm above her head, he slowly lowered the parcel to dangle in front of her face. She gave a little cry and the children shrieked with delight.

  “What do I get for bringing home the goodies?” he said, smiling.

  “It’s for me?” Surprise, pleasure, anticipation, appreciation chased each other across Joan’s face. “Thank you, darling!” She reached up to kiss him, wiping her hands on her apron, then took the parcel and moved across to the table. Thanet and the children followed her to watch as she began to unwrap it.

  “Oh,” she breathed, as the sweater emerged from its folds of tissue paper. “Oh, darling, it’s beautiful. Really beautiful. Wherever did you find it?”

  “In London,” Thanet said smugly.

  “D’you know,” Joan said, holding it up at arm’s length to study it. “It reminds me of the Dordogne.”

  “It is the Dordogne. The girl who made it spent the summer there, last year.” He paused. “Does it look familiar?” he asked, smiling.

  She considered, head tilted to one side. “Well … Meyraguet? Darling, it isn’t Meyraguet, is it?”

  His face told her she had guessed correctly.

  “Meyraguet …” she breathed, studying it. When she turned to him again her eyes had the sheen of tears. “What a lovely, lovely present,” she said, flinging her arms around him.

  He hugged her back, delighted. “Thought you’d like it,” he murmured.

  “Every time I wear it, it’ll remind me …”

  They exchanged reminiscent smiles. Their honeymoon had been memorable. Joan kissed him again, enthusiastically. The children beamed. Why didn’t he do this sort of thing more often, Thanet asked himself.

  After supper, though, he noticed that Joan seemed a little subdued.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  She pulled a face. “Louise rang me this morning, asked if I’d meet her at lunchtime.”