‘You do the talking, I’ll do the watching,’ said Charmian. ‘ That way it’s less official. I take it you won’t be introducing yourself?’
‘No fear. This will be strictly man-to-man talk.’
She watched as he moved smoothly across the room, and Mr Pilgrim as smoothly got up, holding his jar of marmalade, and walked towards the door.
‘Rapid exit,’ she murmured. Well done, too, an expert job. He was certainly a pro of some sort. But probably not a murderer. In fact, almost certainly not.
A quick look in the direction of the twin sisters convinced her that Emmy looked disappointed.
Wimpey came back, looking disappointed also. ‘Slippery bugger.’ Charmian made a sympathetic noise, trying not to sound as amused as she felt. ‘Wait a minute.’ Wimpey went across to speak to his wife, returning briskly. ‘ My wife says he’s a nice man.’
‘So he may be.’
‘She said he told her he was buying the marmalade for his old mother.’
‘Perhaps he was.’
‘Knows how to handle women.’
‘And his exits.’
‘Yes, damn him. That was too bloody professional for words. And you see what it means?’
‘Oh yes, he knows what you are. He’s recognised you for a copper.’
‘I’ll get him, you know,’ said Wimpey with conviction.
Across the room, Anny had arrived at the Gaynor’s stall. She caught Charmian’s eye and smiled. It was a smile that said, Come over here and let’s get this over and done with.
Charmian obliged, holding out a hand as Anny introduced her. Mrs Gaynor gave a cool nod. She seemed well informed on who Charmian was, and what she did in life. ‘Sorry I missed your talk. Looking back I ought to have come, seeing what has happened to my child! And what she seems to need protection from is the police. Just because she had the bad luck to find an animal that had been killed in a particularly nasty way she has been pursued by you people. You act as if she had killed the animal rather than just finding it.’
‘Sometimes routine investigations do seem like that,’ said Charmian. ‘Don’t let it worry you.’
Now she was close to Joanna she had a chance to observe her. A pretty girl, nicely dressed in clean jeans and a pastel shirt. Her long fair hair was caught back with a tortoiseshell band. She was tall, as tall as her mother, with the promise in her strong straight back of growing even taller. She was handling the heavy pots of geraniums with ease, shifting a big tray of tomato seedlings without obvious effort.
She gave Charmian a small smile.
‘Hello, Joanna. Think I saw you at the polo on Sunday.’ Now the smile became broader. ‘Yes, Daddy was playing.’
Mrs Gaynor put in defensively, ‘My husband occasionally plays in a friend’s team. Of course, he can’t afford his own ponies.’
He must be pretty good, thought Charmian, to get a ride in a champagne match.
‘Daddy’s marvellous,’ said Joanna. ‘Super.’ She gave her mother a hostile look. ‘I’m going to play myself when I’m older.’
‘Over my dead body,’ said Annabel.
A little trickle of cold ran down Charmian’s spine. She had heard people say such things before, and it was never a good way to talk.
Anny reacted briskly. ‘Oh come on, Annabel. Why shouldn’t the kid have that ambition?’
‘Because it’s such rubbish. Women never make first-class polo players, and what’s the point if you aren’t good?’
Joanna’s pretty face had a set, mutinous look. ‘Wait and see,’ she said.
‘No love lost there,’ thought Charmian. But she had to say the girl looked healthy and well groomed, with no sign that drugs of any sort formed part of her life. No running nose, no red eyes, no spots. Nor did she smell of them. She looked fresh and robust. Normal, in short.
Perhaps we are wrong about this girl, she thought. But even as she thought so, she saw what worried Wimpey. There was something hard to penetrate about Joanna. You got so far and then no further. She presented a barrier.
And there had been blood from the mare on her knife.
Charmian stayed at the plant stall as long as she could, making conversation and observing the girl.
But somehow we are reading her wrong, she decided. And no blame to us. If she was a sentence you’d have to say she was indecipherable.
Quite an achievement for a thirteen-year-old.
She began to stroll round the room, now crowded, predominantly with women. Most of them would have heard of the murder in the Princess Louise Park. Some of them might be talking of it. None of them were frightened by it as yet. They were a prosperous protected crowd for whom the death of a woman in a park seemed far away.
But Charmian knew how fragile a bubble was this confidence. Her work with criminal and violent women had made her realise how thin was the dividing line between these two worlds. There was no great wall, no barbed-wire barricade, but a fence over which anyone might fall. And once you were over, it was very hard to get back.
She bought some embroidered napkins at one stall and some books at another. Then two pots of marmalade from Mrs Wimpey who gave her an alert amused look and passed her on to the cake and biscuit lady in the next booth.
Charmian stood hugging her purchases to her. Good bargains all of them, they served you well, these ladies of the Sesame Club – an average group, about whom statistics told her that in a year or so or more, two of them would have contracted cancer and one of those would die. Another of the wives would have a husband who suffered a coronary arrest; she might lose him. Another two would be divorced, and the same number take lovers.
And one might die violently. By accident, or suicide, or murder. Domestic or otherwise.
Perhaps it would be her turn.
Statistically she was in a profession where death came close. And she had certainly run her luck hard once or twice in the last few years. But at least she had learnt not to say over her dead body.
Flora and Emmy emerged from the racks of clothes over which they seemed to have a temporary proprietary interest. Emmy was holding a tin box into which the sales money was to be put while her sister hung up a dress of printed silk in maize gold and dark blue.
None of the clothes were unattractive. In fact, as Charmian soon saw, all were of excellent quality and more than one had labels of distinguished designers. Perhaps they were no longer top fashion, but they were still more than wearable. They confirmed her impression that the women of the Sesame Club had money to spend.
She fingered the printed silk. Dare she?
‘Want to try it on, darling?’ Flora had adopted her sales manner. ‘We’ve rigged up a trying-on room at the back.’ She nodded towards some curtains.
‘I think my bones are too big.’ It was an honest admission and one that cost her something. She had always been tall, and although she was slender her frame was bold. There was a mute and unexpressed rivalry between Anny and Charmian which had been going on since they were both students. Charmian had been first the plump one, then more recently the thin one, but she had to admit that marital unhappiness suited Anny who was now looking good.
‘Squeeze in,’ said Flora. ‘Cram yourself in. See how you like it. You could let it out.’
Needlework and letting out was not quite her style, but the urge to try it on was not to be gainsaid. Every so often, just when she thought she was over all that, Charmian surprised herself with feminine desires. She did love good clothes, always had and always would.
‘Yes, I will.’ Besides, she had just seen the label in the dress.
‘Beautiful silk,’ said Emmy. These were the first words Charmian had heard her speak. True as well. The silk was lovely, thick and heavy. Emmy took the dress and held it up against herself admiringly.
Flora whisked it away. ‘No good,’ she said. ‘Forget it.’ She handed the dress to Charmian. ‘ Wouldn’t fit her. Wouldn’t fit me. Have a go.’
A minute or two later, Charmian had added another pur
chase to her marmalade and paid over a sum surprisingly much larger than she had anticipated. But the dress was worth it.
Sergeant Wimpey came towards her. ‘Guess what I’ve just picked up.’
‘You’re going to tell me.’
‘I’ve just been talking to my wife. She has a friend who lives next door to the Gaynors. Not such a big house, but a nice little bungalow. She has a girl at the same school as Joanna. They both go to a private school out towards Ascot. It seems there have been ructions today because Joanna disappeared on a school trip to Madame Tussaud’s.’
‘She’s back now all right.’ Charmian looked across the room to where she could see the girl and her mother.
‘Oh they found her: staring at the waxwork of Jack the Ripper. Been there all the time.’
Charmian pulled a face.
‘Yes,’ went on Wimpey. ‘Not nice, is it? Not what we wanted to hear. But interesting. Adds to the picture.’
‘Did she talk about it afterwards?’ It was the sort of question Ulrika would expect her to ask.
‘Not a dickybird. Just got on the coach home with the rest of them and sat quiet. Didn’t say a word. So what do you make of that?’
‘Not quite normal, no. On the other hand, it’s what a lot of children must have done.’ A taste for horror was not unusual.
‘That’s not all. The neighbour says the kid has a room over the garage that belonged to the chauffeur in the days when they had chauffeurs, and this place has its own door and staircase. She can come and go as she pleases. The neighbour says she does. Out all hours.’
‘Might be just talk.’
‘No. She boasted of it at school. They all knew.’
‘Do the parents know?’ asked Charmian, looking across the room at Annabel Gaynor, so pretty, neat and normal.
‘Do they hell!’ said Wimpey. ‘What do you think?’
Joanna and her mother packed up the flower and plants stall together. Their goods had sold well, Annabel would be able to report a good profit to the Sesame Club. She was famous for her seedlings and cuttings, she had green fingers and usually turned in a good sum. Not much was said between them until they were in the car.
As she fastened her seat-belt, Annabel said, ‘I heard about what happened this afternoon at the waxworks.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Maria told her mother.’
Joanna muttered something that sounded like ‘sneak’.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘I was just interested.’
‘It was a silly thing to do. Drawing attention to yourself like that.’
‘I wanted to look. After all, it’s a murder case Daddy is trying. The woman that’s killed her husband.’
‘Your father is not trying the case, as you put it, the Judge does that, and the jury decides whether she did kill her husband or not. Your father is just the prosecuting counsel.’
‘I think he’s made up his mind, though. I heard him say it was a nice little domestic murder.’
Annabel started the car in silence. As they reached their gates, she said, ‘I think you have entirely too much freedom. I shall have to do something about it. For a start, you can bring your things in from the garage room. As from tonight, you sleep in the house.’
She parked the car in the drive, where it would effectively block her husband’s car when he got home, and walked into the house. This is all your fault, is what she was saying. Your work, your habits, your life touches all of us, all of us.
‘I’ll kill her,’ said Joanna under her breath. ‘I’ll kill her, I’ll kill her.’
If Charmian had heard this conversation, she might have advised Annabel to watch her step. On the other hand, she might not. Plenty of girls threaten to kill their mother without planning to do anything much about it.
Chapter Five
Brian Gaynor worked late at his papers in the room he and Annabel had created as a study for him. It was a charming, book-lined attic with solid plain furniture, which gave it a comfortable feel, nothing fancy. The whole house was the same, quiet but good. The taste was Annabel’s, but she had designed it for him and he matched it. Brian Gaynor was a tall, fair-haired man with big solid bones like his daughter. Finally, he went to his bed. Annabel was sound asleep in the antique French bed upholstered in a William Morris chintz. He touched her gently, but she did not stir. He knew that he and Annabel had created a pleasant way of life in this house, now he had the uneasy feeling it was threatened.
He looked in on both children; he tried to be a good father, do all the things expected of him, when he had time. The boy, small-boned like his mother, was lying on his back with his arms sprawled above his head, the duvet on the floor. Brian replaced the duvet and tucked him in. Joanna was curled up like a ball with her head buried in her arms. He left her alone. Untouched. She looked peaceful enough. So did Annabel for that matter, although he well knew this could be deceptive. He had heard about the murder in the Princess Louise Park, of course, but he was more interested in the murder he was engaged with professionally. More interested in that than in his family, Annabel would have said.
As soon as he was in bed, and the house dark, Joanna got up and conducted a quiet investigation of possible exits and entrances. She knew most of them, naturally, like the pantry window, and the broken lock on the kitchen window, and the exit from the attic window over a roof and down a drainpipe, but it was wise to check.
Oliver Colman, the husband of the murdered woman was asleep too, well sedated by his doctors who could do nothing about his dreams. The couple had lived in a small flat on the ground floor of a council estate. Twenty other flats constituted their block, but theirs had been the only one with window-boxes full of flowers. Irene would not be around to water them any more. Asleep too, in his set of rooms above the club was the murdered woman’s employer at Buzz. By the time he got to bed he was usually exhausted. His living quarters were in their usual state of chaos.
Before he slept, Oliver Colman had given as complete a statement as he could manage of his life and Irene’s. Where she worked, the people she knew, the contacts she might have made, he had named all the people he could think of. He had once worked as a special policeman so he knew that his statement would be read by the whole investigating team, and it was up to him to do his best.
Repose too, in Maid of Honour Row. Johnny, Freda, Gillian and Lesley had such a sparsely furnished house that it was easy to keep tidy. Their employer, who owned the house, provided a cleaner once a week. She used to say that you wouldn’t know from looking whose room you were in, they were so alike. Their real life was in the stables. Or just possibly in the Duke of Wellington or at Buzz. Charmian had seen inside the house once, handing in some misdirected letters and come to the same conclusion. Immaculate, but empty.
Miriam in her large Victorian, mother-dominated house; Flora and Emmy in their neat, semi-detached house with a bird-table in the front garden; Sergeant Wimpey in his heavily mortgaged two-garage bungalow: they were all asleep. Flora and Emmy were both dreaming of Mr Pilgrim, a fact which, had she known of it, would have surprised Charmian, but which Ulrika Seeley would have said was only to be expected. Miriam was not dreaming, she was far too tired and her mother too restless. Mr Pilgrim was not dreaming because he was awake and travelling.
All around them the police machine was still working. Information was settling itself into several police computers, bits of the machines gently talking to themselves. In the Home Office Forensic Laboratory tests were in process on the clothes of the murdered woman. The scraps of rubbish found under her body had been preserved for a thorough study. Nor was the matter of the slaughtered mare forgotten, a little bundle of evidence awaited investigation too. In another laboratory, the clothes in which Charmian had been attacked were spread out.
There was a kind of nightmare about this going on in Charmian’s mind, one in which every piece of evidence got lost or muddled and it was all her fault. A piece of paper kept fluttering into
her face, then floating off before she could read it. Read it? Was there anything to read? An anxiety dream, a responsibility nightmare. She woke up and took a drink of water, dislodging Muff who had settled on her chest, weighing her down. Eventually, she slept heavily, Muff on her feet, failing to hear the telephone ring.
Ulrika Seeley finally managed to wake Charmian.
Charmian stretched out a hand with her eyes still closed. ‘It’s so early.’ She knew it was Ulrika. Telepathy?
‘You are never home.’
‘Not a lot, no.’
‘So I ring early. I have had a few thoughts. About the girl’s father and his profession.’
‘But I didn’t tell you,’ began Charmian.
‘No, you did not tell me the child’s name. But I have my own ways of finding things out.’ Ulrika sounded amused. In fact, it had been a combination of luck and good guessing. A patient who worked in Lincoln’s Inn and had a mother who lived in Eton, together with the intuition that Ulrika used all the time.
Charmian sighed. They could do with Ulrika in the police. ‘Go on.’
‘He is a very successful man. Rather tough, they say, but with all this charm. He specialises in criminal cases. And for the last few weeks he has been much absorbed in prosecuting in the Debarton murder trial. Not his first murder case, by any means, he has done several in the last two years. Have I got the right man?’
‘You’ve got the right man.’
She hated to give Ulrika best, especially when she knew there must be a lot of guesswork involved.
‘You can’t guess in my work,’ she said somewhat sourly.
‘Oh go on. You do it all the time.’
Charmian abandoned the contest. ‘So? What are you telling me?’
‘That the father’s work and life-style must be considered in relation to the girl. They may constitute her problem. Making a kind of hole in her life.’
Holes, thought Charmian. Why all this talk about holes?
‘Why don’t you go and watch Gaynor in court and see how he operates? He may open your mind for you.’
‘I’ve really not got time.’
A Cure for Dying Page 6
