'Hannah, thank God! You speak French, don't you?' Rapidly he told her his problem.
'How long will it take?' she asked doubtfully. 'I have to collect the girls in an hour.'
'Not long, I promise, but for God's sake help us out. The poor devils haven't a clue what's happening.'
'All right.'
With a sigh of thankfulness he hurried her over to the car. 'This lady owns a school,' he said inaccurately, judging the subtleties of Deputy Headmistress beyond his listeners. 'She will assist us.' He was speaking, he felt, like a textbook, in his efforts to make himself clear. Then, blessedly, Hannah with her warm smile took over her own introduction, conveying, as far as he could make out, her sympathy, and offering her help.
'Sorry not to introduce you,' he said sotto voce to Jackson over the flow of soft French behind them. 'Miss James—'
'I met her at Westridge,' Jackson said.
'So you did. I was forgetting.' The nursery-rhyme case. The memory of it was inextricably woven with Susan.
They turned off the road by the sign of the White Swan, and Jackson pulled into the hotel car park.
'It might be better to talk in the lounge,' Webb said, as the French couple signed the register. 'There's no one about, and we could have some tea. It would help to ease the proceedings.'
The Picards, approached through Hannah, agreed to the plan, though Madame requested chocolate and her husband coffee. Foreigners! thought Jackson.
The interview fell into its own pattern. Webb asked the questions, Hannah translated, Monsieur replied—nearly always Monsieur. He had the sensitive face of a poet, with a high forehead and hollow cheeks. A gentle-looking man, Webb thought, trying to come to terms with the sudden crisis in his life. His wife, pale and on edge, sat for the most part in silence, though it appeared she understood a modicum of English. Such replies as she did make came before Hannah translated. As to the answers, they were not much help. No, Arlette had never gone off before. No, they had no idea where she might be. No, there was no serious boyfriend in France. Yes, she had mentioned names in her letters, but not one more than the others, and her parents hadn't registered them.
The requested photograph was produced and at last Webb looked on the face of Arlette Picard. The full mouth and tip-tilted nose gave her a provocative air. The fair hair formed a softly fuzzy halo round her head, the blue eyes laughed at the camera.
'We'll need it for the press,' Webb said. 'I presume they'll let us keep it?'
Madame nodded. 'Bien sur, monsieur.'
'Will you explain,' Webb said awkwardly to Hannah, 'that we'll keep them advised of any developments, but in the meantime there's not much they can do.'
Madame nodded again and replied in French, 'We just wanted to be here.'
'Then we won't keep you any longer. I'll ask Professor Warwick to put someone who speaks French at your disposal, and do please contact us if there's anything we can do.' He scrawled the Maybury Street phone number on the back of his own card and handed it across. With a formal shaking of hands all round, the French couple left them to be shown upstairs to their room.
Webb turned back to Hannah, conscious of Jackson's interest. 'Miss James, I don't know what we'd have done without you. Thank you very much indeed.'
'I'm glad to have been of help.'
'The least I can do is run you up to the university.' He looked at the clock above the reception desk. 'You have twenty minutes in hand.'
'Oh, don't worry, I can—'
'The least I can do,' he repeated, and turned to Jackson. 'Sergeant, will you go on to Maybury Street and report to Inspector Ledbetter? I'll drop Miss James off and join you there. I want a word with the Professor, but I'd better calm down before I approach him. In any case, if he hadn't time for the interview, he won't spare any for me.'
The car, which had been standing in the sun, was unbearably stuffy. Webb opened all the windows, took off his jacket and tossed it on the back seat. 'Perhaps we'll have a hot summer for once.'
Hannah wasn't listening. 'Do you think she's still alive, David?'
'I don't know. The more time that passes, the less likely-it seems.'
He started the car. It was like old times to be discussing a case with Hannah, but he knew better than to say so. At least this second meeting had helped to thaw the atmosphere. He'd go and see her one evening, as soon as he could make it. Now they'd established contact again, she might let him plead his case. It felt unbelievably good to have her beside him as the car climbed steeply up the hill, with the breeze from the open windows lifting their hair. God, he'd missed her—was still missing her.
'Where shall I drop you?'
'The admin building, please. You know where it is?'
'Yes, I ferreted my way round this morning. It's a town in itself, isn't it? Theatre, shops, bank, chapel. How many actually live up here?'
'About a thousand, I think. The rest are scattered round the town and villages in digs or rented houses.'
'You think your girls will plump for it, or has somewhere further afield more glamour?'
'It depends what courses are on offer.'
Webb smiled. 'Me, I'm no academic. I'd come for the view alone.'
'It's marvellous, isn't it? You should paint it. You'd have a ready market here.'
'It's a thought.' He turned to her. 'Thanks again, Hannah. I really appreciate your help.'
'That's all right.' She swung gracefully out of the car. 'Goodbye, David. Thanks for the lift.'
He watched her until she disappeared through the swing doors into the building, then he turned the car and drove back to the town.
Despite the open window, the bedroom was hot with the day's stored sunshine. Beside her, Tom slept peacefully, occasionally emitting a bubbling little snore.
Restlessly Claire turned on her side. Across the silent town the church clock chimed sonorously and she counted the strokes: one, two, three. What a horrible hour to be awake! All the worries she could suppress during daylight seemed to leap out at her, assuming monstrous proportions. Mainly she thought of Arlette. Her parents would have arrived by now. Were they, too, awake, listening to the same clock strike?
Involuntarily, Claire pictured herself in their position, in some strange French town where Sarah was missing. She put her hands to her head to squeeze out the thought.
Who was the older man Edna'd seen with Arlette? She should have told Simon. She'd phone him tomorrow. Oh, please let the girl turn up safely, and they could all get some sleep.
She turned again, her cotton nightdress sticking to her body. The airlessness of the room suffocated her. Despite deep breaths, she seemed unable to fill her lungs.
Carefully, so as not to disturb Tom, she slid off the bed and padded to the window, silently pushing up the sash and leaning out as far as she could. A faint night breeze was cool on her forehead and damp shoulders. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Then she opened them, letting them move over the silver and black garden beneath her.
Their bedroom was at the back of the house, and Claire loved its daytime outlook—the patio directly below with the plants in its edging wall, the splash of geraniums in their tubs, and the flowering shrubs further up the garden, following one another in colourful sequence from spring to autumn. Now, colour was drained away, leaving only light and shade, like an old television set.
Far above her, the sky was speckled with stars. She lifted her head, letting the breeze play over her throat. That was better. Perhaps she'd sleep now. Idly she turned her head to the left, towards the Warwicks' garden—and froze, her fingers clamped on the sill. In the centre of the lawn a figure stood motionless. It must have been there as long as she had—she'd been aware of no movement. A burglar? But why so still? Then, as her eyes focused, she saw it was Bernard, standing with his head flung back as though gazing into the top branches of the trees at the foot of the garden. Had he heard or seen something? What was he doing but there at three in the morning, in his pyjamas and dressing-gown?
&
nbsp; The breeze felt suddenly chill and Claire shivered. Slowly, so as not to attract his attention—though he was facing away from her—she withdrew inside the window. For a moment she stood hugging herself, stroking her cool bare arms as though for comfort. Perhaps he couldn't sleep, either. But—outside? And how long had he been there?
She went to the bathroom for a glass of water and drank it slowly, sip by sip. By the time she got back to her room, he'd have gone. But when, almost fearfully, she again looked out of the window, he was still there, seeming not to have moved since she'd last seen him. Shivering and perplexed, Claire crept back to bed.
Saturday morning, and Webb was seated at his desk, looking through some reports before leaving for Steeple Bayliss. There was a knock on the door and young Marshbanks looked round it.
'Come in, Simon. What is it?'
'It might not be important, sir, but my mother's just been on. She says her daily help saw Arlette with a man in a car.' 'When?'
'A week or two ago. They were parked near her digs. Edna can't describe the car—it was dark, and she's not really up on cars anyway. But she saw the back of the man's head, and he had a bald patch.'
'Anything else?'
'Afraid not, sir.'
'Well, we'll look into it. Thanks, Simon. Ask Sergeant Jackson to come in, would you?'
Jackson knocked and entered, his china-blue eyes less bright than usual. Webb grinned at him sympathetically. 'You look as though you've been out on the tiles, Ken.'
'Not exactly the tiles. Millie had a false alarm during the night. I whipped her into hospital and hung around for an hour or so. Then they came and said she's a while to go yet, so I took her home. In a way, I'd rather they'd kept her in. She'd get more rest there.'
'When are the babies due?'
'Tomorrow's the date we were given, but you never know.'
'Well, if she's a while to go, it won't be today. Sit down a minute. I've been going through the reports of the SB team which we collected last night. They've managed to trace a few of Arlette's admirers, but that's as far as it goes. However, according to Simon she was seen with an older man, so we'll have a look at the fathers of the kids she's been coaching and the rest of the tutors. What did you think of the two we saw yesterday?'
'Not much. Lightbody was a bit too cooperative— smarmy, almost. And those little eyes behind the glasses. They didn't miss a trick.'
'You think he might fancy Arlette?'
'I wouldn't be surprised. I can see him smacking his lips over a bit of skirt. Still, that doesn't make him a killer.'
'You reckon that's what we're looking for?'
Jackson met his eyes squarely. 'Don't you?'
Webb drummed his fingers on the desk without replying. Then he said, 'What about Duncan?'
Jackson grinned. 'Typical Scot. Gave nothing away, even information. But if it was a two-way thing, he's the more likely bet.'
'Hm. I also intend to have a word with the Professor this morning, whether he thinks he can spare the time or not. What did you make of him?'
'A rum egg, wasn't he? Like a dummy in a tailor's window,'
'He's living on his nerves. You can almost feel him vibrating.'
'I don't reckon him for any hanky-panky, though. From the look of him, he wouldn't know where to start.'
Webb thought of Jackson's description when, two hours later, they were seated opposite Professor Warwick in his study. Not so much a dummy, he thought, as a robot, whose inner workings were whirring out of control. He'd the uneasy impression that it was several seconds before Warwick had realized who he was. Then his computer-brain reasserted itself.
'You're lucky to find me here on a Saturday, Chief Inspector. I have some work to finish.' His mouth moved in what was intended as a smile. 'I'm sorry you felt I deserted you yesterday. A misunderstanding, apparently.'
'I certainly assumed you'd help with the interview,' Webb said levelly. 'However, we were able to make other arrangements.'
'So I gather.'
'Oh?'
'Madame Picard phoned for an appointment. She's coming to see me in ten minutes, but I'm free until then.'
Webb had finished with him within that time. As he'd indicated the previous day, Warwick seemed to have had few dealings with Arlette. 'Thank you for your help,' Webb finished. 'And we'd better have your address, in case we need to contact you.'
'Fourteen, Lime Tree Grove.' It sounded familiar, though Webb couldn't think why. They took their leave, and as they approached the swing doors at the end of the corridor, Mme Picard came hesitantly through them.
'Good morning, madame. You're looking for Professor Warwick?'
She nodded, returning his greeting with a murmured 'Bonjour.'
The far door on the left. Shall I—?'
'No—please. I—shall manage.' She gave him a brief nod and smile and walked quickly down the length of the corridor.
'I hope he apologizes for dashing off like that,' Webb commented. 'The French are sticklers for politeness.'
Jackson had other things on his mind. 'Guv, that address the Professor gave. Doesn't Simon Marshbanks live in Lime Tree Grove?'
'My God, you're right, Ken! I knew it rang a bell. We'll give him a buzz when we get to Maybury Street.'
'Next door?' Webb repeated over the phone. 'Your people live next door to the Professor?' He knew Marshbanks came from a wealthy family, but to find him in such elevated surroundings was a surprise. 'Do you know him?' He listened intently for a few minutes, made a number of comments, and rang off.
‘That could be useful,' he told Ledbetter and Jackson, who’d been listening to the one-sided conversation. 'Marshbank’s parents and the Warwicks are friends. It might help to get a personal slant on the po-faced Professor. And since we also need to follow up the info from the daily, I reckon a call is indicated. Phone through, Ken, and see when it would be convenient to pop in. But first, we'll call on the families Arlette coached. They should be home on a Saturday morning.'
CHAPTER 5
Later, Webb reflected ruefully that a bit of judicious eavesdropping at the Professor's door would have saved them a lot of trouble. For as he and Jackson returned to Maybury Street, Cecile Picard and Bernard Warwick confronted each other across a gulf of thirty years.
For some moments they stood gripping each other's hands, too emotional for words. Then Bernard spoke softly in French. 'It really is true, then. When I saw you, at the train door—'
'Yes. For a moment I thought I should faint.'
'It's unbelievable, meeting after all these years. Fate, obviously.'
Her ringers moved protestingly in his. 'Arlette rather than fate, mon cher? She gave a little shudder. 'You think she is all right, Bernard? We will find her?'
'God willing, my love.'
She didn't register the endearment. 'I'm so frightened,' she said in a low voice, 'and Gaston—'
'Ah yes, the worthy Gaston. How did you give him the slip?'
'I—beg your pardon?'
'It would have been natural, surely, for him to come here with you?' His voice sharpened. 'He doesn't know?'
She shook her head. 'No, no. I said nothing. What purpose would it serve?' She moved away from him, walking :c the window and looking down over the bustling, sunlit world of the campus. 'He is not strong, my husband. Today he suffers with migraine. Strain always affects him that way.' Her voice sank, and he moved closer to catch what she was saying. 'I heard him in the night, weeping hopelessly.'
Bernard said sharply, 'He should put a brave face on it, for your sake.'
She turned with a smile. 'I had forgotten how English you are. But yes, it is necessary to hide my fears, to avoid adding to his.'
Bernard caught her hand, gripping it painfully. 'You have me, now, mignonne, and I'm strong. You can lean on me.'
She closed her eyes briefly, letting the reassurance of his strength flow through her. Then, gently, she removed her hand.
'My dear, we parted as lovers, but we meet now as friend
s.
I am married to a good man and have four children. What was between us ended thirty years ago.' He started to speak, but she continued quickly, 'And you also are married, and have children?'
'No children.' He spoke roughly and she frowned, eyes searching his face. 'I married only ten years ago. It was a mistake. If I'd waited—'
'No, no,' she interrupted. 'You must not think like that.'
He said jerkily, 'I went straight back, you know, after the quarrel. On the next boat. But you'd vanished completely. Your parents said you'd left Paris and wanted nothing more to do with me. I argued and begged, but they wouldn't tell me where you were.'
She said quietly, 'I'd no idea. They said nothing to me.'
He shrugged. 'None of our friends knew your whereabouts, and it's been the same ever since. I go back each year, walking the streets we walked, sitting in the same cafes. And I ask everyone I see—concierges, barmen, even gendarmes, if they know of you. They never do.'
She said gently, 'I left Paris when you did, to stay with my aunt in Angers. I met Gaston almost immediately, and we married six months later.'
'On the rebound.'
'Perhaps. But I love him, Bernard, as you love your wife.'
He shook his head vehemently. 'I have never loved anyone else, nor shall I. And now that I've found you—'
She said quickly, 'I came to speak of Arlette. Please, my dear. I can think of nothing else.'
'Of course. We'll wait till she's found before we tell them.'
She stared at him, perplexed, then abandoned the attempt to understand him. 'Tell me, when did you see her last? Was she well?'
With an effort he controlled himself. He mustn't add to her worries as her husband was doing. After thirty years, he could wait a few more days. His habitual restraint came to his aid, his breathing steadied, and he smiled at her.
'Sit down, my dear. I'll ring for coffee, then I'll tell you all I know about your daughter.'
As the police car drew up, Rob Palfry was playing a hose over the gleaming car in his driveway. He turned, his eyes narrowed against the sun, surprised by the unexpected visitors. Webb took in his appearance in one swift, experienced glance. Medium height, slightly overweight, thinning brown hair. The arms below the short-sleeved shirt were muscular and strong.
Death Speaks Softly Page 5
