'Can I help you?' he asked warily, as Webb and Jackson approached.
'I hope so, sir.' Webb identified himself. 'We're inquiring into the disappearance of Miss Arlette Picard.' 'Oh God, yes,' Palfry said, and flushed. 'You know her, I believe?'
'Not personally, but my children do. She gives them French lessons.'
'Could we have a word with them?'
'I suppose so. Just a minute, I'll call my wife.' He paused, added rather unwillingly, 'You'd better come inside.'
The policemen followed him up the path, the gravel dazzling in the midday sun. He pushed open the front door and called, 'Liz! Can you come?'
'Not at the moment,' came the reply. 'Why do you always want me when I'm covered in flour?'
Palfry glanced at the silent men beside him, walked quickly to the kitchen and pushed open the door. 'The police are here,' he said shortly.
'The police?'
'About Arlette.'
'Oh God, she isn't—?'
'She isn't anything, as far as I know, but they want to speak to us. All of us. Where are the twins?'
'I don't know. Una was practising a minute ago. She's probably gone outside.'
There was a sound of running water, then her husband moved aside and she came into the hall. Webb repeated his introduction and Mrs Palfry nodded nervously. She had unusually black hair in a ragged urchin cut, and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
'I think the girls are outside,' she said. 'Do come in— fancy keeping you standing in the hall!' She threw a reproving glance at her husband and opened a door on the left. They all moved inside. Beyond the open patio doors, two teenaged girls lounged in deckchairs on the still-shadowed patio. Their father called them indoors.
'The police, asking about Arlette. Our daughters, Una and Zoe.' The girls, completely identical as far as Jackson could see, were as dark as their mother. They had asserted such individuality as they could by dressing differently, one in shorts and shirt, one in dungarees. They looked about seventeen. Jackson studied them, his eyes moving from one small, pointed face to the other. Twins fascinated him. Would his own be boys or girls? And, oh God, how was Millie? He'd ring her during the lunch break.
'Now, tell us all you can about Miss Picard,' Webb began, when they were all seated. 'How long has she been coming here?'
'Since before Christmas.' It was Mrs Palfry who replied. 'She put an advertisement in the local newsagent's, and since the girls have A-levels coming up, it seemed a good idea to give them a booster.'
'How often does she come?'
'Every Thursday, for two hours.'
The usual questions followed. Had she spoken of any friends, any plans she might have made? Apparently she had not.
Webb said casually, 'Do you run her home afterwards, Mr Palfry?'
The man started and flushed again. 'No, I do not,' he said emphatically. 'She's old enough to look after herself.'
He paused, realized the inappropriateness of his words, and added lamely, 'Anyway, it's less than five minutes' walk.'
'So you know where she lives?'
'She—mentioned it once.'
'I thought you hadn't met her?'
'I didn't say I hadn't met her.' There were beads of sweat on his upper lip, and one of the twins giggled nervously. Her father glared at her. 'I said I don't know her, and no more I do.'
'So she's never been in your car, for example?'
'Look, what is this? How many times do I—'
'Purely routine, sir. I presume you've no objection if we examine it? We'll try not to inconvenience you.'
The man stared at him, his deep colour ebbing away to leave his skin pasty white. He shook his head without speaking.
'You've just been cleaning it, I see. Inside as well as out?' Palfry moistened his lips. 'I—took the brush and dustpan to it.'
'Well, please don't do any more. Someone will collect it this afternoon. We won't keep it longer than we have to.' He looked round the circle of anxious faces. 'And if you think of anything else, you know where to find us.'
'Any thoughts, Ken?' he asked, as they drove out of Westfield Road.
'Well, it surprised me, you asking for the car. Bit early for that, isn't it?'
'In the normal way, yes. But he seemed jumpy, and he had been hosing it down. OK, so a lot of men clean their cars on Saturdays. Call it a shot in the dark, to see how he'd react.'
'He reacted all right. Got really hot under the collar.' 'Yes. I wonder why.' 'And he's got a bald patch.'
Webb smiled. 'Quite. We'll see what the SOCOs find.' Tewkesbury Close, the home of the Morgan family, was
up Gloucester Road, towards the top of the hill. On the way they passed the turning to Lime Tree Grove. 'Three o'clock at the Marshbanks',' Jackson commented. 'I meant to tell you.'
'Fine. When we've seen this lot, we'll stop for lunch.' 'Back to the boat?'
'No, we'll try that place we've just passed, the Lamb and Flag. I could murder a pint right now.'
The Morgan family reacted more calmly to the arrival of the police. The father was tall, well-built—and balding. But dammit, thought Webb impatiently, so was half the male population of SB. His heavy lids and full mouth gave him a sensuous look which might have been misleading, and though he betrayed no anxiety, he seemed, Webb felt, to be keeping a tight rein on himself.
The mother was of little interest to the police, fair-haired and pleasant-looking, and the children, a boy and girl in their late teens, answered straightforwardly enough. Arlette came to the house on Monday evenings, from six o'clock till eight. Only when Webb raised the matter of a lift home did he sense a ripple of unease.
'Oh, certainly,' Mrs Morgan was answering. 'Nigel always runs her back. It's a mile or more to her lodgings.'
'I see.' Webb looked at Morgan. The man's eyes flickered but did not drop. He decided to repeat his ploy. Scenes of Crime would bless him for this. 'You won't object if we examine your car, sir?'
Morgan frowned. 'Why should you want to? You've heard the girl's been in it.'
'Just routine,' Webb said soothingly. 'When was the last time you saw her?'
He was still looking at Morgan, but it was his wife who replied. 'Monday evening, as usual.'
'And you took her home, sir?'
'I dropped her off, yes. I go on to bowls, so it's not out of my way. I play at the club every Monday.'
'Did she seem any different from usual? Or mention any plans for the next day?'
But he knew the answer before he asked it. Either Arlette Picard kept her affairs to herself, or those in whom she confided had no intention of betraying such confidence.
'Right, Ken,' Webb said resignedly, fastening his seat-belt, 'The Lamb and Flag next stop.' He glanced at his sergeant's set face. 'And you can ring Millie while we wait for the grub.' He grinned. 'Quite a coincidence, wasn't it, seeing twins? Hope yours aren't as alike as that—you'd never tell them apart.'
'I don't care what they look like as long as they get a move on,' Jackson said tensely. 'Right, Guv, the Lamb and Flag coming up. Let's hope they serve real ale.'
Webb had vaguely supposed that had he been blessed with money, he'd have chosen to live in an old house. The Marshbanks obviously felt otherwise. Lime Tree Grove, high above the town, was a twelve-year-old development of what estate agents called 'executive houses'. The trees which gave the road its name stood at regular intervals along the kerb, and in addition a landscaped plot of grass, shrubs and conifers filled the pavement alongside the Marshbanks' house. No. 14 was directly behind it.
Mr Marshbanks opened the door, looking ridiculously like his son. Or vice versa. He had the same stocky figure, bright, boot-button eyes and rosy complexion. He even had a double crown like Simon's, which ensured that a tuft of black hair stood upright, despite all attempts to flatten it.
'Delighted to meet you, Webb!' he said, warmly shaking the Chief Inspector's hand. 'We know you well by name. Claire, the police are here.'
Mrs Marshbanks rose from a chair as t
hey were shown into the sitting-room. As he took her hand, Webb felt an unexpected spurt of pleasure. There was something instantly attractive about Claire Marshbanks—in her welcoming smile, her brown eyes, her honey-blonde hair, that created a feeling of warmth. Here was a woman at peace with herself and her world. In other circumstances, he thought with a tinge of regret, they could have been friends. It was a lot to read into a smile and a handshake, but he was sure he was right.
'Do sit down.' Her gesture included Jackson. 'I've just made some tea. Would you like some?' 'Thank you.'
As she busied herself pouring it, Webb studied the room. The colouring was subtle—cream walls, grey carpet, but the heavy curtains were a warm apricot, a colour repeated in the upholstered suite. Though the easy chairs were modern, they blended perfectly with the antique cabinets and occasional tables that dotted the room. Bowls of flowers stood everywhere, part of the overall decor, and original watercolours were displayed on three of the walls. Given the opportunity, he'd study those more closely.
The realization that this understated luxury was home to his young constable, while he himself was cooped up in a small flat at the top of Beechcroft Mansions, brought a wry shaft of envy, as shortlived as it was unaccustomed. Because what the hell would he do with all this stuff, rattling round in a house this size?
'Now,' Tom Marshbanks said briskly, as they sat back with their tea, 'what can we do for you?'
It emerged from Webb's questions that Claire'd met Arlette, and he was glad to add her impressions to those already collected. She repeated Edna's story of the parked car and passed on her address; which ended the official part of the visit. Webb had no justification for introducing Warwick's name, other than professional curiosity and a gut feeling he couldn't put a name to. Nevertheless, leaning back in his chair, he said conversationally, 'I believe Professor Warwick lives next door?'
To his surprise, Mrs Marshbanks, refilling her husband's cup, jumped, and some liquid spilled in the saucer. 'I'm sorry. How careless of me.'
Webb glanced at her husband and caught his quick frown. 'Are you close friends?' he asked, ignoring the interruption.
'My wife's on a committee with Mrs Warwick,' Marshbanks answered. 'I don't know either of them well, though as it happens they're coming to dinner this evening.'
'Then you get on well together?'
Marshbanks met his bland gaze. 'Are you as casual as you're trying to imply, Chief Inspector?' Webb smiled. 'Almost, sir.'
'But Bernard works at the same institution as Arlette. Is that it?' 'Exactly.'
Marshbanks smiled slightly. 'Well, you've met him. Does he strike you as the type to start up a dangerous liaison with one of his colleagues?'
'I can't say he does, sir.' Webb paused, his eyes on Claire's averted face. 'Forgive me, but Mrs Marshbanks seemed startled when I mentioned him.'
She raised her head. 'It's too silly for words. Just that last night, I—' She stopped, flushed, and finished quickly, 'I had a dream about him. It disturbed me, that's all.'
It wasn't what she'd started out to say, Webb felt sure. What had really happened last night?
'Have they any family?'
'No, they've only been married ten years. They were late starters.'
'Neither had been married before?' 'No.'
'But they strike you as happy? Look,' he added impulsively, 'I apologize for grilling you about friends. I'm sure you realize it's necessary, and completely confidential.'
'As I said, I don't know them well. Claire?'
'He seems a most devoted husband. Beryl thinks the world of him.'
'Has he ever mentioned Arlette Picard in your hearing?'
She shook her head decidedly. 'Never.'
'Right. Then there's only one more question I have for you.' He smiled suddenly, relaxing. 'May I look at your superb watercolours?'
'Of course.' Claire was as much taken aback by the smile as the request. Unlike his earlier, more perfunctory ones, it had transformed the rather hard face, with its bleak grey eyes and tight mouth, into a surprisingly attractive one. As she walked with him to the wall of paintings, she was aware of him for the first time as a man rather than a police officer, reassessing the plentiful brown hair, the loose, rangey body and the unselfconscious height of him. This last appealed to her particularly; a tall woman herself, Claire was the same height as both her husband and her son, and it was an unaccustomed pleasure to be with someone who made her feel petite.
His knowledge of the paintings came as a surprise. Without hint of pretentiousness, he discussed easily with her the techniques of the various artists and the relative merits of their works.
'I'd no idea you were such an authority, Mr Webb,' she said with a laugh. 'You should be conducting our Arts Appreciation course!'
He looked embarrassed. 'I hope my enthusiasm didn't run away with me. It's a hobby, that's all, but I'm certainly no expert.'
Tom spoke from behind them. 'I thought cartoons were your forte, Chief Inspector?'
Webb turned with a rueful smile. 'They're supposed to be incognito. Simon's powers of deduction, no doubt.'
'What cartoons?' Claire was puzzled.
'In the Broadshire News. And very pertinent they are, too. Signed with an S in a circle.' Tom smilingly held Webb's eye.
'And no doubt that cipher's also been cracked?'
'A spider in a web.'
'A spider? Claire echoed.
'An unavoidable nickname. One of the old lags started it, years ago. It's pretty widespread now.'
Claire said, 'That's fascinating, but cartoons are very different from watercolours. Do you paint as well?'
'Just as a hobby. Landscapes, mostly. It's a great form of relaxation.'
'And you sell them, too?'
He laughed. 'Good lord, no. I lose interest once they're finished, and bundle them into the loft.'
'I'd be very interested to see them.'
He shook his head. 'Really, they're nothing special. Strictly for my own amusement.' He looked across at Jackson, doodling on his notebook. 'We must be on our way. Thank you for your help—and the tea.'
'What a fascinating man,' Claire said, when Tom returned from showing the policemen out. 'You never told me about the cartoons.'
'I thought you knew. Simon mentioned them one day, and since then I've looked out for them. He's got a real gift for caricature—the people he draws are instantly recognizable.'
'I'd love to see his paintings. If they're as good as you say the cartoon are, he could be a real find. I wonder if we could persuade him to exhibit at Melbray?'
Tom laughed protestingly. 'Hold on, darling! He doesn't strike me as the type who'd welcome publicity.'
Deciding to pursue the matter if chance arose, Claire thought back to the reason for the visit. 'I hope Edna won't mind our sending the police round.'
'Mind? She'll have a field day. You'll get a blow by blow account on Tuesday.'
'They seemed interested in Bernard, too.'
'An interest you fuelled by shying like a frightened pony.'
'Yes, it was silly. I wasn't expecting it, that's all.'
'Just because the poor chap fancied a breath of air—' 'At three in the morning?'
'You did yourself. You went to the window for it, he to the garden. What's the difference?'
'I suppose you're right. But if he'd been walking about it would have seemed more normal. He just didn't move at all, for at least ten minutes.'
'Perhaps he was meditating. Anyway, get your reflexes under control before they come to dinner, or we're in for a sticky evening.'
'By Jove, Guv,' Jackson commented as they drove back to Shillingham, 'that cleaner woman was a talker, wasn't she? Took you all your time to get a word in.'
'Better than having to keep prompting,' Webb returned, 'but she'd told Mrs Marshbanks all she knew. And it boils down to the fact that Arlette had an older man in tow. So what? It doesn't make him any more suspect than the younger ones.'
'My money's stil
l on Duncan.'
'It could be any of the tutors, come to that, or those fathers we saw this morning. Palfry over-reacted, and Morgan, though he was calm enough, had a shifty look about him. He could be a leading pillar of the community, but if I'd a daughter, I wouldn't let him within sight of her. They might all warrant another visit, specially since nothing's coming out of the house-to-house. For the moment we're well and truly stymied.'
Jackson said diffidently, 'Well, as long as we are stymied, Guv, would it be OK if I took tomorrow off? Millie—'
'Yes, of course, Ken.' Webb smiled. 'As a matter of fact, my chat with Mrs Marshbanks put me in the mood for sketching. I might snatch a couple of hours myself, if things stay quiet.'
There was something else he wanted to do during the weekend, and that was make his peace with Hannah. Seeing her again had resurrected all his feelings for her, and he couldn't imagine why he had let so much time pass without contacting her. Accordingly he stopped on the way home to buy some flowers, and, after he'd bathed and changed and before his courage could ebb, he ran down the flight of stairs that separated his flat from hers, and rang her bell.
The door opened at once, and from her welcoming smile he realized, with a sinking of the heart, that she'd been expecting someone else. She was wearing a lace dinner-dress in midnight blue and her hair was swept up on top of her head in a style he'd never seen before. It made her look at the same time stunningly beautiful and a stranger.
'Oh—David. Hello.' Her eyes went uncertainly to the flowers held stiffly in his hand.
'Hello, Hannah. Have I called at a bad time?'
'You have, rather. I'm going out in a few minutes. In fact, I thought you were—But come in.'
She stood to one side and he miserably stepped past her into the hallway. It had been redecorated since his last visit, emphasizing both the time-lapse and his sense of being out of place. But the sitting-room, with its windows open to the garden below, was blessedly familiar.
Death Speaks Softly Page 6
