by Jan Toms
In Victor’s kitchen Alan, in his role of village bobby, was comforting Charity while an Inspector had taken Victor into the sitting room. In the garden, a medley of police and medical men stumbled over each other in their anxiety to get the job done. Cameras clicked, people struggled into white suits. The garden looked like a stage set for a moon landing. Inside, Fluffy had retreated onto Victor’s lap and growled at anyone who came near, baring his tiny yellow teeth as a warning.
‘But I don’t know this man. I have been at work all day,’ Victor wailed for the nth time.
‘It is possible that you killed the victim before you went to work and left him there for someone else to find,’ said the Inspector. He wasn’t a local man, and Victor thought of police dramas on TV where a fast-tracked officer upsets the locals and reads poetry in his spare time. He had the feeling that this man would force him to confess, even though he was at a loss as to what had happened.
Remembering the hole in the man’s forehead, Victor said, ‘But I don’t have a gun!’ This single piece of information must surely be his saving. He had no idea how a gun worked. You couldn’t just point it and fire. It had to be loaded. Was there a safety catch? He didn’t know. He would never dare to pick up a gun and point it at anyone, let alone pull the trigger.
‘Who said that the victim had been shot?’ asked the Inspector triumphantly. ‘I would like you to come down to the station with us, now.’
‘Are you arresting him?’ Charity had suddenly appeared from the kitchen. At the sight of Victor’s plight she had reverted to her role of mother hen. ‘If you are then you must read him his rights and supply him with a solicitor.’
‘Charity.’ Alan came through from the kitchen looking embarrassed. ‘We know this gentleman,’ he said to the Inspector. ‘It is very unlikely that he has anything to do with this crime.’ At the back of his mind he was remembering Gruesome and the rumours of the Angel of Death. Could they all be wrong?
‘We aren’t arresting him, Miss Grimes, we are just asking him to come to the station so that we can explore all the options of what might have happened here.’
Once she had calmed down, Charity in turn explained exactly how she had found the corpse, how she had heard Fluffy barking and how she happened to arrive late to take the dog for a walk.
‘So if you had been on time you might have seen the perpetrator?’
‘I might have been the victim!’ She sounded shrill.
‘Did you see anyone in the neighbourhood? Notice anything unusual or suspicious?’
Charity thought of the chestnut Mercedes, the gorgeous man behind the wheel. That wasn’t exactly in the vicinity although it was only two minutes’ walk from Victor’s house. She shook her head. A sudden exciting plan began to form in her mind. She would think through the details later.
As his legs were so shaky, Victor was escorted down the drive by two of the officers, one holding each arm. At least he didn’t have a blanket over his head. Across the road he saw Mrs Randall staring at the scene. There was something predatory in her eyes, waiting to pounce on every detail and gobble it up ready to regurgitate later.
At the station, the police surgeon examined Victor. His heartbeat was unnaturally fast and his blood pressure was skyhigh. He complained of a pain in his chest and of feeling sick. A blood sample was taken, causing him to feel faint as well, while his hands were dusted with some powder, his fingerprints recorded, scrapings taken from beneath his nails and a cotton bud wiped around the inside of his mouth. He was deprived of his clothes, including his underpants, and given one of those spacesuits with paper slippers to sit in.
‘All routine, Sir,’ the officer assured him. When all of this was completed he was given a cup of tea.
Painstakingly, Victor went over his story again and again, how he had taken Fluffy across to the field as usual, how he hadn’t noticed anything untoward in the neighbourhood. He suddenly remembered that he had spoken to Mr Jellicoe at the bus stop and they had both boarded the bus together.
‘Ask him,’ he said triumphantly. ‘He will be able to confirm that I left home at the usual time.’ Meanwhile, Victor confirmed yet again that he had never before seen the man in his garden.
‘I have always obeyed the law,’ he insisted. ‘I haven’t got a gun – why on earth would I want one?’ His tone grew petulant and he was aware of echoes of Mr O’Shaughnessy claiming his innocence in the tax office. Victor had once said to a client, ‘Ignorance of the law is not the same as innocence.’ Now he blurted out, ‘I don’t even drive a car and I have never, ever been in trouble, not so much as for a parking ticket or a fine for speeding.’
The officer nodded that he understood and wrote it all down.
Elsewhere, Groping Joe’s body was being examined and his fingerprints had been matched. Now the police had a name. Now they knew that Groping Joe was yet another local gang member who had died, this time clearly not as the result of an accident.
The surgeon confirmed the time of Joe’s death and it was clear that if Victor was telling the truth, it must have happened long after he left for work. Someone was sent to interview Mr Jellicoe, who had just returned from work and was having his tea. Between mouthfuls he confirmed the conversation he’d had with Victor as they boarded the bus. Another officer visited the tax office, catching them just on the point of going home, and established that Victor had arrived on time and that his behaviour had been perfectly normal.
At last, the interviewing officer asked, ‘Do you have anyone you can stay with for a few days, Sir?’ Victor was struggling for an answer when Alan, who had just come into the room, said, ‘It’s alright Mike, he can come home with us.’
Once the formalities were over, Charity was allowed to go to Victor’s cottage with her father and fetch some clothing for him. They then collected him like a piece of left luggage from the station and drove him home.
Charity sat in the back with him and held his hand as if he was a small boy. For ages his mind seemed to be a void, hiding from the awful events of the day, then he thought of something. ‘Where’s Fluffy?’ he asked.
‘They’ve taken him away.’
‘Who? Where?’
‘The dog pound. They want to examine him, check the bite marks and that sort of thing.’
Victor remembered Mauler and Fingers, both with Fluffy’s fangs embedded into their flesh shortly before death. If they interfered with him, Fluffy would wriggle and yelp and show the very behaviour they were looking for. Poor little dog, he would almost certainly condemn himself and be found guilty.
As if picking up on his thoughts, Charity said, ‘Well, it looks as if the only thing they can charge you with is keeping a dangerous dog.’
His earlier thoughts about being free of the burden that was Fluffy now came back to haunt him. It was all his fault. He should have looked after his pet properly, understood those early traumas that made him wee or bite whenever he got excited. With understanding, Fluffy could surely have been cured? Thinking of his failures, Victor began to cry.
TWENTY
Doctor Delaney called and prescribed a sedative to help Victor sleep.
‘Would you like me to sign you off for a few days?’ he asked when he had heard the full story. He was beginning to think that Victor must be incurably accident-prone.
Victor shook his head. He would be better off at work, have less time to think. Besides, he needed to go back and make sure that Pamela had been alright after facing Mr O’Shaughnessy.
‘Well, have a day off tomorrow,’ the doctor suggested. ‘And if you change your mind, ring the surgery.’
The sedative meant that Victor slept well. Released from his worries, he had a strange dream about being secretary to one of those ladies who served in the Shadow Cabinet. He had to stay late to prepare a speech for her. Victor had never considered fancying her before when he had seen her on the telly. She was a woman of uncertain age with a rather restrained dress sense and a high-pitched voice that was liable to grate on one
’s nerves. In the dream she made Victor take off his trousers because she had spilt champagne down them and insisted on sponging them off. He awoke with an uncomfortable erection and a sense of embarrassment.
Alan had insisted that Victor have the spare room that was right next to his. It was a relief to realise that for tonight, at least, Charity wouldn’t take it upon herself to offer him comfort of the carnal kind, although he was surprised to find that his earlier exhaustion had vanished. Cosy and still sleepy, he tried to get back to his office in the House of Commons so that he could get his trousers back.
Charity was up very early. As Alan was on a late shift, she made an excuse to go shopping and trotted down to the police station. The sergeant on the front desk was well known to her and, taking a deep breath, she said, ‘George, father asked me to come down and ask if you could look up a car registration for him.’ The sergeant, placid, patient, nodded his head.
‘If it won’t take long, I’ll wait for it,’ she said. She wrote down the registration of the chestnut Mercedes and sat down to wait.
It wasn’t long before George was back. ‘Registered to a car hire company in London,’ he said. ‘Diplomatic Limousines.’
‘That’s fine. I’ll tell father.’ She wondered whether to ask him not to say anything to Alan when he came on duty, but this would only arouse both men’s suspicions so she left it.
As soon as she could, she contacted Directory Enquiries and they gave her the number of the main office of Diplomatic Limousines. The next step would call for some ingenuity but she was a resourceful girl and, putting on her best voice, she rang the number.
‘Good afternoon, Winterbottom Police Station here. An article has been handed in to us by a young person who saw it fall from a car. It drove away without the driver noticing but he has probably been in touch with you since to see if you have found it?’
‘Do you have his name, Madam?’
‘Afraid not. The young person was alert enough to get the car registration though, so perhaps you can let me know who you hired the vehicle to yesterday, then we can return the item in question.’
It was easy. No one checked to see if there was even such a station as Winterbottom nick. No one asked for anything in fact, but the girl at the other end came back with the information that the car had been hired by a signor Giuseppi Milano who was staying at the Royal Cascade Hotel in London. Charity thanked her and rang off, bristling with anticipation.
When she got home, Victor was up and had done the washing up.
‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, kissing him on the cheek.
‘Fine, I thought about going home.’ Victor was keen to see what was happening and for once Charity did not try to overrule him.
He found that his garden was fenced off with blue and white tape and the front door sealed with yellow and red tape. Clearly he was not yet allowed inside. He stood outside looking helplessly at his home, longing for its solitude. He was aware that the curtains across the road hurriedly fell into place when he glanced around. No good hanging around here or Mrs Randall would be phoning the police.
He did not want to go back to Charity’s but he couldn’t see what else to do without causing offence. Instead, he caught the bus and went to the office, just to pass the time.
The first person he saw was Pamela and she positively leaped from her chair and came over to meet him.
‘Oh Victor, we were so worried when we heard what had happened. The police came round just as we were leaving yesterday and it was all on the local news last night. They said you’d had a burglar and that you had shot him.’
The whole idea seemed suddenly absurd and he began to laugh. ‘I don’t think I’d be wandering around if I had killed someone,’ he said. ‘They don’t know who the man was or who killed him, but it definitely happened while I was at work – and it certainly wasn’t me.’
Pamela smiled her relief and went to make him a cup of tea. He watched her with increasing interest. Was it his imagination or was her skirt a little shorter, and tighter? Her blouse was cut unusually low for her so that the very top of her breasts were just visible when she moved in a certain direction, while her hair, her lovely hair, was tied back at the nape of her neck and snaked down to her waist.
‘You look very nice,’ he heard himself say.
‘Thank you, Victor.’
She brought his drink over and set it on his desk.
‘How did you get on with Mr O’Shaughnessy?’ he asked her.
‘Oh fine, I calmed him down and said that you had had an emergency and he’s going to bring the form back when he’s had time to consider it.’
‘Well done.’
They both fell into an awkward silence then Victor said, ‘I don’t suppose you might like to come to the cinema with me one evening?’
Her face turned a beautiful shade of pink. ‘I’d love to.’
It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘Tonight,’ but then he remembered where he would be staying so he said, ‘As soon as this business with the burglar is sorted out, let’s make that a date.’
As soon as Victor went out, Charity raced upstairs to change her clothes. She fumbled through the assortment of skirts and dresses hanging in the wardrobe until she found something that was both flattering and suitable for travel, then she quickly changed. Going downstairs, she wrote a note and left it on the kitchen table. Popped up to London to see an Exhibition. Will ring later. x x
Within the hour she was on the train to Waterloo. Sitting in the carriage, she felt more exhilarated than she had ever done in her life. This was a wild, crazy thing to be doing but it made her feel alive. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps the Mercedes had absolutely nothing to do with the shooting in Victor’s garden but something told her that it did. If she didn’t act today then Giuseppi Milano would probably have left the hotel or even the country. It was her only chance to meet up with him. This might be her opportunity to change the course of history – if not of the world, then at the very least her own.
At Waterloo she took at taxi to the Royal Cascade Hotel. She was glad that she had dressed with such care. Even from the outside it was obvious that residents would think nothing of spending their entire clothing budget on a handbag or a pair of shoes. Girding herself ready to enter the lion’s den, she went inside.
‘May I help you, Madam?’ The slender young man behind the reception desk, wearing a black shirt and trousers, small bow tie and a striped waistcoat, looked Eastern European. He was dark and neatly polished.
‘Yes, I want to see one of your guests, a Mr Milano?’ For a moment everything seemed to stop – sounds, her breathing, everything – while the young man consulted the guest list.
‘Is Sr Milano expecting you Madam?’
‘Yes.’ She nearly said no but she didn’t want to give him a chance to say that he wouldn’t see her.
As the young man consulted the register, Charity managed to see his room number. He picked up the telephone but she said. ‘Just hang on a moment, will you, I’d like to visit the powder room first.’
‘Certainly, Madam.’ He pointed the direction across the foyer and through heavy glass doors.
Charity gave him one of her most confident smiles and followed his instructions. Once through, she continued down the corridor until she came to a lift that she took to the sixth floor. Giuseppi’s room was number 618.
Now was crunch time. She had to get this absolutely right, leave no loopholes, allay his suspicions. A nagging voice reminded her with some force that if she was right then this was a professional killer, so should she prove to be in the way, he would have no qualms about disposing of her. Carefully she rehearsed her lines and, with a shaky fist, rapped on the door.
There was no reply. A lady pushing a trolley laden with linen and toiletries worked her way along the corridor. In one of the empty rooms, a vacuum cleaner droned. Trying to calm her heart, Charity knocked again, louder. Just as she was about to give up and retreat to the foyer to rethink her plan
s, the lock clicked and the door opened a fraction.
‘What ees it?’
‘Mr Milano, might I speak with you please. It is quite important.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Loretta Bird.’ The name came from nowhere, it just floated into her brain and emerged from her mouth.
‘I know you?’
‘No, you don’t, but it is important. Might we speak inside?’
The door opened wider, revealing the man she had seen in the car yesterday. He looked as if he had just stepped from the shower and his hair was plastered in damp ringlets against his skull, while the towel around his waist revealed an alluring streak of black hair descending beneath its folds. Charity felt suddenly hot.
The man stood back and indicated that she should go through. The size of the apartment took her by surprise. She was not in a bedroom but a lounge with armchairs, desk, and a view across the Thames to die for.
‘How beautiful.’
Giuseppi tightened the towel around his waist. ‘Please, sit down Miss – Bird.’
He remained standing, watching her with eyes the colour of liquid tar, his face expressionless.
Charity took the plunge. ‘Mr Milano, you hired a chestnut-coloured Mercedes yesterday, registration CAG 27. You were spotted in the vicinity of a murder.’
‘You are police?’
His accent, velvet, alluring, almost diverted her from her purpose, but she remained focussed. ‘No, I am not the police.’
‘Then I no see why you ask. This dead man, ee is your husband?’
‘No!’ She felt affronted to think that he could even imagine that she was related to Groping Joe. She also realised that she had not mentioned that the dead person was a man. This alone confirmed his guilt.
Calming herself, she said, ‘Mr Milano, why did you kill Joseph Windsor?’
By way of response he looked at her, a quizzical smile causing his beautifully crafted mouth to twitch.
‘You think I am killer?’
