Philip sighed. ‘You really should take a few notes down to help you remember things, you know. The “Enid” I was with that night happened to be married, and I see no reason for causing her any grief if I don’t have to. And I don’t have to, do I?’
‘No, you don’t have to – not for the moment, anyway,’ Flint said, ‘but we may reach a point in the investigation at which you’ll wish you’d been more cooperative.’
‘I’m perfectly innocent of any wrongdoing, but the next time we talk, I think I’m going to insist that my lawyer is present,’ Philip said.
‘That’s certainly your right,’ Flint told Philip. He stood up. ‘You stay right where you are, Mr Conroy. Inspector Hawkins and I will see ourselves out.’
Flint and Hawkins parted company on the High Street. Hawkins planned to go back to police headquarters and write a couple of reports which just might keep his superiors at bay. Flint, for his part, had decided that what he needed most in the world was a drink.
Owen was still worrying about me as he walked up the hill to the pub. He tried to phone me, but I, of course, was not answering.
As he got closer to the pub, he saw a woman sitting on the stocks, and realized that it was Susan Harper. He would have liked to have ignored her – gone straight into the pub and ordered a foaming pint of Tetley’s Best Bitter – but it had never been his way to run from other people’s pain, and he was certainly not about to start now.
Susan was gazing at the ground, but she looked up when she heard his footsteps. Her face was pale and drawn, but then, given the circumstances, that was hardly surprising.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Harper,’ he asked softly. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own, you know. Isn’t there anyone who can look after you?’
‘My mum and dad are here,’ Susan said. ‘They live in Stoke, but as soon as they heard the news, they drove straight up here. They’re being so very, very kind. I know I should be grateful, but … but …’
‘But you feel as if you’re being smothered with all that kindness?’ Flint suggested.
‘Yes,’ Susan said. ‘Does that make me a bad person?’
‘Of course it doesn’t,’ Flint said firmly.
‘It’s just that I needed a bit of time on my own, so I’ve got some space to think.’
Flint nodded gravely, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his bag of Jelly Babies.
‘Would you like one of these?’ he asked.
She didn’t laugh at him as so many people had done before he’d broken himself of the habit of handing his sweets around.
Instead, she smiled gratefully, and said, ‘Thank you.’
‘I’d choose one of the red ones, if I were you,’ Flint advised. ‘They’re the most delicious.’
Susan laughed. ‘You sound like a connoisseur.’
‘I am.’
‘Of Jelly Babies!’
‘Yes.’
She took his advice and chose a red one. She slipped it into her mouth and bit it in two.
‘Don’t swallow it immediately,’ Flint cautioned. ‘Chew it slowly – savour the taste.’
She did as she’d been instructed, and when she’d finished, she said, ‘I think you’re the kind of man I could talk to – the kind of man I could trust.’
‘Is there something that you’d like to tell me?’ Flint asked softly.
‘Yes … no … I’m not sure.’
Susan shook her head in a gesture which could have been frustration or anger – Flint wasn’t sure which.
‘Getting it off your chest will make you feel much better, you know,’ he said.
‘Perhaps tomorrow – or maybe the day after,’ she told him. ‘I have to think about it.’
Then she stood up and walked quickly down the hill.
He could have tried to force her to say more, Flint thought, as he watched her, but that wouldn’t have worked, because, for all her vulnerability, she had an inner toughness which would only grow stronger under pressure. So it was better – far better – to let her do things at her own speed.
Perhaps what she told him would help to catch her husband’s murderer, and perhaps it wouldn’t. But, at the very least, it would explain why she had lied about going to bed the night Bill Harper was killed.
It was half past seven in the evening when I reached the stone-built country inn on the edge of the Forest of Bowland, and decided to call it a day.
I left my Granada at the very back of the car park – which was just about as invisible as I could possibly make it – walked into reception and rang the bell on the desk.
I’d been hoping I’d be dealt with by a dozy indifferent kid, with his mind only half on the job, but the man who actually appeared was in his early forties and had dark intelligent eyes.
For a moment I simply froze, then, with a heartiness which sounded false even to me, I said, ‘What a lovely place you have here.’
‘That’s very kind of you to say so, sir,’ the man replied dryly. ‘How can I be of service to you?’
‘I’d like a room, if that’s possible.’
‘Have you booked?’
I shook my head. ‘I didn’t know how far I was going to get tonight, so I thought I’d leave it to the last minute.’
The man glanced down at the register. ‘We do have one room free, but I’m afraid it has neither its own bathroom nor a television.’
How should I react to that? I wondered. How would I have reacted if I’d been my normal self, rather than a fugitive?
‘Naturally, I would have preferred both those things,’ I said, ‘but I don’t suppose it will do me any harm to go without them for one night.’
I sounded about as natural as a third-rate actor on a bad day, I told myself, but the man behind the counter didn’t notice it – or, at least, pretended not to notice it.
‘Just for the one night, is it, sir?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’ve got to be in Manchester by lunchtime tomorrow,’ I lied. ‘I’m a sales rep.’
Should I have said that? Would I have said it if I’d actually been a sales rep?
I didn’t know.
I hadn’t got a bloody clue!
The man behind the desk slid a form across to me.
‘If you wouldn’t mind filling in this for me, sir,’ he said. ‘And how will you be paying?’
‘Credit card,’ I said, automatically.
But by the time I was reaching for my wallet, I’d already realized my mistake. Paying by credit card would be tantamount to ringing up the Cheshire police and telling them exactly where I was.
‘On second thoughts,’ I said hastily, ‘I’m carrying more money around with me than I really feel comfortable with, so, if it’s all the same to you, I’ll pay with cash.’
‘Whatever you wish, sir.’
He quoted the price of the room, and I handed over the money.
‘Dinner is served until nine o’clock, sir,’ he said. ‘Would you like to book your table now?’
For all I knew, I’d been on the television as well as the radio. It was clear that the receptionist didn’t recognize me, but if my photograph had been on TV, there might be people in the dining room who would.
‘I’ve had a long day, and I’m rather tired,’ I said. ‘Would it be possible to have some sandwiches sent up to my room?’
‘Certainly, sir. What kind?’
I shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter – anything will do. And could you send up half a bottle of whisky, as well?’
For the first ten minutes that I sat in my room, I was half-expecting to hear a loud knock on my door and, on opening it, to find myself staring at a couple of policemen whom the receptionist had wisely called the moment I’d left. But when a knock did finally come, it was only a girl carrying a tray with my order on it.
I nibbled lethargically at the sandwiches and took a few sips of my whisky. I was exhausted, both mentally and physically, but I knew that if I went to bed right then, I wouldn’t sleep.
How many village
s had I visited that day? I wondered. To know for sure I would have to count the number of crosses on my map, but I couldn’t summon up the effort.
Paul Taylor had to be somewhere close – that was the only thing which explained Marie’s presence in the area. Tomorrow I would find the village where Lydia had been brought up, I promised myself. And as I made that promise, I shivered – almost as if someone had just walked over my grave.
TWENTY-FOUR
The inn where I’d spent the night was only just starting to wake up when I left the next morning and, at the first village store I visited, the owner yawned several times during the course of telling me that he didn’t recognize the woman in the photograph, and he had never heard the name Hornby Smythe.
I headed south, using the back roads, whenever possible, to minimize the risk of being spotted by the police. In the next few hours, I visited more village stores, put more crosses on my map – and was still no closer to finding out where my sister-in-law had hidden her lover than I’d been when I left Cheshire the day before.
It was just after eleven that I drove into a village located mid-way between Darwen and Blackburn, and saw a pub called the Prince Albert. The sign outside advertised hot snacks, and my rumbling stomach advised me that it would be wise to take advantage of this opportunity.
Mine was the only car in the car park, but as I got out of it, I felt a prickle at the back of my neck, as if a malevolent presence had me under its gaze. I looked around and could see no one. It was just the heat of the sun on my neck, I told myself, or the sense of unease only natural in a man who knew he was being hunted by every police force in the country – but the feeling that I was being watched refused to go away.
I felt a little happier once I’d stepped inside the pub, which was empty, apart from the landlord and one solitary drinker.
The landlord was a bald man, with an open, honest face and thick builders’ arms, and when he assured me that the meat and potato pie he heated up for me had been lovingly made on the premises, by his wife, I believed him.
‘I used to be a window cleaner,’ he said, as I was eating. ‘That’s how come I got the brass together to buy this place. And I tell you, standing behind a warm bar beats climbing up cold ladders in the middle of winter any day of the week.’ He paused to light a cigarette. ‘So what are you doing in these parts, if you don’t mind me asking, sir?’
I told him my well-used story and pulled out my well-thumbed photographs. He examined the one of Lydia standing next to the new car which John had bought her for her birthday.
‘Nice looking girl,’ the landlord said. ‘A bit skinny for my taste … sorry, no offence meant, sir.’
‘None taken,’ I assured him.
‘Yes, she’s a bit skinny – but very nice.’
Yet had Lydia ever been skinny, I wondered. Or had she just fooled us with her flair for costume?
‘You don’t happen to know her, do you?’ I asked.
The landlord shook his head.
‘But then that’s not surprising,’ he said. ‘I’m a newcomer to the village, you see.’
‘Really!’ I said politely.
‘That’s right. I’ve only been here for six years, and in the eyes of the locals, that makes me no more than a day tripper.’ He looked across at his other customer, an old man who was nursing the half pint of mild. ‘Why don’t you ask Bob over there about her?’ he suggested. ‘He’s lived in the village all his life. In fact, he still lives in the house where he was born.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘One piece of advice, though,’ the landlord said. ‘He’s got nothin’ against talking to strangers, but you might find him a bit more welcoming if you took him a pint.’
I did as the landlord suggested, presented the old man with a drink, and asked if I might join him.
He nodded, as if he were glad of the company.
‘I hear you were born in the village,’ I said.
‘I was that.’
‘So you must have seen some changes in your time.’
The old man took off his cap and wiped the top of his shiny bald head with it.
‘Seen some changes?’ he repeated. ‘By gum, I have that. When I was growing up, there was hardly any motor cars round here. It were all horses and carts in them days.’
‘Do you know everyone who lives in the village?’
‘Everybody as does now, and everybody who ever has.’
I slid the photographs across to him.
‘What about her?’ I asked, making it sound like a challenge.
Old Bob took a pair of ancient glasses out of his pocket and perched them on his nose. He examined the photograph of Lydia by her car, briefly glanced at the others, then returned to the first.
‘Is that car hers?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Well, she ’as done well for herself, hasn’t she?’
I felt my heart miss a beat.
‘So you know her, do you?’ I asked.
‘Course I know her. That’s Linda Smith.’
‘Smythe,’ I said. ‘Lydia Hornby Smythe.’
‘That might be what she’s calling herself now, but that wasn’t her name when she were living in the village.’
He was an old man. He could be mistaken.
‘Do you know where she lives now?’
‘Haven’t heard a dickie bird about her since she left.’
‘And when was that?’
The old man scratched his head. ‘Let me see. That’d be about the time our Freddie had his hernia operation, so it’d be what – seven years ago now?’
The timing was right, and the coincidence of the names was eerie, but I was still not convinced.
‘Does she have any friends in the village I could talk to?’ I asked.
‘There’s a few lasses she used to knock around with before she got above herself, but they’ll tell you the same as me – they’ve never heard from her. But don’t take my word for it. Ask anybody. Ask our Clem.’
‘Who’s your Clem?’
‘Me nephew. He’s done well for himself, has Clem. He owns a couple of electrical shops – one in Blackburn and one in Darwen.’
‘And why should I talk to him in particular.’
‘Well, he used to go out with her, didn’t he?’ the old man asked, as if he were surprised I didn’t already know. ‘But I’ll tell you somethin’ – it weren’t him that did the chasing – it were her. She chased him with no more shame than a dog goes after a bitch on heat.’
‘Tell me more,’ I said.
The old man looked down at his empty glass. ‘Thirsty work, all this talking,’ he said.
‘Let me get you another one,’ I said, standing up.
‘Aye,’ the old man agreed. ‘I might find space for just one more.’
I had assumed, the previous evening, that since Marie was running a courier-cum-support service between my sister-in-law and Paul Taylor, she would either be spending the night in Lancashire or in Cheshire, but I was wrong – as I turned out to be wrong about so many other things. As I was nibbling lethargically at my sandwiches in the hotel room near the Forest of Bowland, Marie had been checking into a modest hotel in Bristol – and at about the time I was buying a second pint for Old Bob, she was parking her black Golf GTI in front of the almost-stately home outside Bath that belonged to Hugh Morgan.
Knowing them both as I do, I think I can pretty much reproduce the conversation that will have followed.
Morgan, who jealously guarded that private part of his world which existed beyond the cons, will have said something like, ‘I don’t know who you are, but I didn’t invite you here, so you can just bugger off.’
And Marie, drawing on her cigarette – and she will have had a cigarette in her hand, I’m sure of that – will have replied, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Morgan. My name is Marie O’Hara, and I’m a private investigator.’
That, naturally enough, will have made Morgan uneasy, and his next question is likely
to have been: ‘Who are you working for?’
‘I’m working for a family very dear to your heart – the Conroys.’
Morgan’s eyes will have narrowed. ‘You’re not the one who Rob Conroy hired to check up on me, are you?’
‘The very same.’
‘Then what I said earlier goes double – bugger off right now.’
Marie will have taken another leisurely drag on her cigarette. ‘I’m surprised at your attitude, because while a great many people have said some really unpleasant things about you, no one’s ever accused you of being stupid.’
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I had this picture of you as a man who can smell out a deal a mile away,’ Marie will no doubt have explained.
‘What kind of deal?’
‘There is only one kind of deal – the kind where you’ve got something I want, and I’ve got something you want. And what you want, Mr Morgan, is money.’
I returned to the table – and the expectant Bob – with both a pint of mild and a whisky chaser. The old man knocked back the whisky in a single gulp, then wiped his lips on the sleeve of his jacket.
‘I were telling you about my nephew, Clem,’ he said.
‘So you were,’ I agreed.
‘He’s a few years older than Linda, but he fell for her like he were a sixteen-year-old. There were talk at one time about them getting married.’
‘So why didn’t they?’
‘She broke it off.’
‘Why?’
‘Clem wouldn’t say. I’m not really sure that he knew himself, if truth be told.’
But I thought I did. I’d had a nagging suspicion for a long time that Lydia was a fortune hunter, and now I had the proof. She’d set her sights on Clem – a man who owned two electrical stores – and when she’d seen just how easy it was to get him, she’d decided to go for bigger game. And I was willing to bet that it had been no coincidence when she and John met at the summer fête – it had happened not by chance, but because she had arranged for it to happen.
I reined in my outrage and reminded myself that I wasn’t there to learn about Lydia’s murky past, but to find Paul Taylor.
I took his photograph out of my wallet and handed it to the old man. ‘Does he look familiar?’ I asked.
The Company Page 23
