“Perhaps you should have given him something,” Emma remarked from the safety of the sofa where she was sheltering from the blast of his anger. “Perhaps that’s what this bloke was waiting for.”
“No, he was a snooty bastard with a bad smell under his nose. I’d have got nowhere there.” Justin dropped into an armchair, only to leap to his feet again and continue his pacing. “No, don’t think I didn’t think of it, but that would have been an even bigger mistake. That sort of place….”
“So, what are you going to do now?” Emma enquired, breaking into his tirade. “If you’ve drawn a blank in London. I don’t see how you’ll ever find her. And is she worth it?”
“There’s something there,” insisted Justin. “Otherwise, why are the police looking for her?”
“Because she’s disappeared from home and they think she might have lost her memory.”
“Oh Em,” Justin groaned, “you’re so naïve! There’s clearly far more to it than that. They say she’s disappeared, right?”
“Right.”
“But maybe she took something with her.”
“Like what?” Emma was intrigued.
“I don’t know, do I? Maybe she ran off with all her husband’s money or the family silver.”
“She wouldn’t need that,” Emma said scornfully, “not if she is our lottery lady.”
“Maybe she hadn’t won the lottery then.”
“She may not have won it at all. Look Jus, we’re not even sure it is the woman, what’s she called, that they’re looking for.”
“Pamela Smith. Well, I think it is. And the more I think about it, the more I think she’s done a runner with the lottery money.”
“We could tell the police what we know already,” suggested Emma.
“And let someone else get the story!” exclaimed Justin outraged.
“There isn’t a story,” retorted Emma exasperated, “not unless you give them a lead. You said yourself you’re up against a stone wall. So are they. Tell them what you think and they’ll probably keep you in touch with what’s going on.”
“Doubt it.”
“Well, if you don’t go to them, I will.” Emma spoke with unusual determination.
“Em, you wouldn’t!”
“Yes I would,” said Emma stoutly. “Let the police follow things up. The Sylvester Hotel will have to talk to them.”
Anxious that she should not be let loose with all their information, Justin said, “You’re not to go to them on your own.”
“Then you come with me,” Emma replied. “Come if you like, but after work tomorrow I’m going to the police station. Meet me there at half-five if you want to.”
She was as good as her word and as soon as she got off work she headed for Belcaster central police station. She waited for five extra minutes on the steps outside to see if Justin was going to turn up, but there was no sign of him, so drawing a deep breath, she went inside.
“I’d like to see someone about the missing woman they were asking about on Crimewatch,” she said to the desk sergeant.
The man looked surprised and said, “What woman might that be?”
“Pamela Smith, I think she’s called,” Emma said. “I think I might have information, you know, that might help you?”
The sergeant asked her name and then asked her to wait for a moment. She sat down nervously on a hard chair in the waiting area, beginning to wish she’d waited for Justin. The sergeant was talking quietly to someone on the phone. He looked across at Emma and spoke again. Emma felt her nervousness growing and she almost got up and slipped out, but the policeman kept glancing at her even as he was speaking and she didn’t like to leave.
When he put the receiver down, the sergeant came out from behind the desk and said, “Inspector Howard would like a word with you, Miss Wilson. If you’d come this way.” He led her along a dingy corridor into an interview room. Pulling up chair to the table he said, “If you’d just take a seat, the inspector will be with you in a moment.”
She sat down on the edge of the chair, nervously chewing her finger nails. She half wished she hadn’t come, but the other half of her was excited to be there, helping the police with their enquiries, passing on information to Crimewatch.
I’m being a public-spirited citizen, she told herself firmly, nodding as if in confirmation. Doing my civic duty. She smiled to herself at the phrase.
She didn’t have to wait long before Inspector Howard appeared. He was well into middle age with a lived-in face, lined with experience, but also with humour. He smiled at Emma, his eyes crinkling as he did so and held out his hand.
“How do you do, Miss Wilson,” he said. “I hear you may have some information to help us.” He sat down on the opposite side of the table and leaned his chin on his hands. “I think we could do with a cup of tea,” he said “I know I could.” He turned to the policewoman who had followed him into the room and said, “Tea for two, please Jane, and biscuits?” He raised an enquiring eyebrow at Emma who nodded. “And biscuits,” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.” The policewoman left the room.
“Now,” said the Inspector as they drank their tea, “I understand you think you might be able to help in the search for Mrs Pamela Smith, missing from Bristol.”
“I’m not sure…” Emma hesitated. “I mean, I don’t even know if it’s her, only it did look like her. But Miss Durston said she didn’t know her and now she’s dead…”
Inspector Howard held up his hand. “Just a minute,” he said. “Slow down and start at the beginning. When and where did you think you saw Mrs Smith?”
So Emma told him, about the lottery ticket, about seeing the lady again with Miss Durston. “You know Miss Durston who was a teacher at Crosshills.” It was a statement not a question, and indeed the inspector did know her. She had taught both his sons history, and from what he remembered they had liked her. He nodded and said, “So, you saw them together.”
“So, then Justin went round to see if he could interview her, the lottery lady I mean, but Miss Durston said she didn’t know what he was talking about.”
“Who’s Justin?” asked Howard “and why did he want an interview?”
“My boyfriend, Justin Woods. He’s a reporter on the Chronicle. He wanted to interview her about winning the lottery, you know? Local jackpot winner?”
Howard nodded. “Go on.”
“Well, he went to see Miss Durston to see if she knew where the lottery lady was, but she wouldn’t let him in the house and said she didn’t know anyone who’d won the lottery.”
Emma paused, realising she was going to have to admit that Justin had crept up and spied on the woman in the garden.
“And?” prompted Howard gently.
“Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter…I mean the picture was in the paper wasn’t it?”
“The picture?”
“Well, Justin didn’t believe her, so he went back the next day and took a picture of the lottery lady sitting in Miss Durston’s garden. We think it was the lady on Crimewatch.”
“Just from a picture taken with a long lens?” Inspector Howard sounded disappointed.
“Oh, no,” Emma assured him. “We saw her again, at the funeral.”
“The funeral?”
“Miss Durston’s. She was killed in a car crash. You must remember, it was in the papers.”
“I remember,” Howard agreed.
“Well, this same lady came to the funeral. I recognised her in the church, though she was much smarter than when I first saw her, as if she’d had a makeover, you know, like they do on the telly? I’m sure it was the same one who’d come in with the winning ticket. You don’t forget someone who’s done that in a hurry.”
“And you think this was Pamela Smith?”
“She’s called Arabella Agnew, at least, that’s how Mr Watson introduced her to Justin.”
“Justin met her and recognised her?”
“Yes, well no, I recognised her, and I pointed her out to Justin
.”
“Did he recognise her too?”
“Not till I showed her to him. Then he agreed it was probably the woman in the garden. He got Jon to take a picture of her so that he could compare the two.”
“But surely the story of the lottery win was old news by then,” suggested the inspector.
“That’s what I thought, but Justin’s sure there is a story in there somewhere,” Emma said earnestly, passing on a good deal of information Justin would not have disclosed. “He thinks that she wasn’t just keeping her win quiet, but that she was actually in hiding.”
“So he’s got a good picture of this Arabella Agnew, then?”
Emma nodded. “Yes, how she looks now, not how she looked when I first saw her, or in her picture on the TV. Anyway, Justin got Mr Watson to introduce her.”
“Mr Watson?”
“The solicitor, you know? He knew who she was. He said she was an old school-friend of Miss Durston’s. She wasn’t very friendly to Justin, I can tell you. She left him flat and got into her car and drove away.”
“And you think this lady is Pamela Smith?”
“I thought she was…when I saw her on Crimewatch. The picture they showed was like she looked before.”
“Well, thank you very much for coming in,” Inspector Howard said, pushing his chair back to get to his feet.
“Oh, but there’s more,” Emma assured him.
“More?”
“Yes, Justin followed her to London.”
“Did he?” The inspector sounded amazed. “In his car?”
“Oh no, not then,” Emma explained. “He’d taken a note of her car number and he found out who owned that.”
“Did he now?” murmured the inspector. “I wonder how?”
“He had a friend…” began Emma before suddenly realising what she was saying. “Well anyway,” she went on hurriedly, “he traced the car to a hire company in London, and from them he got the address of this lady, only it was a hotel and they wouldn’t even let him in, so he doesn’t know if she’s still staying there.”
Good for them, thought Howard. This young man Justin seems none too choosy how he comes by his information. However, all he said to Emma was, “Hotels seldom give out information about their guests. Which hotel was it, can you remember?”
“Oh yes,” Emma said cheerfully. “It was called the Sylvester. I think it’s near Holland Park, wherever that is. Anyway, it was when I saw her, or this Pamela Smith, on TV that Justin decided to follow her, Arabella Agnew that is. The thing is he can’t get any further now, and so I thought we’d better tell you. You can make the hotel say where she is, can’t you?”
Inspector Howard did not answer this ingenuous question, he simply got to his feet, holding out his hand again. “Thank you so much for coming in today, Miss Wilson,” he said. “You really have been most helpful. If you would just give us a little more of your time and make a formal statement…” He glanced across to the corner of the room behind her where the policewoman had been sitting, silently taking notes, “WPC Chalwin will take it down for you.”
Emma looked at him anxiously. “If you do find her, you will tell us, won’t you? It’s Justin’s story, really, isn’t it? He’s worked so hard getting all this information.”
“Yes, I see he has,” replied Howard dryly. Then he smiled his crinkly smile. “Don’t worry, we shall need to talk to Justin anyway.”
He left her to the tender care of WPC Chalwin and headed for his own office, calling for his sergeant. Sergeant Dewar appeared at once.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Follow up on all of this,” instructed Howard. “First, contact David Watson, local solicitor, and find out if he has an address for an Arabella Agnew in London. Next, find out from the National Lottery who, from Belcaster, won the roll-over jackpot in March. Then arrange a visit the Sylvester Hotel near Holland Park in London and find out if a Ms Arabella Agnew has been staying there since March.”
“Right, sir.” Dewar got to his feet. “Will you contact Bristol or shall I?”
“I will, in due course, but I want the information to be definite before I pass it on.”
It does begin to fit, though, he mused when his sergeant had set out on his enquiries. If this Arabella woman was living with Sylvia Durston in Stone Winton…that’s not far from where her husband’s car was found. Interesting.
Chapter 27
Arabella had realised what André had been after ever since their trip to Paris. She had seen the avaricious look in his eyes and even without the memory of Sylvia’s warning, she knew that it was time to get rid of him. She had thought she could deal with him in her own time, but then André dropped his bombshell and Arabella knew that swift action was needed to extricate herself from his grasp.
She had been spending a quiet night at home, revelling in being in her own space; sharing it with no one. She had just grilled some salmon for her dinner when the doorbell rang and there, on the step, was André. He had never come to the flat uninvited before and it surprised her.
“André,” she said uneasily. “What are you doing here?”
“Just wanted a quick word,” André said with a lazy smile, “unless of course…?” he left the sentence unfinished, hanging in the air as if in suggestion. He stepped forward, but Arabella held her ground. She didn’t like his assumption that he could turn up and barge in when he felt like it.
“I’m just about to have my supper,” she said. “It isn’t a convenient time.”
“I’ve brought us some rather nice wine,” André said, producing a bottle from behind his back for her inspection. “You could have a glass with your supper while we chat. I don’t mind watching you eat,” he added cheerfully. “I’ve had mine.”
With extreme reluctance Arabella let him into the flat and he followed her into the kitchen. Ignoring him, she served the salmon onto a plate, adding the potatoes and vegetables before turning round to face him.
“So, what do you want,” she demanded. He had found the corkscrew and was opening the wine with an expert hand.
“Just pass me some glasses, there’s a good girl.”
Silently Arabella handed him two wine glasses from the shelf, watching him narrowly as he poured the wine. He had never called her a ‘good girl’ like that before, his tone patronising, almost insulting, and she didn’t like it. Too many echoes of Roger.
Pulling out one of the high stools she perched at the kitchen counter, her plate in front of her. She had planned to eat in the living room, indeed had laid herself a place at the table in the window, but now she decided not. There was no way she wanted André in there, settling down for the evening.
She picked up the glass he had set beside her and looked at him over the rim.
“So,” she said more casually, “what’s this all about?”
“Cops are lookin’ for you.” André said without preamble, wanting to surprise her into reaction. Gone was the soft French accent and in its place was harsh East London.
“The police!” The words were startled out of Arabella and she stared at him, stunned, the colour draining from her face. When he didn’t reply immediately, simply watched her expression with a quizzical smile, she drew a deep breath and said “What do you mean, the police are looking for me?”
“What I say,” André replied easily. “I saw it on Crimewatch. They are looking for Pamela Smith of Bristol.”
“Pamela Smith?” echoed Arabella. “I’m not Pamela Smith!”
André continuing to smile, said softly, “Oh, but I think you are. There was a photograph, see, and though it was probably taken a few years ago, I would say it was undoubtedly you.”
“Then you’d be wrong,” snapped Arabella, beginning to regain her composure. “I am not Pamela Smith, I am Arabella Agnew.”
“You are indeed,” André agreed cheerfully, “but you used to be Pamela Smith, Pamela Anne Smith, born Pamela Anne Ford in Bristol on the 3rd August 1970.”
Arabella nearly said
“How do you know?” But she managed to stop herself in time and said instead, “Where on earth did you get that idea?”
He did not answer, but tossed a large envelope on to the counter.
“What’s in that?” Arabella asked, still pale.
“Better look and see,” replied André and watched her face as she drew the envelope towards her and opened it. She tipped out the contents and stared down at some ten by eight colour prints. She picked up the first and studied a perfect photographic reproduction of her deed poll. The next showed her birth certificate, a third was a copy of the photo of herself and Sylvia with her cheque, the fourth a print of the letter from the lottery company and finally there was a copy of the article about the ‘mystery woman’ from the Belcaster Chronicle. She looked at each print again and then with shaking hands, replaced them in the envelope.
“Where did you get these?” she whispered. It was pointless to deny that they had anything to do with her, and she looked up at his smiling face, hating him.
“Found them,” he said brazenly, “in your desk. I only made copies,” adding as if this excused him, “I didn’t take the originals. I snapped them on my phone downloaded what I need… several copies.”
“You bastard,” Arabella spat the word at him. “You’ve been through my desk? How dare you! How bloody dare you?” She picked up her glass and flung its contents in his face, flung the wine as she had flung the jar of cold cream into the bedroom mirror in the grip of an icy rage. André pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, calmly wiped the wine from his face and dabbed at the spreading red stain on his shirt.
“Oh, come on Arab,” he said, “don’t be so dramatic. That was a waste of a really good wine. Of course I’ve been through your desk. In my job you need insurance, know what I mean? And information about your clients is the best you can have.” He reached over and refilled her glass. “Now let’s look at the situation calmly. I know who you are, that’s all. Does it really matter? Yes, the police are looking for you, but only to be sure you are safe and sound. So why don’t you go to them, tell them you’re fine and that will be that.” When she didn’t reply he asked, “Did you know they were looking for you?”
A Dish Served Cold Page 27
