Apportionment of Blame (20 page)

Authors: Keith Redfern

“Good,” Oliver said as he got up from the floor and flopped into an armchair. “I'm getting too old for this game.”

Joyce and I returned to the sofa, a little closer than before and exchanged glances.

“What's going on?” Joyce's mother said. I was aware that she had been observing us. “What do you mean?” Joyce replied, as innocently as she could.

“You don't look the same.”

She turned to me.

“Greg?”

“What? I don't know what you mean.”

Joyce and I exchanged looks again and smiled.

“I must get off,” I announced. “Things to do. Could someone give me a hand with this thing to the car?”

Oliver rose again.

“I'll do that.”

We carried the trunk out to the car and placed it in the boot. Joyce followed, and when Oliver returned to the house we were left standing by the back of the car.

“Mum could tell,” she said.

“I know,” I smiled. “It's hard to keep that sort of thing a secret from someone who knows you that well.”

“When you've gone, I'll go up to my room and try to avoid any more questions. It's a bit confusing, thinking about you now, at the same time as I'm thinking about what happened to Helen.”

“I'll get off and see what I can dig up.”

I kissed her on the cheek.

“Will that do for now?”

She smiled. “For now.”

I drove off home, thinking about Joyce and the photographs and what they all meant.

Later, on the dining table, I spread out the pictures from my pocket, and then added the ones I had called unknown, but possibly relevant.

There was the cemetery, the wooded area and the stone building. The building appeared to be in a town, as the angle of the shot suggested quite narrow streets. But there was no transport visible in the street, and the faded colour of the print suggested the picture was taken a long time ago.

And then the cemetery. I had seen War Cemeteries in northern France and Belgium. There had been a school trip to visit sites from the First World War, and places like Thiepval, Ypres and Vimy had formed impressions it would be hard to lose. But the concept of a War Cemetery in England was different.

I supposed that a lot of people killed abroad during wars were brought home for burial, although I was not sure of that. It had certainly happened during recent conflicts. But why would Annie have such pictures? They must mean something.

My pad was lying next to the computer, and I picked it up to sort through the notes I'd jotted down before.

Threats in London - that was sorted out now. Ilse had a brother. A stupid brother, but a brother who said he wanted to protect her. But from what?

Ilse's connection with Annie - I knew she lived in Scotland, but no more than that.

Annie's maiden name - I was still waiting for the solicitor to reply, if he ever would.

What happened to Helen? - accident, suicide or murder? If murder, by whom?

Ilse - probably not.

Her brother - possibly.

Stuart - perhaps but probably not.

Gemma - perhaps but probably not.

I sat back and stared at it all. If Helen was killed, surely it must be by someone I'd already met. I ruled out a chance encounter as being highly implausible. Dickens and Shakespeare might fill their works with amazing coincidences, but those sorts of things didn't happen in real life. Helen had died near Ilse's house. That must mean something.

Yet the more I thought of Ilse, the less I could see her as a murderer.

Perhaps I was no good at this detective game. If I was a poor judge of character, I couldn't expect to solve anything. But she was so timid, it just didn't seem to fit. Or perhaps she was an excellent actress. What chance would I have if that were the case?

But if not Ilse, then who? Her brother? But why?

As my thoughts veered round in never-ending circles of possibility, I was brought back to the likelihood that it was an accident, or suicide.

No, not suicide, I suddenly decided. That didn't fit with the reason Helen was there in the first place. And she had so much going for her. Why should she suddenly take her own life?

She had the three photographs with her - photos of Ilse, and she died near Ilse's house. She must have found out who Ilse was. And her brother said he always tried to protect her. Did that mean anything?

It could have been an accident. It was dark, after all. But Helen wasn't stupid. If there was a train coming she would have heard it. No, it had to be murder. And the answer surely lay with Ilse. I would have to go and see her again.

I was aware that whatever the facts were, the more often I visited Ilse, the more cagey she would be likely to get with her answers. This was another aspect of a detective's job I had to get right. How to elicit relevant information, which meant how to ask the right questions in the right order. And how to ask those questions while keeping the other person at their ease.

This last thing was difficult with Ilse as she was naturally nervous, definitely introverted and probably suspicious of my motives.

But she must know more than she had said so far, so I would have to see her again and try to piece together some sort of clear picture from what she said. But not today, there were other things to do, and certainly other things to think about.

Chapter 11

T
he
next morning, armed with the cemetery photographs, I went back up to London, and headed straight for the Imperial War Museum.

I asked the man on the information desk if there was someone I could speak to about War Cemeteries in Britain; someone who might be able to identify one from photographs.

He picked up a phone and spoke to someone, then ushered me into a small conference room and told me to wait. I was soon joined by a man who introduced himself and asked how he could help.

“I have some photographs of a Commonwealth War Cemetery. I'm almost certain it's in this country. I wonder if you could tell me where it is.”

“Interesting,” he said, “but not necessarily easy. Let me see what I can do.”

I spread the few pictures on a table and stood back while he examined each one for a few minutes.

“It's difficult, but I have some ideas. What's this about?”

“It's a bit of family history really. My girlfriend's grandmother died recently, and we found these pictures among her possessions. We're interested to know what they mean and if there's someone from the family buried there.”

He looked a bit more.

“Can you leave these with me? I can't identify the place myself, but I am sure someone will be able to. Come back in a few days, and I hope I might have an answer by then.”

I took out one of my cards and offered it to him.

“Would you be so good as to give me a call if you come up with a name? I should be very grateful.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

So I left the War Museum none the wiser, but with the possibility that there might be an answer in the near future.

I took the Northern Line up to Euston and pushed my way through the crowds in the covered walkway towards my office.

There was a fair amount of correspondence waiting for me which was encouraging, but as I opened it, I found it hard to concentrate on anything but Joyce and Helen and Ilse and all those unanswered questions.

I felt I was getting somewhere with the inheritance mystery, but was that relevant to what happened to Helen? Was I missing something important, perhaps to do with Stuart or Gemma? And was I getting fixated on something that would not, in the end, answer the most important question?

Stuart's story held together. He was not involved in Joyce's abduction and he had an alibi for the time Helen died.

Then there was Gemma. Perhaps I should try to discover more about her. Now I knew it was Ilse's brother who had caused all the aggro, the fact that Gemma didn't know my office address was irrelevant. Perhaps the inheritance and death were not linked, but that still left the fact that Helen had died near Ilse's house. Of all the coincidences I kept finding, if the inheritance did not cause her death, that was the greatest and weirdest.

I found Sarah's phone number and punched in the numbers.

“Hello?”

“Sarah. Hi. It's Greg Mason. Can you spare me a minute?”

She was quiet for a moment, then replied.

“Yes. Give me a minute to go outside where it's more private.”

I waited, and listened to her footsteps and the sound of the door squeaking open and closed.

“OK,” she said.

“Can you tell me more about Gemma? You said she couldn't take her eyes off Helen.”

“That's right. She followed her about. When Helen went out for lunch, Gemma would leave at the same moment. Things like that.”

“You seem to be saying that Gemma was stalking her.”

“Well, I suppose, in a way she was. I hadn't thought of it like that.”

“Let me ask you something very difficult. Do you think that Gemma would be capable of hurting someone?”

“You think she might have caused Helen's death? My God!”

“I don't think that, at least not yet, but I need to be clear whether it is worth spending any time asking her more questions. What do you think?”

“I don't know. I don't know what to say about that.”

“OK. Perhaps it was unfair of me to ask. Thanks for your help, Sarah.”

I closed the phone and sat there thinking once more.

Then my office phone rang.

“Mr Mason?”

“Yes.”

“It's the Imperial War Museum. You are in luck. Someone has been able to identify your photographs. They show the Commonwealth War Cemetery at Brocton on Cannock Chase.”

“Brocton?”

The name meant nothing to me.

“Yes, it's a few miles south of Stafford.”

“Is there anything particular about the servicemen who are buried there? Are they from particular regiments perhaps, or were they killed during certain battles or wars?”

“Well, I know that a lot of them died during the Spanish âflu epidemic after the First World War. And there are a lot of New Zealanders from the First War there as well. But I can't think of anything else.”

“Thank you for that information. It was very kind of you to call, and so promptly. I shall call back soon to collect the photographs.”

“You're most welcome. Goodbye.”

I put the phone down and pondered on what I had just heard. It didn't seem to lead me anywhere useful. Except the fact that Cannock Chase is in the Midlands, and Joyce's mother had remembered Annie mentioning the chance to visit a friend in the Midlands.

But this was a cemetery. Could visiting a friend refer to visiting a friend's grave? But Spanish âflu? That was 1918. Annie would hardly have been born then. She might know of someone in the family who was buried there, but she would be unlikely to call them a friend.

It was near to Stafford, he said, and I was across the road from Euston Station. I looked at my watch - just coming up to quarter to twelve.

On the spur of the moment I called Joyce.

“Hi,” I said. “Do you fancy a trip this afternoon?”

“Where to?”

“Stafford.”

“Where?”

“Stafford. I'm following up a hunch. Would you like to come with me? We can get there and back easily in a day. If you can catch the first train up to town, I'll meet you on Euston station concourse with a picnic lunch to eat on the train. What do you say?”

“This is not the kind of first date I had in mind.”

“But will you come?”

“Of course I'll come. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

She rang off.

It would take her an hour and a half to reach me, I reckoned, so I was able to get on with other things before walking back across to the station.

I bought two day return tickets from the automatic machine and made my way to the refreshment area to choose some snacks and drinks for the journey.

On the main concourse again, I was looking up at the destination board when Joyce ran up to me, red in the face and clearly excited.

“Here I am.”

She put her arms round my neck and pulled me into a kiss.

“Hey! Watch out for your lunch.”

“What time is the train?”

“In twenty minutes, up there, look.”