Authors: Carola Dunn
On Sunday morning, Megan arrived at the Launceston nick feeling like a drowned rat, and looking like one, too, to judge by the desk sergeant’s grin. Her oilskins had been little protection against torrents of rain blown sideways by boisterous gusts. She usually biked in from her bedsitter on Tavistock Road, but this morning she hadn’t dared. On the moor and over on the coast, the wind must be truly terrifying.
“Lovely weather for ducks,” said the sergeant.
“If they have any sense, they’re huddled in the rushes for fear of getting their feathers blown off.”
He laughed. “Bit of a blow,” he conceded. “I’ll have a paraffin heater taken up to your room, love.”
“Thanks.” She didn’t like the “love,” but he was old enough to be her father, so she let it pass. “Mr Scumble here yet?”
“Came in a couple of hours ago. He’s been asking for you.”
“What? The bastard! He told me not to come in till noon and it’s only half eleven. He could have rung me at home.”
“I wouldn’t remind him, if I was you. He’s like a bear with a sore head.”
“When isn’t he?” Megan asked bitterly and hurried upstairs.
The phone on her desk rang as she entered Scumble’s room. She grabbed it without sitting down, not wanting to drip all over her chair. “Pencarrow here.”
“At last,” snarled the inspector not quite sotto voce from across the room.
“I’ve got Scotland Yard on the line for you. DS Faraday.”
“Just a moment. It’s the Yard, sir. D’you want to talk to him?”
“The boy wonder, is it? You can handle him.”
“Put him through, please.” She managed to escape her cape and sou’wester before Ken’s voice came on.
“Megan? You haven’t blown away yet? Or washed away? They say the Southwest’s getting hit pretty hard.”
“We’re used to it. Any news?”
“Of a sort. Not much help. I’ve talked to most of the neighbours, and none of them saw Donaldson come home from the hospital or leave again—”
“Hold on a mo. I never got the full story on your end of things, just what was in the papers, and you people were pretty cagey. We were too busy talking about this end. Give me a quick run-down.”
“You know he was robbed at home? He doesn’t have a shop, as such, just offices in the City.”
“Ah, that must complicate matters.”
“We’d certainly move faster if the City force weren’t so touchy about its rights and privileges vis à vis the Met,” Ken said dryly. “It wouldn’t hurt, either, if our own Fraud boys would get off their lazy bums and do a stroke of work at the weekend. The insurance people, too. It’s impossible even to get hold of anyone in authority till tomorrow.”
“Did he put in a claim already? From the hospital?”
“No, but we found his policy and notified them. They were investigating last week, but more on the lines of what the hell was Donaldson doing taking stuff home.”
“And what was he doing taking stuff home?”
“His line is showing specially selected jewelry privately by appointment. Not common, but not an unknown way to work, I gather. When he has an appointment on a Saturday, he almost always takes the stuff home with him so that he doesn’t have to go into the City to pick it up. There’s a small-print clause inserted in his insurance policy to cover it, as long as he takes certain precautions, locks and alarms and so on.”
“Methinks some lowly underwriter’s going to get the sack,” said Megan, taking notes.
“Wouldn’t surprise me. Anyway, Medlow Insurance was looking into whether he had taken the proper precautions, not easy when he was in hospital under sedation. They hadn’t really got started on the possibility of fraud, and won’t now until tomorrow.”
“So he took the goods home and the villains broke in—”
“They didn’t have to. Nabbed him on the doorstep and hustled him inside. No one else saw or heard a thing. He lives in Richmond, in one of those detached Victorian villas hidden in a thicket of laurel and rhododendron. His nearest neighbours are in Majorca, lucky sods.”
“No wife, right? Who found him?”
“The beat bobby actually. They do have their uses. A bright lad who’d noticed that Donaldson’s front gate was always latched and went for a look-see when he saw it hanging open. He seems to have been a bit of a recluse, apart from his business contacts. We got onto his char and she said he’s never home when she goes to clean—five mornings a week and she leaves him something to heat up for his supper. Sometimes on a Monday she’ll find someone’s been staying over the weekend.”
“Lady-friend?”
“Male, she’s sure. Separate bedrooms and no sign of any funny business. No one turned up last weekend or this. We also talked to his assistant and his secretary. I spoke to both of them again yesterday. The assistant says Donaldson has mentioned a place in the country but he’s never said where it is. He’s probably just retired there to recuperate.”
“He ought to have told you, though.”
“He’s not—as far as we’re aware—a criminal. He can go wherever he wants. Sorry I can’t tell you any more. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have solid info but it’ll probably be tomorrow. There’s something on that car, though. The Hillman that was dumped in Exeter. Where did your chaps find the plates, by the way?”
“Under some bushes by the railway tracks. Just chucked there, no serious attempt to hide them. Why?”
“The car was sold for cash the morning of the robbery, by a very dodgy dealer in the East End. The previous owner saw the licence number in the paper and went to his local nick to say he’d sold it to this outfit earlier in the week. One of our chaps went round. They had a record of the number plate, and sketchy ledger entries of what they paid for it and what they claim they sold it for, but that’s about it as far as paperwork goes.”
“Did your man show them the pics of Norman Wilmot and Trevor?”
“We didn’t have Trevor’s yet. Nor did the
Observer
or the
Sunday Times,
not the early editions, anyway. Incidentally, how did you get—No, I haven’t got time now, tell me later. In any case, the salesman who sold the car wasn’t there yesterday. What’s more, I very much doubt if he’ll admit to remembering anything about the buyer. Definitely a shady lot. We’ll try again to get hold of him of course. No dabs?”
“No, they seem to have been canny enough to put on gloves and keep them on. The briefcase was near the licence plates and there was nothing on that, either. Not even the jeweller’s fingerprints.” Only Aunt Nell’s, but he didn’t need to know about those.
“It was a chilly evening when he was robbed. He was wearing gloves, too. You’re sure it’s his? Not just proximity to the plates?”
“There’s the monogram.
W A D
.”
“Good enough. Anything else I need to know?”
“I think that’s all.”
“Right. Got to go. ’Bye, love.”
Megan said goodbye, hung up the phone, hung up her oilskins, and reported to Scumble. At the back of her mind as she spoke, she wondered whether the
love
was a term of endearment, or only the equivalent of
ducks,
or
dearie,
or the Cornish
my lover.
Except that, judged by Nancy Mitford’s class-based categories, all those were definitely non-U, and Ken was about as Upper as a junior policeman could be.
“Trevor could be anywhere,” Scumble complained. “The Cotswolds, the Lake District, a Birmingham squat. Still, we can be pretty sure it’s Donaldson’s stuff we recovered since your aunt came clean about the monogram.” He paused, as if waiting for her to protest this characterisation of Aunt Nell’s story. Though indignation bubbled inside her, she managed to hold her tongue. “Right, you’d better ring your pal in Bristol and see if they’ve got anything for us.”
“They said not till Monday, sir. Besides, Mr Everett’s an inspector. I’m sure he’d prefer to speak to you.”
“I daresay. But you know at first hand what he’s dealing with, the area, the people. You should be able to understand what he’s talking about better than I can, and ask the right questions. If you put your mind to it. And maybe they’ll get moving with the job if you ask nicely. Get on with it.”
Megan flipped through her notebook, found the number, and dialled. She held on for two or three minutes, hearing nothing but buzzes and clicks. Her finger hovered over the cut-off button.
Scumble looked up from his paperwork. “Can’t read your own writing?” he enquired nastily.
She was about to press the button and redial when a recorded voice came on. “Telephone lines are down in the Bristol and north Somerset area due to floods and gale-force winds. Available lines are reserved for emergency services. If this is an emergency, please ring 999. Normal service will be restored as soon as possible.”
Megan put down the receiver. “They’ve got flooding in Bristol, sir. The area we’re interested in is the waterfront. The Bristol police’ll be too busy to worry about our request.”
“Damn!”
“I can’t get through unless I claim it’s an emergency.”
“Well, it’s not that,” he conceded. “With any luck, the floods’ll stop up the rats in their holes till they can get to them. I’d really like confirmation of your girl’s story.”
Amazing how anything problematic immediately became
your
. “Camilla? Don’t you believe her?”
“Do you?” He was watching her.
“I believe she was telling the truth as she remembers it,” Megan said carefully. “She chose to come forward about her recognition of the photo as Norman Wilmot. The others didn’t.”
“So maybe she made it up, thought you’d be a soft touch and get her out of a situation that wasn’t to her liking.”
“I suppose that’s possible. But her description of Trevor is borne out by the similarity of the portrait to Mr Gresham’s version—”
“From your aunt’s description.”
“And Mrs Stearns’s.”
“True.”
“And neither had seen the other. It’s too much of a coincidence! Two boys called Trevor who look so much alike?”
“Quite a coincidence. But when you’ve been in this game as long as I have, you’ll have seen plenty stranger. How about what the girl said about Trevor? Him being chummy with our victim and going off with him? You reckon that’s true?”
“I don’t see any reason to doubt it, sir,” Megan said stiffly.
“She wasn’t just getting her own back after he dropped her, maybe?”
“No, I’m sure she wasn’t. She wouldn’t have told me about that if I hadn’t told her Trevor might be in danger from whoever killed Norman Wilmot.”
“Ah, so that’s how you got it out of her. Tricksy!”
“Well, he might.”
“Or he might have killed him. You didn’t tell her that.”
“Of course not, sir.”
“She could have worked it out for herself. It leaves open the possibility that she has it in for him.”
“I think she’s truly fond of him.”
“If so, suppose he finds her: Whose side is she going to be on?”
Megan had no answer. “If that’s what you think, that she might side with Trevor even if she finds out he’s a murderer, then why did you send her to stay with my aunt?”
“It was your idea. Look, I realise you hadn’t much choice but to bring her with you. I can’t just let her wander loose either, and I’ve got no grounds whatsoever to hold her. I wouldn’t have sent her with Mrs Trewynn if I’d been able to come up with any better alternative. Can you, now you’ve had time to think about it?”
“No,” she admitted. “Except taking her home, and she wouldn’t tell me where her parents live. Nor even her surname.”
Scumble shrugged. “So there we are. For what it’s worth, I tend to believe her story, and the chance of Trevor finding her seems remote. But I have to remember the fact that we both
want
to believe her. You found her; you have a stake in her. She’s my only witness to the identity of the victim; I can’t count on the Bristol coppers finding someone else willing to name him, or on any more useful tips coming in. If she’s not telling the truth, we’re stuck.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much we can do whether she’s lying or not.”
“This is where we go through all the reports, looking for patterns, or details that don’t mesh, or statements that sound a bit off, or any bloody hint at all of what to do next.”
“I’d better ring my aunt first, hadn’t I, sir?”
“You haven’t talked to her yet today?”
“I thought I’d better wait to see if we got any new information overnight that might affect her. And you said, sir—” She paused to listen pointedly to the clock on St Mary Magdalene’s tower, just across the square, chiming twelve. “—you said not to come in till noon.”
“Did I?” he asked blandly, reaching for one of the piles of papers on his desk. “Well, let me see what was waiting when
I
arrived. The CRO says none of the dabs in the Hillman are on record.”
“Either they’re new to crime, or they’ve never been caught.”
“More likely they’re the salesman’s and the previous owner’s, as everyone else seems to have been very careful to wear gloves. Whichever, it’s not of any interest to Mrs Trewynn.”
“And not much help to us.”
“Not that the Criminal Records Office has ever been much help to us poor bloody provincials. More to the point, another call came in, a schoolmaster, private school in the Midlands. Last week, end-of-term stuff kept him too busy to read the newspapers. Yesterday evening his wife, who never reads the papers, used an old one to wrap some potato peelings, noticed our photo of the victim, thought she recognised him, and drew it to Mr . . . Here it is, Mr Chewly . . . to Mr Chewly’s attention.”
Megan was certain he was throwing all this unnecessary detail at her just to be annoying. “And?” she said.
“He’s an old boy, a rather unsatisfactory old boy, by the name of Norman Wilmot.”
“Cam
was
telling the truth!” What’s more Scumble had known it perfectly well when he asked her opinion of the girl’s credibility.
“So it would seem.”
“Which makes it the more probable that she told the truth about Trevor. That he was Wilmot’s mate.” Megan reached for the phone. “I must warn Aunt Nell.”
“No!” His voice was so adamant, she let the receiver drop back into its cradle.
“Why not? Suppose he turns up—”