Murder on Page One (19 page)

‘Last Sunday, do you remember when she dropped Penny with you?’

Trelawney’s hooded eyes narrowed to a slit. ‘It was quite late in the afternoon, I believe.’

‘Can you be more precise?’

He scratched the stubble in front of his left ear. ‘It was definitely after four. Perhaps nearer five.’

‘Is there anything that helps you pinpoint the time?’

‘I remember it was time for Penny to be fed. I’d made fish fingers for her.’ He gave an earthy chuckle. ‘Not as good as packet stuff, naturally.’

Baggo sat back and shook his head. ‘Chivalry could land you in very hot water, Mr Trelawney,’ he said.

Trelawney screwed up his face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say. Ms Pargiter has already told us when she dropped Penny with you.’

‘Oh.’ He drained his cup. Avoiding Baggo’s stare, he said, ‘All right. The fish fingers must have been for lunch. Sorry, I forgot.’

‘Mr Trelawney, if you mess me about you could find yourself behind bars, and this does Cilla no good. No good at all. Now, I’m going to give you a list of dates and I want you to tell me as much as you can about each of them. Do you have your diary here?’

He nodded. They spent the next twenty minutes going through the dates when agents had been murdered. Penny had been looked after by her father at the time of each killing. Trelawney repeatedly stressed that he had seen nothing suspicious and that Cilla was an excellent mother. He promised to contact Baggo if he remembered anything relevant, but they both knew his memory would not extend beyond details that were exculpatory.

* * *

The hour between five and six was officially Cocktail Hour in the Roman Road pub, but the last time a customer had asked the barman for a screwdriver, he had wanted to stab someone. Osborne sat at the back, waiting for Weasel. A few shifty-eyed regulars occupied the other end of the pub, glancing in his direction as if he carried the plague.

‘I just tell ’im a load of rubbish,’ Weasel hissed at them as he limped past. ‘The drinks’ll be on me when the fat bastard slings ’is ’ook.’

He sat beside Osborne, and said quietly, ‘This you ’ave to ’ear, Noelly, but it’ll cost you. The word’s out that I’m helping you. I tell everyone I just give you rubbish, but I still got a slap.’ He rubbed his left leg. ‘Wot’s this?’ He looked with derision at the forty pounds Osborne had slipped under a beermat.

After that sum had been doubled, and Weasel had taken another twenty to buy a large whisky and a coke, he got down to business.

‘Fifth of March. That’s Johnny’s release date. On licence, of course, but that’s not going to stop him coming after you.’

‘Really?’ Osborne’s bowels loosened. He wished he had something stronger than coke in his glass.

‘Yeh. And he reckons you’re itching to expose his crap alibis and fit him up as Crimewriter, who’s been killing them agents. He’s certain there’s a prison officer who’s ready to squeal. I don’t know who that is. Now, you’ve got to know just one important thing, but it’ll cost you.’

Another eighty pounds found its way to Weasel’s pocket, with another twenty to buy, this time, two double whiskies.

‘I thought you were off this stuff, Noelly.’ Weasel placed the glasses reverently on the table. ‘It’ll be the stress, I reckon. I’d be blinking stressed if I had Johnny after my guts in a couple of weeks.’

The standard blend barely touched the sides of his throat as Osborne drained his glass. As the heat radiated from his stomach, he breathed deeply and scratched his crotch. ‘What is it, damn you?’ he hissed.

‘All in good time, Noelly. All in good time.’ Weasel swirled round his tongue the Speyside malt he had ordered for himself. Seeing Osborne was fit to burst, he leaned towards him. ‘You ain’t never going to pin Crimewriter on him, because the ’Arvey Nicks murder took place about lunchtime on fifteenth February, which just ’appened to be the date of his final Parole Board hearing. I think that was in the afternoon. He’s told his mates in Littlepool, that whether you fit him up as Crimewriter or not, you’ll be dead meat by Easter. He’s serious about you, Noelly. I’d watch out if I was you. Either that or put my affairs in order.’

‘Could you get a message to him, from me, saying I promise he won’t be accused of being Crimewriter?’

‘That’ll be a ton. And it won’t work. ’E’s mad because you fitted him up for the stretch he’s finishing.’

‘Tell him anyway. And I only have sixty. You’ve cleaned me out.’

Weasel shook his head. ‘Seeing as it’s you, Noelly. But remember to bring plenty the next time.’

It was time for a change of tactics. Speaking quietly and slowly, in the way that had encouraged many to confess in the days before interviews were recorded, Osborne said: ‘Remember who it is you’re dealing with, you poisonous little scrote. Still collecting other people’s credit cards, are you? When were you last in the Scrubs? Now, I don’t give a barmaid’s tits about the truth. I want evidence that’ll sink Johnson. Once he’s out, the rest of the cons’ll be at each other like ferrets in a bag, trying to become the jail’s top bloody ferret. Now, I want to know who’s going to win that battle, and I want them on my side, getting me the evidence I need. I can help them, Weasel, arrange for stuff to be found on particular persons. You know the score. And you are going to help me to help them. Right?’

His face twitching, Weasel nodded feverishly. ‘Right, Noelly, right. No offence meant, big man.’

‘None taken. Yet. Be in touch.’ Osborne stood and walked out slowly, conscious that every eye in the pub followed him.

As soon as he had gone, Weasel scurried over to the regulars.

‘Who wants a drink on Inspector No? Probably your last chance to get one. Dead man walking, ’im.’

16

‘Mrs Smith for you, Sarge,’ Danny Peters called.

‘Who?’

‘Says she’s from Sandwich. Something to do with the Debut Dagger.’

‘Oh, that Mrs Smith. Could you transfer the call?’

Half an hour later, Flick was heading for lunch at Sandwich with ‘that charming young Indian officer’ in the passenger seat. Not in the mood for Chandavarkar’s chatter, she turned on Radio 2 then mentally switched off.

The weekend had left her unsettled. Tom, who had drunk a lot of good claret at Sunday lunch, had complimented her on her parking (‘You are clever. You know, you park like a man,’) and had taken umbrage when she complained about him being pompous, sexist and patronising. Half an hour later, they had ended their relationship with a blazing row. She didn’t mind him dismissing her political correctness, as he sometimes expressed himself with scant regard for others’ feelings, but the accusation that she had no sense of humour hurt.

‘You only laugh if someone else puts up a big sign with “joke” written on it,’ he said. Of course she took life more seriously than most, but did it go further? Did she laugh at all if other people didn’t? When had she last laughed on her own? Why did she find Chandavarkar vaguely irritating, when everyone else smiled at his way of speaking? Why did she prefer not to call him Baggo? In short, did Tom have a point?

He wasn’t so bad, she told herself. Just over-influenced by his arrogant fellow barristers. He was no more sexist than most men, and much more considerate than many. He talked intelligently, read widely, remembered her birthday. His politics, like her own, were Liberal, and his basic instincts were sound. His personal habits were not coarse. She had been comfortable with him, most of the time anyway. He had proposed to her once, but she had turned him down so emphatically that he hadn’t raised the subject again. A few months ago, she had wondered if, after all … But he persistently spoiled himself with silly, unfunny remarks.

Beside her, Chandavarkar, no, Baggo, chuckled at something Ken Bruce said on the radio. She forced herself to smile. She had nearly gone alone to see Mrs Smith, but she had clearly wanted to see Baggo. She had also wanted to meet the Inspector, but Flick had drawn the line at bringing him. Quite apart from having to put up with him in the car, he was likely to antagonise their host so she would give them no more help. She was sure he was drinking again, and she couldn’t understand his approach to the inquiry. In fact, she couldn’t understand why he was still in charge of it. He vetoed any inquiry into Pyotr’s Place or the Russians, despite the leads Chapayev had given them, and he was impatient for someone to pinpoint a writer so that he could throw the proverbial book at them. Perhaps, if he made a complete mess of things, he would be forced to retire. Would that blight her career too? Certainly, it would do her no end of good to be seen as a driving force behind a high-profile success, but that was a distant prospect.

Flick gasped at the mass of brilliant red blossom on the camellia in front of which they parked. The few weeks since their first visit had seen many changes in Mrs Smith’s garden. Yellow and blue crocuses blanketed the grass beside the driveway and a forest of green spears promised an abundance of daffodils.

‘Spring is in the air, Sarge. It is good to be alive,’ Baggo said, stretching and inhaling the fresh, seaside air.

Flick looked across the car roof. Baggo was smiling and swinging his arms. He has a point, she thought. ‘You’re right, er, Baggo,’ she said. ‘I bet we’ll get a good lunch at least.’

The Smiths, Jane and Arthur, as they insisted on being called, gave them a warm welcome.

‘Guess what little extra I put in it?’ Jane beamed as appreciative noises greeted her chilli con carne. ‘Dark chocolate,’ she carried on. ‘It’s amazing how it goes with strong meats. It can lift venison. I think I might use it as a way of inserting poison into a dish. In my next novel, of course.’

‘She threatens to practise on me,’ Arthur said, dead-pan.

Flick caught herself smiling after Baggo had chuckled.

The inquiry was not mentioned during the meal. Jane asked various questions about how police procedure had changed over the last seventy years, then Arthur and Flick had a lively discussion about rugby. ‘I’m Scottish, actually,’ he explained. ‘I was named after a wonderful rugger player. I was a fly-half, you know. Just missed out on a place in the Varsity Match.’ They both reckoned England and Scotland had a way to go, and that France would probably win the Six Nations.

After lunch had been cleared, Arthur left for his office. On his way out he passed an imaginary ball to Flick, something neither officer could imagine when they had first met him.

Jane brought more coffee to the sitting room. ‘May I ask how your inquiry is going?’ she said. ‘These murders are causing great concern in the publishing world.’

‘We haven’t found it easy,’ Flick said slowly.

‘Are you really conducting two inquiries, the so-called Crimewriter one, and one involving the Russians and Linda Swanson?’

Flick said, ‘We’re keeping an open mind, but could we talk, in confidence, about one or two suspects we’ve got among the Debut Dagger entrants?’

Jane sat forward. ‘I hoped you’d say that.’

Baggo pulled four files from his briefcase. ‘It would be very helpful to know what these entries tell you about each author. They may not tell you anything, of course.’

Jane opened the top file. ‘Let’s see the opening line. “It had been a typical day in the desert, hot, dry and tense. Bob Tomkins shuffled the grimy cards and dealt another hand.” Not the best, I’m afraid.’

She leafed through the remaining pages then opened the next file. ‘“Friar Alfred gently pulled the widow’s eyelids over sightless eyes. His elegant Latin prayer was drowned by the bestial howls of four new orphans.” Better. Let’s see the next one.’ She continued reading. ‘Oh dear,’ she said after a minute. ‘I think you’d call this top-shelf stuff.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I hope no one gives this one a contract, but you never know these days.’

Turning to the last file, she said, ‘I remember this one. It’s actually shortlisted. “Timeless sand ended the priest’s time on earth. As scorched grains snuffed out his life, one thought prepared him for his voyage on the boat of the dead: revenge.”’ She put it with the rest. ‘Being buried alive is a ghastly death. Poor Richard Noble. Is that all you want me to look at?’

Flick said, ‘There are two more, but they have alibis for one of the murders. Any thoughts you have would be welcome.’ She nodded to Baggo, who handed the Johnson and Lawson files to Jane. ‘Once you’ve had a chance to think about them, we’d be most grateful if you were to get in touch. And thank you for the splendid lunch.’ She got up.

‘Before you go,’ Jane said, ‘I have an idea.’

* * *

On the way home, they decided to check up on the Francis family. The exterior of the flat was no more inviting than it had been the last time they had called. A solitary light burned in the sitting room. Out of the corner of his eye, Baggo saw a curtain twitch as they approached the door. He rang the bell twice without anyone answering, then put his mouth to the letter-box. ‘I know you are in. This is the police. If you do not open the door in thirty seconds, I will break it.’

‘No warrant,’ Flick mouthed, but forced entry was not required.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the bell over the radio,’ Matilda Francis looked flustered as she opened the door a fraction. Baggo pushed gently and stepped into the dark hall. Flick followed, closing the door behind her. Matilda put her hand up to her forehead and stammered that her husband was out. Baggo led the way past her into the sitting room. Shaking, Matilda tried to brush hair across her face, but failed to conceal a purple lump above her left eye.