Murder on Page One (23 page)

‘Please don’t tell Cilla this unless you have to,’ she said.

‘I cannot promise anything like that, but I will keep your secrets if I can.’

She shook her head. ‘I suppose that will have to do.’ She clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath. ‘Cilla believes I do not know who her father is. Or was. I have always told the twins I was in a commune in which we believed in free love. In fact, well, you must have guessed, Laurence and I were lovers. We actually lived quite conventional lives, in Bristol actually, and were going to get married. But he met someone else, and … I was devastated and just wanted him out of my life. Completely. I came up here then discovered I was pregnant. My parents were dead and I had no one. That’s when I joined the commune. The twins arrived, I registered the birth, giving “unknown” as the father. For their first three and a half years, the twins lived in the commune. And they were loved by everyone. All the men acted as dads. They competed for the twins’ affection.’

For a moment she paused, a sad smile on her face. ‘But it wouldn’t have worked in the long term, and I decided to come up here, back to my roots, and bring the twins up “properly”. One thing I never deviated from was that Laurence Robertson should never know about them, and they should never know about him. Well, Penny died, then Cilla was struggling to get her book published. I realised that Laurence had become a successful agent. I hated doing it, but I wrote to him, explaining everything. Did you find that letter? No? I bet he destroyed it. He wrote back, asking me to e-mail the book to him. I had a copy on my computer, so that was no problem. That was last November, and I haven’t heard a cheep from him, and I’m sure Cilla would have told me if she had. Cilla knows nothing about any of this, and I begged Laurence not to tell her. That’s the truth, like it or not.’ Her voice caught, she wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and looked imploringly at Baggo. ‘Please keep it all secret. Particularly as Cilla can’t know her father now, even if she wanted to.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her shoulders relaxing. ‘Now, please go. I don’t want to have to answer awkward questions about what you wanted.’

‘I have to ask, was Cilla in London on Monday?’

‘Yes,’ she said, her voice and face drained of emotion.

‘Forgive me, but I would like to know your whereabouts early on Monday evening.’

Margaret started then smiled. ‘You want to eliminate me from your inquiries, I suppose? I had a migraine and went to bed. No one can vouch for me, and, as I turned all the lights off, the house will have appeared unoccupied.’

As Baggo got up, she put a hand on his arm. ‘I’m not heartless. I know I should feel something, Laurence being murdered like that, but I can’t feel anything for him. It’s been a long twenty-five years. Very long. And I am scared, for Cilla, that she’ll get the blame. Can you see that?’

He tried to read her expression. Was there guilt there, as well as fear and pleading? ‘I do see,’ he said.

Baggo was still stunned when his train was half way back to London. And he didn’t know if he could or should keep Margaret’s secret.

* * *

‘Yes!’ Flick said to herself as she put down the phone.

‘Anything I should know about, Sergeant?’ Osborne stood beside her desk. He had a smile on his face.

‘Er, yes. I was about to tell you.’

‘Well come with me and tell me in the car.’

‘In the car? It’s nearly lunchtime and Palfrey will be here at two.’

‘I know, Sergeant, but I think you’re going to like this.’

Flick got up and followed Osborne to the car pool. To her surprise, he already had keys and climbed into the driver’s seat. Once she had her seatbelt on and he had started the engine, he said, ‘We’re going for lunch. Together and on me. We need to talk.’

‘But, I …’

‘Please, Sergeant.’

Flick was aghast, but there was no way out without appearing hopelessly petty. ‘Right,’ she said.

They drove in silence to a street leading from Worple Road, rich in old-fashioned food shops. A greengrocer, a butcher, a fishmonger and a general store, all had Asian names above windows cluttered with fresh produce and bargain notices. Osborne slowed and bumped down a narrow, pot-holed lane. At the end was a patch of waste ground where he parked. As Flick got out, Osborne smiled at her. ‘I can see what you’re thinking, but my ex liked this place and she hated most curries.’ He set off back down the lane, towards the street.

Some years earlier, Flick had sworn she would never again set foot in an Indian restaurant, but when Osborne led her to the garish red door of a restaurant called Abdul’s and opened the door for her, she set her face and went in.

‘Ah, Mr Osborne! How are you today, sir? Your usual table?’ The beaming waiter, dressed in western shirt and slacks, showed them to a table in an alcove deep within the restaurant. Flick shuffled away from Osborne along a bench upholstered in worn draylon and found herself facing a blown-up picture of an Indian couple, presumably Abdul and his wife, holding hands on the white bench in front of the Taj Mahal where Princess Diana had once posed in solitude.

Only two other tables were occupied, both by Caucasian men casually dressed. The menus, like the table covers, were plastic, and Flick noted that everything seemed clean.

‘Cobra or water?’ Osborne asked. ‘Cobra’s Indian beer, like lager,’ he added, fidgeting with the menu.

Flick sensed that he was as nervous as she was. ‘Water’s fine, thanks,’ she said.

He asked for two bottles of mineral water.

‘Popadums,’ he said, as a plate of bread-like wafers arrived. ‘You’d be best with mango on it.’ He selected one of the sauce dishes accompanying the popadums and pushed it across the table. ‘The lime’s good too.’ He helped himself and put it down beside Flick. ‘You’re not a veggie, are you?’ Crunching a popadum, she shook her head. ‘Then I’d advise Kashmir chicken, if you like chicken. It’s got spice in it, but it’s not hot. My ex had a fancy for Malayan chicken, too. It’s mild.’

The waiter took their order, Osborne requesting his ‘usual’, then they finished the popadums. Flick was determined not to break the increasingly awkward silence that followed.

‘Why did you help me out yesterday?’ he asked eventually.

‘Because I want you to actively support Lavinia Lenehan’s plan.’

‘What did you mean by saying that we could get the criminal using old-fashioned methods?’

‘I wanted to annoy Cumberland.’ She saw his grin and grinned back.

‘But why did you go off to check alibis without telling me?’

‘In case you said no. I was sure it had to be done immediately.’

‘We’ve got to get the right person, you know, and there’s one that stands out.’

‘Do you think so? Francis gives me the creeps; Wallace is seriously angry with life; Dalton is a mass of contradictions. Pargiter’s strange. She cuts out reports of the murders, and her sister drowned in odd circumstances. I think they were competing against each other for the man who’s her daughter’s father. So … well, it’s hard to say.’

‘You haven’t mentioned Johnson.’

‘You know him better than I do, but why should a man about to be paroled from a life sentence risk killing a lot of literary agents? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘Believe me, he’s our man, Flick.’ He paused, letting the significance of her preferred name sink in. ‘He’s evil through and through, with a helluva lot of nerve.’

‘What about the Harvey Nicks murder? Do you think he could have done the rest, and the Russians ordered the hit on Swanson?’

‘He did the lot, Flick. Mark my words. And I’m going to prove it.’

‘Well, he’s a likelier suspect than Mrs Lawson, though she cossets her husband like a mother hen. She’d kill for him, I reckon, but I see her as our least likely suspect. And she has a good alibi for Harvey Nicks, so if she did the rest, that would put the Russians in the frame for Swanson.’

‘Forget the Russkies, Flick. That man Chapayev is off his rocker. He’s just playing politics. Trust me.’

Flick opened her mouth to respond, but the food came and by the time the plates had been arranged, she had decided to stay silent. To her surprise, she found the Malayan chicken tasty and good. Trying to ignore the aroma wafting from Osborne’s prawn vindaloo, she finished all but some rice and sauce.

Osborne ordered coffee and the bill, which he paid in cash. He told her about how he had come to love Indian food, without wanting ever to go to India. A loud belch as they left the table reminded Flick that their alliance would only be temporary. But it was an alliance, and in the car she updated him on her morning’s work. When they returned to the station, she thanked him politely, pleased that she had managed to avoid calling him either sir or, worse, Noel.

* * *

‘This weekend? How on earth have you managed that?’ Palfrey was taken aback. After a disasterous press conference the previous afternoon, she expected that, mauled by journalists, Cumberland would distance himself from the inquiry, leaving her as the senior fall-guy. She was determined that would not happen. She had no illusions about making Commissioner, but she felt she had at least one more promotion in her. She had demanded an up-date every day at two.

Flick said, ‘Not me, ma’am. Lavinia Lenehan, Mrs Smith. She had everything primed in advance before the Chief Super agreed to go along with it, and she doesn’t want any more agents to be killed.’

‘But how did she explain this to the suspects? Are they all coming?’

‘We’ve yet to hear from Sidney Francis, but the rest are all set. Mrs Smith can be very persuasive, ma’am. She told them that the judges were overwhelmed by the high standard of entries, and they couldn’t pick a winner without seeing more of the shortlisted writers’ work. Then she invented all sorts of reasons involving the judges’ schedules why it had to be this weekend. She reckoned they’d be so flattered and keen to win they’d go for it, and it seems they have.’

‘What if Francis doesn’t play ball?’ Osborne asked, stifling a burp. ‘Won’t that destroy the whole thing?’

‘We’d still learn a lot about the rest, and that would be useful,’ Flick replied. ‘But yes, we do want them all to be there.’

‘Tell us what’s been arranged so far, Sergeant,’ Palfrey said.

‘The hotel’s called The Pride O’ Atholl.’ She glanced at Osborne, expecting a reaction that never came. ‘It’s at the north end of Pitlochry, which is above Perth on the map.’

‘It has a theatre, doesn’t it?’ Palfrey asked.

‘Yes, but it doesn’t start till May. There are a lot of hotels and guest houses in the town, and most are quiet at this time of year. This hotel’s small, and had no bookings for this weekend. Mrs Smith will be able to take it over. She’s been at a number of writers’ retreats there outwith the tourist season.’

‘The retreat will start on Friday, and everyone is asked to be there by six. They’ll have sessions before and after dinner and more on Saturday morning. Saturday afternoon will be composition time, and there will be a further session on Saturday evening. Sunday morning will be reading time, while the judges look at the compositions, and there will be a winding-up discussion before lunch. They’ll disperse after lunch.

‘Mrs Smith has already sent out cheques for travel expenses and she’ll be paying the hotel people, who have no idea what’s really going on. I know she’d appreciate an immediate bank transfer.’ She glanced at Palfrey.

‘How much?’ There was a resigned note in her voice.

‘Six thousand would do for now, ma’am. She knows she’ll have to keep careful records and not waste money.’ Flick smiled hopefully.

‘All right, but no fancy wines or silly bar bills, and if there’s any left over, she’ll have to repay it. I’ll authorise it this afternoon.’

‘Thank you, ma’am. Here are the bank details.’ She passed over a piece of paper. ‘As we’ll all be recognisable, it would be best if someone from Tayside Police could stay in the hotel as an ordinary guest, but I haven’t approached them directly.’

‘I have already spoken with their Chief Constable about our scheme,’ Palfrey said. ‘I can’t say he sounded enthusiastic, but I’m sure I can persuade him to cooperate. We are the Met. I won’t put it that way, of course,’ she added in response to Flick’s frown.

‘They’re as prickly as their blasted thistles,’ Osborne muttered.

Flick said quickly, ‘I thought that some of us should be on the spot, though not staying in the same hotel …’

Palfrey raised her eyebrows.

‘I think I should be there, ma’am,’ Osborne said. ‘Fortune as well. And probably Peters. He’d be less likely to be spotted than Chandavarkar, particularly if he grew his beard. Does it grow quickly, Danny?’

‘By the weekend it won’t be much more than designer stubble, but I’ll spray it with fertiliser.’ Peters rubbed his chin then turned to Osborne, full of innocence. ‘Are you going to put on a Hercule Poirot moustache, sir?’

Flick was the first to laugh. Palfrey joined in then Peters began to giggle. Osborne’s scowl melted. ‘Na. I’ll be Sheer-luck bloody Holmes, and you can be my thick side-kick, Watson. It’ll suit you.’

‘Dr Watson …’ Instead of putting Osborne right about the doctor’s intellect, Flick laughed again then turned to Palfrey. ‘If you approve, ma’am, I’ll start making the bookings,’ she said. ‘As a member of the public, of course. We had better try not to look like police …’