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Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: A Meeting of Minds
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While he was still wading through Sheila's correspondence, both business and personal, he had found nothing to suggest that she had any connection with Childe's project out at the Marlow cottage. Unless, of course, code words were used for any illegal substances. Someone would need to
check in a horticultural encyclopaedia that each species quoted was genuine. He couldn't remember offhand if any constables had a background of classical Latin. Maybe they'd need to call in an expert.
Civilian office staff at the local nick had been allocated to listing wholesalers and the more important account-holding customers. The personal stuff, which included originals of the dead woman's annual correspondence with her father, had yet to be sorted.
Salmon now decided to divert more on to DS Beaumont who struck him as far too relaxed in his attitude to the job. Silver could do the hacking and pass on what he found.
With questions of his own to find answers for, Beaumont was not enchanted. ‘What else are we covering?' he demanded, suspicious that the DI hadn't allocated any of the labour to himself.
Salmon recalled Yeadings's instructions. ‘I want everyone in that house thoroughly vetted,' Salmon ground out. ‘Starting with the woman who had the conversion done. I want to know how she advertised for purchasers, the dates the contracts were taken up, and a full life history of all involved. Hobday, get on to Beattie Weyman's background. Fanshawe, you have the rest of the residents. Somewhere there's a connection with the dead woman that we haven't learnt of. Maybe a shake-out of Criminal records will give us a lead.
‘And Beaumont, that Dr Fenner – I want an hour by hour account of what he was up to on the night of the murder, and who he contacted right from leaving Cambridge until he got back there after visiting his ex-wife. It would appear that the terms of his daughter's will were a surprise to him. If he's in low water financially he may have been relying on a quick fix from that. Now go and dig the dirt, and dig deep.'
Beaumont slunk off, following DC Silver to the office, little more than a broom cupboard, where he'd been occupied printing out reams from the laptop. He was riled at Salmon's
jumping on him at the briefing. He'd had better lines to follow in his mind at the time. There was a disturbing sense of having nearly been on to something important. Now, distracted, he knew it had got away. He wasn't quite sure where his reasoning had been leading him, to a point of almost-revelation. Just a half idea – something beginning with ‘but …'
It had gone. He sighed.
At least the DI had let up on his obsession with Barry Childe. Now the Salmon fishing was into more widespread waters. Not deep yet: but up to the DI's fishy neck.
‘I'm to collect the CCTV videos,' he reminded Silver, who was immersd in the laptop's data.
The DC gave him a harassed glare. ‘I've only one copy of every video here and I've no idea what's in them. I had this other thing dropped on me before I could get cracking.'
‘That's because our new man likes the sound of your name. He hasn't managed to memorize more than half a dozen, so we lucky sods come in for the full load.'
‘Where'll you be working? You need to book a screen.'
‘Just hand me the goods. I'll do the rest.'
Silver indicated a black plastic sack under a corner of his desk. ‘Let me know where you'll be, sarge. I need to be covered, in case the DI comes charging in.'
Beaumont smiled beatifically. ‘You can tell him I'm in hospital. I fancy joining Z in there. There's no reason why she should take it easy while we bend our backs under the lash. I'm going to commandeer a bit of National Health Service property and hold her hand in the back row at the movies.'
Miss Barnes poured tea for Mrs Winter and smiled as she offered the madeira cake. The woman was taking this second blow very well. She seemed the indomitable kind, sitting there like a dowager at a formal reception, stiff-backed and attempting to be gracious. After such appalling things had happened such poise was almost unnatural; perhaps the false recovery after shock, and time would eventually break her down.
The schoolmistress took a furtive glance at her watch. Her visitor had been here for almost ten minutes now. If only the doctor would arrive. Then perhaps they could broach the subject of what had actually happened. Major Phillips had kindly offered to look out for him and direct him to which bell to ring.
She wished that Mr Chisholm had given her a fuller account of the incident. He had briefly explained that when she came home Mrs Winter had found young Rosemary unconscious in her apartment, had run out and then tumbled down the stairs. Neil Raynes had fortunately broken her fall but sustained injury to his head. Both young people had been taken away in an ambulance by paramedics. It was a curious catalogue of disasters.
Why Rosemary was in the wrong flat at all was uncertain, nor was it mentioned what had caused her to faint. Miss Barnes hoped there was no connection with the terrible murder of the woman's daughter. The Winters seemed to be pursued by gross misfortunes. It was an alarming introduction to life at this house, which had at first promised to be admirably peaceful.
The doorbell shrilled and she started in her chair. ‘He's here,' she told Mrs Winter, rose and went to let him in.
The man who stood with the Major under the portico was
tall and spare. ‘Dr Fenner,' he introduced himself. ‘I was told …'
‘Yes, doctor. Do come in. Mrs Winter is through here.'
He followed her in and laid his briefcase on the side table under the Vauxhall mirror while he removed his driving gloves.
Mrs Winter's reaction was electric and incomprehensible. ‘What are
you
doing here?' she demanded imperiously.
He turned to face her. Miss Barnes felt caught in the middle of two strong opposing forces. ‘This is the doctor, dear,' she said placatingly. ‘We were expecting him, you remember.'
‘This,' Mrs Winter declared dramatically, ‘is the man I was once so ill-advised as to marry. I don't wish to have anything to do with him.'
‘Vanessa, you rang me,' he reminded her patiently. ‘You sounded uncertain. I've come back specifically to discuss what I told you then on the phone.'
‘The discussion is over,' she declared, like a quotation from some play.
Of course, Miss Barnes reminded herself, the woman had been some kind of actress. It was understandable that parts she had played were still locked in her mind. It was the same with literature: passages you'd admired and loved, even found formidable, surged up and escaped when similar situations recalled them. One was looked at askance when colleagues failed to recognize the source of what one quoted; those in the sciences particularly.
The man – not Mrs Winter's personal physician after all; from his title perhaps an academic like herself – did not appear dismayed. It was as though his patience increased and he addressed his ex-wife more slowly.
‘Vanessa,' he said, ‘believe me, I'm pleased and relieved that Sheila has made provision for you. And I'm sure that following wise advice you will find it more than adequate for your reasonable needs.'
‘Whose advice?' she demanded. ‘Yours, I suppose. Not in a million years.'
‘I mean professional advice. I'll admit I've never been outstandingly successful with money myself. Nor interested in it. But if you'll consult Sheila's accountant I think you'll find him reliable in protecting your interests. Have you taken thought yet what you'll do with your shares in the garden centre?'
Vanessa stared at him. She could counter his attacks until the cows came home, but demanding answers of her was unfair. He wanted to know what she would do with Sheila's business? Well, sell it, she supposed. On first sight it had quite impressed her, decked out with Christmas glitter. She had almost been carried away with the heady sense of ownership. But it was only tat after all; and all those eager assistants were just gardeners and shopgirls. They meant nothing to her. Yes, she'd sell it and use the money to – to what? Back a play? A shiver of excitement went through her. She'd be what the profession called an ‘Angel'. She could hire a theatre, entertain exciting young dramatists, choose a new production. Star in it.
Dr Fenner watched her recede into some inner world, and sighed. He raised his eyebrows at Miss Barnes, shook his head and reached for his gloves and briefcase. It was useless trying to help. He might as well have stayed on in Cambridge, for all the effect his efforts had produced.
Miss Barnes showed him through the hall to the outer door, unsure quite how the score stood between the two of them, but aware that they were combatants and no less so because of his well-intentioned visit. ‘Goodbye, Dr Fenner,' she said, and couldn't truthfully add
it was nice meeting you.
He looked sombre. ‘I shouldn't have come. She can't understand. It has yet to hit her.'
She supposed he meant her daughter's death as well as the situation she found herself in as a result. It was going to be difficult. Miss Barnes wished she hadn't been brought into it. But to whom could she hand over the poor woman now? She had less responsibility for her than an ex-husband had. Did he expect her to offer to do more than at present? It was
unreasonable: she had a full-time job which took all her energy and patience. She couldn't, wouldn't, make promises which she'd never be able to fulfil. Instead she said simply, ‘I'm sorry,' and shut the door on him.
 
Pursued by an awareness of duty avoided, Dr Fenner pulled off the motorway and, as soon as a convenient space presented itself, ran the car on to the grass verge and pulled up. This was his second attempt to get back to normality and Cambridge, but, as ever after coping with Vanessa, he felt he'd been batting at thin air. It took a little while to get his thoughts reassembled.
Going back to confront her again was out of the question. If he was tactful, maybe he'd get what he needed from the kindly Miss Barnes. It meant first demanding her number from the directory service and, thankfully, he found it wasn't a withheld one.
On answering, she sounded a trifle distracted, which didn't surprise him. Anyone coping with is ex-wife could very soon …
‘It's Fenner again, Miss Barnes. I apologise for disturbing you, but did Vanessa's doctor turn up?' he asked in concerned voice.
‘Oh yes, Dr Fenner. He's just left. He's given her a prescription for her high blood pressure and a repeat of the sleeping pills she had before.'
‘And there's no real damage from the tumble she took?'
‘He said there would be a little bruising to the upper arms and knees, but nothing serious.'
‘Good. You didn't mention his name, Miss Barnes. I wonder if you would give me his phone number too. I'd like to make sure she has every care possible.'
‘Dr Barlow's number?' She hesitated. ‘I don't know that I … I mean, I don't know it. Someone else got in touch with him for me. Maybe Mr Chisholm, or the police …'
The woman was lying, and not very good at it. Vanessa
must be listening in and making signs of refusal. What had the wretched woman been telling her about him that suddenly made her so disobliging?
‘No matter,' he said casually. ‘I'm sure it's in the book. Thank you, Miss Barnes, for your kindness to her.'
‘It's no more than anyone would do,' she disclaimed.
But more than many would care to, once they knew Vanessa, he thought grimly. It was bitter that Sheila should have had to spend her short life yoked to such a demanding harridan, but there had been no alternative after the divorce. All those years ago, in a court battle, any judge would have given custody of an eight-year-old girl to the child's mother.
Even at that time Vanessa acknowledged no family. She had chosen to outgrow their modest existence when she took to the stage.
He wondered if the superintendent knew that she wasn't actually alone in the world. Someone would need to take her on now. I seemed sensible, advantageous even, to ring the man and let him know. Somewhere in an inner pocket was a card from Yeadings with a note of the police station he was at present working from.
Fenner switched on the car light and read off the number, rang through and was answered by Detective-Sergeant Beaumont.
 
Superintendent Yeadings sat slumped behind the wheel while the car warmed up. Walking back through the overheated hospital corridors the whim had seized him to rebel against his wifely-imposed diet; but not here. The café in Outpatients was half full with arthritic pensioners and youngsters with splints and bandages, or on crutches. Any of them, or the middle-aged, middle-class do-gooders who voluntarily staffed the place, might recognize him and try to strike up an inquisitive conversation. Besides, he specifically needed real, black espresso and a darkly crisp doughnut sparkling with sugar, but soft inside and oozing rich seedless raspberry jam.
He relished them mentally, almost drooling, then sighed and stoically dismissed the dream.
His Rover was parked at the extremity of the ever-increasing acreage for which he was expected to fork out more than the price of the snack he'd denied himself. One comfort was that the car parking money went back to hospital services.
Over to his right, uphill, extensions were continuing. He watched a mechanical digger at work, a long-necked dinosaur scrabbling at the stony soil; and nearer, its upper floors catching the last of the evening light, rose a stylish red-brick block, new since he was here last time. Ahead, as he sat at the wheel, was a temporary fence and a monochrome view down the valley which disappeared into the ever denser mist as dusk came on. Along the fence's wires, and scabbing the rough wooden posts, frost was returning, sparkling like the sugar on his dreamed-up doughnut. And in stark close-up, harshly sentinel, stood teasel flower heads in stiff, black silhouette.
It struck him that the scene summed up his present situation, the lack of definition to this murder case – appropriately
Winter
case – and in the foreground the abrasive presence of the man he resented.
He had tried to avoid prejudice, admitting that anyone appointed in Angus Mott's place would be a letdown; but the new DI's bull-at-a-gate performance over Barry Childe had sounded alarms. To be fair to the man, by now he'd let second thoughts switch him on to other tracks, but at present – to mix the metaphors thoroughly – he was spinning on his axis and firing wildly from the hip.
Yeadings grunted. What wouldn't he give for Mott's subtle approach and steady touch? Small wonder that his own mind was demanding comfort food! However, with Angus gone, helping to police the post-war chaos in Kosovo, Serious Crimes must make do with what was on offer. The onus was on himself to make good any deficiency, steer Salmon off the rocks – God, he was punning as badly as Beaumont now! (Beaumont, who'd gone as spiky as a porcupine over the new
appointment) – soothe said DS and ensure that Z didn't return to work before she was really fit.
With his prize team in disarray, he had to rally it while accepting the unwelcome outsider and his unsubtle approach. He reminded himself that within the system's limits everyone had his, or her, own way of taking up a challenge.
Somewhere under his overcoat the mobile phone was vibrating. He pulled it out. It showed Beaumont calling.
So, what now? When the DS had rung him directly before, it was to report that Z had been injured. Yeadings switched to Receive, prepared for more bad news.
‘Sir,' the DS began, ‘can we talk?'
‘Now is convenient, or in twenty minutes in my office.'
‘It'll keep till then.'
Not urgent, then; but clearly important. Yeadings slid into gear and reversed out of the parking space.
Beaumont arrived only two minutes behind him and he came in carrying a computer printout. The espresso machine was already hissing under pressure. ‘There's no fresh milk,' Yeadings warned him, ‘so you'll not be getting a cappuccino.'
‘Black's fine,' the DS assured him. ‘I've been talking to Silver.'
‘He's dealing with the CCTV film, isn't he?'
‘Was. Now I'm in overall charge of that. Among other odds and ends.' Beaumont sounded gritty. ‘Silver's been churning out stuff from Sheila Winter's laptop, but hasn't had time to go through it. Instructions were to print everything out.'
‘Sounds thorough,' Yeadings commented.
‘But a massive job, and nobody allocated to do the reading. So I picked over a few bits of her correspondence and guess what I found?'

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