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Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: A Meeting of Minds
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The superintendent passed a full mug. ‘I'm waiting.'
‘Copies of a letter thanking one Nat Baker, who had apparently known of Childe in prison and recommended him to Miss Winter as “suitable for the purpose”.'
‘That sounds interesting.'
‘Except that I got straight on to Pankhurst Prison governor's office and in the last forty years they've never had any inmate of that name. Bakers galore, but no Nathaniel or anything like it. So maybe the two of them were stringing her along.'
‘But why should anyone pretend to be an old lag if he wasn' t?'
‘Because she needed someone at the garden centre who wouldn't be above a spot of criminal malarkey, and what better recommendation than one from someone she already knew who claimed to be in the same line of business?'
Yeadings agreed that that had a certain kind of logic. ‘It makes her enterprise look more than a trifle dodgy.'
‘That's why I asked Silver to pull out every reference to Baker or Nat elsewhere in the files. It seems that was the only letter she ever wrote him.'
‘Ever wrote on that laptop,' Yeadings corrected him. ‘There may be something on the hard disk of the office computer. And it's not entirely impossible for her to have written by hand from home. Check the name against her personal address book. If she didn't write, maybe she saw him on a regular basis. See if anyone at the garden centre knows him or can come up with a description. But don't approach Childe on this. At least, not for the present.'
‘Right, sir.' He sounded anything but chuffed. Clearly he was feeling overworked, and that his responsibility had been discharged by passing that much info on.
‘So what are the other odds and ends you mentioned?'
‘I have to chase up Fenner, for the day and evening of the murder. Also for any contacts he made when he came across from Cambridge to see you.'
Reasonable areas for investigation, Yeadins considered. Salmon had been thorough ordering that. But the work should have been more widely distributed. ‘Fenner, yes. He was a major shareholder, of course. He could have been involved.'
‘I've just had a call from him. It seems that Vanessa Winter
has a sister, Kathleen Patterson. She seems to have been a bit of a black sheep according to the parent's strict way of thinking. She's four years younger, which now makes her fifty-three. She left home, or was turned out, at the age of seventeen, made pregnant by an unknown, “had an irregular lifestyle” – that's Fenner's expression for prostitution – produced two more children and eventually married a butcher. None of her activities endeared her to her sister who, in her Cambridge years, was persuaded to pay her to stay away. Since then, Fenner claims not to know what's become of the fair Kathleen.'
‘What's his motive in coming up with her now? Does he think it's relevant to the murder?'
‘He seems to think Vanessa won't be happy all alone in the world. I guess he welcomes any alternative to himself to be held responsible for her. It's none of our business in any case. We're not social workers.'
Yeadings considered this. Perhaps Dr Fenner still had enough feelings for his ex-wife to pity her aloneness, yet kept a cool eye out for self-preservation. To judge by their attitudes earlier, there would be no chance of them getting together again.
‘Another thing,' Beaumont complained. ‘He's just been back to see her. Miss Barnes rang to tell us. She sounded a little put out. He wanted Vanessa's doctor's number so that he could discuss her condition. She thought it better not to supply it.'
‘Vanessa's condition, or situation? He could be genuinely concerned for her.'
‘Miss Barnes seemed to suspect his motives.'
‘A cautious woman, more used to wily youngsters than adults, I imagine. Well, no harm in our contacting the medic. The doctor
is
a man? Right. I wonder if he was the daughter's GP too. He won't have had a great deal to do with either of them since they came here from London only a couple of months ago; but their records will have been sent on. He should certainly be put on the list for interviewing.'
He regarded Beaumont's stiffly glowering face and relented. ‘I'll mention it to DI Salmon myself and suggest someone to take that on. Your coffee's gone cold by now. Slop it into the Swiss cheese plant, and I'll pour you another.'
Detective-constable Hugh Fanshawe wasn't getting far in checking on the residents of Ashbourne House. He found only the oldies at home when he called next morning.
Major Phillips, a widower, was champing at the bit, impatient to be whisked off by a civilian driver he addressed crisply as ‘corporal'. He claimed he had barely known the dead woman and denied ever having visited any of the upstairs flats at any time.
‘In fact,' he claimed, ‘the only resident I ever catch sight of is my next-door neighbour, Miss Barnes. I am pleased to find that, after the one dinner at which we were all introduced, it is possible to live in decent seclusion. And now I really must be on my way.'
He had described himself as retired, which shouldn't prove difficult to confirm from army sources; and the business he was in such a hurry to be about was obvious. The rear of the car was stacked with golf clubs, rugs and a large wicker hamper. The Major himself wore an old-fashioned pepper-and-salt pair of plus-fours, and under a checked hacking jacket several woollen garments, the top one of which was mustard yellow. All his clothes appeared to be of good quality but well worn. Fanshawe, a martyr to family shopping sprees, rightly guessed that since the late wife's much earlier departure Major Phillips had seen no reason to extend his wardrobe.
As for golf, Fanshawe, a non-player whose only interest in sport was attending Wycombe Wanderers' home matches, accepted that the game might be a relaxation for some, but he was worldy-wise enough to know that it didn't rule out profitable dealing in, or on, the course of nineteen holes.
He bravely dared to demand a list of the parties Major Phillips was accustomed to play with, and stood hangdog but persistent until given the name of his club, any of whose
par-level players the gentleman found acceptable for a scratch game.
Fanshawe made a note to consult his cousin Derek who occasionally played at the same club at a time and day of the week set aside for artisan members. Women also were segregated, with one afternoon's freedom on the greens. The DC, passionately opposed to any form of apartheid, scorned to drink his beer anywhere his company was likely to be held in question, but he wasn't above tapping for information others with less social conscience. Derek was a great gossip and would happily pass on any current info the bar staff might exchange for the price of a double.
Fanshawe looked through his notes. That much, or little, would have to satisfy the new DI. Padded out and printed double-spaced, it should look more impressive.
The next resident he tackled was Miss Beatrice Weyman, Z's ex-landlady who'd apparently inherited a fortune, bought the old, failed nursing-home and had it converted into flats. He glanced at his watch and was pleased to see that it showed ten forty-five, a favourable hour for elevenses. Beattie's reputation for hospitality had reached him via the canteen grapevine.
He caught her working over a floured board, kneading and slapping down dough as though she had some personal grudge against it. He watched her shape the loaves and rolls, set them out on greased baking sheets and commit them to the Aga which gushed out a further burst of heat on the already cosy kitchen. ‘I'll jest rinse me ‘ands,' she told him, 'then we'll ‘ave a nice potta tea.'
She performed a fussy little job over setting out the tray, where he observed three cups, saucers and plates. When the kettle was switched on she spent a moment patting her bright, burnished-copper hair and inspecting herself in a little mirror over the draining-board. Apparently satisfied, she looked expectantly at the clock.
Almost simultaneously Fanshawe heard a diesel-fired
motor in the drive beyond her kitchen window. A car door slammed and she went to open up, greeting the newcomer with a warning, ‘We gotta special visitor'ere today. Come in and meet‘im.'
A tall, stringy man with a weathered face and tufty brown hair entered wearing ancient jeans and a brightly checked shirt daubed with pale paint splashes. His large feet, in thick grey socks revealed that he had tidily disposed of his boots on the tiles outside.
‘Hello there,' he said, grinning cheerfully, and stretched out a massive, work-hardened hand. ‘I'm Frank Perrin. So what job's she pulled you in for, then?'
Beattie clucked in mock annoyance. ‘This young man's a policeman, Frank. He's looking into that awful business with Miss Winter.'
‘Oh, yes.' All the grinning wrinkles dropped off his face. It was left knobby like an old potato. A sad potato, Fanshawe thought.
‘Terrible,' Perrin said grimly. ‘Have you got anywhere yet, finding out who done it?'
While Beattie produced a plate of buttered scones with damson jam and a home-made lemon sponge, Fanshawe parried the man's questions and rolled out the usual neutral clichés: early days yet, pursuing several lines of inquiry, and soon.
It seemed that the man was a builder of sorts, and he'd been responsible for most of the conversion. Obviously too there was more than a client-tradesman relationship here. The old girl was sweet on the man, though he could be a few years her junior. And he was quite happy lapping up the benefits.
Fanshawe tried to hide the hunter's gleam in his eyes. His policeman's suspicions were instantly aroused. He wondered how much more money the old lady had left. Even if she'd spent a good part of her inheritance on the house purchase, she'd have received more back when she sold off the other six flats. There'd be a bank loan in it somewhere, but she must be
worth a pretty penny all the same. And Frank Perrin was in a good position to know all the details. This little story was worth writing up while he was on the Sheila Winter job.
Could there be a connection? It struck him then that Perrin could have been the intruder Z had disturbed in the Winters' apartment. He was evidently a regular visitor here. And Beattie had been out that afternoon, at the hairdresser's. He'd have had a clear run.
‘You considered installing alarms here, I suppose?' Fanshawe asked innocently, as if Crime Prevention was his line of business. (At that thought he reminded himself that the new designation was ‘Crime Reduction'. Not before time: an honest admission of how policing was dropping off!)
Perrin scratched at his head and the tufted hair stood up more wildly. ‘Thought about it, didn't we? Decided we'd leave it to the residents to make up their own minds. Individual, like. There's only one of ‘em went for it. That Mr Wormsley. He's got a thing about security and no mistake. Never saw so many extra locks and bolts and grilles on the windows. You'd think he was a jeweller.'
‘So what is he?'
‘E's got a photographer's shop over in Luton,' said Beattie mildly. Not that ‘e does any of it in the'ouse. I asked ‘im if ‘e'd take a snap of the party we all ‘ad together that time, and ‘e said ‘e'd send a girl across to do it. Well, we didn't want outsiders in, so I said no.'
‘Do you employ a locksmith?' Fanshawe asked Perrin casually.
‘Nuh. I'm more than adequate. Did most of the locks meself, with my man Dave helping.'
The DC nodded. Of course. And Perrin could have had as many keys cut as he wanted, so giving free access at any time to any of the residents' rooms. DI Salmon would go frantic with joy when he brought this back to the debriefing.
Frank Perrin would be their prime suspect for the man who'd knocked out poor Z. He had perfect opportunity; the
means were to hand in the china table-lamp; his motive was to cover up the fact of his snooping. And his reason for that? Maybe the man was a jackdaw.
He watched Perrin help himself to another scone and load it with damson jam. ‘What'll your wife say lunch-time, when you've no appetite?' he asked, trying to sound cheeky-friendly.
Perrin wiped his fingers on the napkin provided by Beattie. He munched with swollen hamster cheeks until he had swallowed and could reply. ‘Nuh. I'm a sad old bachelor. What good lady could stand me tramping all my mess into her tidy little home?'
Fanshawe thought he could name one right now. He looked across at Beattie who had a butter-wouldn't-melt look on her amiable face. He hoped she wouldn't be taken in by the plausible rogue. But perhaps it was already too late.
He was starting to make excuses to go when another van drew up outside, behind Perrin's pick-up. ‘Looks like Jon,' Beattie said. “E'll be wanting you, Frank, but ask ‘im in. I'm sure'e could do with a slice of cake.'
Fanshawe, trained to take note automatically of all vehicles, observed that it was an oldish but well-kept white Ford Transit with a set of aluminium ladders on the roof. In profile and screened by the window, its licence plates were hidden. Perrin went across to the door and held a conversation over the threshold.
‘One of his men?' Fanshawe inquired.
‘No, but ‘e uses him sometimes when there's a rush job on. ‘E's another nice feller, is Jon.'
By leaning sideways in his chair the DC could read the name off the van's side:
Jonathan Baker,
and underneath
Plumber & Heating Engineer.
So the man ran a private firm. Yes, he supposed Perrin would have used him at times. There could always be rush jobs when pipes burst or tanks sprung a leak. Nothing of great interest there. The man wasn't a locksmith.
Frank Perrin came back in and closed the door. ‘He says thanks for the offer, but no thanks. He's running late as it is. He's got me that special conduit I was after.'
Fanshawe, comfortably replete, prepared to take his leave. ‘There's nobody else here for me to see. Everyone's gone to work. Except the two in hospital.'
‘Young Neil should be coming home today,' said Beattie. ‘I spect 'e'll need an eye kept on ‘im if 'is friend's going away.'
‘Is he?'
But she wasn't going into details. Instead, ‘Well, there's Mrs Winter you could look in on, if she's feeling up to it. Ackshally she might rather like that, if you make a little fuss of 'er, like.'
She directed him through to the hall and showed him the staircase. ‘Jest go up and ring ‘er bell. It's the one on the right.'
Vanessa Winter came to the door in a coral satin bathrobe and her hair in a towelling turban. According to the printout notes he'd received, she was fifty-seven and a divorcee. Catching her barefaced like this he would have thought her older, something like Beattie's age or even more. ‘Oh,' she said casually, when he'd explained himself, ‘I'm just dressing. You can come along.'
A little uncertainly he followed her as far as the door to her bedroom. When she seated herself at the dressing-table, back towards him, he advanced a couple of paces. It was only her face she'd be putting on.
She touched a button and small bulbs sprang alight all round her mirror. Of course, she'd been an actress. She would have considered this detail essential for her make-up. Fanshawe was ready to be impressed.
Her manner was offhand towards him, but he was aware of something behind it. The way she scooped the cream and lifted her hand, elegantly poised, flicking back the wide sleeve, while she leaned forward to scan the reflection of her face, with him in the background, was deliberate. A bit of an exhibitionist, he noted.
Fanshawe stared back, feeling caught out, as if the reflection were a camera shot that could be used later for blackmail. She was toying with him. It was time he took the situation in hand.
‘We've been hoping you might have remembered something more by now,' he opened.
‘About finding Rosemary?' she asked. ‘No, I told them what happened. We'd been out. That nice young man offered to drive me. We returned, came upstairs, and there she was on the bed, with my room all topsy-turvy. I thought at first she'd done it and then fallen asleep.'
About as likely as the Goldilocks story, he thought. ‘No, I meant the other occasion, the Saturday night when your daughter drove off in the black Vectra.'
She frowned and seemed to have trouble remembering. ‘I never saw her leave. I was watching television, I think. Don't ask me what. It's all such rubbish nowadays.'
‘Have you any idea what she was wearing?'
‘Nothing. None at all.' She sounded confused. ‘I'm not her jailer, you know.'
‘Couldn't you tell, from what was left in her wardrobe?' Fanshawe, checking on his wife Megan, could quickly tell when she'd gone out tarted up to the eyebrows.
Having massaged the cream well in, Vanessa began applying peachy powder with a fat, soft brush, making facial contortions to expose each plane of her flesh to the brilliant lighting. The monosyllable which escaped her grotesquely screwed mouth could have meant anything.
‘I beg your pardon,' he said with elaborate politeness, to shame her. This woman could really get on your Bristols.
She turned on him irritably. ‘How do you expect me to know what she has in the way of clothes. They're dreary enough, for the most part.'

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