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Authors: Clare Curzon

BOOK: A Meeting of Minds
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‘I'm hoping it's a plumber called Jonathan Baker. He turned
out to be the “Nat” in a letter Sheila wrote concerning Childe's employment.'
‘I heard about the letter.' She registered Fanshawe's puzzlement. ‘The Boss dropped in, doing the grapes and flowers thing. But how does this Jonathan plumber come to be calling himself
Nat
?'
Fanshawe explained that he'd almost met the man on Beattie's doorstep, and how spilling the tea and orange juice in the canteen had drawn his eyes to the three letters in the middle of his name, Jonathan.
‘Having the right surname, it was a leap in the dark even then,' he said, ‘but I don't go for coincidences. I told the DI and he got in touch with the prison again.
Jonathan
Baker was known to them all right. Not as an inmate, but he'd been a maintenance man there before he set up on his own in Thames Valley with a secondhand van and a plumber's mate – who was also, as it happens, a youngster who'd done a stretch in Aylesbury for attempted mugging.'
‘So he could tie in with Childe and the suspected cannabis culture.'
‘It looks that way. By now he should have been brought in for questioning. Even if Sheila Winter wasn't involved in the project, he certainly suggested she provide charitable aftercare for an old lag acquaintance.'
‘She must have had a lot of confidence in his judgment. She was a pretty down-to-earth person: not the sort to be conned easily. So that was what came out of visiting at Beattie's. Who else did you speak to?'
He listed them, and she nodded as he gave an outline of the conversations.
‘I've just come from seeing your young friend Neil Raynes,' he added. ‘Did you know that his partner, or whatever, has disappeared into the blue? Raynes denies knowing where, why, or for how long, but Chisholm's passport's missing, so we have to assume he's out of the country, possibly out of Europe.'
‘I did know actually,' Z admitted. ‘That's mainly why I didn't want to stay on till tomorrow. Martin Chisholm looked in on me to ask if I'd keep a sisterly eye on Neil while he's away on business. I'm not sure whether he knows I'm in the job, but chances are that he's picked up on that.'
‘Does he think his boyfriend'll misbehave, then?'
‘No; and they aren't an item in the way you imply. But Neil is under pressure: has a health problem, and doesn't always trouble to take his medication.'
‘D'you mean he's a nutter? In which case …'
‘It's confidential, but I'll trust you not to spread it, Hugh. A few years back he was involved in a bad RTA and his passenger was killed. She happened to be his stepmother, and since then his father can't stand the sight of him. That and a personal sense of guilt have really messed him up. Chisholm's a sort of post-adolescence guardian paid to provide an alternative home for him, provided that he keeps well away from his own.
‘Although Neil survived the accident he was badly injured, almost didn't make it, and required some complicated surgery including a kidney transplant. I don't know if you're aware of what that means, especially to someone young who's never had to think twice about taking risks.'
‘A permanent invalid,' Fanshawe grunted.
‘Not exactly. But there's a hell of a lot of precautions and medication and forbidden stuff. For his body to continue accepting the transplant he faces a lifetime of restrictions; and the drugs required to prevent the immune system from rejecting the alien matter reduce his ability to cope with bacteria and viruses we consider normal. It requires the outlook of a geriatric in a young and vital mind. Most of the time he manages, but it's hard on him, and with his mainstay away – Chisholm, I mean – he'll need twice the determination to stay on course.'
‘So Chisholm expects to walk calmly off and leave the responsibility to you!'
‘They're my neighbours, Hugh. Which is the nearest I've got to family. Besides, I like him, for all that he's a bit unpredictable. It's a purely personal decision: nothing to do with my being a cop.'
‘I just hope he doesn't land you in any trouble. It sounds dodgy to me.' He came through the doorway with a plate in one hand. ‘D'you want tomato ketchup or mustard?'
‘Mustard, please. I hope you've made one for yourself as well.'
‘Betcha,' said Fanshawe. ‘Never could resist the smell of grilling bacon. Nearly as bad as my Jewish brother-in-law over that.'
Neil Raynes waited until Fanshawe's Ford reached the curve in the drive, then slunk back along the side of the house, re-entered by the back door and went straight through the utility room and laundry to gain the front hall. There was no one about, He checked the table for letters, but of course Marty would have dealt with them. He'd have answered anything urgent by e-mail. Neil never received any of his own.
He went lightly up the stairs, turned left on the gallery and waited a moment before ringing Rosemary's bell. When she opened up he stuck out his chin belligerently. ‘You weren't to be let out until tomorrow,' he accused her.
She looked weary. A slight flush appeared, then left her face ashen again under the pink elastic bandage. ‘I knew I'd feel better at home. So I discharged myself.'
Neil sniffed the air. ‘At least you've eaten.' He walked past her and stood in the kitchen doorway. She saw him register the two used plates and beakers in the sink.
‘Fraternizing with the enemy,' he observed angrily. ‘That was another policeman who just left. Did you know?'
‘Yes, he wanted to ask some questions about the attack on me. He seemed reasonable enough. I was hungry, so we had a snack together.' There was no call to explain so much, and it made her sound defensive. Although she believed the sharp-eyed Chisholm had guessed her real job, she wasn't sure about this young man. Probably he didn't suspect, which was as well, seeing he'd referred to Fanshawe as “the enemy”. She needed him to trust her a little longer, now that she knew how vulnerable he was.
She waved towards the sitting-room and he followed her in. ‘When do they expect you back at work?'
He dropped on to a chair. She chose the sofa under a window, outside the circle of light from a nearby table lamp. The
whole room was dim. He wondered if her head was still painful. His was tender, but no more than that. Now that he was with Rosemary he didn't have anything to say. He considered her question.
‘Quite soon, I suppose. I wasn't seriously hurt. I'm to attend Outpatients in five days, to remove the sutures.'
‘Me too. Let me give you a lift.'
‘I don't think you should drive yet.'
She looked at him gravely. It was laughable really Here she was, ready to keep an eye on him, and he was bothered about
her
welfare. It might be a good idea to let him continue with that. Then they'd both have an excuse to do what they intended. ‘We could share a taxi,' she compromised.
He didn't answer because her cell phone fluted. He passed it across to her from the table at his side. ‘Zyczynski,' she said quietly into it. ‘Oh, Max! I didn't recognize the number … From where? I see … Yes, I'm fine and I'm at home now … Yes, really … Well, yes, I suppose: more of an incident than an accident. But I wasn't specifically targeted. Just wrong place, wrong time, as often happens …Of course, I would. Come whenever you can … Right then; I'll not wait up for you. See you. Bye.'
She grimaced, turned off the phone and faced Neil. ‘That was Max,' she said unnecessarily. ‘He's just heard what happened to me. So I'm in trouble for not getting in touch.'
‘He's coming tonight?'
She nodded, getting up from the sofa and brushing creases from her cord skirt.
‘You'll be all right, then.' His voice held a curious mixture of relief and wistfulness.
‘It's kind of you to check on me, Neil,' she said. ‘Don't forget to take care of yourself too.'
‘Yeah,' he answered, hovering by the door. ‘Marty's away at the moment, so I've no one to spoil but myself.'
Funny boy, she thought, watching him cross the gallery and start down the stairs. He made her feel – what exactly?
Motherly, she supposed. And yet there was slightly more to it. She recalled how he'd joked about a taste for older women. Maybe there was some truth in that. If so, had she a responsive taste for younger men? He was attractive, she'd admit: her frog prince. It was the large, wide-spaced eyes that had made her think of him as that. Not that she'd be kissing him and risk a transformation.
She went back to turn off the lights in the sitting-room, abandoned the dishes in the sink, and began to undress. She was dog-tired from the small effort of getting back home. As she climbed into bed she felt warmed through, knowing that when she awoke Max would be lying there beside her.
Clever of the Boss to delay telling him until she was over the worst. She cuddled her pillow close and was almost instantly asleep.
 
It was after ten next morning when Beaumont turned up with yet more videos from the garden centre's CCTV. ‘They're just an excuse. You don't need to bother with them,' he told Z, who was still drinking breakfast coffee at the kitchen table with Max Harris. The aquamarine bathrobe reflected a greenish tinge on her face, but her eyes looked less sunken.
‘I never knew about the attack until Mr Yeadings rang through to the office,' Harris explained. ‘I'm just back from Kandahar.'
‘So you're on the news desk now?'
‘God, no! But even a columnist has to keep up with history in the making; not that things have really changed out there. Tribal tensions are much as they ever were. Only there's more concern at the moment with poppy harvesting than strict observance of Muslim law. As it happens, I was born in Rawalpindi, which under our crazy nationality laws makes me a Paki. And I spent my early years dragged all over Asia.
‘But what's new on the crime front? Have you any idea who did this to my Rosebud?'
‘We're trying to tie it in with Sheila Winter's murder. It was
the Winter flat she was attacked in. The intruder was searching for something. Flavour of the moment is Jonathan – otherwise “Nat” – Baker. He seems to have been Sheila Winter's manfriend, and he's connected with the old lag, Childe.
‘DI Salmon is grilling him now, with the Boss sitting in. This time (glory be!) we were able to locate our suspect through Yellow Pages. I had the pleasure of calling on him last night with an invitation for 9a.m.'
‘What's he like?' Z asked. ‘I understand that Beattie and Frank Perrin know him. Has he admitted being in the house?'
‘Not so far. I took his first statement. He seemed to be quite open about things. He'd known Childe in the slammer, as he claimed; but while Childe was an inmate, Baker was on the maintenance staff. He'd been impressed by the serious way Childe was into horticulture, even studying for qualifications. He's still a registered visitor to the prison, but gave up working there two years back, when he started up on his own as a Corgi approved plumber and heating engineer. That's how Frank Perrin got to meet him, when he was short-staffed. He did work on this house in the early part of the conversion, but nothing since it's been lived in.
‘His contact with Sheila Winter goes further back, to when she still lived in London, but he's holding out on how they came to meet. She employed him to install a special watering system for the outdoor planting at Greenvale and tropical forest conditions in the glass-houses. Although he denied entering the house recently, he volunteered that he delivered some piping conduit for Perrin. That was when Fanshawe was in Beattie's kitchen and failed to set eyes on him.'
‘He must know Frank Perrin well enough to guess where he drops in for elevenses,' Z pointed out. ‘Do you think Salmon's really going for him? What about the suspected cannabis set-up at Barry Childe's cottage? Could he be in on that?'
‘He supplied him with all the gear. Baker keeps his paperwork in his home office and he showed me it. On first sight
the invoices look kosher, including a small trade discount. Childe will be clearing the debt in instalments, since he's barely paying his way as yet. There's nothing to prove Baker was part of the project or even knew what his gear was to be used for.'
‘You haven't said what he's like.'
‘Scrubs up well, as they say. In fact he'd pass muster as any average decent citizen. Physically he's long and lanky. Made me think of Mister Punch; the nose and chin thing, with a wide mouth stretching up towards the ears. Quite a humorous face, not that Salmon will give him much to laugh over as yet.'
‘I wonder what the Boss is making of him?'
‘He'll not let on. He's giving DI Salmon a lot of rope.'
‘I wish I could be working on it,' said Z wistfully. ‘I'm stood off for a fortnight, would you believe? Can't you find some way I can help, unofficially?'
‘You concentrate on getting better,' Max interrupted. ‘I have to go back to town tonight, but as soon as I've off-loaded this Kandahar stuff I'll be taking you off for the happiest, healthiest holiday you've ever known. So order some brochures from the travel shop and tell me what you'd fancy.'
When Beaumont had left, Max briskly surveyed the contents of fridge and freezer, then made out a shopping list. ‘Get just enough for two days,' Z insisted. ‘I need to make use of young Neil Raynes. Shopping will keep him out of mischief.'
‘Good,' Max agreed, wryly wondering if too much propinquity might encourage Neil to try the opposite. He grinned, kissed her gently and took off.
Beaumont had tucked some folded papers between the bread crock and the dresser wall. She had watched him do this while Max's attention was elsewhere, and guessed that whatever they contained was for her eyes only. She reached for them now and smoothed them out on the kitchen table. They covered alibis for the period during which she had been attacked.
According to this resume the house had appeared quite empty, and no cars had been parked outside when Neil and Vanessa Winter arrived back in her Alfa Romeo. A bracketed note admitted that no check had been made at that point on whether the garages too were empty. Z nodded. Her own car had been in there, she remembered.
Martin Chisholm had arrived in time to sort out Vanessa and Martin on the staircase, but until 15.48 he'd been at the car showroom in London arranging trial runs for a newly delivered Saab. This was confirmed by two colleagues. The times they gave for his leaving meant he'd driven home at an average speed of forty-seven mph, which was good going for the start of rush-hour.
Miss Barnes had returned from school a few minutes later, and Major Phillips was dropped off by his ‘corporal' some ten minutes after that, having come straight from the golf course clubhouse.
Beattie Weyman had been at the hairdresser's up until it shut at six o'clock. Frank Perrin claimed to have been checking on some foundations out at Berkhamsted, but the foreman and labourers had left by then and the site hut was locked; so this was without confirmation.
All that afternoon Paul Wormsley had been working on the firm's taxation figures, PAYE and VAT, at his photographic studio. His assistant vouched for this. She had been coping at the vital time with a fractious family of three under-tens – ‘real ankle-biters' – and resented his failing to help. ‘Keeping his head well down, in case he got drawn in,' she had claimed with some bitterness. The DC taking down her account had noted that Wormsley's office was partially overlooked by the studio and sufficiently well lit for her to see his upper body bent over his desk. She hadn't noticed at what time he left, but it must have been after herself at five. His lights were still on. He didn't arrive at Ashbourne House until the ambulance had left and the doctor was with Mrs Winter.
As well as Frank Perrin, Beaumont had added Jonathan
‘Nat' Baker to the list of residents. The latter's daybook showed he had worked for two customers that afternoon. One was booked in for 2.20pm and the other 4pm. He claimed that the first job had proved considerably more involved than expected and he'd phoned the second client to explain he might be up to an hour late. He said he'd arrived there at 5.07pm and left at 6.18. Since he charged for labour by the first hour and then by subsequent half-hours, he had to transfer these details to the bills, and their carbons confirmed the timing he claimed. Both call-outs were for adjustments to central heating in Eton Village; one, in fact, at New House in the College.
‘Very posh,' Z murmured to herself. Let DI Salmon challenge that one. Nevertheless, as she saw from Beaumont's note below, the DI was not entirely satisfied with this claim, so had arranged to call the plumber in on the following morning. This would be the interview the Boss was sitting in on at present.
Long and lanky, Beaumont had described the man. Z tried to bring back to mind the brief instant of entering Vanessa's bedroom. Had her attacker appeared like that? Big, she'd thought at the time, but then fear would have increased her impression of him; and she'd had a flash of real terror as he hurled himself on her.
Concentration didn't help. No clearer picture came. Her attacker could have been any one of this lot, or a total stranger, as far as she could tell. And they all had reasonable alibis, except Frank Perrin.
She wished that this nausea at recall of the incident would let up. Her earlier bacon sandwich lay uneasy inside her. It was nothing to do with the injury to her head. Just sheer funk. Which was silly, because as she'd told Max, the attack hadn't been specifically targeted at her. Her involvement with the intruder was over. She'd simply walked in on him, so he'd have been as shocked as she was herself. And by now, seeing the upset he'd caused, probably scared out of his criminal wits.

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