Apportionment of Blame (16 page)

“Thank you. The trouble is that the person living at that address is not called Ilse Chambers, but Ilse Lamont.”

“Well that's easily explained. Some married people like to keep their maiden names.”

“Have you met her?”

“Of course.”

“Do you think it likely, having met her, that she has ever been married?”

“I see what you mean. So where are you going with this?”

“The question is why did Annie Glenn leave all of her considerable estate to Ilse Chambers/Lamont, a person of whom the family has no knowledge.”

“I can't help you there. I drew up the will, and I remember being surprised by the sole beneficiary. But I have no knowledge of any reason behind it.”

“Does the name Lamont mean anything to you in this context?”

He thought for a moment.

“No, it doesn't.”

“Do you mind if I ask you how long you have handled Annie Glenn's affairs?”

“The firm has handled her late husband's affairs for a considerable period of time, through our Glasgow office, you understand.”

“So you don't know much about them personally?”

“No.”

I didn't feel there was very much further I could go with this, but there was one thing I could usefully find out.

“Would it be possible to enquire of your Glasgow office about the name Lamont, in relation to Annie Glenn?”

“Are you retaining my firm's services in this case?”

“I wasn't intending to, no. But you handled Annie's will, and a young person died not too far from where the beneficiary of that will lives. Now that could be a coincidence, but I intend to look into it, and it would be useful to know if the name that person is using has any relevance to the family. Call it tying up one last loose end of a case you must have been paid handsomely for already.”

“It may take a few days.”

“There's no rush, but if you could answer that question I know the whole family would be grateful. I certainly would be.”

I fished in my pocket for a card and passed it across the table.

“You can reach me here. I shall look forward to your call.”

I was hoping he was intrigued enough to make the enquiry for me, and I pushed back my chair to leave.

“Normally I would hesitate before doing what you ask,” he said, “but I can see no harm in asking one simple question. After all the family have been our good clients for a long time.”

That was all I wanted to hear. I leaned across the table and shook his hand.

“Thank you for your help.”

I handed my identity clip back to the man on the desk downstairs and went back out into Cheapside.

Crossing the road I went into the new Paternoster complex, bought a coffee and took it into St Paul's churchyard where I found a bench that was free and not covered in pigeon droppings.

I needed Joyce to bounce some ideas off, but I didn't want to worry her unduly. I decided I could tell her about Gemma, but I wouldn't mention the note on my car or the motorbike, or Stuart.

“Hi Joyce. It's me. I'm in London.”

“What are you doing there? You said you would stay away for a few days.”

Not much point staying away now I've been tracked down at home, I thought.

“I've been to talk to your solicitor about the mysterious person who inherited.”

“Any good?”

“To a certain extent, yes. Look, leave that with me for a while, will you? I'll let you know if and when I track down Ilse Chambers. No point in building up your hopes till then.”

“I suppose not. So why did you call me? Not just to tell me you're in London?”

“No. I think I know who G is. Sarah, from Colbox, called me. Apparently the Gemma who works there fancied Helen.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yes, I know. Who could have expected that?”

“No wonder Helen wanted to speak to her boss. What will you do?”

“I'm not sure. It makes Gemma a suspect, of course, although I can't see how she could have been involved in what happened to you up here. And to me those notes imply guilt.”

Joyce didn't say anything.

“In one sense,” I continued, “if Gemma has nothing to do with Helen's death, with Helen gone there is no G problem anymore. Do you think Mr. Jordan would like to know?”

“There's nothing to be gained by just telling him one of his employees is a lesbian. He might be homophobic. That could make life very difficult for Gemma.”

“That's a good point. Perhaps I should just let him know that the mystery is solved and there's nothing for him to worry about.”

“Yes, that would do, as long as you're sure Gemma isn't involved in what happened.”

“I don't see how she could be.”

I nearly said that everything hangs together with Ilse living so close to where Helen died, then realised that Joyce didn't know that.

“Be careful,” she said, “won't you, up there in London.”

“As careful as I can be. See you soon.”

I closed the phone. There was nothing I could do now but wait to see what I could discover. Perhaps there was something else for me to do waiting at the office. At least that would take my mind off Helen and Joyce.

I set off back up towards Barbican station.

Chapter 9

I
was
feeling quite pleased with myself as I left the tube station at Euston Square, so much so that I called in at the little kiosk there to buy myself a large Danish pastry.

Things were beginning to fit together, at least in relation to the inheritance, and if the solicitor was able to discover the link to the Lamont name which I suspected, it should be possible to get some idea of the total picture in that jigsaw puzzle.

When I turned the corner I saw the black truck parked across the street from my office. As the man in the garden had suggested, it was a Mitsubishi truck with a double cab. I had no doubt it was the same one and why it was there, and I saw two occupants in a quick glance before pulling back around the corner to think.

There was little or no subtlety in parking there, which confirmed my earlier view that I was dealing with someone not quite in the Moriarty class.

What were my options? I could ignore the truck and walk into the office building as normal. That might work. Whoever it was had no way of knowing what I looked like. Or I could go away and come back later. That would achieve nothing. Or I could confront whoever was in the truck.

I realised I could not expect to continue in the detective business for long without facing the occasional confrontation, so I decided on the third option.

The truck had been facing me, so instead of entering the street in plain sight, I doubled back round the block and approached the vehicle directly from behind, trying to keep out of sight of its rear view mirrors.

I reached the back of the truck without being seen. Then, crouching, I made my way along the driver's side, keeping low and out of his mirror's view. Either my approach strategy was good or the driver was half asleep, because nothing had happened by the time I reached his door.

What needed to happen next was not my normal way of operating, so I took a deep breath before going ahead.

Yanking the door open with my right hand, I grabbed the collar of the driver with my left hand and pulled him out of the cab. He stumbled to the ground, half falling, with the inevitable, “What the...?”

I pulled him upright and round to face the truck, pinning his right arm behind him and pushing it upwards.

“Hey. That hurts!”

“That was the idea,” and as his colleague opened his door I shouted, “And you stay where you are, or I'll break his arm.”

It went very quiet. I pushed the arm a little higher.

“Do as he says,” said the owner of the arm.

“Good move.”

I waited till I was sure, all the time working out what to do and what to say. This situation required careful thought. And it was not a situation I was used to dealing with.

“Now. Did you want to talk to me?”

“Who are you?”

There was something about the way he said ‘you' that reminded me of Ilse.

“Let's leave out the attempts at humour, shall we? You know who I am. That's why you're here. Do you think a perfect stranger would pull you out of the cab like that?”

“You're hurting my arm.”

“I know, and you are the only one who can stop the pain. Tell me what's going on.”

“I don't know what you mean.”

I pushed a little harder, aware that I had no idea how far I could safely push.

“You've been pestering my sister.”

“And who is your sister?”

Nothing, so I increased the pressure again.

“Ilse.”

“Ilse what?”

“Ilse Chambers.”

“You sure of that?”

“What do you mean?”

“Is that her real name?”

“‘Course it is. It's the same as mine.”

That, at least, was interesting.

“Look, let go of me,” he said, a trace of panic in his voice. “I'm not going to do anything.”

“You kidnapped a friend of mine.”

“It wasn't me. It was ‘im.”

How many times had I heard that?

“But you were involved.”

“The whole thing was stupid,” he went on. “It was supposed to be you.”

The tone of his voice had changed. He began to sound deflated, and if I was right he was not much of a danger, at least for the moment. I'd barely touched him and he hadn't fought back. Lucky for me, as I was no fighter.

I made a decision.

“Climb back into the cab and move along. I'm coming in after you. Try anything funny, and I will break your arm.”

He went to climb in, so I let him go and followed him.

“What's going on, boss?”

“Just shut up.”

I closed the door, partly to keep out the cold.

“OK. Talk to me,” I said.

“About what?”

“You accused me of pestering your sister. Why would I do that?”

“I don't know.”

“You're a joke you are. You kidnap innocent people from quiet gardens, lie in wait for people, then claim you have no idea what it's all about. Let's try this again. Why would I pester your sister?”

“That girl got herself killed. It was near Ilse's house. You came round asking questions and it frightened her.”

“Is that all? You're taking things to extremes, aren't you? Writing obscure notes, kidnapping people. Just because I asked your sister some questions. I asked a lot of people questions. She's not the only person who lives round there.”

The tone of my voice rose as my anger increased.

Silence.

“It all seems very suspicious to me. I gave my card to your sister, as I did to all her neighbours. She must have shown it to you. Why would you go to such lengths to stop me talking to your sister? Is she hiding something?”

“No.”

“Or are you hiding something?”

“No.” Even louder.

“What did she do?”

He turned and put his face closer to mine.

“She didn't do anything,” he spat at me. “That's why you were wrong to bother her.”

“So why the need to put the frightners on me here?”

This made no sense. There must be something I was missing. Some reason why it was so important to scare me off.

His shoulders slumped a little, but there was still a hint of defiance in his voice.

“I've always looked after her.”

“Did your sister ask you to come after me?”

“No.”

“So why did you?”

“I told you. I look after her.”

“Why am I not convinced? A caring brother discovers that someone has been talking to his sister, asking questions no less.” I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“Does she give you a list of all the people she speaks to, so you can scare them off?”

“Don't be stupid!”

“So why this time?”

More silence.

“Perhaps I should go to the local nick and identify this truck as the one used in the kidnapping of my friend. We have an independent witness, you know.”

He turned to his partner.

“I told you. Bloody stupid, that was.”

“But whose idea?” I chipped in.