Apportionment of Blame (6 page)

“It's you!”

Joyce edged further behind me as if frightened by his recognition.

I sat down next to him.

“So you were here yesterday.”

“Yes. Why?”

“And you saw what happened?”

“I didn't see much.”

“What can you remember?”

“I was eating my sandwich,” he said. “It was getting cold and I was thinking about going somewhere warmer. Then she came down the steps and made a beeline for that bench over there.” He pointed with an arthritic looking finger towards the magnolia tree.

“And then?” I prompted.

“It was so quick. She bent down to do something and two others appeared from nowhere, grabbed her and bundled her out to the road.”

“Did you see where they came from?”

“No. It had been quiet here for a long time. It usually is. I was eating and not taking any notice of anybody else.”

“Where exactly did they take her?”

“Through that gap into the road,” he said and pointed again.

I turned to look through the gloom.

“Did you see the car?”

I figured that as Joyce had described a tall car, it would have been visible above the stone wall.

The man was staring past me towards the road.

“Anything you remember would be useful.”

I waited and began to think I was wasting my time.

“Black,” he said suddenly.

“The car?”

“It was black, and it wasn't a car.”

I looked at Joyce.

“What was it then?”

Then he looked back at me, pleased with himself.

“It was one of those truck things with a big cab.”

“How do you mean, big cab?”

“It had two doors each side and two rows of seats, and there was a ladder on the back, resting on the cab.”

“A ladder?”

“Yes. Like builders have.”

I looked at Joyce and her expression told me she had no recollection of what we had just heard. But I thought I knew what the man was describing.

“Is there anything else you can remember? You've been very helpful so far and we're grateful.”

“Are you all right?” he said to Joyce.

“Yes, thanks. They didn't really hurt me. Just frightened me.”

“I hope you find them. Bloody hooligans,” he said.

“Yes. So do I,” I replied, waiting to see if he had more to tell us. But that was it.

“Thanks again.”

I got up from the bench and put my hands on Joyce's shoulders.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“Yes. So where to now?“ she said.

“To celebrate,” I suggested. “We've had our first breaks in this investigation. We deserve something.”

She smiled, and in one sense, that in itself was worthy of celebration as she had looked so down recently, and with good reason.

We made our way along Euston Road to a pizza place I knew and I ordered a bottle of wine - one of the advantages of using public transport.

While we waited, we chatted about nothing in particular and enjoyed the Australian Merlot.

“One thing is strange,” I said to Joyce. “If Stuart was involved in the garden incident, what was all that about a truck with a ladder?”

“Perhaps he has friends up here.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I'll find out when I see him, I hope. Now, tell me more about your family.”

An enormous pizza had materialised in front of each of us and we began to eat.

“You know most of it, I think,” Joyce said.

She took another mouthful.

“Mum is from Suffolk. Dad is from Hampshire.”

“Where did they meet?”

“On a train.”

“Didn't you once tell me your mother was married before?”

“Yes. Helen and I were only half-sisters. Her dad died in an accident when she was tiny. I don't think she remembered him at all.”

We continued to eat while I thought.

“Do you know many of Helen's friends?”

“Most of those who live near us, I suppose. You know a fair few yourself, from The Goose.”

“Mmm,” I agreed, with my mouth full. “But the reason I asked is that if she was killed, someone had a reason. People don't get pushed in front of trains for no reason at all. One of those friends might know something about her life which is relevant.”

The thought of chasing down all her friends for question and answer sessions did not excite me. But every angle had to be covered; every possibility followed up.

I recalled how many policemen and detectives I had read about described their work as more drudgery than excitement. It was the mundane work which often brought results. Movies and TV programmes might make police work appear intriguing, stimulating and exciting as a problem solving exercise, but what they don't show is the hard slog and boring repetition of long interviews and report writing.

The restaurant was beginning to fill and the noise began to make conversation difficult.

“I think I should chat with your mother as well.”

“OK.”

“It might be a good thing anyway, to be out of town for a while. If someone is looking for me here, I am going to be better off somewhere else.

“I'll work from home for a day or two. I can always pick up my office messages, so I'll know if anything important comes up.”

“Are you very busy doing other things?”

“Not really. A few people have contacted me for straightforward enquiries, but there's nothing so urgent it can't wait a while. As far as I'm concerned, what happened to Helen is far more important.”

“I just don't want you to lose business because of me.”

“Let me worry about that,” I assured her, knowing I probably would worry if nothing more turned up soon.

We finished our meal and I paid the bill, then we made our way to the station and home.

I made arrangements to meet Joyce's mother the following morning, and to lunch with Joyce after that. It seemed a good idea to stay out of London for at least a few days, to see if that produced any reaction from anyone.

It was dark and even gloomier when I arrived outside the flats. I sat in the car and looked about me, considering, as I did so, how I was going to approach the interview. If Stuart was involved in Helen's death and Joyce's snatch, he would be very evasive, and also potentially dangerous.

Joyce's last words had been “Be careful”. I had every intention of following them to the letter.

I could see an L shaped block which appeared to have two entrances. Which one I needed I had no idea, so I made for the nearest.

The doorway was recessed and on the side of the porch there were several bell pushes in a vertical row, each one with a name label alongside it. I counted ten labels and soon realised it was too dark to read them.

As I was stepping back out towards the car park someone rushed out of the door and brushed past me.

“Excuse me,” I called hopefully.

“What? I'm in a hurry.” The man turned, but continued to inch away backwards in a clumsy sort of way.

“I'm looking for Stuart Hemsley.”

“Never heard of him.”

His head turned back to face front, then he suddenly stopped and turned.

“No. I do know him. Over there - 7B.”

He pointed briefly at the other entrance and then continued his run away from me.

“Thank you so much for your time and trouble,” I muttered quietly to myself.

The other entrance was equally dark, but he had said 7B so I began counting down from the top, and when I reached the seventh label I strained my eyes to the limit to read what it said. I could see a clear H. That seemed good enough. I pressed the bell push.

“Yes?” The disembodied voice came from a metal grill speaker I hadn't noticed in the gloom.

“Stuart?”

“Yes. Who's this?”

“It's Greg Mason. I'm a friend of the Hetheringtons.”

Yes. I remember you from the pub.”

“Can you spare me a few minutes?”

“I was about to go out. Will it take long?”

“Shouldn't think so. Depends.”

“That sounds interesting. OK, come up. Second floor, on the left.”

“Thanks.”

I heard the door click open and had no trouble finding the stairs by the ceiling lights, most of which were on.

He was standing in the doorway when I reached it, straightening his shirt as if he had just dressed hurriedly. The state of his hair told me he was hot foot from the shower.

He looked fit, was certainly taller than me and had a pleasantly featured face, with piercing eyes.

I went in, and he followed me into a very masculine space, with brown leather swivel chairs, an enormous flat screen television, what looked like a top of the range sound system and a small, square glass topped dining table with a folding bistro chair at each side. Strange choice of dining chairs, I thought.

“Would you rather stand or sit?”

“I'll stand. That way I can keep up with you while you move about and get ready for wherever you are going. The Goose, is it?”

“How did you know that?”

“Well I know Joyce Hetherington. And I know you are, sorry, were a friend of her sister's and part of the gang that meets at The Goose quite often.”

He was standing, staring at me, now.

“Why are you here?”

“I am looking into the circumstances of Helen's death.”

“Oh, yes, that's right. You've become some sort of private detective, haven't you? So you've come here to practice on me, have you?”

“I'm speaking to everyone who had some connection with Helen. It's the only way to try to discover what happened and why.”

“And are you going to question everyone who goes to The Goose?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much you can tell me.”

“Does that mean I'm the first to experience your questioning technique?”

I suppose I should have expected a measure of sarcasm.

“Yes, as it happens.”

He had begun to pace about the room in a rather nervous way. I just stood still and followed him with my eyes.

“So, tell me. How well did you know Helen?”

She was part of the gang. You've been at The Goose with us sometimes. I've seen you. You know how we all get on.”

“And some get on rather better than others.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” He had stopped walking again and was staring at me. And if I was asked how he was staring, I would have to say defiantly.

“You tell me. Take any average group of school friends who stay in touch and meet regularly. Some male, some female. Now and again it would be natural for two of them to become particularly friendly, perhaps for a while, perhaps for good. Did you have a particular friend in that group?”

“We were all friends.”

“Yes. We have established that. I am talking about special friends. Going out friends. Spending a lot of time together friends. Emailing each other a lot friends.”

His head snapped towards me when I said that.

“Who told you?” he asked quietly.

“Helen's computer told me.”

“You have no right to go nosing about in someone else's private messages.”

“I have every right, if that person has died in mysterious circumstances and I have been asked to look into what happened.”

The stare was back, but less defiant now, and Stuart flopped down into one of the swivel chairs.

“You were obviously very fond of her.”

“I was crazy about her. I would have done anything for her. But she wasn't interested. Oh, she was happy to go out a few times; but as soon as she sensed something serious, she ended it.”

“How soon before she died did she end it?” I knew the date from the computer, but I wanted to test his veracity. He was honest about that.

“So what did you do?”

“Do? Do?” His voice rose. “My God. You think I had something to do with her death.”

“Did you?”

He leapt out of the chair and came at me, but I was too quick for him and dodged behind the dining table. We stood staring at each other. I could see his anger in the white of his knuckles as he held the back of a chair, and by the pulse at the side of his forehead.