Dance of Death (31 page)

‘I see what you meant about him,’ observed Keedy. ‘He’s hardly a natural ally for Pattinson. One is a loud-mouthed showman and the other is a tight-lipped army man whose wife is afraid of him.’

‘He and Noonan are in different worlds.’

‘Are you saying that Atterbury and his agent were acting independently?’

‘That’s how it looks to me.’

They were back at the police station in Chingford, enjoying a cup of tea and discussing their visit to Islington. Keedy was still bubbling with optimism but Marmion was characteristically wary. They were interrupted by Gibbs, who came in to tell them that a young woman was anxious to speak to them. He showed Colette Orme into the room and Marmion gave her a warm welcome.

‘Thank God!’ said Keedy under his breath. ‘I thought Odele was on the prowl again.’

Of all the people that Catherine Wilder didn’t want to see on her doorstep, Odele was probably the first. Respecting each other as dancers, they’d never managed to convert that respect into friendship. Catherine was too embittered by the loss of her career to welcome anyone who took her place. The mere sight of Odele Thompson dancing with her husband had come to be a source of unceasing resentment. When they met again now, there was a brittle exchange of greetings. Catherine stood aside to let her visitor into the house.

‘You’ve had a lot of cards,’ said Odele as they came into the living room. She scanned the displays on the mantelpiece and on the piano. ‘I can’t see mine.’

‘It’s there somewhere, Odele.’

‘Is everything organised for the funeral?’

‘Yes, thankfully – my brother has taken charge of that.’

‘You look as if you’re bearing up well.’

‘Nights are the worst. That’s when all the memories ambush you.’

‘Yes,’ said Odele, grimly. ‘I’ve had nights like that.’ Glancing in the mirror, she adjusted her hair slightly. ‘Inspector Marmion called on me,’ she went on with a mischievous grin. ‘I’d have preferred that good-looking sergeant of his but I think that he’s hiding from me so the inspector came instead.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Apparently, he’s spotted something in the appointments book. Simon had put a tick beside five names with a pencil then rubbed them out. The inspector asked me if I knew what those ticks meant but I didn’t. I wondered if you might know.’

‘I never saw any ticks and I checked the book at the end of every week when I totted up the takings. Can you remember which names were ticked?’

Odele listed three of them but took time to recall the other two. Like her, Catherine couldn’t understand why those particular dancers had been singled out. It was Colette Orme’s name that interested them. Aware that Wilder had given her preferential treatment, they speculated on what would happen to the young dancer in the future. Catherine dismissed her chances of having a professional career but Odele felt that losing her mentor might actually toughen Colette and give her the urge to go on alone.

‘What she wants, of course,’ said Odele, fishing for information, ‘is for the studio to stay open.’

‘There’s no hope of that,’ said Catherine, tartly. ‘I intend to sell it. Believe it or not, I’ve already had one offer – though I turned it down flat. God came to see me.’

‘What did he want?’

‘He said he’d do me a favour by taking the studio off my hands. His offer was so insulting that I sent him packing. Whatever happens, he’s not getting his grubby paws on the property.’

‘That would be a ghastly prospect!’

‘It won’t ever happen, I promise you. Look,’ she said, nudged into a reluctant hospitality, ‘since you’re here, can I offer you anything?’

‘I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, Catherine.’

‘Since we lost our servant to the war effort, I’ve had to do some of the chores myself. But my tea is perfectly drinkable.’

‘Thank you …’

Instead of sitting, however, Odele took a closer look at the cards. Hers was clearly not among them and its omission was deliberate. It was one more slap in the face from Catherine. Most of the people who’d sent their condolences were known to Odele but some were complete strangers. The card she found most illuminating was tucked away in the middle of the display on the piano. When Catherine finally came back with a tea tray, Odele held up the card.

‘Dear old Allan!’ she said with a smirk. ‘His writing doesn’t get any better, does it? He always sent me a card afterwards as well.’

Paul knew that she wanted him. He could sense it in the way that she looked at him. Desperate to reach out to her, he was unable to do so because there was always somebody about. They visited a tea shop and
he was rewarded with the brushing of her knees against his. It appeared to be accidental but he believed it was deliberate. Mavis was dropping hints. The biggest hint of all was that she never once referred to Colin Fryatt. It was as if he’d never existed in her life. Paul had totally eclipsed him. Though his vision remained blurry, he could see enough of Mavis to think that she was really beautiful. He loved the tilt of her chin and the way her hair bobbed whenever she moved her head. What he wanted above all else was the feel and the taste of her. The urge built up inside him like a machine slowly gathering speed.

They were strolling down a road when his chance finally came. Dark clouds had been forming all morning. The first spots of rain dropped on their faces. Seeing that a shower was imminent, they looked around for cover.

‘Let’s go into that church,’ she suggested, pulling him by the hand.

‘It’s going to teem down any minute.’

‘We’ll be safe and dry in there.’

Paul would never have dreamt of sheltering in a church but he was with a vicar’s daughter. It was the obvious place of sanctuary to Mavis. She turned the iron ring that lifted the latch and the heavy, studded door opened on squealing hinges. They stepped into the gloom of the nave. Mavis led the way down the aisle then sat in a pew, patting the place beside her. Paul sank down gratefully, rubbing his shoulder against hers. Evidently, they were quite alone. Mavis began to point out some of the architectural features in the chancel but he was no longer listening. Paul’s interest was solely in her. His moment had at last come.

Putting an arm impulsively around her, he kissed her full on the lips. Though Mavis responded spiritedly, it was not in the way that he’d hoped. Pushing him roughly away, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

‘What are you doing?’ she cried. ‘This is a church.’

‘We’re alone, aren’t we? That’s all that matters.’

‘Oh, no, it isn’t.’

‘Come on, Mavis,’ he said, caressing her breast. ‘I want you.’

She pulled away from him. ‘Take your hands off me!’

‘I thought it was what you wanted.’

‘Well, it isn’t. You’ve disgusted me, Paul.’

‘Wait,’ he said, pulling her down again as she stood up. ‘Don’t you like me?’

‘I did like you – until now.’

‘Colin said that you were a pushover.’

She was outraged. ‘That’s not true.’

‘He told me that you let him do whatever he wanted.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘He boasted about it to everyone.’

‘Colin wouldn’t do that. He respected me.’

‘According to him, the pair of you went the whole way.’

Mavis let out a scream of protest. Instead of trying to push past him again, she went to the other end of the pew, rushed up the side aisle and fled through the door. Paul went after her but he knew that it was a waste of time. As she ran off down the road, his legs refused to go after her. Colin Fryatt had lied. To gain a false reputation among his sniggering army friends, he’d made ridiculous claims about his girlfriend. Paul had been deceived into believing him. He wanted the favours that Colin was supposed to have had. Instead of having a compliant young woman in his arms, however, he’d tried to molest a virgin and he’d done so – of all places – inside a church. It was unforgivable. A sense of profound shame coursed through him like electricity. It was intensified by the disillusion he felt with his best
friend. Taking the mouth organ from his pocket, he flung it away with contempt.

Then he went slowly back inside the church and knelt down at the altar rail. For the first time since he’d been wounded in action, Paul prayed as if he actually believed that someone was listening.

The estate agent was a cadaverous man in his fifties with a well-cut suit that Keedy immediately coveted. Acting on information supplied, tearfully, by Colette Orme, the detectives had gone to an office in the high street. Marmion explained that they were interested in a particular rented property.

‘Nobody was at home when one of my men called there a few days ago,’ he explained. ‘According to a neighbour, the house is rarely occupied. We’d like to know who rents it from you.’

‘One moment, Inspector,’ said the man, opening a drawer and taking out a ledger. ‘My memory is that the rental agreement was made through a third party.’ He flicked through the pages until he found the one he wanted. ‘Yes, here we are. It was made on behalf of a gentleman named Philip Clandon.’

Keedy was dismayed. ‘Are you
sure
that was the name?’

‘It’s the one I have here, Sergeant. What name were you expecting?’

‘Simon Wilder.’

‘Yes,’ said Marmion as the estate agent blinked in recognition of the murder victim, ‘now you understand our interest in the property. I take it that you have a spare key.’

‘Yes, yes,’ gabbled the man, standing up. ‘I’ll get it for you.’

With the key in their possession, the detectives jumped back in the car and were driven to the address they’d been given. Keedy was bewildered.

‘Colette must have been mistaken,’ he said.

‘I don’t think so, Joe. Nobody would make a mistake over something as important as that. She’s been tortured by the memory of it.’

‘Then why isn’t the house in Wilder’s name?’

‘He didn’t want anyone to know he was renting it.’

‘Somebody must have recognised him going there.’

‘Not if he took care to visit the house after dark when nobody was about.’

‘Who is this Philip Clandon?’

‘We’ll soon find out.’

Perched at the end of a terrace, the house was small, squat and unobtrusive. A thick bush in the tiny front garden shielded the lower part of the property. Marmion and Keedy got out of the car and let themselves into the house. When they entered the living room, they came to an abrupt halt. Expecting to see conventional furniture, they were instead confronted by a photographic studio. The whole of one wall was covered by a painted backdrop of white clouds flitting across a blue sky. In front of it was a chaise-longue. A decorated screen stood in one corner with a couple of flimsy robes draped over it. In another corner was a trolley loaded with bottles and glasses.

‘That’s how he did it,’ said Keedy, noting the alcohol. ‘He got them drunk first then persuaded them to pose for him.’

‘They were
already
drunk, Joe. They were intoxicated with the idea of being a famous dancer. Colette was a typical example. She was in thrall to Wilder. When he told her that she was engaged in producing something artistic, she believed him, and it must have been the same with the others.’

‘Is that all he did – take photos of naked women?’

‘We’ll soon see. Let’s look in the darkroom.’

‘How do you know there
is
one?’

‘There has to be,’ said Marmion. ‘A photographer of his standing would never put up with that glorified cupboard at his other house. He’d want much more space and he’d want it where Mrs Wilder knew nothing at all about it.’

It didn’t take long to search the small house. The darkroom was upstairs at the back of the property. To block out any light, a black blind had been drawn down over the window. The place was filled with photographic paraphernalia. Marmion’s eye went straight to the album in the corner. It contained a succession of nude or scantily dressed young women in artistic poses. There were far more than the five who’d been singled out in the appointments book. The most recent model was Colette Orme, posing nude on the chaise longue and smiling invitingly at the camera. Marmion closed the album in embarrassment.

‘We’ve seen enough,’ he said.

‘Wilder obviously wanted a private treasure trove.’

‘There’s more to it than that, Joe. The girls were tricked into believing that they were taking part in an artistic enterprise. Colette Orme admitted that. Wilder got her to adopt a number of balletic positions. When he showed her the photographs afterwards,’ said Marmion, ‘she made no objection at all. He promised her that they were for his eyes only.’

‘So that was his game – he made copies for circulation.’

‘Men of a certain sort would pay well for the photos in that album. They wouldn’t be looking at them for artistic merit. What they were after was the sheer excitement. Do you remember the money found in Wilder’s safe?’

‘Yes,’ said Keedy, ‘it might have come from the sale of the photos.’

‘Mrs Wilder didn’t even know it was there yet she controlled all
of their joint earnings.’ Marmion looked around. ‘This was his little factory, turning out photos for lonely men to gloat over. I feel so sorry for Colette and the other dancers. They all thought they were pupils of a genius. They had no idea that they were the victims of a repulsive pornographer.’

‘So who
killed
him?’

‘Wait a minute, Joe.’

‘Was it Atterbury or Redmond? Did they discover this secret den?’

‘
Wait
, I said.’ Eyes closed, Marmion held up a hand to silence him. ‘I’m in a darkroom of the mind. I’m developing a photo there and I’m waiting for the image to become clearer. Here it comes, very slowly …’ He opened his eyes and grinned. ‘Yes, I can see his face at last. It’s not the one I expected but that doesn’t matter one bit. We’ve identified the killer of Simon Wilder. Let’s go and get him.’

Colette Orme walked home in distress. Having to confess to another woman what she’d done was humiliating but the meeting with the detectives was far worse. As she explained what Wilder had talked her into, she finally realised how cunning he’d been, first plying her with praise, then drinking wine with her and gradually luring her into a position where she could deny him nothing. Unaware that others had visited the photographic studio, Colette had been thrilled at the thought that she was the chosen one. It was their secret, she’d been told, a bond between the two of them that drew them ineluctably close. If anything happened to him, he’d promised, the photographs would be returned to her in an envelope. Wilder had not touched her at all that evening, assuring her that he respected her too much to do that. What he had done was to make her feel special. When she’d left the studio, she’d been walking on air. As she trudged home now, she had feet of lead.