Death Speaks Softly (25 page)

Maddened with frustration, she slammed the phone down and remained for a moment arched over it, her body a curve of despair. The police, then. She'd passed their station on one of her walks about town. Selecting a different pair of shoes, she set off once more, and with increasing hopelessness, on her search. Where could she have gone, a young girl like that?

Cecile halted abruptly, her heart drumming under her ribs. What was she
thinking?
Her acute anxiety had transported her back to her earlier fears for Arlette. But Arlette was dead, and would never come home again. And Gaston? Holy Mother, spare me that.

The police station was further away than she remembered. Or perhaps it was simply that in her frantic haste to get there, the streets seemed unending, as in a dream, when you hurry but cannot move forward. By the time she reached it, her clean blouse was dark with sweat, her shoes pinching as badly as the last pair. Close to exhaustion, she leant on the desk and poured forth a torrent of French, which brought two men forward, to stare at her helplessly. She checked herself, wearily trying to remember such English as she knew. Was this a nightmare? Would she wake, to find Gaston sleeping peacefully at her side?

They were kind, these English
flics.
Surprisingly, they already knew he was missing, but, like Bernard, advised her to keep calm. They'd checked the hospitals, and there was no report of his being admitted. That was good news, wasn't it? they said encouragingly.

But was it? What if he lay beneath the dark water, as yet undiscovered?

'And we've men out on the beat, ma'am.' (She had no idea what that meant.
Battre?
There was corporal punishment, here in England?) 'They've been asked to keep an eye open. He'll turn up safe and sound, you wait and see.'

'But he would not—' She broke off helplessly, unable to explain herself in this hateful language.

'There's a foreign film showing at the Regal,' one of the men volunteered. 'Perhaps he's popped in there.'

She didn't believe it, but it was one of a dwindling bundle of straws for her to clutch at. Defeated, she nodded and, with an attempt at a smile, made her endless way back to the hotel.

'David, is that you?'

'Hannah!' Her name was startled out of him, and he was aware of Alan's interest. But she never phoned him at the station—it must be an emergency.

'I've just had a call from Madame Picard. She's out of her mind with worry; apparently her husband left the hotel when she was out this morning, and hasn't been seen since.'

Webb's eyes found the clock on the wall. Five o'clock. When Chris phoned back to say Warwick was safely home and had seemingly not left it that day, he'd forced himself to let go and turn his mind to the other matters clamouring for his attention. Now, all his half-formed fears rushed back. 'What did you tell her?'

'I promised I'd go straight over. There's no one she can talk to, and she's on the verge of collapse.'

'I'll come with you.'

'That's what I hoped you'd say. Shall I come down?'

'It would save a detour if you could. Park at the rear of the building. I'll meet you there in five minutes.'

'What the hell's happening?' Alan Crombie asked plaintively as Webb dropped the phone.

'I'm going to find out. But it looks as though we might have another body on our hands, and another French one, at that.' And without further explanation he strode from the room.

Ten minutes later he was grimly fighting his way through the rush-hour traffic, Hannah, tense, beside him.

'I'd just got back from school,' she was saying. 'She tried to get me earlier.'

'Did she mention Warwick?'

'Only to say he'd not been much help.'

'So she must have phoned him. That shows how desperate she is.'

'What can have
happened,
David? Surely he wouldn't go off without telling her? It's the first time he's even left his room since they arrived.'

'How was he when she left him, did she say?'

'A little better. He was dressed, which he apparently hadn't been for several days. She suggested he might like a breath of air.'

'Then panics when he takes her up on it.'

'But that was six hours ago!'

'Let's recap. He's under par after the migraines or whatever, and he's still deeply shocked by his daughter's death.'

Hannah caught her breath. 'You don't think he'd kill himself?'

'I don't think he'd set out to, though he might yield to sudden temptation. Just slide into the river, for instance.'

'Surely he'd have more regard for his wife?'

'Hannah love, if he did do it, he wouldn't have been thinking straight.'

'If he did do it,' she repeated grimly, 'it would fit in very nicely with friend Warwick's plans. Last obstacle removed.'

'Exactly, which is why I put the guard on him—or tried to. When I heard he was missing, I immediately checked on Warwick, but he was safely at home and had apparently been there all day. However, if, despite appearances, he somehow managed to winkle Picard out of his room while his wife was out—'

Hannah turned her wide gaze on him. 'Go on.'

'Let's look at it from Warwick's angle. Any minute now they're going back to France. He still believes the woman'll marry him—or so he says—but suppose he decides to check that Picard'll agree to a divorce. And finds out not only that he knows nothing about it, but that he's no intention of giving up his wife. What then?'

Hannah moistened her lips. 'But you said Warwick hadn't been out today.'

'I said "apparently". We've only his word for it.' They were beyond the last, straggling suburbs now, and speeding towards Marlton. 'Suppose, just for the sake of argument, that he somehow managed to get Picard into his car. What would he do with him?'

'Talk,' Hannah said slowly. 'Argue. Try to convince him he'd a prior claim.'

'And where would this talk be taking place?'

'Well, he couldn't risk staying in town. Someone might see him. So I suppose he'd drive out—' She stopped. 'Oh God, not again!'

'Into the country,' Webb finished for her. 'And what better place to twist the knife than the spot where the girl died? Softening up the opposition, as it were.'

'And you think that, in despair, Picard might have hurled himself after her?'

'That could have been the idea. If he didn't do it volun
tarily,
he could have been persuaded.' Webb paused. 'Hang on, we're racing ahead of ourselves. There are several holes in that theory. How did he meet Picard? While he was taking a stroll? Too risky, and too public.

'DI Ledbetter assures me Warwick wasn't spotted at the hotel, and couldn't have got to Picard's room unnoticed. But then the face he was using didn't see Picard leave, so I don't place much reliance on that.'

'Perhaps he went out the back way,' Hannah said. 'That's the quickest route to the car park.'

'Surely to God they'd have covered that. If they didn't, there'll be some rapped knuckles around. To be fair, though,

Ledbetter was only humouring me; as far as he's concerned, the case is over. To rethink, then: Warwick couldn't know of the lobby plant, but he'd be manic about secrecy, particularly if he'd foul play in mind. So, if he
did
contact Picard —and remember that is only a hypothesis—he would have told him to use the back entrance.'

He slowed down to pass a flock of sheep in the middle of the road. 'And if SB left the back of the building unguarded, they probably didn't check on phone calls, either. So we must now find out if Picard received one. There's a call-box coming up on the left. You don't know the number of the hotel, by any chance?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Never mind, I'll get it.' He swerved in to the kerb, drawing up outside the red box. 'Won't be a minute.' Half way out of the car, he turned back and implanted a hard kiss on her mouth. Her body responded, but her mind was with Madame.

Seconds later, it seemed, David was back beside her and the car was getting up speed again. 'Right on the nail,' he told her. 'A call was put through to the room soon after Madame left this morning. A man's voice, no name asked for or given.'

'Did you speak to her?'

'No. No point in adding to her worries at this stage. There'll be time enough to contact her if we're right.'

'If we do—find him there, it'll be hard to know if it was murder, accident or suicide.'

'His daughter's case all over again. Except that this time there would be deliberate intent. At best, someone drove him knowingly to the place of he
r death, and left him there,
If
they did.'

Steeple Bayliss High Street was still busy when they reached it, and they had to curb their impatience crawling behind buses and home-going traffic. Even on Gloucester Road it was slow going, and it was only when Webb turned off on the now-familiar track that he was able to go more quickly. The car bucketed over the uneven ground, rattling and bouncing, and when he stopped it, the sudden silence pressed painfully on their eardrums.

'Stay here,' Webb commanded.

'Sorry, I'm coming with you.'

He didn't stop to argue, but set off up the slope at a run, holding a hand out behind him. Hannah caught it and ran with him, praying in short, breathless gasps that they wouldn't find what she was so sure would be lying there. When they reached the top, she hung back as David looked over the edge, gripping his fingers tightly.

'He's there,' he said. 'I'm going down.' For the second time in five days, he lowered himself gingerly over the side. Hannah stood where he had left her, eyes stinging with tears. Oh God, how could she face Madame?

'Hannah!' The voice from below had an urgent ring to it. She moved to the edge.

'Yes?'

'I think I heard a groan. We might be in time after all.' 'Cecile?'

'Oh, Bernard! I'm insane with worry!' 'You've still heard nothing?'

'Rien.
He hasn't been taken to hospital, that's all I know.'

'Darling, I think you should come here.'

'I cannot leave the hotel. There may be news, and also a lady is coming to see me.'

'I have the news you're waiting for.'

She went still. 'About Gaston? You know where he is?'

'I think you should come,' he repeated. 'There'll be taxis outside the hotel. Fourteen, Lime Tree Grove.'

He was waiting on the pavement, helped her out of the car and paid the driver. Then, with his arm round her, he led her into the house. This was the first of many times, he told himself exultantly, that they'd walk together up this path. After all these years, she belonged to him.

She twisted free of him. 'What have you to tell me? Hurry, please, I must not be long. Already there may be messages.'

'Come to the kitchen, I've made some coffee.'

Impatiently she followed him. The remains of his lunch was still on the table. 'I've no time for coffee. Tell me what—'

'There won't be any messages, my darling.'

She stared at him while the kitchen clock broke up the stretching seconds into staccato sound, loud as pebbles on a drum. He added gently, 'You won't hear from Gaston ever again.'

She whispered, white-lipped, 'You know where he is?' 'Yes. I should have told you before, but the timing had to be right.'

'Where is he? Is he safe?
Tell
me, for God's sake!' 'He's at peace,' Bernard said.

'No!' The word was a wail, both hands flying to her head.

'Darling, hush. I mean it. He was tormented, beside himself with grief. I thought it would comfort him to see where she died. Truly, Cecile, I meant it for the best. But he broke away and before I could stop him, he'd leapt over the edge. It took me completely by surprise.'

'No, no, no!'

'I know it's hard to bear, my love, but I'm here. We'll see it through together.'

'It
can't
be true! Gaston would not kill himself, whatever the pain. It is a mortal sin, Bernard—against his faith. He would suffer any pain rather than that.'

'Sweetheart, he was distraught, a desperate, unhapy man. And when I told him of our plans—'

He saw the first doubt in her eyes. 'You told him those lies, about my leaving him?' Might that, after all, push him literally over the edge? But no. Gaston's faith would withstand even that. In any case, he wouldn't believe it.