Devices and Desires (37 page)

It was only when the keys had been replaced in the security cupboard that he could breathe freely. Now that he had gained what he wanted it seemed ungracious to hurry away. It was important to be gone before Mrs. Simpson returned and Shirley was left to face the inevitable question about
what he was doing there and might be forced into a lie. But he lingered a moment while she settled herself at her desk. She began threading paper clips together to make a chain.

She said: “I feel really awful about this murder. I really do. Do you know, I was actually there, on Sunday afternoon. I mean the actual place where she died. We went for a picnic so that Christopher could play on the beach. I mean Mum, Dad, Christopher and me. He’s my baby brother, he’s only four. We parked the car on the headland only about fifty yards from Miss Robarts’s cottage, but of course we didn’t see her. We didn’t see anybody the whole afternoon, except Mrs. Jago in the distance, on her bicycle, delivering the church magazines.”

Jonathan said: “Have you told this to the police? I suppose they might be interested. I mean, they’d be interested in hearing that you hadn’t actually seen anyone near her cottage.”

“Oh yes, I told them. And they were very interested. Do you know, they asked me whether Christopher had spilled any sand on the path. And he had. Wasn’t that funny? I mean, it was funny they should think of it.”

Jonathan said: “When were you there, then?”

“They asked me that as well. Not very long. Only from about half past one to about half past three. We actually ate our picnic in the car. Mum said it wasn’t the time of year to sit around on the beach getting cold. Then we went down the path to that little cove and Christopher made a sand castle near to the sea. He was happy enough, but it wasn’t warm enough for the rest of us to sit about. Mum more or less had to drag him away yelling. Dad went on to the car, and we were lagging a bit behind. Mum said: ‘I’m not having you carrying that sand into the car, Christopher. You know your dad won’t like it.’ So she made him tip it out. More yells from
Christopher, of course. Honestly, that kid can be diabolical sometimes. Funny, isn’t it? I mean, us being there on that very same afternoon.”

Jonathan said: “Why do you think they were so interested in the sand?”

“That’s what Dad wanted to know. That detective, the one who was here and interviewed me, said that they might find a footprint and want to eliminate it if it belonged to one of us. Dad reckons they must have found a footprint. A couple of young detectives, very nice they were, came to see Dad and Mum yesterday evening. They asked Dad and Mum what shoes they had been wearing, and they actually asked if they could take them away. Well, they wouldn’t do that, would they, if they hadn’t found something?”

Jonathan said: “It must have been a terrible worry to your dad and mum.”

“Oh no, it didn’t bother them. After all, we weren’t there when she died, were we? After we left the headland we drove to have tea with Gran at Hunstanton. We didn’t leave until half past nine. Far too late for Christopher, Mum said. He slept in the car all the way home, mind you. But it was funny, though, wasn’t it? Being there on the very day. If she’d been killed a few hours earlier, we’d actually have seen the body. I don’t think we’ll go back to that part of the beach again. I wouldn’t go there after dark for a thousand pounds. I’d be frightened I might see her ghost. Funny about the sand, though, isn’t it? I mean, if they do find a footprint and it helps them to catch the murderer, it will all be because of Christopher wanting to play on the beach and Mum making him spill out the sand. I mean, it was such a little thing. Mum said it reminded her of Vicar’s sermon last Sunday when he preached about how even our smallest actions can have immense consequences.
I didn’t remember it. I mean, I like singing in the choir, but Mr. Smollett’s sermons are dead boring.”

So small a thing, a footprint in soft sand. And if that footprint was made in the sand spilled by Christopher from his bucket, then it was made by someone who had used that path after 3.30 on Sunday afternoon.

He said: “How many people here know about this? Have you told anyone except the police?”

“No one but you. They said that we weren’t to talk and I haven’t, not until now. I know Mrs. Simpson was curious why I asked to see Chief Inspector Rickards. She kept saying that she couldn’t see what I could tell them and that I wasn’t to waste police time trying to make myself important. I suppose she was worried, thinking I’d tell them about the row she and Miss Robarts had when Dr. Gledhill’s personnel file was missing and Dr. Mair had it all the time. But you won’t tell, will you? Not even Miss Amphlett?”

“No,” he promised. “I won’t tell. Not even her.”

There was a surprising number of detective agencies in the Yellow Pages and apparently very little to choose between them. He chose one of the largest and wrote down the London telephone number. It wouldn’t do to telephone from the power station, and he didn’t want to wait until he got home, where there would be even less privacy. He was anxious, too, to ring as soon as possible. His plan was to lunch at a local pub and find a public call box.

The morning seemed interminable, but at twelve o’clock he said that he was taking an early lunch hour and left, checking first that he had sufficient small coins. The nearest kiosk was, he knew, in the village, close to the general store. It was a public position, but he told himself that there was no need for particular secrecy.

His call was quickly answered by a woman. He had prepared what he would say, and she seemed to find nothing strange in the request. But it became apparent that it wouldn’t be as easy as he had hoped. Yes, she said, the agency could certainly hope to trace an individual from the information provided, but there
was no fixed charge. Everything depended on the difficulty and how long it took. Until his request had been formally received, it was impossible even to give an estimate. The cost might be as little as two hundred pounds or as much as four hundred. She suggested that he should write in immediately, setting out all the information in his possession and stating clearly what he required. The letter should be accompanied by a down payment of one hundred pounds. They would certainly deal with it as a matter of urgency, but until the request was received they could give no assurance of how long it would take. He thanked her, said that he would write, and put down the receiver, glad that he hadn’t given her his name. Somehow he had imagined that they would take the information down over the telephone, tell him what the cost would be, promise him a quick result. It was all too formal, too expensive, too slow. He wondered whether to try another agency, then told himself that in this highly competitive field they were unlikely to give him any more encouraging news.

By the time he had got back to the power station and parked his car, he had almost persuaded himself not to proceed. And then it occurred to him that he might make his own enquiries. The name was unusual enough; there might be an Amphlett in the London telephone directory, and if not in London it might be worth trying some of the larger cities. And her father had been a soldier. Perhaps there was an army directory—wasn’t it called the Army List?—which he could consult. It would be worth doing a little research before committing himself to expenditure he might not be able to meet, and the thought of writing to a detective agency, of actually putting his request down on paper, discouraged him. He began to feel like a conspirator, an unfamiliar role which both excited him and ministered to some part of his nature which he hadn’t previously known existed. He would work alone, and if he was unsuccessful it would be time to think again.

And the first step was remarkably straightforward, so simple that he blushed at his folly at not having thought of it earlier. Back in the library he consulted the London telephone directory. There was a P. C. Amphlett with an address in Pont Street, SW1. He stared at it for a moment then, with trembling fingers, took out his notebook and jotted down the telephone number. The initials were those of Caroline’s mother, but the entry bore no prefix. The subscriber could easily be a man. It could be a coincidence. And the name Pont Street meant nothing to him, although he didn’t think that SW1 could be a poor area of London. But would she have told him a lie which could be detected merely by consulting the telephone directory? Only if she was so confident of her dominance, of his enslavement to her, so certain of his inadequacy and stupidity, that she hadn’t needed to care. She had wanted that alibi and he had given it. And if this was a lie, if he visited Pont Street and discovered that her mother wasn’t living in poverty, what else that she had told him had been true? When exactly had she been on the headland and for what purpose? But these were suspicions which he knew he could not seriously entertain. The idea that Caroline had killed Hilary Robarts was ridiculous. But why hadn’t she been willing to tell the police the truth?

But he knew now what his next move would be. On the way home he would telephone the Pont Street number and ask for Caroline. That at least should prove whether or not it was her mother’s address. And if it was, then he would take a day’s leave or wait until Saturday, make an excuse to have a day in London and check for himself.

The afternoon dragged endlessly and it was difficult to keep his mind on his work. He was worried too in case Caroline should appear, should suggest that he go home with her. But she seemed to be avoiding him, and he was grateful. He left ten
minutes early, making the excuse of a headache, and within twenty minutes was back at the telephone kiosk in Lydsett. The number rang for almost half a minute, and he had nearly given up hope when it was answered. A woman’s voice slowly and distinctly spoke the number. He had decided to assume a Scottish accent. He knew himself to be quite a good mimic, and his maternal grandmother had been a Scot. There would be no difficulty in making it convincing. He said: “Is Miss Caroline Amphlett at home, please?”

There was a long silence; then the woman said repressively: “Who is that speaking?”

“My name is John McLean. We’re old friends.”

“Indeed, Mr. McLean. Then how strange that I don’t know you and that you, apparently, don’t know that Miss Amphlett no longer lives here.”

“Then could you give me her address, please?”

Again there was a silence. Then the voice said: “I hardly think I would care to do that, Mr. McLean. But if you wish to leave a message I will see that it reaches her.”

He asked: “Is that her mother speaking?”

The voice laughed. It was not an agreeable laugh. Then she said: “No, I’m not her mother. This is Miss Beasley, the housekeeper, speaking. But did you really need to ask?”

And then it occurred to him that there could be two Caroline Amphletts, two mothers with the same initials. The chance was surely remote, but it would be as well to make sure. He said: “Does Caroline still work at Larksoken Power Station?”

And this time there could be no mistake. Her voice was harsh with dislike as she answered. “If you know that, Mr. McLean, why bother to ring me.”

And the telephone receiver was firmly replaced.

It was after 10.30 on the Tuesday night when Rickards came for the second time to Larksoken Mill. He had telephoned his intention shortly after six o’clock and had made it clear that the visit, although late, was official; there were facts he wanted to check and a question he needed to ask. Earlier in the day Dalgliesh had called in at the incident room at Hoveton and made a statement describing the finding of the body. Rickards hadn’t been there, but Oliphant, obviously on his way out, had stayed to receive him and had briefly filled him in on the state of the investigation, not unwillingly but with a certain formality which suggested that he was under instructions. And Rickards himself, as he dragged off his jacket and seated himself in the same high-backed chair to the right of the fire, seemed a little chastened. He was wearing a dark pin-striped suit which, for all its overcareful tailoring, had the slightly seedy and rejected air of a suit relegated to second-best. It looked odd and inappropriately citified on his gangling limbs, particularly here on the headland, giving him the citified air of a man dressed for an informal wedding or a job interview from which he had little
hope of success. The thinly veiled antagonism, the bitterness of failure after the death of the Whistler and even the restless energy of Sunday night had left him. Dalgliesh wondered whether he had spoken to the Chief Constable and received advice. If so, he could guess what it had been. It was much the same as he himself would have given.

“It’s irritating that he’s on your patch, but he’s one of the Met’s senior detectives, the Commissioner’s blue-eyed boy. And he knows these people. He was at the Mair dinner party. He found the body. He’s got useful information. All right, he’s a professional, he’s not going to withhold it, but you’ll get it more easily and make life more agreeable for both of you if you stop treating him like a rival or, worse, a suspect.”

Handing Rickards his whisky, Dalgliesh enquired after his wife.

“She’s fine, fine.” But there was something forced in his tone.

Dalgliesh said: “I suppose, now the Whistler’s dead, she’ll be coming home.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I’d like it, she’d like it, but there’s the little problem of Sue’s ma. She doesn’t want her ewe-lamb mixed up with any unpleasantness, particularly murder, and particularly just now.”

Dalgliesh said: “It’s difficult to isolate yourself from unpleasantness, even murder, if you marry a police officer.”

“She never intended Sue to marry a police officer.”

Dalgliesh was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. Again, he was uncomfortably aware that he was being asked for some kind of assurance which he, of all men, was least competent to give. While he was searching for the anodyne phrase he glanced again at Rickards’s face, at the look of weariness, almost of defeat, at the lines which the fitful light of the wood fire made even more cavernous, and took refuge in practicality.

He asked: “Have you eaten?”