Murder Takes the Stage (10 page)

‘According to Ken, you couldn't back up Tom's claim that he'd been in the pub with you.'

‘No, and you know why not? Because he wasn't in the Black Lion that night.'

‘Could it just be that you didn't see him there? Cherry says they were in one of the smaller bars.'

He snorted in disgust. ‘Cherry would. Believe me, we'd have seen them. It's not that big a place.'

‘Did you see her there?'

‘Yeah, I think she popped in, and so did Micky and Harold, but I do know Tom wasn't there. And you know why? I still reckon he put the knife in Joan. I'm soon joining the vast majority up above, and so I'll cast my vote with the majority here on earth too.'

‘Micky didn't think he did it.'

‘Didn't he? He talked as if he did, until after the verdict. He was a softie was Micky. No one spoke out in public. But Micky and me, we talked it over.'

‘Tom didn't admit to the murder to the police.'

‘Why would he?'

‘My guess is,' Peter said, ‘that Ken didn't think he was guilty either. He had fresh evidence.'

Sandy cackled. ‘Poor old Ken. He wanted his scoop. So first Tom was guilty, then he wasn't. Then he decided Tom was still alive – Cherry liked that one – then he wasn't. No use going by what Ken thought. It changed every few weeks.'

‘Why,' Georgia persisted, ‘are you so sure Tom was guilty?'

‘Joan was a real corker, that's why. Treated Tom like dirt. She left him to look after the kid, while she flung her legs around wherever she liked. Tom got tired of it, that's all.'

‘And that evening, he snapped?'

‘We'd had a bad performance. Nothing special, but flat. Everyone was off-colour. We said we'd go the pub to cheer up, but I reckon Joan had other ideas. Tired, she said. That woman was never tired. Not of sex, anyway. I should know. She made big eyes at me, and I wasn't married, so I thought why not?'

A step forward? If Sandy was on Joan's list, it certainly was.

Sandy must have noted her sudden interest. ‘Not on the cards that night, ducky. Me and my Jeannie were going steady then, married a year or two later, so I was on my best behaviour. We were both in the Black Lion.'

‘If Joan was expecting company, it must have been with someone else in the show or she couldn't have been sure that she would be going home alone,' Peter pointed out.

Sandy's eyes shifted slightly. ‘No names, no pack drill, but she'd plenty to choose from,' he told them nonchalantly.

‘Did you notice anyone else's absence from the pub? I realize,' Georgia added hastily, ‘that it's over half a century ago now, but you must all have discussed it at the time.'

‘Likely we did, but then we all thought Tom was guilty, so we weren't doing any Hercule Poirot stuff.' There was an edge to his voice, which suggested the barriers were going up, and Georgia hastily changed tack. ‘And his suicide? Do you believe he could still be alive?'

Fenella intervened quickly. ‘You've been talking to Cherry Harding, haven't you? From what I gather, Tom wasn't what I'd call a survivor. He's gone, and that's for sure.'

Sandy nodded, looking at them with the hooded eyes of age. ‘I reckon he meant to go to the pub but changed his mind. He walked home and scotched Joan's plans.' A pause.

‘But what about Cherry?' Georgia asked. ‘If Tom loved her, why be so bothered over Joan?'

‘Psychology ain't my forte. I may be a magician, but I'm not a trick cyclist.' After a tired guffaw he added, ‘There was a spat between Mavis and Joan at the show that night, and Tom joined in.'

‘Mavis Maclyn?' Could Sandy be relied on after all this time? she wondered.

‘Right. Very possessive was Mavis. Thought her husband was hers alone, but Joan thought very differently. Tom must have heard it going on.' Sandy was definitely flagging now, but then he suddenly perked up. ‘Of course there was that sergeant. A real bruiser that one. Tom didn't get on with him. Not his sort. Dillon, his name was. Buck Dillon.'

Dillon? Georgia took a wild guess. ‘Any relation to Cath Dillon at the
Chronicle
?'

‘Granddaughter.' Another guffaw. ‘Go on. Ask me what you like. I'm always helping with enquiries, as the old lag said.'

‘Granddaughter.' Another guffaw. ‘Go on. Ask me what you like. I'm always helping with enquiries, as the old lag said.'

FIVE

‘
W
ill the real Joan Watson please stand up?' Peter looked despairingly at the photos that Christine had sent. He was having second thoughts after his first enthusiasm. ‘I see what you mean about them. The ones marked “white envelope” which have no identification aren't going to tell us a lot; the ones that are identified are similar to those we've already seen. As for the others, we only have the Hollywood starlet offerings, which don't get us any further forward on Joan. I suppose  . . .' He looked at her hopefully.

‘Christine's got enough on her plate. It will have to wait until after the funeral.' Official permission for this had now been given, and Colin had, so Georgia gathered on the telephone, taken all the stress of arranging it off her shoulders.

‘I suppose this one would do for the website.' Peter pointed to one of Tom with a grin on his face. Some personality came through in this photo, not aggressive or otherwise remarkable, but that of a man who had a life of his own and was not just the victim – or perpetrator – of tragedy. ‘I'll put it in Suspects Anonymous too.' He cocked an eye at her to see how she took this.

Badly. Georgia was not impressed. She had never been a fan of Suspects Anonymous, despite the fact that this software was the brainchild of her cousin Charlie Bone and intended to assist Marsh & Daughter in their work. Unfortunately Peter had more faith in it than she did. It was all very well seeing icons of little men in striped jerseys dashing across the screen, Georgia thought, but translated into harsh real terms the software couldn't work unless there was input from their all-too-human brains and hands.

At the moment this was sadly lacking. As regards suspects for Joan Watson's murder, Tom stood very firmly at the top of a list of one. Witnesses yes, but no suspects. She and Peter had fed the times, names, alibis, recollections in so far as they could, but nothing shot up as a warning flag to indicate there was any clash or discrepancy, although in other areas the software came to abundant life, notably over the golden-hearted Joan versus the first class bitch.

Marsh & Daughter's website was far more productive as an aid. There, nets could be cast upon the water and the results carefully trawled. Now that Tom's photo had been put up on their website, there was a faint chance that it might strike a chord in someone's memory, either from his younger days up to 1953 or, if she and Peter were really lucky, later than that. Cherry's fairy-tale hope that Tom had survived might just prove not to be fantasy.

It took only two days before precious metal, if not gold, was struck, but it was not the website that produced it. To her chagrin, it was Suspects Anonymous. Instead of Peter's usual frustrated shout of ‘I don't know why I bother with this rubbish', she was surprised to hear him call out, ‘Hey, Georgia, look at this.'

There was a note of real interest in his voice, and so she hurried to peer over his shoulder. On the Forgotten Elements screen, designed to pick up statements that didn't connect with anything else on the site, there was usually only a long list of drivel. Today – perhaps it was something to do with its being Friday the thirteenth – it contained something that had caught Peter's eye, and no wonder.

‘ . . . her daughter had been in there babysitting that evening.'

‘The babysitter!' she exclaimed. ‘We'd forgotten her.'

‘And the neighbour,' Peter cried in unison with her. A few moments of rapid mutual congratulations, and then, ‘How do we find them, or at least the daughter?' Georgia asked.

‘Elementary, my dear Georgia. We can try Gary's Fish Bar or—'

‘Pamela Trent.'

‘Who was three years old at the time.'

‘But might have known who they were.'

‘Accepted.'

‘I'll write to the Trents. I winkled out their address from Christine. They're not in the phone book.'

‘No telephone number?'

‘No, and it's too chancy. Gives them no time for reflection.'

‘That might be just as well,' Peter muttered. ‘Gwen's asked us over to lunch on Sunday, by the way. Luke too, of course, if you can prise him away from his desk. Apparently, Charlie's got a girlfriend, and Gwen wants support when she meets her.'

‘
Charlie
?' She was flabbergasted.

This must be serious. Charlie seemed the eternal bachelor, more dedicated to roaming cyberspace than searching for a girlfriend. Not that he locked himself up in a room with a screen that passed for life. Far from it. He dashed here, there and everywhere, solving abstruse problems and enjoying the life o'Reilly on his travels. Travels, song and different ways of life were his métier, with a huge circle of friends of both sexes worldwide. Girlfriends had come and gone; he wasn't gay, he wasn't asexual, so far as she could tell, but nothing ever seemed to happen. Gwen was despairing, so bringing a girlfriend to Sunday lunch with Mum and Stepdad was a big advance.

‘Who is she?' she asked.

‘No idea. Not sure Gwen knows either. You know what Charlie's like.'

She did. This girl must be spectacular to have managed to pin Charlie down to any date, let alone this one. ‘Casual,' she replied.

‘Not this time, apparently. Anyway, it sounds like a good opportunity to slip something in about Rick without making a point of it through a special visit or phone call. Gwen and Terry might have some ideas. We won't broadcast the news to Charlie and lady-friend yet though.' A pause, then an airy, ‘Janie's coming too, by the way.'

‘To a family gathering?' Georgia was taken aback. Was Peter making a statement by carting Janie along too? She'd no objection, but if Peter specifically wanted to talk to Gwen about Rick, Janie's presence was going to make an awkward addition. True, Terry was relatively new to the family too. He and Gwen had been married two years, but Janie was surely a somewhat different case.

‘Why not?' Peter answered, somewhat defensively. ‘Anyway, I've nothing dramatic to report on Rick. Have you?'

‘No,' she was forced to admit. The fact that their enquiries were going nowhere was tearing at both herself and Peter, however much they tried to conceal it.

‘Then it will only be a negative situation report to Gwen.'

‘Did you check Glyndebourne?'

‘Yes. They were presenting
The Marriage of Figaro
that season.'

Georgia wrestled hard to believe that a possibility but had to face defeat. ‘No good, is it? Rick would have let us know he was back in England, even if he wasn't staying in Haden Shaw, and,' she added bravely, since it was better to get it in the open, ‘we don't
know
it was Mozart he and Miss Blondie were going to hear. Even less that it would have been
The Magic Flute
, even if it were an opera.'

‘No, but we have to narrow the search down little by little.'

‘What about Salzburg?'

‘No to that as well. Their Mozart week was in the winter of 1994, and the only Mozart opera I can trace is
La Clemenza di Tito,
which was during their Easter Festival, not the July one. So if Rick and lady friend were heading for Salzburg, it can't have been for a Mozart opera. There was a major event with Carreras in the Requiem in Sarajevo, which would have had Rick scurrying off to hear it, but that was in April. But we can't ignore the big obstacle. Even if he was rushing off to a special do, why not telephone us?'

She had to say it. ‘Perhaps he was madly in love and everything else went out of his head?' Love, marriage, grandchildren – they were all left to her and Luke now, and time was rapidly passing. If Rick had lived, how different it might have been. No, don't think that way, Georgia disciplined herself. Think forward. Think positive leads.

Peter seemed to be thinking the same, for all he said was, ‘So it's back to the drawing board.'

‘Phone call for you,' Luke said, coming with Medlars to summon her. ‘On my office phone. One Matthew Trent. Mean anything to you?'

So her letter had done the trick. Georgia had only posted it to Pamela Trent on Saturday, and this was Monday. A very prompt reply. But why to Frost & Co's phone and not her own? This did not bode well.

‘I told him you would call him back,' Luke continued. ‘He doesn't sound a happy gentleman.'

Georgia debated whether to leave it until she was in the office the next day, thus making a point, but on the whole decided it was best to face dragons as soon as they started breathing fire. Turn your back on the problem and the heat would grow.

Deep breath, and she rang the number. ‘Mr Trent? Georgia Marsh.'

She could sense the atmosphere at the end of the line without a word being spoken in reply.

‘You wrote to my wife asking whether she would be prepared to give you information pertaining to her father. The answer is no.' Neutral voice. Icy edge. ‘Our view is that the case was over fifty years ago, and there is no point in raking over old coals.'

‘I can understand that point of view, particularly when your wife's mother was the victim. I hoped to be able to explain face to face why my father and I are investigating it.'

‘That would be pointless, as she has no interest in discussing the matter.'

‘The subject is hardly dead. It comes up regularly in the
Chronicle
.'

‘No one who knows anything about the case would take Ken Winton seriously.'

‘And yet Ken was murdered.' She had crossed the Rubicon now, but she was not going to achieve anything by dithering about on the riverbank.