Murder Takes the Stage (20 page)

The number rang – but it wasn't Peter who answered it, nor even Margaret. It was Janie, which surprised her, as this was their office number. Then the receiver must have been snatched by Peter, for he took over peremptorily. ‘What news?' he snapped.

‘Good news. Almost certainly our Tom. It's worth my trying the Soho contact.' Georgia told him briefly about the disappearance in the nineteen seventies, to which he said, ‘Hmm,' and other noises to that effect.

The contact turned out not to live in Soho at all. Soho was where she had known Tom, or Bert Holmes, or of course neither if it wasn't the same person, Georgia reasoned. Dorothy Wild now lived in a flat in Finchley, on the ground floor of her daughter's home. That was an easier journey by underground than Soho, although the house was some way to walk once she reached Finchley station.

Dorothy Wild looked as if she were in her eighties or late seventies, which is what Georgia had expected, given the fact she claimed to have worked with the supposed Tom. She was no slight Alison Robin to look at and was far more robust physically, tall and purposeful.

‘It's a long time ago,' she said doubtfully. ‘You probably think I'm rambling.'

‘No,' Georgia replied truthfully. Those alert eyes wouldn't be rambling for a good while yet.

‘That chap on your website was Bert Holmes. I check it regularly just for fun – but I never expected to see anyone I knew. And blow me down, up pops Bert.'

‘You're an Internet fan?'

‘Not much else to do at my age. Get with it or get lost, I say. I like your books, by the way. That's why I click on the website.'

‘I'm glad you do,' Georgia said sincerely. ‘Have a look at these photos and see if you recognize him in any of them.'

She passed over three or four and studied Mrs Wild as she looked at them. ‘Not sure about these. I knew an older man,' Dorothy said, passing the first test. The words ‘not sure' meant she could rely on her.

‘Try this one.' Georgia gave her an unidentified photo from the white envelope in Ken's box, and this time the answer, to her relief, was:

‘That's Bert all right. I worked with him in the late sixties, early seventies. I was a waitress at this club, the Blue Parrot. Bert did the washing up.'

‘He was actually a clown by training – did you know that?'

‘A clown?' Mrs Wild looked surprised. ‘He was a bit of a comedian in his quiet way, but no acrobatics at the kitchen sink. I suppose he wouldn't, would he?'

‘Did he talk about his past life?'

‘I didn't know him much outside work, only a “how are you?” sort of relationship. He was a nice chap, got a rough deal from the other staff because he wasn't the mixing sort. He was still there when I left in seventy-two though.'

‘Do you know what happened to him afterwards?'

Mrs Wild looked suspicious. ‘What do you want to know all this for? What's he done?'

‘His name was really Tom Watson, and in 1953 he was acquitted of having murdered his wife.'

Dorothy snorted. ‘Not surprised he was acquitted. If Bert was this Tom, he couldn't murder a sandwich, let alone a woman.'

‘The jury agreed with you.'

‘So that's why he came up to the Smoke, to get over it?'

‘I imagine that's the reason. Most people in his hometown still thought he was guilty.'

‘Poor old bugger. I never realized. Mind you, we never talked much. Except once. That club was a funny place. I reckon Bert was the only one who didn't know it was a meeting place for half the gangs of London. And I don't mean spotty kids. Soho had all the bright lights then. Not that you'd have seen much light in the Blue Parrot. Know anything about those days, do you?'

‘The age of the Beatles, Carnaby Street, rise of pop music, women's lib  . . .'

‘Crime, ducky, crime. The fifties and sixties were the time for the big gangs. Billy Hill and Jack Spot ruled the fifties and the Krays and others in the sixties. One of them was the Silver Gang. Nasty lot, they were, and for a time they were riding high in the crime charts, until they went a step too far with their rivals and had to scatter for their lives. They used to like the Blue Parrot.'

She paused and looked as if she was doubtful whether to continue, but thankfully she did. ‘Bert was in the kitchens, of course, but he used to take a peek at the punters every so often. We all did. One day in comes the Silver Gang together with the big chief, Quicksilver, they called him. Well, Bert freaked out.'

‘In what way?'

‘He got very excited and said he knew a couple of the guys, and went out to talk to them. Then he came back again, looking rather queer. We all reckoned Bert must have done time or got mixed up with a bad crowd at some point.'

‘Could this have been about the time he left?' Even as she spoke, she realized her mistake.

‘Oh no,' was the inevitable and disappointing answer. ‘This would have been in the late sixties.'

‘And you didn't see him again?'

‘Afraid not.'

So Dorothy Wild could not have been the ‘old friend' whom Tom had seen just before he left for Broadstairs. Two steps forward, one back. Nevertheless, Georgia consoled herself that the Blue Parrot information could suggest Tom had been mixed up with a criminal crowd in London.

She needed Peter's input on this, so risking the chance that Janie might still be with Peter at Haden Shaw, she went straight there after picking up her car at Canterbury. When she reached Haden Shaw, there was no sign of Janie, which might have made it difficult to talk freely. Even so, she was annoyed with herself for feeling relieved. Discussions between three, however, were not as focused as discussions between two, and she could hardly have asked Janie to kindly step into another room.

‘No Janie?' she asked as casually as she could.

‘She's gone,' said Peter. ‘Fire away.'

His voice did not encourage further questions, and Georgia had plenty of talking to do, so she postponed them.

‘It's quite likely Tom got drawn into crime in London,' Peter agreed after she'd finished. ‘If there had been any connection between the couple he saw at the Blue Parrot and Broadstairs, it would have been under the name of Tom Watson, and if he was anxious to preserve his new identity, he would hardly have jeopardized it by rushing out to greet them. Which suggests they knew him as Bert Holmes.'

‘Wrong. He might not have known these chums were part of the Silver Gang.'

‘True. As Dorothy Wild remembered it for over thirty years, however, it must have imprinted itself strongly.'

‘Or grown in her mind,' Georgia said brightly.

Peter ruminated. ‘Let's be optimistic and assume we have a clear-headed witness. Sufficiently so to take us a stage further, at any rate. We could check out the gang, see what's known about them?'

‘Even though it was years before Tom returned to Broadstairs?'

‘Despite that. Remember that we were told about some odd goings-on in Broadstairs in the fifties. Perhaps it's time we talked to Brian James again. Your favourite misogynist.'

Peter didn't seem overeager about this, however. In fact, she realized, although he had looked impressed, he had not been as delighted at her news as she had hoped. Something must be wrong.

‘Is it Janie?' she blurted out.

‘No.' He didn't even look surprised, and she realized why. It was worse than that.

‘Rick?' Of course it was. Realization hit her like a blow to the stomach.

‘I'm afraid so. Décourt has done a good job, but it's bad news. The Provençal police were notified at the time along with every other national police force. He's been in touch with them again, but there were no unidentifieds in Aix or the surrounding area that could possibly have been our Rick – then
or
more recently.'

Her favourite misogynist, Brian James, had apparently been delighted to see Peter again. Georgia had refused to go on the grounds that Peter would get far more out of him than her presence would allow. He agreed rather too readily, but she wasn't sorry. She was still smarting from the setback over Rick. So great was the disappointment that neither she nor Peter had had the will to discuss a next step – if any. Besides, she had plenty to do at Medlars. His appointment had been for Friday, and it had suited her well to have an afternoon off. Early July was no time to be on the computer all day.

‘A Kir if you please.' Peter turned up at Medlars early on the Friday evening, looking, she thought, more cheerful.

‘Not unless you're staying the night,' Luke said firmly. ‘I pack a powerful punch in my Kirs.'

‘A relaxing tomato juice then,' Peter said sulkily. ‘I must say this is a very welcoming room – apart from its drinks service.'

‘Brian James,' Georgia reminded him.

‘He was quite forthcoming about the funny goings-on in Broadstairs,' Peter told her. ‘Not much help on the Tom Watson front though. When I put my point about Tom possibly being mixed up with London crime, and could it link with what was happening in Broadstairs, Brian came back with the fact that on the south coast there had been a tradition of funny goings-on for centuries. The other word for it is smuggling, including just after the Second World War.'

‘For the black market?'

‘Indeed. Cigarettes, brandy, booze, this, that and the other, paintings – you name it.'

‘Smuggled in by boat?'

‘Chiefly. It came into the Gaps, seven coves along the coast, and was then taken into the town or through tunnels to inland farms. The particular Gap that Brian says they had their eye on in the early fifties was the furthest north towards Cliftonville, appropriately called Botany Bay. It was pretty deserted out there then, with only the odd bungalow around and unmade-up paths.'

‘Ideal for Joan's lifestyle,' Georgia commented.

‘Not just her. It's an interesting line to follow up. I wonder if anything other than light entertainment was going on in
Waves Ahoy!
Talking of interesting lines,' Peter added, ‘I forgot to tell you that, as we suspected, Tom Watson didn't have a brother.'

‘So who was the so-called relative?'

‘Could be the Eastleys' memories at fault.'

‘It could,' she agreed, but there was surely a question mark over that. ‘There's something I forgot to tell you too.'

‘Good. We're quits. What?'

‘
The Magic Flute
was Tom's favourite opera.'

‘
The Magic Flute
was Tom's favourite opera.'

TEN

S
o Tom had no brother. Georgia was still grappling with the implications. Did that mean Tom wasn't Bert or something more sinister? What had happened to him after that visit to Broadstairs? The coming of another Monday morning made the answers no easier. Weeks were passing, and every time she and Peter seemed to be in command of the boxing ring, they were thrown back on the ropes. She did not dare raise the subject of Rick. She had forced herself to spend time on the Internet chasing up Mozart performances in other capital cities of Europe, but increasingly it seemed a hopeless task, when they had no firm evidence that Rick had even gone anywhere with Miss Blondie. Tom Watson seemed an easier option – although not by much.

‘Is your Mr Eastley a reliable witness?' Peter asked for the umpteenth time. ‘It could have been the same “old friend” who called for the luggage, or even Bert himself. And was the “old friend” part of the reason he went to Broadstairs?'

‘Who knows?' Georgia fumed. ‘Presuming what Ron said was accurate though – where does that take us? Did Tom do another disappearing act after coming back to Broadstairs and, if so, why?'

‘The Silver Gang reared its head again when he got back to London? Presumably it liked to keep a low profile and Bert-cum-Tom knew who at least two of them were. Quicksilver wouldn't like that. It's a nickname that suggests he liked keeping himself and his gang out of the limelight.'

‘Bert hadn't come to any harm since he'd seen them in the club.'

‘Maybe he became part of the gang.'

‘He might have run into the gang again.'

‘Sheer speculation.' Georgia dismissed this gloomily. ‘Even Suspects Anonymous turned up its nose at that when I tried it on them.'

‘It was equally dismissive of the rest of the website replies. It spat most of them straight out again and dumped them in its trash can as irrelevant. We've nothing left for either the period leading up to the Broadstairs visit or after it, except for some “maybes”.'

The dreaded maybes. It was always a problem deciding whether or not to follow such replies up, save for acknowledgement and thanks. She usually left it to Peter to settle, since it was a job he'd faced so often in his police career.

‘If the few maybes on Tom after the mid seventies don't lead anywhere, are we entering murky waters?' She had to voice what Peter must also have been thinking. ‘Could Tom have committed suicide after that, or did he disappear so convincingly that he wasn't noticed by anyone?'

‘It's a line of investigation,' Peter agreed cautiously. ‘After all, if he had plans not to return to London after Broadstairs, why not tell the Eastleys? I'll check the name Bert Holmes to see how many deaths were recorded around that time, but it's going to be hard to work out which was our Bert Holmes, if indeed any of them were.'

‘And if it leads nowhere?'

‘We look at the possibility that something happened during his visit either to change Tom's mind about returning to London or which caused it to be changed for him.'

Pleasant though it was for her to be sitting in the gardens on Broadstairs' seafront, it was less attractive to think what it might have been like for Tom after over twenty years' absence, Georgia thought. Here he could be passed unrecognized by former friends, colleagues and acquaintances without a second look. What would Tom have been thinking about? What were his plans, his reasons for being here, besides seeing Pamela on her birthday, or was that really his sole purpose? If so, after achieving it he had walked off into a metaphorical sunset, so far as the record was concerned.