The Company She Kept (21 page)

Mayo had been in the game long enough not to be surprised for long at anything he heard but there was always something that could knock you off your peg. After a moment, he said, ‘I was under the impression it belonged to Dr Freeman.'

‘I don't know who gave you that information. It came to Angela Robinson nearly twenty years ago, after her parents died. In fact, Joseph Robinson's father left it to
him,
as well as the business.'

‘What business was that?' Mayo asked carefully.

It turned out to be Robinson's Hardware in the High Street, a shop Mayo passed every day of his life. ‘You must know it,' Smythe said, ‘they're still trading under that name, though none of the family are now concerned. Joseph Robinson sold it shortly before he died ... which meant there was still a tidy sum left for his daughter. As for the house,' he added, stroking his luxuriant whiskers in the approved Victorian manner, ‘Dr Freeman will be able to stay there until such time as she decides to leave ... I understand she's getting married shortly. The contents will, of course, now have to be sold as well.'

‘Who's the beneficiary? Dr Freeman?'

‘No. Everything goes to a charity – to the Leukaemia Fund, as it happens.'

Not a bean to the Women's Hospital. And before Mayo left, Smythe lobbed another grenade into his lap. ‘The house in Bulstrode Street, by the way. That will be sold, too, of course, but as a business proposition, which was why Joseph Robinson bought it. Sadly, now,' he added, ‘with vacant possession of the top-floor flat.'

Mayo was willing to concede that it was not Madeleine Freeman's fault that he had assumed the Kilbracken Road house to be hers – although she'd said nothing to contradict his assumption. He could only conclude it was probably a harmless bit of snobbery to let him think she owned it, particularly if, say, she'd come from a less affluent background than Angie.

But why had Angie, with all her resources, chosen to leave her home and live in Bulstrode Street, of all places? ‘Pique,' said Abigail Moon.

‘Pique?'

‘Jealousy because Madeleine Freeman was getting married. After all, they'd spent most of their lives in each other's pockets – she was Angie's only friend as far as we know – and Angie seems to have been the sort of person who wouldn't hesitate to make anyone feel bad for leaving her in the lurch. You know the sort of thing:
“How am I going to manage, all on my little own? I can't stay here rattling around in this place all by myself, it's not fair. Look what you've reduced me to.”
Even though it was supposed to be only temporary until she bought herself something nicer. She could've got a lot of mileage out of that, playing the martyr.'

It was a shrewd guess that filled in with what they'd learned of Angie Robinson's character. And it was the only explanation Mayo could think of for anyone going to live in Bulstrode Street who didn't absolutely have to.

‘George,' he said, ‘did you know Angie Robinson was one of the same family as Robinson's Hardware?'

‘Robinson's Hardware?' echoed George Atkins. ‘No, I didn't.' His knowledge of Lavenstock, its villains, its customs, and all the people who lived therein was legendary and he was mortified that he hadn't previously made the connection between the murdered woman and the shop, although there was no reason why he should have done so. ‘I know it was started by old Spencer Robinson and carried on by his son Joe. And he's been dead donkey's years.'

‘Was he the sort to knock his wife and child about?'

‘Joe Robinson? Nah! Never! The last man –!' Atkins stopped, running his hand over his grizzled head, his expression rueful. ‘Wish I'd a pound for every man I've said that about and been proved wrong! Who knows what goes on between four walls? But Joe Robinson? Can't say it's impossible, mind – but I'd be surprised.'

‘What do you know about Dr Freeman's background? She and Angie went to the same school, so she must be local.'

Atkins shook his head. ‘Not from the town, I reckon. Maybe one of the villages. I can find out.'

‘Do, when you've time. As a matter of interest.'

Mayo began to be haunted by a sense of failure and a feeling that there was something, somewhere, that he had noticed subconsciously and not remembered, something just outside his grasp, like a shadow on the mind.

The trouble was, they had incidentally solved one murder they hadn't known had been committed, but he was still left with the original unsolved murder on his hands.

He could not accept that the two were unconnected. Somewhere there was a pattern that linked them, a chain of events that had been set in motion by Irena Bron's death. This murder of Angie Robinson was where it had all started for him and he was damned if it was going to go down as one of the unsolved crimes of the twentieth century.

He shrugged on his jacket and left word that he was going home.

Outside it was a cold, hard night and the sky was thick with stars. Already the pavements were sparkling with frost. He took deep breaths of the sharp, invigorating air, welcome as wine after the grossly overheated premises he'd just left and felt the need all at once to stretch his legs before the drive home.

Mayo's habit of striding around the town at all times of the day or night, sometimes even in the small hours, was something he was well known for by now. He wasn't always welcomed, not only by the criminal fraternity but sometimes by members of the strength who were skiving a crafty half-hour off duty, or pursuing leisure activities they'd rather he didn't know about. But that didn't stop Mayo. He saw the town in all its moods, knew its dark corners and its short cuts, what went on in its pubs and clubs and the twice-weekly market. He was sometimes able to anticipate where trouble was likely to occur.

Tonight his walk was more purposeful than usual, taking him up Hill Street and past the old chapel
– Ebenezer Methodist Chapel. All welcome,
it still said on the board outside. He paused outside the little forecourt to read it, listening to the roar of the ring road in the distance as it skirted Bulstrode Street. He walked the hundred yards or so up to the car park at the Women's Hospital and two or three minutes later passed the end of Kilbracken Road, where the house with its
For Sale
notice stood dark, its curtains undrawn across its blank windows. By the time he emerged into the High Street again, thoughts were beginning to stir; the pattern he had been seeking was beginning to form in his mind, but it was not one that made him feel any better.

Turning towards Milford Road and the station car park, food smells assailed him on all sides, steamy wafts from the chippie and assorted savoury odours from the Lotus Blossom, the Burger King and the pizza palace on the corner, and he was suddenly seized by hunger, realizing that he hadn't had a square meal for days and nothing at all since his sketchy breakfast. He pushed open the door of the Saracen's, deciding to stop off there for supper.

The first people he saw inside were DC Spalding and someone it took him a moment or two to register as Abigail Moon, her hair loose and falling in a coppery curtain to her shoulders. Even in the brief glimpse he had of the couple he felt the intensity of their absorption. It was a situation he had never envisaged and didn't want to know about. The last thing he needed at the moment was personal involvement among his team, of the sort likely to bring disruption to the investigation. He didn't think they'd seen him and went to sit with his back to them in one of the curtained booths facing the door. It wasn't a seat he would have otherwise chosen. It was in a draught and he was on full view from the foyer. He ordered a half of bitter and a grilled steak, little knowing he'd been witness to the last throes of their affair.

‘Don't look now,' Abigail said, ‘but the Gaffer's just come in. I don't think he's seen us. We can go out the other way.'

‘Stay where you are,' Spalding said intensely, by now in no mood for retreat. ‘We've a perfect right to be here. And we're still in the middle of a discussion, remember?'

‘We've said everything there is to say,' she said wearily. They'd been bickering like this for half an hour. It was a situation that would have been ludicrous had it not been so painful – both feeling guilty for not feeling guilty enough.

She drained the last of her orange juice. ‘I saw Roz at Pennybridge this afternoon.'

It took a lot to make him lose his temper, but Abigail had succeeded. ‘You did
what
? You deliberately went and discussed me with my wife?'

‘No, not deliberately. I had to check Sophie's alibi with her – and she was the one who broached the subject. I don't know how she knew who I was – she just cottoned on, I suppose. Nick,' she said, suddenly urgent, ‘there's still a chance for you two to get your act together, as long as you'll try and compromise a bit.'

‘Compromise? That's rich, coming from you! When did you ever compromise with anything, especially your bloody career – and that's what it all boils down to, isn't it?'

This was where they'd come in. She knew from experience he could go on indefinitely in this way and suddenly she'd had enough. ‘Listen,' she said, and proceeded to tell him in words of only syllable exactly what she felt. It was hurtful, it wasn't kind, but he let her go on and didn't try to stop her when she left.

It had, after all, given him the escape route he wanted.

A function was being held in the large dining-room at the back of the hotel and groups of well-heeled people in evening dress were milling around in the foyer. In one such group was a solicitor by the name of Crytch with whom Mayo was acquainted. He raised his hand to Mayo across the foyer and spoke to one of his companions. While the women in their party were being directed to the cloakroom, the man who'd been spoken to excused himself and came across to where Mayo sat. A stranger to him, he was a distinguished-looking man with a direct and decisive look, wearing with his superbly-cut dinner suit a dark velvet cummerbund and bow tie that enhanced a pair of startlingly vivid blue eyes.

‘Chief Inspector Mayo?' Mayo nodded, half rose. ‘My name's Bouvier, Edward Bouvier. May I have a few words with you? I shan't keep you long, we're due to dine in fifteen minutes.'

‘Please do. How can I help you, Mr Bouvier?' Mayo said, grasping the proffered hand and waving to the opposite seat.

‘Thank you. We haven't met before but you may have heard of me ... Dr Freeman is my fiancée.'

‘I remember the name.'

Despite his direct initial approach it took the man a moment or two to get round to what he had to say. ‘I – er – just wanted a few words with you about this wretched business.' He had a deep and pleasant voice, with a very slight accent that Mayo was unable to place. He looked authoritative and sure of himself, which was not how he sounded. ‘I guess you won't be aware of this, but I'm going back to Montreal to take up a consultancy there in a few weeks.'

‘Canada? You're not getting married, then?'

It had been the first thing Mayo had thought, and perhaps it wasn't appropriate. The other man stared. ‘Oh, sure, Madeleine's going, too. We've already put out feelers for an appointment for her there. That surprises you?'

‘I'm surprised to hear that she's prepared to leave the Women's Hospital – and everything she's worked for.'

‘If I know Madeleine, she'll find some other cause to replace it,' Bouvier said drily. ‘But it's like this – so far, that's been the most important thing in her life and if she wins she'll have achieved her aim – so what's left? On the other hand, if she loses, and frankly ...' He hesitated. ‘Frankly, I never could see her having a cat in hell's chance of winning this damn crusade and that's why I want her away. She'd take it very badly indeed if she had to stay here and live with failure, so Canada seems the answer.'

‘Mr Bouvier, she's on bail pending trial. It'll be up to the court to decide what happens about that.'

He looked suddenly grey. ‘She's a fine woman. In view of her record of devoted service –'

‘I shouldn't bank on it.'

He burst out suddenly, ‘I'll never believe she did what she did for other than the best of motives. If it hadn't been for Angie Robinson's murder, that business all those years ago would never have come to light, and several people's lives might not have been wrecked. Everything's down to that woman. I naturally deplore what's happened to her, but I can't help being glad her influence on Madeleine has stopped.'

It was an interesting view of morality, and it contained what was news to Mayo, that Madeleine Freeman had been in any way influenced by Angie Robinson. Everything so far had pointed to it being the other way round. He sipped his beer and waited for the other man to expound, always willing to be enlightened.

‘Perhaps influence is the wrong word. But they had a very – complicated relationship, she's never been able to see quite straight about Angie. She's normally very sensible and clear-sighted but she seems to have had a blind spot about that woman – just as she does about the hospital. But every time I tried to make Madeleine see she'd better believe that, there was Angie Robinson, egging her on, encouraging her, knowing all the time that it was bound to be a miserable failure.'

‘Cam on, Mr Bouvier, you interest me. Why do you think she did that?'

Bouvier consulted his watch. ‘I must go,' he said, but making no move to do so, in fact leaning further back into the plush banquette seat. He fingered his bow tie with the smallish, yet strong and precise hands of the true surgeon, repeating quietly, ‘Why did she want Madeleine to fail? Because she was always jealous of her. It wasn't apparent, she was careful not to let it show, but perhaps I've been in a more privileged position than most people to be able to recognize it. She was. you know, really a very possessive, not to say destructive woman ...'