The Nine Bright Shiners (10 page)

‘Pretty well.' She paused. ‘He phoned on Christmas Day. It was – weird to hear him again, and it upset the children, too.'

‘Are you still in love with him?'

‘I suppose so, underneath. But on top is a lot of hurt and anger and resentment, which makes things very complicated.'

‘Poor Janis.'

She said, ‘Could you call me “Jan”? That's what I'm used to.'

‘Of course.' He looked at his watch. ‘Time I was on my way.'

‘I suppose so. I've a full day ahead tomorrow; I'm taking the children to London, sight-seeing.'

‘Rather you than me.' He stood up and stretched, his face going into the shadows above the fire. ‘Well, good night, Jan-not-Janis. Enjoy your trip to London. And thank you for supper.'

‘A pleasure,' she said.

Webb opened his eyes to see her setting the tray down on the table.

‘Hannah, I'm sorry! It's been the hell of a day.'

‘No need to apologize – sorry I woke you. Are you ready to eat, or would you rather snooze a bit longer?'

‘But you must be ravenous. What time is it?'

‘Nearly ten. It has dried up a bit, but nothing drastic. I've learnt to stick to casseroles when you're working on a case.'

He reached out a hand and she took it, smiling. Oh, thank God! he thought. Thank
God
they were back together again. There'd been a time, last summer, when he was sure he'd lost her, but it had come right in the end. And one thing was certain – he'd never again take her for granted. The shadow of Charles Frobisher, who'd had the nerve to ask her to marry him, was still an ever-present threat.

‘Come on, then, sleeping beauty,' she said, withdrawing her hand. ‘You'll feel better when you've eaten.'

‘And this was meant to be a celebration,' he said ruefully, ‘after not seeing each other for two weeks.'

‘It still can be, if your eyes stay open! Is it the murdered tramp case? There hasn't been much in the papers.'

‘There will be tomorrow. And he wasn't a tramp, he was a London journalist. Trouble is, the action's split between here and Broadminster. Body found here – well, the Chedbury lay-by – but seeming to masquerade as a Broadminster man. Which, as I said, he wasn't.'

Hannah laughed. ‘Not the clearest summary I've heard.'

‘Believe me, that's not the half of it.'

‘Tell me about your bad day.'

He grimaced, it started with the scene of crime at dawn, and proceeded, via a difficult session with the girl who identified him, to Broadminster. We wanted to interview one woman and three men – not, you'd have thought, a daunting prospect. But no one was where we expected them to be. We never caught up with the woman, and had to hang around till two of the men got back from work. All of which explains the ungodly hour I arrived here. I should have phoned and told you not to wait.' He watched her spooning out the richly smelling casserole. ‘Have you ever heard of Edward Langley?'

‘Of course I have. The Fourth Form did a project on his last expedition, following it on huge wall maps.'

Webb said flatly, ‘I seem to be the only one in the entire county never to have heard of him.'

‘He's well known on the lecture circuit, and did a series on TV a year or two back. He counts on the fees to help finance his expeditions. And I read his father's book, too,
The Hidden City.
Quite fascinating, all about the discovery in the 'fifties of an Inca city, completely buried under jungle growth.'

Webb said curiously, ‘Was there a man called Cody on that expedition?'

‘Of course – Cody, Langley and Peel. Known, so I'm told, as The Three Caballeros. Cody was the best-known of them originally. It was he who talked the other two into going to Peru, and persuaded the International Inca Society to sponsor them.'

‘What a fund of information you are!' Webb said in mock admiration as he started on his casserole. ‘There are definite perks to relationships with teachers! I presume the original three are all dead now?'

‘Sir Reginald only died a few months ago. You must have seen his obituaries.'

Vaguely, now that he thought about it, Webb recalled an item on television news, a man's face, and pictures of jungles and mountains. It had meant nothing at the time.

‘Why the sudden interest?'

‘Because Edward Langley is involved in the case – I'm not sure yet how deeply – and I met Cody's son this afternoon.'

‘Really? I didn't even know he had one. He hasn't figured in any expeditions that I've heard of.'

‘Not interested,' said Webb with his mouth full. ‘The whole thing's a turn-off, he said. You can understand it. It must have been rammed down his throat all his life.'

‘I suppose so. Specially with Peel's daughter joining him as soon as she was old enough.'

Webb looked up. ‘And
I
hadn't heard of
her.
Is she still around?'

‘Very definitely. She's married to Edward Langley.'

‘Ye gods!'

‘But how can Langley be involved in your case? He's in Peru at the moment.'

‘Ah, but the body was dumped before he left, and has only just come to light. He could have done it.' He paused. ‘Anyway, let's change the subject. I've reached saturation point on this for the moment. How long have you left of your grossly extended Christmas holiday?'

Hannah laughed. ‘Sour grapes! We don't go back till the fifteenth, but I've a lot to do before then, planning timetables and checking on syllabuses. I'm not as idle as you seem to think.'

‘To paraphrase Citizen Kane, it might be amusing to own a school.'

‘I'm only Deputy Head, remember. Amusing's not the word I'd choose, but it's certainly interesting.'

Webb topped up her wine glass and his own. He'd have liked to inquire whether she'd seen Charles Frobisher lately, if he was still Chairman of the Board of Governors, but he didn't dare. Still, he'd nothing to complain of. When it had come to the crunch, Frobisher had lost and he'd won. God knows why, but he was humbly grateful.

He looked up, met her considering eyes, and grinned, ‘It's a superb casserole. Next time, I won't worry if I'm two hours late!'

She'd been dreaming of Roger again, dreaming they were preparing the barbecue in the hot sunshine, while the children raced each other across the pool. How safe, how
happy,
she'd felt in her dream. No Pam Stevens, with her high, excited giggles, to lure him away. No dead Edward lookalikes dressed in sequins and bandages. Just Roger, the children and herself, as it had always been, as it had seemed it always would be. She woke with tears on her face to an impatient rattling of the door-handle.

‘Mummy! It's time to get up!'

Hastily she dried her cheeks. ‘I shan't be long. Feed Lotus for me, will you, and lay the breakfast table. Lily should be here soon.'

The day awaited her; not a lazy, sun-filled one, scented with charcoal and succulent steaks and sun-warmed bodies, but a cold, winter day during which she must trail into London with the children. With a sigh, she reluctantly swung her legs out of bed.

‘Still popping pills, Stan? You should see the quack.'

‘I had a bad night, Skip – felt decidedly queasy. Might go along to the surgery later, if it doesn't clear up.' He handed a file to Webb.

‘The Editor of the
Courier
said you're in luck; he's expecting Lewis Daly to look in midday. Apparently he was quite thick with Marriott. And they all said they'd look out the articles you want.'

‘Fine,' said Webb absently, skimming through the papers. ‘And Romilly'll run the photo tonight?'

‘Yes, no problem there.' Bates paused. ‘He told me to ask if you'd any more cartoons. Said he hadn't had anything for months.' Bates eyed his superior curiously, knowing better than to venture a direct question.

Webb cursed softly. The cartoons were drawn for his own amusement, but every now and then Mike Romilly swooped and bore them off for publication in the
News.
Fair enough, and the money was useful, but the signature – the circled ‘S' by which Webb wryly depicted a spider in a web – was supposed to guard their anonymity.

He was saved from replying by Jackson's arrival, and leaving Bates palely at his desk, they set off at once for London.

Jan said, ‘There's no need for you to stay, Lily. If you could just bank up the library fire, that'll be fine.'

‘Thank you, ma'am, but I've a few things to do before I go. Don't worry, I'll switch on the alarm when I leave. Enjoy yourselves in London.'

‘It'll be pretty exhausting, I imagine. Where are the children? I thought they were ready hours ago.' She went to the foot of the stairs and called. Julie came running down alone.

‘Ben's trying to get at Lotus. She's on the roof under his window.'

With a sigh, Jan hurried upstairs and along to the old nursery. The window sash was pushed up and her son was leaning precariously outside.

‘Ben! Come inside at once and close that window! The room's like a fridge!'

‘But Lotus is out there – she can't get down!'

‘Of course she can get down.' Jan went to the window. The flat roof of the store room was some four feet below, and on it, the cat sat unconcernedly licking itself. Jan pushed the window down and fastened the catch.

‘She'll get down when she wants to, don't worry. Now come along, or we'll miss the train.'

She hurried out of the room. Ben hesitated, turned back and, unfastening the window, pushed it up six inches. Then he ran after his mother.

Webb looked disparagingly at the Bayswater building. ‘Every time I come to London, I'm more glad I live in Shillingham!' he said. ‘OK, Ken, let's go up and see how the SOCOs are getting on.'

The Scenes of Crime officers were London-based, and Webb didn't know them personally. He introduced himself to the senior man. ‘How's it going?'

‘Slowly, as always. Not much personal stuff, and the girl said he'd no other home. Moved in with her when the lease ran out on his last place.'

‘So what have you got?'

‘Only real source of information was the desk.' He nodded towards a cheap one against the far wall. ‘Notepads in shorthand – they're being transcribed, but first impressions indicate they're out of date. He probably had his current one on him.'

‘Not when he was found, unfortunately, nor his pocket recorder.'

‘There are some cassettes, too, which we're working on. Other than that, engagement diary, address book, cheque-stubs and bank statements. They're being photocopied and should be with you tomorrow.'

‘Copy of a Will?'

‘Not so far.'

‘Can't have everything, I suppose. Mind if we look around? We'll try not to get in your way.'

‘Help yourself.'

It was a characterless room, with the necessities of living haphazardly arranged: sofa, armchair, gate-legged table, all of them nondescript and needing attention. The television stood in pride of place, apparently the most valued item in the room. Above the gas fire hung a cheap print of a Mediterranean scene – ochre-yellow houses, mules, a cobbled street. A pile of newspapers was stacked against a wall, and various women's magazines littered the coffee table. Of what Webb considered ‘proper books', there was no sign. As the SOCO had indicated, the only likely source of interest was the desk.

Trying not to disturb the men working, they moved from one room to another. The double bed was unmade, the surface of the dressing-table covered with half-empty jars, most of them without lids. On the kitchen sink, a thick yellow crust encircled the milk-bottle top, filling the room with its rancid odour. Yet none of the possessions littering the flat gave any indication of the interests of its occupants.

It was with a feeling of relief that they left its depressing anonymity and made their way to Fleet Street.

‘It was one hell of a shock,' said Lewis Daly, finishing his pint. ‘I still can't believe it.'

They were sitting in the Printers' Ink discussing the demise of Guy Marriott.

‘When was the last time you saw him?' Webb inquired.

‘Can't remember exactly. Not long before Christmas; we were lunching here, actually. He was full of a new lead he'd come across, but wouldn't say what it was. Typical, that.

Old Guy was like a clam when he was on to a story. No use pumping him, you had to bide your time. But once it was in print under his byline, he'd regale you with all the trials and tribulations he went through to get it, often with highly actionable asides as to the integrity and antecedents of his sources.'

‘So it's no use asking anyone else what he was on to?'

Daly shook his head. ‘I was as close to him as anyone.'

‘Can you remember his exact words?'

Daly considered. ‘He was in high spirits. He lifted his glass and said, “To the righting of wrongs!” I laughed, and said, “Does that mean you're after another poor bastard?” And he grinned and said, “No, a rich one! I've just had a break, Lew. He won't be able to wriggle out of this one.” And I said, “You just watch it, my lad. One of these days you'll come across someone who'll bite back when you try to poke your nose in his affairs.” God, if I'd only known.' He paused, and repeated slowly, ‘“To the righting of wrongs.” He meant that, you know. All right, so the money was good, but he believed in what he was doing.'

Webb made no comment on the philosophy. Instead, he asked, ‘Did he say where this man lived?'

Daly shook his head.

‘And that was the last time you saw him?'

‘Yep. A crowd of us had arranged a get-together later that week, but Guy didn't show up. I didn't think anything of it. Shirley was apt to be possessive and sulked if he went drinking with the lads.'