War Damage (7 page)

It was borne in on Regine that she was completely vague about Freddie's other life; picking up men in pubs – or worse. Oh, that would be the worst thing, so terribly sordid … some common little male prostitute … She shook her head violently. A curl broke out from the ribbon she'd scraped her hair back with. She put her hand up to smooth it back.

‘He'd been drinking at your party?'

She smiled. ‘Not to excess.'

Regine was aware the sergeant's attention was directed exclusively at her. He leaned forward. ‘Can you tell us a bit more about him? I know this is painful. I realise how difficult this is for you, but – there must have been some reason he was on the Heath two hours after he left your house, mustn't there?'

His eager gaze was tempting. It would be so easy to confide in him. But she mustn't, she mustn't. ‘You're just assuming that's what happened.' If she sounded sulky, that was too bad. They had no right to come poking and prying. ‘What would you like to know about him? He was a photographer; and a ballet critic. He wrote about ballet. It was his great passion. He was part of the … the arts, the theatre world, he was great friends, for example, with Vivienne Evanskaya.'

But – oh why had she said that? Now they might want to interview Vivienne. But the sergeant looked blank.

‘The prima ballerina,' she said.

‘Oh … of course, yes.'

Regine laughed. ‘You don't know who I'm talking about?'

Murray went red. ‘Of course I've heard of Vivienne Evanskaya, I wasn't expecting her name to crop up, that's all.'

Plumer frowned: ‘She was one of the guests, was she? Who else was here that afternoon? We really do need a list of the guests, if you don't mind.'

Neville removed his pipe from his lips and started to gouge out its innards. ‘I don't see the necessity for that.'

‘Well, it's quite simple, Mr Milner. It's possible one of your guests could tell us something useful, something Mr Buckingham said about where he was going, if he was meeting anyone. Surely you can't have any objection to that?'

The telephone calls had started, of course, as soon as the first reports appeared in the papers. There'd even been an item on the wireless, and on the Wednesday morning after the murder there'd been an obituary in
The Times
. By that time she'd broken the news to everyone she could think of. He had so many other friends she didn't know, but in any case, the news spread like wildfire.

‘I can't even remember exactly who was here.' Regine knew she was only playing for time. ‘I told you, it's not a formal thing. I never know who's going to turn up. Is it really necessary? A list? It'll be rather upsetting for people …' And she smiled at Murray, hoping he'd tell her it didn't matter, not to bother, but although he smiled back he was adamant.

‘He may have said something to someone. You can never tell what's going to be crucial.'

Regine fetched paper from the library. She sat opposite Murray, staring ahead, trying to remember. It was all so pointless and could only do harm.

‘The Jordans, Vivienne and her son, Alan Wentworth …' She was writing as she spoke. ‘Noel Valentine looked in, but I don't think he was here that long … and there was Dorothy Redfern and Edith Blake came later … with William Drownes … who else was there, Neville?'

There was one name that must absolutely be suppressed, of course, that of the cabinet minister, so it would be better to leave Cynthia out of it as well. Or would it be better to include her, to stick as closely to the truth as possible?

‘That's about it, I think.' She handed Murray the list, and he passed it to Plumer. Plumer looked at it and passed it back. ‘I'm afraid we need addresses and telephone numbers as well.'

‘Really, Inspector—' protested Neville and looked at his watch, but Regine stood up again. ‘I'll have to get my address book from upstairs.'

Murray smiled at Regine. ‘Please – don't bother. I can call in tomorrow – when it's convenient.'

But Plumer overrode him. ‘We need it now, if you don't mind, Mrs Milner.'

There was something about Plumer's stony deadness that frightened Regine. She fetched her address book and as she started to copy out addresses Plumer was saying: ‘We've traced Mr Buckingham's relatives in Yorkshire.'

His words intensified her resentment. ‘He didn't get on with his family, didn't have much to do with them at all. And what about the funeral? What's happening about that?' They'd probably want him buried up there, in Yorkshire.

‘We haven't released the body yet.'

Regine was aware of Murray watching her. There was something, not intense exactly, but intent, watchful about him. She looked up and caught his gaze, smiled. He smiled back. ‘It's all so crazy,' she said softly, ‘I can't believe this has happened. And I don't know why you need all this – it won't help.'

‘It's important to find out who killed him, don't you think?'

‘I suppose so.' But was it? Did she really care if the murderer was caught? Freddie was dead. That was what mattered, the unbearable truth, nothing else seemed that important. In fact, a trial, with all the sordid details leaking out … it was a terrible thought.

Neville stood up. ‘I don't wish to be rude,' he said firmly, ‘but – we are expected round at our friends'.'

‘Of course,' said Plumer, ‘just one other thing, though. You see, when we went over to Mr Buckingham's house in Chelsea, we naturally had a word with his neighbours, and one of them said they'd seen a couple leaving the house on Monday; a redhaired lady and a gentleman … Could that have been the two of you, by any chance?'

Sweat broke out under her arms. She felt her face go rigid with dismay. But she looked at Neville and he seemed quite calm.

He puffed at his pipe. ‘I can explain, Inspector. I'm Freddie's executor. We thought it would be all right. We wanted to make sure the house was untouched. After all, you'd told my wife his keys were missing, so we naturally assumed whoever killed Freddie must have had his keys as well. Freddie had valuable things, objets d'art, they might have been stolen.'

‘How did you gain entry?
You
had a set of keys?'

‘Yes – you're not accusing
us
of breaking in, I hope.'

‘Perhaps you knew the deceased had other things to hide – secrets I mean, not works of art or valuables,' said Murray. ‘Look, there's no point in beating about the bush. Mr Buckingham wasn't married, was he. Wasn't the marrying type, I suppose. Preferred the company of his own sex.'

So they knew. But of
course
they knew. They'd known all along. Guessed, anyway. ‘I suppose you think just because a man likes ballet, he's – he's abnormal in some way,' said Regine.

Paul Murray did have a nice smile. But she must be on her guard, mustn't be led into saying too much. ‘We're not here to pass judgement on anyone, that's not our job,' he said, knowing full well this didn't quite reflect his superior's position. ‘But if Mr Buckingham was inclined to get involved with other men in a way that put him outside the law, then he was in a vulnerable position, wouldn't you agree. Perhaps he got talking to someone in a pub, they went for a walk on the Heath … things turned nasty, unexpectedly – I'm more inclined to condemn those who prey on the weaknesses of men like your friend, weaknesses they perhaps can't help, can't do much about – but on the other hand perhaps the obvious scenario isn't the correct one. Is there anything else you know that could help us? You must have gone straight round after we called here on Monday. Why was it so urgent? Did you go round to see if there was anything incriminating you could remove?'

Neville broke the bond between his wife and her interrogator. ‘Are you suggesting we went there to
steal
something? To interfere with evidence in some way?'

‘I'm not suggesting anything. But you must have had a reason to go there.'

‘We told you. I'm the executor. I was hoping to find a copy of the will.' Neville stood up and took a turn around the room, sucking at his pipe. ‘However, I didn't. I didn't find his address book either. Also – I haven't had an opportunity to tell you this, kitten – but I've since discovered I may not be his executor after all.' He looked at the detectives. ‘According to a will made some years ago, I
was
the executor. Freddie's solicitor is or was another friend of ours, Hilary Jordan. However, when I spoke to Jordan, it turns out he has no copy of the will either. His firm's offices were bombed in 1945 – a V2 – and all their papers and records were destroyed. He told Freddie this some time afterwards, but Freddie didn't produce another copy. Apparently he just said he might make a new will. He never saw fit to mention this to me. I acted in good faith.'

‘In that case, we'd better have the keys, hadn't we.'

Regine rebelled at this. ‘But he – Freddie – gave me the keys.'

‘I'm sorry, Mrs Milner, but this is a murder inquiry. Granted the dead man's house was not the scene of the crime, nonetheless anything there may be relevant. People can't just wander in and out.'

‘We have no
locus standi
, kitten,' said Neville drily, aware of Regine's intense resentment. Reluctantly she fetched the keys from the desk drawer and handed them to Murray. His smile seemed intended to reassure, but she only felt angrier, though she said with outward calm: ‘If nothing was stolen, that doesn't mean it wasn't someone he'd just met.'

But Plumer said: ‘But you've just told us that items may have been stolen. And quite apart from that there may be important evidence in the house. Fingerprints, for example. And even if you were under the impression that you were his executor, Mr Milner, it was hardly within your remit to investigate his home in such haste.'

‘I thought it was, Chief Inspector.'

‘So you had a look around and didn't find a will or an address book, significant items you expected to be there. Was anything else missing at all? Valuables, for example.'

Regine hesitated. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to be frank … up to a point. Neville had said not to mention the photographs, it would only lead to more scandal, but it was obvious they knew about Freddie's private life anyway. She smiled confidingly at Murray. ‘You're right to suggest we're worried about his private life being exposed. I so hope it doesn't all have to be dragged through the courts – in the gutter press. But as it happens we do think some of his photographs were missing, personal ones, that is.' As soon as she'd spoken, she regretted it. Neville's face was pinched together in a frown. A bad mistake – she'd let herself be softened by Murray's quiet, sympathetic manner.

He watched her, but it was Plumer who spoke. ‘You're sure
you
didn't remove anything incriminating?'

‘I suggest you retract that remark,' said Neville.

‘This is a murder inquiry, Mr Milner,' repeated Plumer. ‘We have to investigate every possibility. So perhaps you could tell us what sort of personal photographs these were.'

‘Just photographs of his friends.' Neville was sulky now.

‘Friends of the same persuasion as himself, perhaps.'

Regine thought Neville was going to object, but he cleared his throat. ‘There's something you should know, although I don't know how significant it is. That evening – the Sunday – I went out later on to get some cigarettes before the pubs closed, and I actually bumped into Freddie. I was a bit surprised – although of course he could easily have been meeting other friends in Hampstead. But I got the feeling he wasn't too pleased to see me. We walked along together for a few minutes, then he turned back towards the tube station, saying he had to get the train home.'

Chief Inspector Plumer stared impassively at Neville. ‘What time was this?'

‘I'm not sure – before closing time. Before last orders. It just seemed rather odd, that's all.'

‘Phil, our lodger, he went out too,' said Regine. ‘He went for a drink and then he went to a friend's house. He must have got back here quite late. I don't remember hearing him come in. We must have been asleep.'

‘We need to talk to him too, then. Is he at home?'

‘He's on late shift at the library. It doesn't shut till eight.'

‘Did Mr Buckingham say where he'd been, or where he was going?'

Neville squinted through the smoke from his pipe. ‘No. And there's nothing particularly odd about it, really, it was just that he seemed a bit on edge.'

Chief Inspector Plumer stared, but said nothing. A sixty-aday man, he pulled another cigarette from its Player's packet and lit it off the end of the last. He took a deep lungful and exhaled a plume of smoke. Regine disliked the way he never even bothered to take the cigarette out of his mouth. It sat there between his pale lips until it was just a stub and waggled up and down when he spoke.

Neville repeated himself to cover the silence, ‘We chatted for a few moments. He was uneasy, I thought – I got the feeling he wished he hadn't seen me. We walked along in this direction, then he suddenly stopped and said he had to go back to the tube.'

‘He was going to meet someone, perhaps?'

Neville shrugged. ‘For someone so expansive, Freddie didn't talk much about his private affairs.'

‘He led a double life?'

‘I didn't say that.'

‘You knew Mr Buckingham well.'

Neville sucked at his pipe. ‘I knew him well at one time, before the war. Then he went out to the Far East. But we met up again during the war – in fact he introduced the two of us, didn't he, Reg, but now he's really your friend more than mine, wouldn't you say? Was, that is.'

Regine nodded, suddenly feeling tearful again.