Authors: Anthea Fraser
‘Oh no, sir. Fifties at least, and balding.’
Too bad. ‘Is he staying here?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘And the lady?’
‘I’ve not seen her before.’
‘Did you see the other gentleman, with curly hair?’
‘Afraid not, sir. We were very busy.’
‘Any idea of the approximate time?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t say. Like Bedlam it was, in here.’
‘Well, thanks very much, Mr —?’
‘Barker, Sid Barker. Me other mate didn’t see neither of them — me and Ted just asked him.’
‘I’m grateful for your help, Mr Barker. Thank you.’
As the man moved away, Webb’s bleeper sounded, loud in the almost empty bar.
‘Good timing,’ he continued. ‘Sounds as though Stapleton’s arrived. I’ll go and have a quick word, then we’ll track down Mr Derringer.’
*
The pathologist, who was bending over the figure in the chair, glanced over his shoulder with a grunt as Webb approached, then resumed his examination. He would comment when he was ready, and Webb waited patiently.
Several minutes later, Stapleton straightened. ‘Before you ask, Chief Inspector,’ he said in his clipped voice, ‘time of death could be anything up to twenty-four hours. Rigor mortis is wearing off, as you see, but it would have been accelerated in this heat — the radiator’s immediately behind him. No outward marks, at least on preliminary examination. Should be able to tell more when we get him on the slab.’
‘And no ID, as you’ll have heard.’
‘Unusual, I grant you, in these days when we’re all tagged and labelled, though personally I see nothing sinister in it. If he hadn’t come by car he would not have his driving licence, and as for the ubiquitous credit cards, he might simply not have held with them. I don’t myself.’
‘You presumably have a cheque-book, though?’
The pathologist took refuge in his habitual grunt. ‘There’s nothing more I can do here. I’ll see you, no doubt, at the mortuary.’
As Webb followed him out of the room the Scenes of Crime officers were arriving. Webb stopped to tell them about the straightened bedspread.
‘Otherwise, nothing has been touched as far as I know. The chambermaid said the chair isn’t usually turned in to face the table, so if you’re lucky you might get some prints off it. Let’s hope so, anyway. We could do with a break on this one.’
News of their detention had obviously sifted through to the guests. Little groups were conferring in hallways, some apprehensive, some indignantly looking at their watches, and as Webb and Jackson turned into the lounge they could see a uniformed figure stationed implacably at the front entrance. The net had closed, but was the fish still in it?
Ignoring the agitation around him, Mr Derringer was holding a meeting in one corner of the lounge, and was not pleased at being interrupted. However, the manager’s wheedling finally extracted him, and he bustled over to where Webb and Jackson stood waiting.
‘I can’t imagine what you want with me,’ he said crossly. ‘I gather one of the guests has died, but why that should necessitate not only my being confined to the building but my clients as well, I simply do not understand. It hardly makes for good business relations.’
The two men with whom Derringer had been talking were staring curiously in their direction. Webb said imperturbably, ‘I believe you met a lady in the bar yesterday.’
Derringer reddened, the flush spreading over the polished dome of his head. ‘I hope, Chief Inspector, that you’re not suggesting anything improper.’
‘I’m suggesting nothing at all, sir, merely asking a question.’
‘Then yes, I did. That also was a business appointment, but because of the limited time factor it seemed sensible to incorporate lunch. I’m on a tight schedule, as I’ve already told one of your men.’
‘The lady’s name, sir?’
‘Mrs French, of French Furnishings.’
‘French Furnishings?’
Derringer said impatiently, ‘Merely a play on her name. She’s as English as I am.’
‘Have you the lady’s address, sir?’
‘Somewhere, I suppose.’ He looked up sharply. ‘Why, what has she done? I can’t afford to be tied up with anything shady.’
‘As far as I know she’s done nothing. In fact, it’s not the lady herself we’re interested in but the gentleman she was speaking to before you arrived.’
‘And what do you want him for?’
Webb said smoothly, ‘We don’t want him, sir. In a manner of speaking, we’ve already got him. It was he who was found dead this morning.’
‘Good God. I hadn’t realized.’
‘You saw him, then?’
‘Of course I saw him. He was in one alcove, obviously waiting for someone, and I in another — Mrs French had been delayed. When she came in, she saw him first and approached him by mistake. I overheard her say, “Mr Derringer?” so I made myself known.’
‘Did anything strike you about him, sir? His manner or apparent state of mind?’
‘I saw that he was getting agitated, presumably because his appointment was overdue. I remember thinking, “You’d better calm down, my boy; if they see you in that state they won’t trust your business judgement.”’
‘In what way did he seem agitated?’
‘Oh, constantly looking at his watch and then at the door. And he’d no sooner finished one cigarette than he lit up another.’
Webb nodded. ‘And afterwards, when you’d sorted yourselves out, did Mrs French make any comment about him?’
‘Only in apologizing for her mistake.’
‘Did you notice if this gentleman’s friends arrived later?’
‘I can’t say I did. As soon as we embarked on our business discussion, I forgot about him.’
‘What time was your appointment with Mrs French, sir?’
‘Twelve-thirty,’ Derringer replied promptly, ‘but she was at least fifteen minutes late.’
At last they had that tied down.
‘Was the other gentleman here when you arrived?’
‘No. I can be sure of that because I was keeping an eye open for Mrs French and saw him arrive.’
‘What time would that have been?’
‘About twelve-forty, I’d say.’
Mention of time had reminded Derringer of its passing and he glanced at his watch. ‘Look, there really is nothing else I can tell you, Chief Inspector. Naturally I’m sorry about the death, but there it is. If you want to see Mrs French, the premises are in East Parade, though I doubt if she can help you. Now you really must excuse me.’
Webb let him go; his home address and further details would be noted during a routine interview later.
‘East Parade,’ Jackson commented. ‘Very up-market.’
‘And just across the road. Things are under way here so we might as well call on the lady and see what she can tell us about the elusive Mr K.’
*
French Furnishings was three doors down from Randall Tovey’s, the exclusive store which itself had been caught up in violent death a few months previously. The window display was arresting — delicate chairs, an antique chest spilling out brilliantly coloured fabrics, and interestingly shaped vases grouped on an oriental rug. An indication, no doubt, of the comprehensiveness of the service offered.
Webb pushed open the door, and when a girl approached them, asked for the proprietor.
‘Have you an appointment, sir?’
‘No.’ He held up his warrant card. ‘DCI Webb and Sergeant Jackson, Shillingham CID.’
She looked startled. ‘Mrs French is on the phone, sir. Would you mind waiting a moment?’
‘Of course not.’
Webb stood happily enough, looking about him and soaking up atmosphere. The barman had described a glamour-girl, but it seemed she was an astute businesswoman. There was constant activity around him as customers compared curtain fabrics, examined delicate lamps, or moved about with cumbersome books of wallpaper, and the assistants were bustling in and out with swatches of material and order books.
Alcoves around the perimeter had been decorated as sections of, respectively, a bedroom, a sitting-room and a dining area, each displaying a flair which appealed to Webb’s artistic sensibilities. It certainly seemed a flourishing business, and he was looking forward to meeting its owner.
The phone behind the till rang and the girl beckoned them, leading them to a panelled door at one side of the display area. She tapped on it and stepped aside for them to enter.
Christina came round the side of the desk to greet them, and it was obvious the barman had not exaggerated her attractions. She was not, however, the girl Webb had half-expected, but a woman in her forties, mature and self-confident. Ash-blonde hair hung in a straight silken curtain to the level of her chin and her long, almond-shaped eyes were sea-green. She wore her designer clothes with the careless grace of a model, the knee-length skirt revealing a pair of long, slender legs. Jackson reminded himself that he was a married man and averted his eyes.
‘This is most intriguing, Chief Inspector. How can I help you?’
‘I believe, Mrs French, that you had a lunch appointment at the King’s Head yesterday?’
‘Dear me!’ she said mockingly. ‘Is Big Brother watching me?’
‘And,’ Webb continued, ‘that in the first instance you mistakenly approached the wrong gentleman?’
She waved them to a seat and returned to her own. ‘Yes, what of it?’
‘Can you give us any information about that gentleman?’
She stared at him for a moment, then said, ‘None whatever.’
‘He didn’t introduce himself?’
‘He didn’t have the chance. He offered me a drink but I was still looking round for Mr Derringer. Then almost at once, he came over, and that was that.’
The feeling of let-down told Webb that he’d hoped for more from this meeting.
‘You exchanged no personal details whatsoever?’
She frowned at his persistence. ‘None. Am I to be told the point of these questions?’
‘Did you see him again, after you joined Mr Derringer?’
‘Only as he left the bar.’
‘Alone?’ Webb asked quickly.
‘No, with a couple — a man and woman. Look, what is all this?’
‘Mrs French, I’m sorry to tell you that the gentleman in question was found dead in his room this morning.’
Watching her, Webb saw her eyes go blank with shock. ‘Oh,’ she said after a moment. Then, ‘I am sorry. And you don’t know who he is? But surely —’
‘Could you describe this couple for me?’
It took her a moment to drag her thoughts from the dead man. ‘I caught only a glimpse of them — they were nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Old? Young?’
‘About his age. Look, if he was staying at the hotel, they must know who he was.’
‘Unfortunately not. The desk was very busy, so he simply took his key and the receptionist can’t remember the name he gave.’
‘So there’s no way of letting his family know? How absolutely terrible. But surely he had papers on him — cheque-book —?’ Her voice trailed off as Webb shook his head.
She said slowly, ‘Isn’t that rather strange?’
‘Yes, Mrs French, very strange.’ Whatever Stapleton might think.
She moistened her lips. ‘Chief Inspector, are you saying what I think you’re saying?’
‘That we suspect foul play? It’s on the cards, I’m afraid.’
‘My God!’ she said softly.
‘In which case we might need to call on you again. Could you give the Sergeant here your full name and address, please?’
She did so.
‘What time did you actually arrive at the hotel, Mrs French?’
‘Quarter to one. I’d just flown back from Scotland and the shuttle was late.’ She paused. ‘How did he die?’
‘It hasn’t been established yet. I’m sorry to press the point, but he didn’t say where he’d come from, who he was meeting —? A pity Mr Derringer claimed you so quickly.’
She’d thought the same herself, Christina remembered. And now the man was dead.
Webb rose, signalling to Jackson. ‘Well, thank you for your help. Oh — one further point. He didn’t happen to have a briefcase with him, did he?’
‘Yes, he had. It was propped against his seat. Surely there’ll be something in that to identify him?’
‘Except,’ Webb said deliberately, ‘that there was no briefcase in his room.’ And leaving her staring after them, he and Jackson took their leave.
*
When they arrived back at Carrington Street, it was to find a commotion going on in the foyer. The desk sergeant and two other officers were attempting to deal with a couple who appeared on the verge of hysteria.
Webb hesitated, then, catching Andy Fenton’s eye, went over to the desk. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
The woman spun to face him. ‘They’ve stolen my baby, if you call that a problem!’ she cried. ‘And what’s more, you won’t do anything to stop them!’
Visions of kidnapping flashed through Webb’s mind but Fenton interposed quickly, ‘It’s not quite what it seems, sir. This lady says a religious sect has alienated her son. I’ve tried to explain it’s a matter for the Special Branch —’
‘Which sect would that be?’ As if he didn’t know, Webb thought resignedly. He’d been waiting for something like this.
‘The Final Revelationists or something. They ought to be locked up, poisoning a child’s mind against his parents.’
‘How old is your son, ma’am?’
‘Just had his sixteenth birthday.’ It was her husband who replied.
‘And they’ve abducted him?’
‘Oh, not physically,’ the man said with bitterness. ‘He’s still living at home, going to school and so on. It’s his mind they’ve got at. Turned him into a zombie.’
‘He was such a bright boy!’ the woman sobbed. ‘Good at games, played the drums in the school band, lots of friends. Now he just shuts himself away in his room reading their pamphlets and listening to their cassettes, and as fast as I take them away, he gets more. And he tells us the food we eat is “unclean”!’ she added, indignation creeping into her voice. ‘He won’t touch meat or fish any more. I’m at my wits’ end, wondering what to get him.’
Webb said gently, ‘It’s really not a matter for the police, ma’am, not if they haven’t physically abducted him. But there are organizations who deal with this. Ask the Citizen’s Advice Bureau, they’ll tell you about them.’
She was about to argue further, but Webb nodded and walked firmly to the security door, leaving Fenton and the others to get rid of the couple.
‘There was something on the Intelligence Bulletin about that lot,’ Jackson remarked as they started up the stairs.
‘Yep. WDI Petrie went to suss them out last week and didn’t like what she saw. It mightn’t be a bad idea to have another word with her. Ask her to come to my room when she has a minute, would you, Ken? And get young Marshbanks to go through the telephone directory and list all two-syllable names beginning with K that have an upper-looped letter in the middle.’
‘He’ll love that,’ Jackson said with a grin.
‘Then he can take it round to Samantha at the King’s Head and see if any of them rings a bell. And I want the hotel guests and staff to identify their cars, so we know if any are unclaimed. Organize it, will you?’ And Webb turned into his office and shut the door.
*
Nina received Webb’s message with mixed feelings. She’d heard about the scene in the front office and was in no doubt what he wished to speak to her about. The trouble was that she didn’t know whether or not she wanted to continue investigating the Revvies. Ever since her visit to Victoria Drive she’d been aware of a niggling wish to return, and the words
love, trust, salvation
still drifted disconcertingly in and out of her mind.