Inspector Fletcher had never interviewed a professional mistress before, if that was what she was. He wasn’t quite sure if she had committed any crimes. The young lady had blonde hair and bright blue eyes and went straight on to the attack as if she were a professional boxer.
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘are you in charge round here? That man of yours, Constable whatever his name is, he seems to have lost the power of speech.’
‘I am the senior investigating officer, looking into a case of murder. Fletcher is my name. I’m an Inspector.’
‘Good for you. Well done. Nobody’s mentioned murder round here to me. Everybody’s still alive in this hotel as far as I know. Some of them may be bloody old but they’re not dead yet. Not quite. My name’s Francesca, by the way, my friends call me Frankie. I don’t know nothing about this murder, wherever it was. Why can’t I go home? You’ve got no cause to hold on to me. I’ve got work to do.’
‘I’m sure you do. What kind of work do you do, Miss Francesca?’
‘I’m a masseuse. And I do occasional escort work sometimes. If the money’s right. Do you need a massage, Inspector? You look pretty tense to me.’
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ said the Inspector. ‘I wonder if you could tell me about your relationship with one of the directors here, Sir Peregrine Fishborne.’
‘What’s it got to do with you, my relationship as you call it, with old Fishcake? None of your bloody business.’
‘There you’re wrong. The murder we are investigating took place at an almshouse not far from here. Sir Peregrine was here at the hotel the night of the murder. We think you may have been with him. The date of which we speak is January twenty-second.’
‘I may have been with him that night,’ Francesca said, ‘and I may not. I can’t be expected to remember exactly where I was all the time. I still don’t think it’s any of your business.’
‘Did you come down with Sir Peregrine in his car? Or did you make your own way here? It was a Saturday. The hotel people remember you being here. In the Baron Haussmann Suite.’
‘What if I was?’
‘Could I ask you what you were doing with Sir Peregrine so late at night?’
‘You may. He needed a massage. He often sends for me here when he needs a massage. He’s got a terrible back, old Fishcake, just terrible.’
‘I see,’ said the Inspector. ‘And does the treatment involve you staying the night?’
‘You’re the nosey one, aren’t you? Course it does. Sometimes the treatment doesn’t work first time round. You have to do it again. “Frankie,” old man Fishcake would say to me, “despite your best efforts, I’m afraid it hasn’t taken. One more time if you please.” And usually he needs it again in the morning. Help him through the day, that sort of thing. What’s he done anyway, my client? You’re not suspecting him of the murder, are you?’ With that Francesca began to laugh. ‘All the time he’s lying there, scarcely able to move, you think he’s off up at the almshouse killing somebody? Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘Can you remember, Miss Francesca, if Sir Peregrine required further treatment in the morning? Can you remember what time he left the hotel?’
‘There is one thing you can say about old Fishcake, he’s very regular in his habits. He always wants it in the morning, the treatment, I mean. Never known him not to. He usually left very early in the morning after I’d seen to him. Seven o’clock? Eight o’clock? Sometimes earlier, sometimes later. His back was so bad one day recently I had to stay till ten o’clock.’
‘Has this masseuse duty been going on for long, Miss Francesca?’
‘Long enough, Inspector. There are times when a girl might like to be pummelling something younger, if you follow me, but I can’t complain. I’ve been seeing to him for about six months, I should say.’
‘How does he get in touch with you, Miss Francesca?’
‘You’re getting very cheeky, young man. I shall answer this question and then no more. He’s lent me a flat so I can treat him there when he needs me to. Just off the Strand. And he’s installed one of those telephone things so he can call when he needs me. That’s your lot, sunny Jim. I’m off.’
The constable and the Inspector made their way back to the station.
‘Do you know, sir, I’m not feeling too good,’ said the constable.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Inspector Fletcher. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
‘It’s my back, sir. I seem to have twisted something. I think I need a massage.’
14
Inspector Grime of the Norfolk Constabulary hated London. He had hated it ever since his father took him there as a treat when he was seven years old. Master Grime had been accidentally separated from his father in a huge shop in Oxford Street and it had taken four very frightening hours before they were reunited. He disliked the noise, the clamour of streets too full of cars and carriages and carts and humans. He disliked the crowds rushing around on missions he did not understand. He disliked Londoners. He thought they were slick, superficial, devious and would rob you of your last farthing if they had a chance.
Now, stuck in a cab at eleven o’clock in the morning between Liverpool Street Station and Noel Road in Islington, home of William Lewis, son of the merry widow in Fakenham, he cursed the traffic that was making him late for his interview, arranged by telephone the afternoon before. Damn London, said the Inspector. At least I’ll be out of here this evening after I’ve seen the other Lewis up in Highgate.
William Lewis ushered him into an upstairs drawing room that looked out on to a garden and the Regent’s Park Canal. ‘You’ve come a long way to see me, Inspector, it must be important. Would you like some coffee?’
‘Thank you, but no,’ said the Inspector. ‘I’m sorry to have to ask you personal questions, but this is a murder inquiry. I wonder if you could tell me about how your mother coped after your father died. In a general way, if you see what I mean.’
‘Have you met my mother, Inspector?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t had that pleasure yet, Mr Lewis. My sergeant went to talk to her and reported back.’
‘Pity, that,’ said William Lewis. ‘Things might have been easier if you had. Let me try to answer your question, Inspector. My mother is a creature of fancy. My father once referred to her as being blessed with an iron whim. She gets ideas into her head. And unlike a lot of women who are content to leave the idea where it is, she acts on them. Not all the time, just most of the time. My brother and I — he’s the elder, by the way — tried to persuade her to stay where she was after our father passed away. The house was more than adequate for her needs. I’m not saying she had a lot of friends, but she knew a lot of people round there. But no, that wouldn’t do. Sell the house, move to Fakenham — why Fakenham, for God’s sake? She was going slightly mad.’
‘When you refer to her going slightly mad, sir, what do you mean? Was she behaving out of character?’
‘I think you could say she was behaving entirely in character, that was the trouble. Who in their right mind would want to get involved with an ageing bounty hunter who stalked his victims over the flower rotas and the Harvest Festival at the local church?’
‘I hope you won’t mind my asking, sir, but did you meet Mr Gill the bursar? What did you think of him?’
William Lewis snorted. ‘He was awful. Creepy, sucking up to my mother all the time, calling her darling and my love and all that sort of stuff. You could tell a mile off that he was only interested in the money.’
‘So what did you and your brother do about it?’
‘We tried, Inspector, we tried. God knows we tried to talk some sense into her. What did she think she was doing, marrying this useless specimen of humanity? And if she did have to marry him, why did she have to leave him all her money? What would Father have thought of it?’