By the time he had got back to the power station and parked his car he had almost persuaded himself not to proceed. And then it occurred to him that he might make his own inquiries. The name was unusual enough; there might be an Amphlett in the London telephone directory and if not in London it might be worth trying some of the larger cities. And her father had been a soldier. Perhaps there was an army directory – wasn't it called the Army List? – which he could consult. It would be worth doing a little research before committing himself to expenditure he might not be able to meet, and the thought of writing to a detective agency, of actually putting his request down on paper, discouraged him. He began to feel like a conspirator, an unfamiliar role which both excited and ministered to some part of his nature which he hadn't previously known existed. He would work alone and if he were unsuccessful it would be time to think again.
And the first step was remarkably straightforward, so simple that he blushed at his folly at not having thought of it earlier. Back in the library he consulted the London telephone directory. There was a P. C. Amphlett with an address in Pont Street, SW1. He stared at it for a moment then with trembling fingers took out his notebook and jotted down the telephone number. The initials were those of Caroline's mother, but the entry bore no prefix. The subscriber could easily be a man. It could be a coincidence. And the name Pont Street meant nothing to him although he didn't think that SW1 could be a poor area of London. But would she have told him a lie which could be detected merely by consulting the telephone directory? Only if she were so confident of her dominance, of his enslavement to her, so certain of his inadequacy and stupidity that she hadn't needed to care. She had wanted that alibi and he had given it. And if this were a lie, if he visited Pont Street and discovered that her mother wasn't living in poverty, what else that she had told him had been true? When exactly had she been on the headland and for what purpose? But these were suspicions which he knew he could not seriously entertain. The idea that Caroline had killed Hilary Robarts was ridiculous. But why hadn't she been willing to tell the police the truth?
But he knew now what his next move would be. On the way home he would telephone the Pont Street number and ask for Caroline. That at least should prove whether or not it was her mother's address. And if it was then he would take a day's leave or wait until Saturday, make an excuse to have a day in London and check for himself.
The afternoon dragged on endlessly and it was difficult to keep his mind on his work. He was worried, too, in case Caroline should appear, should suggest that he go home with her. But she seemed to be avoiding him and he was grateful. He left ten minutes early, making the excuse of a headache, and within twenty minutes was back at the telephone kiosk in Lydsett. The number rang for almost half a minute and he had nearly given up hope when it was answered. A woman's voice slowly and distinctly spoke the number. He had decided to assume a Scottish accent. He knew himself to be quite a good mimic and his maternal grandmother had been a Scot. There would be no difficulty in making it convincing. He said: 'Is Miss Caroline Amphlett at home, please?'
There was a long silence, then the woman said repressively: 'Who is that speaking?'
'My name is John McLean. We're old friends.'
'Indeed, Mr McLean. Then how strange that I don't know you and that you, apparently, don't know that Miss Amphlett no longer lives here.'
Then could you give me her address, please?'
Again there was a silence. Then the voice said: 'I hardly think I would care to do that, Mr McLean. But if you wish to leave a message I will see that it reaches her.'
He asked: 'Is that her mother speaking?'
The voice laughed. It was not an agreeable laugh. Then she said: 'No, I'm not her mother. This is Miss Beasley, the housekeeper, speaking. But did you really need to ask?'
And then it occurred to him that there could be two Caroline Amphletts, two mothers with the same initials. The chance was surely remote, but it would be as well to make sure. He said: 'Does Caroline still work at Larksoken Power Station?'
And this time there could be no mistake. Her voice was harsh with dislike as she answered. 'If you know that, Mr McLean, why bother to ring me.'
And the telephone receiver was firmly replaced.
It was after 10.30 on the Tuesday night when Rickards came for the second time to Larksoken Mill. He had telephoned his intention shortly after six o'clock and had made it clear that the visit, although late, was official; there were facts he wanted to check and a question he needed to ask. Earlier in the day Dalgliesh had called in at the incident room at Hoveton and made a statement describing the finding of the body. Rickards hadn't been there, but Oliphant, obviously on his way out, had stayed to receive him and had briefly filled him in on the state of the investigation, not unwillingly but with a certain formality which suggested that he was under instructions. And Rickards himself, as he dragged off his jacket and seated himself in the same high-backed chair to the right of the fire, seemed a little chastened. He was wearing a dark blue, pin-striped suit which, for all its over-careful tailoring, had the slightly seedy and rejected air of a suit relegated to second-best. But it still looked odd and inappropriately citified on his gangling limbs, particularly here on the headland, giving him the air of a man dressed for an informal wedding or a job interview from which he had little hope of success. The thinly veiled antagonism, the bitterness of failure after the death of the Whistler, and even the restless energy of Sunday night had left him. Dalgliesh wondered whether he had spoken to the Chief Constable and received advice. If so, he could guess what it had been. It was much the same as he himself would have given.
'It's irritating that he's on your patch, but he's one of the Met's senior detectives, the Commissioner's blue-eyed boy. And he knows these people. He was at the Mair dinner party. He found the body. He's got useful information. All right, he's a professional, he's not going to withhold it, but you'll get it more easily and make life more agreeable for both of you if you stop treating him like a rival, or worse, a suspect.'
Handing Rickards his whisky, Dalgliesh inquired after his wife.
'She's fine, fine.' But there was something forced in his tone.
Dalgliesh said: 'I suppose now the Whistler's dead, she'll be coming home.'
'You'd think so, wouldn't you? I'd like it, she'd like it, but there's the little problem of Sue's ma. She doesn't want her ewe-lamb mixed up with any unpleasantness, particularly murder, and particularly just now.'
Dalgliesh said: 'It's difficult to isolate yourself from unpleasantness, even murder, if you marry a police officer.'
'She never intended Sue to marry a police officer.'
Dalgliesh was surprised at the bitterness in his voice. Again, he was uncomfortably aware that he was being asked for some kind of assurance which he, of all men, was least competent to give. While he was searching for the anodyne phrase he glanced again at Rickards's face, at the look of weariness, almost of defeat, at the lines which the fitful light of the wood fire made even more cavernous, and took refuge in practicality.
He asked: 'Have you eaten?'
'Oh, I'll get myself something from the fridge when I get back.'
'There's the remains of a cassoulet, if you'd like it. It won't take a moment to heat up.' 'Wouldn't say no, Mr Dalgliesh.'
He ate the cassoulet from a tray on his lap, voraciously, as if it was his first meal for days, and afterwards mopped up the sauce with a crust of bread. Only once did he look up from his plate to ask: 'Did you cook this, Mr Dalgliesh?'