Mrs Dearborn seemed to be pointing out the baby to her friend, if friend she was. From what he could see of her through the streaming rain as she pressed her face against the rear window, Wexford thought her an unlikely sort of acquaintance for a company chairman's wife. Her umbrella was a man's, of cheap uncompromising black, her shabby coat black, and underneath it she wore what looked like an overall. An old felt hat, jammed hard down on her head, partly hid her face but couldn't conceal the disfiguring mole between cheek and left nostril. He fancied he had seen her somewhere before.
Just as he was wondering how long they could bear standing there and gossiping in a downpour which had become a tempest, the woman in black moved off and Mrs Dearborn jumped into the car, slicking back her wet hair with her wet hands.
'I'm so sorry to have kept you. You must be wishing you'd taken that taxi. But you know how it is when you run into people and there's a very . . .' She stopped quite suddenly. 'Now, let's get you home,' she said.
'You were going to show me St Mark and St John.'
'Oh, yes. Can you see that sort of round building right down there to the left? Just before you get to Stamford Bridge? That's St Mark's library. The college grounds go right through to the King's Road. Are you going to tank to Verity?'
'I expect so,' Wexford said. 'At any rate, she can tell me where Isa went after she left her.'
'I can do that,' Melanie Dearborn said quickly. 'Don't forget that's where Stephen found her. It's in Earls Court. I'll write down the phone number. I'd phone it myself, I'd try to talk to Verity, only . . .' She hesitated and added rather sadly, 'None of her friends would tell me anything.'
Outside the house in Theresa Street they stopped and Mrs Dearborn wrote the number down for him. For half an hour her thoughts had been distracted from her daughter, but now he noticed that the hand which held the pen was shaking. She looked up at him, nervous again, her brow furrowed with anxiety.
'Are you really going to try and trace her for me? I'm a bit I remember what happened when Stephen . . .'
'I'll be discreet,' Wexford promised, and then he said goodbye, adding that he would see her without fail on Wednesday.
The house was empty. Denise had left him a note, propped against a crystal vase of freesias, to say that they had gone out to buy a blackberry poncho. He wasn't sure whether this was something to wear or something to eat.
He phoned the Holland Park number, but no one answered. Now for girl number two, the witness perhaps to Dearborn's clumsy and tactless trapping.
A young man's voice said hello.
'Who occupied the flat before you?' Wexford asked when he had explained who he was.
'Don't know. I've been here four years.'
'Four years? Louise Sampson was living there a couple of years ago.'
'That's right. With me. Lulu and I lived here together for Oh, four or five months.'
'I see.' This little piece of information was doubtless one which Dearborn had thought it wise to keep from his wife. 'Can I come and see you, Mr. . . ?'
'Adams. You can come if you like. Not today, though. Say tomorrow, about seven?'
Wexford put the phone down and looked at his watch. Just gone five. The rain had dwindled to drizzle. What time did these college classes end for the day? With any luck, Verity Bate might just be leaving now or, better still, living in hall for her final year.
He found the big gates of the college its students call Marjohn's without difficulty. There were a few boys and girls about on the forecourt, embryo teachers, who gave him the kind of glances his generation but not he reserved for them, the looks which ask, Why are you wearing those curious clothes, that hairstyle, that outlandish air? He was convinced that no one in the King's Road wore his kind of clothes or was as old as he. He went rather tentatively into the porter's lodge and asked where he could find Miss Verity Bate.
'You've just missed her. She came in to see if there were any letters for her and then she went off home. Are you her dad?'
Wexford felt rather flattered. Suppose he had been asked if he were the girl's grandfather? 'I'll leave a note for her,' he said.
Before he went any further he really ought to tell Howard. His nephew had a force at his command, a force who could trace Louise Sampson in a matter of hours, match her with Loveday Morgan, or else show the two girls to be two girls. But how much more satisfying it would be if he on his own could present Howard with a fait accompli, the checking and tracing all done....
12
The truth shall sooner come to light . . . whiles he helpeth and beareth out simple wits against the false and malicious circumventions of crafty children.
ANOTHER one of your women on the phone,' said Denise rather nastily.
Wexford was just finishing his breakfast. He felt relieved that Howard, who had gone to the study to fetch his briefcase, and Dora, who was making beds, hadn't heard the remark. He went to the phone and a girl's voice, breathless with curiosity, said this was Verity Bate.
It was only eight-fifteen. 'You didn't waste any time, Miss Bate.'
'I had to go back to Marjohn's last evening to fetch something and I saw your message.' The girl went on smugly, 'I realised it must be very important and, as I've got a social conscience, I felt I should get in touch with you as soon as possible.'
Couldn't wait to know what it's all about, more like, thought Wexford. 'I'm trying to trace someone you used to know.'
'Really? Who? I mean, who can you possibly . . . ?'
'When and where can we meet, Miss Bate?'
'Well, I've got this class till eleven-thirty. I wish you'd tell me who it is.' She didn't express any doubts as to his identity, his authority. He might have been a criminal lunatic bent on decoying her away. 'You could come to my flat . . . No, I've got a better idea. I'll meet you at a quarter to twelve in Violet's Voice, that's a coffee place opposite Marjohn's.'
Howard made no comment, asked no questions, when he said he wouldn't be in until after his lunch with Sergeant and Mrs Clements. Perhaps he was glad to be relieved of his uncle's company for the morning or perhaps he guessed that Wexford was pursuing a private line of enquiry, in current parlance, doing his own thing.
He got to Violet's Voice ten minutes before time. It was a small dark cafe, almost empty. The ceiling, floor and furniture were all of the same deep purple, the walls painted in drug- vision swirls of violet and lavender and silver and black. Wexford sat down and ordered tea which was brought in a glass with lemon and mint floating about in it. From the window he could see St Mark's gates, and before he had begun to drink his tea he saw a diminutive girl with long red hair come out of these gates and cross the road. She was early too.
She came unhesitatingly up to his table and said loudly, 'It's about Lou Sampson, isn't it? I've thought and thought and it must be Lou.'
He got to his feet. 'Miss Bate? Sit down and let me get you something to drink. What makes you so sure it's Louise?'
'She would disappear. I mean, if there's anyone I know who'd be likely to get in trouble or have the police looking for her, it's Lou.' Verity Bate sat down and stuck her elbows on the table. 'Thanks, I'll have a coffee.'' She had an aggressive, rather theatrical manner, her voice pitched so that everyone in the cafe could hear her. 'I haven't the faintest idea where Lou is, and I wouldn't tell you if I had. I suppose it's Mrs Sampson tracking her down again. Mrs Dearborn, I should say. One thing about that woman, she never gives up.'