“As she had been reported missing, it does not seem altogether inconsistent to suppose that neither her presence nor her permission was available at that time, sir. Our task was to find Mrs Harton. We looked in the first instance for anything suggestive of her whereabouts. The search was made in Mr Harton’s presence and with his approval.”
Purbright, cross with himself at having been provoked into pomposity, returned his attention to Julia.
“Any idea how the picture came to be in that drawer?”
“I haven’t, no.”
“You’ve read the message written across it?”
“Yes.”
“And does that not mean anything to you?”
“Apart from its being a threat of some kind; no, it doesn’t.”
Purbright removed the lid from a shallow cardboard box. “These things also were in the drawer we’ve been talking about, Mrs Harton. I don’t want you to think that I’m trying to place a sinister interpretation on any of them, but a couple I really do find puzzling. The photograph for one, of course. Then there are these—the two empty ‘Karmz’ tubes. I thought you said you had never bought such things.”
She stared in apparent perplexity. “They must be my husband’s. They certainly aren’t mine.”
“If I were to tell you that Mr Harton denies any knowledge of such pills and claims never to have seen those containers before, what would you say?”
“I’d say he was a damned liar, what else?” Julia had flushed angrily and was leaning forward in her chair.
“Can you suggest how the empty tubes got into that drawer?”
Mr Scorpe was gesturing in preparation for protest, but Julia spoke first.
“Certainly I can. David put them there. Don’t ask me why. Some vicious little scheme of his own, I suppose.”
“And the photograph?” prompted the inspector, quietly.
“Sure. Yes. Why not? And the bloody photograph!”
“And this?”
Purbright slid across the table towards her a small slip of paper. It was a sales receipt for £37 in respect of “Ladys m/c jkt, 36" blk' and dated the previous March. The slip was headed with the name of a Manchester firm of sports outfitters.
“Yes,” shouted Julia. “This, too, if it was there that you found it. And for God’s sake don’t ask me if I’ve ever seen it before. I couldn’t bloody bear it.”
There was a long silence, during which nobody seemed to think it would be a good idea to look at anyone else. Then quietly, confidentially almost, Purbright addressed Julia.
“I imagine you could do with a rest, Mrs Harton, so I don’t propose to ask your help any more tonight. There is, however, one question that I must put to you before I go.”
Julia nodded weary assent, and the inspector continued:
“Will you tell me, as precisely as possible, where you were on Saturday of last week—Saturday, the sixth of September—between eleven o’clock and midnight.”
She considered, but not for long.
“I was in bed, inspector. In bed at home. And in the company—most reluctantly—of my husband. Is that precise enough for you?”
Purbright bowed his head.
“Eminently.”
Chapter Seventeen
In her capacity as secretary and treasurer of the Flaxborough and Eastern Counties Charities Alliance, Miss Teatime was careful to keep in her office in Saint Anne’s Gate not only a street and trade directory but a reasonably up-to-date copy of the voters’ list.
She therefore anticipated little trouble in building into a full name and address the fragmentary inscription she had copied from the disc bequeathed by Mr Rothermere:
WINSTON C or G—— —3 —DWELL CL—E
The last word was easiest of all to guess for a lady whose current vocation had made her familiar with the foibles of the socially aspiring. It was—it had to be—CLOSE, a designation two points up on Gardens, at least three points superior to Avenue, and a whole astral plane above a mere Road. As for —DWELL, that clearly had started as CADWELL, for the only other Closes in Flaxborough were Church, Windsor, Harley and Twilight.
There were three householders in Cadwell Close whose name began with G: Godstone, at 2; Grant, at 17; and Gill, at 20. The only two Cs were Copley and Corrigan. They lived at 13 and 18 respectively. That 13 fitted. Copley, clearly, was the winner. Copley, Anthea Katherine, sole occupant.
Miss Teatime put away the directory and voters’ list and took from the shelf a long slim book, bound in a home-made cover patterned in forget-me-knots. This contained some hundreds of names, entered in alphabetical order in her own neat script. The names were of potential subscribers to charity. Miss Teatime called the catalogue her “soft touch list”.
She turned the pages to C. Campbell... Carstairs... Clasket... ah, there it was, Copley. She had thought it would be. And the entry had a little star against it, which was her private mark to indicate pelf above the average.
Miss Teatime refreshed her memory by studying the case notes opposite Mrs Copley’s name. Widowed 1963; brewery shares; married daughter Australia; three poodles: Winston, Edward and Vera Lynn; frightened of black men and Chinese; addicted to peppermint creams; telephone number 3829.
Telephone... Miss Teatime took another look at the second, the shorter, number on the back of Robert Tring’s picture, confident that it would tally with Mrs Copley’s. But it did not. It was 2271. Quite different. Damn.
She dialled 2271 there and then.
It rang for nearly half a minute without response. She was about to replace the receiver when the ringing tone ceased. No one answered. She spoke. An experimental “Hello?” There was rustling at the other end.
“Yes?” A man’s voice, slightly breathless. Not friendly.
“Who is that, please?”
“Double two seven one.”
“I mean, who is it?”
“I’ve given the number. What do you want? Who is that, anyway?”
A cagey gentleman, clearly. Miss Teatime considered rapidly. The call would produce nothing on this Hello-Hello level. A key of some kind was needed. Tring? R.I.P.? Mrs Copley? Cultox? There was no knowing. And a wrong guess could do a lot of harm, if only by putting somebody on guard.
“That is Kelsey’s isn’t it? The shoe shop?” She had decided to disengage.
“No, it isn’t.” A click and that was that.
Miss Teatime found that the call had disturbed her a little, so she poured herself a modest medicinal dose of whisky and thought about the man who had taken so long to answer the phone. He had not said much, yet even that brief and unpromising exchange had left her with the impression that he was someone she knew.