There was no evidence involving Marcus. Irene Nichols had lived with him. So what? In the event of any murder, Jennifer knew, the police always looked first at those closest to the victim. But Marcus had emerged from the beginning smelling of roses and would continue to do so. Marcus was so convincing, and always had been, in his reasoned sorrow. All the evidence of responsibility for Irene’s murder now pointed to Bill Turpin. Nobody knew who had murdered Marjorie Benson.
The only way Jennifer could find out if what she suspected was indeed the truth, was for her to make all the moves. Only she, with her special knowledge and memories, could point the finger at Marcus; only she could discover what was behind it all. She was certain of that, and she desperately needed to find the truth — although she was not very sure of what she would do with it when she ultimately had it.
She switched off the television and plugged her laptop computer into the mains. It was her habit to write things down, to clarify her thoughts by arranging them in proper sentences. Her jottings were interrupted by the shrill tones of the telephone ringing in the hall.
‘Anna,’ she said to herself.
She almost ran into the hallway. Her mother appeared at the kitchen door.
‘Don’t worry mum, I think it’s for me,’ she called.
‘And whoever else could it possibly be for when you’re in the house, my girl?’ muttered Mrs Stone as her daughter picked up the phone.
Jennifer wasn’t disappointed. It was Anna.
‘Plug in the toy box, your dispatches await,’ said the voice she had been hoping to hear.
‘You’re wonderful, did I ever tell you that Anna?’ she asked.
‘Not nearly often enough,’ came the reply. ‘And by the way, your inquiries do not have anything to do with murder and mayhem and bodies in the garden of a certain North Devon cottage, do they?’
Jennifer carried on as if she had not heard the question. ‘I’m going to hang up now and fetch the machine,’ she said.
She carried the laptop from the living room into the hall and prepared to insert its jack into the telephone socket.
‘Anna, are you ready?’
‘Jen, I know something’s very wrong. Can’t you tell me?’
‘Not yet, I just can’t. And not on the phone. I’ll be back in town soon. OK?’
‘I suppose. Just take care.’
‘See you very soon. Honest. And thanks...’
She plugged in her computer with its built-in fax modem. The newspaper cuttings would be sent down the phone line directly into the laptop’s hard drive and she would be able to study them at her leisure on the screen.
Anna had done a good job. Late into the night Jennifer read and reread the information her friend had sent her. The often only half-expressed queries about Marcus’s business dealings were endless. The financial pundits variously praised and wondered at his knowledge of the money market. Eventually she switched off the computer, but she remained thoughtful and unable to sleep properly throughout the night.
In the morning, Jennifer knew exactly what she must do. She was up early again and on the phone. Eventually she tracked down Marcus on his mobile. It was a Sunday morning. She could not try to contact him through his office, which was no great loss because they rarely knew where he was anyway, something of which she had an appreciation born of bitter experience. He was a maverick, Marcus, desperately difficult to work with. Thank God he still had the same personal mobile phone number.
He sounded surprised and a little alarmed to hear her voice. The surprise was understandable; she had not contacted him except through solicitors since that dreadful night when she had interrupted his sordid pursuits in their own home. But why should he be alarmed? Nervous even? Rare indeed.
She proceeded to give a performance worthy of an Oscar nomination.
‘I’ve quit the paper,’ she announced.
‘Have you indeed?’ he responded neutrally.
‘Look, the reason I’m calling has nothing to do with all the personal stuff between us — I’d still rather not think about that. I want your advice on the job. I want to talk to you — can we meet?’
Marcus believed her at once. What she was saying made sense because he had always been something of a mentor to her, and he knew that. She’d seen Marcus operate at full steam, and was quite aware that in both the world of newspapers and later as a businessman and politician he was the most surefooted of careerists.
‘Professionally I have greater respect for you than for anybody else in our world,’ she heard herself say. She sounded honest, and indeed she was speaking the truth — as far as it went.
She could feel him relax at the other end of the phone. She’d deliberately not mentioned that she was in Pelham Bay, nor the reopening of the murder inquiry and the discovery of the body in Bill Turpin’s garden.
He did — as she had expected him to. He knew, of course, that she would have read of it in the papers. It would have been unthinkable that she hadn’t. The whole thing was now public knowledge, and the identity of the newly-discovered body had been reported in the national as well as the regional press.
‘Of course I’ll meet you, darling, delighted to give you any help I can,’ he almost gushed. How dare he call her darling like that, she thought angrily. But she said nothing. His self-assurance positively bristled down the phone line.
Then, perhaps a little too casually, he broached the subject which was actually weighing heavily on both their minds.
‘Heard about Irene and the Bill Turpin business, have you?’ he asked.
She replied, with what she hoped was equal casualness and without comment.
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Thought you would have done. The police have been in touch with me already, you know, right after they identified the body.’
He paused, waiting for her to say something. Once again she had no comment to make.
‘Poor little cow,’ he eventually remarked quite cheerily, and volunteered a brief account of his police interview.
A London-based detective, unfamiliar with the case, had gone over much of the old ground and had apparently left quite satisfied that Marcus could help them no further.
‘You know, it’s all so long ago I can only just remember her really, and I told the police all I knew at the time,’ he said.
By God, she thought, if her gravest suspicions were true, what a performer Marcus was. Any earlier hint of alarm had completely gone now — or had she in fact imagined it? He sounded so in control, so unconcerned; but then he always did.
They arranged to meet that night.
‘Come to my place for a drink,’ said Marcus.
He never lets up, she thought. But she had expected that too, indeed counted on it, and she agreed readily enough. He reminded her of his address in the luxurious Chelsea riverside block which she had never visited.
‘Your solicitor knows it well enough, but you probably don’t,’ he said. There was a smile in his voice.
‘Ha, ha,’ she responded lamely.
She told her mother she had to return to London for a couple of days, and within an hour was back behind the wheel of the Porsche and on her way. She drove straight to Anna’s house. She wanted to see Dominic. She didn’t like him particularly, but she had a great deal of respect for his brilliance.
It was early afternoon when she arrived, and Anna was out in the park with Pandora. For about the only time in her life, Jennifer was quite pleased that her friend was not there. Anna would ask too many questions and Jennifer remained both unable and unwilling to try to answer them. Dominic greeted her without great enthusiasm, as usual. She was never sure if he really did dislike her, or if it was all a game. To her it was a game; with him, who could tell? They were chalk and cheese. Rather grudgingly he made her tea, but he came to life when she showed him the copies of Bill Turpin’s notebook.