Everyone seemed sympathetic. Lilian, although deeply shocked and scared out of her wits again was, if not reassured, at least calmed and encouraged.
Charlie told her that he believed that Kurt had really shot himself in the foot.
‘When your case comes to court his evidence and character will be irrevocably tainted by what he’s done,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d go as far as to say that there’s now just a chance again that the case won’t even come to court.’
The police arranged for the house to be kept under surveillance throughout the night.
Ultimately Lilian went to bed feeling, under the circumstances, better than she would have thought possible. And she slept surprisingly well. Early the following afternoon the same two police officers returned. They had tracked Kurt down.
‘It appears that Mr St John has a solid alibi for the time you say you were confronted by him, Mrs St John,’ said PC McKeach.
He sounded weary, certainly no longer at all sympathetic. Indeed the attitude of both police officers had changed, in much the same way that the attitude of the police in Bristol had changed after they’d interviewed plausible Kurt.
‘Do you think I made it up, for God’s sake?’ asked Lilian. ‘Kurt gets people to lie for him. That’s what he does.’
‘Not these people, love,’ interjected PC Birch, in that vaguely patronizing way that men in positions of any sort of authority were inclined, as a matter of routine in the 1990s, to adopt towards women. ‘Mr St John was having lunch with a government minister and the South African High Commissioner at the time. At South Africa House.’
‘On a Sunday?’ queried Lilian. ‘All afternoon? Do they confirm he was there all afternoon? And South Africa House is in Trafalgar Square. Less than half an hour away from here on a Sunday. It was the first time I’d been out of the house on my own. His goons could have tipped Kurt off. I know the house has been watched—’
‘Even if Mr St John was not at lunch all afternoon, and did leave earlier or break away for a while, he could not have got here from Trafalgar Square in time to interrupt your trip to the off-licence,’ Birch interrupted. ‘It’s only five minutes’ walk from this house, and you wouldn’t have been in the store for more than a few minutes at the most, would you?’
‘That’s assuming he was lunching at South Africa House,’ countered Lilian.
PC Birch shrugged. ‘We have highly reputable witnesses, whom we believe would in any case have no reason to lie, pledging that he was at South Africa House,’ he continued. ‘Wasting police time is an offence, you know. You should be careful, Mrs St John. You have been charged with a very serious crime, and you are on bail. That bail could be rescinded at any time. You could end up behind bars before your trial even begins, if you don’t watch it.’
After the police officers left, a bewildered looking Charlie turned to Lilian, and asked her earnestly: ‘What is going on, Lilian? Are you sure you were accosted by Kurt yesterday?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ Lilian replied. ‘It happened, Charlie. Kurt was there. Waiting for me. I’m not likely to make a mistake about that, am I? I don’t care what sort of alibi he’s supposed to have. Nobody understands how powerful he is. He has holds over powerful people. Important people.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Charlie.
However, Lilian feared he was not convinced.
All the same, he did not stop fighting Lilian’s corner. First of all ensuring that she wasn’t returned to custody following the unfortunate outcome of her brush with Kurt.
But he warned her, ‘One more incident like this and there will be nothing I can do, Lilian. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Lilian confirmed that she understood only too well. She could see that Kate was beginning to doubt her too, although her old friend was trying hard not to show it.
Lilian was distraught. History seemed to be repeating itself. She wondered what other tricks Kurt might have up his sleeve.
How could she or anyone else fight this man?
Twenty-Nine
Helen Harris was in the front garden of Helen’s House when Vogel and Saslow arrived.
She was accompanied by two other women, who were on their knees attempting to weed the unkempt and overgrown flower beds which lined the path leading from the pavement to the house.
Helen was mowing the lawn with a Flymo machine. Or to be more exact, fighting the Flymo, which seemed to have a mind of its own.
None of the three looked happy in their work. Helen perhaps least of all.
She stopped when she caught sight of Vogel, switched off the mower, and approached him and Saslow at once. She stumbled slightly over the edging to the grass and cursed under her breath. Vogel suspected she might welcome the interruption. Almost any interruption.
‘Dratted machine,’ she began, as if reading Vogel’s mind. ‘I fear I’m not cut out to be a gardener. City girl through and though. Have to have a blitz on this every so often, though. We do try to keep the neighbours happy.’
‘Always a good plan,’ said Vogel.
‘Indeed, so what can I do for you today?’ she asked, as she pulled off her heavy-duty gardening gloves.
Vogel noticed her hands then. They were smooth-skinned and long-fingered, and her nails were perfectly manicured. He thought that Helen was undoubtedly telling the truth. She was certainly not cut out to be a gardener. Her hands were trembling slightly too. From the effort, he thought. She did not look like a woman who much enjoyed any sort of exercise or physical work.
‘Which city?’ he asked obliquely.
‘Sorry? Oh. Several over the years. I was brought up in Manchester. Sometimes I’m not sure how I ended up here, but at least Bideford has roads and pavements.’
She shot a look of distinct distaste around her, at the straggly lawn and the flower beds unworthy of the name, then took a step sideways so that she could sit on the low wall which separated Helen’s House from the property next door.
‘I’m quite out of breath,’ she remarked. ‘I suppose a garden is all right if you have either the time and inclination or the money for it, but the countryside generally is not for me.’
Vogel allowed himself a small appreciative smile. He was not a lover of the countryside either. He was content enough being driven across the moors and around the winding lanes of Devon, but he had no wish to tramp through them. He disliked wellington boots and had never quite got around to acquiring the suitable attire to deal with the persistent rain of the south-west peninsular.
‘How did you end up here, anyway?’ he asked.
‘Oh, it’s a long story. But the précised version is very familiar in these parts. I was brought here on holiday when I was a child. I just fell in love with the place. The countryside is one thing, being by the sea is completely another, don’t you agree, Mr Vogel?’
Vogel thought this woman must be quite an astute judge of character. As she probably had to be in her line of work. She certainly seemed to have assessed him fairly quickly. Superficially at any rate.
‘I do agree,’ he affirmed. ‘I had never really spent time by the sea before I first came here on a case a couple of years ago. I found it...’ He paused, searching for the right word. ‘Compelling. I think that’s it.’
‘Yes, it is compelling. And, many years later, when I was looking for a change, for a purpose, fate brought me back here. This house was on the market. I noticed the for sale sign. I could see the house was big enough, and it turned out to be cheap enough, for me to start a venture that had been close to my heart for some time. I’d come into a little money. Unexpectedly. I always think such windfalls should be put to good use, something special that would not have been possible without the unexpected funds. I suspect that might be what you think too, isn’t it, Mr Vogel?’