Apportionment of Blame (15 page)

“And as Helen fell under a train, and you nearly did just that, with me standing next to you, I can understand what you thought.”

“It would all fit, if it was you. If not, as I said, I shall have to start believing in coincidences.”

I picked up my cup and drained it in one.

Was it my imagination, or was his expression softening a little?

“Of course,” I said, “even if you have witnesses who can confirm you were in your office, you could have set things up. Maybe the thugs who took Joyce were just following orders, while you had a convenient alibi all prepared.”

“If you think that, there's little I can say to persuade you otherwise. But I repeat, I did not and never would have hurt a hair on Helen's head.”

“Just so that I know, where were you at the time Helen died?”

“I was here, in town, working late. Someone phoned me after I got home to tell me what had happened.”

“And your agency staff can verify that, of course.”

“Yes.”

“OK, for the time being. Tell me,” I said, changing tack, “who are those clients you are going to see?”

“It's a firm with offices near the Barbican. We arrange company trips for them. I was on the way to discuss some sort of junketing they want to arrange in France. They are good customers. It's worth my while to visit their place. Good for business.”

I looked him full in the face and came back to the same old dilemma. How do I tell the truth from lies? What is the secret, if there is one?

“I'd better let you get on, then,” I said. “Thanks for your part in saving me.”

“I'm glad you think that's what it was.”

“If it wasn't, you'll be hearing from me again fairly soon.”

“You never give up, do you?”

“Not until I know the facts.”

“You sound likely a bloody TV detective.”

He got up suddenly and left, slamming the door behind him. I followed him out, but instead of returning to the station, made my way to his Travel Agency.

Five minutes later his colleagues easily confirmed his story, so I knew that unless he had phoned them before I got there, and they were all involved in some sort of extraordinary conspiracy, or he had got someone else to do his dirty work for him, I could forget about him as a suspect. My worry was that it left him with too many ifs hanging in the air.

That sent my thoughts back to the garden and the reference to a truck. My mind was conjuring up all sorts of bizarre possibilities when my Circle Line train arrived, and this time I was able to avoid its approach with ease. As I emerged from Euston Square station the clouds were building again, and I made my way quickly to the office to avoid another potential drenching. In fact there was no rain, and neither was there any evidence of either a black truck or a motorbike, which was something of a relief.

I had not been in the office long when my phone disturbed me.

“Hello.”

“Is that Greg?”

“Yes. Who's this?”

“It's Sarah, from Colbox.”

“Oh, hi.” Interesting, I thought.

“You said I should call you if I thought of anything.”

“Yes?”

There was a slight pause, as if Sarah was collecting her thoughts, or deciding if she wanted to tell me after all.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes. Sorry. It's about Gemma.”

I waited.

“It's just that I thought you should know. She's a lezzie. She likes other girls.”

“Ah. And Helen?” I let it hang.

“Gemma was crazy about her. Couldn't take her eyes off her.”

“I see. Were you all aware of this?”

“I think the girls in the main office were.”

“And Helen?”

“She knew, but she wasn't interested. She liked boys like the rest of us. I think Gemma thought that because Helen was quiet, it meant she was hiding the way she really felt about her. But that was rubbish.”

“I can see why Helen would want to speak to Mr Jordan about it.”

Sarah was quiet again for a minute or two.

“Do you think Gemma might have hurt Helen?” she asked.

“I don't know. Perhaps I'll have to ask Gemma that.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for calling, Sarah. Can I reach you again if I need to ask you anything else?”

“Sure,” she said and gave me her mobile number.

“Thanks again. I appreciate it.”

I closed the phone.

So, I thought, it was more than just jealousy. Unrequited love, again. A boy and a girl. Helen must have been someone really special.

I dragged back my mind to the present and what I was in the office to do.

There was some mail on the mat, and for the two hours before my meeting with the solicitor I immersed myself in other business. At least there was some other business, so that was encouraging.

But first I had to clear the three messages which still lay on the desk, and they reminded me of the main things on my mind, the recent threats and a need to unravel some kind of mystery about the inheritance. I had almost convinced myself that the inheritance was linked to Helen's death, mainly because of where Ilse lived. Now, perhaps, I had to think again. There was Gemma to consider, and perhaps there was Stuart as well.

The offices of Grace, Swindle and Little were at the St Paul's end of Cheapside, so that meant a return to the Circle Line, at least as far as Barbican, and then a brisk walk down Aldersgate Street, through the wintery air.

Hemmed in between a Health Food Shop and a card emporium was a distinguished looking, although narrow, marble facade with a pair of glass doors. The firm's name was etched into the glass. I pulled open one of the doors, entered and went up to the security man who was ensconced behind his desk. He didn't seem interested in who I was to see, as long as I signed my name on his sheet and fastened a badge to my lapel.

Through more glass doors, the marble staircase was no doubt designed to portray an image of prosperity and importance. In fact it just reminded me of the thinly carpeted stairs to my own office.

A polished brass plaque on the wall of the first floor landing confirmed whose offices lay behind a pair of equally polished, heavy wooden doors. I pushed one open with some effort. Behind them the terrazzo flooring turned to thick carpet and the temperature rose by at least ten degrees. What was sensible clothing outside was unnecessary here and the first thing I did was to unfasten my coat and loosen my scarf.

The secretary, sitting in a booth marked “Enquiries”, was clearly used to the situation and had dressed accordingly in clothes I normally associated with high summer.

“Yes?”

“I have an eleven o'clock appointment with Mr Swindle. My name is Mason.”

She looked down and checked a list on her desk. Then pressed an intercom.

“Hi, Lisa. I have a Mr Mason to see Mr Swindle....OK, thanks.”

Then to me, “Would you like to take a seat in the area over there?”

She indicated an open entrance opposite, through which I found a seated area of leather sofas interspersed with low tables. On the tables I found copies of every broadsheet, including the Financial Times. This was a distinct step up from the three year old Readers' Digests at my dentist's.

I didn't think I had enough time to start reading, so I took off my coat and scarf, sat down and spent a few minutes looking at the abstract pictures on the walls. Their meanings defeated me, as usual.

When ten minutes had passed I changed my mind, and picked up The Financial Times to see what it had to offer. It used to be my regular daily when I was at the bank, but I had rather lost touch since then.

I was just turning the page and wrestling with a large sheet of paper which refused to fold where it should, when someone appeared in the entrance and addressed me.

“Mr Mason?”

It would have been easy to conclude that he had been lying in wait before approaching, until I was in the most confused and embarrassing situation with my newspaper.

“Yes.” I wrestled on. “I'm sorry. I always have trouble with these huge papers.”

I rose to shake his hand, then forced the newspaper into some sort of order, replaced it on the table, grabbed my outdoor clothes and smiled with acute discomfort. Another good impression not made.

“If you would just follow me.”

And off he went. I scuttled behind him and was led into a very distinguished looking conference room, as thickly carpeted as the entrance area and with an oval table surrounded by plush chairs.

“Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“No. Just as it comes, thanks.”

“Good man. I like to taste my drinks, too.”

He went to a phone on the wall and ordered two coffees and biscuits.

“Please, sit down,” he said and I chose a chair in the middle of one of the long curves. He sat facing me and placed a large pad on the table. The fountain pen he produced looked expensive.

“Now, my secretary tells me this is about the will of Annie Glenn.” He was writing as he spoke. “You must be aware that I am bound by client privilege not to reveal a great deal.”

“I am aware of that, but the Hetherington family has been left in something of a dilemma since the death of their daughter.”

His expression changed as he looked up.

“The death of which daughter?”

“Helen.”

“Good God. I didn't know she was dead. How did that happen?”

“This is part of the dilemma.”

The door opened and the secretary from the enquiries desk came in with a silver tray bearing cups and saucers, a small cafetière and a plate of biscuits.

When we were each settled with our cups, and I'd finally decided which chocolate biscuit to choose, we got down to business.

“How did she die? It doesn't seem like five minutes since she was here.”

So she had been to see him. It occurred to me that if I was going to be able to reconstruct Helen's last day, this would be a good place to start.

“She died just over three weeks ago, and it was an accident on a railway line.”

“You don't mean suicide.”

“The police think it might have been.”

He made some more notes on his pad.

“So does the family think it was caused in some way by the terms of Annie Glenn's will?”

“The family doesn't think she killed herself.”

“Ah. I suppose it's not something they would want to think.”

“In case it's worth anything, I don't think she killed herself either.”

“Do you have any evidence to support that opinion?”

“Only circumstantial, which is why I'm here.”

He put down his pen and looked at me. I had the impression he had decided to take me seriously.

“How can I help?”

“First of all, can you tell me exactly when it was that Helen came to see you.”

He gave me the date and approximate time and I wrote them down in my notebook. It was the day she died.

“Now this is where the difficult bit starts, because you will no doubt start quoting client privilege reasons why you can't tell me things.”

“Go on.”

“I happen to know that you wrote to Helen, shortly before her death, pointing out that you were unable to give any details about the person who inherited. Were you able to be more forthcoming when she came to see you?”

He studied my face intently, as if working out how much he was prepared to say.

“She brought some photographs.”

“Photographs of whom?”

He paused, considering some more.

“Photographs of the person who inherited.”

“If I were to tell you that the person who inherited lives not more than a stone's throw from the place where Helen died, what would you think?”

“And how do you know this?”

“It wasn't difficult. Her name is Ilse Chambers?”

“Yes.”

“If I were to tell you her address, would you be able to confirm or deny it without breaking any confidence?”

“If you were to tell me, rather than me telling you, I suppose I could confirm it.”

He answered a little hesitantly, but I suppose that was only to be expected. He did have a moral and professional obligation to consider.

I looked directly at him.

“Orchard Cottages, Monks Colne, Essex. Does that sound right?”

“I'll need to look at the file to confirm, but yes, it sounds right.”