Apportionment of Blame (8 page)

“What's this about?”

“Helen Hetherington.”

“Oh, yes. She died. Very sad.”

“Did you know her?”

“Not really at all. I saw her about, but not very often. I don't think we ever spoke to each other.”

“Do you recall ever hearing anyone talk about her?”

“No. I don't think so. Why?”

“I'm just trying to get a better picture of her life here.”

“You don't think it was an accident. Fascinating.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I love a good mystery. You think someone caused her death, and you're wondering if they work here.”

Then his expression completely changed.

“So why do you want to speak to me? I can't think of anyone here who would know less about her than me.”

“What did you think of her?”

“I didn't think of her at all,” he said and smiled. “Are you asking everyone who works here? Next you'll be asking where I was when she died.”

“And where were you?”

“I have no idea when she died - or where.”

“You can't remember.”

“Not exactly. It was about a month ago, I would guess. Where, I haven't a clue.”

“Didn't you read about it?”

“No. Why would I? I wasn't that interested.”

“Most people would show a little interest in a work colleague who died in mysterious circumstances.”

“Would they? Well, not me. As I said, I didn't know her. We may have both worked here, but I wouldn't call us colleagues. It was sad. What more was there to know?”

I could discern no sense of deceit in either his face or his voice. He seemed genuine. A little callous, perhaps, not to be concerned about Helen's death. But if he didn't know her, as he said, perhaps it was understandable.

“All right, Grant. Thank you for your time.”

I held out another card. They were beginning to spread like confetti.

“Let me know if you think of anything, would you?”

He took the card and looked down at it.

“I'll let you get back to work.”

He shrugged, rose and left. His boss passed him just outside the door and I saw them exchange glances, almost half smiles, but that was all.

Grant was gone, and Frank came back in, walking straight to his black, leather swivel chair behind the desk. His comfort zone.

Then I thought, why would he need a comfort zone?

Because he likes being the boss? Because he's more comfortable being the boss? Or could it be because he wants to maintain the dominant position over others in his office. And me.

Perhaps I was wrong to trust him. Maybe he was pulling the wool over my eyes by being co-operative. Or maybe his preference for his own chair has no relevance to the case at all. Perhaps it's just the type of man he is.

Anyway, I thought, there was no evidence to suggest that Helen did not get on well with him. I was here to investigate G, whoever G was.

“Did you learn anything?” Frank said, and I was immediately aware that I had been miles away, staring at the notebook in my lap. I looked up, embarrassed.

“Sorry. I was thinking.”

He smiled.

“Were Gemma or Grant able to help you?”

“I'm not sure. If Helen wanted, or needed, to see you about G, is there anything else beginning with G you can think of? Anything to do with the firm perhaps, or customers, clients, products?”

“Nothing that occurs to me,” he said.

“Then I suppose we must assume that Helen felt a need to talk to you about either Gemma or Grant.”

“But why?”

“Grant says he hardly knew her. Her death appears not to have fazed him at all.”

He waited before replying, while I paused and read my notes again.

“And what about Gemma?” he asked.

“She says she didn't have much to do with Helen, although, as I understand it, they worked in the same department for a while.”

“Yes, they did.”

“How many are there in that department?”

“Only two now.”

“So there were three, perhaps, before Helen became your PA.”

“Yes. That's right.”

“Don't you think it would be difficult not to get to know someone if you were working with them in such a small department?”

“I can certainly see what you mean. But are you implying that Gemma had something to do with what happened to Helen.”

“Not yet. It would be interesting, though, if we knew for certain that Gemma is the G that worried Helen so much. Jealousy could be a motive.”

Frank shuffled in his chair.

“I'm not comfortable with the thought that someone who caused Helen's death is still working here,” he said.

“Well I'm sorry to have sown the seeds of discomfort, but I'm only just at the start of this investigation. I know virtually nothing yet. Anything which might be relevant has to be taken seriously until I know for sure that there is no connection with Helen's death. I'm sure you understand that.”

“Yes, of course.”

His expression changed, but the signs of his concern still remained.

“When was the last time you saw Helen?”

“The morning of the day she died. She was here, at work, as usual. Then she had the afternoon off. She would sometimes work extra hours in the evening and have half days off to make up for it. It was one of those days.”

“Can you remember how she was that day?”

“Not really. She always got on with her work very efficiently. She never hung around, if you know what I mean. Always busy, was Helen. It's still funny, being reminded she's not here.”

He looked genuinely moved and I felt there was nothing left to ask.

I stood up and put the notebook back in my pocket.

“I'm very grateful for your time and your hospitality. I'll have another word with Sarah, if I may, before I leave. You have my card. If anything occurs to you, particularly in relation to G, please give me a call.”

He picked up the card from his desk and read it.

“Yes,” he said. “I will.”

We shook hands again and I left him in his office and returned to the enquiries window.

Sarah responded to my tap very quickly.

“Hello. It's me again.”

I saw some faces turn towards us as I spoke and thought it would be a good idea to speak to her privately.

“Could you come out to speak to me for a second? Walls have ears. You know what I mean.”

She turned round, understood immediately and came out to meet me in the lobby. I held the door open for her and we went outside. Then she turned and gave me a funny look and it was my turn to recognise immediately what she was thinking.

“No,” I said. “I'm not trying to get off with you.” I smiled and she smiled back as if she believed me and was relieved.

“I'm just looking for some help,” I continued. “You were fond of Helen, weren't you?”

“Yes. I was. What happened was terrible.”

“And you would like to help, if you can, to find out what happened?”

“I would like to, but I don't see how I can.”

I gave her a card and decided to be straight with her.

“In Helen's diary I found a reference to a G - something or someone that concerned Helen so much, she had made a special appointment to talk to Mr Jordan about it.”

“That's why you spoke to Gemma and Grant.”

“That's right. But it might not be a person. It might be a thing, or a place, or anything beginning with G. Would you have a think and see if there is anything that has happened recently which might help me. It might be about Gemma or Grant, or not. Whatever it is. If you think of anything, would you give me a ring?”

“Yes. Of course.”

“Thanks. I'm grateful for your help.”

I turned and walked back to my car, wondering if my visit had served any purpose. Maybe Helen's concern at work had no connection with her death. But with the planned meeting due the following day, there was always the chance.

The thought reminded me of a favourite quote of mine from ‘Sherlock Holmes': ‘Are there not subtle forces at work of which we know little?'

How many subtle forces are at work in this case? How much of Helen's life remained unknown to the rest of the family? No one knew she was seeing Stuart. Joyce thought she was happy at work, yet there was something worrying her so much, she felt a need to speak to her boss about it.

Gemma had called her quiet. It seemed she was also private, and I realised this might make it difficult to get at the information I would need to crack this case.

I slid a Supertramp CD into the slot and heard Roger Hodgson sing “It's raining.” And so it was.

By the time I reached home it had stopped again. Wintry shower, the weatherman would have called it. It was certainly wintry and I was glad to be back indoors.

I made some coffee and read again my notes from Colbox, but I couldn't see anything obvious. Grant seemed to know nothing. The boss appeared to be honest and open, as did Sarah. I was not so sure about Gemma, but I had absolutely nothing to go on.

It occurred to me that I hadn't asked Gemma where she was on the evening Helen died. Perhaps I would need to ask her later. Or perhaps not. The case was beginning to fill with possibilities.

Chapter 5

L
ater,
I drove out to Dedham to meet Joyce's mother. We had met a few times before over the years, but it was a while since I had seen her.

The house stood back from a long, straight road and was sheltered from traffic noise by several large trees. With its extensive garden and double garage it gave an impression of considerable financial comfort.

It made me think of the financial stability I had given up, and I wondered where I would be living when I was Joyce's mother's age. Perhaps dossing down in my London office, still waiting for clients.

When she opened the door I was shocked by her appearance. I remembered a young-looking, lively person. The woman I found was visibly ageing, with a lot of vertical lines on her face, as if the weight of concern was pulling everything down.

“Hello Greg,” she said with little enthusiasm. “Come in.”

I stepped into a spacious hall which was well lit from a full length window behind the stairwell. The floor was carpeted and everything looked neat and tidy as I had always remembered it.

“Joyce has gone off to the gym,” she said.

She led me into a living room which my mother would have called ‘lived in'. There were magazines on low tables, cushions scattered along settees, a few sports trophies on a thick mantle above a wood burning stove, all giving an atmosphere of comfort rather than opulence.

A cat which was lying in front of the wood burning stove lifted its head to look at me, but obviously decided I was neither threat nor interest and went back to sleep.

“I hope this isn't going to be difficult for you,” I said, “but I think it would help if I understood a little more about your family.”

“Yes, of course. Sit down. Would you like a coffee?”

“Yes, that would be good. Thanks.”

“Milk and sugar?”

“Neither, thanks.”

She went towards the kitchen and before I sat down, I sauntered round the room trying to build a picture.

A friend had once described a game which involved going into the living room of a complete stranger, and trying, by dint of observation and deduction, to discover the person's interests, hobbies and family details. I looked at the books, a mixture of modern novels, biography, movie history, art and travel. There were photographs of an elderly couple, someone's parents I assumed, two young girls, easily distinguishable as Helen and Joyce, and Joyce's parents leaning on a five bar gate somewhere, looking weather-beaten and happy.

There was a collection of music on vinyl and CDs, well known classical works, some ballet music and a great deal of rock music from the 60s and 70s. A Radio Times lay open at the page of an article about current film releases.

I tried to work out an obvious link between it all, but couldn't think of one, and then the coffee arrived, so I took the mug and sat down.

“If I ask you anything which you would rather not talk about, just tell me.”

“All right. What do you want to know?”

“Joyce said you have no idea where Helen was going, that last night.”

“No. She didn't say. She seemed quite excited about something when she left for work, though.”

“Could she have been meeting someone?”