Death Speaks Softly (6 page)

Webb slid off his stool and moved further down the bar, ostensibly to help himself to cruet.

'About Arlette?' asked another voice. 'Do you think something's happened to her?'

'God knows. If it has, my money's on Jane! I thought she'd kill her there and then, when she waltzed off with Mike!'

'You can laugh,' said the second girl, 'but it sounds pretty serious to me. Someone said her parents are coming over.'

The noisy table had started up again, blotting out any-further comment. Webb caught the bartender's eye, saw that his eavesdropping had been noted.

'You know this girl that's gone missing?' His hand moved to his breast pocket for identification, but the man waved it aside.

'I know who you are, mate. Yes, I've seen her. She's often in here.'

'When was the last time?'

'Sunday, I reckon. Lunch-time.'

'Was she with anyone in particular?'

The man shrugged. 'Hard to tell. There was a crowd of them. Six or seven, mostly blokes.'

'Any names?'

'Didn't register any—except Daisy, a little dark girl who's usually with them.'

'And you've not seen the French girl since?'

'No. Monday's my day off and she wasn't in Tuesday. Two lads were talking about her, though. One of them had seen her in the town, and said she wasn't coming.'

Webb leant forward. 'He'd
seen
her? On Tuesday?'

The barman looked surprised. 'That's right.'

'You're quite sure?'

'Yeah. It was quiet in here at the time. I heard him quite clearly.'

'He didn't say where he'd seen her?'

'Don't think so, but I wasn't paying much attention. Hold on a moment. That's the lad, over there.'

Webb turned quickly, saw a dark young man, pint mug in hand, leaning against a wall and talking to a girl.

'And that's her, and all,' added the barman eagerly. 'That's Daisy.'

Webb put down his fork and edged his way through the crowd, Jackson falling in behind him.

'Excuse me.'

The man turned and his brows lifted. 'Police?' 'That's right, sir. Webb, Shillingham CID.' The young man nodded. 'I know Simon Marshbanks. I'm Peter Campbell, and this is Daisy Drew.' The girl nodded nervously.

'The barman tells me you saw Arlette Picard on Tuesday morning. Is that right?'

'Quite right. Is it important?' 'It could be.'

'Well, she didn't say much. She was in a hurry—said she was meeting someone.'

'Where and when was this, sir?'

'About ten-thirty, I suppose, outside the Library. I was going to visit a client—I'm an accountant.'

'Did she say who she was meeting?'

Campbell looked rueful. 'No, she wouldn't tell me.'

'You mean you asked her, and she refused to tell you?'

'Not exactly refused. She just laughed and shook her head.'

'And she di
dn't say where she was going?' ‘
No.'

If she'd been in a hurry then, it was nothing to do with Marshbanks. Their date was for the afternoon. 'What direction was she going in?'

'Towards Gloucester Road.' Campbell paused and added sombrely, 'Was I the last person to see her? I never thought.'

'The last we've traced so far, by twenty minutes. How did she seem?'

'Full of the joys, as usual. Oh, she did say, "Simon's taking me to see the horses later." I remember thinking:

Good old Simon, stealing a march on me again.' He finished his drink. 'If there's nothing else, I'd better get back to the office.'

Webb nodded. 'We have your address, if we need you. And you, Miss Drew,' he added, as Campbell patted the girl on the shoulder and moved away. 'Do you know anyone Miss Picard was in the habit of meeting?'

Daisy shook her head, but Webb felt she knew something. He said more gently, 'She might be in danger, you know. You won't get anyone into trouble who doesn't deserve to be.'

'There was really only the crowd we go round with, Steve, Mike, Charlie and Alan.' She wasn't meeting his eyes.

'There's someone else, isn't there?' But she would not be drawn.

'Very well,' Webb said heavily. 'If you remember anything, you can get me at the police station.'

'Bet you it's Duncan the Bruce she was thinking of,' Jackson said, as they came up the stairs again into the sunshine.

'Might be, but we couldn't press her any more. Now—' he looked at his watch—'we've just time to report back before we meet that train.'

CHAPTER 4

At ten past three that afternoon, Jackson parked the car in the station forecourt and he and Webb went into the booking hall. A tall, dark-haired man with a slight stoop came towards them.

'Good afternoon, gentlemen. I take it you're the police? Bernard Warwick, Broadshire University. Sorry to have missed you earlier.'

Webb took his hand, introducing himself.

'From Shillingham?' The Professor raised an eyebrow.

'The local police asked for assistance, sir. They're under-strength at the moment, due to an accident.'

'And have you any news of this girl?'

'Not so far, I'm afraid. We're tracing everyone who has any contact with her, but it's a slow business. Do you know her yourself?'

'Only by sight. I've had no direct dealings with her.'

The three men walked slowly out on to the platform. 'I'm not looking forward to this,' Webb said frankly. 'I'm glad you're here, sir. I don't speak the lingo and there's no saying how good their English will be.'

'I'll do what I can,' the Professor said smoothly. Webb glanced sideways at him. It was an oddly unexpressive face, and although the man had met his eyes as they shook hands, his own had given nothing away. Webb sensed an iron self-discipline and pondered the necessity for it.

In the distance the yellow disc of the engine appeared. The three men straightened and stood waiting. The train was a through one to Gloucester, and not many alighted here, but by coincidence they were opposite the right door. Catching sight of the couple standing there, Webb braced himself—no hysterics, please God—and beside him heard Warwick also draw in his breath.

The woman in the doorway looked to be in shock. There was a murmur from behind her as her husband urged her forward, but, having arrived, she seemed reluctant to step from the train. Webb moved forward and took her arm. 'Permit me, madame.' (Surely, he hoped, the same in any language.) Her husband handed down his cases to Jackson, and as he stepped after his wife on to the platform, the guard blew his whistle and the train moved away. Webb turned for help to the Professor, but the man seemed as much at a loss as himself.

'My colleague and I are from the police,' he said perforce, speaking slowly and distinctly. 'We very much regret the reason for your visit, and assure you we're doing all in our power to find your daughter.'

The Frenchman nodded in general understanding. 'Professor Warwick?' Webb prompted. The man moved forward at last and launched into a fluent stream of French. The woman kept her eyes on him as he spoke, but her husband's fell away, and to his disquiet Webb noticed they were wet. As Warwick stopped speaking, they turned by mutual consent and walked back to the car. Webb saw that a dark blue Porsche was parked at the far side of the forecourt— no doubt the Professor's. He said in a low voice, 'It would be better if they went in your car, Professor, since you can speak to each other. We'll see you at the hotel.'

Warwick turned. 'I'm sorry, Chief Inspector, I have to get back now. I've explained that you'll look after them.'

Webb stared at him. 'But, sir, we can't conduct an interview without you! That was the point of your being here.'

A tactical slip, as he immediately realized. 'On the contrary,' the Professor said coldly, 'I'm representing the university as a matter of courtesy, but you're in charge of the case, and interviews are police business. I certainly haven't time to attend them.' He nodded formally to the French couple and strode to his car.

'Bloody hell!'
Jackson said under his breath. 'What now, Guv?'

Webb, aware of his own inability to deal with the visitors, held down his anger. 'We'll take them to the hotel, and phone for an interpreter. It's a bloody waste of time, but it can't be helped.' He turned to the French parents. 'Forgive me, we were under the impression the Professor was coming with us. If you'd like to get into the car—?'

Jackson, having put the cases in the boot, was holding open the rear door, and as the couple bent to step inside, Webb was able to take a longer look at them. The woman was small and dark. Her hair, which even he could tell had been expertly cut, had touches of silver at the temples, an effect which paradoxically made her face look younger. Now, she was pale and strained-looking, her huge brown eyes dark-circled, but she was still a very attractive woman. It was from her husband, fair and blue-eyed, that their daughter took her colouring.

But what the hell was he going to do with them? God knew how long it would take to get an interpreter from the university. Might Chris Ledbetter know of one? However long it took, he and Jackson would have to stay with the Picards till someone came. Chiefly because they needed all the information they could get, and secondly on humanitarian grounds.

He glowered out of the window as Jackson drove towards the hotel. A set of traffic lights changed to red as they approached, and Webb drummed his fingers impatiently, staring out at the imposing stone building alongside, which a board informed him was a Gallery of Modern Art. And at the familiar figure coming down the steps.

In the same instant he flung open the car door. 'Wait a minute!' he threw over his shoulder, and then, 'Hannah!' She raised her head, stopping in surprise, and waited for him to reach her.

'Hannah, thank God! You speak French, don't you?' Rapidly he told her his problem.

'How long will it take?' she asked doubtfully. 'I have to collect the girls in an hour.'

'Not long, I promise, but for God's sake help us out. The poor devils haven't a clue what's happening.'

'All right.'

With a sigh of thankfulness he hurried her over to the car. 'This lady owns a school,' he said inaccurately, judging the subtleties of Deputy Headmistress beyond his listeners. 'She will assist us.' He was speaking, he felt, like a textbook, in his efforts to make himself clear. Then, blessedly, Hannah with her warm smile took over her own introduction, conveying, as far as he could make out, her sympathy, and offering her help.

'Sorry not to introduce you,' he said
sotto voce
to J
ackson over the flow of soft French behind them. 'Miss James—'

'I met her at Westridge,'
Jackson said.

'So you did. I was forgetting.' The nursery-rhyme case. The memory of it was inextricably woven with Susan.

They turned off the road by the sign of the White Swan, and Jackson pulled into the hotel car park.

'It might be better to talk in the lounge,' Webb said, as the French couple signed the register. 'There's no one about, and we could have some tea. It would help to ease the proceedings.'

The Picards, approached through Hannah, agreed to the plan, though Madame requested chocolate and her husband coffee. Foreigners! thought Jackson.

The interview fell into its own pattern. Webb asked the questions, Hannah translated, Monsieur replied—nearly always Monsieur. He had the sensitive face of a poet, with a high forehead and hollow cheeks. A gentle-looking man, Webb thought, trying to come to terms with the sudden crisis in his life. His wife, pale and on edge, sat for the most part in silence, though it appeared she understood a modicum of English. Such replies as she did make came before Hannah translated. As to the answers, they were not much help. No, Arlette had never gone off before. No, they had no idea where she might be. No, there was no serious boyfriend in France. Yes, she had mentioned names in her letters, but not one more than the others, and her parents hadn't registered them.

The requested photograph was produced and at last Webb looked on the face of Arlette Picard. The full mouth and tip-tilted nose gave her a provocative air. The fair hair formed a softly fuzzy halo round her head, the blue eyes laughed at the camera.

'We'll need it for the press,' Webb said. 'I presume they'll let us keep it?'