Murder in Midwinter (21 page)

‘Did you find his passport or birth certificate?’ asked Fran, sitting on one of the sofas.

‘No,’ said Connell, looking surprised. ‘He must have had them, mustn’t he?’

‘How long had he been here?’

Connell shrugged. ‘Several years.’

‘Address book? Would that have had a previous address?’

‘We found an old address book, but no current addresses in it. No one from round here.’

‘So he didn’t come from round here originally?’

‘He might have done. There was nothing to indicate where he came from. Which is one of the reasons we wanted to talk to his sister again.’

‘Didn’t she say anything when she was first told about his death?’

‘Nothing about their history. She came down here, as you know,’ said Connell, ‘but she was understandably upset, so we sent her home again and said we’d need to talk to her again. But someone got there first.’

Fran thought. ‘Mobile phone?’ she asked.

‘None found. And we’ve looked at the landline records. Nothing there except a local taxi firm.’

‘And you’ve checked with them?’

Connell gave her a scornful look.

‘Well? Any local trips?’

‘From The Red Lion in Heronsbourne and Anderson Place.’

‘The Red Lion?’ Fran sat up straight. ‘That was Mrs Morleigh’s aunt’s local.’

‘What?’ Connell stared. ‘But she must have been ninety!’

‘But she still went in there regularly. The landlord looked out for her, and it was he and his wife who got her into hospital when she was ill.’

Connell sat down on the other sofa and leant forward. ‘Is this relevant?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fran honestly, ‘but it could be, couldn’t it? I mean, it’s not a link to Mrs Morleigh, but it is to her aunt.’

‘I can’t see what it means, though,’ said Connell. ‘They could just be drinkers in a local pub. No reason for them to know one another at all.’

‘And maybe Laurence didn’t drink in there regularly, anyway. Only one trip?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said Connell. ‘We only checked the recent calls, so the taxi firm only checked recent trips.’

‘Should we check with George at The Red Lion?’ asked Fran.

Connell looked as though he was about to question her use of pronoun, but after a moment stood up and nodded. ‘Nothing else here?’ he said.

Fran shook her head, although she was aware of something lurking at the back of her mind. But it was too formless to describe, so she filed it away to think about later.

Constable Maiden held the front door open for her, and Connell replaced the police tape. She felt a brief resurgence of the black suffocation and lurched towards the stairs.

‘Careful,’ said Connell, reaching out to steady her.

‘Something happened here,’ said Fran, turning to look up at him. ‘Out here on the landing.’

Constable Maiden made a stifled sound in his throat and Fran glared at him.

‘But we’ve established he was killed at the old theatre,’ said Connell.

Fran shook her head. ‘I don’t know what it means,’ she said.

They proceeded down the stairs and back to the car in silence, when Connell took out his phone and made a call, walking away so that Fran couldn’t hear.

‘They’ll get SOCO back to the hallway,’ he said, coming back to the car. ‘OK, Maiden. The Red Lion in Heronsbourne.’

It was strange to be here without Libby, thought Fran, as Connell and she went into the bar, leaving Maiden in the car.

‘Hello, young lady,’ said George, coming forward with a smile. ‘Brought yer boyfriend this time?’

‘Inspector Connell, Nethergate CID,’ said Connell holding up his identification while Fran blushed furiously.

‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ said George, unabashed. ‘Can I get you anything, or are you on duty?’

‘I want to know if you recognise this man,’ said Connell taking a photograph in a clear bag from an inside pocket. Fran craned to see. ‘Taken at work, by the look of it,’ Connell told her, as George studied it.

‘Larry,’ said George. ‘Used to come in now and then, sometimes with another chap, younger. Worked up at the Place. Why, what’s he done?’

‘Got himself murdered,’ said Connell and watched as George turned pale.

‘No.’ George swallowed. ‘Fuck. Sorry, missus.’

‘Wasn’t it in the papers?’ asked Fran.

‘No identity and we’ve only just got hold of this from the Place,’ said Connell. ‘So, can you tell us anything about him?’

George subsided onto a stool. ‘Nothing to tell,’ he said. ‘Used to chat a bit. Always had a cab back home. Sensible drinker.’

‘What time did he come in usually?’ asked Fran. Connell frowned at her.

‘All different,’ said George. ‘Depended on his time off, he said. Sometimes earlyish. Round about seven thirty.’

‘So he would have known Aunt Maria?’

George looked surprised. ‘Not to say known, no, but they was often here at the same time. He asked after her when she went to hospital.’

Fran turned triumphantly to Connell. ‘There,’ she said.

He looked bewildered, but game. ‘Right, Mr –?’

‘Felton. George Felton.’

‘We might need to talk to you again, Mr Felton. Thank you for your help.’

George nodded and whispered to Fran as Connell went to the door, ‘What’s it all about?’

‘Tell you later,’ Fran whispered back, and followed Connell out of the pub.

‘So he knew Mrs Morleigh’s aunt,’ he said, as Maiden started the car. ‘Where does that get us?’

‘It’s a link,’ said Fran. ‘And it means he knew when she died.’

‘And?’

‘He could have known Bella was to inherit everything. George said Maria used to say she was leaving everything to a niece she’d never met.’

‘I still don’t see what it had to do with him.’ Connell frowned down at his hands.

‘Not yet,’ said Fran. ‘Something will turn up.’

‘Thank you for that, Mrs Micawber,’ said Connell. Fran turned and smiled delightedly at him.

‘You’re human,’ she said.

Another stifled snort emanated from Constable Maiden, and Connell scowled.

‘Only just,’ he said.

Fran phoned Libby just as she was putting the dishes in the sink.

‘Glad I caught you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t phone earlier because I was thinking.’

‘Did it hurt?’ said Libby. ‘Sorry, sorry. Didn’t mean that. How did it go?’

Fran told her, gratified by Libby’s exclamations and gasps of astonishment.

‘I need to get all this straight in my head, but you’re going to rehearsal now, and I’m off to Richmond in the morning, so I don’t know when we’ll get the chance to talk about it.’

‘When you get back from Richmond?’ suggested Libby.

‘I don’t know what time I’ll get back,’ said Fran. ‘Our appointment with CID is at two, so we might not be finished until late afternoon.’

‘And then you might have to have a meal,’ said Libby.

‘I doubt it,’ said Fran. ‘Not if we have a chaperone like we did today.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh, yes. A nice boy called Maiden. Red hair and freckles. He was very amused by the whole proceedings.’

‘Do you remember that DC when Murray came here to question you? He was gobsmacked, especially when Murray seemed to believe you.’

‘Well, Maiden obviously thought Connell had lost his marbles,’ said Fran, laughing in spite of herself. ‘Especially when he ordered an examination of the hallway at the flats.’

‘That’s really interesting, actually,’ said Libby.

‘What is?’ said Ben, coming into the kitchen.

‘Oh, Fran, I’m sorry, I’m rambling on and I’m supposed to be at the theatre.’ Libby waved at Ben. ‘I shouldn’t be too late. Shall I ring you when I’ve finished?’

‘How late?’ asked Fran. ‘Any chance of popping in here on your way home – or to the pub?’

‘Yes, of course, good idea,’ said Libby. ‘I’ll get the rehearsal over as quickly as I can.’

‘You don’t mind if I go and see her, do you?’ Libby asked Ben as they walked to the theatre. ‘She obviously needs to talk.’

‘No, of course not. I’ll go and have a drink, and if you haven’t appeared by closing time I’ll come and get you.’ He smiled at her. ‘Independence, that’s what we’ve got.’

Libby, with a rueful smile, nodded.

The chorus and dancers pranced unenthusiastically through their routines, causing both musical director and choreographer to tear their hair out, quite literally in the case of the choreographer, who pulled at his curly locks in a distracted fashion throughout. Eventually Libby, who couldn’t see any improvement in the last hour and a half decided to call it a day.

‘When the principals are there, and it’s in front of an audience it’ll be fine, you’ll see,’ she said, crossing her fingers behind her back. The chorus looked a bit more cheerful, and the musical director and choreographer glared at one another and stalked off to their respective cars. Ben reappeared from backstage and grinned.

‘Tact personified,’ he said. ‘Want to have a look at the rejuvenated beanstalk?’

After approving the beanstalk, and casting an apprehensive eye over the giant’s legs, Libby left Ben and his backstage cohorts to lock up, and hurried down the drive towards the High Street and The Pink Geranium.

Fran let her in and produced a bottle of wine as she took off her cape.

‘Come on, then,’ said Libby, perching herself on the window sill and opening it a crack. ‘Tell all.’

Fran went back over the events of the morning, including the surprising revelation that Laurence knew Aunt Maria.

‘And this worries you?’ asked Libby, blowing smoke through the window. ‘I must say, I agree with Connell. I can’t see the relevance.’

‘He was found in the Alexandria and he knew Maria. Isn’t that relevant?’

‘Yes,’ said Libby slowly. ‘I suppose it is.’

‘Why was he there? He knew she was dead, didn’t he?’

‘Did he arrange to meet someone there?’ said Libby. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, God, not Bella?’

‘I’m afraid that makes sense, doesn’t it?’ said Fran, looking miserable, ‘but I just can’t believe in it. Bella didn’t kill him. She’d never even heard of him.’

‘And come to think of it,’ said Libby, sliding down from the window sill, ‘how would he know about Bella? No one but the solicitor knew about her, and even he had a struggle to find her. All Laurence could have known was that Maria had a niece.’

‘But why, anyway? You can’t exactly steal a derelict theatre,’ said Fran.

‘What about that hallway?’ asked Libby, taking a sip of wine.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Fran with a sigh. ‘It was Aunt Eleanor all over again. Something happened there, but I don’t know what. It was something to do with all this, I’m sure, although I suppose it could be an argument between the other tenants, but I don’t think so. The police are convinced that Laurence was killed where he was found, and they don’t make mistakes about that sort of thing, do they?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Libby. ‘It’s one of the first things they know these days, isn’t it? Not like the old days.’

Fran raised her eyebrows. ‘What do you know about the old days?’

‘In detective stories, I mean,’ explained Libby. ‘Weren’t they always bundling bodies into boots and dumping them elsewhere?’

‘Possibly,’ said Fran, amused. ‘I didn’t read many.’

‘Well, anyway,’ said Libby, ‘they wouldn’t have made a mistake this time.’

‘No, so it’s something else that happened on that landing,’ said Fran.

‘And won’t we look fools if it’s someone clobbering a door to door salesman,’ said Libby.

‘No,
we
won’t,’ said Fran. ‘
I
will. But it isn’t. I can’t explain it, but I’m sure it’s something to do with Laurence.’ She held out the bottle to top up Libby’s glass. ‘And tomorrow I’ve got to try and find out where he came from.’

‘Do you think Dorothy’s house will have some sort of clue?’

‘If whoever killed her hasn’t removed it,’ said Fran, ‘but then, whoever killed her might not have known what they were looking for.’

‘Do you?’ asked Libby.

Fran sighed. ‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ she said.

Chapter
Seventeen

I
NSPECTOR CONNELL ARRIVED IN
an altogether sportier-looking car at seven o’clock the following morning, wearing altogether more casual clothes. Fran, wearing her navy coat over tailored trousers and a roll necked sweater, felt quite drab beside him.

‘No Constable Maiden this morning?’ she asked, as he held the passenger door open for her.

‘Can’t be spared for a whole day.’ He got in beside her and reached round for his seat belt.

‘And you can?’

He turned to look at her. ‘It’s in my interest, but only semi-official,’ he said. ‘Like Murray did, I’m treating you more or less as an expert witness, but I don’t want anyone looking too closely.’

‘I thought you said other police forces had used psychics?’

‘They have, but in much the same way as I’m – er – as I’ve asked you to help.’

‘As you’re using me,’ said Fran with a smile. She noticed his neck go slightly pink.

‘Anyway, today, we’re on our own,’ he said, turning right on to the main road to Canterbury, ‘and it’s a hell of a long drive.’

‘Yes,’ said Fran. ‘It must be all of six hours.’

‘That’s a conservative estimate,’ he said. ‘I’ve allowed seven hours, so hopefully we’ll arrive in time to grab a sandwich before our appointment.’

‘And if we need to stop on the way?’ asked Fran.

‘Just ask,’ he said shortly, and put his foot down.

He had the radio on quietly, and every now and then a local traffic update would come through. Happily, they came up against no difficulties until they got to the Heathrow area of the M25, which, as Fran knew, was always a traffic black spot. However, the M1 was moving at a reasonable speed and they were soon past Luton.

‘How are you enjoying living in Steeple Martin?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Very much,’ replied Fran, slightly startled. ‘How did you know I hadn’t been there long?’

‘DCI Murray. Said you’d only just moved down when I met you.’

‘That’s right. But it’s only temporary.’

He turned his head briefly to look at her. ‘Oh?’

‘I’m hoping to move into my cottage in Nethergate after Christmas,’ she said. ‘I mentioned it yesterday, I’m sure.’