Rattling the Bones (15 page)

‘You’re Fran?’ She pushed a selection of Indian bangles up her left arm with her right hand as she spoke. It was a gesture full of ill-suppressed tension. Her voice was sullen and her gaze hostile.

I’d been worrying about this moment. Sobbing women are out of my competence. This girl was hopping wild, raging against life’s - and death’s - unfairness. I could have told her about that; but realising I was gawping at her, I hastened to identify myself and thank her for agreeing to see me.

‘I nearly didn’t,’ was the blunt reply. ‘Do you think, at a time like this, I want to talk to nosy strangers? I’m only seeing you because I want to know what swine did that to Duane. He mentioned you to me. He said you were a ruddy nuisance. Perhaps that’s all you are but you’d better come in.’ She gestured inwards.

I followed her inside and she shut the door behind us. The hall was long and narrow with a parquet floor in need of a good polish. There was a majolica jardinière, I guessed Victorian replica and probably worth quite a bit, if those TV antiques programmes were anything to go by. The plant in it was a straggling fern of neglected appearance. It hadn’t been watered in a while, its thin leaves browning, and someone had stubbed out a cigarette in the compost. It was an unloved plant unworthy of the jardinière. I wondered if it had been inherited. Plants are sometimes passed on when property changes hands. A steep staircase faced us running up to a mezzanine landing furnished with a similar potted plant on a stand. I can take or leave healthy houseplants but expiring houseplants are definitely out.

I glanced round quickly, my curiosity more than usually intrigued. Also in the hall was an old-fashioned hatstand with some outdoor clothing hanging on it, an oval mirror with a heavy carved frame and a couple of nice watercolours of the bridges of Paris with Notre Dame showing in one of them. On a table with barley-twist legs stood a blue and white porcelain bowl that looked old to me, older than the Victorian pot plant holders. What appeared to be car keys rested in it. Everything was rather dusty but it was good stuff: not, however, quite the sort of things I’d have imagined a young couple buying. I wondered how they’d come by it all and whether either Lottie or Duane had any idea how much some of this might be worth.

Lottie was marching ahead of me down the hall, gipsy skirt swinging from side to side, the high heels of the boots clattering on the parquet and scoring further dents and scratches on it. She ignored a door to the left which must lead into a front parlour and opened another door halfway between that and a further door at the rear of the hall leading into what must be a room at the back of the house. Spacious accommodation downstairs doubtless matched by corresponding roominess upstairs. That was a lot of area for just Duane and Lottie to rattle round in.

The room beyond the opened door was small and had been fitted out as an office. It all looked very efficient and I was impressed. A fireplace with a black-lacquered hood and aquamarine tiled surround was the only sign that this had once been part of a domestic setting, probably what used to be called a breakfast room. Now it housed a modern computer station, a fax machine, a typist’s chair, two black-leather swivel chairs and a low pine table. The contrast between this obviously fairly recently renovated room and the state of the rest of the place I’d seen so far was striking. It underlined the shabbiness of Susie’s office and Whitehall throw-out furniture.

Lottie gestured to me to take one of the swivel chairs, her Indian bangles chinking softly. I slipped off the backpack and sat down. She took the opposite one and rested her hands on the arms. She began to twist to and fro on the central spindle, all the time assessing me with no attempt at disguise. It was difficult to read in her face what she was making of me. The green eyes were as bright and expressionless as a cat’s. Her full well-formed lips were nicely lipsticked in a flattering mauve shade. Possibly keeping her physical appearance together helped her keep her mental state from disintegration.

‘Nice place,’ I ventured at last because her silent scrutiny was beginning to unsettle me. ‘Are you sole tenants?’

She shrugged. ‘It’s my house. I own it.’

Now I was impressed and must have looked it.

‘My gran died and left it to me!’ she said impatiently. ‘Duane and I were already together and she wanted us to have a proper place to live.’

That explained the old-fashioned furnishings out in the hall and the withered potted plants. Lottie and Duane had moved in and kept all of Gran’s furniture except in this room. Granny had been well off. Lottie looked and sounded privately educated. (I was too but I don’t sound it.) I wondered if her full name was Charlotte and also if she’d keep the business going now she didn’t have Duane to do the legwork. Susie had kept her business going without the late Rennie but I couldn’t imagine the girl in front of me trawling grubby pubs and hanging out on street corners keeping observation.

‘What happened to Duane?’ she charged suddenly, eyes like green ice.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I want to. How long were you two together?’

For the first time the grey-green eyes evaded mine. She didn’t want me to see her pain. ‘Nearly six years. He was a bloody good detective, you know.’ Her voice shook slightly.

‘Yes, I do know,’ I told her. ‘Lottie, did he go to the Duke Detective Agency looking for me? If he did, how did he know he might find me there? Or at least, that they could tell him where to find me? I didn’t tell him about it.’

‘I told you,’ Lottie said impatiently. ‘He was a
good
detective. He didn’t buy that story of yours about knowing the old lady ages ago in Rotherhithe. Someone had to be paying you to find her, and that meant you had to work out of some agency. So he asked around. He drew a blank at first but eventually someone told him you worked out of a place in Camden.’

‘I asked about
him
,’ I retorted, ‘but nobody knew him. I’m surprised he found someone who knew
me
. Who was it?’

She gave a mocking little smile. ‘Confidential,’ she said.

Now, where had I heard that before? I didn’t bother to argue with her about my reasons for taking an interest in Edna. She wouldn’t believe me; especially since she and Duane had found I’d a connection, however tenuous, with the Duke Detective Agency.

‘Someone was and probably still is paying you and Duane to find Edna and more,’ I said. ‘Who’s your client? What does he want with Edna?’

She opened her mouth but I forestalled her.

‘Don’t say confidential, all right? This business has got Duane killed. Unless he had a heart condition or something like that. Did he?’

She shook her head. The tip of her tongue ran over her lower lip. She wasn’t as in command as she appeared. How could she be? She’d had a terrible shock and lost not only her business partner but boyfriend of six years. She must be a little older than she looked, perhaps twenty-eight or -nine. I’d placed Duane in his thirties. She was doing pretty well dealing with the situation, all things considered. She might still crack at any moment. I felt cruel at harassing her at such a sensitive time but circumstances didn’t leave me any option, as I’d told myself before setting out.

‘Lottie,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what kind of work your agency handles. But I bet it hasn’t involved dealing with murderers before now, right?’

She blanched. ‘Who says he was murdered?’

‘As far as I know, no one yet. But it has to be on the cards, Lottie, so let’s assume, as a basis for our immediate future plans, that his investigations got him killed.’

‘The police—’ she began but broke off.

‘The police, or one of them, came to see me,’ I said. ‘Duane had hypodermic marks on his arm and a bruise on the back of his head. You told the police he wasn’t into drugs.’

‘He was when we met,’ she admitted. ‘Nothing serious, but enough. I made him give it up. He hadn’t touched anything for years. We’ve got a business here. You can’t mess with drugs and run a business.’

‘Fair enough. I’m sorry,’ I added. ‘I know all this blunt talk is painful. But nothing is going to make the situation better and, let’s face it, you and I are still alive and we want to stay that way.’

She swivelled back and forth on the chair for a moment. ‘The police told me there will be a postmortem, probably this morning. I don’t know if they’ll phone me when they’ve got a result or come round here. They said I should wait and see what the autopsy shows up.’

She looked and still sounded obstinate. ‘They haven’t called it murder.’

‘They have to wait and make sure. I don’t,’ I said. ‘And while you’re waiting for the cops to show up with a printed autopsy report,’ I went on, ‘our killer is planning his next move. Lottie, you could be in real danger. Whatever Duane knew, the killer will assume you know it, too. You do realise that, don’t you? Are you living here alone now?’

‘I’ve got security,’ she said.

I’d noticed the blue box of a burglar alarm on the front of the house as I’d walked towards the front door.

‘The killer’s good at getting into places,’ I said. ‘He got through a locked door into the Duke Agency, unless Duane was the one who knew all the tricks with a plastic card.
Had
Duane gone there to find me?’

She nodded. ‘He reckoned you’d been holding out on him. He thought we might pool our resources. The way things were going, our enquiries had to collide with yours and we were going to be falling over one another at every turn.’

‘Are you prepared to tell me the name of your client?’ I expected to hear ‘confidential’, but if she was rattled enough, she might give it away.

‘I couldn’t tell you that,’ she said quickly, ‘unless the client agreed. I have not yet spoken with the client.’

‘What, not at all?’ I gasped. ‘You’ll have to tell him what’s happened! Anyway, the police will want to speak to him.’

‘Telling the police is different to telling you,’ she pointed out reasonably enough. ‘Will you tell me the name of
your
client?’

‘I can’t,’ I said. I couldn’t because I hadn’t got a client but she wouldn’t believe that any more than Duane had.

‘Then it’s stalemate,’ she said calmly.

I sighed. ‘Look, Lottie, at least ask the police to move you to a safe location.’

‘I can go and stay with my mum and dad, if it comes to that.’

‘If you think the killer can’t find where your parents live and won’t check it out when he finds you’re not here, you’re nuts,’ I said unkindly.

‘I’ll discuss it with the police,’ she said coldly.

I wasn’t going to get anywhere down that path. I tried another. ‘Edna’s an old bag lady, or was,’ I said. ‘She was living on the streets for years and now she’s safe, warm and cared for after a fashion in a hostel. I don’t know why anyone would want to find her. But in particular I don’t know why anything about her should be such a threat that someone would be prepared to kill to prevent it being known.’

I broke off suddenly and thought, Shit! It’s not this girl the killer will come after next, it’s Edna!

I scrambled to my feet. ‘I’ve got your card,’ I said. ‘Here’s one of the Duke Agency’s. I’m not always there but you can leave a message for me any time. If you change your mind about talking to me, call that number. And remember what I said about asking the cops to move you to a safe location.’

I was on the move myself as I spoke, struggling to pull the straps of the backpack over my shoulders. I stepped out into the hall and made for the front door. I had to get back into London and to the hostel and check on Edna and then I had to get hold of Morgan and impress on her that she had to make sure Edna was moved somewhere safe. The trouble there would be that Edna would almost certainly refuse to cooperate.

My sudden decision to go had startled Lottie and wrong-footed her. She had jumped from her swivel chair and followed me.

‘What’s up?’ she demanded sharply. ‘What have you thought of?’

‘Confidential!’ I snarled, striding towards the front door.

I heard her high heels clicking along behind me. ‘Wait!’ she called.

I stopped, not because of her sudden wish to talk to me but because through the frosted glazed panels of the front door a large dark shape had loomed up and stood there, exuding silent menace. Lottie had another visitor.

We both froze, huddled together like a couple of scared puppies. ‘Who is it?’ whispered Lottie, not sounding so confident now.

‘I don’t know, do I?’ I muttered back. ‘Copper?’

The bell gave a sudden loud buzz which made us both jump.

Lottie pushed past me and up to the door. ‘Who is it?’ she shouted at the glass panels and the sinister shape.