Rattling the Bones (22 page)

From the corner of my eye I saw the matronly ladies at the coffee counter trying to look as if they weren’t listening to our conversation. Morgan might have thought this cafeteria a good place to talk but I didn’t. Our conversation had to be more interesting to the League of Friends volunteers than endless listening to people talking about their operations.

‘Then she may well turn up,’ Morgan spoke at last but seemed even more irritatingly complacent.

‘Have you spoken to Ferrier or Culpeper?’ I was suddenly suspicious. Was the blank look because I was rattling off old news? If so, why didn’t she say so and tell me to shut up and not waste my breath?

‘I can’t discuss police matters with you, Fran, and whether or not we’ve spoken with either of the people you mention, that’s not your concern. Frankly, we’re not enquiring further about the incident involving your old lady in the bed back there . . .’

Morgan indicated an area elsewhere in the hospital with a vague wave of the hand. ‘As far as we’re concerned, she wandered out into the road and was saved from injury or worse by the prompt action of a passer-by. The biker involved didn’t stop but he was probably a courier and when he saw that the old lady had been pulled clear he was keener on keeping to his schedule than stopping to get involved. We won’t find him.

‘As for Culpeper’s wish to trace Edna, it’s not illegal either for him or anyone else to be trying to find her. They may, and probably do, have nothing but the best intentions.’

‘Edna believes those are the worst sort,’ I said gloomily.

Morgan eyed me. ‘Fran, to be honest, I think you’re on a hiding to nothing with this one. The old lady won’t cooperate with you. She wouldn’t cooperate with us. Oh, yes, I did try and chat to her. She acted gaga. It was only an act, of course, even I could see that, but if she chooses to behave like that, there’s nothing we or you can do. She only goes along with the hostel rules in as far as she turns up for meals and stays there at night.’

She sighed. ‘Well, if you choose to make it your problem, that’s up to you. Our interest is in the death of Duane Gardner, which is being treated as suspicious. We would only be interested in the people employing Gardner’s agency to find Edna if it had a direct bearing on the matter of his death and so far, Fran, nothing shows that it has. He died in Susie Duke’s office. The inference is he was there to meet either you or Susie. So far there is nothing to show why he wanted to speak to either of you. To say it’s about Edna is supposition. All right, it’s plausible. But I’m a police officer and I’m not into plausible. I’m into facts.’

‘OK, Janice,’ I retorted. ‘Let’s stick to facts. Have you established yet just how the killer got into the office that morning? Did someone force the lock?’

She pursed her lips and studied me. ‘There’s no sign it was forced but it might have been a skilled job. Both Mrs Duke and her part-time helper deny lending their keys out to anyone.You’re sure you’ve never held a key?’

‘Never! I haven’t done that much work for Susie. I never had need of an office key. The door was open when I got there that morning. I told the cops at the time.’

‘Yes, you did. I’m still not convinced you don’t know more about that than you’re saying, Fran. I’ve warned you before about withholding information.’

‘I’ve told you everything I know!’ I protested, raising my voice despite myself and attracting renewed interest from the direction of the tea urns.

‘At the very least, he had something he wanted to discuss with you,’ Morgan ploughed on obstinately. ‘You have to have some idea what that was, Fran.’

‘No, I don’t. Unless it concerned Edna and you don’t want to look into anything concerning Edna. In my mind, she’s what matters in all this. All right, so let’s say Duane wanted to discuss something with me. Someone else wanted to stop him! Come on.’ I was getting increasingly hot under the collar.

Morgan bit into her biscuit, showering crumbs on the table top. ‘I hate these things,’ she said, staring at the remains of it in her hand. ‘They’re too sweet and don’t taste of anything else.’

‘So why did you take it?’

‘Not much choice, was there?’

The ladies looked offended and then concerned. They muttered together. We all have our worries. I worried about Edna, Morgan about Duane’s death and the ladies about brands of biscuits. That’s what it is with worries: they may be big or small and other people may find your own unimportant. But to you they are the only thing to matter at the moment.

The man at the next table folded his crossword, rose to his feet and limped away. He at least hadn’t been listening or, if he had, wasn’t bothered about listening any further. He presumably had his own private worry. There was no way of telling whether it was an inoperable condition or the frustration of not working out five across.

‘I’m Edna’s friend,’ I said as quietly as I could. ‘As far as I know I’m her only friend. Simon and Nikki at the hostel care, but they’re professionals and Edna is just one of their residents. If she gets to be too much of a problem, they’ll move her out somewhere else. In the meantime, I intend to talk to Adam Ferrier and I hope to Culpeper himself. I can give you Jessica Davis’s phone number if you want to talk to her.’

‘I only want to talk to her if she has information regarding the death of Duane Gardner. Do you think she has?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t say. It’s up to you whether you talk to her or not. But I do think you ought to speak to Susie Duke again and ask her about Les Hooper and the key he holds to the office. And while you’re about it, you might try putting the frighteners on Les himself.’

‘We are acquainted with Mr Hooper,’ said Morgan enigmatically.

Now, why didn’t that surprise me?

‘I’m sorry to hear Mrs Duke is still using him to do odd jobs. We have told her she might do well to reconsider that.’

I decided to chuck my bit of information into the brew. I owed Les nothing and if the police came between him and Susie, so much the better.

‘He works - worked - for Lottie and Duane sometimes, and for other private investigators, I think.’

‘Regulations governing private investigation agencies are being tightened up,’ Morgan told me. ‘New rules won’t tolerate someone like Mr Hooper.’

I didn’t remind her that someone like Les was a real artist when it came to getting round the rules.

Chapter Twelve

When I got back home I discovered the payphone in the hall was as dead as a dodo. Not many tenants used it nowadays. Everyone except me has a mobile. For all I knew, the phone company might even have disconnected the thing. I went over to the newsagent’s and told Ganesh and Hari about Edna. Hari never knew Edna but he was interested.

‘It is a very bad business,’ he said, shaking his head and looking thoroughly satisfied. Hari enjoys bad news. You know where you are with bad news, that’s his motto. Good news generally carries an unseen snag with it. Sooner or later you find out what it is but until you do, it lurks there in the background, ready to jump out and surprise you. But bad news means you know the worst straightaway and you are not lulled into any sense of false optimism.

‘And our house phone has given up the ghost,’ I went on, ‘so can I borrow your mobile, Ganesh?’

‘Sure,’ he said, looking worried. ‘Come up to the flat.’

Once in the flat above the shop he fixed me with a glittering eye like the old mariner in the poem. ‘For once I’m in complete agreement with my uncle. This is a thoroughly bad business and you’ve meddled in it enough. Take the mobile, by all means. I’m happier knowing you can call me here at any time. But leave all these people to sort themselves out. The police are on the case, anyway.’

‘
Not
on Edna’s case,’ I corrected. ‘They’re following up Duane’s murder. No one is saying the word “murder” but that’s what it is - was. I’m not looking for Duane’s killer. I’m trying to protect Edna.’

‘You’re splitting hairs, that’s what you’re doing,’ said Ganesh, handing over the mobile phone. ‘And don’t lose this. You lost the last one I lent you.’

I’d dropped the previous phone in a river in Oxford, but that’s another story. I promised him I’d take great care of this one.

As soon as I got out of there I rang Lottie Forester and asked her if she had managed to set up a meeting with Adam Ferrier for me. I also told her my house phone was out and gave her the number of Ganesh’s mobile.

‘Can you come back to my place this evening?’ she asked. ‘Around seven thirty?’

I was surprised but pleased that she’d set up the meeting so quickly. Rocking and rattling my way out there again in the chugging suburban train, this time uncomfortably packed with homeward-bound commuters, I tried to list all the questions I wanted to ask Ferrier, but instead found myself thinking of Duane Gardner. A phrase of Lottie’s kept popping into my head.

‘
Duane was a good detective
.’

If he hadn’t been killed, he and Lottie would have run a profitable little business out there in Teddington. I felt sorry for Lottie, sorry for Duane.

Good detective, good detective, good detective
. . . chuntered the train.

‘He was a bloody good detective!’ I muttered suddenly aloud, gathering a few alarmed and in some cases resigned looks. It’s not unusual to find yourself opposite someone muttering to him or herself on local trains around London but I didn’t want to be tagged as one of the mentally scrambled. ‘Sorry . . .’ I apologised to anyone who could hear me.

Alarm increased and heads went down over paperback novels or disappeared behind copies of the
Evening Standard
. Travellers who had armed themselves with neither simply closed their eyes.

I returned to my thoughts. He must have been
very
good to have found Edna as he had. But how had he found her? How had he known she was still alive and in London? She could have been anywhere in the country or given her age and circumstances have shuffled off the mortal coil years ago.

‘Because,’ said that other person who lives in my head and goes by my name but thinks more logically than I generally do, ‘someone gave him a clue.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked the other Fran, silently this time.

‘Someone told him where to look. Someone knew about her.’

‘All right, who?’ I persisted.

‘You’ll have to find out, won’t you?’ said other Fran. ‘That’s something you might ask this chap Ferrier.’

‘He didn’t know where she was, you twit!’ I informed my alter ego. ‘If he had, he could have gone and got her himself. He needn’t have employed Duane.’

‘All right,’ said the other Fran smugly, ‘so someone else is out there, someone else has a finger in this pie.’

It was still light when I got off at Fulwell station but the sky glowed gold and cerise in the setting sun. By the time I left to go home again, it would be dark. A few lights were already shining inside homes as I passed by them, but Lottie’s house was in darkness. A car was parked on the weed-covered drive, one of those little boxy jobs. I didn’t know if it belonged to Lottie or to a visitor.

I rang the bell. There was a pause and then I did see an electric glow through the frosted glass panels of the door. Someone had opened a door at the rear of the hall. Feet tapped towards me and the front door was opened by Lottie. She’d changed into her gipsy skirt and a silky top and still wore her favourite boots. She had also tied up her hair with a sort of bandanna; hoop earrings dangled from her lobes. She looked as if she was about to invite me in to tell my fortune.

‘We’re in the kitchen,’ she said without any preamble and not waiting to hear any greeting from me. ‘Go on through.’

She stood aside to allow me to pass. ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled and obeyed instructions. She followed me to the kitchen door and reached past me to push it open. The full glow of electric light struck my face and made me blink.

‘This is Fran,’ Lottie, behind my shoulder, announced me. ‘This is Adam and his sister, Becky,’ she added casually to me.

I’d gathered my wits by now and accustomed my eyes to the bright light. The three of them had evidently been sitting round the kitchen table quaffing white wine and stuffing themselves with nibbles. An opened bottle and three used glasses stood witness together with a saucer of pistachio nuts and two empty crisp packets.

The young man stood up and held out his hand. His sister remained seated.

‘Hullo,’ he said pleasantly.

The siblings were different in build as well as sex. The boy - I suppose he was at least my age and probably more but I found myself thinking of him as a boy - was of medium height but strong and chunky and very good-looking with lots of reddish-blond curly hair and a wide, easy smile.