Requiem Mass (39 page)

‘Yes, sir. I’ve already said yes.’

‘Right, good, yes. Now. We’ve a PC at Smith’s bedside and we’ve authorised armed protection. We’ve got to keep that up. I know it’s unlikely we’ll get anything from her but she is improving—’

‘She’s still in intensive care! They’ve only just taken her off life support!’

‘Yes, but at least her improvement will help morale. Now, what are we going to do about covering all the letting agencies and car rentals? I’m worried that there are just too many. We’ll never get through them in time.’

Cooper was reassuring. ‘Russell has had the bright idea of using faxes and Hurst is following suit. They’re working their way through Yellow Pages, local directories, even
Exchange and Mart
– they’re fresh, keen and convinced they’ll get a
result. Leave it to them, sir, and relax. You’ve got us the resources we need. It’s time to regroup and for you to ease up, ready for whatever happens next.’

Cooper just managed to keep his tone from being patronising. Fenwick was too tired to notice in any case.

‘Yes, you’re right – it’s just that we’ve been pushing this along on our own for so long now, I keep forgetting. Go on home, the pair of you, you look exhausted.’

Cooper and Nightingale left gratefully but it was another two hours before the lights were finally switched off in Fenwick’s office.

He eased his key into the front door lock and pushed it open gently. The house was in darkness. Without switching on the hall light he found his way by touch to the kitchen where the oven light cast a weak welcoming glow. Now he could turn the light on. A note from his mother was propped against the salt and pepper to the side of a single laid place. He picked it up with trepidation.

Your dinner is in the oven. There’s fresh gravy in the fridge door if it’s too dried out. Chris had a little bit of a wobble today but he’s all right. Try to make some time for them this weekend, you’re becoming a stranger again.

He took the covered plate from the oven with a double thickness of tea towel. Beneath the saucepan lid the chicken had stuck to the plate and the cabbage and carrots had dried into reduced hard lumps. Only the baked potato remained edible. He added a knob of butter, ate it quickly, scalding his mouth, and poured himself a whisky and water as a nightcap.

Fifteen minutes later, showered, hair still damp, he crept into the children’s bedroom. Both were fast asleep, breathing noisily. He kissed each smooth brow and stroked Chris’s hair gently, hoping he would be aware of the love he felt, in his dreams. Then, after needlessly tucking their quilts around them, he turned and made his way silently to bed.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Fenwick and Cooper were shown into the same sitting room in which Fenwick had first met Octavia Anderson. Early morning sunlight slanted in from the window overlooking the street, banding vases of lilies, white, pink, pale yellow, clustered at different heights on occasional tables and the ornate marble mantle. The room was filled with their cloying perfume, like stale scent in a woman’s closet.

Neither policeman sat down but stood side by side with their backs to the empty fireplace. The maid brought in a cafetière of coffee and an icy jug of freshly squeezed orange juice. They watched her serve in silence. Within a few minutes Octavia entered the room, a smile ready for Fenwick.

‘Chief Inspector, how nice to see you. To what do I owe this pleasure?’ There were to be no power games of silence this time; instead she was the relaxed friend. Fenwick yearned to meet her halfway, to keep the smile on her face a little longer, but he had arrived in the role of policeman and it left no room for any other.

‘Miss Anderson, I believe you’ve spoken to Sergeant Cooper before.’

‘Ma’am.’ Cooper dipped his head briefly.

‘Won’t you sit down, gentlemen?’ The smile was still in place, slightly quizzical but untroubled.

‘We’re comfortable as we are, thank you. But please take a seat if you wish. This may be a lengthy conversation.’ Fenwick’s whole manner was awkward, stilted. Anderson sat down and
lifted a chilled glass of fruit juice to perfectly made-up lips.

Cooper and Fenwick had agreed the opening and their roles beforehand. It was easy to fall into the practised routine.

‘Miss Anderson, as you know, we are investigating the murders of Deborah Fearnside and Katherine Johnstone.’ Cooper’s voice was a flat recital of facts. ‘We have reason to believe that the shared motive for these crimes may be the death of Carol Truman.’

‘But—’

‘Let me
finish
please, Miss Anderson. You appear to be the only surviving member of the party that accompanied Miss Truman on her last walk. So far, you have avoided or ignored our enquiries, underplayed the closeness of the friendship you had with both dead women and have gone so far as to disappear for a crucial ten days. We are now expecting your full co-operation. Alternatively we may consider charges of wasting police time.’

‘But, you can’t—’

‘In a moment, Miss Anderson. Let me finish. We intend today to obtain a full account of Carol Truman’s death – and other matters. You may wish to have a lawyer present but, I must warn you, given the delays and inconvenience to which you have already put us, and the urgency of our enquiries, we will
not
put up with further unnecessary time-wasting. Now,’ Cooper’s voice was emotionless, ‘you may speak.’

Octavia Anderson regarded him open-mouthed, speechless. She turned once to Fenwick, only to flinch visibly from his unrelenting face. The police let her silence develop. With new eyes Fenwick was sensitive enough, and belatedly objective enough, to see despite her apparent shock the rapid calculation in her eyes. Where once he would have assumed that she was hurt and bewildered, he could now see the iron control she applied to her emotions. He was a fool ever to have believed that she needed him. She would never have climbed so far in her career without ruthless determination, no matter how great her talent.

He was aware of a small, insistent pain inside him. This was
going to hurt him more than he had expected. But he too could apply rigid control, and he had had too much practice at managing his feelings to fail now. The first flutter of pity died before it could draw breath.

‘This is all somewhat of a surprise, Sergeant. I – I really don’t know what to do. I … should I perhaps call my lawyer? I’m not really sure.’

‘It’s entirely up to you, miss, but make your mind up, we’re in a hurry.’

She tried confusion once more, then became tearful, before recognising that she was on her own.

It was time for Fenwick to play his part. ‘Octavia.’ He tried to find the right tone; avuncular but firm seemed appropriate. He felt he achieved a reasonable approximation. ‘It’s been a bit of a shock, I know, but you must talk to us. It’s very important and if you don’t, we really will have to consider taking you to the station.’

His intervention confused her. She searched his face for signs of calculation but found none.

‘All right. But please, won’t you sit down? This will be a long story.’

She related the events leading to Carol’s death. Her account matched, almost exactly, her original statement. Sometimes whole phrases reappeared that had previously been used twenty years before.

‘What did you talk about on your walk?’ Cooper used the first of their preprepared interruptions.

‘I can’t remember, Sergeant. I expect all sorts of things – music, plans for the holidays, mutual friends.’

‘Plans for the future?’

‘Possibly, I really can’t recall. Would you be able to after all these years?’

‘I might, if it had been my last conversation with my best friend.’

His barb drew a sharp gasp from Anderson:

‘That was unnecessary, Sergeant. Why?’

‘Because I don’t like you playing games with me, Miss
Anderson. Others in the party clearly recall you in heated debate with Carol Truman – an argument even – on the subject of her chosen career.’

‘I … I don’t recall that fully, no. It’s all a very painful memory for me.’ Tears were back in her voice as she apparently struggled to recollect. ‘You’re right, I think we did have a small argument but it’s not the sort of thing one wants as a final recollection. I think we argued about music. Yes, and her plans to become a musician. It was a stupid, stupid idea. She was very clever – the best brain in the class – and to throw it all away for music; it was crazy!’

‘But you did.’ Fenwick’s voice was a whisper.

‘Yes, but I have talent and stamina
and
the determination to succeed. Carol had none of that. She was a lovely, gentle person with a pretty voice but it wasn’t a great voice.’

‘Whereas yours was – is?’

‘Ask your Chief Inspector, Sergeant. He can tell you!’

Fenwick sketched a brief gesture with his hand and Cooper moved on.

‘Did you see anyone else on the walk – anyone at all?’

‘No.’

‘Was there anyone who might have had a grudge against Carol, any enemies?’

‘No one.’

‘What about boyfriends, lovers even? How sexually active was she?’

Unexpectedly, Anderson blushed and looked away, her composure momentarily defeated.

‘Well?’

‘There was no one. You don’t understand. Carol wasn’t that type of girl.’ She could not meet their eyes.

‘How well did you know Victor Rowland?’

Anderson’s face lost its flush and her skin paled to an unbecoming grey.

‘Not well.’ Her voice was a hoarse whisper as she looked down at her hands, fingers twisted together painfully around
the glass of orange juice held in her lap.

Fenwick was reminded of Leslie Smith on the night before she was struck down and with a shock recognised fear in Octavia for the first time.

‘Was he close to Carol?’

She glanced at him quickly then shook her head hesitantly, not daring to speak. It was an obvious lie. Why?

‘Who was closest to her?’

‘Apart from me? Her aunt and uncle. She was living with them, until she finished her exams, then she was meant to go to Australia. Carol was very excited about it.’

‘There was no suggestion of her staying on at school?’

‘No. That wasn’t the plan at all; she was going to a sixth form college in Melbourne, one of the best. She was expected to gain excellent grades. That’s why it was all so stupid, her thinking of giving it all up for music.’

Cooper marched on through their questions but to Fenwick they were increasingly pointless. They were learning little more and Octavia was regaining her composure and control. He indicated to Cooper that it was time to change tack.

‘I think that concludes our first set of questions. Now, if we could turn to the next.’ Cooper passively turned over to a clean page in his notebook.

‘The next! I have morning appointments, Sergeant!’ She bent to sip from her orange juice but it had become tepid in the heat of the room. ‘What on earth do you want to cover now?’

‘Your whereabouts on August 24th.’

‘What? How should I know? And why do you need to know? This really is ridiculous.’

‘Miss Anderson, on the morning of August 24th, Leslie Smith was the victim of a serious hit-and-run attack. We need to know where you were at the time.’

At the mention of Smith’s name, Anderson’s composure finally shattered. Tears started suddenly and dripped from her chin to stain her peach skirt and spray the ivory silk blouse with droplets as they fell. Her face didn’t crumple, and she made no noise beyond a low moan, but the sight of her fixed face weeping
huge tears moved Fenwick more than hysteria would have done. This wasn’t normal grief or mourning for a lost friend, it was rigid, almost catatonic shock. He sat down beside her and gently prised her rigid fingers from the glass of orange juice she still clutched.

‘Cooper, would you go and ask Miss Anderson’s maid for some fresh coffee and tea? Thank you.’ As he was left alone in the room he turned his face to the woman.

‘Octavia, you’ve had a shock but you must talk to me. You are in a very serious position.’

‘I … I didn’t know. I simply didn’t know. Is she dead?’

Fenwick shook his head but explained how serious her condition was.

‘This is terrible, just awful. Leslie? Why Leslie of all people? God, how? When did it happen?’

Fenwick sketched out the facts, searching her face for signs of guilt behind the show of grief and fear.

‘Will she be all right? Will she survive?’ Was it the care of a friend or concern of a would-be killer? Fenwick couldn’t tell and remained noncommittal.

‘Octavia, you must understand, you must realise, that this looks bad for you.’ He saw fear in her eyes but she remained silent. ‘Your alibi for one of the previous murders is weak and you returned to the UK in time for Leslie’s attack – with no explanation.’

For a split second, relief dawned on Anderson’s face and then she started to laugh – an awful, sustained high-pitched cackle.

‘You think …’ she gulped air, ‘you think that
I
did it? That I’m behind these awful things? Oh shit!’ She laughed even harder. ‘This is too much. It’s pathetic.’

Her hysteria changed abruptly to anger and she turned on Fenwick, eyes blazing, her voice flat and ugly. ‘You fool, you bloody fool. I’m not the murderer, I’m not the killer of those poor stupid bitches. I’m the
target
! Don’t you realise? He’s just warming up! You ask why I left France, why I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Because I was scared witless. He had found
me there, I was sure of it. And you, you dear pathetic boys in blue, charge around searching for me because you think
I’m
the killer! My God, if it weren’t so sad I’d still be laughing.’

Her anger was searing, her scorn devastating. Any affection that had been struggling to survive between them withered in her stare. Fenwick suddenly felt desperately tired. He heard his voice, from somewhere outside himself, continuing the conversation as if nothing had happened.

‘Why are you a potential victim?’

There was a long pause; Anderson stood up and walked away to the window.