Requiem Mass (41 page)

The revised information was faxed, again, to all the rental agencies on the list, starting with South-East London and working outwards. Within three hours, Fenwick was sitting at a comfortable office of the Richmond branch of a national car rental firm, opposite the florally dressed manageress, whom he estimated to be a well-preserved fifty. She had insisted on helping the police directly and dismissed her attractive twenty-something assistant with a peremptory wave of her hand.

‘I can handle this thank you, Maureen.’ Her smile, on full beam, fixed Fenwick where he sat. ‘Now, Inspector, where were we? You are interested in this man,’ she tapped the fax with a heavily glossed nail – Fenwick estimated that it had more coats of paint than a standard saloon – ‘and you believe he hired a silver-grey BMW in April this year. What would you like to know?’ The capped teeth flashed again.

With a depressing sense of
déjà vu,
Fenwick recognised a rare but persistent make of public in the woman – those that use the opportunity of a police inquiry as another of life’s occasions
to assume centre stage, despite Providential casting to a bit part. The woman was already mentally in the spotlights, dry ice tickling her feet, and all she had done was extract a card index from her wooden filing cabinet and organise tea for Fenwick and the young constable relegated to the back of the room to take notes.

‘As I believe the constable has already explained, madam, we are interested in tracing the man in the picture there, and the car we believe he hired in April this year – a new BMW, metallic paint, perhaps silver grey.’

‘Of course, Inspector. And it’s Mrs Court, Marjory Court; please do call me Marjory.’

Fenwick merely waited expectantly. She took the hint.

‘Right, well, now, during April both Maureen and I are convinced we saw this man whom you are seeking of in this office! We hired BMWs out quite a lot in April – nearly fifty separate contracts. Of course, as I’m sure
you
realise, this is hardly the typical pattern of rentals one would find in most branches, but we do cater for a most
particular
type of client here.’ Again the dramatic pause as her foot tapped rhythmically on an imaginary brake.

Fenwick gave bare acknowledgement to her exclusivity.

‘Right, well of those, ten were in a metallic finish, so let’s put the others aside, shall we? Of those ten, we have credit card payments for seven and cash for three.’ The brown index cards were flicked expertly in her plump little hands.

She settled more comfortably on her well-upholstered rump and pulled towards her three files that had been sitting to the side of her pink blotter since the beginning of the interview.

‘Now let me
see
. Mrs Emily Kenn rented a BMW 5 Series for three days – a business trip. No? No, right, moving on; Mr J.A. Smith. He rented the same car for two weeks – paid in cash – brought the car back four days later. We gave him a refund by cheque. Yes, our accounts people at Head Office could find out where it was cashed. Finally, Mr Arthur Bain; one week’s hire. Cash. No further details. Right. There we are then.’ She handed over the neatly stacked index cards with a flourish. Fenwick
experienced a deep stirring of anticipation as he read the two names.

‘Can you give us more information on these customers?’

‘More
information, Inspector? What more information could you want? You have it all: name, address, daytime telephone number, make and age of car – yes, there, that little code is my own invention. I’ve suggested to the company that they adopt it nationally. They’re giving it very serious consideration too. It would be a major step – and you’ll see there too, the mileage, state of car on return, whether there were any damage deductions …’

Fenwick’s impatience grew. ‘I’m interested in the driving licence details – DVLC number, the address on that, and the home phone number, anything helpful, plus a copy of the rental agreement, the signature.’

‘Well, I can’t see why, but in
that
case, you will need to see the computer record, but I can assure you my, rather these, cards are far more efficient and effective – and they never “go down” like that wretched machine does.’

Without rising from her desk, the woman executed a neat three-point turn in her chair and called through the door sharply: ‘Maureen. These gentlemen need your help. For heaven’s sake get a move on. And don’t take all day about it, we have an office to run.’ She turned belatedly to Fenwick: ‘I would do it myself but as you can see I’m terribly busy. Please
do
come back to me with any queries, and to return the cards.’

The mix of coy and arch was, thought Fenwick, quite repellent.

Maureen was brisk, businesslike but not above a remark at her employer’s expense. ‘Mrs Court? Use the computer? I’d be more likely to marry Bernie first.’ The heavy sarcasm made it quite clear that Bernie was to remain a disappointed man. Her accent was studiedly East London; her looks – honey skin, pencil-sharp cheekbones and liquid black eyes – reminded Fenwick of the model who had married that singer; he was never very good on names. But as she rapidly clicked through screen after screen, the mouse jerking to her commands in tiny
obedient movements, Fenwick realised that it was for her efficiency, not her looks, that she had been employed.

She soon called up the two records – Bain’s first, complete with home telephone number. They called the daytime number and Bain’s secretary answered. She confirmed, after a brief consultation with the diary, that she had organised the booking but that Mr Bain had arranged to pay himself. Why, she had no idea. It was clear though that she had made her own assumptions when she suggested to the constable that Mr Bain would much prefer to be contacted at the office about the matter. Fenwick had little doubt that Arthur Bain was shortly to be eliminated from his enquiry.

Which left Mr J. A. Smith. First name, John. There were three hundred and thirty-two Smith’s in the telephone directory – and over thirty J. Smiths. After a lengthy check against the index card details the constable handed it back to Fenwick with a sigh of disgust. ‘There’s no J. A. or J. Smith of that address in this directory.’

‘Try enquiries – leave me that.’ He compared the card with the details on Maureen’s PC screen. While he waited for printed copies he remarked, with slight apology, that there was a typographical error.

‘The postcode is completely wrong, here look.’

‘Ooh – tha’ shouldn’t ’appen – here, don’t let ’er know, she’s a stickler for accuracy. Lemmee see.’ She studied the card and positioned the little arrow on the screen over the postcode. A few clicks later she turned to Fenwick, a frown marring the milk chocolate perfection of her brow. ‘That’s odd. With this new system it shouldn’t ’appen – see. It’s got what we call this “Quick Address” facility, everso good, saves me a lot of work.’

‘Show me.’ Fenwick was asked for his postcode, which Maureen entered into a new client record on the computer. A click later and his whole address, minus only the house number, magically appeared in the blank boxes on the screen.

‘Just tell me your house name or number and I’ve got your full address. Brilliant init? Works the other way round too, for people who can’t remember their postcodes.’

‘So, with Mr Smith’s record, you would have entered his name, and just the postcode?’

‘Let’s see. No look, you can see the postcode’s been entered on the card in different ink. That’ll mean that Mrs Court took the detail from a copy of his driving licence later on because he couldn’t remember his code when he filled in the form. Like I was saying, happens all the time, amazing in this day and age.’

‘When you came to enter the details then—’

‘The postcode wouldn’t ’ave been there; the machine would have filled it in for me. Mrs Court often stays behind at the end of the day to complete her cards, particularly when we’re busy – and she wouldn’t consider using the computer to fill the gaps. She likes her manual system; “our back up” she calls it but really,’ her voice dropped, ‘it’s because she invented it years ago and she won’t give it up. We have files of them going back donkey’s.’

Fenwick was intrigued by her changing voice. As she relaxed she was losing her carefully protected East End accent and diction. He was becoming fascinated by the consonants creeping back into her voice.

‘It’s a pity you don’t keep the rest of the paperwork; I’d like to see Mr Smith’s original application form.’

‘Well you can, of course, here on the system.’

‘What?’

‘Yes, we’re a pilot office for this new Document Imaging – does away with all our old files and those terrible microfiches.’

‘And the cards?’

‘Not yet,’ she chuckled, ‘but it won’t be long, not now. It means that for any forms or correspondence this year all I need do is look on the computer. Do you want me to find it? I’ll try; I hardly ever use it but it’d be fun to have a go.’

Mrs Court’s voice enquired querulously why they were taking so long but sight of the computer in operation kept her at a safe distance. Moments later, Fenwick was staring at a screen image of Mr John A. Smith’s forms.

‘Is this his handwriting?’

‘No, that’s mine. Client’s often ask me to do their forms for them. But it’s his signature.’

‘So you must have met him as well as Mrs Court.’

‘Must ’ave but it was her recognised his picture. Anyway, look, you wanted his driving licence number – there it is.’

The attending constable was on to it in moments.

‘Maureen, this is very important. I want you to cast your mind back to April – to the day you filled this form in. Try to remember anything you can about this man.’

‘What’s he done?’

Fenwick hesitated only a moment before deciding that the truth would work best, she was a sensible girl. As he explained she looked at Rowland’s picture again with mixed horror and fascination, willing herself to remember but her face remained blank.

‘Think, Maureen, he’d have been a tall, dark-haired man – probably dressed smartly. Ignore the hair, we might have got that wrong.’

She took the likeness from Fenwick and started doodling at the edges with a pencil. Suddenly, she filled in the army crew cut in the picture with a few smart, sculpted layers – still short but now stylish. Then she sketched in sunglasses and the outline of an open neck shirt below the neck. She’d obviously studied art and there was no trace of embarrassment or caution as she changed Fenwick’s E-fit copy. She spoke to him as she worked, filling in details.

‘It was a bad image you see, sir. I have a good memory but this just wasn’t good enough. But I’ve got him now – I remember him very well.’ She became excited as the memory caught; the consonants were back with a vengeance. ‘His hair was more stylish, still short but a nice expensive cut, a proper salon job. And he had sunglasses on; not too fancy, Ray-Ban I think. It was April but I remember we had some glorious days; it was my brother’s wedding that weekend and it was lovely. You were right, he was a dish – I mean really. Tall, really fit, a bit of a tan. He had these incredible muscles in his arms.’ As she talked she continued to sketch on to a clean bit of paper below the E-fit: a
short-sleeved shirt, powerful, long arms, the beginnings of a scar or mark on one forearm. ‘And I think he had a tattoo – I can’t remember it, but it wasn’t hearts, or “Mum” or a girl’s name – it was masculine but I didn’t really see it.’

Within minutes Fenwick had asked Maureen to arrange for the car hired by Mr J. A. Smith to be returned and delivered to the forensic laboratory in the vain hope that it might still reveal something after five months of constant use and valeting. Within two hours, the DVLC confirmed that the licence was false; the Post Office that the postcode was fictitious; and the owners of the house at the address on the licence were prepared to swear in court no John A. Smith had ever lived there.

High-quality photographs of the car and Maureen’s sketch had been added to the file of information circulated to other forces and the press. Fenwick knew that he shouldn’t feel dejected. The afternoon had neatly bound up one loose end and the invisible man was taking shape before him. Fenwick had met two people who had seen and spoken with him. The hunt was on for his base. It would only be a matter of time now before they finally tracked him down. The team on the case were delighted, hungry, sure now of their target. But their surge of enthusiasm did nothing for Fenwick as he phoned the hospital again to check Leslie Smith’s condition.

It took Cooper two hours to find and reach Rowland’s property inheritance. The SOCOs had finished and the constable on duty behind the plastic police tape was leaving as Cooper let himself in through the grimy sunburst front door. He walked down a narrow dusty hall; to his left a thin blank party wall. To his right, cheap panelled doors with frosted glass that would fail any modern building standard, led into the mean front room, a back room with tiled fireplace and straight ahead, past the foot of the stairs, the kitchen. Mummified flies and wasps crunched gently under his feet.

The house reeked of sadness. He could smell it in the rising damp and peeling plaster, see it lurking behind the grey walls encrusted by years of neglect. Some furniture was still there in
the kitchen – an old table and stool, an aluminium sink dulled by age and scouring. Cooper forgot he was a policeman and why he was there. He stood in the kitchen puzzling over what had happened to reduce the house from a home to this prefabricated mausoleum.

This was where Carol Truman had grown up – by all accounts a happy, gifted child in a kind, straightforward family, each comfortable in the love and respect of the other. Then came the decision to emigrate. How simple it must have seemed for Carol’s parents to go early – ‘only two months, come out as soon as you’ve finished your exams’ – and how easy to rent the house out cheaply to Carol’s aunt, uncle and cousin, allowing them to leave the council estate.

But two months became a lifetime. A family man, Cooper could not begin to imagine the Trumans’ pain when they heard of their daughter’s death. They had made no public comment, no appeals, their suffering had been in silence. Carol’s mother had died within months; her aunt wasted away with cancer within two years. The womenfolk, ripped from the heart of two families leaving three grieving, embittered men: a father, living alone to die alone in a foreign country years later; an uncle who committed suicide after his wife’s death; the young cousin, abandoned three times within two years, to be left utterly alone at the age of nineteen – and now suspected of multiple murder.