Rogue in Porcelain (25 page)

‘How did you unearth him?' Harris asked with interest.

‘He was considerate enough to leave a message on her mobile. A good hour, mind you, after the estimated time of death.'

‘Well, he'd not have done that, would he, if he was the guilty party?'

‘Double bluff? No, you're probably right; I doubt if he's bright enough.'

‘And the message was?'

‘How about having a drink before she “headed south”?'

‘Was she about to?'

Barrett nodded. ‘The next day. Pity she didn't leave earlier, and save us all a heap of trouble.'

‘Who is this guy?'

‘Name of de Salis; he owns a china emporium in Woodbourne. He and Julia fled the coop two years ago – or the marital nest, at least. They stayed in Woodbourne, and he continued to work at the shop all the time they were shacked up together. Not surprisingly, his wife threw a wobbler and the kids went wild, so he slunk back home with his tail between his legs.'

‘And Julia?'

‘Took off down south. Though it seems that wasn't the end of it, and they've continued to meet on the QT.'

‘He admitted as much?'

‘He'd no choice; we had him by the proverbial. But he was up to high doh that we'd tell his wife. Practically wet himself, begging us not to.'

Harris shook his head sadly at the perfidy of his sex. ‘But to get back to Julia, what was she doing in this neck of the woods? Did she come up to see him?'

‘Not primarily, though no doubt it was a fringe benefit. Believe it or not, she was on business. We went through her briefcase, and she'd had a clutch of interviews with banks and offices around Marsborough. According to her diary, she also met up with a couple of guys after office hours, which we're looking into.'

Charlie Harris wiped a piece of sausage round his plate to retrieve the last of the gravy. ‘So if she was working in Marsborough, and de Salis was in Woodbourne, what the hell was she doing in Chilswood?'

‘A very good question. Her car was found in the Brook Street multi-storey; ticket having expired 5.10 p.m. Friday – much the same time as she did. What we don't know, of course, is when she arrived and what she did before going to the cemetery. We've put out the usual request for info, but no joy so far.'

He straightened and finished the last of his beer. ‘So there you have it, Charlie-boy. Something will emerge, if we keep hammering away. At least one person knows more than he's saying, that's for sure; so once we've seen them all, we'll bring them in a second time, and a third if necessary, till one of them cracks.'

‘The best of British,' said Charlie Harris.

Having told Max about her meeting with Debbie, Rona reported her encounter at Netherby's.

‘She looked ghastly,' she ended, helping herself to more cheese. ‘Heaven knows, she was like a tightly coiled spring last time I saw her, but today she looked positively grey, and her eyes had sunk right into her skull.'

‘That's what a philandering husband does to you,' Max remarked. ‘Be thankful you haven't that problem.'

‘Debbie says he and Julia never really split up, and met regularly in London. Maybe his wife knew. Even if she didn't, the mere fact that she was killed up here, in de Salis terrain, as it were, must have aroused her suspicions.'

‘Perhaps she thinks hubby killed her.'

‘He might have done, for all we know. For that matter, so might she.'

Max sighed. ‘Oh, my love, why is it that you're constantly tied up with murders?'

‘Well, you can't say it was my fault this time; I certainly didn't go looking.'

‘You don't have to; murders seem to seek you out.'

Rona gave a little shudder. ‘What a horrible thought! Especially when I came to be cheered up.'

Max laughed. ‘Sorry. What are your plans for this afternoon?'

‘I might try to make some appointments for next week. The Charles Curzons, for instance; Finlay said they're prepared to see me now.'

‘You're still intending to go through those papers for them?'

‘Given the chance, yes. But I must let you get back to your painting.' She leant across the table to kiss him. ‘See you this evening.'

‘Yes, here's to a long weekend. I could do with a break, and I'm sure you could too.'

When Rona finally reached home, it was to find a message asking her to ring Finlay.

‘Just to say I've spoken to Uncle Charles,' he told her, when she returned the call, ‘and he's sending the family papers over to the factory. We're proposing to allocate you a room there, so you can spread them all out.'

‘Thanks.' She hesitated. ‘Finn, there's something you ought to know.' And she went on to relate the story of Julia's handbag.

‘What an extraordinary thing!' he exclaimed, when she'd finished. ‘So that's why you reacted to the mention of Reigate. Why didn't you tell me before?'

‘Because although I immediately guessed it must have been hers, I'd no proof till I met her flatmate this morning.'

‘Have you told the police?'

‘Not that I've proof.'

‘Don't you think you should?'

‘Quite probably.'

‘We always thought it strange, you know, that you just happened to meet her in the street. This confirms that she planned it, though God knows why.'

Rona paused, then asked indirectly, ‘As a matter of interest, what terms are you all on with Nigel de Salis?'

‘Terms? Business ones, that's all.'

‘Nick too?'

‘Fortunately, Nick doesn't have anything to do with him. De Salis is a good customer, though, and shifts a lot of our stuff. It was tricky for a while, but after he'd gone back to his wife, things gradually settled down. Naturally, we'd no idea he and Julia were still in touch, but in any case Nick had divorced her by then. Why do you ask?'

‘I was wondering why the police questioned you about him, right at the beginning.'

‘Perhaps his phone number was on her mobile.'

‘Could be. Well, speaking of the police, I'd better ring them before I get into any more hot water.'

‘Will Tuesday suit you, to make a start on the papers?'

‘I was hoping to see your uncle and aunt then, but if I call at the factory first, you could show me where the room is, and everything.'

‘Fine. See you then, and have a good weekend.'

As he rang off, Rona steeled herself to phone DI Barrett. No point in handing him an excuse to criticize her, she reflected, as she waited to be connected.

‘Ms Parish.' The familiar, sarcastic voice. ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.'

‘I have
concrete evidence
for you, Inspector, that the handbag with my address in it belonged to Julia Teale.'

A pause, then, ‘And that evidence is?'

‘Her flatmate told me today that Julia had her bag stolen the week before she came here.'

‘So why do you suppose she wanted to meet you?'

‘I've no idea. Ask Nigel de Salis.'

Barrett's voice sharpened. ‘We don't need your advice on conducting our enquiries. Mr de Salis has been questioned, and we're quite satisfied with his statement.'

‘Fair enough; but if you're thinking she wanted to pump me about the Curzons, that doesn't make sense, since she obviously knew much more about them than I do.'

That appeared to silence him, at least for the moment. ‘Very well,' he said at last, adding grudgingly, ‘thanks for the information about the bag.'

‘Always ready to help the police, Inspector,' Rona said crisply, and put down the phone.

Next, she rang the Charles Curzons and made an appointment for eleven o'clock on Tuesday morning, allowing her time beforehand to familiarize herself with her temporary accommodation at the pottery.

And now, she thought, stretching, she would try to put the Curzons, one and all, out of her mind and enjoy the Easter weekend. Although, with the family lunch in prospect, there was likely to be, at the very least, some interested questioning.

‘Is that Mrs Parish?'

‘Yes, speaking.'

‘It's Sarah Lacey. I've just seen the local paper. Is it – I was wondering – is the Rona Parish who discovered that body any relation?'

Avril's heart sank. Ever since she'd been able to think beyond Julia's death, she'd been worrying about how much to tell Sarah. How would she react, if she discovered the dead girl had been using her room? Suppose she cancelled their arrangement? She'd expected to have until Tuesday to work out the best approach, and the phone call caught her off-guard.

‘She's my daughter,' she admitted reluctantly.

‘What a terrible experience for her! Is she all right?'

‘Yes, she's fine, thank you.' Avril hesitated, then, lest she'd made Rona sound callous, added, ‘She's a journalist, you see, so she's seen such things before.'

‘A crime reporter, you mean?'

‘No, just – a journalist,' Avril said lamely. This was the moment to admit her own acquaintance with Julia, but the words stuck in her throat. Perhaps, she thought cravenly, she'd wait till Sarah had arrived and settled in. Then she mightn't be as likely to pack her bags again.

‘You're all set for Tuesday?' she asked.

‘Yes, that's the other reason I'm ringing; I expect to be there late afternoon, if that's all right?'

‘Fine. I look forward to seeing you.'

Avril replaced the phone with a feeling of reprieve. Before Tuesday, though, she must work out the best way to apprise Sarah of the facts.

‘Lindsey Parish?'

Lindsey went still. ‘Yes?'

‘Dominic Frayne.'

‘Hello,' she said weakly.

‘Hello.' A pause. ‘I tried to get you earlier in the week.'

No apology, Lindsey reminded herself. ‘I was at my mother's.'

She closed her eyes, measuring her heartbeats and praying her sister's strategy was the right one.

‘Well,' he continued after a moment, ‘it's now rather short notice, but I wondered if you'd like to spend Saturday in Paris?'

‘Paris?' she repeated uncertainly.

‘I have a small plane and go over whenever I can; it's no more hassle than flying to Birmingham. We could have lunch, look at some galleries if you like, or walk in the Bois de Boulogne. Then have dinner, and fly home. What do you say?'

Oh, damn! Damn, damn,
damn
!

With an effort she concealed the depth of her disappointment. ‘It sounds lovely, but I'm afraid I can't. We have a family lunch on Saturday.'

‘Couldn't you excuse yourself?' A note of irritation.

‘No; it's a bit complicated, but it's my future stepmother's birthday, and we're meeting her family for the first time.'

‘I see.' Clearly, he didn't.

‘I'm sorry,' Lindsey said, and waited with crossed fingers. Make or break time, she told herself; if he rang off without suggesting another date, she'd never hear from him again.

‘Are you free on Tuesday evening?' he asked abruptly, and she breathed a huge sigh of relief.

‘Yes, I think so.'

‘Then we could at least have dinner, albeit in less exotic surroundings.'

‘I'd like to. Thank you.'

‘Very well. I'll call for you at seven thirty.'

‘I live at—'

‘I'll find you,' he said, and rang off.

Lindsey lowered herself slowly into a chair, her heartbeats nearly suffocating her. Easter in Paris! If only she'd been free to go with him! But at least he'd suggested an alternative. She reached for the phone, then stopped herself. Max would be home, and she didn't want to appear foolish. She'd tell Rona on Saturday.

Good Friday. Somehow, Avril had been expecting to spend it with one or both of the girls. But she must be reasonable, she told herself; they had their own lives to lead, and they'd all be meeting at Rona and Max's for Sunday lunch.

Sunday lunch. The phrase was laden with memories, layer after layer of them, the earliest going back to when the girls were young, and were allowed, once a month, to choose the weekend joint. Rona always chose beef, she remembered, and Lindsey lamb. There would be roast potatoes and two vegetables, with either Yorkshire pudding, mint or apple sauce, depending on the meat. And dessert was invariably served with fresh cream – the only meal of the week so blessed.

Later, Sunday lunches had become less happy affairs. During her slide into irritation and depression, she knew the continuing tradition became an irksome duty which her daughters – not to mention her husband – would happily have foregone, but to which she had clung doggedly, as to the last remnants of happier days. And now it had come full circle, and it was she who received the invitation.

With a sigh, Avril went into the kitchen to prepare her lunch, eying almost malevolently the single pack of hot cross buns lying on the table. Times were when two or three packs would not have sufficed. On one occasion, she remembered, the twins had made them during a cookery lesson at school. Lindsey's had turned out very creditably, while Rona's were a total disaster – perhaps contributing to her lifelong dislike of cooking.

Cheese on toast, Avril thought, starting to prepare it. And there was a piece of salmon for this evening. The rule of no meat on Good Friday still held, though it wouldn't have occurred to her to go to church. And this afternoon she planned to put the final touches to Sarah's room.

Sarah's room, she repeated to herself. Not Julia's. She must forget Julia had ever been here, had perched on this table on her return from work, making Avril laugh with her impersonations of the pompous men she'd met. Julia, who, when pressed to report anything lacking in her room, had suggested a small kettle and tray might be useful, so tea or coffee could be made without going down and disturbing Avril. That had already been put into effect, and it was Sarah who would benefit – Sarah, who was most unlikely to perch anywhere, or to regale Avril with tales of her day.