The Company She Kept (9 page)

He had come across nothing of special interest in the bathroom. In the kitchen only some leftover chicken and salad in the fridge, a few tins in the cupboards, the empty foil carton of a frozen, calorie-controlled dinner-for-one (vegetable lasagne) in the waste-bin.

Abigail came out of the bedroom, holding out by the corner a brown envelope for his inspection. ‘I think you should take a look at this, sir.' She couldn't hide the quick excitement in her voice.

Creased and folded over, the envelope had several items of shopping written on the back. Mayo had only seen that particular handwriting once before but there was no mistaking it. He realized why Abigail looked so animated.

‘Any writing materials in the bedroom?' he asked after running his eyes quickly down the list. Abigail shook her head. ‘We'd better try in here then, it's the only place left,' he said, looking round the sitting-room, ‘but where? At the bottom of one of those damn great packing cases, I'll bet.' But very soon, at the back of the only drawer there was, the one in the coffee table, they found what they were looking for: a box of writing paper, shaded from pale pink to deepest rose.

Mayo tried to remember the contents of a month-old letter he'd read only briefly at the time, to sort the facts out in his mind, while Abigail put in carefully, feeling a sense of vindication but wondering how far her opinions would be welcomed at this point, ‘The letter's making a bit more sense now, isn't it?'

‘Is it?' Mayo growled absently. ‘Tell me how.'

‘Angie Robinson must have known the old woman archaeologist Sophie Lawrence worked for ... Roz Spalding said that was how Sophie had met Angie, after all. So all that business of Dido-Elissa, and Tanit, and the cremation urns and whatnot falls into place, if she – the old woman – worked on the ruins at Carthage, I mean –'

‘– and if we're talking about murder, and she was the victim?'

‘It does look as though she might have been, doesn't it, sir?' Abigail persisted doggedly. ‘And if Angie knew this, that provides a motive for
her
murder ... you remember what she wrote, that she'd been quiet for too long ...' She fell silent. The clear ideas in her mind didn't sound nearly so logical when she spoke them aloud.

Mayo smiled suddenly, quickly recovering from the speed with which she'd overtaken him, zipping by in the fast lane while he'd been stooging along in the centre. He was going to have to watch it, working with her. Which might, he acknowledged, be no bad thing. Occasionally. ‘Good thinking, Abigail. It's worth trying on the dog, anyway,' he admitted, with one of his rare smiles. ‘Any ideas are welcome at this stage. Blackmail being the first that springs to mind.'

Which was, in fact, the strongest possibility ... now that it was known that Angie had been the letter-writer. Or now that it was ninety-nine per cent certain she'd written it. It was coming back to him: ‘
I've kept quiet for fourteen years and said nothing. But I was wrong. Murder should be punished.
' So she'd felt she couldn't keep quiet any longer? And had been silenced before she could speak?

‘It's possible,' he said.

Especially if Angie's bank account revealed a sudden influx of money. If her bank book had been found. But it hadn't, nor had any other of her private papers. ‘They may be in one of the packing cases,' he said, ‘but we'll leave those until the SOCO boys have finished. Or there may be things still left at Kilbracken Road. See that her room there's checked, will you?'

‘Right, sir.'

‘Which means there are two things missing, so far – her papers and her other earring.' The latter being a piece of jewellery of some size which one or other of them would surely have spotted if she had been murdered here and it had been lost in the struggle.

Abigail said, ‘She had a current account with Lloyds. Her cheque-book was in her handbag.'

‘Right. Make me an appointment to see her bank manager, will you? Better still, let me talk to him.'

‘I'll do it now.' She went immediately to the telephone and a moment later was speaking to the bank. ‘All right, I'll tell him.' She put a hand over the receiver. ‘The manager's away for a couple of days. You can talk to the assistant manager, though.'

‘Tell them I'll wait.' Pushed as he was, Mayo couldn't see the harm in waiting a couple of days to see the manager, a man whom he knew, rather than his assistant, who might not be so forthcoming. When Abigail had rung off, he said, ‘Meanwhile, I think we should talk to the people she worked with ... get some idea what she was like, what sort of life she led – and check with these other people concerned in this hospital campaign – they may be able to throw some light on her movements last night. And I suppose we'd better see Sophie Lawrence. At least we shall find out from her who this old woman is – or was.'

Before leaving the house, Mayo pressed the bell of the downstairs flat over the name I. Kitchener, waited, then pressed again. A curtain had been twitched, there had been sounds through the door of a radio or television turned to maximum when they'd arrived and although all was now silent, it was odds on someone was inside there, listening. Eventually shuffling footsteps were heard, the door was opened on the chain and one faded blue eye looked out.

‘Who is it?'

‘Police.'

‘What?'

Abigail pushed her warrant card through the opening. After a moment it was handed back and the door opened by an old woman who was breathing asthmatically and leaning heavily on a zimmer frame, a little flustered but regarding them expectantly.

‘Come in,' she wheezed, ‘come in! Sorry about the chain, and keeping you waiting. Takes me some time to get on my pins these days.'

‘No problem,' Abigail said, enunciating clearly, ‘you can't be too careful, love. But next time somebody shoves a card through, just check they're who they say they are before you open the door to them – even the police.'

She was a big woman, huge and pillowy soft, with the ruin of a face and her dusty grey hair done up in an ancient pompadour style. Following her painful progress, they entered her over-heated, over-furnished sitting-room, redolent of dusty old upholstery, used air, ancient meals, old person and cat. As if this was not enough, overlying it all was the musty-sweet patchouli scent of pot-pourri, emanating from several large baskets on a table occupying the space in the bay window. A big tabby snoozed in the middle of it all, waking up from time to time to sneeze. In front of the table stood Mrs Kitchener's sagging, cushioned chair, into which she lowered her bulk with obvious relief when Mayo, envisaging the time and trouble this would take, politely declined her offer of tea.

‘You'll excuse me while I get on with this,' she said. ‘It's for the Rheumatism and Arthritis to sell for charity.' The old woman was already working away, deftly filling small cotton drawstring bags, baskets and straw containers of various kinds with the dried petals and spices from the baskets. ‘Carry on, I can talk while I work! Sit where I can see your faces though, I don't hear so well these days.'

She was more than willing to answer the questions Abigail put to her about Angie Robinson. A visit from the police she evidently regarded as a diversion of the highest order. Settling down for a pleasurable gossip after preliminaries about how long she'd lived here – twenty-odd years – and how the neighbourhood had changed – gone downhill and no mistake – she said, ‘I quite hoped somebody young would take the flat when old Dick that used to live upstairs died. Always handy, to have somebody young nearby when you can't get around much – and since my Arnold was taken ... Well, I never thought it'd be
her!
'

‘So you knew Miss Robinson before she came to live here?' Mayo asked.

‘Oh yes. Well, knew who she was, at any rate. She works on the desk in the outpatients up the Women's Hospital. Dr Freeman sends me up there for my regular appointments, snotty little madam she is. That Angie Robinson, I mean, not Dr Freeman! She's lovely, always got time to listen. Can't understand how they come to be so friendly. I dare say the doctor took pity on her. She doesn't seem to have many friends. Been here six weeks and the only one I've ever seen was that chap in the big car last night – apart from the doctor, that is. “It'll be nice for you to have Angie upstairs, Mrs Kitchener,” she says to me. “If you're in trouble just ring her bell and she'll look after you.” Likely, I don't think! Only person she'll ever look after is Number One!'

A pause for a laboured breath enabled Mayo to get in, ‘What time was this, when the man in the car came?'

‘Let me see. About eight, I reckon. Yes,
The Bill
was just coming on when I heard a car draw up outside and somebody walk across the hall to her door – a man's walk. You can tell. Heavy, it was. So I peeped round the curtain and saw the car. Lucky to have found a space, he was.'

‘What sort of car was it?'

‘Oh Lord, don't ask me! I wouldn't know one car from t'other, specially in the dark, but it took up a lot of space, I do know that. And it was dark-coloured. Dark blue, or green, maybe black. Then, about half an hour later, I heard him come downstairs again and he rang my bell.'

‘What did he look like?'

‘I kept the chain on so I didn't see him clearly, but he was big. And spoke very la-di-dah and impatient, like he was used to giving orders. As if he was talking to the maid. “I had an appointment with the person upstairs at eight,” he says. “The door was open so I've been waiting inside for half an hour but there's still no sign of anyone.” I said mebbe she'd forgotten, or else been held up, because I'd seen her go out in that fancy white car of hers about seven o'clock. “You saw who?” he asks, sharpish. “Why, Miss Robinson!” I told him. “Who else?” “Miss Robinson,” he repeats, as if he'd never heard the name before. And then he laughed, as if something had struck him as funny. “Miss Robinson? Oh yes, you mean Angie! Well, give Angie a message from me when she comes in, will you? Just tell her I couldn't wait.” I asked him what his name was but he laughed again and said she'd know who it was.'

‘He said the door to the flat was open when he arrived?'

‘Yes, and he left it like that. I wasn't very happy about it, but I didn't pull it to because it's a Yale and I thought she might have forgotten her key – but before I went to bed I went to have another look and it was shut then, so I knew she'd come back.'

‘You're sure it was her you saw go out – about seven, you said?'

‘Near enough seven – I knew it was her all right, though she had her red jacket over her head to keep the rain off – her in her mini-skirt, mutton dressed as lamb!'

‘You didn't hear her return?'

‘No, but I don't always. She's very quiet, I'll give her that. Funny thing, though, I noticed her car wasn't outside this morning when I drew my curtains – and there was enough parking space, for a wonder.'

So where, thought Mayo, was that car now?

Having tightened the knot on the last drawstring and finished it with a neat bow, the old woman rubbed her fingers together and gave her visitors an astute look. ‘Well, you haven't come here to ask me all these questions about Angie Robinson without good reason. What's she been up to, then?'

Mayo told her.

‘My word,' she said after a moment's silence, ‘that'll teach you to keep your tongue to yourself, Ivy Kitchener. Speaking ill of the dead!'

‘You've been a lot of help to us,' Abigail reassured her. ‘We need to know all we can about Miss Robinson before we can find out who killed her. You wouldn't want that sort of thing to happen to anybody else, would you?'

‘Not even to her, poor thing, I wouldn't. But I can't tell you any more about her than I've already done.' She brushed bits of stalk and dried petals from her skirt and the cat, sensing the job was finished, yawned and stretched and leaped on to her lap. ‘Sure you won't have a cup of tea before you go, m'duck?'

The cup of tea was declined with thanks, but before they left Mayo felt obliged to fork out generously for the charity, despite a jaundiced certainty that this wasn't an allowable expense that could be claimed.

It was only the second post-mortem Abigail had attended. She hadn't disgraced herself by fainting at the first, and she didn't at this one – but only by the grace of God. A moment longer and her self-control would certainly have been in question, not to mention the loss of her breakfast.

‘That's better,' Mayo said, filling his lungs deeply with air that was mercifully free of formaldehyde and other, less acceptable odours. Coming out into the sunshine with relief, as if he, too, was trying to dispel the reek of the mortuary which Abigail knew would persist in her nostrils for the rest of the day, and in her clothes until she'd changed them. She suspected he knew how she was feeling and was letting her down lightly. ‘Your first time, is it?'

‘Second, actually.'

‘Well, it doesn't get any better. Well done, at least you didn't pass out.'

Basking in his approval, she smiled, beginning to feel less in awe of his seniority and more at ease.

They were emerging from the shrubbery which had been discreetly planted to screen the mortuary building from the public gaze as he spoke. Suddenly he halted, swearing under his breath. Following his glance, she glimpsed a female figure in an ankle-length trench coat lurking near the entrance to the car park, accompanied by another, probably male, with cameras slung over his shoulder.

‘Come on, this way,' Mayo said, grabbing her arm. ‘Coward I may be, and I'll no doubt have to face these media persons sooner or later, but for the moment I prefer to let the Press Officer deal with them. We'll walk across the park.' Turning away quickly, hopefully before they had been seen, he hurried her behind the buildings and along a path which led in a roundabout way out of the County Hospital grounds. ‘I'll send someone else to pick the car up later. God, that was a lucky escape!'