The Herring Seller's Apprentice (11 page)

Then I had my first little stroke of good luck. (Oh yes, there were to be others.) The front door opened and this old biddy said, ‘Can I help you, dearie?’

‘I was looking for Ethelred Tressider, but it seems as though he’s gone out.’

‘Oh, he’s just gone out for a walk. I doubt he’ll be back for an hour at least. I’ve got his spare key. Why don’t I let you in, so that you can wait for him in the dry?’

That’s what I love about the country. Hello, I see you’re a total stranger; why don’t you come in? You’ve got at least an hour to clean the place out, if you need that long. Dearie.

‘Thanks, that’s really thoughtful of you.’

‘I’ll get the key then, dearie.’

Of course, I realized that I could not betray the trust that Ethelred and the old biddy placed in me. Once I’d gone through all his stuff, I’d have to make sure I put it back
exactly
where it had been before.

Geraldine’s accounts were the first thing that came to hand. It was all much as Ethelred had said – a balance of £92.57. The tiny detail that he’d missed was that just over £600,000 had been transferred out of the account just before Geraldine disappeared. But perhaps he had simply forgotten to mention that.

So where had the money gone? It was at this moment that the second stroke of luck occurred. The phone rang. Obviously I answered it.

‘Mr Tressider’s phone. Elsie Thirkettle speaking.’

‘Oh …
who
are you exactly?’ said a voice with a faint Scottish accent and a tendency to talk in italics. ‘I wanted to speak to him about the
estate.’

‘I am Mr Tressider’s agent.’

‘Agent? Oh, so you’re what … an
accountant?
Are you working on the estate on his behalf?’

‘Yes.’ It seemed a more promising answer than ‘no’ and I had, after all,just been helpfully reading the accounts for him.

‘Well, it’s Mr Smith, the manager of Mrs Tressider’s
bank.
Has Mr Tressider briefed you fully on the bank transfer to
Switzerland?’

The name was obviously familiar, in the sense that he was the shit who had driven Ethelred out of civilized society. I was tempted to elaborate on this theme there and then, but I reasoned that to do so might delay his telling me whatever he was about to tell me. So I just did my best to sound brisk and on the ball. I could always tell him he was a king arsehole later on.

Absolutely’I said.‘Just over six hundred thousand.Yes,that puzzled us a great deal.’

‘Puzzled?
I thought I had explained it to him.’

‘Oh, you had. I mean it was the detail that puzzled us.’

‘I see …’ He seemed to doubt my credentials. ‘Perhaps after all I had better wait until Mr Tressider is available.’

‘Negative, Mr Smith,’ I said with what I hoped was effectiveness, efficiency and so on.‘He specifically said that he wished me to take care of this for him. I am an expert in this particular field. It would be much easier if you explained it to me first hand.’

‘Are you?’ He still sounded doubtful for some reason. Why, oh why, this lack of trust? ‘Very well. You understand that my interest in this is limited to the loan of three hundred thousand.’

‘Which you would like returned to the bank,’ I said, pleased with my deductive logic.

‘Really, has Mr Tressider explained
nothing
to you? This was a
personal
loan from me to Mrs Tressider without security, which might seem a little foolish but … I’m sorry … did you say something?’

‘No,’ I lied.

‘Tell Mr Tressider that I have made one more attempt to find out more from the Swiss bank but that they
refused
to let me have the details. All they would say is that the account to which the money was transferred is
not
in the name of Tressider. Of course, we might have guessed that she would open the account in some other name, under the circumstances.’

And you want me to … ?’ I enquired.

‘Find out whose name the account is in, and recover the
money,
for God’s
sake
.’ I could positively hear him shaking his head at the other end, but he had now told me too much
not
to trust me. He gave me the name and phone number of the bank and the account number to which the money had been transferred.

So all I now had to do was phone the Swiss bank and get them to divulge to me what they would not tell Geraldine’s own bank manager. Piece of piss, really.

I had to make a preliminary call to a mate of mine at Scotland Yard. Thank goodness there are still some policemen with literary ambitions.

‘Bill, it’s Elsie, I need a favour.’

‘Is it anything like the last one?’ he asked.

‘Maybe a bit.’

‘Then no,’ he said.‘Definitely not.’

‘An author of mine is having a problem,’ I went on. ‘One of his characters needs to persuade a Swiss bank that he’s from the fraud squad. How would you do that exactly?’

The bank proved to be very cooperative and immediately agreed to let me have the information I wanted as soon as they could. For the record I have to point out that I have absolutely no idea how they got the impression during the course of our conversation that I was from Scotland Yard.

It took them less than ten minutes to get back to me.

‘Can I speak to Inspector Elsie Thirkettle, please?’

‘Speaking.’

‘The account is in the name of Pamela Hamilton-Boswell.’

‘Let me just note that.’

‘I regret however that we can be of little further assistance to you.’

‘Why? I thought that I had made it clear that this was a very serious case of fraud.’

‘It isn’t that. The account has been closed. Miss Hamilton-Boswell withdrew the money in cash.’

‘All of it?’

‘Every last centime. Is there any further information that you need?’

I was about to say ‘no’, when it occurred to me to ask when the money had been withdrawn. I scribbled the date down. It was the day after Geraldine’s murder. The day
after
Geraldine’s murder.This was a pity because my working hypothesis was, of course, that Geraldine and Pamela were one and the same.

‘Are you sure that it was Miss Hamilton-Boswell herself?’I asked.

‘No. We always release sums of that sort without proof of identity.’ This was interesting in the sense that I hadn’t realized that Swiss banks did irony.

And you’re equally sure of the date?’

‘Obviously.’

‘Can you give me a description of the lady who collected the money?’

There was a chuckle somewhere in Switzerland. ‘I am so very sorry. Our computer records do not include a photograph of all our customers. She would obviously have provided the necessary identification at the time. Yes, looking at our records, I have a note to the effect that she produced her passport.’

‘Young? Old?’

‘I can at least tell you that. Let me see. From her date of birth she would be … let me see … thirty-nine. What would you call that – old or young?’

‘Exactly my age,’ I said.

‘Would you like me to confirm this information in writing to you at Scotland Yard?’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ I said perhaps a little too quickly. ‘Thank you.You have been most helpful.’

‘We are always pleased to be of service to Scotland Yard. By the way, we thought that you were in London, whereas the telephone number you gave us appears to be—’

‘Serious Fraud Unit,’ I said even more quickly.‘We don’t publicize our existence.’

‘I see. Good afternoon then, Inspector Thirkettle.’

‘Merci beaucoup,’
I replied.

Well, old-world courtesy and politeness cost nothing, I always say.

Obviously, Hamilton-Boswell was not the most common of names. Directory enquiries do not usually provide telephone numbers unless you know the address too. Still, it was going to be easier than the Swiss bank, I reckoned.

There proved to be only five Hamilton-Boswells in the telephone directory. None were Pamela or even had a P as one of their initials. Four were in Scotland, but I ruled them out in favour of the fifth: a major, who lived in a little village in Essex. It was a village I happened to know quite well. Well, there’s a coincidence, I thought.

I rang the number and a man answered – oldish, I guessed from his voice. Pamela’s father rather than her husband.

‘Is that Major Hamilton-Boswell?’ I asked.

‘It is.’

‘Could I speak to Pamela, please?’

There was a funny pause at the other end of the phone.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘A friend of Pamela’s.’

‘A friend of Pamela’s?’ He made it sound as though it was a surprise that Pamela had any friends.A little harsh, I thought.

‘Yes,’ I pressed on. A friend from college.’ It seemed a safer bet than a friend from school, since, working on the theory that Pamela was his daughter, the Major might know all of the school friends. And ‘college’ might mean sixth form college or university or veterinary school or whatever. We would have to see in due course what I meant.

‘You knew Pamela at
college?’

‘That’s right,’ I said with more confidence than I was now feeling.

‘Pamela
Hamilton-Boswell
?’

I should have been getting used to people talking to me in strange typefaces, but this last couple of italics threw me. Why the emphasis on the surname? Was it that she was called something else now? Married perhaps? Or what? I needed time to think, but instead there I was plunging ahead, on the slippery slope and about to go completely out of control. ‘Oh yes,’ I heard myself say. ‘Didn’t she marry … that nice What’s-his-name?’

There was a much longer pause, then he said, very very slowly and very very carefully, ‘I don’t know what sort of a sick joke this is, but you really should be ashamed of yourself.’

I pride myself that a lesser person might at this stage have mumbled something about a wrong number and hung up, but I don’t let go easily.‘Has something happened to Pamela?’ I asked.‘It’s a while since I saw her. I really need to know.’

There was a sort of strangled chuckle at the other end. ‘Happened to Pamela? Nothing’s happened to Pamela, as you put it, for a very long time. But I promise you this. If you dare phone this number again, I shall have the call traced and reported to the police.’

I was tempted to point out that he was addressing an apprentice herring seller from Scotland Yard, but under the circumstances it seemed better to hang up abruptly and pray that he didn’t dial 1471 to check out my (that is to say Ethelred’s) number.

As I say, I knew the village where the Hamilton-Boswells were living, and the location was too much of a coincidence to be … well, a coincidence. There was more to this than met the eye, which was saying a great deal.

I fetched a road atlas from the bookcase and studied it. Feldingham was one of those out-of-the-way villages on the marshy bit of coast that lies to the north of the Thames. I know that God-forsaken part of the world well. A damp little church in a damp little churchyard. A damp little pub full of local teddy boys, washed up on some high tide in the late fifties and left there slowly shrivelling. Picturesque fishing boats rotting on the mud-flats. A picturesque container terminal on the far side of the estuary. And the damp, dark green reek of the marshes. Oh, yes, I’m an Essex Girl born and bred all right. Love the place to bits, though next time round do please remind me to be born in Surrey.

This was undoubtedly a three-bar-of-chocolate problem, so I went in search of some. It took a while to dig a bar out from the back of a cupboard, but it was clear from its position, under a rice packet, that Ethelred had forgotten its existence. You don’t leave chocolate in the cupboard under a rice packet if you remember you have it. At least, normal people don’t. Chocolate in a cupboard is public property.

I took it back to the sitting room to study the map. Feldingham was perhaps two and a half hours’rapid drive away via the Dartford tunnel. A visit today was on the cards if Ethelred came back soon and we made an immediate start.

All I needed to do was get the various papers back in place and finish the chocolate before he returned. He was due to be away for an hour so that meant he would be back … I checked my watch … fifteen minutes ago. Shit!

But even as I reached for the bank statements, I heard a key turn in the lock. The front door opened. The last thing I wanted was Ethelred now. But nobody came through the sitting-room door. There was an ominous silence. I was forced to correct my earlier statement.The last thing I wanted was a burglar right now. Ethelred would be fine. Then suddenly Ethelred burst into the room, giving me the fright of my life.

Frankly anybody in green wellies and a Barbour looks a prat in my book. Anyone in green wellies and a Barbour who bursts into their own sitting room with a stick in their hand is a total dickhead.

‘What are you playing at, Ethelred, you tart?’ I said.

He looked fairly peeved, though I couldn’t for the life of me understand why. I looked at the chocolate, then at the general mess around me and then back to the chocolate again.

‘Oh, for goodness’sake,’ I said.‘It was in the
cupboard.’

From the moment I saw Elsie sitting joyfully in the midst of so many things that did not belong to her, I knew that matters had taken a turn for the worse. As she described her clumsy attempts at detective work I could only groan inwardly. Particularly excruciating was her account of her conversation with Major Hamilton-Boswell.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ I said. ‘Can’t you recognize when you’re way off track? His daughter – or whoever she is – clearly has nothing to do with the bank account in Switzerland. The poor man must have thought you were crazy.’

‘But Ethelred,’ said Elsie. ‘It’s Feldingham.
Feldingham.
Doesn’t the name mean anything to you?’

‘I don’t see what you’re getting at,’ I said.

‘Feldingham, Ethelred. Stop playing the idiot boy for a moment and cast your mind back to an ill-omened day in June, many a year ago. You were wearing a grey morning suit and a top hat, if that helps you at all. You had a carnation in your button hole. There was a bitch hanging off your left arm. I was there in a lemon-coloured frock, which I have since graciously bestowed on the Oxfam shop.’