‘It’s not just extra cash, it’s kicks too for a lot of the boys, the sort we have,’ he told Rose. ‘There’s a lot to be said for a horny middle-aged woman when you’re an eighteen-year-old bursting full of hormones, you see. Our boys have probably got girlfriends who wouldn’t know some of the tricks our clients get up to had even been invented. And if they did they wouldn’t take part in them...’
And that was about as voluble as Paolo got. Mostly he said as little as possible. He did however confirm that Mrs Pattinson’s next regular appointment with Avon Escorts was just days away and was given strict instructions about what to do if she called. He should keep her on the line as long as possible, for a start, to give the police eavesdroppers time to act.
Unsurprisingly Mrs Pattinson did not resurface. Paolo was pleased about that if nothing else.
‘Business is bad enough as it is,’ he remarked to no one in particular as he lounged disconsolately about in the office one day, surrounded by silent telephones. ‘Who’s going to call an escort agency up to its eyeballs in a murder enquiry? The only hope we’ve got is for that bloody Mrs Pattinson never to be heard of again, then maybe, just maybe, the whole thing might go away.’
He didn’t sound as if he believed that though.
Meanwhile Rose ploughed her way through the usual police procedure. As she had expected because of the clinically efficient way in which Marty Morris had been killed, there had been no forensic evidence other than the footprints in the mud, which might lead to his killer. All that forensic had been able to tell from the footprints had been that the Timberland boots which had made them were barely worn. There had been a brave attempt to trace and interview Timber-land owners in the district, but no way of making this comprehensive.
Rose was still awaiting the full forensic report from the murder of Colin Parker, but again death had been caused by one lethal stab involving little or no human contact. She was not optimistic.
She contemplated possible murder motives. There was still no concrete evidence to indicate whether the killer was a man or a woman, only circumstantial stuff and conjecture. And if the killer was indeed a female client of Avon Escorts, Mrs Pattinson or somebody else, was she killing out of self-disgust, she wondered? It was all heavy psychological stuff.
‘God, I could do with a Cracker,’ she said to Peter Mellor. ‘If only it wasn’t such a lot of unmitigated crap.’
‘What’re you talking about, boss?’ asked the sergeant.
‘You know, Robbie Coltrane, Cracker — the man who can see inside other people’s heads, allegedly,’ responded his Chief Inspector wearily.
‘Who, boss?’
Rose shook her head, half-exasperated, half-amused. ‘Television, Peter, television — don’t you have any vices?’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Sergeant Mellor seriously.
Charlie’s fear increased as every day passed. He was unused to fear, unused even to being unsure of himself.
He had talked through the idea of police protection with the woman Detective Chief Inspector whom he had rather taken a shine to in spite of his instinctive suspicion of and usual dislike for cops. He wasn’t sure what kind of protection the police would really have been prepared to give him in any case, he supposed they didn’t much like his kind, but in the end he had withdrawn his request.
The lady cop had suggested that he should be pretty safe staying with his mother, maybe even safer than at the centre of a more high-profile protection operation. But it had been thinking about his mother that had decided him not to insist. It was difficult enough coming up with some new tale of woe every day to explain to her why he had been unable to return to his flat for so long. The extent of rewiring, and therefore redecoration, required, grew greater every time and he was pretty sure his mother was beginning to find it hard to believe. She was not a stupid woman and he had noticed a funny look in her eye lately that was both sceptical and a little anxious. He certainly could not imagine a story he could come up with to explain away any kind of police presence at or around her home. No. He preferred to allow the Detective Chief Inspector to convince him that he was unlikely to be in any real danger as long as he continued to lie low.
He could not risk his mother finding out the truth about his lavish lifestyle. He found himself breaking into a sweat at the very thought. There were times when he wondered if he wouldn’t rather be killed than have that happen. His mother must never know. That was more important than anything in the world to Charlie Collins.
Twelve
When the second Tuesday in December arrived, Constance Lange again showed no particular inclination to make her usual visit to her aunt.
Freddie didn’t like it. Constance’s mood changes were really disturbing him. Briefly she had seemed almost to have returned to her old self until the last few days when he had become worried about her all over again.
He studied her over breakfast. She seemed nervy, distracted and forgetful, and she didn’t look well — although she still continued to insist that she was perfectly fit.
‘Look, if you’re not ill, why are you pulling out of your Bristol trip again?’
Freddie supposed he should be getting used by now to the disruption of routine all around him, it had been going on for two months now, but it still made him uneasy, as did the way in which the wife upon whom he so depended continued to behave in a disturbingly out-of-character fashion.
‘Have a really good lunch, do some Christmas shopping, buy yourself something nice, it’ll cheer you up,’ Freddie continued in spite of getting no response at all from his wife. ‘I don’t like it when you are out of sorts.’
Eventually Constance managed the wan smile which seemed to be the best she could come up with nowadays.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, although in a voice more resigned than apologetic. ‘I expect you’re right, of course I’ll go.’
And so she dressed in one of her smartest suits and set off for Bristol, but there was an air of resignation about her, as if she had merely given in to her husband’s wishes because she did not have the energy to do anything other. Certainly there was no sign of the energetic cheeriness which had always been so much a part of her.
Constance had been gone only a couple of hours when the phone rang at Chalmpton Village Farm. Freddie, in the milking shed with his dairy man, reacted quickly when he heard the loud ring of the amplified bell in the yard. Whenever the phone rang when Constance was not at home, Freddie’s first thought was always that it might be his wife calling. Now, with the more or less permanent anxiety he was feeling about her, he immediately thought that she must need him, that she might be in some kind of trouble.
He dashed into the dairy to pick up the extension there. It was not Constance, but there was an emergency. The headmistress of Portland School, where their youngest daughter, Helen, was a boarder, was on the line. Helen Lange had been suddenly taken very ill and it was feared that she had meningitis. Her condition could be critical. A doctor and an ambulance were already at the school and Helen was about to be taken to the Musgrove Park Hospital in Taunton.
Freddie felt his knees turn to jelly. Although both Langes were careful to treat all their children equally, if Constance had always had a soft spot for William — until recently anyway — then Helen was Freddie’s favourite.
Without giving his dairyman any explanation — he did not really trust himself with the words — Freddie hurried into the house, trying not to panic. At least he knew exactly what he had to do next. He used the kitchen phone to call his wife’s mobile and waited impatiently for her to answer. Why was she taking so long? If she were in a bad reception area the phone wouldn’t even be ringing. Oh, come on, Constance.