Not more than twenty yards beyond the crest, the south bound section widened into an arc and in this lay-by the occupants of two cars sat picnicking.
‘Perhaps he parked here for a bit,’ Burden said. ‘Walked up this way for – well, a natural purpose or just because he needed air. He hadn’t been well, after all.’
But Wexford looked at the view and said presently, ‘Where every prospect pleases, and only man is vile.’
The huge American car with its splayed fins dwarfed every other vehicle in the Olive’s car park. Crossing the forecourt with Burden, Wexford saw on closer scrutiny that it was neither new nor well cared for. One of its headlamps was broken and the rust on its chrome rim showed that it had been broken a long time. Scratches marred the bluish-green finish on its wings. Here in this tiny car park in a small country town it was an unwieldy mass of metal that doubt less gave a poor return for the petrol it devoured. It took up an immense amount of space but its seating capacity was small.
‘Reminds me of one of those prehistoric monsters,’ said Wexford, ‘all brawn and no brain.’
‘Must have been grand once, though.’
‘That’s what they said about the dinosaurs.’
They sat in the saloon bar. In the far corner Nora Fanshawe sat on a leather settle beside a huge fair man with a small head. His expression was vapid, his shoulders of Mister Universe proportions. Another dinosaur, Wexford thought, and suddenly he was sure this was the owner of the car.
‘We keep running into each other, Miss Fanshawe.’
‘You keep running into me,’ said the girl dryly. She wore another of her finely tailored, neatly stitched suits, navy blue this time and as slick and business-like as a uniform. ‘This is Michael Jameson. You may remember, I mentioned him to you.’
The hand that took Wexford’s had a damp palm. ‘Nice little place this, if a bit off the map.’
‘Depends where you make your maps.’
‘Come again? Oh, I see. Ha ha!’
‘We were just going,’ said Nora Fanshawe. Then her strong masculine voice quavered a little as she said, ‘Ready, Michael?’ Suddenly she was vulnerable. Wexford knew that wistful pleading look. He had seen it before in the eyes of plain women, the pathetic terror of rejection that, because it deprives them of confidence, makes them plainer.
Jameson got up sluggishly, reluctantly; he winked at Wexford and that wink was as eloquent as words.
‘Off to see your mother, Miss Fanshawe?’
The girl nodded and Jameson said, ‘The old girl keeps her on her toes.’
‘Let’s go, Michael.’ She linked her arm in his and held it tight. Wexford watched them go, telling himself he was a fool to let the scene upset him. She was gruff, rude, unfeminine. She was also peculiarly honest and she lacked the talent of self-deception. Not for a moment did Wexford doubt that she knew this man was quite unworthy of her, in intelligence, in probity, in character. But he was good looking and she had money.
‘A bit of an oaf,’ said Burden.
Wexford lifted the curtain and between the fuchsias he saw Jameson get into the huge car and start the engine. Nora Fanshawe was not the kind of woman who looks on courtesy from men as her right. The car was already in motion before she got herself into the passenger seat. Jameson had not even opened the door for her from the inside.
Chapter 16
‘I want you all to concentrate,’ Wexford said. ‘Don’t tell me it was a long time ago and you can’t remember. It was only about seven weeks ago. You’ll be surprised what you can remember if you try.’
They were sitting in Lilian Hatton’s flat, Wexford con fronting the three people on the sofa. Mrs Hatton wore a black cotton frock and all the jewellery Charlie had ever given her. Her face was white and tense, still stained by the tears she had shed when Wexford had revealed her husband’s source of income. Was it a revelation or had she always known? Wexford couldn’t make his mind up about that. For all her short skirt and her make-up and the equipment in her kitchen, she was essentially at heart a Victorian wife, help less, clinging, accepting all her husband’s quirks with unquestioning passivity. She would no more have asked Charlie if the brooch she wore was brought with ill-gotten money than her nineteenth-century counterpart would have asked her lord and master to admit that his presents to her were the result of cheating at cards. Hers not to reason why, hers but to accept and praise and adore. Now, as he faced her, Wexford wondered how this anachronism would fend for herself in the world Charlie called a battlefield.
‘He always talked about fighting for what you wanted,’ she had said wretchedly, ‘about being one up on the next man. Planning his – his stra… His stra – something.’
‘Strategy?’
‘That’s it. Like as if he was a general.’
A soldier of fortune, Wexford thought, a mercenary.
The other two knew all right, the young Pertwees. They had finally admitted as much and now Marilyn said sullenly, ‘He was getting back at the big nobs. What does losing a load mean to them? They’re all robbers, anyway. Capitalism’s organized robbery of the working classes. Charlie was only taking back what was due to him.’
‘Having his revenge on society perhaps, Mrs Pertwee?’
‘Yeah, and why not? When we’ve got a real people’s government in this country, folks like Charlie’ll get their fair shares and there won’t be no crime. Or what you call crime. When we get real socialism.’
‘Charlie always voted Conservative,’ said Lilian Hatton. ‘I don’t know, Marilyn, I don’t think…’
Wexford interrupted them. There was no room for laughter in this flat, yet he wanted to laugh. ‘Let’s postpone the political discussion, shall we? Mrs Hatton, you’ve had time to think now and I want you to tell me all you remember about your husband’s departure for Leeds on Sunday, May 19th and his return on the 20th.’
She cleared her throat and glanced hesitantly at Jack Pertwee, waiting perhaps for more masculine directions and more masculine support.
‘Don’t you worry, Lily,’ said Marilyn. ‘I’m here.’
‘I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do without you. Well… Well, Charlie’d been ill and I didn’t want him to go but he would insist.’
‘Was he worried about money, Mrs Hatton?’
‘Charlie never bothered me with things like that. Oh, wait a minute though… He did say the doctor would have to wait to get paid. I remember him saying that. D’you want me to go on about that Sunday?’ Wexford nodded. ‘Jack and Marilyn came in the evening for a three-handed solo.’
‘That’s right, said Marilyn, ‘and Charlie rung you from Leeds while we was here.’
Mrs Hatton looked at her admiringly. ‘So he did. Yes, he did.’
‘What did he say to you?’
‘Nothing much. It was mostly – well, asking me how I was and saying he missed me.’ She sniffed and bit her lip. ‘We didn’t like being separated. We couldn’t sleep away from each other.’
‘More like sweethearts than man and wife they were,’ said Jack and he put his arm around her shoulders.
‘Did he say he was still feeling unwell?’
‘Bit under the weather. He’d have come back that night else.’
‘Did he sound pleased, excited?’
‘Down in the dumps, if anything.’
‘Now I want you to be very exact about this. Precisely what time did your husband come home on the following night, the Monday night?’
She didn’t hesitate. ‘Ten on the dot. He’s said ten the night before and I’d made him a chicken casserole. Charlie’d bought me a kitchen timer back in March, but it went wrong and had to go back to the shop, and that was the first time I’d used it. I set it for ten and it just started pinging when Charlie put his key in the door.’