Footsteps in the Blood Read online

  There had been some difficulty in getting a post-mortem examination done, but after a short delay this had been effected. The reason for the delay was that Nella Fisher was HIV positive.

  When Dolly read this she realised that Nella had known how little time was left to her.

  Chief Inspector Father had also read the report on its completion and discussed it with Inspector Elman, now returned from his study course.

  Anything that comes out of Cheasey irks me,’ admitted Father. ‘Always trouble, that place. Still, poor kid, she didn’t deserve what she got. We must clear this up soon, Fred.’

  Cheasey rankled with him because earlier in his career he and Elman had had a failure. A lad called Gerry Henley, brother to the more infamous Jake Henley who ruled a small crime empire in Cheasey, had disappeared. Father would like to have got Jake Henley for it, but he had never succeeded. Never even found the body. It rankled.

  He had initialled Bister’s report and passed it on to those needing to see it.

  Dolly Barstow photocopied the sheets and prepared to hand them over to Charmian Daniels, first clearing this with Chief Inspector Father.

  Chapter Five

  The evening of Friday, October 6

  Maid of Honour Row, to which Charmian drove after leaving Rewley outside Nella’s lodgings on the edge of Slough, did not look its best when the rain was pouring on it. Its neat little Victorian face needed sunlight to light up the shining brass on the doorknockers and reflect the colour of the flowers in the windowboxes. Charmian had planted her boxes with bulbs for the spring: daffodils, tulips and tiny iris. She cheated for the winter by putting in a few artificial geraniums, red and white. Her neighbour next door, an elderly widower, suspected they were artificial but had never been able to prove it.

  Charmian knew of these suspicions and took a delight in deceiving Mr Elcho by pretending to water them occasionally.

  ‘Always in bloom those geraniums,’ he had said, eyeing them with doubt.

  ‘A very good sort. Everlasting Red,’ she had answered. ‘ I recommend them.’

  She rated it a weakness on her part but she enjoyed the game. She thought he did, too, and that he would catch her out in the end. It was a prospect he looked forward to no doubt, because he did not like her cat Muff, nor the dog Benjy who also belonged to her, but who lived round the corner with her friends Winifred Eagle and Birdie Peacock, making occasional home visits. A woman who worked in London every day could not really look after a loving young dog, but liked to see him when she could. Say the odd weekend.

  It would be one of Benjy’s home weekends this coming one, she reflected, as she returned to the house after seeing Nella’s room. She must warn Muff. The cat was no dog-lover but was good at training dogs and Benjy was learning the rules: keep quiet, keep out of my way and remember this is cat territory.

  Charmian sat in the car for a moment before she got out. She had that strange feeling that someone was watching her. She looked in the driving mirror, studying the road behind her.

  No one there, the little street was empty. No one in the gardens of the terrace of Victorian red-brick houses that lined one side. On the other side a belt of trees could have hidden anyone.

  She got out and walked across. The rain was steady now, dripping on the trees, making them droop and move sadly. The raindrops slithered to the ground with soft plashes. She could smell the rain on the leaves.

  Nothing to be seen, but a faint movement at the back of the belt of trees. It might be the wind, which was mounting with every passing minute.

  Well, it was my imagination, she thought.

  But she did not blame herself for her super-caution. There had been times lately when the price of safety had been extreme vigilance.

  She had been engaged, with several other officers from different Forces, in an investigation covering two continents. Their cover had been a conference on inner-city crime, a conference of which this group had seen little, being otherwise engaged. Of this investigation Charmian had been the co-ordinator and keeper of the records. A dangerous job, and if Kate and Dolly thought her visit to New York had been holiday, then they were wrong. Dolly probably guessed better.

  But that task was successfully behind her now, and she ought to be able to relax. Relax and consider the new position that had been offered to her. It was a job she ought to want, but she wasn’t sure if she did; it would anchor her in Windsor and she did enjoy London. She liked the excitement of a big city. But it was a good job.

  Her mind went back to a scene which had taken place a few weeks ago.

  A lunch party in a white-panelled room overlooking a green quadrangle in one of Oxford’s brighter colleges: St Jude’s. Known locally as Judas College, having been one of the first to admit women to a former male cloister.

  There had been four people present at the lunch, a small party, she was surprised to see. The host, Dr David Lemmer, had casually introduced the other two men as Dick Helling and Marcus Frost.

  Charmian had been pleased to be asked to the luncheon by David, a friend and contemporary at Eton of Humphrey whom she might, just, marry. Flattered even, you could say, but when she got there, puzzled.

  ‘Thank you.’ She accepted the very dry sherry which was famous at Judas as an aperitif. (Anything else would be vulgar, although undergraduates had been known to drink gin, and a famous politician had once asked for gin in his sherry.) A quick flick through her memory produced the card which said that Marcus Frost was a baronet, third generation, and in the Home Office. She considered this fact while refusing a second glass of wine.

  Dick Helling, she recognised as someone she had seen before. She ate her lobster thermidor while maintaining a brisk conversation on the subject of horse racing, about which she knew very little but which, she had observed, dons found a fashionable and pleasing subject, and trying to remember where she had seen him before.

  Over the crème brûlée, a difficult dish to negotiate if you are the chief guest and must dig into the skating rink of sugar first, she remembered who he was.

  Over the coffee, she realised she was being vetted for a job. Over the brandy, she knew what it was: head of a new unit which was to control all documentation of crime.

  She knew enough of the world to realise that such a department would be exceedingly powerful. The initials SCRADIC were being dropped into the conversation.

  So it already had a name?

  She had left that luncheon party in a thoughtful mood. Why did they want her? Did they think she would be easy to control? Or was it some devious trick to sidetrack her? It behoved a woman to be cautious, even suspicious in a male world. Watch your step, girl, was written on every careerwoman’s heart, and covered everything from the loss of virginity and childbirth to learning how to type. No, it was a good position of real power. So it must be a genuine compliment.

  The weeks had passed but no definite offer had come. Other people were obviously being considered. But recently, she had begun to get definite hints that she was the chosen candidate.

  All this was in her mind as she stood in Maid of Honour Row, listening and watching for one more moment. Nothing to see. If anything it was quieter, except for the rain which was heavier than ever.

  But as she was turning away, she noticed something else. A faint, a very faint smell of cigarette smoke.

  No, not cigarette, cigar. Or, at any rate, something heavy, scented and rich.

  She pushed her way through the trees and shrubs until she came to the road on the other side. But there was nothing and nobody.

  That was probably a silly thing to do, Charmian, she told herself, as she walked back round by the road. If you’d met someone there, then you might have been in trouble.

  As it was, all she had done was to get thoroughly wet.

  The house seemed warm and welcoming, smelling faintly of lavender polish. While she was away, a house-cleaning team had come in and refurbished the house from top to bottom. Kate had given her this as a homecoming
present. Kate could be so generous. Also difficult, elusive and tricky.

  Charmian hung up her raincoat; she was careful with her clothes, as only someone who had been hard-up in youth was likely to be. Then she went into the kitchen to make some tea.

  This time last year Kate had been living with her here, now the house felt empty without her. But it had never been an arrangement that was meant to last, they had both known that.

  As the kettle boiled, the cat Muff strolled into the kitchen, mouthing a silent greeting. She drank a saucer of milk on the table while Charmian sipped her tea, putting a hand out occasionally to stroke the cat’s head. Muff arched her neck in reply.

  Charmian poured some more tea. It was a bad business, the way Nella Fisher had been shot.

  No one had heard the shot, no one had seen the murderer come or go. Even the motive for the killing was unknown, unless you connected it with the girl’s mixture of warning and threat to Dolly and Kate.

  Nella’s behaviour itself was a puzzle. People don’t behave like that, do they?

  Ibsen, you should be living at this hour, thought Charmian. People do anything and everything and their motives are not always clear-cut, even to themselves. Sometimes, perhaps, least of all to themselves.

  What seemed to be established was that Nella had got hold of some sort of a story, that this story involved a threat to either Kate or Dolly. Possibly Dolly was the victim. And Nella had wanted money for the story.

  But Nella herself had turned into a victim.

  She was a victim and she needed money.

  These seemed to be the only two hard facts you could know about Nella at this moment.

  Muff yawned delicately and leapt from the table. Charmian rose also to telephone Dolly who must be told about another guest for dinner.

  ‘Dolly? I’ve asked George Rewley to look in tonight. That’s all right, I hope? I think we all ought to talk.’

  ‘Oh sure.’ But there was restraint in Dolly’s voice. ‘He’s welcome.’

  ‘That’s not how you sound.’

  ‘Oh well, you might as well know. Before he met Kate last year, there were passages between us. Nothing much, but there you are. It just makes for little difficulties occasionally. On the whole, I’ve been avoiding him. Except for work. Can’t avoid him there.’ But as it happened their paths had not crossed in cases lately. Luck? Or the careful management of his life which she knew George Rewley was capable of? I’m not a lucky lady, she said to herself. Not lucky at all. Then she laughed.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ asked Charmian.

  ‘Myself. Forget it. I’m always glad to see George. He’s a decent bloke. And he sees further into the wood than most people. Kate is coming, I managed to persuade her. She’s inclined to hide at the moment, which isn’t like her.’

  Not quite true, thought Charmian, Kate could not only hide, she could run away, and had done that more than once in the past. She could disappear, leaving a hole in your life, only to come back, taking things up as if she had never been away. It was either endearing or maddening according to your mood of the moment.

  ‘She’s got something on her mind,’ she said to Dolly.

  ‘So come early, before the others, so we can talk.’

  Always my intention, thought Charmian, as she went to change her clothes.

  Learning about what to wear had been a late development in her life, and had come when she began to have enough money to spend on good clothes. As a hard-up student, clothes had been bought in an Oxfam shop or had been a present from her mother at Christmas, then later, as a young career police officer, there had never seemed time, not to mention money, to think about what she wore. She had tried, of course, to look well dressed, especially during her brief and troubled marriage to a man much older than herself, but it was not until her career flowered that she had allowed herself to buy expensive clothes. Now she knew her style, and chose well-cut, simple clothes in warm colours. The girl from Glasgow, who still lurked inside her, had been surprised and even shocked at what those simple clothes cost. But she enjoyed wearing them.

  Now she reached inside her wardrobe for a trouser suit designed by Jean Muir. Names came and went in fashion, this year an Italian was the one to buy, last year it had been a Japanese, next year, who knew? But some names were classic and went on.

  The dark blue trousers went with a soft tomato-coloured silk shirt which ought to have clashed with her reddish hair but, marvellously, did not.

  The old Charmian would have worn plain shoes, the new Charmian knew to wear a decorative pair from Maud Frizon. Humphrey had taught her about shoes. He had an instinctive feeling for the good and the expensive. An education, she told herself, but wondered if she wanted to marry an educationalist.

  At present he was working in Geneva, from which city he telephoned frequently, on one of those nameless quiet security missions that took up his life, so the relationship was on hold.

  And she herself had had this offer of a top position in the new regional unit to be formed around Windsor, so she might be leaving London. Not that the move would necessarily cut her off from Humphrey who had a small country house across the county boundary in Oxfordshire.

  She had promised to go to Geneva for Christmas. Might or might not, she told herself. If she said it often enough, she might come to know what she really wanted to do.

  Freedom, and she believed she had freedom, could be illusory if you did not know where you wanted to go.

  The telephone rang on the table by her bed. She finished putting on her lipstick before answering it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Miss Daniels? Charmian Daniels? Is that you?’

  A deep voice, but with odd higher notes. Unnatural, somehow, as if control was being exercised over it, a made-up voice. Not a voice she knew, she answered cautiously.

  ‘Speaking. Who is it?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ll call later.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  No answer, the line went dead.

  Charmian put the receiver down, and went back to her dressing table. Like many people in the public eye she knew what it was to get odd, cranky calls, and for this reason she had an unlisted number.

  But there were ways of getting her number. People, friends, passed it on. You couldn’t hide. Life did not offer dugouts.

  If, as seemed likely, this was one of those crank calls, she knew better than to take it personally. Just a floating patch of general malevolence settling on her.

  But not agreeable, not to be encouraged. Well, she could always get her number changed. Again.

  She was buttoning on her Burberry when the telephone rang once more. She debated ignoring it, then went back to answer it. She lowered her voice and spoke quietly.

  ‘George Rewley here,’ said a cheerful voice. ‘Is that you, Charmian? Doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘It’s my telephone voice.’

  ‘I like the other one better. I know we’re going to meet in a few minutes, but I’ve picked up a bit of information. A witness has come forward who claims to have seen someone walking down the road in Merrywick with Nella just about the time she was shot.’

  ‘That could be crucial.’

  ‘I didn’t want to talk about it in front of Kate.’

  ‘No, I see that.’

  ‘I don’t know any more. Who the witness was and what was seen.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘I heard Bister talking about it to Fred Elman. He shut up when he saw me.’

  ‘Thanks for telling me. See you soon. I’m just off to Doily’s now.’

  As she got to the door the girl from Glasgow stirred inside her again, and she stopped to take off the pretty shoes and tuck them under her arm while she put on a sturdier pair. The red-and-blue suede shoes were not made for walking in the rain or for driving. Put them on when you get to Dolly’s, said her severe internal preceptor, whose voice, she had to admit it, sounded exactly like her mother’s.

  Such pretty shoes
and so expensive, one couldn’t spoil them. She put her foot down and drove swiftly to Merrywick.

  There was a lot of traffic around tonight. There was a musical festival taking place in Windsor Castle and everyone was going. She could have been there herself. Humphrey had sent her tickets for several concerts, together with advice on which were likely to be the best performances. The educationalist again?

  Someone had put a spray of flowers on the spot where Nella had fallen. One of her family? Why didn’t they come to her funeral? thought Charmian. Someone ought to find out.

  Dolly must have been waiting for her, since she opened the door at once.

  ‘Not late, am I?’ Charmian took off her raincoat. Wet again, this was the wettest autumn ever. ‘Tell me, why didn’t the girl’s family come to her funeral? She did have one, I’ve read the notes on her.’

  ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘I think it would be worth finding out.’

  ‘You think it’s important?’ Dolly was pouring some wine.

  ‘Unexplained facts often are.’

  ‘That’s too sophisticated for me,’ said Dotty in a good-humoured voice.

  The two women, in spite of their age difference, were good friends. Dolly was very careful to address Charmian by her rank in the world outside, but within her own home, she relaxed.

  Not that she was notably relaxed at the moment, as Charmian saw. ‘We’ve got about ten minutes, so shall we start?’

  ‘Kate’s always late,’ said Dolly.

  ‘And Rewley’s not.’

  ‘Right, well, I’ll just plunge in. I happened to be eating a quick meal in a wine bar, well a pub, in fact, in Cheasey. ‘I’d had a witness to see in Slough and stopped at this place on the way home. I won’t even say which one. I saw a police officer, uniformed branch, not CID, not one of my lot, but I knew the face. This officer was in company I should not care to keep myself.’

  ‘That’s part of the job,’ suggested Charmian.

  ‘I know. And one of the dangers. Things brush off.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’ll use the name Roger.’