Dead Again Read online

  She patted the china hand as she went past it and wondered once again where the hell the other one was. She had bought the pair in Paris in one of those once smart little shops in the Rue St Honoré, which had been blighted by tourists wanting to buy cheap mementoes with Paris written all over them. She thought her china hands had come from a jewellers or a glove shop, once chic, now passed away. But she liked them, and resented that the right hand had gone.

  Why pinch a china hand?

  Dolly Barstow was out working the university campus to see what she could pick up. So far not much.

  Rewley was doing the newspaper and hospital circuit, likewise to pick up what he could. In cases like this you trawled. No other word for it.

  Inspector Parker rang to say Joan and her sister were having an evening at home. Tomorrow they had invited a few people round to Lou’s flat, Emily would be there and Parker had suggested asking Charmian.

  ‘Emily Agent is with them. Joan seems to have taken to her.’

  ‘That’s good, makes things easier,’ said Charmian.

  ‘Emily’s that sort, gets on with everyone. She’s tough but doesn’t let it show and I guess Joan realizes that having a bit of protection down here till she knows her way around is no bad thing. And Emily’s a graduate of the university Joan’s attending this month. She’s seeing Greenham today, wants to get it over with, and Emily will go with her.’

  ‘I hope he’s calmed down.’

  ‘A bit, he may be on the telephone to you but I’ve tried to sidetrack him to me or Emily.’

  Charmian knew that Emily Agent was tough but canny, it was one of the reasons she had been selected for the job. Word had been passed down from Charmian’s immediate superior: ‘She’s no wimp. I’ve seen Emily shin up a wall, then hop down the other side, and go running through broken glass to get her man.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Just warning you. He may get through, they’re dogged these academics. Oh, and one more thing, Joan is going to the hairdressers tomorrow and guess who she has an appointment with? Baby Barker.’ He was laughing, he knew of Baby’s past and her record.

  Did he know about the girls patronizing Baby’s salon? Perhaps not. So Charmian told him and heard him draw his breath.

  ‘Not sure if I like that, ma’am.’

  Charmian, left alone in her office, was catching up with routine matters that the time spent on the two murder victims had left undone. She found routine work restful, and in a funny kind of way, it cleared her mind.

  Presently she moved away from her desk to look out of the window at the views of Windsor. In the distance she could see the flag flying over the castle. Not the royal standard but the Union Jack, so the Queen was not in residence.

  I need a blackboard so that I can chalk up all my problems and then stand back and look at them. She had the computer screen, so she could use that instead. It was the modern blackboard, after all.

  What have I got? What I’ve got is an inquiry into two dead girls, murdered in the same way. And why have I got them? Because I am in charge of the welfare of Joan Dingham. The connection? Each girl has a cut on her hand which resembles a cut found on all of Dingham’s victims. So is it anything to do with Dingham? Well, she was in prison, so unless she went missing and no one noticed, or she turned into an invisible woman with a knife, she didn’t commit the murders.

  Or did she?

  Let’s put that aside for the moment. I now know that both girls got their hair washed and cut, and sometime tinted, at Beryl Andrea Barker’s hairdressing establishment where I go myself. And I know that because the girl claimed to be her daughter which Miss Barker denied.

  Could it be true? Establishing the girl’s identity would really help. And as a result of pressure on Miss Barker not only had she admited to knowing both girls but she had told us both girls attended the same school.

  I have names. The Harrie girl. She consulted her list, Felicity Harrie, yes, that’s her name. But the other one: Wilhelmina Winkle? She had a taste for making jokes that girl. A reader though, read Browning or so she had guessed. At their school they were probably both taught by Pip who is the son of Joan Dingham.

  A kind of a circle.

  She began to walk around the room, reminding herself that crime was only a small percentage of police work, and murder a small percentage of that number. She repeated it like a mantra as if saying it often enough would solve the case.

  She went into the outer office which was empty, her secretary having left for home. There was a fair turnover of secretarial help in SRADIC. The work Charmian demanded was hard and intensive, alternating with periods when not much was going on. Like a war, she thought, which in its way it was. She switched off the computer screen which the girl had left on, then made herself some coffee.

  She knew that the uniformed men were out doing the routine questioning of possible witnesses, that the grass and soil where the body had rested would be gone over, blade of grass by blade of grass, that forensic scientists would be examining the clothes of the victim, and that the dead body and the site where she had lain had been carefully photographed. Chief Inspector Webley and Inspector Ron Round were engaged in all this, SRADIC reported to the CID and the CID reported back, both parties being scrupulous with information without being overgenerous.

  But all these things had been done for Felicity Harrie, except that Charmian had taken no active interest, and no good had come of them.

  Dolly Barstow rang back at this point to say she had nothing new to report. But she would like to come in to talk, if she could.

  Of course, she could. ‘ Be glad to see you,’ Charmian said. Dolly’s bracing cheerfulness was always welcome.

  Although now she thought about it, Dolly had not been quite so cheerful lately. But it was no good trying to pick up your own good cheer from someone else: you had to brew it up inside yourself.

  There was a knock on the door and Rewley came in. He looked exhausted but pleased with himself.

  ‘We have the identity of the dead girl.’

  ‘Splendid.’ She got up, went to her private supply of whisky, and poured a measure for Rewley: he deserved it. ‘I spoke to Ron Round on the telephone just now and he said that they were plastering the whole area with photographs of the dead girl hoping for a result,’ she said.

  He swallowed a mouthful. ‘Touched up, I hope, I remember what she looked like when found.’ He added, ‘I got it from going through the school photographs for the last three years.’

  ‘Round told me he was going to the school with the photograph.’

  ‘I got there first.’ He drank some more whisky. ‘I’d have got there first anyway.’

  Rewley never lacked in self-confidence and, on the whole, this was well justified, Charmian considered.

  ‘Come on now, what did you do?’

  He finished his whisky. ‘ I took an artist with me … Bone structure, relation of eyes to ears and cheeks and hair line … All tell-tale signs.’

  ‘And what sex is this artist?’ she longed to ask. Rewley’s relationships were something she had long pondered. He kept his own secrets. Not her business, she didn’t ask questions, although some would, but she would like to know. It was one point on which Dolly Barstow left you in no doubt. She had once revealed to Charmian, when somewhat more than drunk, that what she loved about her job was that there was so much sex around. The next day, remembering something of what she had said, she had tried to claw back the comment.

  Charmian had read somewhere that in the police, if you’ve got any rank you needed to be whiter than white, but this did not seem to impede Dolly. It wasn’t true, anyway.

  ‘Yes, I got permission from the principal to take Lesley round.’

  A neutral name. She suspected Rewley of knowing exactly what game he was playing.

  ‘We got a copy of the large group photograph which the school has taken at the beginning of every year. Lesley went over each person with a magnifying glass. Took her time, she’s ve
ry careful.’ He looked at Charmian with a straight face. ‘She picked out two possibles and one less likely.

  He had the names:

  Ursula Madden

  Helen Mary Grey

  Frances Jessimond.

  ‘So which was it? Don’t tell me you are going to say none of them?’

  ‘You’ve read my mind – hard on Lesley, wasn’t it? All three girls were there, and not dead and buried. But we got something because in the last group we went round, a girl came up and said she thought she knew who the dead girl was, someone called Marilyn Oliver, who did not belong in Priorsgate College but used to sneak in and use their swimming pool.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No, the girl, who was about four feet tall and the same square, said that she didn’t think that was Marilyn’s real name.’

  Here Charmian gave a groan.

  ‘Because she was a great liar,’ said Rewley.

  ‘Don’t tell me.’

  Rewley held up a hand, he was enjoying every minute. ‘My informant, called Jenny Brand, who would make a great gossip column writer, or even a TV chat show hostess if she grew a few inches and lost a bit of weight, because she is pretty enough, followed Marilyn one day and saw her going into the Lucy Pierce School of Acting in Flood Street. Jenny thinks Marilyn was her acting name.’

  ‘I don’t think I know the Lucy Pierce School.’

  ‘Been in Flood Street some time, ma’am, but I don’t think it would come your way. More a singing and dancing academy, not for preparing a student for the big thespian world.’

  ‘You went there?’

  ‘Of course, and I took Lesley who knows the owner, a former actor called Edward Warwick. Lesley described the girl and did a little sketch. And yes, they did know Marilyn, hadn’t seen her for days, didn’t wonder where she was because she was casual in her attendance. Not a bad student, but she was never going to get an Oscar or the lead at the National … Oh, and her name wasn’t Marilyn. That was her professional name.’

  ‘So what was it?’

  ‘Phyllis Jones. And she paid her modest tuition fees herself. Delivered papers, perhaps sold other things. There was a slight hint that she was open minded about drugs and sex and might sell either. That’s all they knew. The school is a fairly casual outfit but Lesley said the dance teaching was good. Well, goodish, she said.’

  ‘But you got Phyllis Jones’ address?’

  ‘I got what they had – 2 Barton Street, Merrywick. I drove out there.’

  He thought back to his visit. It was a small bungalow in the part of Merrywick nearest to Slough, the least expensive part. The curtains had been drawn and the house seemed empty.

  He rang the bell but was not surprised to get no answer. As he stood waiting, just in case, a woman appeared next door.

  ‘I was hoping to find Mr and Mrs Jones.’ And to tell them their daughter was dead and why were they not worried?

  ‘They’re not there.’

  ‘No,’ he had grasped that much.

  ‘And they’re not called Jones, if you are wanting Jones, then you’ve got the wrong house. Siddons … That’s the name.’ She added, ‘That’s what they called themselves but it was a stage name, Mrs Siddons told me so, couldn’t use their own name, not euphonic enough … I think that was the word.’

  ‘Ah.’ Somehow he believed that. Not that Siddons was their real name, which probably was Jones, or Smith, or Willis, or Brown, but that it was their professional name. At last he felt he was getting nearer to finding out where the girl had lived. Names didn’t matter here, you chose what you wanted.

  Away in South Africa. On tour. Theatricals.’

  ‘Oh.’ What else could he say? It fitted in with what he knew of the girl’s life.

  ‘The girl was supposed to be there, looking after the cat. She hasn’t been near the place, I’ve got the cat now.’ The woman looked down to where a lean and sinewy tabby was winding itself about her legs.

  I reckon you’ve got it for life, lady, Rewley said to himself. ‘Can I have your name?’

  ‘Mrs Armstrong, and I live next door.’ She nodded. ‘But you know that.’ She had shrewd eyes in a lined face under greying hair. ‘Four Barton Street. I’m on the phone.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘They’re nice people, kind,’ she said, looking at him. ‘I hope there’s no trouble. I liked the girl you know, Elizabeth, even if she was a bit wild. You’re a policeman, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I am, but there’s no trouble,’ he said.

  He had got back into the car where Lesley was waiting and had driven back to see Charmian.

  ‘We should be able to find them even if they are touring,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’ Charmian felt sad. Elizabeth Siddons or Phyllis Jones or whatever her name was with parents in South Africa. Nice people, nice girl, if wild. ‘Felicity Harrie seemed parentless too, her mother a widow, now living in Canada.’

  ‘She had a grandfather though.’

  ‘So she did, we ought to ask more questions of him. You can do that, Rewley. And get her file out and see what the earlier investigating team turned up.’

  ‘A lot of the work was done by Arthur Grimble,’ said Rewley in an expressionless voice. He had not a great opinion of Inspector Grimble, known as Groaning Grimble among the locals. ‘Did Lesley go out to Merry-wick with you?’

  ‘Yes, I took her home on my way here,’ he looked seriously at Charmian. ‘I always take her home first.’

  ‘Go away with you,’ she said. ‘I know you’re laughing at me.’ She picked up her phone, preparatory to passing on the information about the Siddons-Joneses to the unit better equipped to find them.

  ‘As if I would, ma’am,’ said Rewley, from the door, even more seriously.

  No sooner had he gone than Charmian’s mobile rang. Dolly Barstow, perhaps, or one of the white witches, they had been rather quiet lately. Or Dr Harrie, yes, certainly she wished to speak to him. But it was an unexpected voice which she had to try to remember.

  ‘Greenham here.’

  ‘Oh, Dr Greenham,’ she repeated, ‘how are things?’

  ‘Well, you will be glad to know that I am not going to sue you.’

  ‘Were you going to?’

  ‘I considered it for a while. But since my daughter is not going to have an abortion—’

  ‘Was she going to?’

  ‘She threatened us with it. But she is not pregnant and never has been. It turns out she is a virgin. Remarkable, isn’t it?’

  ‘I have heard of such cases,’ said Charmian with careful irony. Was he drunk? No, she decided, it was just a touch of academic hubris. She had met it before. He hoped to shock her. Was she shocked? Yes, she thought she was, a little.

  Dr Greenham was talking on, ‘ Her idea of punishing us, me and her mother. Which she has done a bit.’ He stopped talking for a second. ‘But that’s not why I am ringing. First, it’s to say that Fiona has admitted that she went to meet this girl who was murdered. Do you know her identity yet?’

  Charmian remained silent.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no. Well, Fiona went to meet the girl to get some drugs … E, I think, but she’s being deliberately vague.’

  This time, he was quiet, waiting. Perhaps for praise. She was beginning to see exactly what Dr Greenham was and she was beginning not to like him very much. He was the most boring sort of academic: the sort who is pleased with himself. Or herself. Sex did not count.

  Charmian said, bleakly, ‘We have found out that the girl dealt in drugs, or pretended to.’ Her own feeling was that it was an act. ‘It might have been why she was killed.’

  ‘It’s to say that Joan Dingham has been with me for an hour and although I don’t like her, I think she is going to be a good student.’ Another moment of thought, then he said, ‘She’s clever.’ He sounded surprised.

  There it was again, that touch she didn’t like. Why shouldn’t the woman be clever?

  ‘I thought she might be,’ Charmian s
aid.

  ‘I don’t know how she’ll stand the course though, she mayn’t have the staying power. You haven’t met her yet? No, she mentioned it.’

  Charmian thought about her diary and invented an entry. After all, Inspector Parker had invited her. ‘ I am meeting her and her sister tomorrow.’

  ‘At her sister’s place, I bet … She’s very wary about going around. Can’t say I blame her. You might see me there.’ He rang off.

  No sooner was the phone quiet than Dolly Barstow rapped on the door and was in the room before Charmian could open her mouth.

  ‘Anything new?’ she asked hopefully, but the look on Dolly’s face did not suggest that there was.

  ‘No. Nix. Nul. Glitz. No progress.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The local CID lads say the same. Not getting anywhere.’

  ‘I do get a daily report,’ observed Charmian mildly.

  ‘Sure. You get the facts. Or lack of them. I get the emotions.’

  Charmian knew that Dolly had a good acquaintance among all ranks of the local CID, and also the uniformed men.

  ‘They tell me what they feel,’ said Dolly. ‘Bloody low spirited.’

  ‘Is that what you came to tell me?’ Charmian picked up her pen with a view to hinting that if so, could she please be allowed to get back to work.

  ‘No, not altogether, but my pal Sergeant Palmer says they feel you and me and SRADIC ought to stay close to what we are supposed to do and leave CID to get on with it. He exempts Rewley. I suppose that’s because he’s a man.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Charmian tartly.

  ‘Had you wondered? I have a bit sometimes, but you never know with the reserved types.’

  ‘Are you drunk, Dolly?’

  ‘No, of course not. Well, maybe just a bit, I’ve been really fed up one way and another.’

  ‘Is this a way of telling me you are resigning?’

  Dolly Barstow stopped short. ‘No, sorry, I apologize, I am being a bit of a wimp. No, I have got some days off due to me, you know we never take the lot in SRADIC.’

  ‘Quite right,’ said Charmian, who was beginning to feel in an unforgiving mood.