The Murders of Mrs. Austin and Mrs. Beale Page 11

  ‘Pearce was being kicked out,’ said Drake. ‘He blames Mrs Beale.’

  ‘He’d been drinking,’ said Judy. ‘Heavily. Enough to pass out His wife insists he was home by ten fifteen, but I’m not at all sure she isn’t covering for him.’ She looked at Allison. ‘I think Pearce is very frightened,’ she said. ‘I want to talk to him again.’

  Lloyd, she thought to herself, had that look on his face; he had some way-out idea that he wouldn’t voice in front of Allison. In fact, she had the uneasy feeling that no one was voicing their ideas. Drake had changed his mind about something that he was going to say; Lloyd clearly had some notion about Lennie, and Jonathan Austin still bothered her. But rather like judging a talent contest, everyone’s second choice won. Gordon Pearce.

  Allison left, and Bob Sandwell went back to Malworth to see what forensics were making of Lennie’s studio and the Beales’ flat. Drake went back to the paperwork that so mystified Lloyd.

  ‘If you could give me a moment, Inspector,’ said Lloyd, as the other two left the room.

  The door closed, and she waited expectantly.

  ‘I thought maybe we could have some lunch,’ he said.

  She looked at the clock.

  ‘That’s what Mr Pearce will be doing, so you might as well,’ Lloyd said.

  ‘Well – just something in the canteen,’ she said. ‘I want to get on, Lloyd.’

  ‘The canteen it is.’ He frowned. ‘You look very tired,’ he said. If one more person told her she looked tired, she would scream.

  ‘Haven’t you been home at all?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I have not.’

  ‘I got a couple of hours this morning,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, good.’

  Someone came in then, with a message to the effect that Mrs Austin’s car had been discovered where it had been left, at the rear of the garage. Drake was dispatched by Lloyd to find out what he could.

  ‘So Austin lied,’ said Judy.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Lloyd. ‘She might have been at the studio, remember. The light was on.’

  ‘Why would she put the car back in the garage?’ asked Judy.

  ‘If she was meeting this man, and didn’t want her husband to know she’d had the car,’ he said, with a shrug.

  ‘That’s not like her,’ Judy said.

  ‘Well – whatever. I’m not sure that Mrs Austin’s car has got much to do with it,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, come on, Lloyd,’ said Judy. ‘Austin says it wasn’t there. Either he’s lying – in which case, why? – or it wasn’t, which is a bit strange. And the wedding ring suggests that the ashtray was in his house while he and his wife were having some sort of row, doesn’t it?’

  Lloyd nodded. ‘All true,’ he said. ‘And I did find Mr Austin a little too eager for us to find out what his wife was doing. Perhaps he knew only too well.’

  Judy frowned. He was still being mysterious, but she knew him well enough by now not to try to press him. ‘Let’s go to lunch,’ she said, with a sigh.

  They walked through unfamiliar corridors to the old building, and joined the short queue in the canteen, chose their meals, and sat down.

  Lloyd picked up his knife and fork. ‘If this is difficult for you, Allison could put someone else on to it,’ he said.

  ‘What? Eating my lunch?’

  He smiled. ‘All right. But I insist that you do not think about any of this until you’ve finished eating.’

  ‘Then you’d better talk to me.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Go on with your romantic story of how come your grandmother was French,’ she said. She was still none too sure that any of it was true. ‘Even if it’s just another cock and bull story,’ she added, to be on the safe side.

  ‘Une histoire de le coq et le taureau? Mais, non.’ Lloyd shook his head sadly. ‘This shows a distressing lack of trust,’ he said.

  ‘Taureau-merde,’ said Judy.

  Lloyd laughed. ‘ Do you want to hear the story or not?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Judy tried to assess the expression on his face, but it was useless. He could make anyone believe or disbelieve anything.

  ‘It’s true. Ring my father if you don’t believe me. Ask him.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Right.’ He smiled. ‘Granda Pritchard – Ifor Pritchard, to give him his full name – was in France during the First World War. He met my grandmother – who was eighteen …’

  ‘I heard a siren,’ said Judy.

  Lloyd blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘I heard a siren. A police siren, when Jonathan Austin was talking to me on the phone.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be listening to my story!’

  ‘I was. It was when you said war. I always think of sirens when anyone says war. And that reminded me. I think we should check who was on an emergency call up there, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ll get Drake to check,’ he said, wearily. ‘That should suit you. He’s obsessive, too.’

  ‘I’m not obsessive,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t like that call.’

  ‘No,’ said Lloyd. ‘I know. I’m not overlooking that, believe me.’

  Judy smiled and yawned at the same time. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘Why haven’t you had any sleep?’ Lloyd demanded.

  ‘Freddie had gone home, hadn’t he? And he didn’t get to the Beales’ flat until five o’clock in the morning. Meanwhile, I’ve got people looking for Beale when all the time he’s in my own station. There’s efficiency for you. Freddie didn’t leave until seven – two hours non-stop graveyard humour – by which time the neighbours were stirring, so I had to talk to them.’ She looked at her watch.

  ‘You should go home,’ said Lloyd.

  ‘I am going home – to fetch my car. Then I’m going back to talk to Pearce again. And Beale – I want to know what the trouble was about at the Riverside.’

  ‘I’d rather like to see Mr Beale,’ said Lloyd. ‘I’ll meet you at Andwell House.’

  Beale was her business, she thought. But she didn’t say it.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, with a short sigh. ‘See you later.’

  It made no sense. Pauline let soapy water trickle through her fingers, the bath water growing cool as she lay back, and tried to believe what Gordon had told her. Lennie was dead, he had said. Jonathan had rung him. He had rung Pauline first, looking for Gordon; getting a call from him had been the first shock.

  He had just said he would ring Gordon at work. Gordon said that Jonathan just hadn’t known how to tell her; he always felt more comfortable talking to another man about things he found difficult.

  Dead. Lively, talkative, talented Lennie. Dead. She would never see her again. Never feel a little wistful at the ease with which she collected suitors; never feel a little resentful of her hold over Gordon’s emotions. Though that seemed to have gone, last night.

  She shivered. Because the water was getting cold. She would have to get out of the bath. The news had stunned her; everything she did was something she had to plan for. Stand up, step out of the bath. Remove the plug. Dry yourself.

  It had gone.

  She hadn’t discussed it with her doctor, but she had had her own opinion about her lack of desire for Gordon. Perhaps, she had thought, she had simply grown tired of being a substitute. Perhaps, though she had accepted it, she had really objected to Gordon’s emotional commitment to another woman. And once he had fulfilled his role as mate, once she was pregnant, she no longer wanted to perform this understudy role. Because she had something else in her life now, and she didn’t need to keep offering Gordon something that he only wanted because he couldn’t have Lennie. Because she loved Gordon, and she wanted him to love her.

  Last night, when he had come in, she had known that that barrier had gone. Lennie’s spell, cast unwittingly, had been broken. And Lennie was dead. But Gordon couldn’t have known that.

  She shivered again, and dressed quickly. Coincidence, she told herself. Nothing but coincidence. O
r maybe even, if the attraction was strong enough, a sixth sense, telling Gordon that he was free. She went into the bedroom, and put on a dash of make-up. She would be consulting palmists and tarot cards next, she told herself crossly. It was a coincidence. Gordon didn’t know that she was dead, paranormally or otherwise. All that had happened was that seeing him, hurt and angry, needing her more than he needed some idealised fantasy of Lennie, had brought back her normal feelings towards him, that was all it was.

  But it still didn’t make sense. It was Lennie. It was Lennie. Jonathan, she had thought. It couldn’t have been Lennie, because she wasn’t there. But it had been. She had been there, and she was dead, and none of it made any sense.

  But whether or not it made sense to Pauline, the police would be bound to connect the two deaths, and Gordon wasn’t strong enough to withstand the sort of intense questioning that that would entail. If only he hadn’t woken up.

  The entry phone buzzed, making her jump. She touched the switch, and sighed. ‘ Come in,’ she said, pressing the button to admit DI Hill. Gordon wasn’t strong enough, but she was.

  She unlocked the door, and a few moments later, DI Hill was knocking and coming in.

  ‘Sorry to bother you again, Mrs Pearce. Is Mr Pearce here?’

  ‘Did you know Lennie Austin was dead when you came here this morning?’ demanded Pauline, not answering her question. Attack is the best method of defence, she told herself.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘We were friends of hers!’

  ‘So was I, Mrs Pearce. That’s the only reason I knew. I didn’t know officially, and I was asked not to make it known to you.’

  ‘Lennie’s officially dead, though!’

  ‘Yes.’

  She looked at DI Hill. About her own age, well-dressed. Attractive. A little weary-looking now, not surprisingly. Lennie’s friends were a complete cross-section of society, from unemployable layabouts to captains of industry. They rarely met one another; on the few occasions they did, they rarely got along. But Pauline could imagine getting along with DI Hill.

  ‘Please sit down,’ she said. ‘ I’m sorry. I’ve only just heard, and I’m still trying to take it in. What should I call you?’ she asked, as she sat down.

  ‘My name’s Judy Hill,’ she said. ‘Judy, Mrs Hill, Inspector – take your pick.’

  ‘So why are you here again?’

  ‘I had hoped to have a word with your husband,’ she said, taking out her notebook.

  ‘He’s gone into work. There was a fire there.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did you want to see Gordon?’

  But the inspector chose to ignore her question this time. ‘I know you said that you didn’t know much about your neighbours,’ she said. ‘But I wondered if you knew anything about the comings and goings from the Beales’ flat. Men, in particular.’

  ‘I never saw Jonathan there, if that’s what you want to know,’ said Pauline. ‘I think he’s only been here once, when Gordon brought him to see the flat.’

  ‘So you’ve heard the rumours?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Do you think they’re true?’

  ‘Probably. I can imagine Rosemary Beale might be the kind of woman Jonathan could relax with. Let his hair down a bit.’

  ‘And Mrs Austin wasn’t?’

  ‘No. She was too complex. Too much her own woman. She married Jonathan for his money, nothing else.’ She saw Judy Hill’s face, and smiled. ‘I’m not being bitchy,’ she said. ‘ It’s just a fact, I liked Lennie. I liked her very much. I’ve known her a long time. And Jonathan just isn’t her kind of man. They were putting on an act for each other. I can believe that Rosemary Beale would offer him a release from that.’

  ‘You seem certain that he was seeing her.’

  Pauline raised her eyebrows. ‘Gordon found them in the cab of one of the artics,’ she said. ‘Would you believe they said they were seeing if the design could be improved?’

  The inspector smiled a little sadly as she wrote something in her notebook. ‘Do you think Mrs Austin knew?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Why do you call her Mrs Austin all the time? I thought you were a friend of hers?’

  ‘I was. That’s why I call her Mrs Austin.’ She looked upset.

  Pauline flushed slightly. ‘Sorry. I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What happened to Lennie?’

  ‘Someone hit her.’

  With the ashtray that was thought to have been used in the commission of another crime, thought Pauline.

  ‘Strictly speaking, my investigation is into Mrs Beale’s death. We have to have separate investigations, even if we think there is a connection between the two. Which we do.’

  They would. But there couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. But it was; it had happened.

  ‘Was Mrs Beale involved with any other men, do you know?’

  Pauline shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t know. People who know her better always give you that impression of her.’

  ‘And Mrs Austin?’

  ‘Oh, well – Lennie had men coming out of her ears until she married Jonathan. But she didn’t see any of them afterwards, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘There is talk of an old boyfriend turning up,’ said Judy. ‘And she was seen with a man last night, at about ten past eleven.’

  Pauline stiffened. ‘Lennie?’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Pearce, do you have any idea who that might have been? Had she spoken to you about anyone?’

  My God, that had never entered her head. The studio. Was that what was going on when she heard the noise? Lennie with Steve?

  ‘Mrs Pearce?’

  ‘Pauline. Please call me Pauline.’

  ‘She did mention someone, didn’t she?’

  She had said she wouldn’t dream of having anything to do with him again. He was worthless. Immoral. Unreliable. Protesting too much? And it still didn’t make sense.

  ‘I thought that wasn’t your investigation?’

  ‘I’m not sure where my investigation leaves off and the other one begins,’ she said. ‘Did she mention someone to you?’

  She couldn’t tell her about the studio. Not after lying this morning. But she had to tell her what she knew.

  ‘Yes. Someone she used to live with.’

  ‘Live with?’

  ‘Oh, not officially. I mean, I don’t think you’ll find him on any electoral register or anything. But he was with her at her old flat.’

  ‘Do you know this man?’

  ‘I never met him. She knew I wouldn’t approve.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’ll have him on your files, I expect. He went to prison. Drugs. Something to do with drugs.’ She got up and went to the window, without thinking. Looking down at the studio. She had been wrong about that. But she couldn’t sort it out. ‘About a year after that she married Jonathan.’

  ‘You haven’t given me his name, Mrs Pearce.’

  ‘Steve,’ she said. ‘Steve Tasker. He’s just got out – about two months ago. He’d seen her a couple of times. Talked to her, chatted her up. She told me she wasn’t going to have anything to do with him. He’d messed her life up once, and he wasn’t doing it again. She wouldn’t do that to Jonathan.’

  Now that she was repeating Lennie’s words, she realised what an argument Lennie had been having with herself. But she hadn’t at the time.

  The inspector stood up. ‘Thank you, Mrs Pearce,’ she said. ‘You’ve been more than helpful.’ She turned to go and turned back. ‘What aren’t you telling me, Mrs Pearce?’ she asked.

  Pauline had stood up to see the inspector to the door; she sank down again. She had pulled that trick this morning. Made it look as though she was going, let the tension drain away, then asked what she really wanted to know.

  ‘Mrs Pearce?’ Inspector Hill sat down too, and looked as though she would stay all day, wait all day, for an answer.

  Pauline closed her eyes. ‘ I heard something,’ she said. ‘A noise – something. Some
one …’ She tried to hear it again. ‘Someone trying the studio door,’ she said. ‘Or going in there.’

  ‘What time was this?’

  She was writing it all down. She had written everything down. Now she would write down a lie. Another lie.

  ‘About quarter of an hour before Gordon came in.’

  ‘So that would be … around ten o’clock?’

  Pauline looked her straight in the eye. ‘Yes,’ she said. Greenwich Mean Time, she told herself. It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

  The inspector closed the notebook. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that this morning?’ she asked.

  ‘Because …’ Pauline looked away, now that she was telling the truth. ‘Because until you reminded me about Steve, I thought – I thought Gordon had been with her.’

  Last night, she had thought all sorts of things. Gordon had been with her, and she had repulsed him. Or she hadn’t, and it hadn’t lived up to the fantasy. All sorts of reasons for his no longer being under her spell.

  There was a silence. A terrible, eloquent silence that she was going to have to fill by explaining to this woman why she thought Gordon might have been with her.

  But Lennie was dead, and it still made no sense.

  Steve lay on the bed, thinking about Lennie, and waiting for Rosemary to ring. But she didn’t appear to require his services today, and Mrs Sweeney didn’t run to showers, cold or otherwise, so he just had to live with the ache. Rosemary would have been better than nothing. He had realised as dawn had crept into his room that he couldn’t go to Lennie’s studio with Rosemary’s flat right above it; he had tried to ring her, but a man had answered, and he had hung up.

  Normally, he’d be glad of a day off from Rosemary. The job side was boring. Rosemary checked up on Beale’s various enterprises, and those left in charge of them. He would sit outside the seedy establishments, waiting for her, and watch the doormen check the customers’ club cards, almost openly contemptuous of them. He would see them come – on foot, always on foot, with their cars parked anonymously in one of the city centre car parks – looking round furtively in case someone they knew spotted them. But if they had seen anyone they knew, he would have been going about the same shady business, so what the hell?