Running Scared Page 8

  You wouldn’t think, would you, with disadvantages like that, and lacking any kind of charm, Parry could possibly imagine I might be brought round to fancying him? But deep in what passes for his heart, or more likely in what passes for his brain, it seems he fantasises about me. It was Ganesh who pointed this out to me and at first I wouldn’t – couldn’t – believe it. But I’ve been brought round to the horrid conclusion Gan is right about this, as about so much else.

  Outside, men measured and photographed and crawled round under their arc-lights for clues to put in their plastic bags. The remaining population of the street had turned out to watch and speculate, but were kept back behind a blue and white plastic tape tied across the thoroughfare. Behind the crowd, indignant motorists had got out of their cars to demand why they were being denied access.

  Inside this cordon, like a set of plague victims sealed off from normal humanity, we were at Parry’s mercy.

  He took Daphne’s statement first, rightly surmising whatever she had to say would be less interesting than anything he could bully out of Ganesh and me. Daphne hadn’t heard or seen anything because she’d been in her sitting room at the back of the house. Parry thanked her with a politeness he never wasted on me, before dismissing her from her own kitchen and turning his attention to Ganesh and me, his preferred prey. Daphne was the starter, we were the main course.

  ‘All right, then, let’s have it,’ he said. ‘You first, Miss Varady, being as it’s your flat where the bloke copped it.’

  ‘Not in my flat,’ I protested vigorously, ‘outside my flat!’

  ‘In your basement,’ said Parry, unimpressed.

  I told him my version and Ganesh told him his, which was virtually the same. We also had to tell him about the business at the shop when Coverdale – as we now knew him to be –staggered in and I told him about the man who’d come enquiring later.

  The bombe surprise was Hitch’s discovery of the packet behind the pipes of the washroom and the roll of film it contained. This had Parry scribbling like a man possessed, all the while chewing one straggling corner of his moustache, his expression steadily more disapproving.

  When he heard that I’d taken the film to be developed, he stopped scribbling and turned puce. ‘You did what? Don’t tell me, I can guess. You were playing detective again, Fran? Right? How many times have I told you? You got anything suspicious to report, you bring it to us.’

  ‘It wasn’t suspicious,’ I argued.

  ‘You still oughta have reported it. Where are these snaps now?’

  ‘At the shop, stuck under the till,’ Ganesh said.

  ‘Then we’ll have to go over there and collect ’em, won’t we, son? If they’re still there – which I hope they are. If they’re not, you two are in a spot of trouble. They’re material evidence, they are.’

  ‘Look!’ I said sharply. ‘We didn’t know he was going to get murdered, did we? We offered to call the police when he was beaten up and he didn’t want it. What else could we do?’

  ‘You are certain, are you,’ Ganesh asked in a very formal voice, ‘of your identification? The only reason we’re calling him Coverdale, as I see it, is because a note signed in that name was pushed through Fran’s letter box.’

  Parry gave Ganesh a dirty look. ‘Well, no one’s identified him yet, if that’s what you mean. But he’d got business cards in that name in his pocket and a press pass with his phizog on it. He’s – was – a journalist, Graeme Coverdale. Don’t worry, we’ll track down someone who knew him to take a look at him in the morgue.’ Nice.

  Parry was tucking away his notebook. ‘I think the best thing would be if a constable accompanied you to the shop, Mr Patel, to get those photos and negatives. You’d better stay here, Fran – Miss Varady – until Inspector Harford arrives. He’ll want to talk to you, both of you.’ Parry gave a sinister leer.

  ‘Who’s he?’ I asked. Obviously this was a serious crime and they weren’t leaving it entirely to Parry, but there was a relish in Parry’s voice which suggested Harford would prove some sort of ogre. Parry, by contrast, would be a regular Peter Pan.

  ‘Harford? Oh, he’s the blue-eyed boy, he is. Graduate intake, fast-track promotion. He’s been to university, has Inspector Harford.’ Parry oozed rancour. Even the ginger hair in his ears seemed to bristle. Then he rolled his bloodshot gaze in my direction and added, ‘So don’t you try giving him any lip, Fran. He’s not tolerant, like me.’

  On this breath-taking misstatement, he ushered Ganesh out of the door and left me in the kitchen.

  Daphne put her head round. ‘All right, Fran?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said gloomily. ‘I’m waiting for an Inspector Harford, apparently the Met’s finest.’

  ‘A car’s just drawn up outside,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and spy out the land.’

  She pottered off quite cheerfully. Daphne never fails to amaze me and I realised that far from being terrified at the thought of gory death in her basement, Daphne was enjoying all the hullabaloo. This must beat reading about murder in one of the whodunits lining her shelves. This was the real thing.

  There was much conversation going on in her hallway. I could hear Parry’s voice and another man’s, more of a tenor to Parry’s bass growl. Daphne scurried back.

  ‘He’s here!’ she announced, eyes shining. ‘And he’s awfully young. I suppose policemen do get younger as one gets older, but really, this one looks like a schoolboy. I suppose he’s got enough experience for this sort of thing. It hardly seems possible.’

  Unfortunately, as she spoke the last words, a new figure loomed up behind her.

  ‘Good evening.’ The voice had a noticeable edge to it. He’d overheard. ‘My name is Harford. Excuse me, madam,’ the newcomer sidestepped Daphne, ‘I’d like a word with Miss Varady, if she’s up to it.’

  He didn’t look like a schoolboy, but also he didn’t look all that much older than me, though I suppose he must be. He was chunkily built, with a shock of light brown hair, parted on the side and brushed straight with a ruthless hand. Add to that, a wide mouth, good complexion, blue eyes and, most striking of all, an air of arrogant self-possession. He was wearing an expensive-looking suit and a clean shirt, all pressed and starched, even at this time of night. I wondered if he’d jumped into his car when he’d got the summons, or taken time to shower and change first.

  His voice matched his looks, with clean-cut vowels which must have made him something of a novelty at our local nick. In fact, I shouldn’t have thought they knew what to make of him at all. I’d have loved to be a fly on the canteen wall.

  I met his gaze and found it was studying me in no very generous way. By comparison, my own appearance was distinctly at fault. Harford’s gaze suggested he classed me with something brought in by the cat. I was glad I’d had my hair trimmed, but wished I wasn’t wearing the assembled contents of a jumble sale stall. If I’d been sitting here in a power suit and stilettos I might have stood a chance. As it was, he’d clearly labelled me riffraff.

  ‘Right, let’s get started, shall we?’ he said bossily, taking his place at Daphne’s table. I felt a fleeting sympathy for Parry.

  ‘The coffee’s cold,’ I said, to make amends for Daphne getting us off on the wrong foot. ‘I can make some more.’

  ‘We won’t worry about coffee.’ His tone put me firmly in my place. ‘Now, I’ve had a quick word with Sergeant Parry and glanced over your statement and Mr Patel’s. But I’d like to hear it from you.’

  ‘Starting from when?’ I asked.

  ‘From the incident at the shop where I believe you’re employed.’ He made it sound as though I sold sex aids and porno videos.

  ‘It’s just a newsagent’s,’ I said. ‘And I work mornings only.’ He said nothing, only sat there looking fit, sharp and unpredictable, like a police dog. So I went through it all again, about the stranger, whom I now knew to be Coverdale, how someone had come to the shop enquiring about him, how Marco and Hitch had found the envelope containing the film a
nd how I’d taken it to be developed. This last, as expected, proved the stickiest bit.

  ‘Why did you take the film to be developed?’ he asked.

  ‘There might have been something on it to tell us whose it was.’

  ‘But you realised it had been hidden by a total stranger. Why did you think you’d recognise anything on the film?’

  ‘I supposed – we supposed – it’d been hidden. We didn’t know it for sure. We didn’t know what sort of pics they were. They looked like holiday snaps.’

  ‘Why should someone want to hide holiday snaps?’

  ‘How should I know? I’m not the detective, you are!’ I retorted unwisely.

  He froze. The blue eyes bored into me. ‘Just answer the questions, Miss Varady, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I do mind. I’ve been through this already for Parry.’ I realised I was doing badly but his attitude was niggling me. He was managing to make it sound as if I was hiding something.

  ‘Tell me about this evening.’

  I told him how I’d found the note but hadn’t read it until I was in the restaurant with Ganesh.

  ‘Ah, yes, your boss, Mr Patel, had taken you out to dinner. Does he often do that?’

  ‘It was our staff Christmas dinner,’ I said tightly. Now it was my friendship with Ganesh he was managing to make sound seedy. ‘We went to a Greek restaurant.’

  ‘Food any good?’ he asked suddenly.

  He must think I was stupid. ‘I had the moussaka and Ganesh had something which was mostly chickpeas. He’s a vegetarian. You can check at the restaurant. The waiter’s name was Stavros. He had it on a label pinned to his shirt.’

  Harford’s face twitched. He leaned forward slightly. ‘You still have this note?’

  ‘I gave it to Parry.’

  ‘Ah—’ He paused and straightened up. ‘You’re something of an old acquaintance of Sergeant Parry’s, I understand.’

  ‘We’ve met. Strictly official.’

  ‘Yes . . .’ Harford tugged at his crisp white cuffs. ‘You do seem to attract trouble, Miss Varady. I made a few enquiries before I came over here. Not your first brush with murder, is it? Or three murders, to be exact, not to mention a kidnapping.’

  ‘I don’t go around collecting corpses,’ I said wearily. ‘I wasn’t involved in the others. I just happened to be around and got drawn in.’

  ‘The bodies just drop in your vicinity?’

  Was this meant to be a joke? He wasn’t smiling although there was a sort of rictus round his mouth. If he was joking, it was at my expense.

  ‘I can’t tell you anything else,’ I snapped. ‘Go and enquire about Coverdale, if that’s his real name. That’s your lead, for goodness’ sake. Parry says he was a journalist. Find out what story he was working on. I bet it’s connected with that.’

  ‘I think we can manage our own investigations, thank you!’ His face had reddened. ‘I – we don’t need advice from you.’

  ‘It seems to me you’re wasting time, sitting here with me,’ I countered. ‘Look, Coverdale said in his note he’d come back at ten o’clock. Ganesh and I were here by quarter past ten, but Coverdale was already dead. So he couldn’t have been dead long. What does the doctor say?’

  ‘That’s police information.’ The red flush had now crept up his throat. He looked about to explode.

  ‘Well, I reckon it couldn’t have been more than fifteen – twenty minutes. Someone followed him here.’

  ‘That’s supposition.’

  ‘Or was waiting for him when he arrived,’ I mused. ‘It’s dark in the well. Someone could have been hiding down there.’

  And Ganesh and I had just missed him. It was an eerie thought. A few minutes earlier and we could have met the killer coming back up the basement steps, knife in hand.

  ‘We’ve thought of that!’ Harford was getting really annoyed. ‘Just leave the detection to us, will you? Don’t start pretending you’re Miss Marple.’

  ‘Miss Marple? Miss Marple!’ I fairly bounced in my chair with rage. ‘Do I look like some old girl who snoops on her neighbours? How about a murder weapon? Have you found it?’

  ‘Look, I’m asking the questions.’ He was getting flustered now. That ‘I’m-in-charge’ air was slipping. Now it was more ‘it’s-my-cricket-bat-and-I-say-who’s-out!’ ‘Let’s get back to Coverdale.’

  ‘That’s what I was telling you to do,’ I muttered.

  ‘Thank you!’ he retorted sarcastically. ‘Did you see anyone else in the street when you arrived? Anyone walking, driving, anyone apparently going into a house.’

  I said we hadn’t. I was sure. I’d been scanning the scene for Coverdale and I’d have noticed anyone else.

  ‘How,’ asked Harford, ‘did the killer know he’d find Coverdale here?’

  ‘He followed him,’ I said patiently.

  ‘All right, so how did Coverdale learn your address?’

  ‘Someone followed me from the shop yesterday, I’m fairly sure of it. It could’ve been him.’

  ‘But you didn’t see him? He didn’t approach you?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. Someone else might have been watching me. He had to be careful.’

  ‘Not careful enough, it seems,’ said Harford as if the whole thing was entirely my fault.

  Luckily we were interrupted. A tap at the door heralded Parry, looking pleased with himself. He brandished a yellow envelope.

  ‘Got ’em, sir. Got the snaps and the negs.’

  Harford rose to his feet with dignity. I got the impression he wasn’t sorry for the interruption either.

  ‘Good man,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Varady. We’ll talk again.’

  Parry gave me a triumphant wink.

  ‘Do you know, Daphne,’ I said, when they’d left, ‘I never thought I’d say it, but I think I’d rather deal with Parry than with Inspector Harford.’

  ‘He’s a very handsome young man, isn’t he?’ said Daphne sentimentally.

  I’d noticed that, but I wasn’t going to let it influence me. Women of Daphne’s age, I told myself, were susceptible to young men of Harford’s ilk. Not so yours truly.

  Eventually, after all the photographs were taken, everything measured up, and documented, they dismantled their lights and Coverdale’s body was removed, leaving behind a sinister chalked outline, over which I had to step to return to the flat at one in the morning. They really didn’t want me returning to the flat at all. They said I’d be interfering with a scene of crime. I pointed out I wasn’t going to sleep in the basement well, but in my flat, in my bed – and Coverdale hadn’t crossed my doorstep. I can’t say I relished the idea of going into the flat, let alone sleeping there alone that night, but I insisted as a matter of principle, even though Daphne offered me a bed.

  ‘Don’t touch anything, right?’ Parry warned.

  ‘He wasn’t ever in my flat,’ I repeated, I don’t know for what number of times.

  ‘We’ll just check, shall we?’

  Parry followed me into the flat, also stepping over the chalk outline, and stared around. ‘It don’t look touched,’ he admitted.

  ‘It’s not. Now can I be left in peace in my own home? I’ve had a very trying evening.’

  ‘Just mind how you go in and out. Don’t touch anything in the stairwell. Although we’ll want your dabs for elimination. Bloke will come round tomorrow for ’em.’

  ‘Where’ve I heard that before?’ I muttered.

  They were still scurrying around out there when I went to bed, and in a way that was comforting. I still went to sleep with the light on.

  ‘Hitch looked in this morning and turned the water off again,’ said Ganesh plaintively. ‘He said he and Marco will come over later and install the new loo and washbasin ready for tomorrow morning.’

  It was Sunday morning and he’d arrived around nine. That’s classed as daybreak on a Sunday in my book at the best of times and after a disturbed night, I’d hoped for a lie-in. I wasn’t dressed or ready for vi
sitors and had to open the door in my Snoopy nightshirt.

  ‘Turn it on again,’ I said grumpily, padding back inside.

  ‘I did and it spurted out the hole in the wall where the washroom tap used to be.’

  ‘But you must be able to turn off the washroom plumbing separately.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t found a way to do it. Can I use your shower?’

  ‘How much are they charging you to come in on a Sunday?’ I asked. ‘Or haven’t they said?’

  ‘Hitch is a mate,’ Ganesh defended him. ‘He’s doing it so’s we don’t have to keep running round to the petshop on Monday morning every time we want to take a leak. You know how you grumbled about that.’