A Woman Unknown (5 page)

The thick-set young man who acted as Philippa’s private secretary was trying to make conversation with Philippa, to distract her from being so studiously ignored by her husband. With his broad flat head, thick neck and compact body, the secretary perfectly fitted my mental image of Attila the Hun.

Philippa saw me and waved.

I waved back. ‘Marcus, are you all right for properly socialising?’

‘Proper socialising sounds just the ticket.’

In that moment, some movement disturbed the private secretary. He turned, in time to see Len Diamond raise his camera and point it at Philippa, with
Runcie and the Viking Queen behind her. It was well known that Philippa and Runcie were to divorce. At that moment, I could have cheerfully hit Len over the head with his Thornton-Pickard Reflex. His own paper would never print such a picture. He must be selling to a London-based scandal rag.

Philippa’s secretary, King, moved quickly for such a lump of a fellow. He took Diamond by the arm and propelled the taller man to one side.

Philippa steadfastly ignored the scene. I introduced Marcus as a London friend, in Yorkshire for a couple of days. At the sound of a new voice, Everett Runcie pricked up his ears. Runcie is the kind of man you could not help but like, on first meeting: affable and witty. He is always on the look-out for some new investor to inveigle into one of his schemes. He collared Marcus while Philippa and I talked.

‘Don’t let your friend be drawn in,’ she said, making no attempt to lower her voice.

‘Into what?’

‘A peanut farm, that’s Everett’s latest money pit.’

I smiled. ‘I don’t think that would be up Marcus’s street at all.’

She and I moved towards the balcony as the voice came over the loudspeaker that the horses were being led out.

‘Have you backed anything?’ I asked Philippa.

She said softly, ‘I don’t bet. But I’ve bought a horse to ship back home to the States to stud.’

So it would not be long now till the golden couple parted. I had first heard the rumour of divorce a month or so ago.

‘Which horse are you cheering?’ I asked.

‘Not telling yet.’ She raised her binoculars in the direction of the starting gate.

‘My money is on Flint Jack.’

‘You better have these then. I’m not a betting man.’

I turned to see who had spoken. It was Rupert Cromer, the sculptor. He was a giant of a man with a fine head of fair hair and a beard in need of trimming. He held out his binoculars.

‘Thank you.’

He smiled. ‘That’s all right. It’s all one to me who passes the finishing line, so good luck.’

They were off to a clean start, Little Marten and Flint Jack running neck and neck. Everett Runcie called for Little Marten, I for Flint Jack.

I kept the binoculars trained on Little Marten and Flint Jack. Come on Flint Jack. And just as if he had heard me, he pulled ahead and was suddenly leading by a length.

From behind, Marcus asked, ‘Did you put my two bob on Flint Jack?’

‘No! You said you want to back the favourite.’

The race ended to cheers and groans.

The viciousness in Everett Runcie’s voice sent a shiver through me. He tore his betting slip and dropped it to the floor. Staring at Philippa with something like hatred, he said, ‘I backed the wrong horse. Again.’

She coloured up, and turned away. I was grateful to Marcus for starting a conversation with Philippa. He grabbed the waiter’s attention and passed her a drink.

I returned the binoculars to Cromer. ‘Thanks. They brought me luck.’

He smiled. ‘Always happy to oblige.’ He offered his hand. ‘Rupert Cromer.’

‘Kate Shackleton. I came to your exhibition last year.’ Perhaps the thought of scooping winnings turned me giddy. I had never thought of buying paintings or sculpture.

‘What did you like best in the exhibition?’

Now I’d done it. I muttered something about his mother and child and tried to remember my impressions. The piece that caused the greatest stir was an abstract nude, rumoured to be modelled on the Viking Queen.

Whatever I said must have either been satisfactory or given the impression of solvency.

He said, ‘Come out to my studio sometime.’

‘Thanks, I’d like to.’

‘Bring your friend.’ He nodded in the direction of Marcus who was still engrossed with Philippa.

Poor Philippa. And poor Everett. What would he do without Philippa’s money?

Philippa and Everett. Fitzpatrick and Deirdre. Perhaps one day an enterprising insurance company would come up with a policy to cover fire, theft and marital breakdown.

There could be no more putting it off. I had agreed to tail Deirdre Fitzpatrick and that was what I must do.

Sykes and I sat in the parked motor on Abbey Road, a hundred yards or so above Norman View, where the Fitzpatricks lived. Now it was just a matter of waiting; waiting in the morning fog.

For almost an hour, we watched the up and down trams, the rag and bone man’s horse and cart, a coal wagon, and a window cleaner, his ladders on a bogey. We agreed to meet, around midday, in the lounge bar of the Lloyds Arms. If I had not finished my surveillance by one o’clock, our comparing of notes would have to wait until this evening. Just as I began to think the surveillance would not happen at all, Sykes nudged me. ‘There she is.’

As if recognising a greater force than itself, swirls of fog parted for the figure in the silver-grey dust coat.

She wore black heeled shoes and carried a dolly bag. That was reassuring. With such a small bag, she would be unlikely to travel far, or elope with her fancy man.

‘Just the coat for a shoplifter,’ Sykes murmured.
‘Loose and with big pockets. She’d easily leave a shop wearing three frocks under that.’

The long wait had done nothing for my patience. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s a coat, not a weapon for destroying the retail trade.’

Deirdre walked briskly, making a bee-line for the tram stop. A woman with a shopping basket waited there already and spoke a word or two, looking up Abbey Road, as if she might make the tram appear.

‘Drive to the next stop, Mr Sykes. I’ll board before her. That way she won’t notice me.’

Within a couple of minutes, we were at the previous stop. I hopped out of the motor just in time to catch the town centre tram.

I settled for a seat midway on the left of the lower deck, facing the rear. At the next stop Deirdre Fitzpatrick climbed aboard. She was slim, with a good figure, a pale, heart-shaped face, high cheek bones, and a wide mouth. Black curls escaped from under her cloche. She laughed at something the conductor said, before trotting up to the open deck.

An earlier occupant of my seat had enlivened the journey by squashing tiny insects with a tram ticket. The window was decorated with slaughtered baby flies. I looked through them at row after row of terraced houses, dye works, factories, and a tannery that gave off a powerful stench. As we neared the town centre, I moved closer to the tram stairs. The conductor coughed deeply, caught something interesting in his hanky and took a good look. We passed the tramway depot, and Wellington Foundry. A little way along, the tramline curved.

Mrs Fitzpatrick got off at St Paul’s Street. So did I.

She crossed the street.

Another tram, travelling in the opposite direction, hid her from view. When the tram disappeared, she was no longer in sight. I did not know which office building had swallowed her.

I crossed, and looked at the nameplates. Each of the buildings she could have entered housed solicitors, accountants and commercial organisations. There was nothing for it but to wait.

On a street of offices there is really nowhere to tuck oneself away, except in a doorway. Two men in striped trousers and black frock coats talked animatedly as they walked towards City Square. I took refuge in the entrance of a building, where heavy wooden outer doors stood open and the second set of doors stayed shut. My wait lasted fifteen minutes.

Unfortunately, she appeared on the street during the seconds I had to move to let someone pass, so I was no wiser as to whom she had visited.

Along Boar Lane, she did not so much as glance in shop windows. From there, she cut through streets and alleys. I wished I had worn flat shoes. She tap-tapped in her heels and I tap-tapped after her, Mistress Echo. But she did not appear to notice. Everywhere, women walked with baskets, men trundled along with carts and carried boxes into shops. On The Calls, an old soldier played a haunting tune on a flute. She dropped a coin in his hat, and spoke a few words to him. His face lit with delight.

She walked along East Street, passing an iron works and a saw mill. The noise of the factories played a discordant symphony in the smoky choking atmosphere. After
the saw mill, she turned left. A small group of unemployed men sat on the pavement, playing a game of toss. As she approached, an athletic type leapt to his feet to speak with her. There was an easy familiarity in how close together they stood. I slowed my steps so as not to get ahead of her. By the time she set off again, I had overdone my caution by exploring a yard that led only to middens, and found myself far enough behind to lose sight of her.

As I came from the alley, I took a good sideways glance at the chap she had spoken to: shabbily dressed, a broken nose, ruddy complexion, fair hair. His amiable, lived-in face held an expression both vacant and suffering. Perhaps he was the world’s worst villain, yet there was something about his look and manner that might make a person want to say, Oh bless the poor fellow, without quite knowing why.

Hurrying, trying to hazard a guess as to which street she had turned into, I spotted her by Steanders Iron and Steel Foundry. After that, the streets narrowed, making me feel even more self-conscious and ill-at-ease.

A couple of half-naked toddlers sat on the pavement edge, poking fingers into the black, sticky gas tar that had begun to melt. The women here, on their doorsteps and pavements, talking to neighbours, were poorly dressed, in dark serviceable clothes and large pinafores. One woman was scouring a window sill. Another swept the street outside her house. Conscious of my short sleeves, good shoes and the plain satchel that now looked exceedingly flamboyant, only dogged determination kept me on Mrs Fitzpatrick’s trail. It struck me that we were the only women on these streets who wore shoes.
Regulation footwear appeared to be down-at-heel slippers with holes in the toes.

Between every group of eight houses yawned a dismal alley. The slightly sweet and sickly stench of human excrement from the infrequently emptied earth closets made me want to hold my breath. It was Thursday, and so not wash day, but a couple of lines of washing stretched across the street. Patched sheets, worn towels and grey undergarments billowed gently in the soot-filled air.

The footsteps stopped. Deirdre entered a house on the right, but which one? A swaying sheet obscured my view. I felt a sneaking regard for anyone who could properly tail a person.

Slowly, I walked to the end of the street, drawing the attention of gossiping neighbours, a curtain twitcher and a step scourer.

No brilliant thought came to me as to what I should do next. Trying to look as if I had business to transact, I walked briskly to the end of Cotton Street and into the corner house shop. This at least would give me time to think. I bought a packet of Black Cat cigarettes from a stout woman with tight grey curls who wore a flowered pinafore.

Slowly, I made my way back. Having followed Mrs Fitzpatrick’s rapid strides, I was uncertain as to how I would find my way out of this maze of back streets.

And then something happened that had doors opening, and women and children falling over each other to look.

A motor ambulance entered the street. It stopped at the first big sheet. A man wearing a navy serge uniform climbed from the vehicle and attempted to raise the
sheet for the driver to pass, but this was not a one-man job. Here was my opportunity to perform the day’s good deed. ‘May I help you?’

The man readily agreed that I may help him. We took either end of the sheet, raised it, and in this way, the ambulance slowly bumped its way along the cobbles until it reached number sixteen.

Only then did the ambulance attendant give me a curious look and a thank you. The driver got out. Several women stood nearby in small groups. I stepped a little way off, watching as the ambulance driver knocked on the door. Once the door was open, the driver and his companion lifted a stretcher from the back of the vehicle and entered the house.