Almost Love (5 page)

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“So what did you find in the parlour?”

“Nothing unusual at all. My aunt is not a tidy woman; the room looks much as I would have expected it to, especially as she has been on her own this week. But there is no sign of a disturbance, or of her having left in a hurry. The same goes for the other rooms. There is an office leading out of the parlour – I think it was a dining-room in times past – and the extension leads out of the office. It’s really just the bathroom and conservatory.”

“There must be some kind of kitchen?”

“Yes, but it’s separate from the rooms I’ve just been talking about. You get to it through the other door that leads out of the hall.”

“Did you go in there as well?”

Guy Maichment hesitated.

“Not until . . . afterwards.”

“After what?”

“I returned to the hall, intending to explore the kitchen, as you suggest. But I was using the lights now. I had to feel along the wall for the hall light – I couldn’t remember where the switch was – I know that it is over the little bureau that stands opposite the door, but I couldn’t remember exactly where. I found it, anyway, and I was about to go into the kitchen when something made me turn round and look at that wall.” He shuddered, a little theatrically, Tim thought.

“What made you turn round, exactly?” Tim asked crisply. “Was it a noise of some kind?”

“Oh, no.” Guy Maichment eyed Tim with a contemptuous look which suggested his profound sense of his own superiority. “It was just a feeling. I have always been very sensitive.”

“Indeed. So seeing the mess on the wall prevented you from going into the kitchen?”

“It didn’t
prevent
me exactly: it just made me focus very clearly on what I ought to do next. I decided to telephone the police immediately.”

“Very sensible,” said Tim drily. “So you went back into the parlour?”

“Yes. I called nine nine nine. The woman who answered said that what I had told her could not be classed as an emergency as such, but when I mentioned Roy Little she promised to talk to her superior. I must say that Roy called me back very promptly indeed,” he added, almost with a simper.

“At what time was this?”

“Do you mean my original call, or Roy’s call back?”

“Either or both. From what you say, they were very close together.”

“Oh, yes. I didn’t look at my watch, but my guess is that it was about 4.30 a.m. While I was making the first call, I could see that the moon was dipping behind the clouds. It rained briefly afterwards.”

“Do you own a mobile phone, Mr Maichment?”

“Of course. I carry it with me everywhere. It would be impossible to do my job without it.”

“So you had it with you last night?”

“Certainly.”

“In that case, why did you use the landline? If I were in someone else’s house, even someone I knew quite well, I wouldn’t use their phone without their permission unless I had no alternative.”

Again the shrug. “Force of habit, I guess. I never use the mobile when I’m at home myself. I suppose it’s a kind of hangover from the days when calls on the mobile were much more expensive. Nowadays, of course, they tend to be cheaper than ordinary calls, but one doesn’t always think clearly, especially in trying circumstances; one’s habits tend to become a little ingrained. Besides, my aunt wouldn’t have minded.”

He made himself sound like a pensioner, thought Tim, when he was probably fifty at the outside.

“After you made the call, did you just sit and wait until Superintendent Little rang you back? Or did you do something else for however many minutes it was?”

“I just waited. I sat quietly in one of the armchairs. To be honest, I was beginning to feel the effects of all I’d been through up until that point. A kind of dizziness came over me, so I needed to rest. I also wanted to get some instructions about what I should do next,” he added virtuously. “I didn’t want to do anything that would destroy evidence that might help to find my aunt.”

“And after Superintendent Little spoke to you?”

“I remained seated for a while, and then I decided to look in the kitchen. Roy Little said that I should touch as little as possible, but he didn’t forbid me from touching anything at all, so I thought it would probably be all right. I must admit to being a bit apprehensive about what I might find in there, and I loitered outside the door for a few seconds before I could pluck up courage to turn the handle. But it was – is – fine. Some of the usual clutter that my aunt creates, but nothing to suggest a struggle.”

“And no body lying on the floor?” said Tim, with a hint of satire.

Guy Maichment looked affronted.

“That’s in very poor taste, if I may say so. And quite unnecessary. If there had been a body, obviously we wouldn’t all be standing here, thinking about what might have become of my aunt. Would we?”

It was on the tip of Tim’s tongue to retort that that would depend on whose body it was. He thought better of it, however, in part because he was more interested in the car which he could now hear approaching. He turned to face the track at the same moment as the first glimpse of a small white van appeared through the trees. He recognised it immediately as the vehicle used by Patti Gardner and her team of SOCOs.

Chapter Four

Alex sustained her veneer of jauntiness as she entered the conference room, though her heart was still quailing at the prospect of the day ahead. She saw that Oliver was already waiting for her. He was sitting at a table near to the podium with his back to her, his long legs stuck out to one side of the table, his fingers absent-mindedly playing with what looked like a piece of plastic. The tables had been arranged ‘cabaret style’, as the events manager of the hotel had suggested: a break with tradition that had at once appealed to Alex and filled her with alarm when she considered the reaction that it might provoke amongst the old guard.

Oliver turned to look at her as the swing door banged behind her and rose to his feet. He was sucking a sweet. He held out the packet.

“Love hearts,” he said, brandishing the twist of transparent paper with which he had been toying. “Why is it that hotels seem to think that conference delegates have suddenly regressed to late toddlerhood and need fortifying with the sort of sweets that one saw on the pocket-money counter of the corner shop, circa 1960? Or is it just the pernicious creeping American influence, do you think, of trivialising everything? Want one?” he added, taking another himself. He scrutinised the inscription on the next sugared sweet in the packet. “Wonder girl,” he read. “How appropriate! You must take it now!”

Alex laughed and brushed his hand away.

“Certainly not!” she said. “It’s far too early in the day to be eating sweets.” She looked around her. “I see that the technicians aren’t here yet, despite all the fuss that they made about getting the equipment tested and all the rehearsals over by eight-thirty. I don’t suppose you’ve seen them, have you?”

“No. I’ve only just arrived myself. I daresay I could switch on the sound system and a mike on my own, though. It can’t be that difficult.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you. They’re certain to make us pay if anything gets broken. I suggest we give them another five minutes and then, if they still haven’t turned up, I’ll go in search of the events manager and ask him to page them. It’s the sort of thing that he loves doing: you can just tell.”

Oliver scrutinised the love heart again.

“Sure I can’t tempt you?” he said. “No, really,” said Alex. “To tell you the truth, I felt a little the worse for wear when I got up this morning.”

“Indeed?” Oliver’s curiosity was almost palpable. “You surprise me! I’ve always thought of you as being picture-perfect at these events. Over-indulgence doesn’t fit my notion of you at all.”

Alex could not think of a suitably witty riposte, so she didn’t reply. She couldn’t tell if Oliver’s incredulity was genuine; he might well have been mocking her.

“I blame myself, actually,” he continued. “I should never have left you in Edmund’s clutches. The man is such a bore – in every sense of the word, if one disregards the spelling. He’s enough to turn anyone to drink. I do hope that you managed to get rid of him eventually?”

“We spent the night in separate beds, if that’s what you mean,” said Alex curtly.

Oliver looked abashed. She decided to change the subject.

“Did you ever meet Claudia McRae?” she asked.

“Of course. I went on some of her digs when I was a student. It’s funny that you should ask, because, as a matter of fact, she lives close by to here and I dropped in on her yesterday. Why do you mention her? Do you think we should have invited her to the conference? I must admit that it crossed my mind to suggest it, although she is quite frail now and extremely eccentric. Many people feel that her theories have been discredited – including, I am quite certain, some of our esteemed fellow delegates. If she’d come, it could have caused a bit of a ruckus.”

“You saw her yesterday?”

“Yes. Only for half an hour or so. I dropped in for a cup of tea, that’s all. I’ve always kept in touch with her, though it must be several years since we last met. You seem surprised.”

“You obviously didn’t see the news this morning.”

“I never watch so-called ‘breakfast television’. Another detestable American habit, with a name to match. Why? What did I miss? Something about Claudia?”

“She’s disappeared. The police are treating it as suspicious.”

“Disappeared! But how could she have? She was at home yesterday, and certainly not planning on going anywhere. In fact, she seemed quite lost – tired out, disorientated, almost – but I put that down to the fact that her paid companion wasn’t there. Claudia was always hopeless at practical things, even in her heyday. I had to make tea for her yesterday, because it was clear she was never going to gather herself together enough to make it for me. What you say is worrying. Do you mind if I go to my room to listen to the news headlines? Perhaps I ought to talk to the police as well.”

Alex was faintly amused by Oliver’s penchant for placing himself in the midst of a drama; she had watched it happen before. She knew from long experience that his sense of theatre could always be relied upon. However, the diversion was short-lived; it did not take her long to realise that Oliver might be right. The police might well want to speak to him.

The swing door banged boisterously. Three men clad in black T-shirts and jeans burst in.

“Hi! I’m Archie, and this here is Baz, and Gully. We’re the sound guys. Sorry we’re late. Ready to roll now, though.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Oliver. “I did get here on time, as you specified, but I’m afraid something rather urgent has come up now that I have to attend to.”

Archie looked affronted.

“Suit yourself,” he said. “You wanted the rehearsal. Don’t blame us if your gig doesn’t go according to plan.”

“My ‘gig’, as you put it, might not happen at all if you don’t learn to behave with a bit more respect.”

The technical team stood and faced him across the expanse of white-cloth’d tables, arms folded, lowering like a bunch of trainee matadors who had just cornered an elderly bull.

Alex put her hand on Oliver’s arm.

“Please,” she said. “I can see that you’re upset, but it’s no skin off their nose if the conference goes badly. I don’t think you need to rehearse very much; just make sure that your mike is working and adjusted to the right height for you. Then you can go and listen to the next news bulletin on the radio, if that’s what you want to do and, if you think it’s necessary, call the police. There’s plenty of time before we start – until nine-thirty, it’s just coffee for people who weren’t here last night.”

Oliver nodded.

“Sorry,” he said. Alex was surprised to see his face contort briefly, as if he might burst into tears. “You’re right. I am upset. I’m amazed at how upset, actually. It’s not as if Claudia and I are particularly close these days and, God knows, we crossed swords enough times when we were working together. She rarely got on with anyone that she worked with, actually. It’s just that – well, she’s frail now, and very elderly, and I think sad about what’s happened to her reputation. I can’t bear the thought of something frightening having happened to her – or, worse, that she’s wandered off by herself somewhere and hurt herself or been attacked by some vagrant or something.” He smiled briefly. “If I’m honest, I suppose it’s myself I’m concerned about, not just Claudia. She represents what I did in my youth, you see; what many of my generation of archaeologists did, in fact, because of her. Whether or not her theories were right – and opinions will always differ on that point – her passing will mark the end of an epoch.”

Alex took his hand and held it for a few seconds.

“I think I understand,” she said, “but do try to look on the bright side. From what I’ve heard, she’s only missing: there’s no evidence to suggest that she’s dead or that someone’s holding her against her will. I wish I hadn’t told you about it, in a way; it might have saved you some worry, if by the time you turn on the radio they’re announcing that she’s back where she belongs and that the whole episode was a false alarm.”

Oliver in turn squeezed her hand and let go of it gently.

“Thank you,” he said. “Comforting as ever, Alex. But somehow, this time, I doubt that you’re right.”

Chapter Five

It was 12 noon. The clock over the old stable block was cranking its way through twelve strokes, each one accompanied by background whirring noises, as if this might be its last effort before giving up the ghost.

Detective Inspector Tim Yates had already negotiated at some speed the long winding lane that led from the main road to the hotel courtyard, and was now parking his ancient BMW more sedately on the cobbles that fronted the central façade of the building.

The geography of the hotel was confusing. Tim walked around the courtyard once, trying various doors, including one that yielded when he turned the handle but which led only to banked tiers of trestle tables folded flat and towers of chairs stacked six or eight high. Emerging from the courtyard itself, he followed a gravel path which eventually led him to a temporary signpost – it was an aluminium stand of the kind used by musicians – on which someone had wedged a sheet of cardboard with
conference > reception
printed on it in capital letters. Following the sign, he reached an insignificant wooden door which, when he passed through it, brought him immediately into a vast mock-mediaeval hall. A staircase and various passageways led out of it.

Set squarely in the middle of the flagged stone floor, dwarfed by its surroundings, was one of the hotel’s evidently ubiquitous trestle tables. A banner bearing the words
Spalding Archaeological Society
had been unfurled behind it. On the table itself were arranged the few name badges left for latecomers to the conference. The many gaps between them indicated that most of the delegates had already registered.

An epicene little man was seated behind the table. He rose when he saw Tim, scrutinised the policeman’s face and frowned.

“Can I help you? I’m not sure that we’ve met.”

“I’m quite certain that we haven’t. I’m Detective Inspector Yates, South Lincolnshire Police.”

The little man’s freckled face broke into a smile.

“Oh! That’s a relief. I was wondering if I’d left someone out. When I was making the name badges, I mean. One does check the list very carefully, of course, but these things happen and I’m positive that I’m acquainted with all the delegates who have yet to arrive. Wing-Commander Francis Codd,” he added, extending his hand. “Retired now, of course. I like to help out on these occasions.”

Tim took the proffered hand and shook it briefly.

“But, dear me,” said the Wing-Commander, frowning again, “Police, you say? I do hope that nothing is wrong.” He gestured at the remaining name badges. “There hasn’t been an accident, has there? No-one delayed because they’ve been hurt?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Tim. “I’ve come at the request of one of the delegates, Oliver Sparham. Do you know him?”

“Yes, of course I do. He has kindly agreed to act as our Chairman today. And he is always a very active member of the society. Most generous with his time.”

“Could I speak to Mr Sparham? I’d ask you to take me to him, but it would probably be less disruptive if we could talk here.”

“What? Yes. But no: the final session before lunch is in full swing, and Oliver is chairing it, as I said. Would you mind terribly if I asked you to wait for a few minutes? I can hardly drag the poor man off the stage.”

Tim was still debating with himself about how he should respond to this when the heavy swing doors to the right of the Wing-Commander opened and a slender, dark-haired woman emerged from the passageway beyond.

“Oh, Mrs Tarrant, how opportune! This is a policeman who wants to speak to Oliver. I’ve explained that he is busy at the moment. Do you know when he might be available?”

The slight woman moved rapidly over the stone flagstones towards Tim, her high heels clicking in a businesslike way. She, too, held out her hand, which Tim noticed was very small, and adorned with a narrow wedding-band on which sat another, broader, ring in which was set a single, pale, square-cut blue stone: an aquamarine, perhaps.

“Inspector Yates? I’m Alexandra Tarrant, the secretary of the Archaeological Society. Oliver is expecting you; he’s told me why he asked you to come. He has just introduced the final speaker of the morning, so his formal duties are over until after lunch. I’ll fetch him. We placed his chair as near to the edge of the stage as possible, so that he would be able to slip away quite discreetly. Fortunately, Dr Pfleger is showing some slides at the moment, so the room is in semi-darkness.”

Tim nodded.

“Thank you. It is very considerate of you.”

She had clear grey eyes set in an oval face, with a slightly turned-up nose and small but determined chin. She looked a little weary, he thought, but she was very pretty.

“Not at all,” she said. “I don’t know Claudia McRae myself, but many of our delegates do. Naturally, they are shocked by what they’ve heard on the news and, if any of them can help you, they will certainly want to do so. Oliver was an assistant of hers when he was a young man. He thought that you’d like to know that he saw her yesterday.”

“He’s right about that, of course. He may have been the last person to see her before she disappeared.”

There was a small silence, after which she laughed nervously.

“That’s what Oliver himself said. I’ll fetch him now.”

“Thank you.”

As her clicking heels retreated, Tim turned his attention towards the Wing-Commander again. Since the latter had clearly not been warned in advance of his visit and therefore was also not aware of its purpose, he expected the old man to be agog with curiosity. Not so. Francis Codd was now bent forward, tranquilly engaged in arranging the remaining name badges in a neat row with no gaps, and in the process displaying the mass of overlapping freckles that topped his round, bald head. He had either been unable to hear the interchange between Tim and Alex Tarrant or had discreetly refrained from listening to it.

Alex Tarrant returned quickly. A tall man loped in her wake. He had thick, greying hair and the slightly stooped posture that is common in the very tall. He wore round, gold-rimmed spectacles, from behind which twinkled intelligent, even humorous, light-brown eyes. He, too, extended his hand. Tim took it.

“Oliver Sparham.”

“Mr Sparham,” Tim said. “Thank you for calling me.”

An observant man, thought Tim, and not a killer. He had wondered: the old policeman’s adage, that the last person to have admitted to seeing a victim alive was probably also their killer, was not so much a cliché as a truism. There was a certain type of killer who could not resist involving himself in the subsequent police investigation, no matter how dangerous to himself this might be. Oliver Sparham was not such a person; Tim would stake his life on it, even though he had only just met the man. He caught his breath inwardly, even so, for he had just admitted two things to himself: firstly, that he believed that Claudia McRae was dead and secondly that she had been murdered.

“Should we sit down?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” Alex Tarrant said with a smile, “I really need to get back.”

Tim indicated a cluster of rather ugly, 1960s-style square leather chairs that had been arranged around a huge inglenook fireplace. It was the most comfortable-looking area in the massive room, and had the added advantage of being out of earshot of Francis Codd.

As if he could read his mind, Oliver Sparham said:

“You don’t need to worry about old Frank. He lives in a world of his own most of the time. He likes a life of complete order. If he finds it hard to cope with the idea of a policeman disrupting the serenity of the conference, he’ll just edit it out; pretend it’s not happening. He certainly won’t want to confront the idea of Claudia’s disappearance.”

Tim smiled. He was rather warming to Oliver Sparham.

“Did – does – he know her?”

“I expect so. He’s been interested in archaeology all of his life, so she must have crossed his path at some point, even though she has not had dealings with our society for many years.”

Tim nodded. He made a mental note to return later to that: throwaway comment or useful clue?

“It was very good of you to contact us about your visit to Miss McRae. It could make a great deal of difference to whether she is found safe and well or not. People often don’t realise the significance of something they have heard or seen in relation to a missing person or a crime, or they only think about it weeks after the event, when the police have found out for themselves – or not, of course. In either case, it is often too late.”

Oliver shrugged.

“I take that as a compliment. Thank you.”

“What is your job, Mr Sparham?”

“I’m terribly sorry, didn’t I say? If I’d been calling you from work, I should have introduced myself straight away. I’m the County Archaeologist for Lincolnshire. Not every county has one: just those with outstanding monuments, or where there have been significant archaeological digs. Lincolnshire has always been of pivotal strategic importance, because of its long coast line and, from the Middle Ages, the sheep farming. Lincoln was a very important city six hundred years ago; and a little after that, incredible though it may seem now, the port of Boston was one of the four wealthiest in the country. My office has supervised some exciting digs in recent years that demonstrate the county’s importance before it even existed as such. We have excavated a Roman villa near Fishtoft and a mediaeval merchant’s house in Kirton. Then there are the gravel pits near Maxey, which have yielded up the remains of woolly mammoths and some quite interesting flint implements. But the real reason that my post continues to exist, especially in this time of local authority spending cuts, is because of the power and prestige of the Spalding Archaeological Society. It was founded in the seventeenth century by some eminent clergymen scholars and supported financially by a number of rich gentleman dilettantes. Among them was one of my ancestors, as a matter of fact. Perhaps because of its age, and certainly because of its long association with some of the country’s most brilliant scientists and historians – Isaac Newton was a member – as an organisation it still carries a lot of clout in archaeological circles.”

“That’s the society whose conference this is?”

“Yes. I’m not one of its employees – in fact it only has one paid employee, Mrs Tarrant, whom you’ve just met – but I’m expected to work closely with it. There are others employed by the local authority who interact with it as well as me. One of them is a colleague whom I’ve known since we were both students. His name is Edmund Baker. He works in the architect’s department. He’s the Heritage Officer; it covers a broader remit than just archaeological sites. Part of his job is to slap preservation orders on buildings of historical or architectural interest, to make sure that people don’t tear them down or stick plastic conservatories on them, that sort of thing. He’s currently President of the Society – each president assumes the role for a three-year period, though they can be invited to serve for a second term. Edmund is quite new in the post, as a matter of fact. The role is quasi-executive – more than honorary, but it carries no fee. ”

“Interesting. And is Dame Claudia a member of the Archaeological Society?”

“As a woman, she can’t be a full member. I think that she must have been an honorary member in the past, but, quite frankly, Claudia and organised groups of any kind just don’t mix. She can pick a fight with a paper bag; or could, perhaps I should say.”

“We have no proof that she is . . .”

“Oh, good God, I didn’t mean that. Heaven forbid. It’s just that when I saw Claudia yesterday, some of the fight seemed to have gone out of her. Of course, she is very old now.”

“Tell me about your visit yesterday.”

“Yes; that is why you’ve come, isn’t it? I’m sorry; I seem to have side-tracked you with a lot of other stuff.”

“On the contrary, it is I who have been asking the questions. It’s always useful to get a feel for the background of a victim, or someone who’s disappeared for no apparent reason. As you yourself have realised, what you have to tell me about yesterday might be important; there may be some detail that you can recall which will lead us straight to her, or at least explain why she has gone.”

Oliver frowned.

“It’s hard to believe that, much as I would like to. It was such a banal sort of meeting. I just dropped in for tea and a chat, you know. But I’ll try to remember the minutiae, if you think that will help.”

“Did she know that you were coming? Was she expecting you?”

“Yes and no. I phoned her only an hour or so before I got there; just before I left the office, actually. I worked until lunchtime yesterday. To be honest, I’d been in two minds about going to see her at all; I didn’t know if she knew about the conference and I thought that if I were the one to tell her about it she might be upset that she hadn’t been invited as a guest speaker or something. But the opportunity to call in on her was too good to miss. I was close to her at one time, a sort of pupil of hers, and I’m quite aware that even Claudia can’t go on forever. She must be into her nineties now.”

“Ninety-three, I believe. So, although it was a last-minute decision, you didn’t decide to surprise her?”

“No. Old people don’t like surprises, do they? And I thought that she might have been working on something, old though she is. She still publishes the odd paper. I like to respect people’s working time. I get very annoyed myself when I am disturbed if it scuppers my plans to get something done.”

“How did she sound on the phone?”

“Just the same as usual: Booming, mannish voice; a little combative, but her fierceness was directed not at me but at a kind of confusion that was frustrating her. Pleased to hear from me, I think; she made no attempt to discourage me, which she certainly would have done if I’d been unwelcome. She warned me that she’d been on her own for a few days and that the place was in a bit of a mess. She said that she couldn’t cope with housework in the way that she used to. I thought that she probably meant this as a joke. Claudia has never been the slightest bit interested in things domestic, aside from her immediate creature comforts and, as far as I can recollect, she always used to live in a tip. Even on digs she was messier and more chaotic than most people.”