Almost Love (9 page)

“Indeed. Can you tell me how Dame Claudia was when you left for your holiday? Did she seem ill or depressed?”

“Not at all. In fact, I rather thought that she was looking forward to being on her own for a while. Claudia is well advanced in years, as you know, and quite infirm; she would be utterly unable to live alone for any length of time. But she is fiercely independent.”

“One final question, Ms Halliwell, before we let you go and get some rest: did you take your holiday alone or were you accompanied?”

Jane Halliwell flushed.

“I – I should prefer not to answer that question, Detective Inspector. I can’t imagine why you are asking it. How can my answer possibly help you to find Claudia?”

“You are more intimate with her than anyone else in her life. In fact, it would probably be true to say that your lives are intertwined, would it not?”

She eyed him suspiciously. She seemed affronted.

“I’m not quite sure what you may be implying. But if you say that because you have heard some rumour that Claudia and I are lovers, you can take my word for it that there is absolutely no truth in it.”

“I was not implying anything, Ms Halliwell. I am just asking you for anything that can help us to find Dame Claudia. You don’t have to answer my question. But I’m sure that you can see that knowledge of the whereabouts of intimates of both yourself and Dame Claudia at the time of her disappearance could be helpful.”

“Very well. I can see in that case that my answer might be helpful. I wasn’t on my own, Inspector; I was accompanied by a gentleman friend whom I am not willing to name. All that you need to know is that I met him just before we embarked at Southampton and left him when I departed from Oslo. He has never met Claudia and although she is aware of his existence she does not know his identity. Will that do?”

Tim nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. “I don’t think we can usefully detain you here any longer. It will be more helpful for everyone if you try to get some sleep. Would you like to phone the hotel for a room? Once you’ve made the booking, DC Armstrong will call for a police car to take you there. Perhaps you could leave your mobile number with us. We’ll call you as soon as we can to arrange the visit to the cottage. Could you also let us know if you have any plans to move away from the area? We shall need to know your whereabouts while we are working on this case. We’re bound to need to come back to you for more information about Dame Claudia and her friends and acquaintances.”

Jane Halliwell stood up and smoothed down her immaculate pencil skirt. She held out the birdlike hand again. Tim stood up and grasped it lightly.

“Thank you very much indeed, Detective Inspector,” she said. “I can’t say that you have put my mind at rest, but I am impressed with the thoroughness with which you are dealing with Claudia’s disappearance. Of course I am not intending to leave the area – nothing could be further from my thoughts. As I’ve already explained, my intention is to be as near to the cottage as possible against Claudia’s return. I can only hope that there is a simple explanation for all of this. Though I must say . . .” – her voice rose, and she dabbed at her cheek just below her eye – “I have wracked my brains to think of what it might be and come up with an absolute blank!”

Tim nodded sympathetically. Juliet went to put a tentative arm around Jane. He watched with interest as she shook it off; almost imperceptibly, it was true, but, however slight the action, it was still rejection of an offer of compassion. An interesting woman, he decided. He wondered exactly how much she knew about Claudia’s professional life and her friends. He guessed that not much escaped Jane Halliwell’s notice.

“Oh, DC Armstrong,” he called after Juliet’s retreating back, “could you come back when you’ve assisted Ms Halliwell? There are a couple of things I need you to help with.”

Chapter Ten

“Well, what did you make of her?” Tim asked when Juliet returned some twenty minutes later.

“Quite a brave lady,” said Juliet. “She’s obviously very upset, but trying to help as much as she can by adopting a practical approach.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“Yes, sir. Otherwise I wouldn’t say it.”

Tim laughed. “Of course not. I should know better. But didn’t you find anything at all odd about her?”

Juliet considered, her head on one side in an attitude that he knew well.

“Not exactly odd,” she said slowly. “I found her surprising in some ways. The way she was dressed, for one thing, and that general air that she has of being quite wealthy. She doesn’t quite square with my notion of the lady’s companion.”

“Go on,” said Tim.

“She seems too independent – too well-educated, almost. But I guess that’s an absurd thing to say, because Claudia McRae is no ordinary little old lady wanting someone to fetch her slippers and entertain her with fireside chatter. I’m sure that there is strong intellectual stimulus on both sides.”

“There’d have to be, wouldn’t there, if you lived out in the wilds as they do, miles from the next house, and hardly ever went anywhere? But talking of stimulus – why do you think she went out of her way to tell me that she wasn’t a lesbian?”

“She didn’t actually say that, sir. She said that there was no truth in the rumour that she and Claudia McRae were lovers. That doesn’t mean that either or both of them couldn’t have female lovers.”

“Of course you’re right,” said Tim. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“But even so, the chances are that Ms Halliwell is not gay. She mentioned her gentleman lover, after all.”

“Now it’s my turn to split hairs. She didn’t say he was a lover: just that she was with him, and that she’d prefer not to reveal his name. She made a great fuss of keeping it a secret. Didn’t you think that there was more to that than met the eye? She seemed determined to draw attention to this man by keeping his identity mysterious.”

“I didn’t quite see it like that, sir.”

“How did you see it?”

“I just assumed that she’d gone on holiday with a married lover and that she refused to say who he was to protect his marriage.”

“That would be one explanation, I suppose.”

“What other explanation could there be?”

“What? Oh, I can think of several. The person concerned could really have been a woman, for a start; or, man or woman, it could have been someone that she didn’t want to name to the police, not because she was protecting a third party, but because it was part of some kind of plan. Or the relationship is an innocent one, but she wants us to think there is more to it. Or possibly, even, she was on the cruise on her own, but wanted us to think that she was accompanied.”

Tim had wandered over to the window and he stood with his back to Juliet.

“I can find out from the cruise company whether she shared a cabin with anyone and, if so, where and when they boarded. I believe that the boat stops in Rotterdam and Copenhagen to pick up passengers after it leaves Southampton. The British tourists embark first.”

“Good idea,” said Tim, turning round briefly. “Do that, will you? And, even if she had a single cabin, get hold of the entire passenger list. It might tell us something. It’s worth a try, anyway.”

“Yes, sir,” said Juliet. She turned to leave.

“He’s there again,” said Tim excitedly, pointing through the window. “I thought I saw him. He’s walking this way now, so we might get a look at his face. Come quickly, I want you to see him.”

Juliet hastened to the window. The thick-set man in the hat and hooded anorak was passing on the other side of the road, just a few yards from where they stood. He was still wearing the hat, but the hood was down now.

“Do you recognise him?” said Tim.

“I’m not sure that I do,” said Juliet. “His face looks familiar, though.”

“Damn!” said Tim. “I thought you’d be sure to know who he was. I’m certain that I’ve seen him somewhere else myself. Keep a look out for him, and let me know if he comes past here again, will you?”

Chapter Eleven

Later that morning Juliet knocked on Tim’s door again.

“I have the results from Forensics.”

“And?”

“The blood is certainly human; and it isn’t Dame Claudia’s.”

“How do you know?”

“Her doctor told me her blood group when I called her yesterday. Claudia’s is O positive. The blood on the wall was A positive. It also belonged to a man.”

“There can’t be any doubt about it?”

“None.”

“Can you find out Guy Maichment’s blood group for me? And Oliver Sparham’s?”

“I can if you think it will help,” said Juliet doubtfully. Tim realised that he had stopped her in her tracks.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because we’ve been told that the arc of blood on the wall came from an artery. Its owner sustained a very serious, if not a fatal, injury. Whoever he is, he won’t just have a little scratch.”

“Of course. I wasn’t thinking. In that case, I’ve no idea whom it could belong to. Have you?”

“Not yet. But I do have something else that might help us to find out. The tour company has sent me the passenger list from Jane Halliwell’s cruise. I haven’t had time to work through it yet, except to check that Jane was on board. And she did have a single cabin – a deluxe outer cabin with a window.”

“So we don’t know who her gentleman companion was?”

“Not yet. I shall have to work through the list carefully to try to find out his identity.”

Tim was aware that Juliet loved puzzles of this kind. He didn’t like to dampen her enthusiasm – and in this instance he knew that she was right; it was definitely worth checking the list to try to identify Jane’s ‘friend’. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to advise caution. She had been known to waste her energies on wild goose chases that had lasted for days.

“She may still have invented him. Look by all means, but don’t spend too much time on it. And do tell me why you think that there’s a link between the cruise guest list and the blood on the wall – I’m always fascinated by your hunches,” he added, to soften the blow when he saw Juliet’s face fall.

“You’ll probably think that it’s very tenuous – I suppose that it is. But Blood Group A is the most common blood group in Norway.”

“I’m sorry; I don’t follow.”

“The bulk of Jane’s holiday was in Norway, either cruising up and down the fjords, or stopping off at towns along the way. As far as I can tell, Dame Claudia spent most or all of the Second World War in Norway and some of her friends were very right wing, especially a Dr Elida Berg who dropped from view before the war ended. And although three quarters of the people on that cruise were British or Dutch, most of the others were Scandinavian, Norwegians especially. I can start with the male Norwegians: find out if any of them has a criminal record, at least.”

“I think I can see what you’re getting at,” said Tim slowly, “though there are some leaps of logic in there that defeat me. And if Jane herself has a right-wing Norwegian friend, might he not equally be someone that she just met when she was there? Not someone who went on the cruise at all?”

“That’s a possibility. But she said that she was accompanied on the cruise by a friend.”

“That doesn’t mean that she was telling the truth.”

“Of course not. But as you know, an accomplished liar sticks as closely to the truth as possible.”

“I thought that you liked her?”

“I do – did. But there was something about her that didn’t add up. I didn’t understand why she wanted to incarcerate herself in that house in the wood, especially when she had quite a successful career. So I decided to find out a bit more about her. It wasn’t difficult – I just made enquiries at Lincoln University. She’s still a research fellow there and publishes stuff through her old department occasionally. I wanted to know what her subject was.”

“And?”

“Politics. Extreme right-wing politics – she wrote her thesis on the rise of Fascism in Europe. In the university website’s profile of her she claims to be a dispassionate researcher who embraces no political affiliations of her own. But having read some of the stuff that she’s written, I think that that is doubtful.”

Tim whistled.

“So I may pursue my line of enquiry, at least for a reasonable time, to see if I can get any further results?”

“Yes,” said Tim. “For a reasonable time. Well done, Juliet.” Her deep-set eyes behind the unattractive spectacles were shining.

“There’s one other thing, sir.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve printed off several papers that were written by Dr Berg in the 1930s, but they’re all in Norwegian. Do I remember that you once told me that Katrin speaks some Norwegian?”

“She does, but I’m not sure that she would be able to translate academic stuff. The language might be too specialised. You could give her a try, though. You don’t have to ask me; I’m not her boss.” Tim sounded tarter than he intended.

“Thank you, sir,” said Juliet, eyeing him keenly. “It was just a courtesy. I’ll phone her this afternoon. I can e-mail the papers to her, but perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking the print-outs home with you, always assuming that she’ll do it.”

“Of course,” said Tim. “Leave them in an envelope on my desk. And now I must catch up with Thornton. I’ve got to convince him that we’re on to something and ask him to get us more help.”

Chapter Twelve

Tim and Katrin had recently bought a house on the Edinburgh estate, a post-war housing development that had been built partly to replace houses that had been damaged by bombs, partly to provide new accommodation for the town’s burgeoning professional class. Their house had been described as a ‘chalet bungalow’ by the estate agent. This apparently meant that it was a bungalow with one bedroom tucked away under the eaves that had to be reached by means of a folding stepladder, as well as the two downstairs bedrooms. The bathroom, kitchen and sitting-room were all downstairs. The ‘dining-room’ was an alcove in the sitting room, which ran the length of the house. It was entered from the hall through double sliding glass doors. The hall itself was large enough to contain some plants in large pots, an old-fashioned hall-stand (an heirloom from one of Tim’s grandmothers) and a cat basket.

Tim passed Katrin’s car in the drive and entered through the front door as usual. The muted noise of a television turned down low was coming from the sitting-room. Katrin was curled up on the sofa, her eyes glued to the screen.

“Hello, darling,” said Tim. “I’m glad we’ve both got home on time, for once.”

“Shhh,” said Katrin, holding up her hand in admonishment, “and look!”

Tim perched on the arm of the sofa and focused on what she was watching. It was a close-up of Superintendent Thornton, his uniform spick and span, his hair brushed severely off his forehead. He was reading from a prepared statement. All that could be seen of his audience was a couple of dozen microphones of varying sizes and textures arrayed at the bottom of the screen. He completed his statement and glared at the phalanx of microphones.

“Any questions?” he asked gravely.

The camera zoomed away from him, to show the front row of a large crowd of journalists.

“Have the police made any progress on this case yet?” asked one reporter in an impertinent voice.

“I’m not at liberty to answer that question.”

“Superintendent, what do you yourself think has happened to Dame Claudia?”

“It would be foolish in the extreme for me to speculate. No police officer would do that – as I’m sure you are aware.”

“Superintendent, is there any truth in the rumour that bloodstains were found at Dame Claudia’s cottage?”

Only Tim, who knew his mannerisms so well, recognised the look of fury that fleetingly crossed the Superintendent’s face before he composed his features into his usual media-repelling frown and answered smoothly.

“None whatsoever. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must draw this press conference to a close.”

“Wait for it,” Tim groaned, smiling ruefully. “If he hasn’t called my mobile in the next five minutes, I’ll be amazed.”

Superintendent Thornton’s back was seen retreating through a door. The camera turned its attention to the anchorman.

“The police would like to appeal to anyone who has seen Dame Claudia, or who has any information that may lead to her whereabouts, to contact them immediately. Please call South Lincolnshire Police on . . . .”

“Good God!” said Katrin.

“What?” asked Tim, alarmed. He turned to face her. She was staring fiercely at the screen again. Returning to it himself, Tim saw the photograph of Dame Claudia that Guy Maichment had given him at their first meeting. It was a relatively recent three-quarters picture of her dressed in trousers and a baggy jumper. She was wearing her spectacles and a large gardening hat. The photo was slightly out of focus, but the TV camera zoomed in again in an attempt to portray her face in as much detail as possible.

“Is that her?” Katrin demanded. “The woman that you’ve been looking for?”

“Claudia McRae? Yes, of course. I’m surprised you haven’t seen that picture before. It was on the news last night as well and it’s been plastered over the papers.”

“You were out yesterday evening and I didn’t bother with the news; I didn’t see the paper, either. But, good God!”

“Why do you keep saying that? What’s wrong?”

“I was in Boston today, and I swear that I saw that woman.”

“You couldn’t have done!”

“Why not? Are you saying that because you think that she’s dead? You don’t have any proof of that, do you? And besides, I’m quite certain. There can’t be two people like her living in this area. She wasn’t wearing the hat, but she had spectacles on, and she was dressed in trousers and some kind of bulky coat.”

“Was she alone?”

“No. She was walking with a stick – she seemed to have some difficulty in walking – and someone was helping her. She was holding on to his arm.”

“She was with a man? Can you describe him?”

“Yes. He was middle-aged and not very tall. And quite thickset. But I didn’t see his face – it was turned towards her.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Fairly nondescript clothes. I’m sorry – I don’t sound very observant, do I? I would have taken more notice if I’d known who it was. But his clothes were very ordinary: dark-coloured and casual. That’s all I can remember.”

“Where was this?”

“There’s a little passageway beside the hospital. They came out of it and walked towards the disabled car park.”

“Did anyone else see them?”

“I suppose they must have. It was mid-morning; it was quite busy. I was walking – I’d had to park in the Tunnard Street car park, because the one in Sibsey Road was full. I wasn’t really close to them, but I’m quite certain it was the woman in the photograph.”

“Did she look happy? Oppressed? Did you hear her say anything?”

“No to all of those questions. If anything, she looked frail. She was finding it difficult to walk and she was concentrating hard. The man was encouraging her. She seemed to trust him well enough.”

Tim’s mobile started ringing. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling.

“Yes, Superintendent. Yes, I saw it – I saw your interview just now. No, no idea whatsoever. No, that’s not possible. I think that the most likely explanation is that he was guessing. I’m certain that the SOCOs wouldn’t have given anything away. Yes, I know it’s infuriating – I was annoyed myself. But you handled it very well, sir. There’s something else I have to tell you. It’s urgent,” he added, as the tirade issuing from the mobile continued. It subsided gradually.

“I’m at home, sir. Katrin’s here, too, and she says that she saw Claudia McRae this morning, in Boston. I don’t know – where was it, exactly?” he asked, turning to Katrin. “I’ll put you on speak,” he added.

“In the disabled car park near the Pilgrim Hospital,” said Katrin flatly.

“Are you quite certain?” crackled the disembodied voice.

“Yes, absolutely certain. Tim’s already asked me that.” Katrin sounded sullen and unforbearing – not at all her usual self, Tim thought. He looked at her more closely. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was very pale. Even Superintendent Thornton had caught the peevishness of her tone.

“Would you mind coming in to the police station? Now?” he asked. “Both of you.”

“Of course,” said Tim. “I was almost on my way anyway.”

Katrin sighed.

“So much for an evening in together,” she said, more or less to herself. “I’ll be with Tim, sir,” she added. “Just give me a few minutes to change.” For the first time, Tim noticed that she was wearing her dressing-gown. “Goodbye, sir,” he said. “We’ll see you shortly.” He switched off the phone.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Since you ask, no I’m not,” she replied. “But I daresay that it will keep until Thornton’s bled me dry of any information that I might have. What happens to you after that? Will you go rushing off to Boston?”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” said Tim. “You come first, of course.”

They both knew that, within the context of what had just happened, this simply wasn’t true.