Death Speaks Softly (2 page)

Occasionally, shyly, she'd force the issue. 'Do you like my new dress, Bernard?' Or, 'Did you enjoy the chicken? It's a new recipe.' No hint that she'd spent the entire day marinating, stuffing and basting. But whatever the question, his reply never varied. 'Yes, dear, it's very nice.'

Sometimes, yearning for confirmation of his love, she'd touch his hand, yet though he'd smile and pat her arm, she felt unaccountably that she'd embarrassed him. But then Bernard wasn't like other men, and she shouldn't expect him to be. He was brilliant—everyone said so. He could have had anyone he wanted—and he had chosen her. The wonder of it still amazed her. So—what was she worrying about? She gave herself a little shake and, as she walked briskly through to the kitchen, was already planning the evening meal.

Late that night, a man lay staring into the darkness, oblivious of his wife sleeping beside him. Silly little bitch—what did she think she was playing at? It wasn't as if he'd taken her by surprise. He'd made it pretty clear what he wanted.

And she hadn't objected to his kisses, he thought, pulses racing at the memory of rounded limbs and fluttering eyes. But when she'd really got him going, when he could hardly contain himself, she'd just pulled away, glanced at her watch, and announced that she had a train to catch! A
train!
He'd thought she was joking, had laughed and buried his mouth in her neck. But she began struggling, pushing at his hands, and he'd felt the accelerated beat of her heart.

'Please no, monsieur!' (Monsieur! Made him sound about ninety!) 'I assure you, it is true. I have an appointment, in Shillingham.'

'Then he'll have to wait, won't he, till we've finished here.'

'But you don't understand! I must demand that you return me to town.'

'Demand?' He'd stared at her, aware even then that the imperious word had been only a slip in translation.

'Beg,' she amended swiftly.
'Je vous implore, monsieur. On m'attend.'

No wonder he'd lost his temper. All that startled innocence all of a sudden. Who was she kidding? Everyone knew about French girls.

God, he'd been a fool to get involved with her! But she was so luscious, so golden, like a ripe peach he longed to sink his teeth into. He groaned softly in the darkness, turning his head from side to side till his wife stirred in her sleep.

Well, he'd taught her a lesson, anyway. And serve her right, playing fast and loose like that. There were names for girls like her. But he wished to God it hadn't happened, that he could turn the clock back. That was one mistake he'd never make again. The only consolation was that neither would she.

Philip Baker stormed into the tutors' common room and flung his briefcase on the table.

'Yet again that bloody French girl hasn't showed up. Talk about unreliable! She didn't phone in, did she?'

Mark Lennard looked up from his papers. 'Not that I've heard.'

'It's the second time in ten days, for God's sake. Last week it was something to do with her liver.'

Mark laughed. 'The French are obsessed with their livers. Surely you know that?'

'What I do know is there's no one available at such short notice to take her class. She seems to think she can come and go as she pleases.'

'Calm down, Phil! What about a spot
of
entente cordiale?
The girl's probably ill.'

'Then I'd feel a damn sight more
cordiale
if she'd inform me of the fact.'

It wasn't until Arlette Picard failed to return to her lodgings on Wednesday evening that anyone registered more than annoyance at her absence.

'I wonder what's keeping her?' Mrs King said worriedly, gazing out of the window. 'She's always back by this time —she knows we eat at seven.'

'She thinks it's too early—she told me,' her daughter volunteered.

'Well, I'm sorry about that, but I'm not going to change the habits of a lifetime to suit her ladyship. When in Rome, do as Rome does.' She glanced again at her watch. 'You'd think she'd phone if she was going to be this late. She's usually good about that.'

'Why not ring the university? She might still be in the Library.'

'Not this late, surely.'

Iris shrugged, returning to her magazine, and after a minute her mother went to the phone. But when she succeeded in locating someone from the French Department, the news was not reassuring.

'Iris, she hasn't been in today!'

'That's odd.' Iris frowned. 'How did she leave it yesterday?'

'She said she'd a date in Shillingham that afternoon, and as she hadn't a class till mid-morning, she'd probably spend the night there.'

'With Sophie, I suppose. That's where she stayed a fortnight ago.'

'That's what I thought. So I didn't expect her last night, and I supposed she'd go straight to work this morning. But if she never turned up—' Mrs King turned, staring at her daughter. 'Sophie's an au pair, isn't she? Do you know the name of the family?'

'No.' Iris stared back at her. 'God, I hope she's all right.'

'Who was she meeting in Shillingham, have you any idea?'

'Simon Marshbanks, I should think.' 'Give him a ring, love. He may know something.' But Simon wasn't in, and his flatmate didn't know when he'd be back.

'I shouldn't worry, Mum,' Iris said bracingly. 'He's probably with her now. If they'd arranged to meet tonight too, she might have stayed on and skipped the class. I wouldn't put it past her.'

'Perhaps you're right. Well, I'm not going to hold supper any longer. I'll leave Arlette's in the oven.'

Nevertheless, they spent an uneasy evening, their ears tuned for the sound of the front door. But it never came. When Mrs King went to the kitchen last thing to let the cat out, she found the oven still on. She took out the plate, stared blankly at the dried-up food on it, and tipped it into the bin. Then she gave a superstitious little shudder. If there was no word from Arlette by the morning, she'd have to contact the police.

CHAPTER 2

Detective Chief Inspector David Webb stood in his office staring moodily out of the window. Below him, the gravel driveway shimmered in the sunlight, and the lawn with its fishpond in the centre lay smooth as brushed velvet. Beyond the gateway, on Carrington Street, women shoppers in gaily coloured dresses hurried past. Out there in the sunshine everyone seemed happy and full of purpose. He sighed deeply.

'What is it, Dave?' Alan Crombie inquired from behind him. 'You've an aura like a thundercloud this morning.' 'Sorry, I'm just thoroughly browned off.' 'On a gorgeous day like this?'

'Particularly on a gorgeous day like this. Half the trouble is having nothing interesting to do. We've not had a case to get our teeth into for weeks, and I'm up to here with paperwork.'

Half the trouble, he had said. And the other half was Hannah. More specifically, having caught sight of her yesterday evening, going into the Grand Theatre on the arm of some dark, self-satisfied-looking bastard. Furthermore, it was the second time in just over two weeks he'd seen her in the same company. No wonder the bloke looked pleased with himself.

God, he must have been mad, losing his cool that way over Susie. Having been married to her for eleven years, he should have known there was no chance in hell of their coming back together. Instead of which, he'd allowed the old chemistry to flare up again, and all three of them had been hurt. He and Susan had at least gone into it with their eyes open, but how could Hannah be expected to understand? And that was nearly eight months ago. Eight months of putting off contacting her, telling himself that, living in the same building, they'd be sure to bump into each other. But Hannah had taken care that they shouldn't, and who could blame her? So why should he be surprised, now, to see her with someone else?

There was a tap on the door. He ignored it, and after a moment Alan called, 'Come in.'

'Excuse me, sir—' Young Marshbanks, by the sound of

it.

'Yes?' He went on staring out of the window. 'Could I have a word?'

With a sigh, Webb turned. The detective-constable looked across at him apologetically, his usually cheerful face subdued.

'All right, Simon. What is it?'

Alan Crombie pushed back his chair, murmured something about checking records, and left the room.

'Well, sir, I don't want to speak out of turn, and strictly speaking this isn't our business—'

'Suppose you start at the beginning?' Webb suggested heavily.

'Yes, sir. Well, there's a French girl I know, sir, and she's very interested in horses.' Marshbanks flushed, noting his superior's raised eyebrow. 'She's been on at me for weeks to show her round the stables, so I fixed it with the station sergeant for Tuesday afternoon. And she never turned up.'

'Simon,' Webb began warningly, 'if you're proposing to enlist me to sort out your love-life—'

'No, sir, really. The point is, she should have arrived on the two-thirty from Steeple Bayliss, but she didn't, and no one's seen her since. Her landlady's daughter's just been on, asking if I know where she is.'

'I hope you advised her to get in touch with their local station?'

'Yes, sir, but—well, there are one or two things we could do more easily at this end. I don't want to butt in on their territory, but—'

'And exactly what could we do better at this end?'

'She told her landlady she might stay Tuesday night with a friend in Shillingham, an au pair. But they don't know the name of the family. All Iris could tell me was that they live near the Golf Club and have a little boy called Ben. I thought perhaps if we contacted the playgroups or primary schools in the Lethbridge Road area—'

'Is this an official inquiry?' Webb interrupted.

'No, sir. Not yet.'

Webb sighed. 'Then you know as well as I do that our hands are tied. What's this French girl of yours doing over here, anyway?'

'She's at the university, sir, working for her Ph.D. But she also takes conversation classes, and does a bit of coaching.'

'Well, leave it with me.' He looked at his watch. 'It's twelve-twenty now. I'll phone SB after lunch and see if they could use a bit of help. That satisfy you?'

'Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'

Lunch in the Brown Bear raised Webb's spirits marginally, and, noting Marshbanks's carefully bent head as he returned to his office, he decided to give Chris Ledbetter a buzz as promised. Anything to postpone a return to the paperwork.

'Dave! Talk about coincidence! Were your ears burning?' 'No, why?'

'I was just wondering if I could justify getting in touch with you. I don't know if you heard, but I broke my ankle a couple of weeks back.' He brushed aside Webb's expressions of concern. 'Oh, I can hobble to work—just. Happy calls for me and drives me home afterwards, but once here, I'm pretty well desk-bound, which is bloody frustrating, as you can imagine.'

'And where do I come in?'

'Well, a case has just cropped up and I'm not sure I like the smell of it. Girl seems to have vanished—and a French girl, at that.'

'Well, well!' Webb commented. 'You're right about coincidence. That's why I was ringing you.' He explained about Marshbanks's concern.

'Yes, that's the one, all right. I've had my lads out this morning making routine inquiries, but no one's falling over themselves to cooperate. Look, have you a lot on at the moment?'

'Damn all. I'd be glad of something to do. I'll clear it with the Super and be right over.'

'Fine. But, Dave, before you come, have another word with that lad of yours. Anything at all on this girl could be crucial.'

Simon Marshbanks sat across the desk from Webb, Sergeant Jackson at his side.

'It seems,' the DCI was saying, 'that SB are taking this seriously, and they'd like us to give them a hand. So tell me everything you can about this girl, Simon. Damn it, I don't even know her name.'

'Arlette Picard, sir.'

'Description?'

'Quite tall—five-six or seven. Fair hair, sometimes in a plait and sometimes loose. Blue eyes. Weight about eight and a half stone.'

'Age?'

'Twenty-four, I think she said. She's been through a French university—it's a doctorate she's working on here.' 'And how did you meet her?'

'Through a friend of mine, Peter Campbell. She's in digs next door to him.'

'Landlady's name and address?' 'Mrs King, Twenty-four, Farthing Lane.' 'Do you know the girl's home address?' 'No, but she comes from Angers.' 'Spell it.'