Death Speaks Softly (7 page)

Madame nodded.
'Bien sur, monsieur.'

'Will you explain,' Webb said awkwardly to Hannah, 'that we'll keep them advised of any developments, but in the meantime there's not much they can do.'

Madame nodded again and replied in French, 'We just wanted to be here.'

'Then we won't keep you any longer. I'll ask Professor Warwick to put someone who speaks French at your disposal, and do please contact us if there's anything we can do.' He scrawled the Maybury Street phone number on the back of his own card and handed it across. With a formal shaking of hands all round, the French couple left them to be shown upstairs to their room.

Webb turned back to Hannah, conscious of Jackson's interest. 'Miss James, I don't know what we'd have done without you. Thank you very much indeed.'

'I'm glad to have been of help.'

'The least I can do is run you up to the university.' He looked at the clock above the reception desk. 'You have twenty minutes in hand.'

'Oh, don't worry, I can—'

'The least I can do,' he repeated, and turned to Jackson. 'Sergeant, will you go on to Maybury Street and report to Inspector Ledbetter? I'll drop Miss James off and join you there. I want a word with the Professor, but I'd better calm down before I approach him. In any case, if he hadn't time for the interview, he won't spare any for me.'

The car, which had been standing in the sun, was unbearably stuffy. Webb opened all the windows, took off his jacket and tossed it on the back seat. 'Perhaps we'll have a hot summer for once.'

Hannah wasn't listening. 'Do you think she's still alive, David?'

'I don't know. The more time that passes, the less likely-it seems.'

He started the car. It was like old times to be discussing a case with Hannah, but he knew better than to say so. At least this second meeting had helped to thaw the atmosphere. He'd go and see her one evening, as soon as he could make it. Now they'd established contact again, she might let him plead his case. It felt unbelievably good to have her beside him as the car climbed steeply up the hill, with the breeze from the open windows lifting their hair. God, he'd missed her—was still missing her.

'Where shall I drop you?'

'The admin building, please. You know where it is?'

'Yes, I ferreted my way round this morning. It's a town in itself, isn't it? Theatre, shops, bank, chapel. How many actually live up here?'

'About a thousand, I think. The rest are scattered round the town and villages in digs or rented houses.'

'You think your girls will plump for it, or has somewhere further afield more glamour?'

'It depends what courses are on offer.'

Webb smiled. 'Me, I'm no academic. I'd come for the view alone.'

'It's marvellous, isn't it? You should paint it. You'd have a ready market here.'

'It's a thought.' He turned to her. 'Thanks again, Hannah. I really appreciate your help.'

'That's all right.' She swung gracefully out of the car. 'Goodbye, David. Thanks for the lift.'

He watched her until she disappeared through the swing doors into the building, then he turned the car and drove back to the town.

Despite the open window, the bedroom was hot with the day's stored sunshine. Beside her, Tom slept peacefully, occasionally emitting a bubbling little snore.

Restlessly Claire turned on her side. Across the silent town the church clock chimed sonorously and she counted the strokes: one, two, three. What a horrible hour to be awake! All the worries she could suppress during daylight seemed to leap out at her, assuming monstrous proportions. Mainly she thought of Arlette. Her parents would have arrived by now. Were they, too, awake, listening to the same clock strike?

Involuntarily, Claire pictured herself in their position, in some strange French town where Sarah was missing. She put her hands to her head to squeeze out the thought.

Who was the older man Edna'd seen with Arlette? She
should
have told Simon. She'd phone him tomorrow. Oh,
please
let the girl turn up safely, and they could all get some sleep.

She turned again, her cotton nightdress sticking to her body. The airlessness of the room suffocated her. Despite deep breaths, she seemed unable to fill her lungs.

Carefully, so as not to disturb Tom, she slid off the bed and padded to the window, silently pushing up the sash and leaning out as far as she could. A faint night breeze was cool on her forehead and damp shoulders. She closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Then she opened them, letting them move over the silver and black garden beneath her.

Their bedroom was at the back of the house, and Claire loved its daytime outlook—the patio directly below with the plants in its edging wall, the splash of geraniums in their tubs, and the flowering shrubs further up the garden, following one another in colourful sequence from spring to autumn. Now, colour was drained away, leaving only light and shade, like an old television set.

Far above her, the sky was speckled with stars. She lifted her head, letting the breeze play over her throat. That was better. Perhaps she'd sleep now. Idly she turned her head to the left, towards the Warwicks' garden—and froze, her fingers clamped on the sill. In the centre of the lawn a figure stood motionless. It must have been there as long as she had—she'd been aware of no movement. A burglar? But why so still? Then, as her eyes focused, she saw it was Bernard, standing with his head flung back as though gazing into the top branches of the trees at the foot of the garden. Had he heard or seen something? What was he
doing
but there at three in the morning, in his pyjamas and dressing-gown?

The breeze felt suddenly chill and Claire shivered. Slowly, so as not to attract his attention—though he was facing away from her—she withdrew inside the window. For a moment she stood hugging herself, stroking her cool bare arms as though for comfort. Perhaps he couldn't sleep, either. But—outside? And how long had he been there?

She went to the bathroom for a glass of water and drank it slowly, sip by sip. By the time she got back to her room, he'd have gone. But when, almost fearfully, she again looked out of the window, he was still there, seeming not to have moved since she'd last seen him. Shivering and perplexed, Claire crept back to bed.

Saturday morning, and Webb was seated at his desk, looking through some reports before leaving for Steeple Bayliss. There was a knock on the door and young Marshbanks looked round it.

'Come in, Simon. What is it?'

'It might not be important, sir, but my mother's
just been on. She says her daily help saw Arlette with a man in a car.' 'When?'

'A week or two ago. They were parked near her digs. Edna can't describe the car—it was dark, and she's not really up on cars anyway. But she saw the back of the man's head, and he had a bald patch.'

'Anything else?'

'Afraid not, sir.'

'Well, we'll look into it. Thanks, Simon. Ask Sergeant Jackson to come in, would you?'

Jackson knocked and entered, his china-blue eyes less bright than usual. Webb grinned at him sympathetically. 'You look as though you've been out on the tiles, Ken.'

'Not exactly the tiles. Millie had a false alarm during the night. I whipped her into hospital and hung around for an hour or so. Then they came and said she's a while to go yet, so I took her home. In a way, I'd rather they'd kept her in. She'd get more rest there.'

'When are the babies due?'

'Tomorrow's the date we were given, but you never know.'

'Well, if she's a while to go, it won't be today. Sit down a minute. I've been going through the reports of the SB team which we collected last night. They've managed to trace a few of Arlette's admirers, but that's as far as it goes. However, according to Simon she was seen with an older man, so we'll have a look at the fathers of the kids she's been coaching and the rest of the tutors. What did you think of the two we saw yesterday?'

'Not much. Lightbody was a bit
too
cooperative— smarmy, almost. And those little eyes behind the glasses. They didn't miss a trick.'

'You think he might fancy Arlette?'

'I wouldn't be surprised. I can see him smacking his lips over a bit of skirt. Still, that doesn't make him a killer.'

'You reckon that's what we're looking for?'

Jackson met his eyes squarely. 'Don't you?'

Webb drummed his fingers on the desk without replying. Then he said, 'What about Duncan?'

Jackson grinned. 'Typical Scot. Gave nothing away, even information. But if it was a two-way thing, he's the more likely bet.'

'Hm. I also intend to have a word with the Professor this morning, whether he thinks he can spare the time or not. What did you make of
him?'

'A rum egg, wasn't he? Like a dummy in a tailor's window,'

'He's living on his nerves. You can almost feel him vibrating.'

'I don't reckon him for any hanky-panky, though. From the look of him, he wouldn't know where to start.'

Webb thought of Jackson's description when, two hours later, they were seated opposite Professor Warwick in his study. Not so much a dummy, he thought, as a robot, whose inner workings were whirring out of control. He'd the uneasy impression that it was several seconds before Warwick had realized who he was. Then his computer-brain reasserted itself.

'You're lucky to find me here on a Saturday, Chief Inspector. I have some work to finish.' His mouth moved in what was intended as a smile. 'I'm sorry you felt I deserted you yesterday. A misunderstanding, apparently.'

'I certainly assumed you'd help with the interview,' Webb said levelly. 'However, we were able to make other arrangements.'

'So I gather.'

'Oh?'

'Madame Picard phoned for an appointment. She's coming to see me in ten minutes, but I'm free until then.'

Webb had finished with him within that time. As he'd indicated the previous day, Warwick seemed to have had few dealings with Arlette. 'Thank you for your help,' Webb finished. 'And we'd better have your address, in case we need to contact you.'

'Fourteen, Lime Tree Grove.' It sounded familiar, though Webb couldn't think why. They took their leave, and as they approached the swing doors at the end of the corridor, Mme Picard came hesitantly through them.

'Good morning, madame. You're looking for Professor Warwick?'

She nodded, returning his greeting with a murmured
'Bonjour.'

The far door on the left. Shall I—?'

'No—please. I—shall manage.' She gave him a brief nod and smile and walked quickly down the length of the corridor.

'I hope he apologizes for dashing off like that,' Webb commented. 'The French are sticklers for politeness.'

Jackson had other things on his mind. 'Guv, that address the Professor gave. Doesn't Simon Marshbanks live in Lime Tree Grove?'

'My God, you're right, Ken! I knew it rang a bell. We'll giv
e him a buzz when we get to May
bury Street.'

'Next door?' Webb repeated over the phone. 'Your people live next door to the Professor?' He knew Marshbanks came from a wealthy family, but to find him in such elevated surroundings was a surprise. 'Do you know him?' He listened intently for a few minutes, made a number of comments,
and r
ang off.

‘T
hat
could be useful,' he t
old Ledbetter and Jackson, who’d
been listening to the one-sided conversation. 'Marsh
bank’
s parents and the Warwicks are friends. It might help to get a personal slant on the po-faced Professor. And since we also need to follow up the info from the daily, I reckon a call is indicated. Phone through, Ken, and see when it would be convenient to pop in. But first, we'll call on the families Arlette coached. They should be home on a Saturday morning.'

CHAPTER 5

Later, Webb reflected ruefully that a bit of judicious eavesdropping at the Professor's door would have saved them a lot of trouble. For as he and Jackson returned to Maybury Street, Cecile Picard and Bernard Warwick confronted each other across a gulf of thirty years.

For some moments they stood gripping each other's hands, too emotional for words. Then Bernard spoke softly in French. 'It really is true, then. When I saw you, at the train door—'

'Yes. For a moment I thought I should faint.'