Death Speaks Softly (8 page)

'It's unbelievable, meeting after all these years. Fate, obviously.'

Her ringers moved protestingly in his. 'Arlette rather than fate,
mon cher?
She gave a little shudder. 'You think she is all right, Bernard? We will find her?'

'God willing, my love.'

She didn't register the endearment. 'I'm so frightened,' she said in a low voice, 'and Gaston—'

'Ah yes, the worthy Gaston. How did you give him the slip?'

'I—beg your pardon?'

'It would have been natural, surely, for him to come
here
with you?' His voice sharpened. 'He doesn't know?'

She shook her head. 'No, no. I said nothing. What purpose would it serve?' She moved away from him, walking :c the window and looking down over the bustling, sunlit world of the campus. 'He is not strong, my husband. Today he suffers with migraine. Strain always affects him that way.' Her voice sank, and he moved closer to catch what she was saying. 'I heard him in the night, weeping hopelessly.'

Bernard said sharply, 'He should put a brave face on it, for your sake.'

She turned with a smile. 'I had forgotten how English you are. But yes, it is necessary to hide my fears, to avoid adding to his.'

Bernard caught her hand, gripping it painfully. 'You have me, now,
mignonne,
and I'm strong. You can lean on me.'

She closed her eyes briefly, letting the reassurance of his strength flow through her. Then, gently, she removed her hand.

'My dear, we parted as lovers, but we meet now as friends.

I am married to a good man and have four children. What was between us ended thirty years ago.' He started to speak, but she continued quickly, 'And you also are married, and have children?'

'No children.' He spoke roughly and she frowned, eyes searching his face. 'I married only ten years ago. It was a mistake. If I'd waited—'

'No, no,' she interrupted. 'You must not think like that.'

He said jerkily, 'I went straight back, you know, after the quarrel. On the next boat. But you'd vanished completely. Your parents said you'd left Paris and wanted nothing more to do with me. I argued and begged, but they wouldn't tell me where you were.'

She said quietly, 'I'd no idea. They said nothing to me.'

He shrugged. 'None of our friends knew your whereabouts, and it's been the same ever since. I go back each year, walking the streets we walked, sitting in the same cafes. And I ask everyone I see—concierges, barmen, even gendarmes, if they know of you. They never do.'

She said gently, 'I left Paris when you did, to stay with my aunt in Angers. I met Gaston almost immediately, and we married six months later.'

'On the rebound.'

'Perhaps. But I love him, Bernard, as you love your wife.'

He shook his head vehemently. 'I have never loved anyone else, nor shall I. And now that I've found you—'

She said quickly, 'I came to speak of Arlette. Please, my dear. I can think of nothing else.'

'Of course. We'll wait till she's found before we tell them.'

She stared at him, perplexed, then abandoned the attempt to understand him. 'Tell me, when did you see her last? Was she well?'

With an effort he controlled himself. He mustn't add to her worries as her husband was doing. After thirty years, he could wait a few more days. His habitual restraint came to his aid, his breathing steadied, and he smiled at her.

'Sit down, my dear. I'll ring for coffee, then I'll tell you all I know about your daughter.'

As the police car drew up, Rob Palfry was playing a hose over the gleaming car in his driveway. He turned, his eyes narrowed against the sun, surprised by the unexpected visitors. Webb took in his appearance in one swift, experienced glance. Medium height, slightly overweight, thinning brown hair. The arms below the short-sleeved shirt were muscular and strong.

'Can I help you?' he asked warily, as Webb and Jackson approached.

'I hope so, sir.' Webb identified himself. 'We're inquiring into the disappearance of Miss Arlette Picard.' 'Oh God, yes,' Palfry said, and flushed. 'You know her, I believe?'

'Not personally, but my children do. She gives them French lessons.'

'Could we have a word with them?'

'I suppose so. Just a minute, I'll call my wife.' He paused, added rather unwillingly, 'You'd better come inside.'

The policemen followed him up the path, the gravel dazzling in the midday sun. He pushed open the front door and called, 'Liz! Can you come?'

'Not at the moment,' came the reply. 'Why do you
always
want me when I'm covered in flour?'

Palfry glanced at the silent men beside him, walked quickly to the kitchen and pushed open the door. 'The police are here,' he said shortly.

'The
police?'

'About Arlette.'

'Oh God, she isn't—?'

'She isn't anything, as far as I know, but they want to speak to us. All of us. Where are the twins?'

'I don't know. Una was practising a minute ago. She's probably gone outside.'

There was a sound of running water, then her husband moved aside and she came into the hall. Webb repeated his introduction and Mrs Palfry nodded nervously. She had unusually black hair in a ragged urchin cut, and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt.

'I think the girls are outside,' she said. 'Do come in— fancy keeping you standing in the hall!' She threw a reproving glance at her husband and opened a door on the left. They all moved inside. Beyond the open patio doors, two teenaged girls lounged in deckchairs on the still-shadowed patio. Their father called them indoors.

'The police, asking about Arlette. Our daughters, Una and Zoe.' The girls, completely identical as far as Jackson could see, were as dark as their mother. They had asserted such individuality as they could by dressing differently, one in shorts and shirt, one in dungarees. They looked about seventeen. Jackson studied them, his eyes moving from one small, pointed face to the other. Twins fascinated him. Would his own be boys or girls? And, oh God, how was Millie? He'd ring her during the lunch break.

'Now, tell us all you can about Miss Picard,' Webb began, when they were all seated. 'How long has she been coming here?'

'Since before Christmas.' It was Mrs Palfry who replied. 'She put an advertisement in the local newsagent's, and since the girls have A-levels coming up, it seemed a good idea to give them a booster.'

'How often does she come?'

'Every Thursday, for two hours.'

The usual questions followed. Had she spoken of any friends, any plans she might have made? Apparently she had not.

Webb said casually, 'Do you run her home afterwards, Mr Palfry?'

The man started and flushed again. 'No, I do not,' he said emphatically. 'She's old enough to look after herself.'

He paused, realized the inappropriateness of his words, and added lamely, 'Anyway, it's less than five minutes' walk.'

'So you know where she lives?'

'She—mentioned it once.'

'I thought you hadn't met her?'

'I didn't say I hadn't
met
her.' There were beads of sweat on his upper lip, and one of the twins giggled nervously. Her father glared at her. 'I said I don't
know
her, and no more I do.'

'So she's never been in your car, for example?'

'Look, what is this? How many times do I—'

'Purely routine, sir. I presume you've no objection if we examine it? We'll try not to inconvenience you.'

The man stared at him, his deep colour ebbing away to leave his skin pasty white. He shook his head without speaking.

'You've just been cleaning it, I see. Inside as well as out?' Palfry moistened his lips. 'I—took the brush and dustpan to it.'

'Well, please don't do any more. Someone will collect it this afternoon. We won't keep it longer than we have to.' He looked round the circle of anxious faces. 'And if you think of anything else, you know where to find us.'

'Any thoughts, Ken?' he asked, as they drove out of Westfield Road.

'Well, it surprised me, you asking for the car. Bit early for that, isn't it?'

'In the normal way, yes. But he seemed jumpy, and he
had
been hosing it down. OK, so a lot of men clean their cars on Saturdays. Call it a shot in the dark, to see how he'd react.'

'He reacted all right. Got really hot under the collar.' 'Yes. I wonder why.'
'And
he's got a bald patch.'

Webb smiled. 'Quite. We'll see what the SOCOs find.' Tewkesbury Close, the home of the Morgan family, was

up Gloucester Road, towards the top of the hill. On the way they passed the turning to Lime Tree Grove. 'Three o'clock at the Marshbanks',' Jackson commented. 'I meant to tell you.'

'Fine. When we've seen this lot, we'll stop for lunch.' 'Back to the boat?'

'No, we'll try that place we've just passed, the Lamb and Flag. I could murder a pint right now.'

The Morgan family reacted more calmly to the arrival of the police. The father was tall, well-built—and balding. But dammit, thought Webb impatiently, so was half the male population of SB. His heavy lids and full mouth gave him a sensuous look which might have been misleading, and though he betrayed no anxiety, he seemed, Webb felt, to be keeping a tight rein on himself.

The mother was of little interest to the police, fair-haired and pleasant-looking, and the children, a boy and girl in their late teens, answered straightforwardly enough. Arlette came to the house on Monday evenings, from six o'clock till eight. Only when Webb raised the matter of a lift home did he sense a ripple of unease.

'Oh, certainly,' Mrs Morgan was answering. 'Nigel always runs her back. It's a mile or more to her lodgings.'

'I see.' Webb looked at Morgan. The man's eyes flickered but did not drop. He decided to repeat his ploy. Scenes of Crime would bless him for this. 'You won't object if we examine your car, sir?'

Morgan frowned. 'Why should you want to? You've heard the girl's been in it.'

'Just routine,' Webb said soothingly. 'When was the last time you saw her?'

He was still looking at Morgan, but it was his wife who replied. 'Monday evening, as usual.'

'And you took her home, sir?'

'I dropped her off, yes. I go on to bowls, so it's not out of my way. I play at the club every Monday.'

'Did she seem any different from usual? Or mention any plans for the next day?'

But he knew the answer before he asked it. Either Arlette Picard kept her affairs to herself, or those in whom she confided had no intention of betraying such confidence.

'Right, Ken,' Webb said resignedly, fastening his seat-belt, 'The Lamb and Flag next stop.' He glanced at his sergeant's set face. 'And you can ring Millie while we wait for the grub.' He grinned. 'Quite a coincidence, wasn't it, seeing twins? Hope yours aren't as alike as that—you'd never tell them apart.'

'I don't care what they look like as long as they get a move on,'
Jackson said tensely. 'Right, Guv, the Lamb and Flag coming up. Let's hope they serve real ale.'

Webb had vaguely supposed that had he been blessed with money, he'd have chosen to live in an old house. The Marshbanks obviously felt otherwise. Lime Tree Grove, high above the town, was a twelve-year-old development of what estate agents called 'executive houses'. The trees which gave the road its name stood at regular intervals along the kerb, and in addition a landscaped plot of grass, shrubs and conifers filled the pavement alongside the Marshbanks' house. No. 14 was directly behind it.

Mr Marshbanks opened the door, looking ridiculously like his son. Or vice versa. He had the same stocky figure, bright, boot-button eyes and rosy complexion. He even had a double crown like Simon's, which ensured that a tuft of black hair stood upright, despite all attempts to flatten it.

'Delighted to meet you, Webb!' he said, warmly shaking the Chief Inspector's hand. 'We know you well by name. Claire, the police are here.'

Mrs Marshbanks rose from a chair as they were shown into the sitting-room. As he took her hand, Webb felt an unexpected spurt of pleasure. There was something instantly attractive about Claire Marshbanks—in her welcoming smile, her brown eyes, her honey-blonde hair, that created a feeling of warmth. Here was a woman at peace with herself and her world. In other circumstances, he thought with a tinge of regret, they could have been friends. It was a lot to read into a smile and a handshake, but he was sure he was right.