Manna from Hades (19 page)

“Like Donaldson. Are you going to try for a warrant to search his house?”

“I suppose so. At least I might be able to tell whether he left voluntarily. Though I doubt they’ll grant a warrant till he’s been missing a bit longer.”

“I take it he’s not married, since no mention’s been made of a wife. He probably has a daily. She might know something useful.”

“Good point. But with any luck he’ll have turned up by the time I get back.” They entered the station and studied the departure board. “Damn, I’ve just missed a train.”

“That was a slow one, look. The next is an express. You’d better buck up and get your ticket.”

“Yes.” Ken checked his watch against the station clock. “Meggie—Megan—do you ever think of transferring back to the Met?”

“Never. I love Cornwall.”

“Pity. We’d make a good team.”

On the job or off it? she wondered. “We didn’t do too well at the pub, letting the people we wanted get away.”

“True,” he said ruefully. “But you have the makings of a good detective. Don’t let your guv’nor get you down. Well, if you ever come up to town for a weekend, give me a ring.”

“I’ll think about it.” But not for very long.

In a most unprofessional manner, he dropped a kiss on her cheek. “See you later, alligator.”

“In a while, crocodile.”

Watching as he joined the queue at the ticket window, she gave a little wave as he turned his head to glance back. Good-looking, charming, intelligent, competent—and doubtless dating some gorgeous leggy blond model, his preferred type of female. Megan left the station and headed back towards police headquarters.

She was less than a hundred yards from the building, walking briskly, when a girl darted out of an alley and caught her sleeve.

“Oh, please,” she gasped, “are you a policeman? A policewoman, I mean? A police officer?”

“I am.”

“That’s what Jake said.”

“Is there something—?”

“I’ve got to talk to you!” A slight figure, nervous but determined, she peered at Megan through National Health glasses and a long fringe—raggedly cut but neatly combed—of lank, mousy hair. She wore faded plimsolls and grey bell-bottom trousers two or three sizes too large, cut off at ankle height and badly hemmed, cinched at the waist with a worn leather belt over a tight top in a psychedelic design of pink and orange. “I don’t care what the others say, it’s not right!”

TWENTY-ONE

Megan guessed the girl was sixteen or seventeen, certainly not much older. Skinny and pallid, she looked badly in need of good food and fresh air. “I’ll be happy to hear what you have to say,” Megan affirmed, and gestured towards the police station. “Let’s go in.”

“Oh no, not in there. All those old men . . . I’m not talking to them.”

“All right. I just passed a café, let’s go in there.”

“I haven’t got any money.”

“I’ll treat you, okay?” She turned back, and the girl trailed after her. “I’m Megan. What’s your name?”

“Cam. Camilla, really. Isn’t it awful? I like Megan.”

“It’s not bad, but I hate being called Meggie.”

That surprised a laugh out of her. “I wouldn’t think anyone’d dare. I mean, what with you being in the police and all. You’re a detective, aren’t you? Not wearing the uniform. Do you like it? Being a detective?”

“Mostly. Except when another officer calls me Meggie! It’s like any job—there are things I have to do that aren’t much fun, but most of the time I like it, or I wouldn’t do it.”

“You’re a grown-up. You can do whatever you want.”

Megan waited to respond until they were seated in the café. It was a pleasant, old-fashioned place with rubber plants in the windows, real tablecloths, and waitresses in frilly aprons. The service was correspondingly slow.

While they waited for menus, Megan asked, “What would
you
like to do?” Pop star, film star, model? she wondered.

“Work on a farm. My dad’s a farm-worker and I help . . . I used to help him in the holidays. I love working with animals. But he says it’s a dead-end job, like my mum’s, charring. He never had a chance for a proper education so he wants me to get my A levels, even go to university. I tried, honestly. I got ten O levels. I stuck it through the autumn term in the sixth form, but I spent all my time swotting. I just can’t face another two years, let alone five, reading boring books. I’ll puke if I ever have to read another book by Dickens or Balzac, I swear it.”

“How about science?”

“My best marks were in science, ‘specially biology. It’s interesting.”

“Have you considered working towards being a vet?”

“A vet! Girls can’t be vets.”

“Girls can be anything they want to be, if they want it badly enough and are prepared to work for it. I’m not saying it’s not harder than for boys. But plenty of people told me girls can’t be detectives.”

“Really?”

The waitress arrived at that moment and handed them menus.

“Are you still serving breakfast?” Megan asked.

The waitress glanced at the clock. “No, madam.”

“All right, we’ll call it an early lunch. Do you like omelettes, Cam?”

Cam nodded, eyes gleaming through specs and hair.

“It’s only morning coffee at this time, madam.”

“I’ll have coffee. This young lady will have an omelette and toast and a glass of milk.”

“The luncheon chef hasn’t come in yet,” the waitress told her haughtily.

“In that case, make it scrambled eggs. We don’t want to be difficult.”

“Luncheon isn’t served till—”

“You don’t know how to scramble eggs?”

“Of course—”

“That’s all right then.” Megan beamed at her. “Thank you, you’re most accommodating.”

The waitress’s mouth opened and closed, and she flounced off.

Cam giggled. “Do you think she’ll bring it?”

“I expect so. She’ll decide it’s easier than arguing. Not that I was arguing.”

“You weren’t?”

“Not at all, I was presenting alternatives, in a polite and reasonable manner. There are ways and ways of getting your way, and some ways are better than others. Now, while she’s trying to work out how to make toast, why don’t you tell me what you wanted to talk to me about?”

“It’s that boy . . .” Cam said hesitantly. “The one who was found dead in Cornwall? I think . . . But it’s awfully hard to be sure from a newspaper photo. It was wrapped round the fish and chips and got a bit greasy, too.”

Megan took out a print of the photo and placed it on the table.

Cam drew in a sharp breath. “It is! That’s him. He . . . Was it taken after . . . ?”

“Yes. Whatever they do, it’s always obvious.” She picked up the picture as Cam, with a shudder, shoved it back across the table at her. “Who was he?”

“His name was Norm. Norman Wilmot. Mostly we just go by christian names but he—It was weird. He never called his dad Father, or Dad, or Pa, or anything, always ‘Doctor Wilmot,’ in a horrible sarcastic voice. Not a medical doctor, a PhD. His parents are entomologists, bug-people he calls—called them. They went away for years and years, to Borneo or New Guinea or somewhere like that, and left him in boarding schools he hated. You know, fagging and caning and stuff, and what-ho for the jolly old cricket team. He hated all the team games. Boxing was the only thing he liked. He failed his A levels.”

“He must be at least eighteen, then?”

“Eighteen or nineteen, I s’pose.”

“Did he mention the name of the last school he attended?”

“Not that I remember. He called it ‘that place.’ ”

“Was it a public school, do you know?”

“Like Eton, you mean? He never said, but he did talk kind of la-di-da. We don’t talk about stuff like that much, though. I mean, where we come from and that. We’re sort of squatters, that is, we
are
squatters. I know it’s illegal. You aren’t going to . . . ?”

“Arrest you? No. You’re being extremely helpful. What’s more, your friends won’t have such a hard time of it now that you’ve given me this—Ah, here’s your scrambled eggs, if I’m not mistaken.”

The eggs looked done to a crisp, and the toast was burnt around the edges, but Cam set to ravenously, so Megan let it be.

Drinking her coffee, surprisingly good, she looked back over the notes she’d been taking. She hadn’t written down any of Camilla’s personal details. She’d have to try to get an address from her, though, preferably somewhere she could be found when needed as a witness. That meant her parents’, which meant persuading her to go home. Megan had already made a start on that, she hoped.

She remembered kidding Ken when he talked about the squatters, saying he ought to be a social worker. Now here she was trying to sort out Camilla’s life. Perhaps it went with the job; she just hadn’t realised it before. On the other hand, perhaps it was a weakness that would prevent either of them rising to the top of their profession.

She shrugged. She would just have to wait and see.

Cam finished her meal and looked anxiously at Megan. “Thank you,” she said. “That was . . . good.”

Megan grinned. “Come now! Filling perhaps, edible I assume since you ate it all, but good?”

“We-ell . . . I was hungry. We had some bread back there, but I was too upset to eat.”

“Upset about talking to me?”

“I didn’t know how to find you, not without asking the . . . the police. The others kept saying we shouldn’t get mixed up in it at all. They all said we couldn’t be sure it was him and it was none of our business anyway, and nobody liked Norm much, either.”

“Why was that?”

“He was a bully. We’re supposed to be all about peace and love and that sort of thing, but he was a creep. But I thought, even if his parents were bug people and deserted him for years and years, they ought to know what happened to him. Don’t you think?”

“I do,” Megan said gravely. “When did you last see him?”

“Monday. I worked it out when we read about him in the chip paper. He was killed Tuesday night, wasn’t he?”

“Yes. Did he spend much time with your . . . group?”

“On and off. People come and go. But as I said, no one was mad keen on him. He was Trev’s mate, mostly.”

“Trev—Trevor?” A second name, Megan thought with satisfaction. Trevor and Jake. It ought to be possible to track down the group. “Do you know his surname?”

Cam shook her head. “He’s nice, really nice. He gets an allowance from some relative or other. Not much, but he always shares. If you ask me, that’s why Norm was matey with him. Or wasn’t nasty to him, at least.”

“I need to get in touch with him. I realise you don’t want to tell me where you and your friends are staying at the moment, but could you ask him to meet me here, or wherever—”

“I would, honestly, but I haven’t seen him since . . .” She broke off, looking horrified.

“Since Tuesday?” Megan demanded urgently. Camilla gave a reluctant nod. “He left with Norman?”

“He
couldn’t
have anything to do with the murder! You mustn’t say that. He
wouldn’t
!”

“I’m not saying he did. But Cam, listen to me, if he was with Norman, and Norman was murdered, he may be in danger.”

“D’you really think so?”

“I do. We need to find him, quickly. What does he look like?”

The girl made a helpless gesture. “Just ordinary.”

“Have you ever heard of IdentiKit?”

“No.” She hesitated. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s a way of making a picture of a face when you have someone who knows a person but can’t describe him very well. You just keep changing the shape of the eyes and nose and so on, until your witness recognises it as the person you’re trying to find. Do you think you could do that for Trevor?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Do you really think he’s in danger?”

“How can I be sure? What I do know is that if I wait until I’m sure, it might be too late for him.”

“Oh.”

“Do you think you could do that, for Trevor’s sake?”

“I . . . Would I have to go into the police station?”

“I may be able to arrange for the expert to meet you here—or their artist if they don’t use IdentiKit.” The Met did, or had the facilities at least, but CaRaDoC didn’t. Bristol was an unknown quantity. “The trouble is, I’m not local—I’m from the Cornish police—and I’m only a detective sergeant, so I haven’t got much pull. Besides, if I leave you here while I go and ask, could I trust you to wait?”

“I don’t think
she’d
let me.” Camilla jerked her head towards the waitress, who was starting towards them with a purposeful air.

“She’ll have to if I order coffee and a selection of cakes for you and pay in advance.”

“I don’t much like coffee.”

“Tea? Never mind, you don’t have to drink it.” Megan turned to the waitress, now bearing down upon them bill in hand. “A pot of tea and some cakes for my friend. I have an errand to run, but I’ll pay for everything before I go.”

“I’ll have to write up a separate bill,” the waitress grumbled.

“All right, just tell me the total.”

“Depends how many she eats.”

“Bring four. If she doesn’t eat them all, she can take them with her. I’m sure you’ll be able provide a pastry box, won’t you?”

Wondering how much she’d be able to claim on expenses, she paid what seemed an exorbitant amount. The waitress stalked off to fetch the tea and cakes.

“I’ll wait for you,” said Cam. “I promise. You won’t be long, will you?”

“I’ll be as quick as I can. Eat slowly, but for pity’s sake don’t eat so many cakes you make yourself sick!”

Hurrying towards the Bristol nick, Megan knew she was taking a big risk in trusting the girl. If she was wrong, she would be in a lot of trouble, perhaps even demoted to uniform. She didn’t even know Camilla’s surname, having been afraid of scaring her off. But she couldn’t see what else she could have done. The mysterious Trevor was either the murderer or conceivably in deadly danger. They had to find him.

She could have forced Camilla to come with her, but producing a portrait with an uncooperative witness was as good as impossible.

Halfway up the steps, she heard a voice behind her call, “Wait! Please wait!”

She turned as Camilla panted up, a square white cardboard box swinging from her hand.

“What’s up?”

“That bitch! The waitress. She didn’t bring me a pot of tea and plate of cakes, she brought this, already packed up, and gave me the money for the tea, and told me, ‘We don’t serve the likes of you.’ So I nearly told her what she could do with her stupid cakes, but I thought you wouldn’t like that, so I told her ever so sweetly, ‘Thanks for making the scrambled eggs for me,’ even though they were rotten. Then I just walked out.”

“Good for you.”

“And I thought, the fuzz can’t be any worse than her. So here I am.”

“Thank you for coming, Cam. You’ve saved my bacon.”

“Really?” said Camilla, looking pleased.

“Really. Come on.”

The desk sergeant showed no surprise at Megan arriving with a tatty young girl in tow after leaving with a sleek male colleague. “Your guv’nor phoned again,” he told her, with a commiserating glance. “Inspector Everett’s office.” He jerked a thumb towards the right-hand corridor.

“Thanks. Have you got an IdentiKit, here, or an artist? This young lady can provide a description of a chap we’re going to be looking for.”

“I’ll deal with it. You run.” He gave Camilla a fatherly smile and said, “Good of you to come in, miss.”

“Just do your best, Cam,” Megan said, and ran. Scumble at best was not a patient man. Scumble kept waiting for a couple of hours didn’t bear thinking of.