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Authors: Clare Curzon

The Glass Wall (18 page)

BOOK: The Glass Wall
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She slid to the floor already awash from when she'd tried to drench her pounding head. She wallowed there like a goldfish flung from an upturned bowl. Well, here was the truth then, the truth she couldn't find in her marriage. Pain and the long drag into death; alone, while Keith slavered over some other woman hot to fill her place in his bed.
So now there was no longer any shadow of doubt. She had proof, face to face with his treachery. She hugged her wretchedness to her as the only thing left of her own. God, she could not hate him enough. It should be him here, suffering as she did. She knew she'd been meant for something better than this, Daddy's little Princess. Oh, poor Daddy, why did you have to die? You'd have done something, rescued me, punished him.
She had torn up the restaurant receipt discovered in the pocket of Keith's best suit. Dinner for two. She knew the place well, the pinkness of it, the romantic shaded lights, the obsequious, discreet service. And afterwards, in the back of the car, or even an upstairs room – she could picture them at it. And all that while she was being held, drugged, in the psychiatric department, like a madwoman. That last night, Sunday, before she was allowed home.
Home? Just an alternative place for drawn-out dying.
‘Cancer,' she said aloud, accepting it. But that was only a part
of the truth. The greater thing was his treachery. That was why she must do it.
This time she would splendidly succeed. And everyone should know how he'd wanted her gone!
She pushed the shredded paper back into the jacket pocket and hung the suit again on its rail. It was safe there, her precious evidence that she could visit and revisit to feed her resolve on.
It had struck DS Beaumont that Z was being uncharacteristically casual about following up the name which Roseanne had offered as Sheena Judd's love interest. And any opportunity to get a step or two ahead of his rival sergeant could do him a power of good.
Ramón, he recalled. Foreign, Spanish-sounding. Well, there were a lot from those parts employed in the service industries in the South-East counties. Nearly as many as Cypriot waiters. Decent types for the most part, and he'd prefer them any day to the scruffy home-bred variety who sneered at your ignorance of the menu and muttered over the paucity of tips.
A visit to the nick's canteen, channel of all available gossip, reliable or otherwise, might bring to light where the man was working at present, at what Roseanne thought was a private nursing job.
He wasn't to be disappointed. Sergeant Charlie Wise, who laboured to live up to his name, had worn out the elbows of several civvy suits at the bar of the Crown hotel. He told Beaumont that the barman, who had worked there only a short time, had left them in the lurch, not having been bound by contract. The assistant manager, one of Wise's cronies, and probably a snout to boot, had complained loudly, particularly over the unrealistic wage being offered by the rich old lady at the one-time show penthouse.
Beaumont, not a local himself, had to be directed to it. ‘Not that they'll let you in if they don't like the cut of your jib,' he was told. ‘There's a spy camera on the door. One of those hi-tech security things.'
Thus warned, he repaired to the Gents to check himself in a mirror, combed flat an obstinate quiff which his son said made him resemble a tufted duck, and polished the top of each shoe with a nifty rub up and down the back of alternate trouser legs. It could pay to have a wealthy old lady batting for you. If she was susceptible to a Spanish barman she might well un-bosom herself to a personable British copper. Purely in the confiding sense, of course. Anything more literal wasn't on. Not with old ladies.
It was Alyson who answered his buzz, caught clearing the lunch things. Beaumont announced himself, displaying his teeth widely towards the camera, together with his warrant card.
‘How can I help you, Sergeant?' the young voice asked.
Why do they say that? Beaumont wondered, not for the first time. For one thing it's always when they're holding you at arm's length, like on the phone, and for another they'd probably floor you if you said what it was you'd really like from them!
‘I'd appreciate a word with you concerning the employment of Ramón Nadal.'
Alyson felt herself wrong-footed. She had put off contacting Social Services about Ramón, and already here was a policeman asking about him. She felt obliged to let the man in to settle the matter. She pressed the door release. ‘Take the lift to the seventh floor,' she directed him. ‘I'll be waiting for you.'
‘I'm Alyson Orme,' she said as he stepped from the lift. Of medium height, lean, with fair hair cut short to curve in below prominent cheekbones, she looked stylish and confident. ‘I look after Miss Withers who's an invalid. One of your colleagues told me how to check up on Ramón, but I haven't got round to it yet. He's here at the moment, if you want to speak with him.'
They seemed to be slightly at cross purposes. ‘A colleague of mine?'
‘Detective Sergeant Rosemary something.'
‘Her name's Zyczynski. A lot of people have trouble with the name. We work together.'
‘Jijinsky?'
Beaumont printed the name on a page of his notebook, which he tore off and handed to her. ‘What exactly did she tell you?'
Alyson explained. It was about Ramón's background.
‘Let's have him in,' Beaumont suggested, ‘then he can account for himself.'
Ramón had been reviewing his finances at the writing-table in his bedroom and presented himself in a newly acquired sweater and tweed trousers from the Oxfam charity shop. He eyed the plain-clothes policeman guardedly before returning to fetch his identity papers. Beaumont looked through them, nodded and
passed them to Alyson Orme. ‘So you're not actually Spanish?'
‘From the Philippines. Spanish is one language we speak. People make that mistake.'
‘And how long have you been in the UK?'
‘You can see here. I am asylum status. Refugee. All OK.'
‘When did you leave the Philippines? And why?'
‘Eight years back. Not to be killed. By both sides.'
Beaumont knew little of oriental current affairs, but he remembered there had been successive revolutions involving political assassination. A centre of turbulent politics, it was another place where way back the Americans had stepped in to stop further bloodshed. Not that they'd penetrated all the smaller, wilder islands. All the same this man's explanation sounded shaky. He fixed him with a challenging stare. ‘Are you wanted there on any criminal charge?'
‘By the government. Yes. A child, rebels capture me. Pirates. Bad men.'
‘And you joined them?' As Ramón nodded, he pursued it. ‘So why do the rebels want to kill you?'
He shrugged. ‘Later, doctors save me. Rebels hunt and kill all against them. I live years with doctors, work there, but …' He frowned, trying to find the right words in English. ‘They good but not – they have wrong politic. Cannot save me. I run away, sail to Hong Kong, work there, years again.'
His protectors had had no clout during the ding-dong changes of government. Liberal do-gooders, they'd likely stepped out of line, protested against injustices. Poor little bugger, Beaumont thought: pillar to post and back again. Then when Hong Kong became Chinese he'd moved on once more. ‘But why come here, to the UK?'
‘Not for weather.' At last Ramón smiled.
‘Why not Spain? You speak the language.'
Ramón was instantly serious again. ‘Spanish are Catholic. Catholics in Philippines raid south islands and kill too.' His face showed disgust. ‘Some good people there, like doctors, but many bad. Always fighting, pirates, murders.'
‘I had no idea,' Alyson breathed, listening appalled. His sparse
account must cover a lifetime of misery and dangers. Such a quiet, contained man.
‘I wait here long for papers,' Ramón said, pointing to them. ‘All legal now.'
Beaumont nodded. ‘Good. And you were employed as barman at the Crown hotel. So how do you come to be working here?'
‘Customer invite me to apartment. I help with old lady Emily. Then Nurse ask me stay.'
‘This customer at the Crown. Would that be Sheena Judd?
‘Sheena, yes.'
‘Your girlfriend.' It was a statement, not a question, and Ramón was quick to deny it.
‘No. New meeting her. I come for teatime only.'
‘Sheena told me,' Alyson explained, feeling obliged to help him out. ‘She had to get a prescription made up for her mother. While she was out, my patient's granddaughter called. Ramón impressed her as competent, so when Sheena let me down I called on him to help out. Those doctors in the Philippines trained him well. He's very good with Emily.'
Beaumont was watching the man's face. He was giving little away. ‘It's convenient for you, her going missing. So where is Sheena Judd now?'
‘With man friend, I think. They meet in Crown hotel bar. He visit here.'
‘Do you know his name?'
Ramón shook his head. ‘I serve him beer. Sometimes whisky. Roseanne say he work in police court.' He frowned over recalling the word, then his face brightened. ‘Usher, yes?'
Beaumont recalled the man, raw-boned, humourless and surly: Oliver Markham. No great catch for a girl, but from all accounts she was an also ran herself. Court was over for the day, so he'd probably be at home. Not that chasing him up was a priority. Salmon was concentrating all efforts on the Micky Kane murder. Z would have to take on the missing girl. The missing girl was relegated to Z's charge. He could leave her to get on with it.
He put a note on the office computer and added his initials. Might as well get any credit for naming Sheena's man-friend.
 
Superintendent Mike Yeadings distrusted coincidences as heartily as any other member of CID. So, when his scanning of all reports for the past day, however minor, produced the name of Oliver Markham in two unrelated incidents, he sat back and pondered what he recalled of the man. Vaguely unappetizing, his body language spoke of a chauvinist and a bully. Yeadings had spent time enough in court for the man's attitude to come across. And just recently, it seemed, he'd been replaced as usher, or even pressured to resign. As yet it wasn't known whether he had alternative employment.
Yeadings phoned down to the incident room where Salmon was closing down the Micky Kane investigation for the night. ‘This missing young woman, Sheena Judd. Do we know what blood group she was?'
Whatever the question, Salmon was instantly on the defensive. ‘Is she officially a Misper, sir?' he barked back. ‘Not a minor, I understood?'
‘No, and as an adult she has every right to wander off without informing her family. I am aware of that, Inspector. But I'm curious. The boot of her quoted man-friend's car was found to contain a rug with suspected bloodstains, so I ask myself who was bleeding. Especially since he tried to pass the blood off as dried cocoa, during a routine road check for speeding.'
‘That'd be Traffic's concern, sir. The report hasn't been passed to CID.'
‘Understand that I'm passing it now. We need to know the missing woman's blood group. So send someone to her address and find out.'
‘Everyone's gone home, sir. I'll send Zyczynski in the morning.'
He supposed tomorrow must do, but examination of the stained travel rug was more urgent. ‘I'll send a patrol car to pick the rug up. Even if Markham hasn't a washing machine there are overnight launderettes. He could be destroying vital evidence. How fortunate you've stayed late, Inspector. The lab is open tonight until 7.30. Ring through and warn them there's evidence on its way. Full DNA can wait, but I want to know what blood
group we're dealing with.'
Fussy old codger, Salmon fumed. Young women went missing all the time: anything to attract attention. Didn't mean anything had happened to them. Still, he'd have to do as instructed. God knows when he'd get finished, and today there'd been shit-all progress on the current main case.
He made the call, authorizing the cost, and decided to pick up a takeaway on the route home. He closed down the computer, dragged on his coat and went for his car. Driving across town, he noted that lights were on behind the lowered blinds of Callender, Fitt and Travis. More time and energy being wasted over the affairs of the thriftless and shiftless. Same old, thankless grind. And to think that once, decades back, he'd believed becoming a copper would leave some mark on the world!
 
Timothy Fitt waited until young Monica had finished making noises in the outer office and put her head round the door to say goodnight. ‘Thank you, Monica, for staying on. I'm afraid I'll need you in on time in the morning, but perhaps you'd care to get home an hour earlier tomorrow.'
‘Ooh, thanks, Mr Fitt. G'night.'
She was a steady girl, didn't mind extra little jobs dropped on her, like going out to get that new key cut. It was always a shock when things like that went missing, and in this case the client was specially vulnerable. But perhaps no real harm done. The lost key, although unusual, had held no number. There had only ever been two of them to that strongbox, and now there were two again. He wrapped the newly cut one in a strip of bubble wrap, together with a short handwritten note and put both in an envelope, adding a first class stamp. The package was light enough to be covered. He remembered the address, even the post code. He would mail it himself on the way home. From the main post office, to be on the safe side.
Putting on his velvet-collared black overcoat and tucking in his muffler, he wondered how Emily was. Such a formidable woman once, but now a mere shell. Still, she was well looked after, well guarded. He had done all that could be expected of him. It could have been disastrous if the key fell into the wrong hands.
 
Over at the college, with lectures finished and the refectory officially closed, Jim Anders considered the place needed extra guarding. There were three club meetings scheduled, and god-knows-what clandestine jiggery-pokery going on besides. He took his duties as night porter seriously and had few illusions about modern youth. He timed his rounds at random. Armed with a heavy torch, he toured all floors, switching off unnecessary lighting and noting noise levels at the more boisterous club affairs, alert for romantic couplings in secluded corners and discarded syringes or evidence of other illicit activities. On his third round, when most revellers had departed and only the Fine Arts crowd still worked on posters for the coming Rag Week, he made his way up to the top floor, using his key to gain access to the roof.
BOOK: The Glass Wall
11.04Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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