Truth Will Out (11 page)

Arturio was a singer and a reasonably good one. His speciality was opera and he sang in what passed for Italian to further impress the audience. He believed that his act lent the pier performance a touch of class and secretly no-one would argue with that. He went on. ‘Not to mention a body on the beach! If that doesn’t put Hastings on the map, nothing will.’

Sydney said, ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t scare off the day trippers.’

‘It won’t. More likely to draw the crowds. You know how people are. It’s sure to be in the local paper this weekend. Our very own thriller! They’ll all stand around the spot where the body was found, gawping and chewing sticks of rock!’ He began to change into his outfit – black trousers, red cummerbund, not-so-crisp white shirt, black bow tie on a piece of elastic. ‘Oh God! Where’s the iron?’

‘One of the girls borrowed it.’

Sighing, he went off to retrieve it. Arturio’s real name was Arthur Law and he was slim and almost elegant and somehow girlish, with a soft mouth and gentle eyes. He was older than he looked.

‘Jessie’s bringing the children to the matinee,’ he announced when he returned. ‘It’s Dora’s birthday treat and the two girls are each bringing a school friend. We’re all having an ice cream in the interval and afterwards Jessie’s taking the four children home to tea.’

‘Very cosy!’ said Sydney.

Young Bill put his head round the door. ‘Five minutes to curtain! All present and correct?’

They nodded.

‘What’s the house like?’ Arthur asked, fastening his cummerbund.

‘First seven rows of the stalls full and the first two in the circle. Not much else.’ He hurried away to alert the girls in their dressing room.

Five minutes passed. It was the moment they longed for – and the one they dreaded. The show must go on.

The three o’clock meeting at the Hastings police station was a gloomy affair on the surface, although privately each member of the team was enjoying the novelty of an investigation into a double-edge case – at once a disappearance and a probable murder. They sat back in their chairs as Detective Constable Fleet ran through the information they had accumulated, and racked their brains for something intelligent to offer or an insightful question to ask when their turn came.

‘So, Brent goes missing on Sunday eleventh, p.m. Why then? Anything significant about the time of his disappearance? Anybody?’

Feet shifted uncomfortably.

Sergeant Owen said, ‘Broad daylight, holiday season.’

‘So?

‘Easy to disappear in a crowd, maybe. Easier to find a reason to leave the hotel.’

‘Very good, Owen. That assumes what?’

‘That he wanted to disappear!’

‘Right. So question number one . . .’ He grabbed a piece of chalk and wrote on the blackboard as he spoke. ‘
Was disapearance
intentional / accidental / malicious
?’ He surveyed his handiwork.

PC Adams put his hand up. ‘There’s two “p”s in disappearance, Guv.’

All heads swivelled in his direction.

DC Fleet snapped, ‘You want to do this?’ and threw him the chalk.

Adams blushed furiously, mumbled, ‘No, Guv. Sorry,’ and threw it back.

The detective gave him a baleful glance. ‘So . . . Motive? Anyone? Come on! We haven’t got all day.’

‘He’s gone off with another woman!’

‘He wants people to think he’s dead so he can do something – a crime or something.’

‘Quite possible.’ The chalk squeaked on the blackboard.

Sergeant Owen said, ‘Could be an art theft. He might be going to steal his wife’s pictures from the gallery in London!’

‘Also possible. Good. Anyone else?’

‘The murderer might have got him, Guv. He might be the next body to turn up on the beach.’

‘Which murderer would that be, Reed?’

Reed was the youngest and newest constable. ‘Might be a mass murderer. There was a murder in Brighton a couple of months ago.’

‘True . . .’ DC Fleet paused, recalling the details. ‘Not very likely. That was a domestic, if I remember rightly. Man killed his father-in-law.’

Taylor said, ‘And he’s been arrested.’

‘So . . . that’s a non-starter then.’ DC Fleet stared hopefully at his group. They were mostly young and inexperienced but they were willing. His mind moved on, sifting the available evidence, which was slight, and trying to broaden the scope of the investigation. ‘It could be an insurance scam involving the gallery. There are two owners and they might both be involved . . . But if so, why draw attention to one of them? No . . . that wouldn’t work.’

The youngest constable put his hand up. ‘The wife might have killed him.’

There was a moment’s silence and then a clamour – everyone had something to say about that but DC Fleet put up his hand. ‘Not a goer, I’m afraid. She was asleep in the hotel and he was seen leaving, very much alive.’ He wrote
Jem Rider
on the board and said, ‘My gut instinct is that there’s a connection. Sergeant Owen, you can do some digging into that. See the boy’s mother. Talk to his friends.’

‘Right.’

Another hand went up. ‘If it’s a family thing, could the lad’s mother be at risk?’

‘Emily Rider? Let’s hope not but we’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Guv, the wife could have had Brent killed even if she didn’t actually do it.’ Reed looked round triumphantly, having added something original. ‘She could have paid a professional killer. Maybe he was playing away, as they say.’

The team looked at him with new respect.

Someone said, ‘But we don’t know that Brent’s dead. So far he’s only missing.’

‘True.’ DC Fleet nodded. ‘But good thinking, Reed. We mustn’t rule anything out at this stage.’ He thought about Maude Brent and couldn’t believe it of her. She would have needed to be a very good liar and he was sure she wasn’t capable of anything mean and certainly not vicious. No, not Maude Brent . . .

‘Guv!’

Reed’s voice jerked him back to the uncomfortable knowledge that he had been allowing his personal admiration of the victim’s wife to colour his judgement. ‘Yes, Reed.’

‘It might have been suicide.’

‘We don’t think he’s dead, Reed.’

‘But he might be, sir. He might have killed Jem Rider in a fit of temper or something and then done himself in.’

‘But he went missing before Jem’s body was found.’

A ripple of laughter convinced Reed that he had not thought that particular theory through, and DC Fleet was still trying to restore order when there was a knock on the door and a note was handed to him. He read it aloud and whistled with astonishment.

‘Well, lads, there’s been a ransom demand!’ he told them. ‘We’re looking at a kidnapping!’

Maude sat on a sofa in the hotel owner’s private sitting room, away from curious eyes. She held the ransom note in her hand and stared at it sightlessly, waiting for the dark mist to clear so that she could read it again. Alison Cobb had made her drink a nip of brandy as a restorative and her brother was on the telephone to the police.

‘No, we don’t know how it was delivered,’ he repeated, exasperated. ‘One of our guests found the envelope on the mat inside the front door less than five minutes ago . . . Well, of course it’s been handled. Someone picked it up and Mrs Brent has opened it . . . She has a perfect right to open any letters addressed to her . . . Yes, I do know what it says but she has asked us not to disclose it until DC Fleet arrives . . . What’s that? Because DC Fleet is on the case and Mrs Brent trusts him. She has a lot of confidence in . . . Someone must have told him by now. He’s probably on his way . . . Who am I speaking to exactly? The desk sergeant? Good grief! Well then I can assure you that Mrs Brent is in no state to speak to you . . . And don’t take that tone with me! We’ve got enough to deal with already . . . We’ll wait for the DC to arrive.’

He hung up, muttering under his breath, and came back into the sitting room, bristling with indignation.

‘Uppity young man on the desk asking for a few words with you, Mrs Brent. Who does he think he is? I told him you were waiting for DC Fleet. You drink the rest of that brandy. Do you good.’

Maude said, ‘The handwriting – it’s disguised, isn’t it? They write with the left hand to make it unrecognizable.’ Forcing herself, she opened the crumpled sheet of paper and read it again, silently. It was stark and to the point and it terrified her.

We have your husband. If you want to see him alive send a thousand pounds in used notes. Await instructions.

A thousand pounds. It was a lot of money but if it would bring Lionel back to her she would find it somehow. She would talk to the bank manager and arrange a loan of half the amount and then sell ten or twelve of her father’s paintings. As many as it took, she decided. She didn’t care about the money. If it brought her husband back it was worth every penny.
If you want to see him alive . . .
The question struck dread into her heart.

DC Fleet was shown in to the sitting room as soon as he arrived and Maude handed him the note and the envelope.

Mrs Cobb said, ‘I’ll leave you in good hands, then, Mrs Brent. If you need me I’ll be in the kitchen or the dining room – and I’ll send Meg in with a tray of tea and cakes.’ She smiled at the detective. ‘In my experience a policeman never refuses either!’

He smiled and thanked her then sat down and faced Maude. His expression was grave and Maude felt a frisson of unease. In silence he read the note, held it up to the light, sniffed it and felt it with his fingers. In spite of the circumstances Maude noticed that he had nice hands – slim fingers like Lionel’s.

He sat with his eyes cast down, staring into space and thinking deeply. The longer he thought, the more worried Maude became.

At last she could bear it no longer. ‘Isn’t it good news? We’ve heard from them. We know he’s still alive. We know we can get him back! I can see the bank manager first thing in the morning and I . . .’

Meg came in with the tray, her eyes like saucers. She set it down on the coffee table and said, ‘I do hope everything goes all right, Mrs Brent.’

‘Thank you, Meg.’

When she had gone, he looked up. ‘I don’t want to crush your hopes, Mrs Brent, but it isn’t as easy as you think.’

Maude poured the tea before speaking again. ‘But the paintings are . . . that is, my father’s work is highly thought of . . . I can sell them all if need be.’ Her heart was thumping uncomfortably. Maude was fighting a growing consternation. DC Fleet had been the man she trusted to bring back Lionel – so why was he now being so cautious?

‘You mustn’t make assumptions,’ he warned gently. ‘Firstly, we don’t know for sure that this note is genuine. Anyone could have sent it. Someone who knows nothing about your husband’s whereabouts.’

‘Oh no! What are you saying?’

‘I’m trying to help you understand the situation. If you send the money to whoever wrote the note it may disappear forever but you may not get your husband back. If he
has
been kidnapped and if this
is
genuine then we can be a little hopeful. I’m so sorry. I don’t want to take away any hopes you have but you must face facts.’

Maude fell back in the armchair, suddenly breathless with disappointment. He was right, she could see that, but surely there was something that could be done to verify the sender’s intentions.

He went on. ‘We might learn more when he telephones. If he does. He may send another note. We don’t know how he will communicate.’

Maude put a hand to her head. ‘But I could take out the money, couldn’t I? I could be ready in case it is genuine. I must get him back, DC Fleet. I just want to get him back and to return to my everyday life. Our life, that is!’

‘I can’t stop you, Mrs Brent, but there is another factor. We need proof that your husband is still alive.’

‘Oh!’ she gasped. ‘But he is. I know it!’

‘Do you want to give a thousand pounds to someone who may have – nothing is clear yet – who may have already killed your husband? ‘He held up a hand to forestall her next comment. ‘I’m not saying he is dead, Mrs Brent, but it’s my job to consider the possibilities and not encourage you to rush headlong into a possible trap.’ He folded the letter, handling it as little as possible and slid it back into the envelope. ‘I’ll get a handwriting expert to study this and then try and trace the paper.’

She stared at him despairingly. ‘So what are we going to do? What are
you
going to do? Nothing?’

‘No. I’ll stay here throughout the night in case he rings or sends another note. He may insist on speaking to you – that’s quite common – so keep your slippers and dressing gown handy. Try to sleep but be prepared to be woken up at any time.’

‘But won’t he wonder who you are? He might guess that you’re the police.’

He nodded, frowning. ‘That’s something that’s puzzling me. Kidnappers normally say “Don’t tell the police” but they haven’t. It’s almost as if they know that you’ll insist on paying up. There’s another factor, Mrs Brent. It does happen sometimes that after the payment the hostage is not released and a second payment is demanded.’

Maude drew a long breath and let it out slowly. ‘Have you been involved in many cases like this?’

‘Just one but we do study all kinds of criminal behaviour and
modus operandi
– that’s the way they work.’ He smiled faintly. ‘I’m not a novice, Mrs Brent, I promise you that. We’ll do everything possible to bring about a good result.’

As he stood up, Maude almost panicked. ‘You’re not going?’

‘No. I need to use the telephone to fetch one of our lads to ride over here and collect the ransom note.’

‘Then I could buy you supper, DC Fleet, here in the hotel. That way we might both manage to eat something. No!’ She held up her hand. ‘Please don’t refuse to be my guest. It’s the least I can do. Mrs Cobb might allow us to eat in here, away from the curious stares.’

He nodded with the briefest of smiles and Maude hurried out of the room in search of Alison Cobb, grateful to have something to do – anything to take her mind off the situation. If she allowed herself to think about the difficulties ahead, she knew she would break down.

Biddy tried to concentrate on the job in hand in an attempt to keep darker thoughts at bay. Enveloped in a large pinafore, she stood at the kitchen table, surrounded by various jars and bags – currants, sultanas and a handful of dried figs waited to her left for her attention but she was chopping dates with unusual vigour. To her right was a selection of flour, a sugar cone, a tin of black treacle, eggs, a lump of butter, a paper screw of cinnamon and another of mixed spice.