A Woman Unknown (17 page)

‘Your family must have been very pleased to see you.’

‘It was meant to be a surprise. Some surprise. My sister took against me, and my ma took fright.’

‘I’m sorry. It is a pity you had so little time with her.’

‘She wasn’t the ma I remembered. Deirdre must have been a baby when I left. But I didn’t remember her at all. She started sending me annual begging letters as soon as she could write.’

‘When did you first see your sister, on this visit?’

A sudden wariness came over him.

I added quickly, ‘I’m wondering whether she said anything, dropped a hint about being unhappy, or having other plans.’

He darted a quick look at me. ‘You were at the races last Wednesday.’

‘I was, and backed the winner.’ Had he seen me with Marcus, I wondered. Marcus had broken his cover to interview Hartigan. I best tread carefully.

‘Me too,’ he smiled. ‘Good old Flint Jack.’

‘I was trying to think where I had seen you before. You were with a chap in a kilt.’

‘Not the cheeriest of companions, but he went home happy.’

That was probably an understatement. With an order to supply prohibition New York with alcohol, he would have
gone home cock-a-hoop. If Hartigan had seen me with Marcus, he was covering it well. Perhaps my flitting about alone, trying to gather my own information, had paid off.

I might squeeze a little information from Hartigan that would help me in the murder investigation.

‘Did you and your sister get on well, Mr Hartigan? Once you met I mean.’

‘I hardly got to know her. And she wasn’t exactly delighted to see me.’

‘Was that after or before the races?’

‘I travelled from London on Tuesday, and went to the races Wednesday and Thursday. Friday, I went to Cotton Street to see my mother. She wasn’t there. Neighbours told me she’d been taken into a nursing home and no one had the address, except Deirdre, and no one had Deirdre’s address, except that she lived in Kirkstall. So I tracked down half a dozen other relations. It was Friday night when I finally spoke to my aunts and got the addresses. They’d been working all day, see. Didn’t see my ma till Saturday, and she was asleep. Deirdre just bawled me out for not coming sooner, and not writing.’ He warmed to this injustice. ‘I could have stayed in London, done my business there.’

‘What a shame,’ I said, mustering fake sympathy. ‘To come all this way. Where are you staying?’

‘The Metropole, the best hotel, recommended by the tailor in London. And that’s turned out a disaster. Just because I had a brandy with a hotel guest who ends up dead, I’m questioned a first time politely and a second time as if I did it.’

‘Do you know, I had heard there was a death at one of the hotels. Who was it?’

‘Some banker.
He
made the running. Guy saw me at the races and had me down as a soft touch. I’m sorry that he died, but if I topped every chancer who tried to fleece me, there’d be a lot of mourning widows.’

Sometimes I can tell when a person is lying. This man was so accomplished that he had probably convinced himself of the truth of any and every lie he uttered. If he had not met Deirdre until Saturday, that eliminated her as the ‘unknown woman’ who spent the night with Runcie. Or did it?

‘How awful for you. So were you the last person to see him alive?’

‘No! He was with some broad. She went upstairs before I joined him.’

‘Well that’s all right then. No one could reasonably suspect you.’

He grinned, and relaxed a little. ‘That’s exactly what I told them, only not so polite.’

But he might suspect me if I did not stop probing. I wrote down his name and the name of the hotel. ‘I hope I’ll be able to help. If I find out anything at all about your sister, I will telephone you at the hotel, and send a telegram to Mr Fitzpatrick.’

‘Thanks.’ He took out his wallet. ‘I’ll stay for the funeral, but after that I need to get back to New York fast. Deirdre oughta to be home where she belongs. Her husband speaks highly of you.’

I waved his wallet away. ‘Let’s see how I get on.’

Hartigan raised an eyebrow. ‘Not often people turn down my money.’

‘I’ll do what I can. Will you send in the other gentleman please?’

Eddie Flanagan stepped into the room as if springing from the corner of the boxing ring, but once he sat down, his energy evaporated. Weariness rose from him in waves. His face was smudged, his eyes puffy with lack of sleep. Now I remembered him. On the day I followed Deirdre, he was part of the group of men playing toss on the corner. He had stood to talk to her.

He said, ‘It was so cold last night. It rained. I looked everywhere.’

‘Where exactly?’

‘Everywhere.’ He waved his arm. ‘I tried to find Roundhay. I don’t know where it is. I’ll go there now. Deirdre is so sad. She must be lost.’

Somehow I did not think Eddie would be a great help in this enterprise. ‘Were you out all night?’

He nodded. ‘I looked round the town. I looked round the Bank. I got people out of bed to ask had they seen her. I went to the Little Sisters convent where she stayed once.’

‘The Little Sisters?’

‘They’re the nuns who teach in the school we all went to. And Deirdre has been there on retreat. But they haven’t seen her. I think she’s hiding.’

‘Why would she hide?’

‘Because she’s sad. Because her heart hurts.’

We sat in silence for a moment. I made a note that he had been to the neighbours’ houses, and to the convent.

‘Have you known Deirdre a long time?’

He nodded. ‘Always. I think we was almost sweethearts once, before I lost my brains.’

His eyes darted around the room and came to rest on Gerald’s photograph on the sideboard. ‘Who is that?’

‘My husband. He didn’t come back from the war.’

He nodded. He did not have to tell me that he was an old soldier. I could see it in his eyes.

‘Come on then, Mr Flanagan. The sooner I get started the better.’

‘Call me Eddie. Everyone calls me Eddie.’

I led Eddie into the kitchen.

Mrs Sugden said, ‘They’ve gone without you, Eddie. Never you mind. I’m going to make you some breakfast.’

‘I have to go to Roundhay,’ he said, as if he had not heard her. ‘To the nursing home, to see if I can find out where Deirdre went.’

‘You listen to Mrs Sugden, Eddie. She’ll look after you, and then explain how to get to Roundhay.’

He was the one with least claim to find Deirdre, but I had the feeling he was the one who loved her best, and most unselfishly.

His guess as to where Deirdre might be would be better than mine.

Len Diamond had not arrived at the newspaper offices by the time I got there, at about half past nine. I hovered near the entrance, waiting for him.

When he did turn up, about twenty minutes later, he looked genuinely pleased to see me. ‘Kate, hello! Bumping into you twice in a week, the heavens must be smiling on me.’

‘Hello, Len. I was hoping you might be able to help me with an enquiry.’

He pulled a mock fearful face. ‘Sounds worrying.’

‘Do you have a moment? I can wait until you’ve put in your appearance.’

‘Let me see what the editor has in store for me. I’ll be with you in a flash.’

Twenty minutes later, we were sitting in Schofields over coffee and toast. I felt guilty about detaining him from his work but he assured me it was a treat to have breakfast. ‘So what’s this enquiry of yours, Kate?’

I wanted to ask him about the altercation he had with Philippa’s secretary at the races, and about the photographs he had taken at the shoot. But if Diamond got a
whiff that I was investigating on behalf of Philippa Runcie, he would dine out on the story for a decade.

By starting with my search for Mrs Fitzpatrick, I would be able to lead into the questions concerning Runcie in a more roundabout way.

‘It concerns one of your fellow employees at the newspaper.’

He looked suddenly interested. ‘Are you going to tell me who?’

‘One of the compositors, Cyril Fitzpatrick, came to see me. I have his permission to talk to you.’

Diamond spread strawberry jam on his toast. ‘Is something wrong?’

Len and I usually converse in a light-hearted banter, even where our shared passion of photography is concerned but I resisted the urge to say that Mr Fitzpatrick had mislaid his wife.

‘His wife is missing. He is concerned for her welfare because her mother died yesterday.’

‘How sad for her, and what a worry for him. But I haven’t got her, Scout’s honour.’

‘I tried to reassure Mr Fitzpatrick. Said that perhaps she just didn’t feel like going home and visited a friend, or booked in somewhere.’

‘Does he want a missing person piece in the paper? If it comes to a major search, there’s a photograph of her in the files. I took it last summer at Kirkstall Abbey.’

‘Then I would certainly like a copy, today if possible.’

He nodded. ‘Consider it done.’

‘Mr Fitzpatrick said you saw her not long ago. He got the strong impression she must have been with a man.’

Diamond pulled his reluctant-to-tell face. ‘She was
talking to someone, but not a person who would have run off with her. Look, if she doesn’t come home soon, I’ll break all my rules and tell you the man’s name. Then you can don your deerstalker and track him down, just in case.’

‘Anything else you know about her?’

He swallowed a mouthful of toast. ‘No. Sorry. He has reported her missing I take it?’

‘Yes, last night, which isn’t long ago but I’m not sure how urgently it will be treated.’

‘Well it ought to be.’

Now for my change of tack. ‘I agree. But the police are at full stretch.’

‘You mean because of the murder? Now there’s a shocker.’

‘It seems unbelievable, Len, given that we both saw Mr Runcie only on Wednesday at the Ebor.’

‘I nearly got what would have been the last photograph of him. I would have, too, if that hanger-on of Mrs Runcie’s hadn’t intervened, I would have got a good shot. When the Runcie divorce hit the headlines, it would have sold to the
Illustrated London News
, and half of Fleet Street. Of course as things have turned out, no one would buy it now, out of respect for the dead and bereaved.’

‘I’m glad I’m just an amateur, Len. I wouldn’t have the heart to do that sort of thing.’

‘Yes you would, if your rent depended on it. The printers moan about their wage cuts. I wish my wages were on a level with theirs. I’d be a happy man.’

‘I can’t imagine you ever being happy, Len. You always want the photograph you didn’t take, or the job
you never applied for, or the roll of film you left in a drawer somewhere.’

He laughed. ‘You’re probably right.’

‘I liked your photograph of Runcie and Caroline Windham at Lord Fotheringham’s shoot, moments after she was wounded.’

‘Thanks. That was one of my right-place-at-the-right-time moments.’

‘Did you take many pictures that day?’

‘A few.’

‘May I see them, not to take away, just to look?’

He drawled out a long, ‘Why?’

The waitress brought the bill. We stopped talking while he put a coin on the tray, waving away my offer to pay.

I had planned to say that I wanted to study the composition of the photograph, but he would not believe that, so I said, ‘It’s just a wild thought, regarding Runcie’s death. What if that stray shot was not a stray shot at all, but attempted murder?’

He let out a low whistle. ‘Now there’s a thought. Have you told the police?’

Something made me lie. ‘They’d think I was mad, coming up with an idea like that.’

He laughed. ‘It does sound rather far-fetched. I’ll look out the photographs, and the one of Mrs Fitzpatrick at Kirkstall. Believe me, if there had been any such drama at the shoot, I would have spotted it.’

As we left the café, I said in what I hoped was a casual tone, ‘What time would be good for me to call?’