Cobweb (29 page)

‘It might be the wrong somebody.'

‘One question before you phone,' I said. ‘Please don't be offended, but was there any particular reason – other than the late opening – why an MP would walk quite a long way across a park after he'd got off a train, take a taxi to the Green Man and then go all the way back again afterwards just to have his hair cut
here?
There are a couple of upmarket gents' hairdressers in Woodhill High Street.'

‘Oh, it was because of something that happened quite a while ago. He was cycling to get fit around the country lanes near his house – getting it in the neck from his doc, apparently, about being overweight. He fell off and bashed his head – blood everywhere. I just happened to be close by, taking the dog for a walk, and phoned for an ambulance. A lady brought out a blanket from a nearby cottage and we covered him up. We didn't know if he'd fractured his skull, you see, so didn't dare touch his head other than gently trying to staunch the bleeding with some kitchen paper. Then, when he'd been taken off to Romford hospital, I took his bike home and told his wife. That's all. Anyone would have done the same. He'd asked my name and where I lived and a week or so later he came in the shop with a couple of bottles of bubbly and said he'd have his hair done here from then on. I think he enjoyed the walk through the park, but if it was raining he'd get a taxi.'

‘This was all on a very regular basis?' Patrick enquired.

‘Every three or four weeks. He hated his hair starting to look untidy.'

‘Say what you like,' I whispered to Patrick when Dailey had disappeared to somewhere in the back of the shop to phone, ‘but Honor Giddings must have known he was planning to get his hair cut before going home.
That
was why he was late.'

‘What – and she popped out, ostensibly to look for him, ambushed him on his way across the park, indulged in a bloodbath and then went calmly home and entertained people to dinner? That's straight out of a crime novel.'

‘Shall we carry on and find Tom?' I suggested smoothly. ‘Then it might be a good idea to talk to Fiona, Honor's sister.'

‘Honor loathes her.'

‘Quite.'

‘Hit the jackpot first time,' Ken Dailey called a minute or so later, his head around a door. ‘Bob cut his hair. D'you want to talk to him?'

Patrick did so but learned little more – only that the MP had been one of Bob's clients some time after the normal closing time of six. When pressed to try to remember more exactly, the man could only say that he thought it might have been at around seven but could not be sure as they had been so busy. Giddings had not wanted a taxi, commenting that the fresh air and exercise would do him good if he walked across the park, but he would get one from the Green Man to take him home.

‘I've asked him to call in at the nick and make a short statement,' Patrick said when he rejoined us. He then thanked Dailey and we left.

While this conversation had been taking place I had leafed back through my notebook and now paused under a street lamp to get my facts right before speaking. ‘A taxi driver dropped Giddings at the Green Man at five forty-five. That means that if he didn't get to the barber's until sevenish, he must have gone in the pub for a drink, or three, before crossing the park. We've just done it and it's about a fifteen-minute walk, perhaps twenty from the pub. But Honor said she expected him between six and six thirty. I reckon that would have been his normal, non-haircut-day time. Dinner parties are usually timed at something like arrival at seven thirty for eight, so if he hadn't been waylaid he would have still got home in time to have a quick wash and brush-up and change – that is, provided he got a taxi fairly quickly.'

‘You're wooing me on this theory,' Patrick murmured.

By the time we got back to the main entrance of the park there were indeed a few hunched figures on the seat farthest away from the lights, but opposite to the fish-and-chip shop. I placed a hand on Patrick's arm to signal to him that I wanted to go on alone.

‘Is Tom here?' I asked the group of four quietly as I approached.

‘Tom who?' grunted a man.

‘I don't know his surname. We met when the police were rounding people up recently. I want to thank him for helping me.'

‘And what the 'ell were you doin' gettin' trapped by the filth then, lady?' This was spoken in tones of utter disgust and disbelief.

‘I was living rough to look for my husband, who I thought was doing the same thing.'

Another figure shuffled out of the darkness. ‘Yes, it is Ingrid,' he said. ‘But I only know from your voice.'

I said, ‘I want you to know that the policemen who was in charge of rounding you all up that night was arrested.'

‘Yes, I heard someone turned up,' Tom said. ‘We'd all made ourselves scarce.'

‘He was arrested by that man over there. He's my husband and we're trying to ensure that the right person goes on trial for killing the MP. Tom, will you talk to him – tell him what you told me?'

‘I – I can't.'

‘Look, he was in the army too. He'll understand and you can talk to him man to man. I'll go away.'

‘You
tell
her where to go!' shouted the man who had first spoken. ‘We don't need you to go crawling to the filth.'

Tom painfully drew himself up to his modest height. ‘I shall decide what I do, thank you, Lanny.'

‘Pathetic old git!' the other jumped up to bawl in his face, ‘with your fancy talk and posh airs!'

‘It's called an education,' Tom retorted doggedly.

‘Go on, then! Sod off! But take one step over there and ya don't come back. They're both filth and you'll be filth and we won't want ya!'

‘In that case,' Tom sighed, ‘I don't think I want you people either.' And he began to walk over to where Patrick stood, about thirty yards away.

Lanny moved to go after him.

I said, ‘I've kicked you in the goolies once already. Don't make me do it again.'

I too walked away, knowing that I was as safe as houses.

‘Well, I'm sunk now,' Tom was saying, half to himself, when I caught up with him. ‘They only really tolerated me because I was the brains.' He glanced at me sideways. ‘Not that I would want you to think I'm boasting.'

‘Come and talk to Patrick,' I said.

‘That was my father's name. Is your Patrick Irish too?'

‘Only sometimes.'

I kept my word and sat on another seat out of earshot, aware that I was probably in for a long wait, old soldiers tending to witter on endlessly nothwithstanding. Half an hour later I was still there. The homeless men had drifted off, coarse laughter following a remark of Lanny's as he had leered in my direction.

And, of course, Tom was now our responsibility.

I need not have worried; there was no dilemma and the solution was nothing to do with the police, SOCA, or anything of that ilk. Patrick pulled strings: a phone call to a retired very senior officer in his own regiment, the one-time Devon and Dorsets, who was closely involved with a charity ensured that Tom could be taken to a hostel run by the charity and the Royal British Legion, there to be helped in every way possible. But he had had to give an undertaking that he would remain there for the present, as he might have to appear in court as a witness.

‘I can't give you money,' Patrick told Tom as they got out of the car at an address near Tower Bridge, ‘because if I do and the defence lawyers get to hear of it, they'll make it look as though I bribed you to tell a tall story. But you won't need cash – you'll be looked after.'

They went into the building, Tom by this time quite bemused and almost speechless with what was happening to him.

‘I feel we've sort of filed him,' I said when Patrick returned, ‘– used him and parcelled him off, pigeon-holed him.'

Patrick turned on the fan of the air-con to maximum in an effort to clear the car of reminders of our passenger and said, ‘Right now that's exactly what he needs: to be able to switch off in a secure environment. He's lived on his wits for over fifteen years after coming out of prison – something to do with drink-driving, after which his wife threw him out and the house was repossessed – is at the end of his tether and almost broke down as he begged me to help him. He has lice, thinks he has some kind of VD and has been having severe pains in his chest. Next winter would have been the death of him. Anyway, thank God for those who are prepared to help ex-servicemen like Tom, for I'm damned if the Ministry of Defence does.'

There had been a choke of anger in his voice as he had uttered these last words.

‘What was he able to tell you?'

‘Nothing much more than he told you: a white figure bobbing about. But quite slim, so it could have been a woman.' He smiled at me in the semi-darkness. ‘So how do we find Fiona? We don't even know her surname.'

‘We can't ask Honor, as she'd realize we were checking on things.'

Patrick turned the key in the ignition. ‘Woodhill nick must know the whereabouts of du Norde by now. Let's ask them.'

‘He might tell his mother.'

‘It's a risk we'll have to take. But I can't imagine she'll be on speaking terms with him after the trouble he's been in lately.'

But mud
was
thicker than water.

D
u Norde, it emerged, was at home nursing a broken nose having been released, again, on police bail. There had been witnesses to his part in the attack on Patrick, in particular the woman who had phoned the police and her husband. Unfortunately in his case, it is not illegal to be an associate of a criminal, so any shady connection du Norde might have had with Brocklebank would have to be investigated. We also discovered on visiting Woodhill police station that Knightly had already departed on gardening leave – causing some chuckles, as he apparently lived in a fifth-floor flat – and a super had been sent in from the Met to sort everything out.

Patrick phoned du Norde, aware that any personal visit at this stage would make him open to accusations of police intimidation by someone who would relish making trouble. He made no mention of recent events, merely requesting the information. I could make no sense of the strange honking noises I could overhear on the other end of the line, but Patrick seemed to be coping with the tirade and said nothing but ‘Thank you,' at the end of the call.

‘He's going to bring charges of assault against you,' he said. ‘As you probably noticed, I ignored that remark.'

‘And Fiona?'

‘One Fiona Kettering-Huxley. She lives at Sunbury-on-Thames and in no circumstances are we to call round tonight, as she and her husband Quentin are throwing a big bash, as it's their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.'

‘Perfect,' I said.

‘Yes, that's what I thought. Let's party!'

‘I can just see that great big booby sitting at home with his nose stuffed full of cotton wool, sulking because he's not been invited.'

‘You know, you really are quite nasty sometimes,' Patrick reproved me. Then he barked with laughter.

We had an address, of sorts, but no directions and ended up by slowly driving past large houses with gardens that backed on to the river, looking for more lights and parked cars than might be normally expected. Ending up with three possibilities, we chose the
least
likely to call at and ask first on the grounds that it appeared to be a muted and tasteful affair – something told me that Fiona was neither – the other two having distant beat music. We did not intend, necessarily, to announce our presence for a while.

‘The Kettering-Huxley's live at the green-and-white house with the white Roller,' Patrick reported when he returned. ‘Personally, I'd prefer to get myself into the do here – a string quartet thrown in for good measure.'

‘They're probably disinfecting the doormat right now,' I told him.

‘No, they weren't like that at all – charming, in fact.'

By this time it was quite late, just before eleven. There was just room to park one more car in front of the house, but we ended up beneath one of the trees that overhung it, a giant willow, its graceful branches enveloping the vehicle in splendid camouflage. At either side of the building there were gates in the same style as those at the entrance – wrought iron with gold-painted finials – all of which were open. The thumping music and the sound of voices flowed towards us on a light breeze, bringing with it that reedy, muddy, river smell.

Passing the white Rolls-Royce, we walked down the left-hand side of the house, the lights in every room we went by blazing, the beat getting ever louder, and emerged into the garden. Here the sound, muffled before by buildings and trees, really hit us. I could feel the ground jumping under my feet. And the group? Was it Ragin' Rats? Roast Hog and the Wombats? I had not the first clue.

On the lawn, the boundaries of which were impossible to determine, was a large marquee connected by a short covered walkway to a conservatory, dazzling strobe lights inside the tent throwing the shadows of the crowd within, some dancing, on to the canvas sides. Twenty or so other people, couples and a woman cuddling a bottle for company, swayed and jigged outside on the grass, which was strewn with burst balloons and the remains of party poppers. Quite a few souls were flopped on to seats, some asleep, or perhaps dead drunk.

‘It's like a bloody battlefield,' Patrick observed, of necessity, loudly.

For our day in London we were quite respectably attired, the author, for once as she usually lives in trousers, in a summery floral dress. A waiter must have thought we fitted the scene, for he hurried forward with a tray with glasses of champagne, safely circumnavigating a couple who suddenly emerged from nowhere and who were seemingly not of this world at all. Purely in order to blend in with the proceedings we helped ourselves to a drink – purely.