Mrs, Presumed Dead (17 page)

Truffler shrugged. 'Don't think it'll make much difference. He doesn't look long for this world, anyway.'

'No . . .' Still she hesitated.

'It'd give him a happy hour or two,' said Truffler.

She nodded and, still uncertain, held the bottle out.

The engrimed hands instantly reached across and snatched it away. The metal top was unscrewed in one movement and a heavy slug of whisky poured through the discoloured lips. Then the bottle was closed and tucked safely into the greatcoat.

Rod Cotton's shadowed eyes looked up at her pitifully. 'Have you got any money?'

'If I gave you money, you'd only spend it on more drink.'

He shook his head. 'Not drink,' he said childishly. 'Not drink.'

'Food . . . ?'

'Not drink,' he asserted once again.

Mrs Pargeter looked for advice to Truffler Mason, but all she got was another shrug. She'd have to make up her own mind.

And she wasn't the sort of women to resist the pathetic appeal in Rod Cotton's eyes. Impulsively, she unclasped her handbag, reached into her purse and pulled out a fifty-pound note. Then she added another and held them out to the sad figure on the bench.

Truffler Mason looked away as the money was secreted in the filthy recesses of the greatcoat. Rod Cotton gave a slight grin, then his eyes closed, his mouth fell slackly open and he snored, his breath steaming in the cold air of Embankment Gardens.

'God,' murmured Mrs Pargeter. 'Isn't there anything we can do to help him?'

Truffler Mason shrugged miserably. 'Only if he wants to help himself.'

'Mm.'

'And from what I've seen, I wouldn't say he does want to help himself. I'd say he wants to destroy himself – and as quickly as possible.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter, suddenly overwhelmed by the bleakness of this undoubted truth. 'Yes, I'm afraid you're right.'

CHAPTER 30

They picked up the car again in Northumberland Avenue. Gary had been given instructions to circle round until they were ready. Mrs Pargeter and Truffler got into the back of the limousine in silence. The customary cheerfulness was gone from her face, and his looked even more lugubrious than usual.

Mrs Pargeter gave terse instructions to the chauffeur, who took them on a tour of the London hospitals. At each one, Mrs Pargeter stayed in the car, while Truffler, the professional investigator, went into the Casualty Department with his Polaroid photograph.

He struck lucky at the third hospital. The sister he encountered had been on duty when Rod Cotton had been brought in with his broken arm. She recognised the face in the photograph instantly.

Yes, it had been a fall. He had been brought in with advanced DTs, and they'd had to dry him out a bit before they could set the arm. As a result, he had spent three days in the hospital, before discharging himself. No, he had given no name, and appeared to have no address.

She was gloomy about his prospects. They had plenty in like that, and most of them would come in more than once. Falls, walking into lamp-posts, stepping in front of cars. The hospital patched them up, tried to counsel them to change their habits, and, with little optimism, sent them out again into the world they hated, to repeat their accidents. Until one day there was a more serious accident and what arrived in Casualty was a body.

She answered all of Truffler's questions as economically as she could, and then went off to deal with that day's catalogue of human disasters.

He got back into the car, and Mrs Pargeter told the chauffeur to drive her back to Smithy's Loam. They would drop Mr Mason off at a Tube station on the way.

'Well?' she said, when the limousine was in motion.

Truffler gave her all the details that he had elicited from the sister.

'And when was this?' asked Mrs Pargeter.

He gave her the dates. She smiled with grim satisfaction. Rod Cotton's accident had happened on a Sunday evening, nineteen days before. Dead drunk, he had fallen down a flight of steps on Hungerford Bridge and broken his arm. He had been admitted to the hospital at half-past ten that night.

And, since he was kept in there for three days, there was no way that he could have been at Smithy's Loam the day after the accident, murdering his wife.

Just as Mrs Pargeter was tipping her chauffeur back at Smithy's Loam, Sue Curle's car screeched to a halt opposite, and its owner scrambled out in high fury. She was met at the door by Kirsten and, after a muttered consultation, the two children were hurried out of the house into the back of the car and all four drove off at speed.

Mrs Pargeter wondered mildly what all that was about, but she had more pressing thoughts on her mind. There was the small matter of the police that required a decision.

Now, Mrs Pargeter did not believe in being deliberately obstructive to the police, except of course when it was absolutely necessary to do so. And in this instance, she couldn't really pretend that it was absolutely necessary. Could she?

With a twinge of regret, she admitted to herself that no, she really couldn't.

So, once again, she rang the police informer from the late Mr Pargeter's address book and gave him the information to pass on.

As a result of his call, by that evening, the official investigators of Theresa Cotton's murder knew where to find the dead woman's husband.

They did not, however, know of his alibi for the time of his wife's murder. Mrs Pargeter didn't want to make it too easy for them. If they didn't have to work some of the details out for themselves, it took the fun away, didn't it?

Once again, Mrs Pargeter felt that she was playing fair by the police. She did not want to solve the case by taking unfair advantage of them, so each time she found an important new gobbet of information, she behaved very correctly, and passed it on.

Unfortunately, this was not a reciprocal arrangement.

The police could not be blamed for that state of affairs. Apart from anything else, even if they had wished to repay information with information, they were unaware of the identity of their benefactor, so would not know where to direct it.

And, being the realistic woman she was, Mrs Pargeter recognised that, even if they knew of her interest in the case, the police might be disinclined to be as generous as she in keeping her abreast of developments in their investigation.

The result of this, however, was that it was some days before Mrs Pargeter heard of the circumstances in which the police did find Rod Cotton.

As intended, the anonymous tip-off led them to the Embankment, but their quarry was not there when they arrived, and rigorous enquiries amongst his fellow-dossers produced no clue to his whereabouts.

It was three days later, when a body was washed up at Woolwich, that the police identified it as that of Rod Cotton.

And it was not until Tuesday, four days after her encounter with the dead man, that Mrs Pargeter read this news in her daily paper.

In the report of the discovery, reference was made to Theresa's murder. In the inimitably British way that newspapers have of tiptoeing around the Law, the report implied, without of course saying as much, that the two deaths were not unconnected.

And also implied, though with what basis of truth could not be assessed, that the police might be looking no further for the murderer of Theresa Cotton.

CHAPTER 31

In all her deliberations about the case, Mrs Pargeter kept coming back to the same question. How much could the murderer have predicted?

The murderer could not have predicted, for example, that Theresa's body would have been found as soon as it was. On the other hand, he or she could have predicted that it would have been found at some point. So that risk must have been taken into account.

The murderer could also have predicted that, once the murder was discovered, the first person the police were likely to look for was Rod Cotton. Now, if Rod, as the accepted wisdom of Smithy's Loam had it, was working in the North, the police would have had no difficulty at all in tracking him down. And, once they had tracked him down, they would question him about his movements at the time of his wife's murder. That time was in fact a very specific and relatively short period. Theresa Cotton had been seen, alive and well, at about seven-thirty on the Monday evening, by Sid Runcorn the car dealer. And she had been safely strangled and stowed away in her freezer by nine o'clock the following morning when Littlehaven's removal men arrived.

So, if the conjectural Rod Cotton who worked in the North of England had an alibi for that crucial 13 and a half hour period – and there was a very good chance that he would have – then his usefulness to the murderer as a decoy quickly evaporated.

The real Rod Cotton, on the other hand, the drunken, unfocused, washed-up Rod Cotton, who wandered through London without a name or a home, was a much better proposition. Mrs Pargeter had been very fortunate in discovering his alibi for the time of the murder; he was certainly in no state to provide it himself. Anyway, he had to be found first, and it had taken all of the exceptional skills of Truffler Mason to achieve that.

So the murderer might well have felt pretty safe with the real Rod Cotton as a suspect. Rod was one of the lost people of England, one who had lost his identity completely, had simply slipped off the demographic map of the country's population.

There was a comforting kind of logic to it. The first suspect is the victim's spouse, because the first suspect always
is
the victim's spouse. But then the victim's spouse can't be found, suggesting that he has done a bunk and reinforcing the existing suspicions against him.

Yes, it made sense.

Assuming of course that the murderer knew about what had really happened to Rod Cotton.

It became a priority for Mrs Pargeter to find out how many of the residents of Smithy's Loam had been taken in by the story of his promotion and transfer to the North of England.

And the resident who warranted most urgent investigation was the one who, Mrs Pargeter suspected, had been rather closer to Rod Cotton than the others.

'Well, obviously,' said Vivvi Sprake, 'the news of the last few weeks has been pretty devastating. I mean, first Theresa, and then Rod . . . it's ghastly.'

Mrs Pargeter nodded sympathetically. She had had no problem at all in getting Vivvi on to the desired subject. Advice on gardeners had been quickly dispensed, and Vivvi herself had brought up the murder. She had been longing to have a really good natter about it, and she thought Mrs Pargeter might be a more enthusiastic participant in gossip than the other, more stand-offish, residents of Smithy's Loam. She felt drawn to the older woman; though Mrs Pargeter's background was London, her relaxed conversational approach struck chords from Vivvi's northern upbringing.

'I mean, it's dreadful . . . you know, to think that people you've known . . . could do that to each other.'

'Dreadful. Impossible to see inside another couple's marriage,' Mrs Pargeter commented, masking her interest in the platitude, and noting that Vivvi, at least apparently, accepted the prevalent view that Rod had killed his wife.

'Yes. Yes,' Vivvi agreed, and couldn't help adding mysteriously, 'Mind you, I don't think everything was as sunny as it seemed with the Cottons' marriage . . .'

'Oh?' said Mrs Pargeter, without too much emphasis. She didn't think that Vivvi was going to be too difficult a subject to interrogate; indeed, she thought the problem might later be to stem the flow of confidences.

'Yes . . . Well, I'm only telling you this in confidence, Mrs Pargeter . . .'

'Of course, of course . . .'

'But Rod Cotton once made a pass at me.'

'Really?' said Mrs Pargeter, as if dumbfounded.

'Oh yes,' Vivvi' Sprake asserted with a harsh woman-of-the-world laugh that didn't quite come off.

'When was this?'

'Rod was around for a while between finishing the job down here and moving up to the new job in York . . . '

Vivvi was the first of the Smithy's Loam crowd to mention 'York' as opposed to just 'the North'. That, like the fact that she had had Rod's office phone number, confirmed the idea of a special relationship between the two.

'Anyway, I went across one morning round that time – to give something to Theresa, actually – but she wasn't there and Rod invited me in . . .'

'And made a pass at you?'

'Well, in a way, yes. The fact is, I was going through a rather unhappy time myself . . .'

Mrs Pargeter tried another little 'Oh?' They seemed to be working very well her little 'Oh?'s.

This one proved no exception. Vivvi was desperate to pour it all out. 'The fact is, you see, that Nigel . . . my husband, has been married before. I'm his second wife.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I was his secretary and, er, we fell in love and, er, well, that was it. He left his wife for me and, you know, we had the children quite soon, and here we are.' As Vivvi got deeper into confidences, her accent became increasingly northern. 'Very happy we are. All works very well.'

'Oh, good.'

'However . . .' Vivvi paused, almost as if she was considering not continuing. But there was no real chance of that; she was enjoying the drama of her narrative far too much. 'Well, there was a patch about six months ago when . . . I suppose you'd have to say . . . things weren't perfect between us for a while . . .'

'Oh?'

'Just briefly. Nigel was . . . the fact is . . . Look, I am telling you this in complete confidence . . .'

'Of course. I have taught myself to be very discreet, you know, Vivvi.' Only the late Mr Pargeter knew how thoroughly true that remark was.

Vivvi Sprake needed no further reassurance. 'Well, the fact is, I discovered that Nigel, my husband, was having a little fling with his current secretary . . .'

'Oh. History repeating itself.'

'No,' Vivvi contradicted sharply. 'Well, not at all in the same way. I mean, this girl was some dreadful little tart who was just infatuated with him – he is a very attractive man – and, you know, she led him on . . . I mean, it was nothing like our affair . . . '

'Of course not,' said Mrs Pargeter, translating Vivvi's words into the fact that the new secretary, unlike her predecessor, hadn't got pregnant.

'Anyway, everything's absolutely fine now. I mean, Nigel's deeply sorry it happened, and of course nothing like that'll ever happen again.'

Like hell, thought Mrs Pargeter.