Upon a Dark Night (35 page)

‘Personally, my word yes,’ Mr Singh said, eager to please. ‘We have very close relations, Miss Gladstone and I. She is living in my house more than two years, hand in glove. Very charming young lady.’

Diamond thought he knew what was meant. ‘Pays her rent by banker’s order, I understand?’

‘Midland Bank, yes. The Listening Bank. No problem.’

‘Does she work nearby?’

‘I am thinking she does. In shop.’

‘You wouldn’t know which one?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Does she drive a car?’

‘Miss Gladstone? I do not think so.’

There was a pile of mail on a chair just inside the hallway, all addressed to Christine Gladstone. Diamond riffled through it. Mostly circulars and bills. A couple of bank statements from the Midland. The earliest postmark was 29th September.

‘When did you last speak to her?’

‘August, maybe. Some small problem with loose tile on roof. I am fixing such the same day.’

‘She lives upstairs, then? Shall we go up?’ When the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked for them, Diamond added, ‘We’ll be taking our time over this, sir. No need for you to stay.’

Mr Singh brought his hands together in the traditional salute of his race, dipped his turbaned head, and left.

‘Don’t know about you, Julie,’ Diamond said when he had stepped inside, ‘but I’ve lived in worse drums than this.’

They were in a small, blue-carpeted living-room, with papered walls, central heating, television, a bookcase and a pair of brown leather armchairs. Large framed posters of Venice lined one wall.

Julie picked a photograph off the bookcase. ‘Her mother, I think.’

He studied it. The improbably blonde, gaunt woman must have been twenty years older than she had been in the picture he had found in the Bible in the farmhouse. The eyes were more sunken, the lines either side of the mouth more deeply etched. The leukemia may already have taken a grip, yet the smile had not changed.

‘No question.’

His attention was caught by some cardboard cartons stacked along the wall below the posters. The first he opened contained pieces of used china and glass wrapped in newspaper, presumably treasured pieces brought from Meg Gladstone’s house after she died.

Julie had gone through to the bedroom. ‘More photos in here,’ she called out.

‘Any of the father?’

‘No. Mummy again, and one of Rose arm-in-arm with a bloke.’

He looked into another box. Cookery books. The boxes were not so interesting after all.

Julie announced, ‘There’s a folder by the bed with a photocopy of the will inside. And other things. Solicitors’ letters. Her mother’s death certificate.’

He walked through to the bedroom and looked at the contents of the folder. It was a simple will leaving everything to ‘my beloved daughter, Christine’. The Midland Bank were named as executors. No mention of the husband.

‘She seems to have travelled a lot,’ said Julie, running a fingertip along a bookshelf beside the bed. ‘France, Switzerland, Iceland, Italy, Kenya, Spain. Maps, too, that look as if they’ve been used more than once.’

‘She ought to have some personal papers. Income tax forms, passport, birth certificate.’ He started opening drawers. The clothes inside were folded and tidily stacked. Then he found a box-file. ‘Here we are. The dreaded Tax Return.
Trade, profession or vocation.
Any guesses?’

‘Courier?’

‘Not bad. Travel agent employed by Travel Ease. Fulham High Street. We’ll call there, Julie. See if they know what her plans were.’

He returned the box to the drawer and took a more leisurely look at the bedroom, getting an impression of its user. It was without the frills and furry toys often favoured by single young women. A distinct absence of pastel pink and blue. The duvet had a strong abstract design of squares in primary colours. Against the window, the dressing-table was long, white and clinical, with a wide, rectangular mirror. A few pots of face-cream, more functional than expensive, a brush and comb and a small hand-mirror suggested someone not over-concerned with her appearance.

He picked up the photo of Rose (he couldn’t get into his head that she was Christine) with the young man. More relaxed than in the police picture, her dark hair caught by a breeze, she looked alive, a personality, intelligent, aware and enjoying herself.

‘If we could find an address book, we might learn who the boyfriend is.’ He unclipped the photo from its frame, but nothing was written on the reverse.

‘She may use a personal organiser.’ Seeing the uncertainty in his eyes, Julie said, ‘You know what I mean? One of those electronic gadgets that tell you where you live and when you were born and when to take your anti-stress pills? John Wigfull has one.’

And he would, Diamond thought.

‘If so,’ she said, ‘it probably went with her. She’ll have taken her basic make-up as well. I noticed you check the dressing-table drawer.’

‘Did I?’

‘No lipstick, eye-liner, mascara.’

‘So you think she packed for some time away?’

‘I didn’t say that. If you want my opinion, it’s unlikely. She isn’t a heavy buyer of clothes and there’s still quite a stack of underwear in the drawers.’

‘So?’

‘Women always pack more knickers than they need.’

‘The things you learn in this job.’

‘That’s why I tag along, isn’t it?’ She’d scored a nice point and she allowed herself a smile, the first in hours. ‘I could be totally wrong. She must possess some luggage and I haven’t come across any yet.’

‘It ought to be obvious.’

‘Unless it’s stored somewhere else in the house. Should we check with Mr Singh?’

He pondered the matter. ‘But would you pack a suitcase if you were going to Tormarton to murder your father?’

She didn’t attempt an answer.

Diamond wrestled with his own question. ‘Even if she did, and took a travelling bag with her, what happened to it? She wasn’t carrying one when she was found.’

‘She wasn’t even carrying a handbag.’

He looked at her with approval. ‘Good point. Why hasn’t the handbag turned up?’

Julie shook her head.

Almost without thinking, Diamond stepped into the bathroom and made a telling discovery. He came out holding up a toothbrush. ‘I think she was planning to come back the same day.’

But Julie had already moved into the small kitchen. She called out, ‘I’m sure you’re right. She left out a loaf and - ugh!’

‘What’s up?’

‘A portion of uncooked chicken in the fridge. That’s what’s up. Well past its sell-by date.’

The smell travelled fast. He tugged open a sash-window in the living-room. Julie joined him there. The petrol fumes from the street were primrose-sweet at that moment.

‘That’s put me off chicken for a week.’

‘Did you shut the fridge?’

‘Yes, but you wouldn’t believe I did.’

When the air was clearer they began a more thorough sweep of the shelves, cupboards and drawers in each room. Rose was unusually tidy and well organised, but things still came to light in unexpected places. Two tickets (under a candlestick on the chest of drawers) for a symphony concert at the Barbican in mid-October. A chocolate box containing opera programmes from La Scala, Milan, and Rome. A copy of a typed letter to Mr Singh complaining about a damp patch in the ceiling. A couple of gushing love-letters from someone called James; they were tucked into one end of the bookcase.

‘I wonder why James hasn’t been round to see her in all this time?’

‘Take a look at the dates,’ said Julie. ‘September and October, 1993. He’s history.’

‘Why didn’t she bin them, then?’

‘Women don’t get love letters all that often. She may want to keep them.’

‘Or she forgot they were there.’

‘Cynic.’

He didn’t challenge her. He was taking one more look at the manila folder containing the will and death certificate. Diligence was rewarded. Trapped inside, out of sight along the inner fold of the pocket, was an extra piece of paper. He pulled it out. An envelope, torn open. On it was written:
To Christine, to be opened after my death.

‘Frustrating,’ he said. ‘This is her mother’s handwriting. It matches the writing on that photo.’

‘Isn’t the letter in the folder?’

‘No.’

‘Then she must have it with her.’

‘Unless she destroyed it.’

‘The last letter she ever received from her mother?’ said Julie on a high note of disbelief. ‘Besides, if she kept the envelope, she means to keep the letter.’

He conceded the sense of this with a nod.

Julie added, ‘Do you think the letter could have a direct bearing on the case? If it was only to be read after Meg Gladstone’s death, it may have revealed some information Rose wasn’t aware of, a family secret. Some reference to the old man’s shabby treatment of them?’

‘I don’t know about that,’ he commented after a moment’s thought. ‘It would be too negative. It’s more likely to be a last request, some service the mother wanted Rose to perform for her.’

‘A bit of unfinished business. Like visiting her father?’

‘Possibly. You see, she delayed several months before going to see him. No doubt she was busy sorting things out for some time after her mother’s death in - when was it? - January. She probably wanted to get down to Tormarton before the end of the year. That’s my feeling about it - but of course it’s all speculation without the damned letter.’

They spent another half-hour in the flat before he called time. On their way out, downstairs in the hall, they were treated to the sight of Mr Singh’s scarlet turban behind a door that was drawn shut as they approached.

‘Good day to you, landlord,’ Diamond called out.

The door opened again and he looked out. ‘All satisfactory, is it?’

‘Thanks, yes.’

‘She is in trouble, Miss Gladstone?’

‘We hope not. If she comes back, you’ll inform us, I expect.’

‘Indeed, yes, sir, I will.’

‘You live downstairs, do you, Mr Singh?’

‘No, no.’ He emerged fully from behind the door and held it open. ‘This is store cupboard. I live across river. Detached house. Putney Hill. Five bedroom. I show you if you like.’

The store cupboard held more interest for them than Mr 274 Singh’s detached house. ‘This is where the tenants keep their luggage?’

‘Just so.’ He flicked on a light and they saw a stack of suitcases. One uncertainty, at least, had been cleared up.

Travel Ease, where Rose was employed, was crowded with people booking winter sunshine. It was not easy attracting the attention of the manager, and even when they got to his desk he assumed they were planning a holiday together. Diamond disillusioned him with a few pithy words and asked about Miss Gladstone.

‘Yes,’ the young man said, ‘I have been concerned about Christine. She hasn’t been in for weeks. I wrote letters and tried phoning with no result. It’s so out of character. She’s always been reliable up to now.’

‘Did she say if she was going away?’

‘She said nothing. You can ask any of my staff. She simply didn’t turn up after one weekend. You don’t think something dreadful has happened to her?’

They got back to Bath soon after four. Diamond commented to Julie that the incident room had all the fevered activity of a town museum on a hot day in August. One civilian computer operator was on duty. she said she thought Inspector Halliwell might have slipped out to the canteen. Only just, she added loyally.

They spotted Halliwell taking a shot at the snooker table. Someone alerted him and he put down the cue and snatched up a cup and came to meet Diamond and Julie midway across the canteen floor. ‘I missed my lunch,’ he said in mitigation. ‘We’ve been overstretched. Most of them are out at Tormarton on the house-to-house. How did it go?’

‘Has anything new come in?’

‘A couple more sightings, but I wouldn’t pin any hopes on them. Oh, and we’ve got a list of the treasure-hunters. I had no idea this is such a popular thing. Getting on for fifty names, and clubs in Bath, Bristol and Chippenham. Do you think it pays?’ He was trying manfully to appear untroubled at being caught out.

‘No word from Jim Marsh?’

‘About the hair Julie found? No.’

‘Have you called him?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You finish your break, then,’ said Diamond. After a pause of merciless duration, he added, ‘Your lunchbreak, I mean.’

On the way upstairs they met Ada Shaftsbury of all people. ‘What idiot let her in?’ he muttered to Julie. Then, to Ada, with an attempt at good humour, ‘You’re out of bounds, you know. This is strictly for the Old Bill.’

Ada twitched her nose, a dangerous sign. She also took a deep breath before sounding off. ‘Do you think I’m here out of choice? Don’t you know what’s going on in your own festering nick? Well, obviously you don’t. You’re the bullshit artist who wouldn’t listen when I came in about my friend Rose. She’s all right, you said, talking down your nose at me. All done through Social Services, so there can’t be nothing wrong. What do I see now? Rose’s picture all over the papers. Missing woman. “Grounds for concern, says Superintendent Peter Diamond.” Pity you didn’t show some bleeding concern when I told you she was in trouble.’

‘Ada, this isn’t helping her. What are you doing here anyway?’

‘Like I said, you don’t even talk to each other, you lot. I was brought in. You grab an innocent woman off the street and throw garbage at her for the fun of it. Just because I’m homeless you think you can walk all over me. I’m going straight from here to see a lawyer. I’m going to get on television and tell my story.’

‘What exactly is the trouble, Ada?’

‘False arrest is the trouble. Invasion of civil liberties. Getting me in an arm-lock and forcing me into the back of one of your poky little panda cars, so I got bruises all over my body, and dragging me up here and strapping me about things I wouldn’t do if I was paid.’

‘What things?’

‘Only vandalising a car, like I’m some hopped-up kid, that’s what.’

‘What did you do - lean on it?’

‘Piss off. I didn’t do nothing. Haven’t been near the place. Stupid berk.’

‘Who are you talking about now?’

‘Him with the face-fungus. Wigwam.’