Family and Friends Page 10

  ‘Yes, I will be president of the Independents’ in a week or two.’ Linda Fleming heard the note of calm satisfaction in Owen’s voice. ‘Old Ralph was a member,’ he added, ‘but he was never president.’ She gave him an enquiring look. ‘Ralph Underwood,’ he explained, ‘my father-in-law.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She nodded her understanding. They were still sitting in her little office but in the course of the last few minutes the conversation had drifted away from her business affairs and had turned into a monologue by Owen. He had enlarged on his own humble beginnings, had sketched in the expansion of the firm, taking some pains to indicate how matters stood–in relation to the property–between himself and his wife and brother-in-law.

  She was aware of significance in all this, had done her best to follow, smiling and murmuring a suitable remark from time to time but more than half her mind was engaged in listening for sounds from the kitchen quarters. At some appropriate pause in Owen’s flow she would slide out and dispose of Emily Bond. She forced her attention back on to what he was saying.

  ‘Of course Zena’s share would come to me in the event of . . . if anything happened . . .’ He let the rest of the sentence tail away. ‘She made a will, years ago, essential in matters of this kind.’ He had never actually seen the will but was as certain of what it contained as if he had drawn it up himself.

  ‘Quite so,’ Linda murmured with a slightly abstracted look. He was aware that she believed he had married Zena solely because she was the daughter of his employer. He had in fact gone to some trouble in his narrative to give her that impression. It was totally untrue.

  He had married for love and only love; it had simply been an additional blessing from the gods that Zena had money as well as beauty. Where once he would have fiercely resented the notion in other men’s minds that he had gone courting with an eye to the main chance, he often caught himself these days, at the club or in business circles, deliberately fostering the idea. As if he would prefer to be judged a shrewdly unsentimental opportunist rather than be pitied as a man who had worshipped and married a beautiful girl who had turned into a caricature, a cartoon wife.

  ‘There’s to be a ball after the presidential election. Rather a grand affair.’ He gave Linda an inviting smile. ‘You’d enjoy it, do you good to get away from work for a while. I must see about a ticket for you.’ His smile faded. Might be a bit tricky, that; he could scarcely include her in his own party, that would be the action of a lunatic.

  He cast about in his mind for some satisfactory arrangement but could not for the moment hit on anyone he could ask to bring her along without giving rise to unwelcome hints and speculations. ‘A big demand for tickets of course.’ That was better, leaving the matter open; inspiration might strike him in the next few days. ‘Can’t absolutely promise, you understand, but I’ll see what can be done.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said politely, half-registering the notion of some tedious and old-fashioned evening stiff with pompous formality. ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  She slipped suddenly from the room. Owen stared round him at the walls. Better watch his step a bit, wouldn’t do to get carried away like that, must take a harder look at the situation, think things out before opening his mouth again.

  And then to his horror he heard from a few yards away the sound of a loud, argumentative voice. A voice he knew very well indeed. Emily Bond’s unpleasing tones. He sprang to his feet. Recollection thrust at him, Zena saying something about the state of her bedroom, about Emily running off to Mrs Fleming’s. Good God, if that old gossip knew he was here–his brain clicked into feverish action. Then he relaxed slightly. The stock of course, that was why he’d come, to see about the surplus stock. He tested the statement swiftly in his mind, it didn’t have an altogether convincing air. Had the old devil seen him arrive? Could she have heard his voice? On the whole he thought not. But he’d clear off now, the moment Linda came back, he would infinitely prefer not to be put in the position of making any kind of explanation to his wife’s narrowed eyes.

  He was standing just inside the door when Linda came into the room. ‘I thought we might have a drink.’ She waved a hand in the direction of the sitting room. She had paid off Emily, been forced to listen for a moment to her lively complaint about the lateness of the hour and the general unsatisfactoriness of the arrangement. She’d had to thrust another couple of coins into her hand in order to urge her on her way.

  ‘Very sorry but I can’t stop now,’ Owen said in a rush. ‘I’ve just remembered, there’s a man waiting for me at the club. Simply must catch him, late already.’ He gave her a mechanical smile, seized the door-knob and stuck his head out into the passage as if making sure all was clear. Could he have heard Emily? Linda wondered, taken aback by the swift change in his manner. Surely not. But if he went at this moment he would very probably bump into her.

  He was already walking rapidly down the passage, he reached the front door. She went after him, she thought of saying, ‘Wait a moment, your wife’s charwoman is just leaving by the side door,’ but at once rejected the words. They carried an implication of conspiracy; she knew instinctively they were better left unspoken. Before she could think of any other remark that would effectively detain him he had flung open the door.

  ‘I’ll be in touch.’ He turned on the step and lifted a hand in abrupt farewell.

  ‘There’s that fellow again.’ Constable Quigley looked idly out at the street. ‘Pierson. The one we saw a while back.’

  Cottrell turned his head, catching sight of the tall broad figure striding along. An air of disengagement, uninvolvement, he thought once again, as of an outsider permanently circling the perimeter of life. ‘Often wanders about like that,’ he said. ‘Likes to be out in the open.’ He understood that in a fashion. Been taken that way himself for a year or two after he got back from the war, he’d spring up suddenly from a fireside chair in the evenings and plunge out of doors, anywhere, just to feel himself actually, unbelievably free. But it had been twenty years or more since he’d been afflicted by those wild impulses. And Arnold Pierson still walked the night streets, driven by heaven knew what.

  He pulled the car into the kerb, having spotted a shop door that stood an inch or two ajar. ‘Hang on a moment, I’d better take a look at that.’

  Arnold hadn’t noticed the police car. He had walked all round the shopping streets, pausing briefly sometimes to stare into a window, headed for nowhere. Now he glanced about him and saw that his feet had carried him to within a hundred yards or so of Linda Fleming’s shop. He frowned, hesitated. What was he doing here? He had no intention of calling on her. Was he simply going to stand like a fool and gape at her premises? The cold began to strike at him; he moved on again, past a couple of parked cars, he reached the intersection where her shop stood on the corner opposite.

  CHAPTER 6

  Still foggy. And bitterly cold. Emily clutched her holdall in front of her, lowered her head against the icy breeze and set off at an awkward trot in the direction of buses and home.

  She reached the crossroads and stepped straight off the pavement on to the treacherous road without a single glance to right or left.

  A hiss of tyres, a shrill screech of brakes, the flash of lights, a voice crying out. An arm clamped suddenly across her chest, pulling her sideways and backwards. She fell on to a body, the hard muscular body of a man, her holdall slipped from her grasp and burst open on the roadway. A crunch of metal, doors slamming, running feet, calling voices. She let out a long astonished breath.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Faces looking down at her. She stared up at them, she began to laugh, she started to say, ‘I will be when I get me wind back,’ then it hit her–she’d almost been knocked down, run over, she felt a wild impulse to burst into tears, she began to tremble violently.

  Behind her the man extricated himself with difficulty, got to his knees and then to his feet, stooped and helped her up.

  ‘Come on, better get o
ff the road, don’t want another car running into us.’

  ‘Me holdall,’ she mumbled, gesturing at the canvas bag, the assortment of food scattered around.

  ‘That’s all right. We’ll pick it up. Don’t worry.’ She was back on the pavement, breathing more easily. ‘No bones broken, at all events,’ he said reassuringly. Why, I might have been smashed to pieces, she thought, still not quite able to take it in. Tears began to trickle down her face. She raised a hand, clumsy in its woollen glove, she tried to dab at her cheeks.

  ‘Take it easy, Mrs Bond, you’ve had a lucky escape.’ At her name she peered up at him; recognition filtered through the muddle in her brain.

  ‘Why, it’s Mr Pierson.’ It came to her slowly that he had pulled her back from the path of the car, that he had very probably saved her life. An overwhelming tide of gratitude swept through her; she had a confused notion that she must say something, do something to show him how grateful she was, she was seized by a desire to shower him with the money she had just received from Mrs Fleming. ‘If it hadn’t been for you–’ She looked distractedly about for the shabby old leather purse. ‘Me bag–me holdall . . .’

  He still had his arm round her shoulders, he gave her a soothing pat. ‘Nothing to worry about, they’ve got your bag. It was a police car that nearly ran you down.’

  ‘Here you are, mother, I’ve got your holdall. I’ve picked up some of the stuff that was in it but the rest of it–I’m afraid it isn’t up to much now.’ Constable Quigley held out the bag. She took it and scrabbled about inside, drawing out her purse, fishing for a handful of coins.

  Sergeant Cottrell came up. Owen Yorke was walking at his side, he was talking in a protesting voice that held a strong note of repetition.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you, I saw absolutely nothing, I had my head turned the other way—’ He broke off. ‘Good God, it’s Mrs Bond!’ His brain jerked out a fresh stream of warning signals–she must have left Linda’s at more or less the same moment as himself, by the other door–Cottrell had seen which house he’d come from, he’d run over and grabbed him at the foot of the steps as a possible witness–it was sure to be in the papers, Cottrell had run into the back of a parked car in his swerve to avoid Emily–but if he continued to deny that he’d seen anything–it would be all right–no need to panic.

  He took a firm hold on himself. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ he asked Emily solicitously. And of all people, Arnold Pierson standing there with his arm round her. He gave an inward groan.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right, thank you.’ She was beginning to feel a little more like herself. ‘A lucky thing Mr Pierson was here, otherwise—’ She tried to thrust the coins into his hand. ‘Here you are, go on, take it.’ Arnold gave a little surprised laugh and closed her fingers firmly over the money.

  ‘There’s no need for that, put it away.’ He spoke soothingly, as if she were a child. ‘But thank you all the same.’ He looked at her anxiously. ‘You really ought to sit down–is there anywhere—’ He glanced about at the faces of buildings.

  ‘I can run her home,’ Owen said at once. ‘The least I can do. I’ll make her a cup of tea, I’ll see she’s all right.’ The sooner he removed himself from the scene the better. ‘I know where she lives, I’ve taken her home before.’ He had a horrid fear that at any moment someone would suggest taking the old woman back into Linda Fleming’s.

  ‘Just hold on a bit.’ Cottrell had his notebook out. ‘Have to get one or two things down.’ He despatched Quigley back to inspect the vehicle they’d run into; he made a formal request for names and addresses. ‘I’m sorry about your car,’ he said suddenly to Yorke, ‘couldn’t be avoided. We’ll go over and take a look at it in a minute.’

  ‘Oh–that wasn’t my car you ran into,’ Owen said with surprise. ‘Mine is parked back there.’ He waved a hand towards a side street some distance away. I thought he was taking it very well, Cottrell said in his mind, at the same time registering the fact that Yorke had for some reason left his vehicle quite a fair way off, tucked discreetly out of sight. Now why would that be? He looked across at the house Yorke had been leaving. Attached to that little draper’s shop. Changed hands not very long ago. His brain searched automatically through the myriad fragments of accumulated data. A young woman, he rather thought, easy enough to check later.

  Now what would Yorke be doing there? Business perhaps? Or not? He gave him a long considering look. He would have taken his oath Yorke had seen the accident. Persisted in saying he hadn’t, a trifle eager to be on his way, by no means pleased to have his name entered.

  Owen saw the look, he had also caught the sergeant’s glance across the street. He assumed an easy, maty air–he knew Cottrell well enough, although they had never been anything as close as friends, their positions in the life of Milbourne were too far apart for that. But they had been at the same grammar school, although the few years between them had been sufficient to form a barrier. And their fathers had served together in the first war.

  ‘I really ought to be getting along.’ Owen glanced ostentatiously at his watch. ‘There’s someone waiting to see me at the Independents’.’ Dropping the name of the club with just enough emphasis to remind Cottrell that he was dealing with a man of some consequence. ‘I don’t think you need me.’ He smiled, frankly. ‘Not a great deal of use, I’m afraid. I’ll see Mrs Bond safely home.’

  Cottrell put up a hand and massaged his chin. ‘We’ll have to take a statement from her of course, but that can wait till tomorrow. But she ought to see a doctor tonight. I know she says she’s all right, but at her age–and one never knows with road accidents, doesn’t always show at the time.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘There can be strains, something displaced. To say nothing of bruises. Or shock. Might be a question of a claim, loss of earnings, disability even.’ His voice was politely resolute. ‘I’m afraid I must insist. If you can’t spare the time yourself it’s of no consequence, we can run her to the hospital. Probably just as well that way.’

  Yorke might have been expected to jump at that, Cottrell had said nothing about detaining him further. But he remained where he was. ‘That’s all right,’ he said, still easy. ‘I’ll take her to the hospital myself.’ His appointment had grown pretty elastic all of a sudden, the sergeant thought, seemed remarkably keen to deliver the old girl in person. Wanted to have a private word with her perhaps. But then he–or his wife–did after all employ the woman. Probably nothing more than a natural concern for her welfare.

  ‘Very well. If you could see to that.’ He glanced at Emily. ‘Mr Yorke is going to drive you to the hospital, just for a check-up. Nothing to worry about. Either the constable or myself will call to see you in the morning.’ His gaze slid to Pierson. ‘We’ll have to take a statement from you of course. Might as well come along to the station, warmer there than standing about in the street.’

  It struck Owen suddenly that it was a bit of a coincidence, Arnold Pierson being there, poised on the edge of the pavement a few yards away from Linda’s shop. Possible that the fellow was on his way to some unlikely gaiety of course. It wasn’t conceivable–surely–that he had actually been about to call on Mrs Fleming? Had he seen her at the works? Been introduced to her perhaps? Were they already on friendly terms? Was Pierson by now a regular and welcome caller at the private entrance to the house? Owen stood with his head inclined to one side, waiting with some anxiety for Arnold’s reply, for his mention of a pressing engagement, his offer to call at the police station tomorrow to make his statement.

  But Arnold merely nodded ‘Very well’ to the sergeant. Owen frowned, sliding him a keen look as an even more unpleasant notion bobbed up in his mind. Could Pierson by any horrid chance have posted himself on that precise corner in order to keep a watch on Linda’s premises . . . or, more disturbingly still, on his own movements?

  He was by no means unaware that some curious contact was maintained between Arnold and Zena, not altogether inexplicable in the light of a business re
lationship or even of their long acquaintance. Owen had never cared to probe this contact; there were many things about Zena–and if it came to that, about Pierson–that instinct had long ago warned him might be much better left unquestioned.

  A swift succession of queries darted across his brain. Could Zena have somehow got wind of his interest in the young widow? Had she set Pierson on to watch him? But the notion was altogether too ridiculous . . . or was it? Had he let slip some unguarded word during his brief visit home? He bit his lip, striving to remember.

  ‘No need to keep you here any longer,’ Cottrell said suddenly, jerking Owen back to an awareness of Emily Bond looking at him with enquiry, waiting for him to lead her to his car. The sergeant had seen the glance Yorke had flicked at Pierson, the intent way he’d listened for Pierson’s answer. His mind threw up an image of Pierson earlier in the evening, coming out of the lane that led to The Sycamores. One or two interesting speculations flashed across his consciousness. But there was no time to dwell on them now. Constable Quigley came back across the road with an urgent step.

  ‘I think you’d better come and have a word.’ He tilted his head in the direction of the damaged car and the owner, located and summoned to the scene. ‘He isn’t best pleased.’ Which was in fact putting it very mildly; the man was hopping mad. A brand new car, the pride and joy of his heart, savagely run into by some lunatic policeman.

  Cottrell sighed. ‘I’m coming.’ The little group broke up; Quigley led the way back to where the angry owner was running his hands over the battered coachwork. Going to be very late getting home, the constable thought with a stab of unease. His darling Sharon wasn’t going to be at all pleased as another of her delicious little suppers slowly dried up in the oven.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll be?’ he asked the sergeant in a low voice that held a note of stubborn hope. ‘I’m thinking about Sharon—’ A wild shred of possibility that Cottrell might drop him off on the way to the station, might offer to clear up the rest of the job himself, statements and all.