Chapter 3
It was at least half an hour before he was due at Clarissa’s house when Anderson walked through the park gates heading towards Kingswood Avenue. He was early and took his time. The pathways and central field were deserted although the sun shone brightly and the temperature had not dropped to winter levels. There were no children on the swings or toddlers chasing balls, so clearly the locals felt differently about the park now that it had been turned into a mortuary.
The leaves on the trees hadn’t changed colour yet but the summer flowers in the corner garden had all been dug up and had not yet been replaced. Anderson wondered whether they would be or whether the park authorities shared the general distaste for the place and would shrink from decorating a double murder scene.
In daylight the house looked more impressive than at night. It overlooked the trees and greenery of the park and its condition was better than most of the adjacent properties and no one could say they were neglected. The front gate was wooden and not one of those modern wrought iron anachronisms, the front path was paved in brick and the pot plants and shrubs healthy but well trimmed, while the street door was ill-fitting enough to be original. No expense had been spared to produce a good initial impression.
Clarissa opened the door herself, said nothing but smiled and turned rapidly. As she walked down the hall, her low-heeled shoes made clacking noises on the ceramic-tiled floor. Anderson wondered whether the tiles were the originals. Those outside – on either side of the door – were too perfect to have been there for a hundred years but they were from the right period. Anderson could see that a great deal of time and effort had been made to restore the house to its original Victorian state. Anaglypta wallpaper under a rail in the hall and the wall above covered with a variety of framed prints and objects completed the feeling of old-fashioned clutter. He preferred a cleaner modern look. Still, he thought it right that, if one bought an old house, it should be decorated in character.
At the entrance to the sitting room she stopped. ‘Here or in my study?’
‘Why don’t you show me your lair, where it all happens?’
She walked back passed him and Anderson moved slowly so that she had to squeeze passed him to reach the door. Then he walked after her and through the open door into her office. There was only one chair and, apart from the computer on her desk, nothing else cluttered up its surface.
‘Why don’t you sit down and I’ll perch on the desk,’ she said.
He did so and slid the office chair back so that she had enough room for her legs to dangle diagonally across the corner of the desk. Then she crossed her legs and one of her slippers fell to the floor. Anderson picked it up and held her right foot as he put the shoe back on.
‘Too small,’ he said.
‘For what?’
‘The murderer, he left shoe prints.’
She smiled. ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘Can you explain exactly how typescripts find their way from the library on to your desk,’ he said.
She was very precise and looked into the distance and swung her leg as she thought and described the process, if you could call it that. Quite simply Clarissa carried the box to her car and then carried it into her office to be read the next day. She made something of a meal of the telling and it gave Anderson the opportunity to look around him. The walls were fitted with glass fronted bookshelves, packed, as might have been expected in an author’s study, with books of all sizes. The colour of the wood and the mouldings looked as though they might have come from the library of a much larger Victorian house. And maybe they did. Anderson knew it was common for old furniture including built-in units to be re-cycled.
What struck Anderson was the lack of any sign of work in progress. There were no papers on the desk and he was sure that Clarissa had not been at her keyboard when he knocked. Although he had dawdled, he had still been early, so, if she had been working, the screen would still be alive. ‘So there would be no occasion when you would read them the same night?’ he asked.
‘No, the next day would be my first opportunity.’
‘And do you sometimes leave the box in the hallway?’
‘I might do but normally I bring the box and my briefcase into my study after every class.’
‘But there would be no opportunity for someone to add to the box between the library and your home.’
‘No.’
‘And you’re clear that the writer does not appear on this list.’
Anderson handed her the typed list, which she read through slowly and apparently thoroughly.
‘I can visualise each one of them and their work. I’m sure he never signed himself in. But that’s not unusual. There’s no charge and often no secretary. I remember a number of shadowy figures who stayed out at the edge. They seldom spoke and, if they handed in pieces, it was very rarely.’
Anderson understood: Clarissa paid so much attention to those few sitting round the table that she had no time for anyone else. ‘We have a suspect. He’s described as young – in his twenties – thin, always dressed in torn jeans and a sweater that had seen better days, never opens his mouth and disappears quickly once the session finishes. Does that jog your memory?’
Clarissa thought for a while. As she did so, she swung her foot again and her slipper fell once more to the floor. This time before Anderson put it back on her foot he squeezed her ankle. She looked at him and Anderson wondered whether he would be told off for stepping over the mark. She looked like the sort of woman used to giving reprimands. She said nothing.
‘Are you and your husband happy together?’ he asked.
‘Is that one of those routine questions that you feel you must ask in a murder enquiry?’ she said.
‘Are you going to answer it?’ It wasn’t entirely clear even to Anderson where the question fitted into his investigation but then he wouldn’t have minded if Clarissa realised it didn’t. He would, though, like to know the answer.
‘No but I’ll tell you something much more interesting. The man you describe, I’ve seen him outside this house. Once I thought he was going to speak to me but he didn’t. I wasn’t frightened but neither did I recognise him. It’s only now that I see it must have been him.’
‘Do you think he lives around here?’
‘He could come from anywhere within the borough.’
‘Looking at the addresses on your membership list it seems as if everyone is within walking distance of the library.’
She had no more to tell him but still Anderson lingered. She hadn’t yet told him about her husband. Her silence told him she wasn’t prepared to do that yet, so he left.
Clarissa wondered why she hadn’t told Anderson about her marriage, because she would, if he asked again. She had reached that point when covering up made no more sense. She supposed every bad marriage goes through a process that ends finally with one or other giving up hope. And it is then that the couple is almost proud to announce that it is all over. ‘Proud‘, perhaps not quite that, perhaps ’brazen‘: a sort of brazen admission that the supposed loving couple hate each other and that all those public displays – Mark picking her up from the library for instance – were quite meaningless and only carried out to maintain the public face that hides the rot beneath.
But there was another reason for her reticence. To imagine that Anderson ought to know every personal detail of her life suggested that she was part of these murders – that Mark might be involved – and that the connection was not simply accidental: via a weird student. And this she certainly did not believe. So, to announce her unhappiness too early, would be tantamount to an accusation. Infidelity was the sole source of her complaint against her husband — not murder.
But she would tell Anderson quite soon. If Mark had strayed and she was certain he had, she would dismiss him. After that, Anderson might very well suit her. He was sensibly the right age. But more than that she would feel comfortable in his arms and with his body between her legs. She had enjoyed the caress of his hand on her ankle. It was sweetly chaste, almost antediluvian in its modesty but it had made her heart beat just that bit faster all the same.
And maybe he had money too: she would feel more at ease if that problem were removed. She had thought it emancipated of her to buy a man. Now it didn’t feel so good.
The suits were a good sign: a change from two days before and they looked expensive. There was none of that gaping at the neck or flying away behind the waist at the back and the lapels stayed flat even when he sat. Then there was his watch, his tie, his shoes and his shirt: discrete, a touch conservative and tasteful, nothing brash. The message was clear: this man had nothing to prove. He was no cock-bird fluttering around to attract the female. He seemed to know that a woman of perception and taste would have no difficulty in seeing the attraction and she was certainly that sort of woman and she did feel it.
Yes, he spent a great deal – but discreetly – on his appearance and she imagined that he thought as much about what went underneath as on top.
Comben couldn’t imagine that Amanda Clayden would have anything more to tell them and hadn’t hurried himself. It was evening before he got around to visiting but it was not Amanda who opened the door. The girl on the threshold was only two inches or so shorter than himself, dark hair, good figure. Just the right size, Comben thought to himself. But whom was he kidding? His size was anything from five foot two upwards. He hung out his warrant card.
‘Detective Sergeant Comben,’ he said, ’is Amanda Clayden in?’
The woman was dressed to go out in a gown that finished well above her knees but a neckline that was tight underneath her chin. The material clung around her making the most of her waist, hips and breasts. Comben wondered whether it was one of those dresses ’cut on the bias’ he had watched fashion-models parade up and down in on TV fashion shows — figure hugging with their nipples sticking out. Comben could see this girl wasn’t wearing a bra either.
‘She’s not in,’ the woman said.
‘Can I ask who you are,’ said Comben.
‘Felicity Galloway,’ she said.
‘Would it be possible for me to come inside and ask you a few questions,’ said Comben.
‘I am on my way out,’ she said.
‘It is important,’ he said.
She turned abruptly and walked down the hall. Her dress was cut down to the waist at the back — he had been right: she wasn’t wearing a bra. Unless, of course, it was an example of some miracle of cantilevered construction. Comben followed her into the sitting room. She sat down and crossed her legs. Comben stood and gazed. It was a good sight: those legs.
‘I hope you’re not going to be long; I have to get to work.’
It was nine o’clock in the evening. He wondered what kind of work started at that time and needed the sort of dress she was wearing but he said nothing. Instead, he looked at her with an eyebrow raised. Anderson did this and often produced a stream of new information. He thought he might as well try it too.
‘I work in a club. A gambling club.’
‘Where’s that.’
‘In the West End.’
Comben raised his eyebrows again but this time nothing happened. ‘How long have you known Amanda?’ he asked.
‘Only since I moved in about six months ago. Blonde and brunette,’ she said touching her hair, ’we thought we were Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell.’
Comben remembered the films but only just. Was she some sort of film buff? ‘Where did you meet?’ he asked.
She leaned her head to the side as if querying his right to question her. Comben was patient and waited. She did answer. ‘I joined Clarissa Downing’s group for one or two sessions then I got fed up. We both needed to move, so we got this together. Is that all right by you?’
He nodded, another of Anderson’s ploys.
‘I suppose you’re on the Ripper case,’ she said.
He didn’t answer directly. ‘Have you anything to tell me?’ he asked.
‘No,’ she said and shook her head.
He continued to gaze at the woman. If Anderson could do it with Clarissa Downing, he felt that a Detective-Sergeant could do the same with Felicity Galloway. And he reckoned he had the best of the bargain.
‘If you’ve finished, I must go.’
He offered his hand to help her to her feet. But she refused to take it.
‘I’m not in my dotage yet,’ she said and stood up.
He followed her into the hall and she took a fur coat from a hook and slipped her arms inside before he could help. ‘I hope it’s fake,’ he said. Not that he cared but she might be the sort of woman who did. He had met animal lovers before and you had to be careful to say the right thing.
‘It is,’ she said, ‘I can’t afford the real thing.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘I know,’ she said.
They walked outside to her car, which was parked immediately in front of the house. She got in. He lent down and she opened her window.
‘I might need to speak to you again,’ he said.
She turned to him and smiled. ‘Next time come at about noon. I’m just getting up then.’
He watched her drive off.