Cell (27 page)

'I'm Paula Grey, assistant to Mr Tweed, whom you've met

'The Lord warns us against temptation,' he thundered.
'I would never have a woman in my house after dark. Take
your wiles and yourself elsewhere.'

The door slammed shut in her face with a heavy thud. Paula shrugged, put away her folder. A religious
fanatic.
A man it would be a waste of time to attempt to talk to.
Especially after dark! She smiled to herself.

She walked slowly along the road to Billy Hogarth's
bungalow. The team which had dragged the lake had cleaned up with care. Mud still clung to the grass verge
at the edge of the lake but they had done everything they
could to leave Carp Lake as they had found it.

Lights were on in the bungalow behind closed shutters.
She took a deep breath, hoping Billy was sober, pressed
the bell. She was taken aback when the door opened.

Silhouetted in lights behind him stood a tall handsome man. Clean-shaven, tall, in his forties, he was smartly
dressed in country garb.

'I know it's late,' she began, 'but I was hoping to have a
word with Mr Billy Hogarth.'

'Better come in. It's beastly out there. I'm Martin, Billy's
brother. He's had a few drinks. You are?'

'Sorry. Paula Grey . . .'

'Tweed's legendary assistant. No need to show me your
ID. Care for a drink? What's your tipple?'

She was inside a narrow hall and Martin had closed the door quickly. He gave her a charming smile, a shade too charming. She mistrusted men with that kind of smile. He
took her arm, led her into a large comfortable living-room.
A heavily built man with a white moustache and fringe
beard stood up out of an armchair. His hair was thick
and white, his movements agile as he came forward, hand extended.

'You're an improvement on my boring brother.' The
hand he extended was large, like the rest of Billy. She
braced herself for a crushing grip. Instead, he pressed her
hand gently as Martin called over his shoulder.

'To drink?'

'Just coffee, if it isn't a nuisance.'

'It's a pleasure,' Martin assured her with a smile before
disappearing into another room.'

'I'm Paula Grey of the SIS,' she told the brother.

Close up to him she could smell beer. Could see his
face was dripping with moisture about to fall on his shirt.
Taking out a handkerchief she said, 'Excuse me,' and
wiped his face. Not a gesture she would normally have
dreamt of performing but she had taken an instant liking
to this powerfully built man. He grinned, thanked her, said
something about the heating being too high, ushered her
to an armchair. Behind his back as he returned to his own
chair she sniffed at the handkerchief. Beer fumes. Billy had
rubbed beer on his face, pretending to be drunk. Why?

With his strong frame and his appearance she could imagine that, born in the right time, he'd have made an
impressive pirate. He lifted his glass off a table, sipped a
small quantity of beer, then held the glass in his hand.

'How can I help you, Miss Grey? I'm Billy, to people I like.'

'I was hoping you could tell me something about Mrs
Warner. It's over three weeks since she disappeared. There
are rumours that she's gone off with another man. I don't
believe them.'

'You never know,' interjected Martin who had returned
with a Meissen cup of coffee, a jug of milk, sugar. 'Shall I
pour? How do you like it?'

'Black, please.'

'And ignore that foul implication Martin has just made,' Billy growled. 'Linda Warner is a lady,
something Martin
wouldn't recognize. I helped her out with one or two
problems. One evening her key wouldn't work in the front
door. She came over and I went back with her. Tried kicking
the brute of a door and the key worked fine.'

'Before I came here,' Paula went on as Martin dragged a chair next to hers, 'I called on Margesson. Wouldn't let
me in - raved on about not having a woman in after dark,
slammed the door in my face.'

'He's potty,' Billy said and laughed. 'You wouldn't think
he was once a housemaster at Eton. Heaven help his pupils.
He wasn't a religious maniac when he arrived here. All this
ranting on about Allah . . .'

'About God,' Martin corrected.

'All right, about the Messiah. He's just repeating what
someone has brainwashed him with. Thinks it makes him
seem important. A real gasbag.'

'Billy,' Martin interjected again, 'I don't think Miss Grey
wants to hear about the parochial goings-on in Carpford.'

'I noticed you used the present tense when referring to Mrs Warner. You said Linda Warner
is a
lady. So you feel she is still alive?'

'Jolly well hope so. Not so many like her about these days.
Incidentally, Martin, that darned motor-cyclist must still be
about. Heard his machine but haven't heard it shove off.'
He looked at Paula. 'They park their machines between our
bungalows. Never been able to get hold of one of them to
tell him to stop it.'

'They?' Paula queried.

'Yes. Recently instead of one of them we get two during
the evening, coming up separately. Don't know where
they go to.'

'Probably just delivering pizzas,' Martin suggested.

'What, in a large white slim envelope?' Billy protested.
'I don't think you'd get a pizza as thin as that. I know you
wouldn't.'

'Billy isn't much of a detective,' Martin sneered unpleas
antly.

'I think,' Paula said emphatically, 'he'd make rather a good one.'

She had her left hand perched on the arm of her chair.
Martin had placed his hand over hers. She slipped her hand
free, careful not to look at him. He seemed to treat it as a
challenge.

'Not much fun here,' he started, smiling invitingly.
'Come and have a drink at my place. It's just next door.'

'I wouldn't if I were you,' Billy warned.

'I'd better go now,' Paula remarked after openly checking
her watch.

Martin was on his feet in a flash. He disappeared in the
direction where he had taken her windcheater. Paula leaned
forward, lowered her voice.

'Did you know Mrs Gobble, who has also disappeared?
Her telescope, a big job, has gone. I found out the police
didn't take it after they'd searched her place.'

'A nice old lady. Very independent. I worry about her.

She was not the type to push off without saying something
to me. She was lonely. The telescope was her friend . . .'

He stopped talking as Martin appeared with the windcheater. She tried to slip it on quickly but he made a
ceremony of it, his hands clutching her arms. She pulled herself away, thanked him formally, then turned to Billy
who had stood up.

'I want to thank you for a most enjoyable evening. You
are the perfect host.'

'I'm not a bad cook either. What's your favourite dish?'

'Shepherd's pie.'

'Next time you come up here call me first.' He handed her a card. 'Shepherd's pie is my speciality.'

Martin accompanied her out into the long hall. They
were standing by the door and he was making a performance
of opening it when he spoke to her with a sneering smile.

'My boozy brother.'

'I heard that!' shouted Billy. Glancing over her shoulder
she saw him standing in the hall outside the entrance to the
living-room. 'What Martin won't tell you is that the only reason he can afford the rent for his bungalow and a load
of expensive clothes is he was left a legacy by his uncle. I
worked for my nest-egg. You'd better go now, Miss Grey.
He has crawly hands.'

'Goodnight to both of you.'

Paula stepped out into the fog and the door closed behind her.
Boozy brother?
She'd noticed that as Martin brought in
the coffee Billy took another sip of his beer and banged
the glass down on the table. It was his defence mechanism against his brother. Why was it necessary?

Several yards away from both bungalows, she paused. The mist swirled round her. As she had passed the gap between
them she had glanced up the opening. A large motor-cycle
was leaning against a wall. A Harley-Davidson she thought.
So the mysterious messenger was still here.

'I learned a lot from Billy,' she said to herself. 'So what
do I do now?'

She decided to walk round the end of Carp Lake to call on Drew Franklin. Since lights were on in the house of concrete cubes it might be a unique chance to talk to him.
She again had trouble finding the front door. It was set into
the concrete under an overhanging cube. She pressed the
square bell, heard nothing inside. She was just about to walk away when the door opened swiftly. A slim man of medium
height with a good-looking but cynical face stared at her.

'Yes, Miss Grey. What is it? Oh, come on in. You look
as though you might be entertaining.'

She stepped into a living-room tastefully furnished with
antiques. Franklin wore a white polo-necked sweater which
matched his white slacks. His neatly brushed hair was brown and intelligent eyes swept over her. His jaw was firm but not
aggressive, his mouth smiling. Closing the door, he waved
towards a large sofa near a desk with a word-processor.

'I'll take your windcheater. You'll need it whenever you
happen to leave.'

She decided to go over on the attack. She'd heard stories
about his many conquests with women, some married.
Taking off the windcheater, she folded it over her left
arm, leaving her right hand free.

'Thank you, but I shan't be here long. And I'm not here to entertain, whatever that implied.'

'Tough lady. I've heard that too.'

'How did you know who I was?' she asked.

'It's my job to know all the key people in our crumbling
society. Do sit down.'

'I prefer to stand. I've been sitting too long.'

'Please yourself,' he replied amiably, putting his hands in his trouser pockets. 'What do you want to know?'

He
was
attractive, she was thinking. She'd been wise to
be on her guard. Get to the point, she thought. He was a
man who disliked small talk.

'Did you know the missing Mrs Warner?' 'Come straight out with it, don't you? Yes, I knew her slightly. She didn't like me, but I liked her. She has been
gone for three weeks. I find that ominous. I have decided to provoke her fool of a husband. You might like to read the bit in my article for tomorrow's
Daily Nation.'