Faraday 01 The Gigabyte Detective (25 page)

“Good morning,” she smiled.

“What’s the time?”

“Oh, it’s early. It’s not six o’clock yet.” She turned against his naked torso. “We’re not in a hurry are we?”

His free hand began to ramble over her body. First it encountered the long silk night-dress which had been pushed up above her waist. Then it reached her bare flesh. She felt her nerve-ends begin to tingle again as it slid towards her crutch. She arched her back with a little cry and abandoned herself to him again.

* * * * * * * *

Julian Brace came to collect Charlotte at the police station at precisely ten-thirty as he had promised. They walked towards the sea, exchanging small-talk as they went.

“I met a man yesterday who doesn’t have a very high opinion of you,” she said, looking up at him with a smile.

“Really?” He didn’t seem too surprised. “Who would that be?”

“A Mr Lionel Hillman - heard of him?”

He chuckled. “Not our fine, incorruptible, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, former mayor? I thought it was impossible to get under that man’s thick skin.”

Charlotte wondered if there was a bit of needle between the two of them. “He said something about the sort of stuff the gutter press are coming out with.” She smiled. “That was when we were discussing your article.”

Julian shrugged. “Well, I’m afraid you can’t please all of the people all of the time. It’s a problem we writers have.”

They turned off the road into Abbey Park and entered the cafe in the grounds.

“Nevertheless, I think it might be a good idea to send a personal copy of your new article to him,” she said, “if you want to keep his advertising revenue in future.”

“I’ll think about that.” They had reached an empty table and he pulled out a chair for her to sit down. “Well, here it is.” He took the article from an inside pocket and left it for her to read as he went to the counter to get the coffees.

Charlotte read it through rapidly. She thought it was a very clever piece of writing. Without admitting that there had been anything wrong with the previous article, he now put forward a good set of arguments why there was no longer a reason for thinking that the deaths of the five ladies were in any way linked, except by a co-incidence in dates. He even gave the impression, without mentioning any names or giving any details, that this was also the firm opinion of the police. Finally he assured the people of Torbay that the authorities were still taking the death of the former lady mayoress very seriously. In fact he was able to report that a top detective from Scotland Yard, together with the latest in computer technology, had been sent to the town to try and tie up the whole thing. He had gained the clear impression that an early arrest was likely.

She had just finished skimming through it when he returned with the coffee. She looked up to see him observing her with a quizzical smile. “Is that enough, do you think?”

“I think you’re very clever,” she said. “There’s no suggestion that you got it wrong in the first place, I see.”

“Of course not.” He grinned more widely. She thought it was a very attractive grin. “That would shoot down my credibility in the future.”

“And we wouldn’t want that to happen,” she agreed. “I think you’ll go a long way as a journalist, Julian.”

He sat down opposite her. “Well, thank you. Can I quote you on my next Fleet Street application.”

“I’m sure you will anyway, if it suits you,” she laughed. “It seems to me, from this article, that you know how to quote semi-attributable sources very effectively.” She pointed to a paragraph near the end of the article. “There’s nothing here that I can actually complain about. But nevertheless you’ve more or less quoted me verbatim to the public without my permission.”

“That’s why I brought it to show you.” His grin was a little more crooked now. “If there’s anything you object to, I’ll try to see whether I can change it.”

“But not withdraw it!”

He shrugged. “Well, we’d have to see. Why? Is there anything you want me to withdraw?”

“Not really.” Charlotte took a mouth-full of coffee and swallowed. “No. I think what you’re saying needs to be said to the public.”

“Good.” He nodded and looked down at the table. “Actually, there is also something else that I wanted to talk to you about. When we’ve discussed that, you may want me to make a change to this article, although I hope not.”

“What’s that?” She had a feeling he was about to raise something important.

Julian leaned back in his chair and looked out of the window at the children playing on the grass nearby. He paused for a while, as if deciding the order in which he was going to provide his information. “When I was preparing this latest article,” he said, “I checked back on some of the research I had done for the previous one. And there was one piece of information which I had excluded from the first article because I didn’t think it was relevant. But when I re-read it, I decided it could be very relevant indeed.” His voice was tense with excitement.

“Go on,” she urged.

“Well,” he said, “about three months before Stella Parsons’ death there was another suicide. But this one was different. That’s why I didn’t originally include it in my earlier list. For a start it was outside the three to four week band which fitted in with the other deaths. Secondly it wasn’t a rich mature Torquay woman. This one was quite young and one of the servant class, you might say, and thirdly, it happened outside the immediate Torquay area - the other side of Brixham, to be precise. In fact I didn’t even bother to dig out the original report and read it through.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “And that was my mistake, you might say.”

“So?” Charlotte leaned forward. “Now you’ve read it and you feel there’s a link. What precisely is it?”

“I’ve brought a copy of the original report for you to look at.” He fished in his pocket and brought it out. “But, in a nutshell, it reports the inquest into the suicide of a woman in her early thirties called -.” He checked the article before he handed it over. “The woman was called Sandra Harris. Apparently she jumped off the top of Berry Head and fell nearly two hundred feet to her death on the rocks below. There was no suggestion of foul play. Her husband was working in Plymouth at the time. It was a miserable, wet day with a gale blowing. When he got home and she wasn’t there, he made a few phone calls to friends but nobody had seen her. Later that evening he reported her missing to the police. The next morning they found the body during a routine search of the cliffs. It was about half a mile from her house.”

Charlotte scanned the article quickly, her excitement mounting.

“At the inquest,” Julian Brace continued, “which took place two weeks later, her husband said she had been depressed because she had recently been sacked by - wait for it - a Mrs Stella Parsons for alleged petty theft. She had worked for the lady as a personal maid until she was dismissed. She apparently denied the theft. However her husband said she was given no chance to prove her innocence, and was unable to get other suitable work because of Mrs Parsons’ refusal to give her a reference. He reckoned it prayed on her mind to the point where she decided she couldn’t face life any longer.”

Charlotte asked, “Was it the same coroner as the one who held the inquest into Stella Parsons death.”

“I believe it was,” he agreed. “The local coroner at that time was a man called John Mears. I checked my papers and found he was also the man who presided at the inquests on Mariella Prince, Julia Hillman and Joanne de Billiere - at least that’s a connection between them.” He sniffed. “He wasn’t here when Cynthia Adams died, though.”

“The question is, did he consider there might have been any connection between the suicide of this Sandra Harris and the death of Stella Parsons,” she pointed out. “If he thought there might possibly have been even the slightest link, he should have asked the police to investigate. I assume he didn’t.”

“As far as I recall, there’s no mention of it in the report of the Stella Parsons inquest,” he agreed.

“Mr Mears seems to have got rather sloppy in his old age,” said Charlotte. “It’s beginning to look as though I’m going to have to fly to Guernsey to interview him.”

Julian nodded. “He does seem to have been a bit out of touch. He obviously didn’t read our paper very regularly. The week after the report of Sandra Harris’s inquest there was an interview with the husband, Richard Harris, who said he thought people like Stella Parsons shouldn’t discharge people for reasons like those used to get rid of his wife, without proving the allegations were true first. He sounded pretty upset about Mrs Parsons behaviour.” He pointed. “The article’s on the back of the inquest report. It was only a couple of weeks before Stella died.”

“That’s interesting.” She turned it over. “Did he make any threats at the time?”

“Oh no. We’d have had to be very careful about printing anything like that.”

“I wonder what’s become of this Mr Richard Harris,” Charlotte said, almost to herself.

Brace smiled. “I thought you might ask that. I’ve got the address he was living at the when his wife died. I expect he has moved on by now, but I thought you might like me to drive you there to see if anyone remembers him.”

“Ah, the investigative journalist emerges.” Charlotte leaned on her elbows and faced him. “I’ll accept your offer. But remember - you’re to stay in the car while I interview anyone. Is that clear?”

He pulled a face. “Aw, shucks,” he complained, “don’t you never give a guy a chance?”

“I don’t think I need to give you much of a chance,” she said as she downed the rest of her coffee and got up to accompany him to his car.

* * * * * * * *

At about that time Stafford Paulson was sitting comfortably in a canvas chair in the cockpit of his little cabin cruiser which was anchored in the centre of Galmpton Creek. He had two short rods out over the stern and was hoping for a sea trout or two as the tide ebbed off the mud-banks. His broad-brimmed hat was tipped forward over his nose to ease the glare off the water. His bare fore-arms glowed in the sun. There was a new atmosphere of progress and enthusiasm in the department. He was a happy man.

He’d been out here since before eight, resolutely ignoring the small sense of guilt he felt. He was almost sure Charlotte Faraday had gone into the station this morning. Nevertheless he shrugged off the feeling that he should have been there to keep her company. She didn’t need him around. She herself had said that there was nothing much they could do until Monday. The weekend gave them a chance to review their progress in the last week. He had to admit that progress had been impressive. They would all return refreshed on Monday and full of bright ideas.

In any case he knew the main reason why she was going in to the office. It was to meet young Julian Brace. He had an idea that the reporter rather fancied DCI Faraday. Paulson smiled to himself and shook his head. He didn’t know whether the man would have much success. She had said nothing at all about her personal life to anyone. But a woman as attractive as that would almost certainly have some young, ambitious superintendent lined up, waiting for her return to the big city. Then he grinned again and nodded to himself. He wished the young chap success anyway.

The midday peace of the broad, sheltered river was temporarily torn apart as some teenager roared past in a speed-boat, setting all the moored boats rocking. The harbour police would be after him if he was still going at that speed when he got down to Dartmouth. Gradually the rattle of the outboard motor faded, echoing flatly off the trees which were piled up the steep hillsides along each side of the river. Early summer peace returned - a peace made up of the sounds of people tinkering about preparing their boats, of idle chatter stealing across the water, of the plaintive cry of a solitary gull drifting overhead searching for its mate.

Stafford Paulson’s head nodded forward and his chin rested on his chest. The inspector dozed. The peaceful world around him was seen no longer. The fish nibbling at his lines were forgotten. He was in a dimly lit corridor, looking towards a staircase which was brightly illuminated by the rays of the sinking sun. A man came into view, heavily built, his face in deep shade, his fringing hair light in the sunshine. Only the hands could be clearly seen - smooth, white, rubber-sheathed, featureless hands - the hands of a murderer.

The boat was disturbed by a sudden rocking caused by the wake of some passing vessel and Paulson was shaken into startled awareness of the world about him again. But he no longer saw the peaceful river scene. He was concentrating on the dreamlet which had disturbed his doze. A suspicion was forming in his mind that he had seen the murderer of Cynthia Adams.

He shook his head. What did it mean - an old-fashioned copper’s hunch in this modern world of computer programmes and virtual reality? He had no logical evidence to back up his hunch. There was nothing he could take to Faraday and say “This is the route we must take”. In any case it wasn’t his responsibility to decide the course of the investigations. That had been taken away from him. And yet something still worried him.

He picked up one of his rods and tested the pull unnecessarily. He knew he wasn’t going to catch anything today. Also he had a nagging feeling that he should be getting on with the line of investigation which had recently offered itself to him. He shouldn’t really leave it until Monday. By then it might be too late. For another fifteen minutes a little struggle went on in the inspector’s mind, while a cheeky trout nibbled the bait off his down-river line. Then he sighed heavily and started to pack up his gear and prepared to return to Stoke Gifford.