The Secret of Annexe 3 (16 page)

But whatever the truth of the matter, he knew he would have to do some serious thinking very soon, and for the moment the problem that was uppermost in his mind was how a letter which had been
written from a non-existent address had also been received at the very same non-existent address. It was easy of course to write anything
from
anywhere in the world – say from
‘Buckingham Palace, Kidlington’; but how on earth, in turn, was it possible for a letter to be delivered
to
such improbably registered premises? Yet that is what
had
happened, or so it seemed. The man who had been murdered was, on the face of things, the husband of a woman who had booked a room from an address which did not exist; had booked the room by letter;
and had received confirmation of the booking, also by letter – with the pair of them duly arriving on December 31st, taking part in the evening’s festivities (incidentally, with
outstanding success), and finally, after joining their fellow guests in wishing themselves, one and all, a happily prosperous new year, walking back to their room in the annexe. And then . . .

‘You’d not forgotten me, had you?’ said a voice above him.

‘Lewis! You’re a bit late aren’t you?’

‘We agreed to meet at the house, if you remember, sir!’

‘I went there. There’s no one at home.’

‘I
know
that. Where do you think
I’ve
been?’

‘What’s the time now?’

‘Twenty past eleven.’

‘Oh dear! I am sorry! Get yourself a drink, Lewis – and a refill for me, please. I’m a bit short of cash, I’m afraid.’

‘Bitter, was it?’

Morse nodded. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I’m a detective. Had you forgotten that, too?’

But it would have taken more than Morse’s meanness with money, and more than Morse’s cavalier notions of punctuality, to have dashed Lewis’s good spirits that morning. He told
Morse all about his encounter with the Welsh optician; and Morse, in turn, told Lewis (almost) all about his encounter with the fair Philippa at Paddington. At a quarter to twelve Lewis made
another fruitless visit to Eddleston Road. But half an hour later, this time with Morse, it was immediately clear that someone had returned to number 45. It was the only house in the row whose
occupants had dispensed with the need for keeping its front garden in any neat trim by the simple (albeit fairly drastic) expedient of covering the whole area with small beige pebbles, which
crunched noisily as the two men walked up the sinking shingle to the door.

T
HROUGHOUT THE WHOLE
of the last five years (admitted Helen Smith) the two of them had successfully contrived to defraud dozens of honourable
institutions of their legitimate income. But neither her husband John nor herself had the means whereby to make any reparation even fractionally commensurate with such deceit. She, Helen, fully
understood why society at large should expect some expiation for her sins; but (she stressed the point) if such compensation were to be index-linked to its £ s. d. equivalents, there was no
prospect whatsoever of any settlement of the overdue account. She showed Lewis the note she had found on her return from London; and would be happy to show him, too, the little hidey-hole beneath
the second floorboard from the left in the spare bedroom where she had duly found the £600 referred to – that is if Lewis wanted to see it. (Lewis didn’t.) Unshakably, however,
she refused to hazard any information about where her husband might have made for; and indeed her refusal was genuinely founded in total ignorance, both of his present whereabouts and of his future
plans.

The pattern had seldom varied: ringing round half a dozen hotels at holiday periods; taking advantage of late cancellations (an almost inevitable occurrence); there and then accepting, by phone,
any vacancy which so lately had arisen; promising a.s.a.p. a confirmatory letter (with both parties appreciating the unreliability of holiday-time postal services); staying only two nights where
‘The Businessman’s Break’ was scheduled for three; or staying just the one night where it was scheduled for two. And that was about it. Easy enough. There were of course always a
few little secrets about such professional deception: for example, it was advisable
always
to carry as little baggage as was consistent with reasonably civilized standards of hygiene;
again, it was advisable
never
to park a car on the hotel premises, or to fill in the section on the registration form asking for car-licence numbers. Yet there was one principle above all
that had to be understood, namely, that the more demands you made upon the establishment, the more enhanced would be your status
vis-à-vis
the management and staff of all hotels.
Thus it was that the Smiths had learned
always
to select their meals from the higher echelons of the
à la carte
specialities of the chef, and wines and liqueurs from any
over-valued vintage; to demand room-service facilities at the most improbable periods of day or night; and, finally,
never
to exchange too many friendly words with anyone in sight –
from the manager down, through receptionist to waitress, porter or cleaner. Such (Helen testified) were the basic principles she and her husband had observed in their remarkably successful bid to
extract courtesy and respect from some of the finest hotels across the length and breadth of the United Kingdom. The only thing then left to be staged was their disappearance, which was best
effected during that period when no one normally booked out of hotels – mid-afternoon. And that had usually been the time when the Smiths had decided to take leave of their erstwhile
benefactors – sans warning, sans farewell, sans payment, sans everything.

When Helen Smith came to court (inevitably so, as Lewis saw things) it seemed wholly probable that this darkly attractive, innocent-looking defendant would plead guilty to the
charges brought against her, and would pretty certainly ask, too, for one-hundred-and-one other offences to be taken into consideration. But she hardly looked or sounded like a criminal, and her
account of the time she had spent at the Haworth Hotel appeared honest and clear. Four (yes!) bottles of champagne had been ordered – they both liked the lovely stuff! – two on New
Year’s Eve and two on New Year’s Day, with the last of the four still in the larder if Lewis wanted to see it. (Lewis did.) Yes, she remembered a few things about the Ballards,
and
about the Palmers; but her recollections of specific times and specific details were even hazier than Philippa Palmer’s had been the previous evening. Like Philippa, though, she
thought that the evening had been well organized – and great fun; and that the food and drink had been very good indeed. The Smiths, both of them, enjoyed fancy-dress parties; and that New
Year’s Eve they had appeared – an oddly uncomplementary pair! – as a seductive Cleopatra and as a swordless Samurai. Would Lewis like to see the costumes? (Lewis would.) Whether
Ballard had eaten much or drunk much that evening, she couldn’t remember with any certainty. But she did remember, most clearly, Ballard walking back with her through the snow (Oh yes! it had
been snowing heavily then) to the hotel annexe, and ruining the right shoulder-lapel of her mackintosh, where his right hand had left a dirty dark-brown stain – which of course Lewis could
see if he so desired. (As Lewis did.)

During the last part of this interview Morse had seemed only minimally interested in Lewis’s interrogation, and had been leafing through an outsize volume entitled
The Landscape of
Thomas Hardy
. But now, suddenly, he asked a question.

‘Would you recognize
Mrs
Ballard if you saw her again?’

‘I – I don’t really know. She was in fancy dress and—’

‘In a yashmak, wasn’t she?’

Helen nodded, somewhat abashed by the brusqueness of his question.

‘Didn’t she
eat
anything?’

‘Of course, yes.’

‘But you can’t eat anything in a yashmak!’

‘No.’

‘You must have
seen
her face, then?’

Helen knew that he was right; and suddenly, out of the blue, she
did
remember something. ‘Yes,’ she began slowly. ‘Yes, I did see her face. Her top lip was a bit red,
and there were red sort of pin-pricks – you know, sort of little red spots . . .’

But even as Helen spoke these words, her own upper lip was trembling uncontrollably, and it was clear that the hour of questioning had left her spirits very low indeed. The tears were suddenly
springing copiously and she turned her head sharply away from the two policemen in total discomfiture.

In the car, Lewis ventured to ask whether it might not have been wiser to take Helen Smith back to Oxford there and then for further questioning. But Morse appeared
unenthusiastic about any such immediate move, asserting that, compared with the likes of Marcinkus & Co. in the Vatican Bank, John and Helen Smith were sainted folk in white array.

It was just after they had turned on to the A34 that Morse mentioned the strange affair of the yashmak’d lady’s upper lip.

‘How did you guess, Lewis?’ he asked.

‘It’s being married, sir – so I don’t suppose you ought to blame yourself too much for missing it. You see, most women like to look their best when they go away,
let’s say for a holiday or a trip abroad or something similar; and the missus has a bit of trouble like that – you know, a few unsightly hairs growing just under the chin or a little
fringe of hairs on the top lip. A lot of women have the same trouble especially if they’ve got darkish sort of hair—’

‘But your missus has got
fair
hair!’

‘All right; but it happens to everybody a bit as they get older. You get rather self-conscious and embarrassed about it if you’re a woman, so you often go to one of the hair clinics
like the
Tao
or something and they give you electrolysis and they put a needle sort of thing into the roots of the hairs and – well, sort of get rid of them. Costs a bit though,
sir!’

‘But being a rich man you can just about afford to let the missus go along to one of these beauty parlours?’

‘Just about!’

Lewis suddenly put down his foot with a joyous thrust, turned on his right-hand flasher, took the police car up to 95 m.p.h., veered in a great swoop across the outside lane, and netted a dozen
lorries and cars which had thoughtfully decelerated to the statutory speed limit as they’d noticed the white car looming up in their rear mirrors.

‘The treatment they give you,’ continued Lewis, ‘makes the skin go a bit pinkish all over and they say if it’s on the top lip it’s very sensitive and you often get
a histamine reaction – and a sort of tingling sensation . . .’

But Morse was no longer listening. His own body was tingling too; and there crossed his face a beatific smile as Lewis accelerated the police car faster still towards the City of Oxford.

Back in Kidlington HQ, Morse decided that they had spent quite long enough in the miserably cold and badly equipped room at the back of the Haworth annexe, and that they should
now transfer things back home, as it were.

‘Shall I go and get a few new box-files from the stores?’ asked Lewis. Morse picked up two files which were heavily bulging with excess paper, and looked cursorily through their
contents. ‘These’ll be OK. They’re both OBE.’

‘OBE, sir?’

Morse nodded: ‘Overtaken By Events.’

The phone rang half an hour later and Morse heard Sarah Jonstone’s voice at the other end. She’d remembered a little detail about Mrs Ballard; it might be silly of her to bother
Morse with it, but she could almost swear that there had been a little red circular sticker – an RSPCA badge, she thought – on Mrs Ballard’s coat when she had booked in at
registration on New Year’s Eve.

‘Well,’ said Morse, ‘we’ve not done a bad job between us, Lewis. We’ve managed to find two of the three women we were after – and it’s beginning to look
as if it’s not going to be very difficult to find the last one! Not tonight, though. I’m tired out – and I could do with a bath, and a good night’s sleep.’

‘
And
a shave, sir!’

T
HE THAW CONTINUED
overnight, and lawns that had been totally subniveal the day before were now resurfacing in patches of irregular green under a blue
sky. The bad weather was breaking; the case, it seemed, was breaking too.

At Kidlington HQ Morse was going to be occupied (he’d said) with other matters for most of the morning; and Lewis, left to his own devices, was getting progressively more and more bogged
down in a problem which at the outset had looked comparatively simple. The Yellow Pages had been his starting point, and under ‘Beauty Salons and Consultants’ he found seven or eight
addresses in Oxford which advertised specialist treatment in what was variously called Waxing, Facials, or Electrolysis; with another five in Banbury; three more (a gloomier Lewis noticed) in
Bicester; and a good many other establishments in individual places that could be reached without too much travelling by a woman living in Chipping Norton – if (and in Lewis’s mind it
was a biggish ‘if’) ‘Mrs Ballard’
was
in fact a citizen of Chipping Norton.

But there were
two
quadratic equations, as it were, from which to work out the unknown ‘x’: and it was the second of these – the cross-check with the charity flag days
– to which Lewis now directed his thinking. In recent years, the most usual sort of badge received from shakers of collection tins had come in the form of a little circular sticker that was
pressed on to the lapel of the contributor’s coat; and Lewis’s experience was that such a sticker often fell off after a few minutes rather than stuck on for several days. And so
Morse’s view, Lewis agreed, was probably right: if Mrs Ballard was still wearing a sticker on New Year’s Eve, she’d probably bought it the same day, or the day before at the very
outside. But Lewis had considerable doubts about Morse’s further confidently stated conviction that there must have been an RSPCA flag day in Oxford on the 30th or 31st, and that Mrs Ballard
had bought a flag as she went into a beauty salon in the city centre. ‘Beautifully simple!’ Morse had said. ‘We’ve got the time, we’ve got the place – and
we’ve almost got the woman, agreed? Just a little phoning around and . . .’