‘Hmm.’ Waters ran his fingers through his thinning grey hair. ‘I think we’ll assume for the moment that it was something other than advice about writing. Perhaps her employer or one of her colleagues can help. I’ll send an officer round to have a chat with them.’ He closed his notebook and returned it to his pocket. ‘Thank you very much for taking the trouble to call in with this information,’ he said, still in his formal policeman’s manner. ‘You’ll let us know if anything else occurs to you?’ He stood up, indicating that the interview was over.

  Melissa remained seated. ‘Just a moment, you said you were going to get in touch with me,’ she reminded him.

  ‘Good Lord yes, I’d quite forgotten. This case is very much on all our minds, as you can imagine.’ He sat down again, looking apologetic. ‘I take it you haven’t heard directly from Chief Inspector Harris recently?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Something in his manner set alarm bells ringing. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘He was taken ill last Friday, shortly before he was due to return from Southampton. He collapsed in the hotel and was rushed to hospital for emergency surgery.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Melissa felt as if a black hole had opened at her feet. ‘What’s the matter with him? Is he going to be all right?’

  ‘Acute appendicitis. I gather it was a near thing – he was in intensive care for forty-eight hours – but we heard this morning that he’s out of danger. I was planning to come and see you, if you hadn’t called in.’ His rôle had changed from police sergeant to sympathetic friend; he was the one person who knew how close she and his senior officer had become, and they both knew they could rely on his discretion.

  Emotion boiled up in Melissa’s throat, making it difficult to speak. ‘Can you … would you … what hospital is he in?’ she asked jerkily. ‘I’d like to get a message to him … send him a get-well card or something.’ She swallowed hard, struggling not to break down, forcing her lips into a watery smile.

  ‘Of course. I’ll give you the phone number as well.’ He tore a sheet from the back of his notebook and wrote the information down. As she reached out to take the paper, he laid a comforting hand over hers. ‘Try not to worry,’ he said gently, ‘they assured us he’s on the mend.’ He was not much older than herself, but his manner was almost fatherly. ‘The Chief’s a tough old bird. It’d take more than a belly-ache to kill him.’

  Melissa nodded, brushing away the tears. ‘I know.’

  ‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ll be going home now.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you as soon as he’s allowed near a phone.’

  ‘You’ve been very kind. Thanks.’

  Once indoors, she flew to the telephone. The ringing tone seemed to go on for ever before a harassed-sounding receptionist connected her with Ward Eight.

  ‘I’m calling to enquire about Mr Kenneth Harris,’ she said when the ward sister came on the line.

  ‘Are you a relative?’

  ‘No, a friend. My name’s Melissa Craig.’

  ‘I see. Well, he’s comfortable and making good progress. Shall I give him a message?’

  ‘Just say I called … and give him my love.’

  They were such banal words, conveying nothing of her raw longing to be with him, to take one of his hands in hers and let him know how much she cared. Her first impulse was to run back to the car and drive down to Southampton to see him, but common sense told her she was in no fit state to embark on a round trip of some two hundred miles on unfamiliar roads. Instead, she sought comfort next door.

  ‘Poor chap,’ said Iris when Melissa had tearfully blurted out the news. Ever practical in her sympathy, she prepared coffee and spread home-made rolls with herb pâté, saying laconically, ‘You look famished. Get that down you.’

  ‘He could so easily have died,’ said Melissa, sniffing.

  ‘Not he,’ Iris declared. ‘Tough as old boots. Taught you something, hasn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How much he means to you.’

  ‘I’ve known that for a long time.’

  ‘Watch it, once he comes home.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘Play it cool. Let him know how you feel and you’ll be his live-in nurse before you can look round. Poor, delicate male-creature, no one to look after him.’ The mockery in Iris’s tone and the sparkle in her eyes were blatant provocation; in spite of her anxiety, Melissa burst out laughing and immediately felt better.

  ‘You hard-hearted thing,’ she said, knowing it was untrue. ‘You’re just winding me up.’

  Iris chuckled and poured more coffee. ‘Only a friendly warning. By the way, don’t suppose you told the Bill about Leonora and the picture?’

  Melissa clapped a hand to her forehead. ‘I never gave it a thought,’ she confessed. ‘After what we agreed, I was planning to have an informal word with Ken, but all this has put it clean out of my head.’

  ‘Think we should report it anyway?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Melissa sighed, ‘but not now. I’ve had enough for one day. Why don’t you do it? It was your idea.’

  Iris shook her head so vigorously that a tortoiseshell comb tucked into her hair flew off and landed on the floor. ‘Not me,’ she declared as she retrieved it and rammed it back. ‘You’re the one with all the contacts.’

  ‘All right, I’ll have a word with Inspector Holloway tomorrow, but I doubt if he’ll take much notice. Now I must get back to work. Thanks for the food … and the sympathy.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ At the door Iris said, ‘You never said why you went to the nick in the first place.’

  ‘No, I didn’t did I? It was about Carole Prescot, the girl who was murdered.’

  Iris listened with her head cocked on one side as Melissa explained about the phone call she had received from the dead girl. ‘Seems odd,’ she commented.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  Iris shook her head, frowning. ‘Not sure what I mean. Got a funny feeling, that’s all.’

  Melissa had been back in her own cottage for only a few minutes when Ken Harris telephoned from his hospital bed. At the sound of his voice, a little huskier than usual, she experienced a tidal wave of relief that washed Iris’s wise counsel into oblivion. ‘Oh Ken, are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you!’ she said shakily.

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it. Who told you about my little drama?’

  ‘Sergeant Waters, when I called in at police headquarters this morning.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  That had been a mistake. Now he was going to fuss, the last thing a post-operative patient should be doing. ‘I had something to report,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘What was it?’ His voice held a hint of alarm. ‘Mel, what’s been going on? Have you had a break-in?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Please don’t get excited or your temperature will go up …’

  ‘Just tell me what it’s all about.’

  ‘Do calm down. I had a phone call that I thought might have something to do with … a case I saw reported in the paper.’

  ‘What case?’

  ‘Ken, you shouldn’t be thinking about work …’

  ‘What case?’ His voice became shaky and querulous; sheer physical weakness was increasing his agitation. She began ad libbing in an effort to soothe him.

  ‘A case involving a girl I happened to meet a week or so ago, a girl who’s disappeared from her home. Your people are trying to trace her. She rang on Friday and asked to meet me; she’s a fan of my books and I think she wanted to talk about writing. I didn’t think it would be much help, but I thought I’d better report it just the same.’ Please God, forgive the white lie and don’t let him ask too many questions. If he finds out I’m even remotely connected to an attack by the sex strangler, he’ll blow his top.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure that’s all it was …’ He began to sound calmer.

  ‘That’s all it was, honestly,’ she insisted with her fingers crossed. To her relief, he changed the subject.

  ‘How’s the book going?’

  ‘Fine. How long do you think you’ll be in hospital?’

  ‘I’m not sure. They’re talking about moving me to Cheltenham General in a day or two.’

  ‘That’s wonderful. I’ll come and see you … bring you some grapes and a copy of my latest epic.’

  ‘Just bring yourself.’ There was a short interval before he said gruffly, ‘Love you’, and hung up before she could respond. Which was just as well, for she had no idea what her response might have been.

  Sixteen

  Despite making a valiant effort to settle to work on Deadly Legacy, Melissa found her attention continually wandering. The combined effect of Carole Prescot’s death and Ken Harris’s illness had thrown her brain into turmoil. At five o’clock she gave up, brewed some tea and contemplated without enthusiasm the solitary hours ahead. It was ironic, she thought, that had Ken Harris been at home with time on his hands and tried to persuade her to leave her desk to spend the evening with him, she would have scolded him for distracting her from her task. As it was, she would have given anything for a few hours of his company. This must be a variation on Murphy’s law, she told herself as she rummaged half-heartedly in refrigerator and larder for her evening meal.

  There was little of interest on the television so she went to bed early with a book, fell asleep soon after ten o’ clock and did not wake until seven, a good hour later than usual. Skipping her early cup of tea, she showered, dressed and had her breakfast while re-reading the pages she had written the previous afternoon. She had known at the time they were no good, but had felt totally blocked; this morning, to her relief, things became clear again. She went to her study and worked like a beaver for three hours.

  At eleven, the telephone rang. Her heart skipped as she grabbed the receiver, hoping it would be Harris, but Bruce Ingram was on the line.

  ‘Hi!’ he said. ‘I’ve been digging into a few things.’

  ‘What things?’ she asked, trying to conceal her disappointment.

  ‘AFTER things,’ he replied, laying stress on the acronym to make sure there was no misunderstanding. ‘I’ve been making enquiries about certain people. You want to hear what I’ve learned?’

  ‘Of course, go ahead.’

  ‘Not on the phone. This is my story and I’m not risking anyone else muscling in on it. How about meeting me for lunch?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be taking any more time off …’ she began, but he interrupted in his silkiest voice, ‘Oh come on, a couple of hours won’t hurt, and this is right up your street. You’ll kick yourself for not getting in on the action when you read about it in the Gazette.’

  ‘What action?’ Memories of several hair-raising episodes in her life that had resulted from previous encounters with Bruce sounded a warning. ‘If this is one of your wild schemes, count me out.’

  ‘Fear not, gracious lady, it was just a figure of speech.’ Soothing syrup oozed along the wire. ‘As a valued associate of long standing, I’m offering to share some intriguing information with you. Of course, if you’re not interested …’

  Caution yielded to curiosity. ‘I’m interested,’ she said. ‘It had better be good, that’s all.’

  ‘You must judge for yourself. What about it?’

  ‘Okay. Where and what time?’

  ‘There’s a new wine bar called Luigi’s just opened in Southgate Street. Shall we say twelve-thirty?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll be there.’ Melissa put down the phone and glanced at the clock. It would take half an hour to drive to Gloucester and find a place to park, which meant she would have to leave in under an hour. There was no point in trying to write any more, but she could at least begin reading over what she had done so far that morning. She had barely finished the first page when the telephone rang again. This time it was Ken Harris.

  ‘Just to let you know I’m still alive,’ he said in a voice that sounded stronger and more cheerful than yesterday.

  ‘I’m relieved to hear that,’ she replied. ‘Any news of the move to Cheltenham?’

  ‘They keep changing their minds. The latest is, not until the stitches come out on Friday.’

  ‘That’s only three days away.’

  ‘It feels like three light-years, the rate time passes in this place,’ he grumbled. There was an interval, during which she tried unsuccessfully to think of something encouraging that did not sound trite. Then he said, in a lower tone, ‘Mel, I meant what I said yesterday.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Ken, I …’ How stupid, she thought, for a writer to be lost for words. She knew what he wanted to hear; what she did not know was whether, if she said it, it would be true. She pictured him lying on his sick-bed a hundred miles away, a childless man of fifty whose wife had left him in favour of someone younger and better-looking and who now looked to her for love and companionship. Her eyes misted over with compassion. Not only compassion, surely. They were lovers; there had to be more to their relationship than that.

  ‘Mel, are you still there?’ He sounded anxious, in need of reassurance.

  ‘Ken, you know I care about you a lot,’ she said. But not enough to make a long-term commitment, whispered a voice in her head. ‘We’ll talk about it when you’re home, all right?’ she went on as he remained silent.

  To her relief, he let it go at that. ‘Okay. I’ll keep you posted,’ he said. ‘Have to go now, my money’s running out.’

  It was several minutes after twelve-thirty when Melissa entered Luigi’s Wine Bar. Bruce was already installed at a corner table with a bottle of mineral water and two glasses. He scrambled to his feet and held a chair for her.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said as she sat down.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He gestured at the bottle. ‘Shall I pour you some of this, or would you prefer wine?’

  ‘Mineral water’s fine, it’s what I always drink when I’m driving.’

  ‘What would you like to eat? I’m told the pasta is homemade. Or how about gnocchi alla Romana? It’s their speciality.’

  ‘No thanks, I hate semolina. I’ll have tagliatelle in pesto sauce, please.’

  ‘Good choice, I’ll join you.’

  He’s just buttering you up, he really wanted the gnocchi, said the warning voice. It was working overtime today.

  ‘So what are these earth-shaking discoveries you’ve made?’ she asked when the waiter had taken their order.

  Bruce planted his folded arms on the table and leaned towards her. ‘As I said, I’ve been checking up on some of the dramatis personae at Blackwater Hall. I began with Arnie. Is something wrong?’ he asked as she put a hand to her mouth.

  ‘I’ve just remembered you wanted me to ask Gloria … I’m sorry, it slipped my memory.’

  ‘Not to worry, I used one of my contacts to check out the special schools in the Bristol area. By good luck, the one Arnie attended was the second that I tried. I had a long chat with the headmaster, a chap called Edmund Lanyon. Very dedicated, remembers Arnie well. He stayed at the school till he was eighteen and did nothing but paint. Their funds didn’t run to oils or canvases, but they kept him happy with cheap watercolours and discarded computer print-out paper.’

  ‘What happened to him after that?’

  ‘He went to live in a hostel for people with learning difficulties, where he simply carried on painting. Nothing could persuade him to try anything else. An art teacher who used to visit the hostel a couple of times a week became interested in him and wanted to teach him to work in oils, but no one was prepared to pay for the materials. The teacher’s name was Evelyn Draper.’ Bruce paused and lifted an eyebrow. ‘Evelyn Draper,’ he repeated with emphasis. ‘E.D. Does that suggest anything?’

  Melissa thought for a moment. ‘Eloise Dampier?’

  ‘Clever girl. Take a Brownie point.’

  ‘You know, I always thought that name sounded a bit phoney.’

  ‘Phoney is right. I’ll come back to Eloise in a minute.’ He broke off as the waiter put plates of steaming pasta in front of them.

  Melissa sniffed in appreciation. ‘That smells divine.’

  ‘Don’t let it get cold.’

  While they ate, he carried on with his story. ‘Arnie went on living in the hostel for years, painting away, no trouble to anyone – in fact, he still lives there. Evelyn Draper left, saying she’d got a job in London, but a few months ago she showed up again, this time bringing a supply of prepared canvases and some oil paints for Arnie. Seems he took to the new technique like a duck to water, which pleased the lady no end. She told the warden of the hostel that she could sell his work and took the finished canvases away.’

  ‘Didn’t Arnie mind?’

  ‘It seems not. Once he’s finished a picture, he loses interest and starts another one.’

  ‘Let’s see if I can guess what happened next,’ said Melissa, laying down her fork. ‘Evelyn took Arnie’s paintings to Blackwater Hall and showed them to Gerard Hood. She saw a way of making a bit on the side – perhaps she posed as Arnie’s agent …’

  ‘Good try, but wide of the mark. Evelyn Draper’s job in London was with a small firm of fine art dealers. By this time she’d become Eloise Dampier, probably to impress the clients. Some time after she joined – the dates are a bit vague, I’m afraid – there was a little unpleasantness about a missing painting. No charges were ever brought, but the proprietor would very much like a quiet word with one of his former employees, a man called George Harwood. G.H.’

  Bruce paused for effect; Melissa met his eye and said, ‘Gerard Hood?’

  ‘I’ve no proof at this stage, but I’d be prepared to bet on it. Anyway, it’s an odd coincidence, don’t you think, that one Gerard Hood is curator at Blackwater Hall with one Eloise Dampier as his assistant?’

 

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