More Deaths Than One (21 page)

“Anything for me, Lisa?” she queried.

“Everything's on your desk, Mrs. Dixon.”

A quick nod and she'd sailed past: Alison Dixon, presumably, Georgina's partner, possibly several years older than Georgina. There could hardly have been a greater contrast between the two women when, a couple of minutes later, Georgina herself appeared and led them back along the corridor into her office. She was wearing an olive-green suit with a burgundy silk shirt, shoes and tights to match, a great deal of gold costume jewellery. She looked terrific, despite the unapproachable manner, her obvious impatience. Waving them to chairs, she sat down herself and immediately began fiddling with a silver pencil. Tap-tap-tap. Impatient, Mrs. Fleming, impatient or nervous, or possibly both. The tension in the taut line of her jaw almost made Mayo's own jaw ache.

No sooner were they seated than a tray of coffee and biscuits arrived, obviously a standard procedure with visitors, brought in by an efficient-looking girl with large spectacles and a no-nonsense manner. Georgina Fleming poured. The coffee was very good, the biscuits in Kite's opinion nothing to speak of.

“There's been a development in the case which we think you should know about, Mrs. Fleming,” he began, stirring his coffee.

“Oh?”

Mayo watched her closely while his sergeant, quickly swallowing the last of his biscuit, told her that the body she had identified was not that of her husband.

No astonishment showed on her face, no relief, no joy, but the silver pencil stopped its tapping. “Then who is it?” she asked, her voice quite steady.

“It's the body of a man called Ashleigh Cockayne.”

“And who is Ashleigh Cockayne?”

“I should have thought you'd have known that, Mrs. Fleming,” Mayo said. “Seeing he was a friend of your husband's. Arts Director for the Lavenstock Community Centre, where Mr. Fleming apparently spent a good deal of time.”

“Oh,
that
Cockayne!” As though Ashleigh Cockayne was a name as common as Tom Smith or Jack Jones, as though the finding of his dead body might be regarded as an everyday occurrence too. “He may have mentioned him.”

Mayo waited. She picked up the pencil again. Tap, tappy, tap-tap. Tap tap. “Mrs. Fleming,” he said quietly, “I wonder if you've properly appreciated what we've been saying. Your husband is not dead. Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but I would've thought you'd have been surprised and happy at the news.”

For the first time she let anger show in her face. Mayo was relieved to see it, to see that she was human after all, with “senses, affections, passions” ... that if pricked, she could bleed. “Of course I'm surprised, of course I'm happy! What do you think I am? Did you expect me to faint, or jump up and down and clap my hands?” Mayo thought a normal wife might have done either of these things, but not Georgina Fleming. “Do you know where your husband is?” he asked with an abrupt change of direction.

She was too astute to be caught out with a trick as old as that. “How should I? I thought he was dead, until five minutes ago.”

“Yes of course, you identified him, didn't you?”

“I must have been mistaken.”

“How d'you think you came to make such a serious mistake?”

“What are you suggesting? I didn't see his face, remember?”

“But you saw his body, his hands. A wife can usually recognise her husband's body, Mrs. Fleming. And his hands. Especially if he doesn't smoke, and the hands she's looking at are heavily nicotine-stained.”

“I – I didn't notice that. I was very upset.”

“You were very shocked. That's not quite the same thing.”

She said nothing, her amber eyes and her poppy-lipsticked mouth were steady. He was impressed by the speed with which she'd regained her control, but he wondered just what was going on behind it. It was unnatural, you couldn't keep up that amount of self-restraint without paying a price, and it showed in the strain around her eyes. He suspected she was uncommunicative because she was afraid of what she might reveal of herself if she allowed herself to be otherwise, but her attitude wasn't something that was conducive to forwarding his enquiries, or indeed to helping herself. If she'd stopped to consider the absurdity of her attitude, she might have seen that she wasn't doing herself one little bit of good.

“It would help, Mrs. Fleming,” he said with some asperity, “if you could try to be a little more forthcoming.”

“I'm answering your questions. I don't know what more you want, I'm sure.”

“Something called cooperation. I don't think I need remind you that a murder enquiry is hardly a trivial matter. And something else: your father's gun, to which you could have had access, was found near the body. The victim had been dosed with sleeping pills, and you have those in your possession. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I really hope not. But if you're saying I murdered this Ashleigh Cockayne, you're mad. I'd never even met the man.”

“If we still thought the victim was your husband, I might well be saying you could have murdered
him.
As it is, I think it's more than possible you helped your husband to kill Cockayne. You identified Cockayne's body as Rupert Fleming's because if he was officially dead he couldn't be charged with Cockayne's murder.”

“That's insane! I was mistaken, that's all, I was upset, anybody might have made the same mistake. And Rupert wouldn't murder anybody, any more than I would!”

“What would you say if I told you another body has been found?” He felt, rather than heard, her quick intake of breath at that. He saw her stop herself from speaking, but only just. What had she been going to say? In the ensuing silence the air conditioner switched itself on with a hum, someone walked past with heavy footsteps in the corridor. “Another body you think I should know something about?” she said at last.

“I couldn't say that, Mrs. Fleming. Perhaps you can tell me if you do.” He decided to tell her who the second body was and she looked shaken, but there was no mistaking also the relief. “Why should you think that should concern either me or Rupert?”

This was something he preferred to keep to himself for the moment, if she didn't really know, which he doubted, as he was beginning to doubt everything she said, so he skipped the answer. “If, as you believe, your husband has nothing to do with Ashleigh Cockayne's death, why has he gone missing? Where is he, Mrs. Fleming?”

“I've told you I don't
know
,” she said flatly. “He'll be back as usual when it suits him, I've no doubt.” The skin was tight over the bones of her face. She sat upright on her chair, without leaning back. The little silver pencil lay on the desk, unheeded. Mayo sighed.

“I'm going to give you the opportunity to reconsider the statement you made to us, in particular about the last time you saw your husband.”

“I don't see why that should be necessary. I told you the truth, there's no need for me to alter anything I said.”

“You stated,” he reminded her, “that you last saw him on Sunday evening. Did you part on good terms?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you didn't see him after that?”

“I'm certain.”

“You didn't see him at any time on Monday?”

“No.”

“All right, Mrs. Fleming, I'm going to leave it for now.” He stood up and hooked his coat off the chair arm and Kite closed and pocketed his notebook, and then Mayo said, “How did your husband get on with his family?”

“His
family?
” She looked perfectly blank for an instant, then smiled faintly. “If Rupert got on with anyone in this world, it was with his mother.”

“Thank you. Grateful for your time, Mrs. Fleming,” he said ironically. “Good morning to you.” At the door he turned and remarked in a conversational tone, “We'll find him, you know, with or without your help. I don't give up easily. But I think you'd do well to reflect on one or two things – one of which is that you are already in deep trouble yourself. It's a serious offence, deliberately misleading the police during the investigation of a murder. Think about it, Mrs. Fleming.”

Marigold Vanstone drove soberly and carefully through the country lanes to the railway station, where she deposited her husband James and his briefcase to take his first-class seat on the London commuter train, accepted his perfunctory kiss and agreed that she would meet him off the seven-ten as usual. As she drove away towards Lavenstock, she picked up speed and began to sing.

The weather was perfect, bright and sunny, not a cloud in the sky. In the lanes catkins trembled on the alders, celandines gleamed in the hedgerows, blackbirds sang their mating call on the budding branches of the hawthorn and in the town centre the flower seder near the Town Hall had bunches of mimosa for sale. A stiff, chilly breeze was funnelling itself into a wind tunnel between the streets, but Marigold was well prepared with fur-lined boots, two thick sweaters, a padded coat and woolly mittens. She hadn't forgotten her long johns, either. It was cold work, standing ad day at a market stall.

She did some necessary shopping and then drove on to the flea market. She always made a point of being one of the first to arrive, so as to get one of the better stalls. They were allocated in order of arrival, and she liked to have one near the Sheep Street entrance, and then her display was one of the first to catch people's eye as they came into the market.

Chuck Bradley was already there, setting up his wonderful collection of old ironmongery on the stall next to hers. This mostly comprised a conglomeration of ancient tools and electrical gear whose function defied definition, together with rusty scissors, shears, screwdrivers, old yellow-handled knives and bent-pronged forks. A jumble of unidentified metal parts was contained in various boxes, which he had labelled “Sundrys” in black felt-tip.

“Wotcher, Marigold.”

“ 'Morning, Chuck.”

He was a huge, cheerful, treble-chinned man, dressed in a jacket that appeared to have been fashioned from a couple of horse blankets, and a fur hat with ear flaps. They'd become great pals since she'd first taken a stall here six or seven months ago.

“Look what I got here, darling.” Gleefully Chuck brought out from his station wagon a battery radio in a solid-oak case, circa 1930, and put it in pride of place next to a Singer hand-operated sewing machine without a handle and a push-along mower with a broken blade. Marigold always wondered who would ever buy any of these defunct objects, but someone usually did.

Spreading the dark blue chenille tablecloth over her stall, she began to unload her own things onto it. Pretty bits of china, ornaments and bric-a-brac, most of them inexpensive, with a few genuinely old things in and among. It was a waste of time trying to sell anything with a high price tag. People came here looking for something for nothing, though the days when you could pick up genuine antiques for a song had long since disappeared. But it never failed to surprise her how much profit one could actually accumulate from the sale of such modest items.

She kept most of her good things at the shop. The thought of her own little business brought a smile to her lips. It still gave her a thrill of pride to read over the door “Marigold Antiques,” never mind how James patronised it. It was a dear little shop of brick and timber construction, with low ceiling beams and many nooks and crannies inside, just right for displaying old furniture and china. It was a pity it was a little out of the way, for that meant she didn't get much in the way of passing trade. But she fully intended to alter all that. Taking the weekly stall here was part of her long-term strategy to add a little more to her capital, thus enabling her gradually to make enough money to buy some really good pieces, so that she'd become better known and then customers would make the special effort to seek her out. Of course, she didn't need the income, not with the privileged lifestyle accorded to the wife of a successful stockbroker, but she did need both the occupation, now that the children were grown up, and the confidence that doing something off her own bat gave her. She was determined to prove she could do it, if only to confound James's predictions.

Trade was unusually brisk that morning. The weather had brought shoppers out in cheerful mood and nobody made disparaging comments about Marigold's wares, or tried to haggle down the price. An old lady brought along some Goss souvenir jugs with “A Present from Swansea” printed on, which she wanted to sell and which Marigold was willing to buy. By midday she'd sold one of them, along with two underglaze blue and white plates, both slightly chipped, a beaded bag and a jet necklace to a personal friend who happened by, three ornate Edwardian hatpins, a cut-glass salt cellar and a couple of hall-marked silver teaspoons for twenty pounds each. Flushed with success, she said yes, she'd watch over Chuck's stall while he went to get them both a mug of tea from the snacks cabin in the corner.

And then occurred the sort of thing she'd always dreamed would happen but had never actually believed would. A fat, spotty youth in jeans and leather jacket stopped by her stall and casually pulled from one pocket a small teapot, elaborately painted and gilded, from the other its lid and stand. Coalport Imari, early nineteenth century. Genuine, she was sure, by the racing of her heart.

“You interested in buying this, then?” the youth asked offhandedly.

Marigold didn't show her excitement. She knew that would be fatal. She also knew immediately that he couldn't have come by the teapot honestly and that she must refuse to buy it from him. “Where did you get this?” she asked, examining it for flaws and finding none.

“It was me gran's.”

She was sorely tempted, despite the lie. She happened to know just the person who would immediately pay almost anything she asked for old Coalport. And that she really ought
not
to touch it if it was even remotely suspect. She'd be a fool if she did. “I'll give you thirty pounds for it,” she said in a rush, almost hoping he'd laugh in her face at such a derisory amount. But he goggled and then his expression turned sly and she knew she'd said too much and nearly given the game away. If she'd offered him ten pounds, he'd have taken it and thought himself lucky.