Deep Cover (11 page)

‘So what's in the back room?'

‘Dunno. Wasn't told and I didn't ask. Them that's asks no questions, gets told no lies.' She smiled at Brunnie. ‘It's safer that way, me old china, a lot safer. I wasn't given the key anyway. So if you want to know what's in there, and if you want to know where J.J. Dunwoodie is, you'll have to ask Mr Pilcher, won't you? If he phones, I'll tell him the Old Bill was here. He'll want to know.'

‘You do that.'

Walking away from the offices of WLM Rents, Ainsclough said, ‘“Me old china”? Never did work that one out.'

Brunnie fished in his coat pocket for his car keys. ‘China plate – mate. Me old china plate – mate.'

Joseph Halkier seemed to Vicary to shrink into his armchair. He nodded slowly and gently, and then said, ‘Thank you for calling on me and telling me in person. It's good of you, I appreciate it. I thought you might send a uniformed constable, you see, so thank you. The DNA was a match. I knew it would be.'

‘No thanks are necessary, I assure you.'

‘But still . . . you know, I knew it would be our Rose. I am not really one for all that other-worldly mumbo-jumbo – never have been one for the paranormal – but I went up to the Heath last night . . . I followed your directions and was able to make out the police tape in the dark, well the white bits anyway, and when I got to the tape I felt a link, a bond. I don't have the words, but I felt she was there.'

‘A connection?' Vicary suggested.

Halkier smiled ‘Yes, that's a good way of putting it . . . a connection. I felt a strong connection with that location. I felt that I knew it had been our Rosemary who had lain there all those years. I picked up a bit of soil and took it home with me. That might be a bit morbid but I wanted to do it . . . Quite near the road for a shallow grave?'

‘Yes. It would have been dug at night, in the summer when the soil would not be frozen.'

‘Sorry about the soil but Rose had touched it and I wanted some. I hope I wasn't disturbing a crime scene.'

‘No, you did no harm and I don't think it was a morbid act.'

‘Thank you. I was worried on those two counts.'

The conversation halted as that day's post clattered though Joseph Halkier's letterbox and fell on to the hallway floor. ‘Bills and junk mail, it's all I get these days.'

‘Early?'

‘Yes, we still get our mail early in the morning, well, mid-morning, not like the six a.m. or seven a.m. deliveries as it was in the old days, but still reasonably early. So how can I help you? I'll help in any way I can. She was my only daughter.'

‘Thank you.' Vicary inclined his head to one side. ‘Well, we really need to know as much about your daughter's private life as we can, as much as you can tell us . . . her friends, associates; any light that you can shed on her day-to-day comings and goings. Was she employed?'

‘Yes, in a call centre, phoning folk and trying to make them buy things they don't need. She hated it – modern day version of door-to-door salesmen. Phone sales . . . it's . . . don't know . . . get right into people's houses.'

‘I feel the same way,' Vicary replied. ‘My wife and I have an answering machine; we keep it on all the time, even when we are at home. The telesales people hang up immediately they hear a recorded voice.'

‘That's a good idea. You know, I might buy one . . . in fact, I think I will. Well, the call centre . . . this was ten years ago now.'

‘Appreciate that, but it's a start.'

‘It was on the edge of the City, by which I mean the Square Mile.'

‘Yes. Understood.'

‘I still have the details upstairs.' Joseph Halkier stood with what Vicary thought was impressive effortlessness and suppleness for a man of his years and left the room. Vicary heard him scoop up the post from the floor of the hallway and then listened as he skipped up the stairs. He returned a few moments later with one of Rosemary Halkier's pay advices and a child's exercise book, which had a smiley face sticker on the front. He handed both to Vicary.

‘The pay advice will give you the details of her last employer. You're welcome to hang on to it.'

‘Thank you.'

‘The exercise book is her address book . . . that stays here.'

‘Of course.'

Halkier resumed his seat. ‘But you are welcome to copy down the addresses of her friends.'

‘Excellent.' Vicary leafed through the book. It had, he thought, few entries.

‘You mentioned her male friend, the businessman who lived south of the river? Is he in here?' Vicary leafed through the exercise book.

‘No. I looked. It was one of the first things I did when she was missing, but it all seemed to be the folk I knew; people in this area and that waster of a husband of hers, her children's school and other addresses like the doctors and dentist . . . one or two people she got pally with when she was in Clacton. But no businessmen, though she'd be well impressed with money.'

‘You think so?'

‘Yes, she never had none once she left home. She grew up here . . . Leyton. It's alright, we had a roof, we had a full larder, but she really scratched pennies in Clacton trying to survive on whatever he brought home in the summer, then making the dole stretch in the winter, and when she came back here . . . well, the money in the call centre wasn't great – long hours, low pay. So after ten years of scrimping and saving, yes, a guy with money would have an appeal for her. I can see that.'

‘But you have no idea who he was?'

‘Or still is . . . no . . . no idea at all.'

‘Did she have a particular friend who she was close to?'

Halkier paused. ‘You could try Pauline North.'

‘Pauline North?'

‘Yes, she'll be in the address book somewhere.'

Ainsclough leafed through the book. ‘Nothing under “P” or “N”,' he said.

‘She probably kept her address in here –' Halkier tapped the side of his head – ‘but her mother still lives in the street. Opposite side of the road, very end of the street . . . five or six doors from the end of the street that way –' Halkier pointed to his left – ‘bright yellow door.'

‘Yellow door. Who is Pauline North?'

‘School friend. They were pretty well inseparable when they were children, drifted apart a little when they discovered boys, but picked up with each other again when Rosemary returned from Clacton. I reckon she'd be worth calling on. She'd likely tell Pauline things she wouldn't tell her old man, and I didn't pry.'

‘I fully understand.' Vicary paused. ‘Did she seem worried at about the time she disappeared?'

‘Not that I recall.' Halkier pursed his lips. ‘No . . . I can't say that she seemed worried, and I think I'd have been able to tell if she was. She wasn't a girl to bottle things up . . . so I can say she wasn't worried.'

‘Alright.' Vicary glanced round the room. It seemed to him to be marginally less tidy than it was when he had first visited Joseph Halkier, as if he was losing interest in his surroundings, which, Vicary conceded, would be fully understandable. ‘So, how long was it before you reported Rosemary as a missing person? That is to say, how long after you last saw her?'

‘Nearly a week, as I recall.'

‘That's quite a long time . . . I mean, if she was living with you.'

‘It was the Thursday before the Easter weekend. She left that morning to go to work. I heard her leave, so the last time I actually saw her was the previous evening. She had packed a weekend bag. She was going away with her man that weekend – leaving from work on Thursday to travel to his house, then returning here on the Tuesday after work. We only started to worry when we got a phone call from the call centre on the Tuesday at about midday; they were asking if Rose was coming into work, because she hadn't phoned in saying she was sick.'

‘I see.'

‘So we waited and then reported her missing that evening.'

‘Yes . . .'

‘A police constable visited and took some details.'

‘Yes.'

‘Then we had no contact from the police from that day until your visit, sir, by which time Mrs Halkier had passed on.'

‘A very long time . . .'

‘A very long time. You'll do all you can, sir?'

‘All we can. You have my word.'

Tom Ainsclough entered the name ‘Felicity Skidmore' into the computer and her approximate age as ‘mid-twenties'. There was no trace of her. ‘Not known,' he said.

‘There's a surprise,' Brunnie replied. ‘I bet you it's an alias.' He continued to run his fingertip down the list of J. Dunwoodies in the London telephone directory. ‘I never knew there were so many, and for each entry there will be two or three ex-directory J. Dunwoodies. I once talked to a telephone operator and she told me that if all the domestic numbers were listed, the book would be twice the size it already is . . . Lot of these are in the prestigious suburbs; a lot are too far to make travelling to work in Kilburn practical . . . oh . . . wait . . .'

‘A hit?' Ainsclough glanced up from the computer screen.

‘Possibly.' Brunnie picked up his phone, pressed nine for an outside line and then dialled a number. The call was quickly answered by a tearful sounding woman with a shaky voice. Brunnie said, ‘Hello, madam, sorry to bother you. This is the Metropolitan Police at Scotland Yard; I am trying to trace a Mr J.J. Dunwoodie who is employed at WLM Rents in Kilburn.'

‘Oh . . . he's in hospital . . .'

‘Hospital!' Brunnie repeated for the benefit of Ainsclough who began to listen, keenly so.

‘The Westminster Hospital,' the woman explained. ‘He got set on last night, after work . . . two thugs and they hurt him bad . . . really bad. And you're the police?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well you should know about it. There's a copper with him in case he wakes up.'

‘I am sorry to bother you. I hope all is well. We clearly had a communication breakdown here. Sorry.' Brunnie replaced the phone. ‘Westminster Hospital . . . got worked over last night.' He sat back in his chair. ‘What have I done?'

‘What do you mean?'

Brunnie told Ainsclough about the watering can.

‘You believed Pilcher's prints would be on it?'

‘Yes . . . whatever his name is . . . his prints would be on the can. I told Dunwoodie to get an identical one from the local shop, but I noticed a green one there this morning, not a red one.'

‘That's a bit of an offside thing to do, especially for you.'

‘I know, we can't use it to arrest him for anything but at least we'll know who he is.'

‘Yes, I know. It's one thing to take fingerprints after a break-in . . . even from the staff . . . we can tell them it's so they can be eliminated, but it gets names and prints on file for future reference. If all the totally innocent citizens whose prints are on file knew about it, there'd be riots in London.'

‘I honestly thought he'd be safe. I thought it would be so simple for him to get another red watering can.'

Ainsclough rested his chin in the cup of his left palm, with his elbow resting on the surface of his desk, ‘You'd better go straight to Harry Vicary, the moment he gets in.'

‘Yes . . . that's the best thing to do . . . best thing to do rather than let it emerge, but if Dunwoodie registers a complaint, and I wouldn't blame him if he does, I'm up the creek without a paddle. Disciplinary procedures . . . the lot. Oh boy, he could even sue the police.'

‘But only if he can show the assault was connected to him handing over the watering can. The assault might be unconnected.'

‘Good point.' Brunnie smiled at Ainsclough. ‘I can live in hope. I think I'd like to get over to Westminster Hospital.'

‘Yes. I'll cover for you. Penny Yewdall is in as well, enough plain clothes if anything develops, and we have your mobile phone number. Swannell is still on leave, but it's enough.'

‘Yes.' Brunnie stood. ‘I'll walk round there, quicker than taking a car, no place to park anyway. But what have I done?'

Harry Vicary knocked gently on the yellow door of the house at the far end of Albert Road, Leyton, E10. An elderly lady opened the door, silver-haired, floral dress, hands twisted with arthritis. ‘Mrs North?' Vicary took off his hat and replaced it again.

‘Yes.' Her voice was shaking with apprehension.

‘Police.' Vicary smiled. ‘Don't be alarmed.'

‘Ah.' Mrs North relaxed and smiled.

Vicary produced his identity card. ‘I understand you have a daughter, Pauline.'

‘I did.'

‘Oh . . . I am sorry.'

‘No, no . . . still alive.' Mrs North smiled. ‘She's Mrs South now.'

‘You're joking,' Vicary grinned.

‘I kid you not, young man. The jokes they made at the wedding reception, about compass needles spinning round until North became South . . . Go North, young man . . . I can't remember them all, but one telegram after the other had some crack in it about points of the compass. The best man was the groom's brother but they managed to find an usher called West and another called Eastman – it became a theme of the wedding.'

‘How amusing.'

‘Yes. She did well; her husband is a good man and she has two lovely children.'

‘I am pleased to hear it. I really would like to speak to her. She has nothing to worry about; I need to pick her brains.'