Twelve Red Herrings (7 page)

“But that hasn’t
stopped him having the occasional drink in the hotel bar on his evening off,
and he’s managed to pick up a few snippets of information. He’s convinced that
Rosemary uses the time when she’s in the hotel to make a long-distance phone
call.

She often drops
in at the bank before going on to the Majestic, and comes out carrying a small
packet of coins. The harman has told Williams that she always uses one of the
two phone boxes in the corridor opposite the reception desk. She never allows
the call to be put through the hotel switchboard, always dials direct.’

“So how do we
discover who she’s calling?” I asked.

“We wait for
Williams to find an opportunity to use some of those skills he didn’t learn at
butlers’ school.”

“But how long
might that take?”

“No way of
knowing, but Williams is due for a spot of leave in a couple of weeks, so he’ll
be able to bring us up to date.” When Williams arrived back in Bradford at the
end of the month I began asking him questions even before he had time to put
his suitcase down.

He was full of
interesting information about Rosemary, and even the smallest detail fascinated
me.

She had put on
weight. I was pleased. She seemed lonely and depressed. I was delighted. She
was spending my money fast. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic. But, more to the point,
Williams was convinced that if Rosemary had any contact with Jeremy Alexander,
it had to be when she visited the hotel every Friday and placed that
direct-dial call.

But he still
hadn’t worked out how to discover who, or where, she was phoning.

By the time
Williams returned to the south of France a fortnight later I knew more about my
ex-wife than I had ever done when we were married.

As happens so
often in the real world, the next move came when I least expected it. It must
have been about 2.30 on a Monday afternoon when the phone rang.

Donald picked up
the receiver, and was surprised to hear Williams’s voice on the other end of
the line. He switched him on to the squawk box and said, “All three of us are
listening, so you’d better begin by telling us why you’re ringing when it’s not
your day off.”

“I’ve been
sacked,” were Williams’s opening words.

“Playing around
with the maid, were you?” was Donald’s first reaction.

“I only wish,
chief, but I’m afraid it’s far more stupid than that. I was driving Ms Kershaw
into town this morning, when I had to stop at a red light. While I was waiting
for the lights to change, a man crossed the road in front of the car. He
stopped and stared at me.

I recognised him
immediately, and prayed the lights would turn to green before he could place
me. But he walked back, looked at me again, and smiled. I shook my head at him,
but he came over to the driver’s side, tapped on the window, and said, “How are
you, Inspector Williams?”‘ “Who was it?” demanded Donald.

“Neil Case.
Remember him,
chief ?”

“Could I ever
forget him?

“Never-on-the-Case
Neil”,” said Donald. “I might have guessed.”

“I didn’t
acknowledge him, of course, and as Ms Kershaw said nothing, I thought I might
have got away with it. But as soon as we arrived back at the house she told me
to come and see her in the study, and without even asking for an explanation
she dismissed me. She ordered me to be packed and off the premises within the
hour, or she’d call the local police.”

“Damn. Back to
square one,” said Donald.

“Not quite,”
said Williams.

“What do you
mean? If you’re no longer in the house, we no longer have a point of contact.
Worse, we can’t play the butler card again, because she’s bound to be on her
guard from now on.”

“I know
all that,
chief,” said Williams, ‘but suspecting that I was
a policeman caused her to panic, and she went straight to her bedroom and made
a phone call. As I wasn’t afraid of being found out any longer, I picked up the
extension in the corridor and listened in. All I heard was a woman’s voice give
a Cambridge number, and then the phone went dead. I assumed Rosemary had been
expecting someone else to pick up the phone, and hung up when she heard a
strange voice.’

“What was the
number?” Donald asked.

^”64o7-something-7.”

“What do you
mean, “something-7”?” barked Donald as he scribbled the numbers down.

“I didn’t have
anything to write with, chief, so I had to rely on my memory.” I was glad
Williams couldn’t see the expression on the Don’s face.

“Then what
happened?” he demanded.

“I found a pen
in a drawer and wrote what I could remember of the number on my hand. I picked
up the phone again a few moments later, and heard a different woman on the
line, saying, “The Director’s not in at the moment, but I’m expecting him back
within the hour.” Then I had to hang up quickly, because I could hear someone
coming along the corridor. It was Charlotte, Rosemary’s maid. She wanted to
know why I’d been sacked. I couldn’t think of a convincing reply, until she
accused me of having made a pass at the mistress. I let her think that was it,
and ended up getting a slapped face for my trouble.” I burst out laughing, but
the Don and Jenny showed no reaction. Then Williams asked, “So, what do I do
now,
chief ?
Come back to England?”

“No,’ said
Donald. “Stay put for the moment. Book yourself into the Majestic and watch her
round the clock. Let me know if she does anything out of character. Meanwhile,
we’re going to Cambridge. As soon as we’ve booked ourselves into a hotel there
I’ll call you.’

“Understood,
sir,” said Williams, and rang off.

“When do we go?”
I asked Donald once he had replaced the receiver.

“Tonight,” he
replied. “But not before I’ve made a few telephone calls.” The Don dialled ten
Cambridge numbers, using the digits Williams had been able to jot
down,
and inserting the numbers from nought to nine in the
missing slot.

0223 640707
turned out to be a school. “Sorry, wrong number,’

TX
,ELVE
RED HERRINGS said Donald. 77 was a chemist’s shop; 727
was a garage; 7.37 was answered by an elderly male voice – “Sorry, wrong
number,’

Donald repeated;
747 a newsagent; 757 a local policeman’s wife (I tried not to laugh, but Donald
only grunted); 767 a woman’s voice – “Sorry, wrong number,” yet again; 777 was
St Catharine’s College; 787 a woman’s voice on an answering machine; 797 a
hairdresser – “Did you want a perm, or just a trim?” Donald checked his list.
“It has to be
either 737
, 767 or 787.

The time has
come for me to pull a few strings.” He dialled a Bradford number, and was told
that the new Deputy Chief Constable of Cambridgeshire had been transferred from
the West Yorkshire Constabulary the previous year.

“Leeke.
Allan Leeke,”
said Donald, without needing to be prompted. He turned to me. “He was a sergeant
when I was first made up to inspector.” He thanked his Bradford contact,
then
rang directory enquiries to find out the number of the
Cambridge Police headquarters.

He dialled
another 0223 number.

“Cambridge
Police.
How can I help you?” asked a female voice.

“Can you put me
through to the Deputy Chief Constable, please?’

Donald asked.

“Who shall I say
is calling?”

“Donald
Hackett.” The next voice that came on the line said, “Don, this is a pleasant
surprise. Or at least I hope it’s a pleasant surprise, because knowing you, it
won’t be a social call. Are you looking for a job, by any chance? I heard you’d
left the force.”

“Yes, it’s true.
I’ve resigned, but I’m not looking for a job, Allan. I don’t think the
Cambridge Constabulary could quite match my present salary.”

“So, what can I
do for you, Don?’

“I need a trace
done on three numbers in the Cambridge area.’

“Authorised?”
asked the Deputy Chief Constable.

“No, but it
might well lead to an arrest on your patch,” said Donald.

“That, and the
fact that it’s you who’s asking, is good enough for me.” Donald read out the
three numbers, and Leeke asked him to hang on for a moment. While we waited,
Donald told me, “All they have to do is press a few buttons in the control
room, and the numbers will appear on a screen in front of him. Things have
changed since I first joined the force. In those days we had to let our legs do
the walking.” The Deputy Chief Constable’s voice came back on the line.

“Right, the
first number’s come up. 64o737 is a Wing Commander Danvers-Smith. He’s the only
person registered as living in the house.” He read out an address in Great
Shelfor& which he explained was just to the south of Cambridge. Jenny wrote
the details down.

^”767 is a
Professor and Mrs. Balcescu, also living in Great Shelfor& 787 is Dame
Julia Renaud, the opera singer. She lives in Grantchester. We know her quite
well. She’s hardly ever at home, because of her concert commitments all over
the world.

Her house has
been burgled three times in the last year, always when she was abroad.”

“Thank you,”
said Donald. “You’ve been most helpful.”

“Anything you
want to tell
me ?
” asked the Deputy Chief Constable,
sounding hopeful.

“Not at the
moment,” replied Donald. “But as soon as I’ve finished my investigation, I
promise you’ll be the first person to be informed.”

“Fair enough,”
came back the reply, and the line went dead.

“Right,” Donald
said, turning his attention back to us. “We leave for Cambridge in a couple of
hours. That will give us enough time to pack, and for Jenny to book
us
into a hotel near the city centre.

We’ll meet back
here at’ – he checked his watch – ‘six o’clock.” He walked out of the room
without uttering another word. I remember thinking that my father would have
got on well with him.

Just over two
hours later, Jenny was driving us
at a steady sixty-nine
miles
per hour down the A.

“Now the boring
part of detective work begins,” said Donald.

“Intense
research, followed by hours of surveillance.
I think we can
safely ignore Dame Julia. Jenny, you get to work on the wing commander. I want
details of his career from the day he left school to the day he retired. First
thing tomorrow you can begin by contacting RAF College Cranwell, and asking for
details of his service record.

I’ll take the
professor, and make a start in the university library.’

“What do I do?”
I asked.

“For the time
being, Mr. Cooper, you keep yourself well out of sight. It’s just possible that
the wing commander or the professor might lead us to Alexander, so we don’t
need you trampling over any suspects and frightening them off.” I reluctantly
agreed.

Later that night
I settled into a suite at the Garden House Hotel - a more refined sort of
prison – but despite feather pillows and a comfortable mattress I was quite unable
to sleep. I rose early the next morning and spent most of the day watching
endless updates on Sky News, episodes of various Australian soaps, and a “Film
of the Week’ every two hours. But my mind was continually switching between RAF

Cranwell
and the university library.

When we met up
in Donald’s room that evening, he and Jenny confirmed that their initial
research suggested that both men were who they purported to be.

“I was sure one
of them would turn out to be Jeremy,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.

“It would be
nice if it was always that easy, Mr. Cooper,” said Donald. “But it doesn’t mean
that one of them won’t lead us to Jeremy.” He turned to Jenny. “First, let’s go
over what you found out about the wing commander.”

“Wing Commander
Danvers-Smith DFC graduated from Cranwell in 2938, served with Number Two
Squadron at Binbrook in Lincolnshire during the Second World War, and flew
several missions over Germany and occupied France. He was awarded the DFC for
gallantry in 2943. He was grounded in 958, and became an instructor at RAF
Cottesmore in Gloucestershire. His final posting was as Deputy Commanding
Officer at RAF Locking in Somerset. He retired in 2977, when he and his wife
moved back to Great Shelforal, where he had grown up.”

“Why’s he living
on his own now?” asked Donald.

“Wife died three
years ago. He has two children, Sam and Pamela, both married, but neither
living in the area. They visit him occasionally.” I wanted to ask Jenny how she
had been able to find out so much information about the wing commander in such
a short time, but said nothing, as I was more interested in hearing what the
Don had discovered about Professor Balcescu.

Donald picked up
a pile of notes that had been lying on the floor by his feet. “So, let me tell
you the results of my research into a very distinguished professor,” he began.
“Professor Balcescu escaped from Romania in 2989, after Ceausescu had had him
placed under house arrest. He was smuggled out of the country by a group of
dissident students, via Bulgaria and then on into Greece. His escape was well
documented in the newspapers at the time. He applied for asylum in England, and
was offered a teaching post at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, and three
years later the Chair of Eastern European Studies.