Текст книги "Dead Dream Girl"

Автор книги: Richard Haley

Соавторы: Richard Haley
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But Anderson gave him a relaxed smile. ‘You’ll not be doing any of that, Mr Fletcher. You’ll be too worried. You see, this is a print of a naked young woman you were supposed to be grooming for a modelling career. She subsequently ended up in a reservoir. Was that because she’d not agree to go in that cellar of yours with the soft lights on and her fanny in the air? Or maybe she’d got to know too much?’

Fletcher was flushed brick red. ‘Any more on those lines, mister, and you’ll be in a court room before you can spit.’

‘Mr Fletcher,’ Crane said quietly, ‘if the police could find the time and the evidence you’d be in a court room yourself. They certainly know about your cellar and your obscene videos and your use of underage people.’

‘She didn’t know I’d taken it, you dozy sods!’ he suddenly cried. ‘Well, look at them, they’re all standard poses except one. That one. She didn’t know I’d taken it. She was changing into normal gear. She’d left the door open. I couldn’t resist it. She didn’t even know, for Christ’s sake. She didn’t …’ He broke off in a voice that seemed almost choked by a sob.

Crane believed him. It was obvious he was speaking off the cuff. He’d taken a single shot, charming in its artfulness, of a naked beauty dressing herself. Shades of Renoir.

‘But we can’t be sure where it led to, Mr Fletcher, can we?’ Anderson said softly, smile still intact.

‘I’ll have to pass on what we’ve learnt here to the police, sir,’ Crane told him, ‘because I think you went on somewhere after the Norfolk dinner, and I think they’ll want to go into that with you again. I’d try to be very, very cooperative, if I were you.’

‘And we’ll need to keep this print,’ Anderson said calmly, storing it in what seemed to be a specially enlarged inside pocket of his lightweight jacket.

‘Don’t you dare!’ Fletcher screamed, rushing at him. ‘Don’t you bloody dare! It’s my property and it only leaves here under warrant.’

‘And give you the chance to destroy it and the negative? Dear me, you must think I was brought up in Barnsley, Mr Fletcher … sir.’

Fletcher seized him by his jacket lapels. It wasn’t a wise move. Without a word, Anderson pushed him off and gave him a single blow to the chest. It was all it needed. Hunched over, gasping for breath, Fletcher almost crawled to his Windsor chair and flopped into it. He looked tough, and almost certainly was, he’d been simply outclassed. Crane guessed that most people would be around Anderson.

‘So sorry, Mr Fletcher,’ he said, affable as ever. ‘I always try my best to keep things civil. You really mustn’t trouble to show us out.’

EIGHT

Crane drove back to Bradford along the bypass, through peaceful meadowland, with views of a range of hills purpling in setting sunlight.

Anderson said, ‘What do you think?’

‘I’m positive he went on somewhere from the Norfolk.’

‘All right, brains, don’t rub it in.’

The wry smile was there, but he was still brooding and tense about Crane picking up on the oddness of Fletcher driving himself to a booze up. The reporter had to be just about the most competitive man he’d ever known.

‘But I can’t see it being him,’ Crane went on. ‘He’s a shrewd businessman, he’d spent hours on her as an investment. If she took off in the glossies she could be worth a million a year, fifteen, twenty per cent to him, yes? I also think he was levelling about the nude print.’

Crane swung his Megane off the bypass and on to a roundabout that would put them on the Bradford Road. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the reporter nod.

‘I guess you’re right,’ Anderson said, with a sigh. ‘Still, we gave the slimy sod’s feathers a good ruffling, didn’t we?’

‘And if he’s right in the head he’ll close the cellar overnight, so that’s a plus.’

Crane dropped him off at his flat in Frizinghall. It was a good one in one of the many converted wool-baron mansions. He glimpsed curly black hair and an eager smile at a window, but Anderson reacted with an indifference you could only just detect. Crane had to concede that you had special problems if you looked like Anderson, with every woman in sight fluttering her eyes at you. He drove on to Conway House, where he was to pick up Patsy and to drive on to Connie and Malc’s semi.

‘I think we can probably rule out Fletcher,’ he told Patsy, when she was sitting in the car. ‘And he doesn’t know of an Adrian. We’re aiming to see Hellewell tomorrow.’

‘If only it wasn’t so long ago. Whoever did it could be hundreds of miles away by now.’

‘Killers often stick around, Patsy, for one reason or another. Their jobs or their families. Take your friendly, neighbourhood Yorkshire Ripper …’

It was dark now and the Willows looked slightly more attractive in the glow of lighted windows. The closely parked cars didn’t look quite as decrepit when you couldn’t see the scuffs and dints and balding tyres. But bands of cat-calling youths roamed the narrow roads or hung about on corners.

‘God,’ Patsy said, ‘I wish we could have been brought up in a nice house on a private estate. Maybe Donna wouldn’t …’

Crane put a hand briefly over hers. He didn’t believe it would have made a scrap of difference where Donna had been brought up. She was a one-off.

‘Only me, Mam,’ Patsy said, as she and Crane stood at the door of the tiny living room of number 27. ‘Frank’s with me.’

They both looked up in anxious expectancy. Crane’s presence usually involved some kind of drama. ‘Frank just wants to have a shufti at Donna’s room,’ Patsy told them. ‘Thinks there just might be something the police missed.’

‘There’s … no news then?’ Malc asked nervously.

‘Not so far, Malc. But we’re talking again to the people who spent time with Donna. Me and Geoff Anderson, that is. He’s being a great help, he knows so much of the background. And he’s very dedicated.’ Because of the story, he thought grimly, that rather cosy word the press employed even for the starkest of human tragedies.

‘He’s a good lad,’ Connie said, lamplight etching the hollows in her gaunt face? ‘He was very kind to us.’

‘We’ll just pop upstairs, then,’ Patsy said. ‘Shan’t be long.’

‘You’re looking very posh again, love,’ Malc said. ‘Going out later?’

She reddened, shook her head. They both looked puzzled. It seemed to be a Patsy they couldn’t fully adjust to, having been used to one who’d slopped around in old clothes, hair everywhere, looking depressed. She wore a crisply ironed, embroidered shell top and pale blue trousers, and the soft fall of her hair shone from the care she was taking of it. Crane’s guilt about using her had finally lifted, as it hadn’t been a one-way street. The problem now was that though he’d got to like her a lot as a friend, she was showing the unmistakeable signs of a woman who was clearly hoping it was going to be a lot more than that.

‘Well, you look very nice, love,’ Connie said. Crane wished they could have paid her more compliments in the days when any she might have had was constantly bleached out by Donna’s incredible radiance.

Donna’s bedroom was papered in lemon, with floral tieback curtains. The overhead globe had a pleated uplighter and there was a silk-shaded lamp on the bedside cupboard, a radio and a slender vase that held a single artificial amaryllis. The carpet was gold coloured with a white fleecy rug at the bedside. The built-in wardrobe combined a tiny dressing table and there was a small armchair in a corner. The room was spotlessly clean and gave off a delicate apple scent.

Patsy gave a crooked grin. ‘Her room got most of the attention.’ She ran a hand over a crisp duvet cover. ‘She nattered for things, wheedled with those big eyes. They always gave in, gave her whatever she wanted. Mam was never done paying off the catalogue.’

‘When it looks as if she could have bought herself anything she wanted. She’s got to have done something with the money.’

‘I’ve searched and better searched.’

Crane looked in the wardrobe. It was crammed: tops, skirts, trousers, jackets, dresses, a raincoat, a winter coat, a parka. The police, and Patsy, would have checked all the pockets. ‘This parka looks almost new,’ he said in a musing tone.

‘She hated coats. Even in winter she’d rush out in a thin jacket. Mam bought the coats, she was so worried she’d catch her death, but would madam wear them? Never saw her in the parka once, even when it was sub-zero.’

He drew out the parka. It seemed slightly heavier than he might have expected. He felt the hem. It seemed thicker than normal but could have been the way the padding was arranged. He pulled out the material of the inside pocket. The stitching was intact and seemed tamper free. ‘Was Donna good with a needle and thread?’

‘Very. Blouses, dresses, T-shirts, nothing was ever quite right for her. She’d spend hours unpicking and resewing. I think it was her only real hobby. Well,’ she said wryly, ‘that and screwing.’

‘Mind if I cut open the inside pocket?’

‘Mam’ll never know.’

He snipped it carefully open with his folding scissors, then slipped a hand down between coat and lining to touch thin, compact bundles of what felt like banknotes, resting along the hem. Patsy gasped as he eased one out. New fifties, secured with elastic bands. He counted the first bundle gingerly, trying to touch the surfaces as little as possible. There were twenty. The other bundles looked to be the same. ‘A bit up on the diary total,’ he told her. ‘Seven grand.’

‘Seven grand! And giving Mam a tenner a week for her keep!’

Crane took out a large plastic bag, put in the notes, sealed it. ‘The police will need to run them past their forensic people, there could be something that might help. Your folks should be told. The money will be theirs, and yours, when it’s returned.’

‘They’d not be able to handle it, Frank, not if it came from screwing. They’d never use it. I’d not be surprised if Dad didn’t set fire to it.’

He looked at her. ‘All right. I’ll hand it to Benson and get a receipt in your name. We’ll keep Connie and Malc out of it.’

He gave a final glance round the room. He wasn’t looking for anything else, but he drew out the drawers of Donna’s dressing table. Good quality underwear, neatly ironed, a section for jewellery: earrings, chains, necklaces, not expensive, not tat, a stack of Hello! magazines in the bottom drawer, and two paperback novels by Jeffrey Archer.

‘She wasn’t much of a reader,’ Patsy said sadly. ‘It was either the telly or her sewing.’ She glanced round the sweet-smelling room. ‘We’d often sit in here together. We did get on, you know, a lot of the time. She was good company. And so funny, especially about the blokes. And with looking such an innocent, such a good girl … well, you know. And she’d do things for you, she’d see to my clothes as well as her own, that sort of thing. As long as it didn’t involve money. Always swore she’d not got a two pence coin to scratch her arse with.’

He riffled through the pages of the Archer books. It was some time later before he knew they meant more to the case than the money ever did.

‘I wish it would last and last,’ she said, ‘the case. Even though it’s about poor Donna.’

They were back at Conway House, where Crane was writing up the details of the money they’d found, for Anderson to get tense and frustrated about all over a again because he’d not been involved. Crane put down his felt tip, shrugged and said, ‘I’m anxious to get it over as soon as possible, to save your people the expense, but I know what you mean. We’ve had some good evenings, haven’t we, round the flip chart, pooling idea?’

‘I’ve never known anything like it. Seeing you guys in action, the way your minds work. I shan’t ever forget it.’

He could believe it. Nothing like this had ever happened to her, something so intriguing and involving, where she’d felt both useful and needed. It was as if she’d come fully to life. There was an impression of assurance in her plain features now, due to the care she was taking of her looks and her clothes. Genuine self-confidence would come later, when she began to progress at work, as he was certain she now would.

‘Are you married, Frank? Partner?’

He smiled, shook his head. ‘People like me and Anderson find it hard to live a normal life.’

She said, ‘Life won’t seem the same when you have to go off on some other case and you’re not popping in every day.’ There was an unmistakeable warmth in her lavender eyes.

‘I’ll be around, Patsy. I’ll always want to know how you’re doing.’

When he’d gone, she sat over her drink, hugging herself. There wasn’t another woman! He’d promised he’d be around! Could she have a chance with that lovely bloke? She’d not care how hard he worked. She was used to the hours he kept, as she’d worked with him.…

Benson put the bag of fifties in a document-case. ‘Silly bitch,’ he growled. ‘Seven grand against staying alive. Right, I’ll get them examined and I’ll make out the receipt to Patsy.’

He spoke grudgingly, and Crane knew he was exasperated because he’d found something else a police search had missed. He sighed inwardly, what with him and Anderson.…

‘And you reckon Fletcher’s a no-no? We thought so too.’

‘Can’t be ruled out, I suppose. Blokes lost their tempers around Donna.’

‘Could have threatened to dump him. Said he wasn’t getting her anywhere. The national agencies have branches in Leeds, after all.’

‘My thinking too. And I’m positive he went on somewhere that night.’

‘We’ll keep up the pressure on him. Two or three days and we should be ready to think of a new start. Who’s it going to be, nailing the killer then, assuming anyone does,’ Benson said, giving a pained smile. ‘You or us?’

‘Don’t forget that smooth-talking bastard, Anderson. He’s not as clever as he likes to think he is, but by God he’s focused, and he doesn’t regard coming second as an option.’

Crane knew Benson had nothing to lose. Whoever pinned down the killer the police would calmly chalk it up as their own result. That was life.

Leaf and Petal covered two or three acres. There were the usual greenhouses and lines of saplings, together with collections of seasonal flowers, bags of compost, garden furniture and stone ornaments. The walkways were busy with couples pushing their purchases in shallow trollies. The leaves of plants and shrubs were beaded with the drops of a recent watering and glittered in sunlight. They entered the main building, a single-storey complex of linking rooms, filled with lawnmowers, seed packets in stands, displays of weedkiller and fertilizer, and racks of gleaming tools. A fragrant coffee smell drifted from a central snack bar.

‘Best not to have him paged,’ Anderson said. ‘We’ll just find him and give him a lovely surprise, yes?’

They found Hellewell in a room of intense humidity. Sun poured through skylights on to a dense and pungent collection of house plants. There was a low murmur of voices and Hellewell was courteously displaying his knowledge of the vagaries of indoor plants to a pair of elderly women who looked as if they were being given rather more information than they really needed. He glanced towards the men with a pleasant smile, which faded when he saw Anderson.

‘Well, I hope that answers your question, ladies,’ he said, in hasty conclusion. They drifted off, looking vaguely stunned. ‘And what do you want?’ he said, sighing heavily.

‘This is Frank Crane, Mr Hellewell,’ Anderson said, amicably polite as ever. ‘He’s a private investigator, working for Donna Jackson’s parents. We’re acting together.’

‘But … Mahon’s the man. I know they can’t pin—’

‘He’s been cleared, sir. The case needs a fresh start.’

He looked very uneasy. It had been a shrewd move of Anderson’s to leave them unannounced. He watched them in what seemed like a frightened silence. He was near six foot, fortyish, and in good physical shape, probably because of the outdoor work he did. His fair hair had a slightly bleached look with sunlight exposure. He was tanned, had well-shaped features and white, even teeth. Women could never be too good looking, but some men could. Hellewell, it seemed to Crane, was one of them.

‘Why … why aren’t the police here then? Why you two?’

‘The police are aiming to make a completely new start shortly.’

He watched them in another edgy silence. He wore a short-sleeved green shirt and jeans, and the sunlight flooding the room gleamed on the hairs of his muscular brown arms. Sweat looked to be gathering near his hairline.

‘I’ll wait till the police come then. I’ve nothing to add to what I said when the poor kid was found, and if you wouldn’t mind, this is my busiest time of the year.’

‘You’ll be doing me and Donna’s parents a big favour if we could just talk a little, Mr Hellewell,’ Crane said quietly. ‘They’re very distressed that someone’s not facing justice. To be honest, they haven’t much money to spend on employing people like me.’

To refuse would seem callous and he knew it. Hellewell sighed again in exasperation. They’d clearly handed him a nasty shock and it was giving Crane a lot more of a buzz than he’d had from Fletcher. There’d always been a puzzle about Hellewell. Was he the J who’d shown in Donna’s diary, even sometimes at weekends? If so, being a married man, how had he managed to get away with such a regular affair with an employee?

‘You’d better come this way,’ he said reluctantly.

They followed him between the crowded plant displays to a tiny corner office. A woman standing near it watched their progress, her eyes on Anderson. She had dark wavy hair and strongly defined looks: thick eyebrows, a straight sharp nose, a full firm mouth. She wore jeans and a white blouse piped in red and bearing the Leaf and Petal logo on the breast pocket.

‘Hello, Geoff,’ she said warmly. ‘What brings you here? Not to buy any exotics, I’m sure.’ She gave him a wide smile that held the sort of warmth Crane had seen in Carol’s.

‘It’s about Donna again,’ Hellewell said irritably. ‘It seems it’s not down to that piece of garbage, Mahon, after all.’

‘Oh … shall I sit in?’

‘I can’t spare you off the floor,’ he told her in a curt tone.

‘I shall be here if needed, Geoff,’ she said pointedly.

‘That was Mrs Hellewell,’ Anderson told Craned as they went in; it was clear Hellewell wasn’t going to bother explaining her. They sat on canvas chairs in the tiny partitioned room, their knees against a self-assembly desk. Hellewell faced them across it.

‘We’ll make it as brief as possible, sir,’ Crane said. ‘Just to get things clear in my own mind, would you mind telling us where you were yourself the night Donna went missing?’

‘I was with a man called Clement Hebden,’ he said shortly. ‘I’d finished late on the Saturday and gone to his place with a proposed layout for landscaping his garden. It’s a sideline. We got engrossed, had a few Scotches and then I realized I was over the limit. I was going to take a taxi and pick my own up later, but he said why didn’t we go on talking and I could sleep in one of the spares. Kirsty was away visiting her mother, so I accepted the offer.’

Crane nodded. Alibis didn’t come more bullet-proof than that. ‘Thank you, sir. I believe Donna was working here that day?’

‘She left at five.’

‘Did she form a strong friendship with any of the men she worked with, would you know?’

‘No chance.’

‘You seem very sure.’

‘I am sure. Catch Donna with—’ He broke off abruptly.

‘What I’m saying is that I need to be sure. Staff chat-up can lead to problems and I have to know what’s going on.’

But the slight sneer had been there, which had seemed to hint that Donna hadn’t wanted to waste her time on men who hadn’t got money to spend or favours to grant.

‘Just what were her duties, Mr Hellewell?’

He shrugged. ‘Same as the others. Took a turn on the checkouts, helped in the café, advised customers about plants and trees.’

‘She had a good grasp of nursery work?’ Anderson chipped in.

He began to look faintly sheepish. Crane recalled Patsy saying she’d barely known one plant from another. ‘Well, she was in learning mode.’

‘So she’d just work spring and summer, I suppose, not being one of the skilled staff?’

He coloured very slightly. ‘No, she had a permanent position. People do still come, even in winter. And house plants and fir trees at Christmas, we’re pulled—’

‘But wouldn’t your core staff be able to cope with the reduced demand?’ Anderson asked, and Crane had to admire his knack for feigned ignorance.

‘I can’t see what my staff arrangements have to do with anything!’ he burst out.

‘Perhaps I’m missing something,’ Crane said politely, ‘but why keep on an unskilled person when there really wouldn’t be much for her to do?’

He looked to be biting back another outburst. Then he forced a smile, his first. ‘Look, boys, give me a break, the kid looked like a film star, for Christ’s sake. She pulled in the punters. She had charm. She’d give the blokes the big dazzling smiles and they kept on coming back here instead of going elsewhere.’ His gaze passed between them unfocused. ‘I had big ideas for Donna Jackson,’ he said, and Crane heard the same catch in his voice he’d heard before in the voices of other men. ‘I was aiming to get that Fletcher guy to photograph her in a Leaf and Petal blouse and transpose her image over a view of the nursery. I was going to run it week in, week out in an advert in the Standard. I was going to have a big blow up version on a billboard over the main entrance, so that every time you saw that kid’s marvellous face you thought of Leaf and Petal.’

‘Great idea, Mr Hellewell,’ Anderson said with a sympathetic nod.

‘Did … Donna have any other duties, sir, apart from those you mentioned?’ Crane spoke hesitantly, as if regretting having to break into Hellewell’s mood of sad reverie.

His eyes refocused with an effort. ‘She did deliveries. We do those for a few seniors and people who bring a lot of business.’

‘Would there be a record of deliveries?’

Crane felt Anderson stirring and could sense his watchfulness. What new ball was the PI running with now?

‘We keep a book,’ Hellewell told them. ‘The accounts are drawn up from it as we bill the people we deliver to. The initials of the person who delivers go in the book. What’s that got to do with anything?’ He looked genuinely puzzled, but Crane guessed Anderson knew.

‘I’d just be interested to see where Donna made those deliveries. It might be worth checking out some of the people she made them to. Would you mind letting us see the delivery book?’

Hellewell’s wary eyes left Crane’s and he keyed a phone. ‘Gail, a man called Mr Crane would like to see the delivery books. It’s to do with the audit. He’ll be along presently.’ He looked back at Crane. ‘You’ll find her in the checkout area.’

‘Thank you. One last point, sir. Do you know of a man Donna might have known called Adrian?’

That was the query that did the business. Hellewell might have had his throat cut the way healthy colour drained rapidly from his face. He shook his head, then shook it again and again. ‘I don’t know anyone Donna knew, apart from Mahon and Clive Fletcher,’ he said, through lips he could barely control. ‘Any … anyone at all. The name means absolutely nothing to me.’

‘Are you sure, Mr Hellewell?’ Anderson asked softly. ‘You seem a little agitated.’

‘It’s you lot,’ he almost whispered. ‘PIs, reporters, police, bombarding me with questions, raking it all up about that lovely kid. I’m sorry, I’m finding it hard to cope.’

It seemed to Crane he’d coped pretty well until he’d heard that single word: Adrian. He knew from experience the value of leaving someone like Hellewell, who clearly knew something and was running scared, to sweat it out for a while. He got up. ‘Well, if the name should come back to you in any context, sir, I’d be very glad to know. It’s very, very important. Perhaps I could check with you tomorrow?’

‘There’d be no point!’ he yelped. ‘I don’t know any Adrian.’

‘Thank you for your time, sir. Anything else you need to ask Mr Hellewell, Geoff?’

They left him staring into space.

‘Brother,’ Anderson said, ‘did that touch the spot. His face changed like a traffic light. That bloody technique of yours, just tossing it in when he thought he was out of the woods. How do you always manage to make it look so easy? And that delivery business, it never crossed my mind. She just might have met someone that way.’

There was a petulance in Anderson’s tone that he fought hard to contain. Crane was certain the possibility of Hellewell being linked to an Adrian had to be their hottest lead yet, and should have been the total focus of both their minds, but as usual Anderson was brooding more about Crane’s superior skills.

‘Geoff,’ he said patiently, ‘I’ve been at it for years and I’ve learnt to let nothing go by default. Checking out deliveries is bound to be a blind alley, but I’ll do it anyway. It doesn’t begin to compare with him throwing a wobbly about Adrian.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, striving to mask the grudging note. ‘OK, this Adrian—’

‘Geoff?’ Someone spoke from behind them as they made for the checkout area. It was Mrs Hellewell. ‘Could I have a word?’

‘Of course, Kirsty,’ he said, giving her that instant flattering concentration he showed all women. ‘This is Frank Crane. We’re working together on Donna’s case now that Mahon’s out of it. He’s a private investigator.’

‘Hello,’ she said absently to Crane. ‘I’ve got my own little cubbyhole off the café. Perhaps we could go in there.’

‘Lead the way.’

‘It’s … well, it’s very private. I need your advice.’

‘They don’t come more discreet than Frank, Kirsty.’

‘Please, Geoff. I’m sorry, Mr Crane, no offence.’

‘None taken, Mrs Hellewell. I’ll go chat to Gail, Geoff.’

Crane watched them walk off. Mrs Hellewell appeared to be looking warily around her. He wasn’t happy about this. He couldn’t be sure he could trust Anderson not to keep some vital card up his sleeve to put one over on him, in that intense, competitive way he had, and waste him time. Assuming what she had to tell him had any relevance to the case.

Gail was a mousy haired hefty young woman with a cheerful smile. They sat down with the delivery book at a display garden table in the entrance hall.

‘You’re not the usual auditor, are you?’

‘I’m just helping out with the debtor’s tab. There are one or two queries that go back to the time when Miss Jackson was here.’

She sighed. ‘Poor Donna. She was really, really good on the money side too, making sure everything was invoiced properly.’

He nodded, not needing to be assured of her expert touch on the money side. ‘Her initials went against the deliveries she made, yes? So what sort of people did you deliver to?’

‘Elderly folk mainly. Wealthy business types short on time. We had to know them really well for Joe – Mr Hellewell – to deliver.’

They began to sift through the names in the months leading up to Donna’s death. They all seemed above suspicion, going by Gail’s description. ‘It was mostly seniors, you see. Some of the business folk did forget to settle their accounts occasionally, that’s true. Now then … Miss Julia Gregson, that was one address she went to several times.’ She flicked over pages. ‘Funny,’ she murmured, ‘I remembered thinking at the time what a lot of stuff we sent to Cheyney Hall.’

‘Miss Gregson being another elderly lady?’

She shook her head. ‘Mid-thirties, I’d say. Pots of brass. Doesn’t need to work, I believe. I should be so lucky.’

Instinct told him that this might just be worth checking out, but some thing more positive prompted him, something he couldn’t quite pin down. ‘Were all Miss Gregson’s deliveries made by Donna?’

She nodded. ‘Look, there’s a little note here in Joe’s writing: “Miss Gregson requests that all her deliveries be made by Donna.” That explains it. She had such a nice way with customers.’

‘You’ve been a great help, Gail.’ He scribbled down the address of Cheyney Hall. ‘I think we’ve isolated the debt; I’m sure she’s just overlooked it. Would you know if Miss Gregson lives alone? No partner?’

‘Can’t help you there,’ she said, grinning. ‘Donna never let on. Didn’t let on about anything much, to be honest. I should think Miss Gregson’s beating them off, with all that lovely dosh, but I only ever saw her here on her own.’

‘She’s not been in recently?’

She frowned. ‘Now there’s a funny thing. I don’t remember seeing her all season, now you mention it.’

Crane stood near the entrance, waiting for Anderson, though the reporter had his own wheels this afternoon. He was curious about Kirsty Hellewell. Then suddenly, Anderson came careering across the entrance hall, jacket flying about him with the momentum. ‘Can’t stop, Frank, they’ve just got me on my mobile. Some nutter in Cutler Heights has a woman and two kids under siege. Threatening the uniforms with a gun. We’ll touch base at Patsy’s, OK?’

Crane followed him out, but he went off at an angle. ‘My car’s in the lower park,’ he said. Crane had never seen him so animated and didn’t believe it was much to do with a nutter with a gun. Anderson suddenly turned and ran back a few yards, his cocky, triumphant grin an ominous sign. ‘I’ve got fantastic news,’ he said in a lowered voice. ‘I think we’re there, Frank, I think we’re there!’

Crane ruefully watched him lope off. It was churlish to feel so disappointed and he knew it. The killer had to be caught and what did it matter who got the lead that counted? But Crane was the pro and he’d wanted it to be him. He got in his car. The reporter had clearly had a stroke of luck. And if he was so charming that women told him things, well, that was part of his luck too. But what could she have told him? Whatever it was, it had to be dynamite.

Anderson drove as rapidly as he dared to join the city ring road. He grinned, the look on Crane’s face! He knew this was a ball they could run with. He was almost certain in his own mind that it would solve everything and leave him with a story nearly as good as the original one. Boy, would he be glad when it was all over and he could begin work on the final draft of his big feature, and start to put out feelers to the Sunday Times. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind he would eventually get what he wanted. He always had. But the look on Crane’s face!