Pauline Rowson: In for the Kill

Then, on the pretence of giving my condolences, I could ask her what her father had said about Andover. Either that or I would have to follow them back to the house, but that would be risky given the police presence, as someone might recognise me. I hadn’t really thought of how I was going to broach the subject but knew that something would come to me. I hadn’t been a PR man for over thirteen years for nothing.

The committal seemed to go on forever. The wind strengthened and with it came heavier rain; it was mean, slanting stuff that stung my face and seeped through my trousers and shoes.

Clipton, it appeared, was having the last laugh on us. The only good thing about it, I thought, was that the mourners would be in a hurry to leave. And they were. His daughter remained; along with the man I’d seen her with at the inquest. Holding his hand, and clutching a handkerchief, she stared down at the coffin as the vicar snatched a surreptitious and anxious glance at his watch.

Now was my chance and I was going to take it. I had to repeat myself before I penetrated her sorrow.

‘I’m sorry about your father.’ I wasn’t, but I had to observe the niceties.

She twitched her lips in the ghost of a smile that never touched her eyes. Her partner smiled encouragingly at her.

‘Are you ready, Christine?’ he asked gently.

She nodded and the three of us began to move off. The vicar and curate followed. Ahead of us, huddled by the cars, were the other mourners, faces screwed up against the harshness of the weather. My face was so wet that the rain ran off it in rivulets. My trousers were clinging to my legs like melted plastic. But what was a bit of rain to me? I’d known worse.

I was wondering how to broach the subject when she became conscious that I was beside her.

‘Did you work with my father?’ she said, her voice seeming to come from a great distance away.

Poor cow, she looked so bedraggled and forlorn, her fair hair was dark with the rain and plastered to her head. Her eyes held such pain and sorrow that told me she must have loved him. I tried to imagine Clipton as a loving father, but couldn’t.

‘No. But I knew him through his work.’ It seemed to satisfy her. Her partner was too concerned about her to detect any double meaning or sinister intent.

‘I can’t think what he was doing on the Isle of Wight,’ she suddenly burst out. I could see it was a question that had been vexing her ever since she had heard the news of his death.

For a spilt second I tossed up what to say and decided that half the truth might get me somewhere – where, I didn’t know, and only time and daring would tell. ‘I think he might have been coming to see me.’

That brought her up sharply. She stopped to stare at me whilst over her shoulder I could see the other mourners getting impatient and beginning to clamber into their cars.

‘Why?’

Before I could answer the husband spoke. ‘You didn’t say at the inquest?’

He’d noticed me there then. ‘No.’

‘Why was he coming to see you?’ she repeated, a dazed expression on her face.

‘Because of Andover.’

‘But… I thought… what do you mean?’

‘Come on, honey, let’s get out of the rain, the other mourners are waiting.’

‘No.’ She shook him off and turned a penetrating gaze upon me as though I had suddenly woken her from sleepwalking. ‘What do you mean?’

Time to be economical with the truth. ‘Your father and I met four years ago in the course of his work. I can’t tell you much about it, you understand.’ She nodded enthusiastically. I had made it sound as if we were both working on counter-espionage. ‘We were looking for someone called Andover. We didn’t find him. I live on the Isle of Wight. Your father could have been coming to tell me he had found Andover.’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t…’

‘Please, honey, you’re soaked.’

I scowled at him. ‘Can you recall exactly what your father said?’

Her brow furrowed in thought. ‘All I can remember is that he said, I must go to Andover.

No, hold on, he said, I’m going to see Andover.’

‘He said “see”?’

‘Yes, I remember now because I thought it was an odd expression. You might go and see Naples but you don’t usually say I must go and see Andover.’

‘Did he leave any notes, memoirs, records, a diary?’

‘No. The police asked me that. His colleagues…’ I saw her glance go beyond me and knew that they were there. They had been watching me, and waiting.

‘Was your father carrying a briefcase or notebook when he died?’

‘No. He had a small bag with him containing some of his clothes.’

‘What about his mobile phone?’

‘I…’

‘Christine, please,’ her partner urged, glaring at me.

‘One more thing. Do you know where I can find Sergeant Hammond? He used to work with your father,’ I explained when she looked at me a little blankly.

Her face brightened. ‘He lives in Spain. He retired before Dad.’

‘Wasn’t he too young to retire?’ I asked surprised.

‘He won the lottery, or premium bonds, I think.’

Her husband took her arm firmly. ‘Come on.’

This time she didn’t protest. But before she had gone a couple of paces she turned back.

‘If you find out what Dad was doing, will you come and tell me?’

I nodded. ‘Where do you live?’

‘Give him one of your business cards, Mark.’

With a heavy sigh, Mark struggled for his pocket under his large dark-blue anorak and retrieved a tattered card, which he handed to me.

I saw from it that he was a graphic designer.

‘If you remember anything else, or find anything that you think might be helpful, will you call me?’ It was my turn to scrabble for a piece of paper, which I found but I didn’t have a telephone so I wrote down Miles’s mobile number. ‘You can contact me through this. He’ll pass any message on to me.’

She took it, thrust it in her pocket and headed for the car. I watched her climb into the sleek, black limousine and drive off. Then a fist gripped my shoulder. I stiffened before turning. I knew who it would be. The police.

CHAPTER 4

I‘ think it’s time we had a chat, Alex. Detective Chief Inspector Crowder.’

I would like to have refused but, judging by the man’s expression, I didn’t think I had much choice.

‘Shall we get out of this rain?’ Crowder said.

His voice was surprisingly quiet for one so large. It was well cultured and caressing too, but it didn’t fool me. Underneath I knew was a hard bastard. He was wearing a Homburg and a huge macintosh that reached almost to his ankles; all he needed was a gun slung over his arm and a pair of Hunters to look as if he was out on a country shoot. Beside him was a thin man with a short rain jacket that barely covered his narrow backside; he had soaking wet trousers, and a rather bored expression on his lean face.

‘I’m wet already so it doesn’t make any difference,’ I said, hunching my shoulders and ramming my hands into the pockets of my jacket.

‘It does to me, Alex. Perhaps we can give you a lift somewhere.’ It wasn’t a question. A face like his was made to command.

‘The Isle of Wight?’ I ventured.

Crowder’s smile didn’t touch his eyes. ‘I was thinking more in the way of the hovercraft.’

It didn’t surprise me that he knew where I had come from. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he knew what I’d eaten for breakfast. Men like him knew everything.

We walked towards his car in silence. The man with the narrow backside opened the rear door and I climbed in. There was little else I could do; besides it would save me the bus fare.