Nicola Upson - An Expert in Murder

‘I’ll do that. In the meantime, where were you on Friday evening between six o’clock and eight o’clock?’

Penrose had changed his approach and, for the first time, McCracken felt at a disadvantage. What did he know, she wondered? ‘I was in Charing Cross Road, browsing in the bookshops until they closed. I suppose the last one shut at around six-thirty.

Afterwards, I went for a walk round the theatres to see what the queues were like, and got to the New just after seven. I like to be there in plenty of time.’

‘Did you buy anything in the bookshops?’

She hesitated. ‘No, not this time.’

‘I gather you’ve written a play of your own. What’s it about?’

She expected better from him. The question was disappointingly simplistic, and she gave it the contempt it deserved. ‘It’s not a simple narrative that can be summed up in a couple of sentences, Inspector. If I could sit here and paraphrase it, what would be the point of going to the trouble of writing it at all? It’s a play of ideas.’ She thought again of Tey, and wondered how much he cared for her. ‘But at least they’re my own ideas and I haven’t had to borrow them from someone else.’

He smiled. ‘Well, no doubt we’ll find out what they are if the play goes into production.’

McCracken tried to keep her fury in check and was helped by a knock at the door. The Sergeant, who might as well have been struck dumb for all he was contributing to the interview, got up and returned a few seconds later. He whispered something to the Inspector, who closed his file.

‘I’m sorry, Miss McCracken, but we’ll have to leave it there for now.’

‘What do you mean?’ she cried indignantly. ‘Surely you want to ask me about Aubrey’s death?’

‘I do indeed, but not at the moment. You won’t mind waiting, I’m sure. I’ll get the constable to bring you a cup of tea.’

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She began to tell him what she thought of his hospitality, but the door closed in her face before the second adjective was uttered.

Despite the brief euphoria of his performance the night before, John Terry knew he would not be happy until he had settled things with Aubrey. Yesterday’s meeting had left him restless and frustrated. Now, as he lay in bed, he found reassurance in his lover’s presence but knew that this easy solace was only temporary: the fear he had felt during his encounter with Fleming was stronger than ever. He hated confrontation and would go to any lengths to avoid it, but too many things were going wrong in his life; the only way to get back on track was to face his demons one at a time, and he might as well start now. Aubrey was often at work at the weekend, and by now he’d probably have calmed down. Quietly, Terry got up, dressed and left the flat.

Out in St Martin’s Lane, he began to feel better. The area was different altogether on a Sunday, with the shops shut and no prospect of life in the theatres, but he still felt at home here and the familiarity brought with it a sense of permanence which made the future less intimidating. Was his position really so bad? He had had fights with Aubrey before – never as serious as this, admittedly

– but the two of them had always worked out their differences.

Why should this be any different? He had no reason to suppose that Aubrey now doubted his talents or his importance to the stage. There was Fleming, of course, but perhaps he should even come clean to Aubrey about that? After all, it wasn’t him doing the blackmailing and he doubted that such a stunt would be looked upon favourably. The lie he had told Fleming in the heat of the moment yesterday might yet prove to be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

His optimism was short-lived. He was surprised to find the stage door open on a Sunday and even more astonished to find it manned by a policeman who refused to let him in or explain his presence. Irritated and a little alarmed, he walked down St Martin’s Court and into Charing Cross Road, and stopped at the first telephone box. Unless Aubrey was inside the theatre with the police, he would be at home and would know what was going on.

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It was Aubrey’s wife who answered, however, and when Terry replaced the receiver five minutes later, he was at a loss to know how to make sense of what she had told him. How could Aubrey be dead? Terry had never known anyone with a greater sense of vitality, a stronger grip on life.

There was a sharp rap on the glass and he looked up to discover that people were waiting to use the telephone. Apologetically, he stepped outside and took none of the usual gratification in noticing how their attitude changed when they recognised him. It had begun to rain again, so he stepped into a doorway to shelter while he tried to come to terms with conflicting emotions: sadness at the loss of a friend and mentor, who had taught him so much and from whom he still had plenty to learn; shock at the brutal reality of another murder following so swiftly on the heels of the one at King’s Cross; and relief that, in death, Bernard Aubrey had offered him a way out of the mess he was in. Grace Aubrey had been gracious about her husband’s generosity towards him and had wished him well with the future of the theatres. He was more grateful than she could possibly have realised.

Suddenly a whole new world of opportunity opened up in front of him, and Terry felt both exhilarated and terrified at the prospect of having to prove himself without the cushion of Aubrey’s back-ing and judgement. He knew, however, that he would not be able to think about it properly until he had sorted Fleming out, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t do that now. He knew where he lived and didn’t doubt the truth of Grace Aubrey’s words; he had enough money to shut Fleming up once and for all, and the sooner he did it the better. He would offer him a one-off payment for his silence and then have to trust the man to keep to his word; if the sum was large enough, he couldn’t see a problem.

It didn’t take him long to get to Bloomsbury and find Fleming’s street but, as he was looking for the house number, the man himself emerged from a door about a hundred yards ahead of him.

The strong build was unmistakable but, even at this distance, Terry could see that he looked awful, hunched into a scruffy old brown coat. Instead of calling out to Fleming, Terry decided to fol-199

low him, enjoying for once the role of hunter rather than hunted.

In any case, it would be no bad thing to have the discussion in a public place; Fleming’s anger yesterday had unnerved him. He looked at his watch and saw it was nearly opening time; the nearest public house was where they were most likely to end up.

But no. Fleming passed three pubs on his way up Guilford Street and into Gray’s Inn Road, and didn’t give any of them a second glance. Where the hell was he going, Terry wondered? And why, if it was so far, hadn’t he taken a bus? Fleming was intent on his destination, so at least he was unlikely to look behind, but Terry was struggling to keep pace with him; then, just as he was about to abandon the chase, Fleming slowed down and took what appeared to be a photograph out of his pocket. He glanced at it briefly, then mounted the steps of a large, red-brick building and disappeared through its doors. When Terry caught him up, he stared in confusion at the discreet notice to the right of the entrance. What could Lewis Fleming possibly be doing in the Edith Kent Nursing Home?

He waited a while, unsure of what to do, but his curiosity eventually got the better of him and he went inside. The entrance hall was small but sparsely and efficiently furnished to make the best possible use of the available space, and a pretty girl in a nurse’s uniform sat behind the front desk. She was on the telephone but smiled when she saw him and gestured to a small chair that had been placed in the hollow under the stairs. He took the seat and waited for her to finish her call, impressed by the friendly manner which bore no traces of the stress that a daily battle with sickness and pain must produce. In fact, the whole place spoke of a calm which was invariably found when disparate people were united –