Stephanie by Winston Graham
‘No, in the first place.’
‘I wasn’t happy with the implication at the inquest that my daughter took her own life. I went to see many of her friends.’
‘And was Dr Jiva able to help you?’
‘No.’
‘Did you bring up the subject of drugs with him?’
‘Why should I? My daughter did not take them.’
‘No, quite so, quite so. But I have a reason for asking.’
‘May I know what it is?’
The door opened and Mary Aldershot came in with the coffee. There was a pause while she poured it out. A neat, trim person getting heavy in the thighs, quietly dressed in good tweeds, bun of brown hair, elegant hands. Only a few hours ago – nine hours ago – he had stood naked except for a towel while she bundled up all his clothes and took them down to the incinerator. In everything had gone, the photographs, the albums, the two sticks. How long had she stayed there making sure everything was burned? A cool, self-contained woman who loved him in her own cool, self-contained way. A woman, in a situation like this, beyond price. But now an accessory to murder. At his instigation and at his request she had unhesitatingly accepted that position, that burden, that risk. As unhesitatingly, if the occasion should arise, she would lie to save him from arrest and trial.
As she left the room, James remembered that there were three photographs he had omitted to burn – that of Errol and Stephanie on the balcony at Goa, and the two photographs which someone – ‘the Boss’ – had said must not be shown at the exhibition of Errol Colton’s work at the Megson Gallery. He had folded them and put them next to his pocket book, and when he took everything from his pockets before his clothes went into the furnace he had not included these.
They were in his inside breast pocket now. If he came to be searched, would they be incriminating?
‘You went to see Dr Jiva again yesterday, Mr Locke. Was it by appointment?’
‘No. I just drove there and hoped to find him in.’
‘Did you intend to ask him more questions about your daughter’s death?’
‘That sort of thing.’
‘And then? Was he in?’
‘Inspector Foulsham,’ James said, ‘I have already related exactly what happened, and everything that happened, to your sergeant. Serjeant – what is it?’
‘Evans. Yes. I’m sorry. Sometimes it is useful to go over old ground.’
‘Where is Naresh Prasad now?’
‘Oh, still in hospital. He has been X-rayed and certain objects have been located in the upper bowel. I gather he has been given a massive dose of antibiotics and it’s hoped he will pass these objects naturally. It’s a little early to speculate on their nature.’
‘Is that why you asked me if I brought up the subject of drugs?’
‘Well, drugs certainly are the first thing in these circumstances that come to mind.’
‘But they don’t come to my mind, Inspector. They’ve played no part in my life; nor, as I said, did they play any part in my daughter’s.’
‘Quite so … This a – this ambulance – this bogus ambulance. How would you explain that?’
‘I don’t think I’m in any position to try to explain it.’
‘You’ll remember you gave a description of the ambulance to Sergeant Evans. Could you – thinking it over – have any other details occurred to you that you can now supply us with?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘You didn’t see the numberplate?’
‘I must have seen it, but I was too late getting to the window when they left; you’ll appreciate I’m not a quick mover.’
‘Nothing more about the car?’
‘One of the headlamps was cracked. The nearside one.’
‘Thank you. Unfortunately,’ Inspector Foulsham said, ‘you are the only person who saw the ambulance. We’ve checked with other houses in the street.’
James thought this one over. ‘So actually I am the only witness that it ever existed.’
‘Well, we don’t question that, of course. Were both the men in it white?’
‘Yes. The man I spoke to sounded like a Cockney. I could identify him easily. As I’m sure Naresh Prasad could.’
‘So far Prasad has refused to talk to anybody.’
‘Ah.’ James sipped his coffee, careful not to let the cup rattle. ‘So you’ve only my word about the incident altogether.’
‘As I said, we have no reason to question your account, Mr Locke.’
‘But from a police point of view, all you have is a lame man ringing them and reporting that an Indian whom he says he has never met before is very sick and needs attention. That it?’
‘Well, if we could find the ambulance it would be a great help all round. Word has gone out, of course. If these people were breaking any law, they’ll naturally be anxious to avoid identification.’
‘Assuming you accept my story,’ James said, ‘they could hardly have not been intending to break the law, otherwise they wouldn’t have bolted when I dialled nine-nine-nine.’
‘Quite so. Quite so.’
There was a silence. Is this all there is going to be? James thought. He put his hand in his breast pocket and fingered the edge of the photographs.
Foulsham said: ‘Did you know that Mr Errol Colton was dead, sir?’
Here it was. The bright eyes were fixed on him. A priest inviting a confession?
James frowned, after a moment: ‘Colton, dead? When?’
‘Last night.’
‘Good God. He looked healthy enough. How did it happen?’
‘Oh, he was healthy enough.’
‘What was it, then – an accident?’
‘He was murdered.’
James looked at the edge of his right hand where it was so painful. But the bruise did not show.
‘I’m sorry. Though you can’t expect me to shed any tears. A man like that would make many enemies. Do you know who did it?’
Another silence. They both waited.
Then James said: ‘Where was it?’
‘The murder? At his home near Princes Risborough in Buckinghamshire. Do you know it?’
‘Yes, I went there to see him after my daughter’s death.’
‘That must have been an unpleasant interview.’
‘It was.’
‘When was the last time you saw Mr Colton?’
James frowned again, this time in thought. ‘Then. It must have been about ten days ago. It was a Sunday. I’m afraid I have become rather vague as to dates.’
‘It didn’t occur to you to go to see him a second time, as you went a second time to see Dr Jiva?’
‘Yes, I’d thought I might call later this week. But I’m sure you appreciate we were not on good terms.’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ said Foulsham.
‘Well,’ said James, ‘it seems that’s one question we shall never resolve now.’
‘Question?’
‘Question or argument, call it what you will. More coffee?’
Foulsham lowered his cup. ‘Thank you, no. Did you know a Mr Angelo Smith?’
‘I don’t think so. Oh, wait a minute; there was somebody in Mr Colton’s house the day I called. A dark chap with a scar on his brow?’
‘Did you get the impression that he was there as a guest?’
‘I think Colton called him a business colleague.’
‘Did they seem on friendly terms?’
‘That I couldn’t say. I only saw Smith for a minute … How was Colton killed?’
‘There was a struggle.’
II
‘Was that all he asked?’ Gaveston said.
‘Well, he wanted to know what time I got home last night, what I had for supper. On the way out he asked Mary the same questions, so it’s as well we’d thought ahead.’
‘Ah.’
‘Difficult, isn’t it, to say whether they were routine questions that a police officer would normally put or whether they were angled at me specially.
‘It’s the business of the police to suspect everybody, and after all, you with your bitter grudge against Errol will be very much in their line of fire. But I’m sure they haven’t had time to sort anything out properly yet. Did you hear the local radio?’
‘No.’
‘No detail but the headlines, so to speak. Two men died after fierce struggle in Buckinghamshire manor house. Mr Errol Colton, recent witness at inquest on girl undergraduate’s suicide, was one of the victims. While his wife watched Shakespeare at Stratford-upon-Avon, Colton and a fellow guest appear to have quarrelled and fought to the death. The bodies were discovered by Mrs Colton and her cousin on their return. Police will make a further statement shortly.’
‘You remember it well.’
‘I took it down on tape. And talking of tape, James, I think after today we should not speak openly on the phone. In spite of occasional apoplexies in the House of Commons by members anxious about their civil liberties, tapping has been known to happen. I should know.’
‘I seem to have landed you firmly in the shit, Henry. It was not what I intended when I rang you.’
‘It was not what I intended when I came. The presence of Angelo Apostoleris changed all that.’
‘He served some purpose, then.’
‘Wherever Apostoleris was was organised crime. But I suppose you realise …’
‘What?’
‘I suppose you realise, though perhaps I shouldn’t say this, that in removing Errol Colton from the world you are likely to have removed the most vulnerable witness to anything criminal which may have been going on.’
‘Last night Errol called Smith a minder. “What sort of a minder are you supposed to be?” I think it slipped out or he was high on something. This sounds as if Smith were looking after him or protecting him.’
‘Or making sure he didn’t talk at the wrong time …’
Silence fell.
James said: ‘ I am at present only aware of having removed from the world the man most responsible for Stephanie’s death – in whatever way it came about.’
‘So be it …’ The telephone clicked. ‘That’s all right, I was just checking … There are one or two things I might add, old friend. First, you are likely to be the object of further attention from the media. “Mr Locke, how do you react to the murder of your late daughter’s boyfriend?” et cetera, et cetera.’
‘I shall be strictly not available for comment.’
‘And another matter, rather more serious than the media. When it once becomes established that Colton and Apostoleris did not kill each other in some drunken quarrel, the group to which they were attached – the gang, if one wants to be melodramatic – may put two and two together and come to the conclusion that the police may also come to but have no proof of – that you had a finger in Colton’s death, somehow. In which event there might be an attempt at reprisal.’
‘Oh, come, this isn’t Brooklyn.’
‘Maybe I’ve lived myself too long in a nasty and brutish world where assassination is just another branch of politics. But do have a chain put on your door. Have you a gun?’
‘No. There’s a lad in the village shoots the rabbits for me.’
‘I can let you have something. Better to be on the safe side. You’ve no licence, I suppose? We’ll have to forget that for the moment. I’ll bring it over probably Friday.’
‘Come to dinner.’
‘I might do that. Evelyn’s not back for a couple of weeks yet … All things considered, I think this will blow over.’
‘I’m not sure that I want it to.’
‘Never mind that. Consider first the police. Unless we are desperately unlucky they will be hard put to pin anything conclusive on you, apart from motive. Nobody was killed by a gun. Your age and lameness almost rule you out where one man has a broken larynx and the other a broken back. I’m a much fitter man than you, and I don’t think I could have done it! And second …’
‘Second what?’
‘We don’t know who heads this group that Colton and Apostoleris belong to, but my feeling is they will probably do nothing which will attract more attention to themselves. This is not one rival gang feuding with another. If, as you suspect, all was not as it seemed about Stephanie’s death, they will do nothing more if you do nothing more.’
‘I don’t at all feel like doing nothing more.’
‘I’d strongly advise you to lie very quiet until the results of what you have done are cleared up! Merciful Christ, we have enough problems on our hands!’
‘I still think Arun Jiva was involved in Stephanie’s death. He was the last person to see her alive, and in view of what Humphrey Arden told me …’
‘It’s still all speculation.’
‘Maybe I should have held Errol Colton over a slow fire.’
‘Something like that. Oh, one other thing. You remember Anne Vincent, the girl who found – the body?’
‘Of course.’
‘She had a breakdown after the inquest, you’ll remember. Cut tutorials and went home.’
‘Yes, I tried to see her that week, but they told me she’d left.’
‘She was obviously very attached to Stephanie, and the whole thing greatly upset her. She’s been with her parents in north Lancashire, but the doctor there says she can come back, so she’s returning Saturday. The only reason I mention this is that her father is coming with her and has asked to see me. If he has anything to say bearing on the case I’ll let you know when we meet.’
III
During that morning and afternoon James spent most of his time indoors, letting Mary protect him from telephone calls and would-be interviewers. He sat in his wheelchair and tried to read, but mainly allowed his mind to range at random over the last few days and hours. Once or twice he took the two photographs he had retained of Errol’s collection and studied them. They were both photographs of the same house but there was no means of identification. Except the tall pencil trees.
Then he took out the photograph he had found in Arun Jiva’s room. It still badly upset him. It occurred to him that he had never seen his daughter naked since she was two. Now he saw her, a beautiful young woman, slender, finely formed, youthful, sexually exciting. The man standing beside her, mercifully partly screened by a chair, was the man he had killed last night. James wondered who had taken the photograph; Stephanie would not have stood like that before some waiter. No doubt, since Errol was a photographic expert, he had a camera which operated itself and gave you time to walk into the picture.
Of course he knew Stephanie was not a virgin. It was just the visual presentation of it that hurt him – and that it had been in the possession of Arun Jiva. Stephanie would surely never have given it to Jiva. Had Jiva then picked it up in her flat, the night he took her home, the night he said he had not gone in with her?
Several times James had the impulse to burn the picture; each time he held back, thinking that somehow it might provide a clue to the mystery of her death.
Unnumbered times he had read her last and only letter from India, which poignantly – almost obscenely – had arrived a week after her death.
Dear Daddy,
Well, here we are in darkest Goa, and with a little more detail than I sent you in the p.c. from Bombay.
In fact, although we are miles from what passes for civilisation, we are in a super hotel with pretty nearly all mod cons and a view where every prospect pleases.
I came to India intending to enjoy myself but with all my defences raised to resist the oh-so-romantic pull of the Far East. The spiel of travel agents was not for me: I knew all about the other side of the picture, the poverty, the beggars, the dust and the dirt. And that’s all true enough! But in the short time I have been here India has really got to me. Hard to put it into words. Of course one is impressed by the obvious things, the Taj Mahal, Fatehpur Sikri etc., which we visited from Delhi; but I think it is the people I have found so delightful, and the presence of a civilisation that’
We are now at the hotel whose paper I’m writing on, but we are actually staying at the Hermitage, which consists of a group of about twenty handsome villas – or bungalows: one might as well use the word in its country of origin – put up last year as an extension to the hotel, and the first guests were the heads of a Commonwealth Conference held in Delhi last year, and they came to Fort Aguada to take a few days’ rest and relaxation after their labours! I have been shown the visitors’ book with the signatures of the potentates. Margaret Thatcher of course – strong bold signature as I suppose you’d expect! Mr Muldoon of New Zealand, Daniel Arap Moi of Kenya, Indira Gandhi for India etc. I notice that the Canadian PM has written his commendation in French – rather pretentious, I would have thought. And I never knew that places like Western Samoa and the Solomon Islands were in the Commonwealth!
The gardens here are just being made; many of the top bungalows are quite bare, but we have a lower one where the trees and shrubs are already grown. I met Mr Mandelkar, the head gardener, yesterday, and had a long chat. Although the Latin names are the same, thank goodness, the things we can grow they don’t and the things they grow we can’t, so apart from hibiscus and bougainvillaea there isn’t much common ground. I’ve admired four types of ficus – especially religiosa which has some sort of a legend attached to it – gorgeous casuarina, tall ashokas, bamboos 30 feet high, jacaranda and all kinds of palms. I expect you would know them all!
There are 30 gardeners here. When I exclaimed at the number it was pointed out to me that for half the year no rain ever falls, so watering has to go on every day!
Certainly there is no sign of rain at present; since I came to India I have not seen a cloud. Errol, whom you must meet soon, is very considerate and very generous but also amusingly eccentric. He buzzes around leaving me often – but quite pleasantly – to my own devices. His company is developing tourism in India, but his hobby is photography, and I’m rapidly becoming the most photographed girl in the subcontinent. (Though I’m usually the human interest not the main subject.) He tells me he is hoping to get a show in the West End shortly. An opportunity for us all to meet?