'Mind you,' murmured Frank thoughtfully, 'it's a typical reaction of an abused child who's suddenly forced to come to terms with a buried past.'
43A SHOEBURY TERRACE, HAMMERSMITH, LONDON- 3:30 P.M.
Later that afternoon, Maddocks and Fraser entered Meg Harris's flat in Hammersmith. They were met at the door by two Metropolitan policemen and a locksmith, but dispensed with the services of the latter in favor of the spare key which a stout, middle-aged neighbor produced when she saw the congregation through her window and issued forth to quiz them about what they were doing. 'But Meg's in France,' she said, countering their sympathetic assertion that they had reason to believe Miss Harris was dead. 'I saw her off.' She wrung her hands in distress. 'I've been looking after her cat.'
The men nodded gravely. 'Can you remember when she left?' asked Maddocks.
'Oh, Lord, now you're asking me. Two weeks ago or thereabouts. The Monday, maybe.'
Fraser consulted his diary. 'Monday, June the thirteenth?' he asked her.
'That sounds about right, but I couldn't say for certain.'
'Have you heard from her since?'
'No,' she admitted, 'but I wouldn't expect to.' She looked put out. 'I can't believe she's dead. Was it a car accident?'
DI Maddocks avoided a direct answer. 'We've very few details at the moment, Mrs ... er...'
'Helms,' said the woman helpfully.
'Mrs. Helms. Do you know anything about Miss Harris's boyfriend?'
'You mean Leo. He's hardly a boyfriend, too old to be a boyfriend, Meg said. She always called him her partner.'
'Did he live here?'
'On and off. I think he's married and only comes to Meg when his wife's away.' She caught up with Maddocks's use of the past tense. '
He nodded. 'I'm afraid so, Mrs. Helms. Would you have a contact address or telephone number for Miss Harris's parents by any chance? We'd very much like to talk to them.'
She shook her head. 'She gave me the vet's number last year in case the cat fell ill, but that's all. As far as I remember, her family lives in Wiltshire somewhere. She used to go down there two or three times a year for a long weekend. But how awful!' She looked shocked. 'You mean she's dead and her parents don't even know?'
'I'm sure we'll find something in the flat to help us.' Maddocks thanked her for the key and led the way down the stone steps to the basement flat, which was marked 43A and had terracotta pots, alive with Busy Lizzies, cluttered about the doorway. He inserted the key into the lock and pondered the elusive nature of Meg's family. Even Sir Anthony Wallader, who claimed to know something about the Harrises, had no idea which part of Wiltshire they came from or what Meg's father did by way of a job. 'You'll have to ask Jinx Kingsley,' he told them. 'She's the only one left who knows.'
But, in the circumstances, the Hampshire police preferred the more tortuous route of arriving at Wiltshire via Hammersmith.
A tortoiseshell cat greeted them with undisguised pleasure as they let themselves into the narrow hallway, rubbing its sleek head and ears against their legs, purring ecstatically at the thought of food. Fraser nudged it gently with the toe of his shoe. 'I hate to be the one to tell you, old son, but you're an orphan now. Mummy's dead.'
'Jesus, Fraser,' said Maddocks crossly, 'it's a cat, for Christ's sake.' He opened the door into what was obviously the living room and took stock of the off-white Chinese rug, with its embroidered floral pattern of pale blues and pinks, which covered the varnished floorboards in front of the fireplace. 'A cat and an off-white rug,' he murmured. 'The boffins will be even more unbearable after this.' He went inside, took a pen from his jacket pocket, and manipulated the buttons on the answering machine.
