from a Territorial Army Captain – R. T. Simmons of the 57th Home Counties Field Brigade. Posh spoken, a bit querulous.
‘ I live in Portslade and use the Worthing to Brighton train regularly to go to either of these towns,’ he said. ‘On Derby Day I came into Brighton in a rather crowded compartment. There was a man in the compartment carrying a trunk which I’m sure is similar to the one I have seen in the newspapers. ’
‘ Did you notice anything particularly about this man?’ I said, the phone tucked between my shoulder and ear as Iscribbled down his words.
‘ He kept the trunk beside him on the seat, even though the rest of us were crowded together and had little room. And when the train reached Brighton this man jumped out quickly and carried the trunk along the platform. It was clearly heavy but he ignored porters who offered to help. ’
Simmons described this man as being about 35, medium height and dressed in a dark suit.
I thanked him then went to find Scales. The statement looked promising, although the timing wasn’t quite right – the sighting had happened earlier in the day.
I’ve not been a policeman long. Perhaps that’s why I was startled by the number of suspicious characters that populate our town, revealed by the calls we had.
A lodging house proprietor, breathless with excitement, told me that on 4th June a man carrying a brown paper parcel and a small suitcase booked a room for three weeks.
‘ He seemed very worried,’ my caller said. ‘For the first fortnight he didn’t leave his room during the day, always going out at night. ’
‘ Did you ever see him with a woman? ’
‘ No, no, I didn’t. But he suddenly left town two days before the trunk was discovered. ’
‘ Before his three weeks was up, you mean? ’
‘ That’s right. ’
‘ Did you find anything unusual in his room after he’d gone? ’
‘ Not a thing,’ he said. ‘Not a thing. ’
I thanked him and put the phone down. A constable would follow the call up but I doubted it would come to anything. I looked at my watch and stretched. My shift was over and Ihad a date.
I didn’t hear until the next morning that poor old Vinnicombe, sniffing around his left parcels office this evening, had found another body in a suitcase: that of a newborn baby.
Thursday 21st June
I was late into work after a long night. Everybody was talking about Vinnicombe’s discovery and making jokes in doubtful taste about the contents in general of the railway station’s left parcels office.
We’d had some kind of tip-off – I couldn’t find out what as it was very hush-hush – about visitors to the town on or about 21st May. Plain-clothes police were visiting boarding houses to see who’d come to town that day.
Late in the morning Donaldson went up to London to follow clues to a missing Hove girl. We heard later in the day he’d found her alive and well in Finchley.
In the afternoon we heard from the woman who’d written the word ending in ‘-ford’ on the brown paper we’d found in the trunk. A Sheffield woman, Mrs Ford, said that from the photo she’d seen in the paper she was sure it was her handwriting. She said it wasn’t the end of the word, it was her last name – she always wrote it with a small letter ‘f’.
She thought the paper was part of a parcel taken to London by her daughter, Mrs Morley. Mrs Morley had been using her maiden name, Phoebe Ford. She’d been staying at a hostel in Folkestone where she had given the piece of brown paper to a German woman.
One of Donaldson’s theories was that the murder victim had come from abroad. Boats go to and fro between the pier at Brighton and France every day, as I knew full well from Frenchy’s regular visits. We’d already been in touch with Interpol. He wondered if here, with word of this German woman, he had his continental link.
Then the knives turned up in Hove.
Kate’s father had rung twice more from his mobile phone, each message more impatient. She still ignored him. By now she was sprawled on her sofa, the windows to the balcony closed, utterly absorbed in the narrative she was reading. Absorbed but also repelled by the author’s callous way of talking about the women he met.
Kate’s doorbell rang. She jumped. She had paused in her reading to think how many human stories were hidden between the lines of every statement the police took down. Why was the man who booked in to the lodging house so troubled? Why did he only go out at night? Why did he leave before his three weeks was up?
And Phoebe Ford – had she parted from her husband? Is that why she’d gone to a hostel in Folkestone and used her maiden name?
Kate looked at her watch. It was past midnight. She frowned and padded to the door. Perhaps it was Bob Watts. In your dreams, girl. She put the chain on, then opened the door a couple of inches.
‘What do you want?’ Kate said.
‘That’s not exactly the “Pater, how delightful to see you” I was hoping for,’ her father said.
She led the way into her sitting room, and waved at the sofa under the window. Her father had a small smile on his face and tired eyes. His hair was too long and absurdly floppy, as usual. He wore an expensive navy suit, although he had taken off his tie. His shoes were buffed to a brilliant shine.
‘That may be because I never see you unless it happens to fit into your schedule.’
‘I might say the same.’
He stood at the window looking out then he turned round, taking in the pile of folders on the dining table.
‘Homework?’
‘Something I’m working on, yes.’
‘Anything I can help with?’
‘Not unless you want to confess to a murder.’
He nodded as if what she’d said made sense to him.
‘I’m staying at the Grand.’
‘Good.’ She’d remained standing, feeling awkward.
‘I phoned earlier.’
‘I was working-’
‘Several times.’
‘Meaning two or three.’
‘More.’
‘I was working.’
Kate had a sudden urge to laugh. They were sounding as if they were scripted by Pinter, with an awful lot of subtext.
‘I wondered if I could buy you dinner.’
‘At this hour?’
‘Then. I was worried when you didn’t answer.’
‘I could have been doing anything. Been out on the town. Actually, I was with Bob Watts.’
‘Bob Watts?’
He turned towards the piles of folders on the table.
‘The friend you railroaded out of office.’
He pursed his lips.
‘He did it to himself. He could have left with dignity. He was stubborn. Stupid.’
‘He was your friend.’
‘Why on earth were you with him?’
Kate indicated the files.
‘We’re working on this together.’
Her father looked puzzled for a moment.
‘He was your friend, Dad,’ Kate repeated.
‘Simply a consequence of the friendship between our fathers. And he was wrong.’
‘Did you leak stuff about his one-night stand?’
He looked her in the face and smiled in an odd, intense way.
