do it.” At least, that was how it seemed to the young constable. Charlie had no idea that in a few years’ time he would father a boy who would become a beat officer, just like his dad. Colin Bimsley would even end up working for the Peculiar Crimes Unit.
Today, though, Bimsley was one of the thirty or so foot soldiers handling door-to-door inquiries in the pouring rain, asking householders about the disappearance of little Daisy Whitstable. So far the response had been poor, the progress slow. It was no surprise, thought Bimsley as he pushed open yet another garden gate. Most of the residents worked during the day, their houses minded by an army of cleaning ladies, nannies, and gardeners, few of whom spoke English.
As Bimsley rang the bell and surveyed the tailored front lawn, he wondered if his dislike of the neighbourhood stemmed from the fact that he would never have the money to live in such an area.
“Can I help you?” The elderly woman who answered the door was staring suspiciously at him, despite the fact that he was wearing a uniform. She demanded to see formal identification before letting him start his questionnaire. Bimsley impatiently ran through the opening paragraph, explaining that he was trying to establish the exact time and whereabouts of a rogue ice-cream van.
“I remember it clearly, you don’t have to go on,” she snapped, in a tone she probably reserved for recalcitrant dogs. “When I heard it passing I went straight to the window and looked out.”
Apart from the hazy recollections of a Scandanavian au pair in the next street, this was the first positive identification Bimsley had received. “Would it be possible for you to describe the vehicle?” he asked carefully. The rain was falling in heavy sheets now. He could see his breath. “Perhaps I could come in for a minute…” he ventured.
“You stay where you are. Muddy boots on my Axminster, the very idea. Please be quiet while I think.” She pushed past him on the porch and looked along the street, narrowing her eyes.
“A little girl was abducted in this area yesterday,” he added. “Possibly by the driver of the van we’re seeking.”
“I don’t much care for children. Too demanding. I don’t have a television and I don’t read the papers. Too depressing.” She pointed in the direction of the Whitstable house. “It stopped up there. I remember thinking at the time that it was odd to hear an ice-cream van at Christmas, especially one like this.”
“What was different about it?”
“It was plain white, more like an ambulance. Then there was the man inside.”
“You saw the driver?” This was too good to be true.
“Only through the windscreen. He didn’t have a coat on, you see. The regular man always has a white coat. This one didn’t.”
“Is there anything else you recall about him?”
“He was dark.”
“Black?”
“No, more – Indian. He had long hair, most unhygienic where the preparation of food is concerned.”
“You didn’t see the girl?”
“I just took one look, then closed the curtains.”
Bimsley thought for a moment. “Why did you look out in the first place?”
“As I said, it was too late in the year for the van to come around,” she explained, absently twisting her loose wedding ring. “And then there was the tune. They normally play ‘Greensleeves.’ This one was playing something jolly from an opera.”
“Can you remember what the tune was?” asked Bimsley.
“No,” replied the old lady, shaking her head, “but I can tell you it was something by Gilbert and Sullivan.”
¦
“You’re usually on the desk downstairs, aren’t you?” whispered the young girl standing beside her. “My name’s Sandra.” She held out her hand. Jerry shook it and smiled back.
“I’m just filling in for today,” Jerry lied guiltily. “They’re a bit short-staffed.”
For the past ten minutes the two girls had been standing between stainless steel tea urns, behind a low table filled with plates of sandwiches. Until now, neither of them had spoken. Sandra was shy and overawed by the guests. Her hair covered cheeks pockmarked by childhood illness. Jerry wanted to say something that would put her at ease, but realized uncomfortably that to do so might be patronizing. A class gap lay between them like a concealed mine. Jerry wasn’t in awe of these people. She saw them every day at home.
Ahead of them, across acres of crimson carpet, the shareholders sat beyond oak-paneled doors which had been pulled tightly shut. The only sound that could be discerned from within was a muffled murmuring.
She’d wasted her time. Jerry dragged at the hem of her ill-fitting waitress outfit, trying to work it below her knees. The least the duty manager could have done was to find her some clothes that fitted properly. It had taken her ages to pin her unruly hair beneath the white cap. She looked over and found Sandra smiling apologetically.
“It’s difficult keeping your legs warm in this weather, isn’t it?” said Sandra, ducking her head. “Then you come in here and it’s so hot. I’ve got these heavy wool tights and they’re itching like mad. They should be coming to an end about now.” She nodded toward the conference room, referring to the group rather than her underwear arrangements.
“Who are they?” asked Jerry. “Do you know?”
“Friends of the Savoy, something like that,” said her new friend, her voice barely above a whisper. “Something to do with the theatre next door.” From within came the sound of chairs being shoved back. The meeting had been concluded, and Jerry was no wiser than she had been before.
As the oak-paneled doors were folded open and the committee members filed out towards the refreshment table, she examined their faces, trying to see them as conspirators, but it was impossible; a less sinister group of people would have been hard to imagine. They looked like an average English church congregation. Most of the ladies were middle-aged and wore firmly pinned hats. The gentlemen were suited and spectacled, conservatively dressed by family tailors.
As she began filling coffee cups and handing them out, Jerry strained to catch exchanges of dialogue. Beyond the odd phrase referring to investments and healthy rates of return, there seemed to be very little business being discussed. Of the two couples nearest to her, one was airing the problem of waterlogged lawns and the other was complaining about an obscene play at the National Theatre. It was hopeless.
After a further ten minutes the room began to clear, and Sandra started packing away her end of the table.
“I wonder if I have time for another cup?” asked a pink-cheeked old dear in a ratty-looking fur coat.
Smiling wanly, Jerry took her cup and refilled it. “Thirsty work in there, was it?” she asked.
“Oh, no, not really.” The old lady accepted the cup and began heaping sugar into it. “But it’s all very exciting, nevertheless.” She leaned forward secretively. “We’re buying a theatre,” she confided.
“Really?” Jerry joined her halfway over the table, a fellow conspirator. “Who’s
“Cruet,” replied the old lady.
Jerry frowned. Was she looking for the salt? “I’m sorry?”
“The Committee for the Restoration of West End Theatres,” she replied. “crowet.”
“Oh, I see. And you’re taking over the theatre next door?”
“That’s right. Two years ago I helped save the otters; last year it was typhoid; but this is much more interesting. How did you know which theatre we’ve purchased? It’s supposed to be a secret.”
“Oh,” Jerry replied lightly, “we had a Japanese gentleman staying here who was going to buy it.” She waited while the old lady stirred her tea. “But the deal fell through.”
“So I believe. The yen isn’t strong at the moment, or something like that.”
“Rachel, dear, we’re going via the Brompton Oratory, do you need a lift?” called one of the remaining men. The old lady smiled vaguely at Jerry and pottered away to join the group.
CROWET, thought Jerry. It had to be registered somewhere, and it could lead her to a murderer.
