“I’ll fix the doctor.”
“And I’d like to call the Yard again.”
Marino gave instructions to Herb, and the others watched him as he picked up the telephone, were intent on every word he said.
He spoke to Bill Sloan, who already knew a little, and would be as discreet as anyone.
“Bill, contact the Ealing Station,” he said. “Have them find out who was patrolling Wavertree Road last night, the late day-duty man and the night-duty man. I want to see both officers at the Divisional station at” — he glanced at a small clock on the desk; it was a little after ten o’clock — “noon on the dot.”
“I’ll see to it,” promised Sloan.
Thanks.” Roger put down the receiver and stood up. “You go ahead, Mrs Meredith, in a taxi. I’ll pick you up at the gate two or three minutes later. Is that all right?”
“Surely.”
Her eyes glowed approval before she turned away, waved from the door, and went out. Roger supposed that he would get used to her; that if he tried hard enough, he could become proof against her disturbing vitality.
Marino was smiling as if guessing that his thoughts were on the woman at least as much as on the case.
“One other thing, Mr West. Before you report to your superiors, you will come and see me, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Once again Marino didn’t get up, simply put out a hand.
Going towards the lift, with Herb as guide, Roger realized how little Marino had said and how much he had implied; and he warned himself that he must not worry about the reasons for secrecy, this was a single problem, the finding of a kidnapped child. But the emotional factor couldn’t be disregarded for long; if the boy was not back by the time his mother came round, there would probably be a lot of complications.
Lissa Meredith was standing near the gate, beautiful against the heavy summer foliage of the trees and the grass still brilliant green from summer rain. She was beside the car before he could get out, slid into the seat next to him and closed the door.
“You were on time,” she said. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything you saw, all the details you can remember, and everything you think I ought to know about the Shawns,” Roger answered. He offered her his cigarette case. “Down to the most minute detail.”
“Such as toothbrushes,” she said. “I’d rather smoke my own.” She took a red packet of Pall Malls from her handbag, and flicked a lighter as Roger slid the car into the stream of traffic. “They had gone to bed in a hurry, that’s for sure. Belle’s clothes were just dropped on the floor, some of David’s were in a pile by the side of the bed. I don’t believe that means what you probably think it means. Belle is a tidy creature by habit. Fastidious.” Again the implication of criticism, of “too fastidious”. “They hadn’t cleared away after dinner, which was most unusual. Belle is having fun being a real housewife. Sometimes she will just put the dirty things in the washing-up machine, but she won’t leave the dining-room untidy. They must have been desperately tired. Do you want me to guess?”
“Just facts, please.”
“I might guess better than you.”
“We’ll guess together when we have to,” Roger said. “Don’t lets start arguing.”
She looked intently at his profile, which was very good. If there was anything wrong, it was with his chin, which was rather heavy and thrusting. He had a shortish nose and finely chiselled lips, his hat was pushed to the back of his head, showing wavy, corn-coloured hair, the colour of which almost disguised the grey. He knew that she was studying him closely.
“Who wants to argue?” There was laughter as well as submission in the words. “The back door wasn’t locked, but the front door was. None of the catches had been fastened at the windows. Belle is a nervous woman, the windows were always fastened and doors bolted.”
“Why was — why
“I don’t know of any reasons, except —” Lissa paused. “Except that being nervous is a kind of obsession with her.”
“You don’t sound as if you approve of Belle Shawn,” Roger said drily, and when that won no response, he went on: “What do you think gives her this obsession?”
“No one’s ever put her across his knee, face downwards,” said Lissa, very deliberately. “You really want to know about her?”
“I have to know,” Roger said. “I have to be able to judge how much notice to pay to what she says. Do you mean she is spoiled?”
“Fussed, pampered, protected against the evil world, indulged since she was able to walk. And in spite of all that,” Lissa Meredith went on, “the better Belle often shows through, the good and adorable Belle. You’re right to want to know about Belle before you talk to her.”
“You imply that she’s neurotic and hard to live with?” Roger asked.
“Part of the time, that’s true.”
“Is she happy?”
“Can a bundle of nerves be happy?”
“Part of the time.”
