“It could be that this Archie Swale was bitter about the divorce. Do you know where he lives?”
“Brighton, last I heard.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know his address?”
“I remember it was some house in Medlow Square. Can’t recall the number.”
Agatha made a note.
“How long have you known Mrs. Jankers?”
“A long time. We were kids together down the East End of London. Somehow we managed to keep in touch over the years. Geraldine was great fun.”
“Then why,” said Agatha, “did she give me the distinct impression of being a noisy slag?”
“Poor Geraldine was having a bad menopause. She was never like that before.”
“Mr. Hammond …”
“Call me Cyril.”
“Very well, Cyril it is,” said Agatha. “Do you think you could persuade Wayne to speak to us?”
“Might be difficult. He’s all broken up about his mother’s death, but I’ll try.”
Half an hour later, feeling they had extracted as much information as they could from Cyril, Agatha and James set out for Brighton to see if they could interview the ex-husband, Archie Swale.
They had bought a map of Brighton. Medlow Square came as a surprise to Agatha. It was a small square of trim Georgian houses. How had Geraldine managed to snare a husband who lived in such elegant surroundings?
After knocking at several doors, they learned that Archie lived at number ten.
“Let’s hope he’s at home,” said James, ringing the doorbell.
The door was answered by an elderly grey-haired man. His faded blue eyes looked at them from under heavy grey eyebrows. His face was criss-crossed by broken veins.
“We’re looking for a Mr. Archie Swale,” said Agatha.
“That’s me. What do you want?”
“I am a private detective investigating the death of Geraldine Jankers,” said Agatha, wondering furiously just how old Archie was. Geraldine had been in her fifties. Archie looked to be somewhere in his eighties.
“I had nothing to do with the old bitch,” said Archie. The door began to close.
“We know you had nothing to do with it,” said James quickly. “But we would like to know what sort of woman Geraldine was. That might give us a clue as to who murdered her.”
He studied them for a few moments and then shrugged. “You’d better come in.”
He ushered them in and shut the door. Then he led the way into a living room on the ground floor. It was sparsely furnished with a few good pieces. Persian rugs lay on the floor. Above the marble fireplace was a very good seascape.
Agatha tried to imagine the blowsy Geraldine in such surroundings, and failed.
Agatha and James sat down on a sofa covered with silk-covered cushions faded with age. Archie took a seat in an armchair next to the fireplace.
“How long were you married?” asked Agatha.
“About a year.”
“Where did you meet her?”
“In a pub in Brighton. She was down from London for the day.”
“And what attracted you to her?”
“I was pretty lonely. My wife died fifteen years ago. Geraldine came up to my table and asked if she could join me, as all the other tables were taken. She seemed an easy, friendly sort.”
“Have you any photographs of her as she was then?”
He rose stiffly and went to a bureau by the window, opened a drawer and took out a photograph. He handed it to Agatha. “That was us on our wedding day. Brighton Registry Office.”
Agatha stared at the photograph in surprise. Geraldine was slimmer and had brown hair.
“She was blonde when we saw her,” said Agatha, “and fatter.”
“That was the thing,” he said. “Soon as we were married, she started to change. I’d never met that son of hers before we were married and he came to stay with his wife. Scum they were. Wayne stole a gold cigarette case that had been my father’s. I know he stole it, but Geraldine screamed at me for insulting her precious son. After that, things began to go rapidly downhill. She had seemed a nice, quiet lady before we were married. She liked her drink, but so do I. But she dyed her hair blonde and began to stay out late and wouldn’t tell me where she had been. I thought I was trapped for life when she suddenly asked me for a divorce. I thought she would gouge me out of every penny I had left, but she settled for an amicable divorce. I felt I had got off lightly.
“I heard she’d married again. It was on the radio when they were announcing the murder. What can I tell you about her? I think she was a bit of an actress. I mean, the difference before our wedding and after was astounding. I inherited this house from an aunt. I now live on my pension. I think the fact that I wasn’t well off upset her. She had a nasty mouth on her. I began to be frightened of her.”
“Did you know she had been married twice before you?” asked James.
“Yes, she said they had both died.”
“The first one did. The other is doing time for armed robbery.”
They continued to question him for the next quarter of an hour, but Archie did not have much more to tell them and so they left.
“Let’s go back and brief Patrick and try to have a quiet word with Harry,” said Agatha. “I wonder whether that armed robber ex of hers is still in prison.”
THREE
PATRICK was sitting in the hotel bar when they arrived. Agatha often wished he would dress more casually. From his neatly combed grey hair and lugubrious face to his suit, collar and tie and well-polished black shoes, he seemed to scream cop.
They sat down and ordered drinks and then began to tell him the whole story of what they had found out so far in detail. “So what we want you to do for a start,” said Agatha finally, “is to use your police contacts and find out if Geraldine’s second husband, Charlie Black, is still doing time in prison.”
“I’ll try,” said Patrick.
“Where’s Harry?”
“He went out for a look around the town.”
“Does he look the part?”
“Oh, God, yes. He even followed me down on his motorbike. Black leather, shaved head, tattoos, studs, the lot.”
“Do you know what room he’s in?”
“Two five seven.”
“We’ll call on him later when the coast is clear.”
“Excuse me.”
They looked round and saw Cyril Hammond. “I can’t get Wayne to speak to you, but Fred Jankers said he would like a word. He wants to see you in his room.”
“Now?” asked James.
“If you wouldn’t mind.”
Patrick said he would go round to the police station to make friends with the local force. Agatha and James followed Cyril. Cyril was now wearing a yachting cap.
“Would it be possible,” said Agatha to Cyril’s back, “to have a word with your wife?”
That back stiffened noticeably. He turned round. “I don’t know if she can tell you anything that I don’t
