Chapter Twenty-Two
TWENTY-TWO
Megan found a door with Inspector Everett’s name on it and knocked. In response to his “Come in,” she entered. He was seated behind a desk covered with paperwork, reading a report. Looking up, he said nothing but gestured at the telephone on his desk.
He returned to his work as she dialled the Launceston nick, but she had a feeling he was listening.
She was put through to DI Scumble.
“Pencarrow here, sir.”
“Where the bloody hell have you been, Pencarrow? Your aunt . . .” He took an audible breath and let it out in a bellow: “Your aunt has remembered yet another fact she forgot to tell us!”
Megan wondered what the bloody hell she was supposed to say or do about it. Cautiously returning the receiver to her ear, whence she had removed it to preserve her eardrums, she ventured to ask, “What has she remembered, sir?”
Having blown off steam, he achieved a more normal voice. “First tell me, did you ever mention the jeweller’s name to her? Or to her side-kicks?”
“Side-kicks, sir?”
“The artist and the vicar’s wife. Well?”
“No, sir, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“Then, if you didn’t put it into her head, I suppose she really is remembering. She says there was a monogram on the case the jewelry was in. D A W, she thinks, but the letters were superimposed and it could equally well be W A D.”
“Wilfred Donaldson!”
“It’s not absolute proof, but it’s another link. We’re not going to get a positive identification of the jewels from the jeweller for a while. Did the boy wonder tell you he’s disappeared?”
“Yes, sir. DS Faraday’s gone back to town to look for him.”
“Good. We’ll leave the Yard to handle that end of things.
” The satisfaction in his voice made Megan relax, so she was un-prepared when the bellow came again.
“So where the bloody hell have you been, Pencarrow? I’ve been waiting for your report for hours.
On a Saturday! I hope you have an excuse for the delay, and something to show for your jaunt to Bristol? ”
Thank heaven she did have something to show. “The victim’s name, sir. Norman Wilmot.” She explained about the squatters and Camilla’s unexpected approach. “That’s why I was late phoning, sir. I had to talk to her right away or I’d have lost her.”
He grunted a grudging approval. “Norman Wilmot, eh? Just his name?”
Megan passed on what little more she had learnt about him. “There must be a society of entomologists, don’t you think, sir? Dr Wilmot would surely be a member, and they’d know where he went.”
“Which jungle? Very helpful!”
“How to contact him, perhaps?”
“I suppose we’ll have to try. You’ve not done too badly, Pencarrow.”
Would it hurt the sod to say she’d done well?
On second thoughts, yes, it probably would hurt him. Still, he had yet to hear the rest of Camilla’s revelations. “I have another name, sir. Just a Christian name, but it may be useful. Apparently a friend of Wilmot’s was coming and going with him last weekend, a youth by the name of Trevor—”
“Trevor! Bloody hell, Pencarrow, your aunt . . .” His voice died away in a gobbling noise.
Megan hoped she wouldn’t be blamed if he was having a fit. She saw that Inspector Everett was all ears, no longer pretending not to listen. “My aunt, sir?” she asked cautiously.
“Your aunt, apparently, when she first saw the body of the wretched Wilmot, before she saw the face, jumped to the conclusion that it was a youth known to her by the name of Trevor.”
“Good heavens!”
“Good heavens indeed. It will not surprise you that neither she nor Mrs Stearns saw fit to mention it to us.”
“But sir,” Megan dared to argue, “when they discovered it wasn’t him, why should—”
“It’s for us, Pencarrow—and that ‘us’ presently includes you—to decide what information is relevant. The sooner you learn that any and all details a witness can provide may prove vital, the more likely you are to remain one of ‘us.’ ”
“Yes, sir.” She was seething, on her aunt’s behalf as well as her own. She was ninety-nine percent sure that if Aunt Nell had told the insufferable Scumble about her mistaken first impression, he’d have informed her in no uncertain terms that he had no interest whatsoever in her erroneous guesses.
“I have here a sketch that artist chappie drew from the ladies’ description of Trevor.”
“The girl who told me about him, sir, assuming it’s the same Trevor, is helping a police artist here to produce a sketch.” Megan crossed her fingers for luck, praying that Camilla was still cooperative and able to provide a good enough description for the artist or IdentiKit man to work with.
If the inspector managed to force himself to utter a word of appreciation, she missed it. “The sooner we can compare the two the better,” he said. “Bring it back here as soon as it’s done. This girl, could she have killed Wilmot?”
“I don’t think so, sir. She’s a skinny little thing. If it was a matter of hitting him over the head with a weapon, perhaps, but bashing his head on that table would take much more strength.”
“I had worked that out for myself, Pencarrow. Well, if that’s all you’ve got to report, put me through to Inspector Everett.”
“Yes, sir.” Megan covered the receiver with her hand and turned to Everett. “DI Scumble would appreciate a word with you, sir. I’ll just go and—”
“No, stay. I want to hear all about your aunt.” He was grinning. “And I’ll need to talk to you about finding these squatters.”
“I’ll come back, sir.” With any luck he’d have lost interest in Aunt Nell by then and want to talk only business. She handed over the phone. “I’ve got a rather nervous witness, you see. I think I’d better go and hold her hand a bit.”
He nodded and waved her away. As she closed the door behind her, she heard him say, “Everett here, Mr Scumble. Tell me about DS Pencarrow’s aunt.”
Talk about red flags to a raging bull! Whether Scumble complied or not, Megan didn’t want to hear. She went to find Camilla.
The artist was a uniformed sergeant, a policewoman. Megan was annoyed with herself for having assumed it would be a man. If women had such low expectations for each other, how could they demand anything better from mere men?
Camilla and Sergeant Winston were getting on like a house on fire. Megan recalled thinking that an unwilling witness would be totally useless in producing a likeness. It followed that a police artist must have the skills to make people want to cooperate, along with the artistic ability.
All the same, Camilla looked relieved to see Megan.
Megan introduced herself to the sergeant. “How’s it going?” she asked.
“I think people might recognise Trevor from the picture,” Camilla said doubtfully.
“But it’s not quite right yet,” said Sergeant Winston. “Eyes, nose, chin?”
“I’m not sure.”
“May I?” Megan requested, reaching for the sketch. She knew at once one aspect that was wrong. The question was how to phrase it without sounding rude or upsetting the girl. “I wonder, Cam, could it be that you’re used to seeing him somewhat less . . . tidy?”
Camilla at once raised her hand to stroke her chin. “Could be.”
The sergeant took back her work. With a touch of shading and a few squiggles, she produced a faint stubble and tangled locks. “How’s this?”
“Oh yes! That’s much better. It looks quite like Trevor.”
Sergeant Winston looked at Megan and shrugged. “Good enough? All right, I’ll get it duplicated for you.”
“Many thanks. Inspector Everett will want copies, I expect. I’ve got to go back to see him. Could you leave my copies with the desk sergeant?”
“Will do. Goodbye, Camilla. You were a great help.”
They parted in the passage, Megan and Cam turning back towards the lobby.
“Megan . . . Miss Pencarrow—”
“Megan will do fine.”
“Megan, do I have to talk to Inspector Everett, too?”
“I haven’t had a chance to discuss with him what you’ve told me.
” But what little time she’d had to think had convinced her that in spite of Camilla’s help they still needed to question her friends, if they could be found.
Their testimony could confirm or refute the girl’s recollections of Trevor’s and Norman Wilmot’s movements. “I think he’ll want to talk to you.”
Camilla sighed. “In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose. All right. But you promised my friends’d be in less trouble because I told you about Norm and Trev.”
“I said they wouldn’t have such a hard time. You see, with the information you’ve given us, they can’t deny knowing those two, so instead of having to bring them in and keep at them till they admit that much, we can get straight on with asking them what they know about them.”
“I see,” Camilla said doubtfully, then clutched Megan’s arm. “Only, they’ll know I split on them. I can’t go back to the squat. Everything’s so awful!” She started to cry.
Megan put an arm around her shoulders and felt for a hankie. “That’s one of the terrible things about murder. It messes up the lives of a lot of people who don’t really have anything much to do with it. Here, blow your nose. Look, there’s a ladies’ room. Go and wash your face and comb your hair—”
“I haven’t g-got a comb!”
“Here’s mine. I need it, so please don’t run away with it. I want you to go to the desk sergeant—the man in the lobby?—and wait for me there. Will you do that? I promise I’ll sort things out for you somehow. I won’t desert you.”
“All r-right,” sobbed Camilla, and once again Megan just had to hope she meant it.
Eleanor had been baking. She enjoyed the process, but the results were rarely what she hoped for. Her life had provided little opportunity to exercise the domestic skills until very recently. But every now and again she tried.