He snatched the bag from her, snapping it open. He thrust his fingers into it, then, impatiently, tipped it over, emptying the contents onto the table. The gloves fell out last.

  Chapter Thirteen

  At eight-fifty on Saturday morning Peregrine Gore parked his open Scimitar two-seater outside number fourteen, Picton Avenue, a quiet, tree-lined main road tributary on the south west side of Coventry.

  The drive from Chipping Camden had taken him thirty-nine minutes. Mark Treasure had called him at the Arkworthys’ just after seven-thirty. Peregrine had been doing press-ups when the ’phone rang. The call had changed his plans for the morning. Mr Arkworthy had offered him a round of golf at Stratford-on-Avon, although he hadn’t seemed to mind when it was called off. Peregrine wasn’t sure Mr Arkworthy entirely enjoyed playing golf with him—not since the last time Peregrine put a ball through the club house window. It was the sort of thing that could have happened to anybody, of course, except that it had happened to Peregrine twice—at his future father-in-law’s golf club.

  Vanessa Arkworthy, Peregrine’s fiancée, had still been sleeping when he left. They’d been to dinner with friends in Oxford the night before and had been late getting back. He might still have woken her and taken her to Coventry if Mr Treasure hadn’t suggested there might be an element of danger involved.

  Peregrine was as over-protective towards women as he was over-ingenuous about them in almost every other connection. When he had been a serving officer in the Brigade of Guards his gallantry towards women had become legendary. Sadly, that was all Peregrine had been commended for in his entire term as a Guards officer—not that it had been a long term.

  Peregrine Gore was a twenty-five-year-old lantern-jawed, flaxen-haired, healthy heavyweight. Reasonably intelligent and by nature agreeable, courageous and alert, he had the physique and disposition for manly activities and the outdoor life—altogether, one would have guessed, promising army officer material. But unhappily he had lacked that indefinable something which leads to the smooth co-ordination of the impulse, consideration and decision-making process. His tendency to take prompt, masterful action proved so often to lead him from dangerous situations into impossible ones that he came to be regarded by his superiors as a liability when placed in charge of men—particularly under battle conditions, or even simulated battle conditions. In such circumstances Peregrine’s fearlessness only exacerbated the effects of his wilfulness and was the reason why ultimately his short service commission had ended as one of the shortest on record.

  His discharge had been honourable—early termination attributed to the late discovery of colour blindness. This tactfully covered the conviction by his colonel that Peregrine was uncommonly accident prone.

  The young man was better protected than most against protracted periods of unemployment thanks to well placed relatives in positions of authority in business, commerce, the Church, and many branches of the armed services. One of these was usually able to open the door to a new career. Although he had failed in the army and industry—there had been a short and predictably disastrous period as a management trainee with an explosives company—merchant banking had then beckoned. Not only were the entry requirements much less onerous than they were for the Guards, but also Peregrine’s half-uncle was Chairman of Grenwood, Phipps, as well as its largest shareholder. And through a series of happy judgments and coincidences, banking was so far proving the most promising piece in what could loosely be referred to as the growing mosaic of Peregrine’s career pattern.

  Above all, and as Treasure had observed the night before, Peregrine aimed to please by working as far beyond the line of duty as it was possible to stretch it. This was why the line was stretching now to the outskirts of Coventry in the middle of a holiday weekend.

  The house on the corner of Picton Avenue and Picton Close was one of a semi-detached pair of dwellings put up between the wars. It was white rendered with Tudor-style embellishments, and a pointed front gable above bays with casement windows. There was a low, manicured privet hedge growing beyond an even lower pavement wall, and behind this a patch of lawn skirted on one side by a concrete drive leading to the front door and a wooden garage; at the side. Edging the grass in front of the house and along the next-door boundary was a border of evergreen shrubs. On the grass there were two coloured plastic gnomes and a large spotted plastic mushroom. Peregrine had ample time to observe these features while waiting to see if the bell would be answered.

  The house was evidently divided into two flats. There was a pair of illuminated bell pushes with name cards at the side: the top card offered FRENK, the lower one LLOYD.

  Peregrine had pressed the top bell without expecting any response, but because he thought it the right thing to do. After a minute he registered a slight movement in the net curtains behind the downstairs bay window, and following a further decent interval he pressed the second bell. The front door was opened almost immediately to the accompaniment of shrill canine yapping.

  ‘Yes? Quiet Tai Fung. Good boy.’ The slim woman with the affected accent was a tight-skinned, brassy platinum blonde wearing a lot of make-up, a yellow quilted housecoat with big pockets, and fluffy high-heeled open slippers that featured her coloured toenails. Her manner was determined, her voice rasping, her age about forty, and her cough unnerving as she exhaled smoke. She held the cigarette holder high and in the Russian manner—like a teacup, between taloned forefinger and thumb. The fat brown and white Pekinese leaning on her ankles stopped barking as ordered and made nose clearing noises instead.

  ‘Oh, good morning.’ The caller raised his cap. ‘Sorry to disturb you. I’m here to see Mr Frenk,’ he lied affably, under orders. He knew Frenk was dead and trusted this wasn’t Mrs Frenk.

  ‘Upstairs flat, dear. But he’s away. I heard you ring.’ She squinted at him through a fresh wreath of smoke, but it was a carefully appraising and partly tutored gaze that had already taken the new-looking sports car into account. The dog now seemed to be choking on something but the woman took no notice.

  ‘Would you know when he’ll be back Miss … er …?’

  ‘Mrs Lloyd, dear. I’m a widow.’ She patted the side of her tightly dressed hair. ‘My husband was killed quite recently. He was very young. Now I’ve only got Tai Fung to protect me, haven’t I then, sweetie? Such a little angel.’ She bent down and wiggled her head several times at the dog which rolled on its back in response, giving a wet snort. ‘I think Mr Frenk’ll be back tomorrow or Monday. He didn’t say for sure. You a friend of his?’

  ‘Sort of. But I’m here on business. I need to make some arrangements with him. Is he abroad, d’you know?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say, dear.’

  ‘He doesn’t have any relatives living here?’

  ‘No. Nor any living anywhere else that I know of. I could take a message.’

  ‘You don’t know where I could reach him?’ She hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, dear. Is it about a booking?’

  ‘That’s right. Could be important to him.’

  ‘Band or orchestra?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Dance band or chamber? He does both, you know?’ She glanced up, down and across the street. ‘Look, it’s cold standing out here. Why don’t you come in for a minute?’

  She closed the front door behind him. The cramped hallway accommodated only the stairs to the upper floor and the open door to Mrs Lloyd’s flat through which he followed her into a small lobby. To the right he could see into a bedroom with chintzy curtains and a dressing table with a draped front in the bay window.

  ‘Don’t know what the neighbours will say. Me entertaining a handsome young man at this hour of the day,’ said Mrs Lloyd coquettishly and noting the direction in which he was looking. She leaned her shoulders back to the door to shut it—twice, because Tai Fung got jammed in it the first time. ‘You’ll have to forgive the mess.’ She touched his arm, directing him into a meticulously tidy room with every hard surface shining and all the cushions plumped like risen soufflés. There were French windows at the end and an archway to a kitchen area on the left. Over the tiled mantelpiece was a large framed coloured photograph of Mrs Lloyd, when younger, in a low-cut sequined bolero-skirted dress doing the Cha-Cha-Cha, or something of the sort, in the arms of a Brylcreemed Lothario in white tails: Mrs Lloyd had been leaning back into camera. ‘Please sit down,’ she invited, sitting herself with the light behind her.

  ‘Sorry. I should have introduced myself. I’m Peregrine Gore.’

  ‘I see. I’m a pro myself. You’ve probably guessed.’ She crossed her legs. The housecoat parted above the slim knees.

  Peregrine coughed nervously. ‘How interesting,’ he answered uncertainly. He sank into a deeply yielding sofa opposite: it was all gold-threaded silk damask with carefully combed fringes. Gingerly he put his cap and muffler down beside him, hoping they wouldn’t make the place look too untidy.

  ‘I was Doreen Daynar, the dancer.’ The uppermost leg leaped up violently from the knee as if being tested for reflexes: its owner paused for a reaction to one or both disclosures.

  ‘Of course,’ Peregrine provided, making relief sound like recognition.

  ‘So I know what it is to miss a booking, dear. Expect you ’phoned and didn’t get an answer. Mr Frenk’s got an agent, of course. Very unreliable, though. Aren’t they all? Especially at weekends. Birmingham are you?’

  ‘And London.’ The Peke had started licking the visitor’s skin between the top of his sock and his trouser leg. Peregrine put his hand down to stop it and had a finger nipped before the animal retreated backwards yapping loudly.

  ‘That’s just his little game, the sweet. You’ve made a hit there,’ said Mrs Lloyd indulgently. ‘We don’t usually go for the men visitors, do we Tai Fung? Only the good-looking ones,’ she added archly, keeping her neck extended and her chin up. ‘So you’re London as well? Me too in the old days. I don’t accept many engagements now. Exhibition turns now and again perhaps. And some judging. But there isn’t the call. Not for professional ballroom any more. Not for the quality stuff. And I can’t do the other. Then there’s my little business in the city. Health and sauna clinic,’ she paused. ‘And therapeutic massage. Unisex it is. Very nice clientele. Lot of businessmen like yourself. Closed this weekend.’ She nodded knowingly. ‘So you’ll be more the instrumental side I expect?’

  ‘Backing mostly,’ he replied promptly, ad libbing.

  ‘String backing for vocal artistes?’

  ‘Actually, financial backing.’ The bank did occasionally put money into theatrical ventures. Mr Treasure had instructed him to keep as close to the truth as he could.

  ‘Fancy.’ Mrs Lloyd seemed visibly impressed. ‘Would you care for a coffee, dear? It won’t take a minute. No? Later perhaps. Will you be involved with Rudy, Mr Frenk I mean, when he moves to London?’ she asked guardedly.

  ‘Indirectly. We’re pretty big,’ Peregrine volunteered expansively, interested in the information and warming to his role. ‘When is Rudy likely to move, do you know?’

  ‘End of next month. He gave me three months’ notice, of course. As agreed. The flat’s furnished. I converted the house after my husband died, five years ago.’

  ‘Would that be your husband? In the picture?’

  Mrs Lloyd gave a bronchial trill. ‘No, that’s my partner. Arnold was a soldier, a corporal, in the infantry. King William’s Eastwick Yeomanry. God rest him.’

  He assumed she meant Arnold not King William. ‘Did he die in Northern Ireland?’

  ‘No. Potter’s Bar. In London. In a car accident. Nothing heroic. Like a cigarette?’ She pulled a packet from the pocket of the housecoat.

  ‘No thanks. Allow me.’ He heaved himself out of the sofa, went across to her, and picked up the table lighter near the telephone on the table beside her.

  Mrs Lloyd held his hand with hers as she lit the cigarette from the flame he proffered. ‘Thank you, dear.’ She looked up into his eyes while pressing a leg against his—so hard he mistook it for part of the chair. ‘My Arnold had nice manners too. Stop it Tai Fung. Mr Gore’s a friend.’ The animal had interrupted its mistress’s determined advances by trying to nibble Peregrine’s trousers. It retreated once again, issuing malevolent hisses as Peregrine went back to his seat.

  ‘Have you re-let the flat?’ he enquired earnestly.

  ‘Nothing definite. You wouldn’t be interested, I suppose?’ There was more hope than solid expectation in the question.

  ‘For a colleague, perhaps.’

  ‘Would you like to see it? Wouldn’t take a minute.’

  ‘I’d like to. Before I go perhaps? You mentioned an address. Where I might be able to reach Rudy?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ She pulled an address book from under the telephone. ‘It’s a friend’s cottage. In the country. The other side of Evesham. A male friend, you understand? Not your type. Not Rudy’s either you wouldn’t have thought.’ Mrs Lloyd’s features stiffened for a moment as though she might have been recalling a bitter memory. ‘Takes all sorts, of course. They often spend weekends there together. No ’phone, I’m afraid.’

  ‘The friend’s another musician?’

  ‘No, a telephonist. In the Birmingham Main Exchange.’

  ‘And you think Rudy may be at the cottage?’

  ‘Couldn’t say, dear. He might be. We could … we could try. He only said he’d be away the whole weekend. If he has musical engagements he usually tells me.’ She came over and sat close to Peregrine, placing the address book on his leg with her hand under it. ‘Nice to have the house to myself, in a way. Lucky I was here. For you, I mean. I’d no plans, as it happens. There’s the address if you want to copy it. I’ve never been there, but Rudy says it’s less than an hour from here by car. Quicker in a car like yours I expect. Pretty drive too, I should think,’ she finished wistfully.

  Peregrine finished copying the address. ‘Do you think we could go upstairs now?’ he asked. He felt her body give a little start.

  ‘But my … Oh, to see the other flat? Yes. I’ll get the key.’

  The disappointment in the voice hadn’t communicated itself to Peregrine.

  Their progress to the upper floor involved a contrived performance by Mrs Lloyd, in the lead, showing a generous amount of thigh as well as plenty of nicely developed calf. She had purposefully bunched the skirts of the housecoat to one side at the bottom of the narrow stairs. ‘Own front door, you see?’ she said, turning at the top to give a frontal view of the same anatomical features and which were quite her best.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Peregrine, but thinking it a fairly ordinary door.

  The furniture inside the flat was what had probably been excess to requirements in the Lloyd place after Arnold’s demise: the rooms had a threadbare appearance but they were as tidy as those downstairs. The bedroom was nearly as feminine as Mrs Lloyd’s own and had a lingering but distinctive smell of joss sticks about it. The double bed was shrouded in a pink taffeta cover with frilled edges, and decorated with small cushions.

  ‘Plenty of hanging space,’ said Mrs Lloyd, rolling back a built-in wardrobe door to reveal amongst other things a short, bright scarlet silk dressing gown and some other items that I demonstrated Frenk’s taste in leisure clothes veered toward the exotic. ‘I go over the place once a week when Rudy’s away.’ She swept her hands sensuously over the bed cover. Then she straightened herself, adjusting the edges of her housecoat—a prim gesture but with the result they parted to show a bit more of what lay beneath. ‘That’s by arrangement, you understand. Not included in the rent. Like some other things,’ she added, treating Peregrine to a long, unblinking stare. She stepped towards him, but just at the point when he’d turned about to move to the room at the front. He’d been interested in the several framed photographs in the bedroom.

  ‘This is the lounge,’ Mrs Lloyd explained, following him in. ‘The opposite of the way the rooms are downstairs. Better for me because he does his practising in here. But not after eleven at night. Well, you can’t have a man playing one of those things on top of you, not when you’re in bed, can you? Oh, what am I saying?’ she finished archly with a cavernous cough and pointing to the cello in the corner.

  ‘It’s a good big room,’ said Peregrine affecting to look about him, but darting looks at the numerous photographs on the fireplace, the bookcase beside it, and the walls above both.

  ‘Rudy takes a good photo,’ remarked Mrs Lloyd, picking up a portrait, an action which served definitely to identify her tenant for Peregrine. Frenk appeared in nearly all the pictures, usually with others—in most cases other men, but there was one of him with an older woman. ‘That’s him with his mum. She’s dead now,’ Mrs Lloyd volunteered.

  But Peregrine had become more interested in the dark young man who was depicted often with Frenk, and also in one professionally posed group photograph that didn’t include Frenk. The group showed eight young men all wearing fur hats and heavy coats carrying airline bags and standing in snow beside a motor coach. It was a large framed print embossed with the distinctive Aeroflot insignia—like the bags in the picture. Peregrine picked it up. ‘Rudy didn’t go to Russia?’

  ‘Not on that trip,’ Mrs Lloyd replied guardedly. ‘Oh Lord, he’s left the window catch off.’

  While Mrs Lloyd went to fix the window, Peregrine—in the line of duty—pocketed the small snapshot of Rudy Frenk that was at the front of some folded papers stuffed behind the clock. He’d been sure Mrs Lloyd hadn’t seen what he’d done. Only the Pekinese had been watching directly and now stood in front of him fixing him with a watery, accusing stare and wobbling its rear.

  ‘Nice Typhoo. Good dog,’ Peregrine bent down to pat the tiny brute.

  Tai Fung rolled on its back and sneezed.

  ‘Twisting both of us round your little finger, Mr Gore? Or can I call you Peregrine? Always supposing that’s your real name. Anyway, dear, before we go any further, and before I start screaming rape, which I may have to to get any action, why don’t you tell me why you’re really here? And you’d better take your things off so I can go through them and find out what else you’ve taken. That’s besides the photo you just palmed. Oh, and I haven’t got a licence for this, dear, so let’s hope it doesn’t have to go off.’

 

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