CHAPTER THREE
“What can you tell me about Max Cutler?”
Winter sipped at a pint glass of bitter and smiled directly into Carol
Brady’s lovely eyes. They had left her car in Camden Town, where she lived, and
were now sitting outside one of his favourite Hampstead haunts, enjoying a
beautiful sunset.
“Not a lot,” she admitted, wondering if they would end up
in bed together later and suspecting not.
She had loved Freddy Winter once, years ago. He had loved her, too, she
was certain of it although both were married to other people at the time. When
push came to shove, however, she hadn’t been able to compete with Helen Winter.
Carol sighed. Even after her husband, Sean, was shot down
in cold blood in front of their toddler son, Liam, Freddy hadn’t got in touch.
Twenty years passed before they met again, by sheer chance. It had proved a
stroke of luck because she had thought her son was dead, killed in a road
accident, but he was found suffering from amnesia and it was Freddy who brought
him back to her.
Did she still love Freddy Winter,
she wondered? Does he love me? Did he ever love me? She really hadn’t a clue so
contented herself with a long sip of an iced orange juice and lemonade,
resolving to put such vexing questions aside…for now, at least.
“How on earth do you know that awful Cutler woman?”
Winter was curious to know.
“We were neighbours once, years ago, before I married
Sean. Liam and Max met up again at university and Annie started sending
Christmas cards. That was all, until recently. She came to see me last week and
begged me to twist your arm to help find her precious Max.”
Winter’s keen ear detected a note of irritation
bordering on dislike in her voice. “You don’t like him?”
“I hardly know him. But Liam thinks he’s a creep, and
that’s good enough for me.”
“And Annie, what do you think of her? Be honest,” he
added.
“Aren’t I always?” Carol pouted mischievously before
taking another long sip. “She’s awful, of course. But I feel sorry for her. The
husband was a nasty piece of work and if the son hasn’t turned out too well
it’s no big surprise. Annie dotes on him and spoils him rotten. The husband
left her well fixed for money. Our Max has never been shy about spending it, by
all accounts.”
“The husband’s dead?”
Carol nodded. “He had bowel cancer. He was only in his
early forties too. You just never know what’s around the next corner do you?”
She paused. “So will you take the case?”
“Case, what case?”
“I know you, Freddy Winter. You’ve got a whiff of
something or I’m going senile. Nina Fox has whetted your appetite and it’s not
for jumping into bed with her either. So give, Freddy. What do you know that I
don’t?”
“Not a lot.” He grinned as the violet eyes flashed
warningly, threatening as they always did to penetrate his defences. “But when
I know more you’ll be the first to know,” he assured her with wicked diplomacy.
“I don’t like the smell of this, Freddy, or I would
never have brought Annie to see you in the first place. She may be a funny old
stick but she adores Max…and no one knows better than I do what it is to lose a
son,” she added quietly.
“I’ll do what I can,” he promised and took both
impeccably manicured hands in his across the table.
“You can start by ordering two Irish coffees.” Carol tossed him a knowing wink as she extricated her fingers, but let her hands rest
on the table so their fingertips almost touched.
“I’m driving,” he reminded her.
“Oh, Freddy, really…! The amount of whiskey they put
in it here wouldn’t make a tortoise tipsy.”
Then she saw he was teasing and they burst, simultaneously, into peals
of laughter.
“Tell me about Pip Sparrow,” he murmured thoughtfully after
ordering two Irish coffees, one large and one regular.
“Why?” Carol was genuinely surprised. She had expected
him to grill her about Nina Fox.
“No reason, just curious,” said
Winter lightly, and gave a nonchalant shrug. Even so, he refused to meet the
deep, violet gaze. Invariably (hadn’t be been convinced of it for years?) Carol
could see right through him. Besides, it was almost true that he was just
curious. He hadn’t quite known what to make of Pip Sparrow. Something about the
girl worked a certain mischief on his instincts. Few people had that effect on
him, and he didn’t like it one bit. Yes,
he felt sorry for her and, no, he hadn’t disliked her in the least. Yet, there
was something…missing, perhaps? Maybe
the fault was his and he’d expected her to behave more like a…victim?
Than…what, exactly? Given her background,
surely it’s laudable that she’s getting on with her life just like any other
teenager? Winter pursed his lips
pensively. Like any other teenager, Pip Sparrow definitely was not.
“I’ve not had much to do with her
really,” Carol had to admit. “She’s a quiet kid, keeps herself to herself a lot
as far as I can make out. It’s hardly
surprising in the circumstances. Let’s face it. People love to pry, and there’s
plenty to pry into where that poor girl’s concerned. Imagine, losing your
mother and brother in a fire then your father being arrested for killing his
girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend and tried for murder! Then she ends up living with
the girlfriend. The mind boggles.”
“How old was she when the mother and
brother died?”
“It was about six years ago so she’d only
have been about ten or eleven. She adores Nathan. Apparently, she adores Nina
too.”
Winter pricked up his ears at a
subtle inflexion in her voice, “You sound surprised.”
“Do I? I suppose I am, really. I
mean, Pip idolizes her father so, well, it’s a bit odd isn’t it? No one
can blame Nina for what Nathan Sparrow did but…”
“You’d expect the daughter to…?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I would.” Carol
grinned. “But then, do we ever do what’s expected of us? Look at you and me. We
still blame each other for what happened years ago yet here we are about to
enjoy a good, old-fashioned Irish coffee in dear old Hampstead.”
As if on cue, a bartender placed a tray
in front of them. Winter paid, absently, mulling over what Carol had said. “You
don’t still hold all that stuff against me, do you?” he felt bound to ask, “It
was years ago, and we were both married,” he reminded her brusquely.
“That didn’t stop us having an
affair.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Look me in the eye and say that
again,” she challenged him, a teasing smile on her lips but a hint of sadness
in the violet eyes. He met her penetrating gaze only briefly before taking up
the glass without saying a word. “Oh, well, each to their own, I suppose. If
Pip’s happy, or as happy as she can be, that’s what counts.”
“Are you happy?” The question
clearly startled her. Now it was Carol’s
turn to look away and sip, tentatively, at the hot coffee.
A pinkie-yellow glow of sunset
filled the room. Tables, chairs, faces, everything assumed the same hue. Two
thrushes on the windowsill by their table caught Winter’s eye. One flew away;
the other remained, briefly, its expression oddly strained. He was reminded of
the painting at Nina Fox’s house, the bird among berries like flames. Its
expression, too, had been strained. No, he immediately contradicted himself.
The bird in the painting had been terrified. The thrush, on the other hand,
warbled a little song before spreading its wings and chasing after its mate.
“What did you make of Nina?” Carol
was asking, a twinkle in each eye.
Winter forced himself to pay
attention. “I rather liked her,” he had to admit, surprising even himself by
the genuine warmth in his voice.
“Most men do,” Carol chuckled.
Winter thought he detected a note of warning, but instantly dismissed it as
mere imagination.
Later, Winter dropped Carol off at
her flat, refusing an invitation to come in for a while and drove home, more
than slightly miffed. To his practised ear, the invitation had lacked
enthusiasm. Indeed, it struck him that she was little more than paying lip
service to politeness. He was baffled too. What
could I have said to annoy her? He almost hit a little dog than ran out in
front of him but managed to swerve just in time and slammed on the brakes,
furious with himself for even a momentary lapse of concentration.
As he climbed out of the car, he could
see the animal sitting farther back on a grass verge, white head cocked on one
side, looking daggers at him. “It was your fault, not mine, you stupid mutt!”
Winter shouted angrily. “You could have been killed!” He strode towards it,
half-expecting the dog to run off. Instead, it stayed put but continued to
fling an accusing glare at Winter - as if the detective wasn’t feeling guilty
enough already.
Winter had no love for dogs. Even
so, he found himself repeating, in a gentler tone, “Don’t look at me like that.
It was your own stupid
fault! But I suppose we’d better find
out if you’re hurt anywhere,” he muttered and squatted beside the shivering
animal.
The little dog sat passively,
occasionally wagging its tail. Winter examined it all over and finally
pronounced it free of any broken bones. “And I thought it was only cats who had
nine lives!” he mumbled gruffly. “However many you have, old chap, I’d bear in
mind you’ve just used up one of them if I were you.” Uncharacteristically, he patted the little
dog on the head and walked quickly back to the car, suddenly recalling that he
had left the windows wide open. He paused only once and peered into the gloom.
The dog’s white head was no longer visible.
It was a much relieved and calmer Winter who
settled into the driving seat and was about to start the car when, in his rear
view mirror, he spotted a little white head, cocked on one side as if to say, What
are you waiting for? Let’s go. He
swung round angrily and flung open the passenger door. “Out, now!” He pointed and waved a finger to emphasize
his displeasure. The dog merely wagged its tail. “Get out, damn you. I can’t
stand dogs. Besides, someone will be looking for you.” The mutt’s face assumed a forlorn expression.
Winter was reminded of the classic comedian, Stan Laurel. “Another fine mess
you’ve got me into, eh? Is that it? Well, let me remind you, you’re the one who ran out in front
of me, and I’m not responsible
for you. So just…clear off!” But the dog merely settled down in the seat and
closed its eyes.
Winter swore aloud and was having none of
it. He got out of the car, opened the passenger door, reached across the seat,
scooped up the little dog and dumped it on the grass verge. Alas, he had forgotten
to shut the windows. Once behind the wheel again, a telltale bark exposed his
mistake. Winter sighed. He was feeling tired and in no mood for silly games
with some dumb mutt. “Okay,” he
conceded, “let’s see how you like Watford. But if you think for one minute
you’re staying with me, even for a night, you’ve got another think coming. I
hate dogs,” he repeated. But the object of his frustration was already snoring
gently.
No sooner had he parked in his own
drive and opened the car door, than the dog leapt out, ran to the front step
and sat there, head on one side, an impatient look in the wide brown eyes as if
to say, Hurry up, I’m hungry. Winter sighed again. It was late, dark
and, begrudgingly, he felt under an obligation of sorts. “Okay, Stanley, you
can stay. But only for tonight but you’ll damn well sleep in the kitchen and if
I hear so much as a peep out of you, you’ll be out of this door again before
your paws hit the ground.” Probing eyes
in the white head expressed agreement and even seemed to light up at the name,
Stanley. Subsequently, Stanley was scampering into the house even before Winter
had pushed the front door fully open.
It was a grumpy detective who gave
the dog some milk in a saucer and found some corned beef in the fridge, both of
which it seemed to enjoy. He also found an old blanket, which he laid on the
floor. The dog promptly stretched out on it, wagging its tail. Winter yawned.
“I’m going to bed so behave yourself or you’ll be for it in the morning,” he
warned the little dog. It continued to wag its tail. Feeling increasingly weary
and yawning all the while, Winter climbed the stairs, entered a bedroom and
proceeded to undress. Somehow, he
mustered energy enough to close the curtains then, too tired even to go and
clean his teeth, all but fell into bed.
Hardly did it seem to the detective
that he’d fallen asleep when he was woken again by a cascade of sunlight
teeming through the window and a dawn chorus excelling in sheer racket. Moaning
softly, he turned over, pulled a pillow over one ear and tried to go back to
sleep. Suddenly, he remembered that Nina Fox was calling on him that afternoon.
This, in itself, presented no problem. But it meant cleaning and tidying the
downstairs part of the house at least, or Carol would have his guts for
garters. He knew because she had told him so. Nor had she minced her words. They returned to haunt him now. Clear
that shit hole up before Nina arrives or you’ll have me to answer for, Freddy
Winter. It’s a disgrace and so are you.
Her voice, deceptively sweet, stirred
him to a state of semi-consciousness and forced him to turn on his back,
opening first one eye then the other. He would have to do as she said, of
course. Not only because she was right, the house was a tip, but also because
he…wanted to make a good impression? Not
on Nina Fox, surely? He couldn’t care
less about the woman although he had to confess he was curious about the notes.
She’s a drama queen, of course. But those
notes and the bloodstained handkerchief, they were real enough. Even so, it
was Carol he was keen to impress. They had drifted apart recently and he’d
missed her. It wouldn’t do for her
friend to report back that his house was a mess. No, that wouldn’t do at all.
Winter counted to ten before
throwing off the duvet and had got as far as placing both feet on the carpeted
floor when his ears pricked up of their own accord. He flung a furious gaze at
a hard chair in one corner of the room. Nor was it a pile of dirty washing
draped across it that commanded his attention. A white head cocked on one side
and a pair of wide brown eyes seemed to ask, “Where’s my breakfast?”
“Get out of my bedroom!” Winter roared, “I
will not have a dog in my bedroom. Get out, you ugly mutt!” The little dog
wagged its tail but jumped down instantly and scampered out of the door seconds
before Winter was about to deliver another blast. “For heaven’s sake,” the
detective fumed, “A bleeding dog in my bedroom, whatever next?”
There was only enough milk for tea
so Stanley had to make do with a bowl of water and some broken digestive
biscuits for breakfast. Then he was shown the back door and dashed into the
garden after a passing ginger tom. The cat leapt on an adjoining fence and
proceeded with its ablutions. The dog lay immediately below, sprawled on its
belly, watching and growling, tail still wagging furiously.
Having promised himself he’d take
the animal to the local police station later that day, Winter went, if
grudgingly, in search of a vacuum cleaner.
What
will Nina Fox have to say for herself, he wondered? Winter permitted
himself a grim smile, in no doubt that it would have been well rehearsed.
To be continued on Monday
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