Predisposed To Murder - Chapter Five

CHAPTER FIVE

“What the devil’s the matter with you this evening Carol? You’ve been like a she-bear with a sore head all evening!”

*If you don’t like it, piss off!”

“If you fill that glass any higher you’ll be wasting a good whiskey on the carpet,” Winter observed acidly.

“An improvement on dog pee, wouldn’t you say?” was the swift retort.

Winter had the grace to blush. “Bonsai or no bonsai, a tree is a tree,” he pointed out. “How was Stanley to know?”  He had meant to take the little dog to the police station earlier but there simply hadn’t been time; it had now been banished to Carol’s kitchen.

“Why are you here anyway? What are you after, Freddy?”

“Must a friend have an ulterior motive for looking in on another friend?” Winter growled, spreading his large hands in a gesture of mock despair.

“Not at all.” She took another swig from the glass. “But you do, don’t you? I know you, Freddy Winter. So let’s not tiptoe around the bloody mulberry bush, okay? What, exactly, Freddy darling, do you want?”

Winter winced involuntarily. He hated it when Carol swore. But she’d always had a split personality of sorts. Sober, she was a warm, sensual, intelligent person. After a few drinks, she could easily be mistaken for a common fishwife. “I need to know more about Max Cutler,” he began, “so I thought I’d pay his mother a visit and suss out the family home, so to speak.”

“Ah!” She crossed the room and leaned close, the distinctive smell of whiskey on her breath causing him to grimace. “And you want me to come and hold your hand, is that it? Well, this time you’re the one barking up the wrong tree, Freddy darling. There is no person on God’s earth I would rather avoid than Annie Cutler. I’ve done my bit by her, and enough is enough. Do we understand each other?”

Winter nodded and sighed. Winning Carol over to this particular purpose was going to take longer than he’d anticipated. She flung him a crooked smile and moved away. “I’ve told you what you wanted to know. Now, suppose you tell me what’s eating you?”

Carol hesitated. “It’s Liam. Well, it’s Sadie really.” A brief fit of hiccups took over and she sat down.

“They’re not splitting up?” Winter was genuinely alarmed. He was very fond of Carol’s son and his partner.

“If you must know…” She paused again while the hiccups subsided. “I’m going to be a grandmother.” Winter threw back his head and roared with laughter until his eyes filled with tears. “It’s no laughing matter, Freddy. I’m only fifty-three for heaven’s sake. I’m far too young to be a grandma.”

“Think of all those glamorous granny competitions you’ll be able to enter...and win, of course,” he added hastily. “When’s the happy event?”

“Apparently, the sprog is due on Christmas Day. Christmas Day, I ask you, what kind of a Christmas is it going to be?”

“Certainly not a dull one,” Winter observed with a wicked chuckle, “Shall we toast the happy couple? I take it, they are happy about the baby?”

“They’re over the bloody moon. Liam was so excited on the phone, I wouldn’t be surprised if he wet himself.”

“And Sadie, how does she feel about being a mum?”

“She’s thrilled, although…” Winter raised an eyebrow. “She’s a lot older than him of course. Oh, she admits to forty, but I do wonder about that.”

“A lot of older women have perfectly healthy babies these days,” he felt almost obliged to say.

“True,” Carol conceded, and took a sip rather than a swig this time of her guest’s favourite malt.

“Is that what all this is about?” he asked gently, “You’re scared something might go wrong?”

“It can happen,” she said quietly, “as you well know,” she added, but was careful to avoid his steady gaze and immediately wished she had kept her mouth shut.  Helen Winter and Freddy had tried for years to have children, her last miscarriage resulting in a hysterectomy. Winter rose abruptly. “Where are you going? You’re not leaving already?”

Winter hid a smile. Now, at least, she wanted him to stay. He’d achieve the purpose of his visit yet. “I’m going to make us some coffee…black and strong,” he added with feeling. Her indirect reference to Helen had disturbed him more than he cared to admit and left him feeling light-headed. He often thought fondly of Helen, of course he did, but they’d had more than their fair share of heartache and it was that, rather than the good times, which always came back to haunt him.

He had momentarily forgotten about Stanley and was unprepared for the white bundle that leapt into his arms the split second he stepped into the kitchen, almost causing him to lose his footing. Recovering his balance quickly enough, he took the oddest comfort from a wet tongue licking his face, claws digging into his shirt and the furiously wagging tail. “You’re in disgrace,” he reminded the wide-eyed mutt sternly, but was reluctant for some obscure reason to deposit it on the floor. Instead, he tucked it under one arm with strict orders to behave. The dog seemed to know what was expected of him and quietened instantly.

Winter set about making the coffee. When it came to placing two mugs and a sugar bowl on a tray, though, he had to admit defeat and put the dog down on the floor, forgetting he’d left the door ajar. Stanley disappeared in a flash.

Winter returned to the sitting room, pondering anxiously on the fate of Carol’s bonsai trees. He needn’t have worried and was greeted by the sight of a very subdued Stanley comfortably ensconced on her lap, tail merely twitching, brown eyes fixed on Winter with a decidedly smug expression as if to say, You’re not the only one who can get round her you know.

Ah, but I haven’t…yet, Winter’s expression reminded the dog although a discerning eye would have detected a growing confidence that it was only a matter of time before he succeeded.

…………………………………………

“If you don’t have any information, Mr Winter, I can’t imagine why you’re here,” said Annie Cutler.

“Freddy’s doing his best,” murmured Carol, wondering how on earth she had let herself be persuaded to accompany him.

“I’m sure he is, but it’s a result I want. I need to know what that awful woman has done with my son.”

“It’s not unusual for people to disappear after a quarrel with loved ones, Mrs Cutler…” Winter began.

“If your implying my son is in love with that whore, you obviously haven’t met the woman. I can assure you, my Maxwell has better taste than to give his heart to the likes of that sort. They’re all the same these TV people. They think they’re God’s gift…”

“Actually, I have met Nina Fox,” said Winter, keeping his tone deceptively mild, “and I have to say I rather liked her.” Both Annie and Carol visibly winced. “But we do need to find your son, I agree,” he went on, pretending he hadn’t noticed, “and it would help if I could get a clearer picture of him in my mind.”

“You’re welcome to any photographs, of course,” Annie Cutler obliged between thick, dry lips that seemed to Winter as if they were glued on the fleshy face rather than forming a part of it.

“I’m not so much interested in his looks as his personality,” Winter explained. “I’d like to take a look in his bedroom, if I may?”

Annie Cutler looked disapproving. The squat shoulders heaved, all but swallowing up the short neck.

“It can’t do any harm, Annie, and it if will help…” Carol tried to sound positive and reassuring, but the attempt didn’t quite ring true even to her own ears. She could not help thinking how Annie Cutler was much as she imagined Toad in the famous children’s tale,. Only, there was something irresistibly likeable about Toad and she saw none of that in the woman now glaring at Freddy and herself.

“I suppose so,” Annie Cutler conceded. “I’ll show you his room then if you insist. Not that he spends much time with his mother these days…” she murmured. A flicker of sadness in the hard eyes gave Winter cause to have second thoughts about the woman. She’s lonely, he mused, and God knows, I know all about that.” He started, violently. Home truths were not his forte. “If you’ll just tell me which room, Mrs Cutler, I’d prefer to look around on my own,” he said more brusquely than he intended.

The gargoyle face puffed and reddened with indignation. Carol cut in quickly, “I suppose there’s no chance of a cup of tea, is there Annie? I’m parched. Let’s go in the kitchen and have a chinwag while Freddy struts and frets his hour upon the stage and all that…”

The reference to Shakespeare meant nothing to Annie Cutler except to flummox her, sensing as she did that it should. “Oh well, I suppose so,” she agreed in a clipped voice, sharper than the nail scissors Carol always carried in her handbag.  “It’s upstairs, the first room on the right,” she told Winter. “It’s much as he left it, although I’ve tidied up just a little. Max is very possessive about his things. He hates me to touch so much as a shirt left lying around. But one has to keep up appearances, doesn’t one?” 

Winter responded with a gruff nod and headed for the stairs, anxious to escape the claustrophobic atmosphere of the room made worse by the formidable presence of both women.

The bedroom had been more than just tidied. It was immaculate to the extent of being almost clinical. Certainly, it lacked any sense of its erstwhile occupant’s personality.

Winter’s attention was first drawn to two framed photographs on a highly polished chest of drawers.  The first was of a handsome young man wearing a mortar and gown whom Winter took to be Max Cutler. The second showed the same young man with another, arms around each other’s shoulders and smiling broadly. Both were dressed for a graduation ceremony.

Winter studied the second photograph thoughtfully. Carol had said her son Liam knew Cutler at university. There was every chance then that Liam would have known the friend.  Replacing it on the polished mahogany surface, Winter glanced around for a photograph of the awful mother. But there were no others apart from that pair on the dressing table. Why did he think of them as a pair, he wondered absently? He picked up a black comb lying on the dressing table and pocketed it.

He continued to search with expert but discreet thoroughness, opening each drawer of the dressing table in turn and taking care to leave no sign the contents had been disturbed. They revealed nothing of the any significance, nor did a bookcase under the window or a bedside cupboard.

Winter frowned. There wasn’t the remotest lived-in feel about this room. Only the bed, flowery duvet and pillows slightly disturbed, suggested that anyone had ever used the room or might be expected to again. Intuitively, he felt under the mattress. It was routine. He wasn’t expecting to find anything, nor did he. He walked to the window again, observed that the garden was in a far superior condition to his own and would have left the room if a piece of paper, fallen behind some books on the top shelf, hadn’t caught his eye.

Curiosity aroused, he carefully withdrew a sheet of paper that could easily have been torn from a child’s exercise book. On one side, an extraordinary painting leapt up at him and caused him to catch his breath. For all its roughness and lack of perspective, it bore a striking resemblance to the painting that had caught his attention at Nina Fox’s apartment. Blotches of reds, yellows and orange could well have been berries on a shrub or bush; a blob caught up in it all might or might not have been a bird but its expression of terror was almost identical to that in the other painting. Or perhaps he was reading something into the painting that simply wasn’t there?  At first glance, it was a mess, nothing more or less than the result of a child’s playtime. You can’t read into anything something that isn’t there… Or can you? He pondered the question idly for several minutes before shaking his head despairingly and finally letting go of it. 

Still clutching the sheet of paper, he went downstairs. By now he was ready for a cup of tea, having never understood why he preferred tea with milk, no sugar, during the daytime and sweet black coffee in the evenings.

“Those photographs on the dressing table, I take it the young man in mortar and gown is your son?”

“Yes,” Annie Cutlet confirmed, albeit a trifle tersely.

“And who is his friend in the other photo?”

“Why, that’s poor Ray, Ray Bannister. Ironic isn’t it? They were friends long before Nina Fox came on the scene, long before she took up with Nathan Sparrow if it comes to that. She once lived in the flat below his, you know…Ray’s, that is.”

“Is that how Max got to know her?”

“I imagine so.”

“Do you know anything about this?” Winter showed her the painting.

“Oh, that would be one of Billy’s, Billy Pike. It’s a small world. There was a time when the Bannisters lived next door to the Pikes. On the other side of the Pikes, were the Sparrows.”

“Nathan Sparrow?” Carol couldn’t contain her surprise.

“The very same,” Annie Cutler confirmed and continued, “Billy could only have been about eight or nine at the time of the fire.” She paused. “You know about the fire at the Sparrows’ house?” Winter nodded. “Yes, of course. Well, Billy and young Ben Sparrow were about the same age. Billy was never the same after poor Ben and his mother died.  No one quite knows what to make of him. He’s intelligent and apparently communicates well when it suits him, but he hasn’t spoken a single word since that night. Ray used to spend time with the boy. Max, too, later on. Max used to call them the three musketeers.  It was all very childish if you ask me. Touching, I suppose, but childish.”

“And the painting…?” Winter prompted.

“Oh, that.  Billy paints all the time. I can’t imagine why Max kept it. I mean, look at it. A chimpanzee could do better.”

“May I borrow it?”

“You can keep it and welcome. I hate it. It’s not just the painting, you understand, but its associations. When I think of Billy, I think of poor Ray. I think of Ray, and of course I think of how he died…another of Nina Fox’s victims. Oh, Nathan Sparrow may have stuck the knife in, but mark my words, that little whore’s to blame. She’s the guilty one, just like she’s responsible for whatever’s happened to my Max.” But she did not get tearful on this occasion, merely sat, fuming, in yet another armchair set to gobble her up. “You mustn’t let her win, Mr Winter. I’ll pay whatever it takes, but you must not let her win. She’s taken Max away from me once already. I’ll not let her do it a second time. He’s my son, Mr Winter, not her plaything, to do with as she pleases.  I mean it, Mr Winter, money is no object, just …FIND MY SON.”

Winter recoiled slightly, half-expecting her to start breathing fire. He remembered the comb and retrieved it from his pocket. “May I borrow this too?”

“Of course you may. I presume you’ll want to take a DNA sample? But be sure to return it. I feel...well…closer to Max whenever I touch his things. Oh, I know they all say I’m a daft cow who’s too besotted with her son for his own good. But I don’t care. I love my Max, Mr Winter. Besides, they don’t know the half of it.”

So what’s the other half? Winter wanted to ask, but a warning look from Carol made him think again.

“We really should be going, Annie. Freddy will be in touch, though, won’t you Freddy?” Carol was already getting to her feet.

“Of course,” Winter agreed and treated the roly-poly woman to a smile that was meant to be reassuring.

 Annie Cutler only glared. “Be sure you do,” she snapped. “You can see yourselves out, I’m sure.”

They left her, all but swallowed up by red velvet cushions. ‘Burnt-out’ was the description that sprung to the detective’s mind. He was left in no doubt.  Annie Cutler had to be one of the most pathetic specimens of spent humanity he’d even had the misfortune to encounter.

“Home, James,” declared Carol breezily, “and just for putting me through all that you can stop of by some nice little Italian and treat me.”

“Treat you to a nice little Italian? I will if I can find one… and that’s not a threat it’s a promise.” Winter chuckled. It was a poor joke but she relaxed and laughed along with him.

The journey back to Camden Town was a very light-hearted affair at first, as if both were anxious to purge themselves of Annie Cutler’s overwhelming awfulness. Later, they settled into a comfortable silence, Stanley snoring gently on the back seat.

Suddenly, Carol blurted, “You don’t think anything terrible can have happened to Max Cutler do you Freddy?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he said flatly and she fell quiet again. It was just as well she did, he mused, preferring not to be caught out in a white lie. For no logical reason, he was convinced some grave misfortune had befallen Max Cutler. As for clues, there were far too many of those for his liking, each pointing in a different direction. It remained to be seen whether any would lead to Max Cutler. He was certain of one thing, though. This was going to be a very interesting case, possibly even a dangerous one. A rush of adrenalin advised him of a sixth sense possessed by every good copper he’d ever known. And I’m still a bloody good copper or my name’s not Fred Winter.

Winter would have delighted in pressing his foot down hard on the accelerator had they not just entered a 30 mph zone.  Instead, he settled pensively behind the wheel, without letting his attention wander for an instant. Why, he asked himself, had Nina Fox felt the need to tell him a pack of lies? Why, too, should Ray Bannister persist in figuring at all, let alone prominently, in his thoughts? The link between them was obvious if only history. He, Fred Winter, should be focusing on Cutler, though, surely? He sucked in his breath and rested one hand on the wheel for a moment to scratch his nose before letting out a long, low whistle between his teeth.

Carol recognized the signs and said nothing, but Stanley woke, uttered a soft yelp, cocked his head on one side and pricked up both ears. Satisfied that nothing was amiss, he promptly went back to sleep.

To be continued on Monday

Predisposed to Murder - Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

“Tell me, Miss Fox, about what or whom did you argue with Max Cutler that resulted in your throwing him out?” Winter was curious.

“I didn’t throw him out. Well, not exactly. He left of his own accord. As for why we argued, I rather think that’s my business.”

“You asked me to help you, Miss Fox, so that makes it my business. Of course, if you don’t want to tell me that’s your prerogative.” He wasted no time getting to his feet. “May I see you out?”

“Carol warned me you could be…abrupt,” the young blonde woman wearing designer sun glasses retorted but made no attempt to rise.

Winter sat down again, sprawled in his favourite armchair and observed his guest frostily. “Not so much abrupt as to the point, Miss Fox. I’m a busy man,” he lied, “and I’ve no time for time wasters. So, I’ll ask you again. Why did you quarrel with Max Cutler? You must see that I need to know, surely? After all, no one has seen or heard from him since.”

“What are you implying?” She smiled but he could see by the way her whole body tensed that she was both defensive and angry.

“Nothing at all, Miss Fox, I am merely asking.” He spread his hands, summoned his most charming smile and was relieved to see her relax slightly.

“If you must know, I caught him in bed with someone else. We’d finished shooting April Showers early so I came straight home and…well, I’m sure you can guess the rest.”

“I am not into guessing, Miss Fox. Tell me exactly what happened.”

The lovely face flushed angrily and she bit her lower lip, but persevered all the same. “I gave the pair of them a piece of my mind, to put it mildly. Max was contriteness itself but I was having none of it. His ‘bit of rough’ seemed to find the whole thing hilarious. To be frank, Mr Winter, I was shocked, trembling. I had to leave the room before I did something I’d live to regret. I ran to the bathroom and wept buckets. Buckets, Mr Winter, I was so beside myself. To think Max could betray me like that, it was just awful, awful!” She produced a hanky and dabbed at her eyes.

 Do actors ever stop acting, and if so, how the devil is one supposed to tell? Winter wondered. “Then, what?” he prompted gruffly.

“What do you mean, then what?”

“What happened after you came out of the bathroom?”

“Oh, yes, of course. Forgive me. I still come over distraught whenever I think about that dreadful evening.”

“As anyone would…” Winter tried to sound reassuring if not sounding as sympathetic as the star of April Showers might wish.

Nina Fox took several deep breaths. Winter waited, vaguely amused, but patiently nonetheless. “The little baggage had left by the time I returned to the bedroom.”

“By ‘baggage’ I take it you mean Max Cutler’s ‘bit of rough’?”

“Who else?” she snapped, “But Max was still there. He’d had the decency to get dressed and was sitting on the side of the bed... our bed...face in hands, sobbing. Well, I ask you? Did he really think I was going to be moved by a show of crocodile tears? Oh, I was moved alright, moved enough to tell him how much he appalled and disgusted me!”

“Then you told him to pack his bags?”

“I did worse than that. I threatened to tell his mother. You should have seen his jaw drop. You know, I always thought it was just a phrase you read in tacky novels. But, my God, it dropped… and how! His face went as white as a sheet. Then he turned on me.”

“He hit you?”

“Nor exactly, no, but he lashed out with his tongue. Oh, didn’t he just?  He called me the most awful names. It was terrible. I was petrified, ran into one of the spare rooms and locked the door. I could hear Max moving about. After what seemed ages, he started hammering on the door. I didn’t let him in, of course. He yelled more horrible names at me, and then said…”

“Yes?”  Winter tugged on his beard. Nina’s graphic presentation was such that he was hard put to resist an impulse to applaud.

“He said I was a bitch for wanting to destroy him, but what goes around comes around and one day it would be my turn.”

“Your turn next...” Winter murmured, echoing the crude threats scrawled in both ink and blood.

“Quite. But he was angry, we both were. And I haven’t told his mother anything. I wouldn’t wish that foul woman on my worst enemy. Only, I haven’t seen Max to tell him so.”

“Do you love him?” Winter surprised himself by the question.

“Do me a favour, darling!” she pouted, “Me, in love with Max Cutler? Heavens, no! We were just two people drowning in self-pity and clutching at straws. Well, no, that’s not quite true. It was awful after Nathan went to jail and wouldn’t even see me. I was devastated, Mr Winter, devastated...” 

Winter was in no doubt that the long pause that followed was intended for dramatic effect. Torn between mild amusement and a growing irritation, he was about to prompt her again when she anticipated him. “You see, Mr Winter, some women need a man around, and I’m one of them. It isn’t that we’re sex mad or vulgar. It’s just the way we are. Max was, well…available. I had no idea he was a lying, cheating bastard. Mind you, fair’s fair I suppose. Neither of us had the faintest idea how things would work out between us, although ...” She dabbed at her eyes with the hanky again. Winter, though, had the feeling she had been about to say something else and was playing for time.  “So you see, we have to find him if only to let him know he doesn’t have to worry about a thing. Mummy won’t find out about …why we split up. Not from me, anyway. Oh, I know she blames me. But I really don’t care. She may be able to control Max with her blood money but I’m doing nicely these days, thank you very much, and I don’t need her money, her contacts, or her, the fat cow.”

“Blood money, you say?” Winter was intrigued.

Nina made an extravagant show of composing herself before explaining her choice of phrase, “Wealthy hubby had a heart attack not long after they were married. He’d probably just realized what he’d got himself into. I mean, well, you’ve met the woman. The poor man didn’t stand a chance. I gather she wasn’t quite as fat and ugly as she is now, but by all accounts she set her cap for him and before the poor man knew it they were married.”

“That would be according to whom?” Winter scratched the tip of his nose, the better to conceal a grin, Nina’s dislike and description of Annie Cutler coinciding pretty much with his own.

“Why, Max of course,” Nina declared with feeling, “He loathes her, but absolutely loathes and despises the woman. Unfortunately, she controls the purse strings. Behind every social climber, Mr Winter, you will find someone footing the bill. But I’m sure a man of the world like yourself doesn’t need me to tell you that.” She flung him a dazzling smile.

Winter tugged absently at his beard. Was he imagining it or could it be that the delectable Nina Fox was flirting with him, he wondered?  Whatever, he declined the bait. “How long have you known Max Cutler?”

Nina shrugged, “Oh, a few years. He aspires to being an actor. Not a scrap of talent, of course. But he’s good looking, can be charming when he likes and really isn’t bad company at all for a complete waster. The world of TV soaps and its hangers-on is terribly incestuous, as you can imagine. It was inevitable we’d bump into one another just about here, there, and everywhere. Besides, he was a friend of Ray’s and…” Her voice broke and she began to cry.

Convinced her tears were not contrived this time, Winter rose quickly and crossed the room to a handsome wine cabinet, poured two large brandies and handed her one without a word. She accepted gratefully and summoned a weak smile. “I’d have taken you for a good malt man myself.” She tried to laugh but the sound disintegrated into a muffled sob.

“Nor would you be far wrong,” he smiled back at her, “But there’s good malt and good brandy. Each to their own occasion, I say.” to which she managed a feeble titter.

They sat in silence for a while. “I must look a total mess!” she exclaimed at last and tried, again unsuccessfully, to laugh it off.

“A beautiful woman is always a beautiful woman no matter how she looks,” Winter murmured into his beard.

“Oh, Freddy, thank you.” She giggled, but almost instantly composed herself. “Even so, may I use your bathroom anyway?”

“Of course...” He showed her to the bottom of the stairs, indicated a door at the top then returned, thoughtfully, to the armchair. The man, Ray, to whom she had referred, must be Ray Bannister, the ex-boyfriend whom the ex-fiancé, Nathan Sparrow, had killed with a kitchen knife. “Interesting,” he mused aloud, “that Max Cutler was a friend of Bannister’s.” He would have to confirm with Nina later of course but he was in no doubt, although could not have explained why. Nor had he the foggiest idea why it should strike him as interesting, it just did. Perhaps, he conceded absently, it had to do with a predilection for muddles.  After all, what good copper could resist trying to sort a muddle, especially the kind fired by human emotions?

When Nina Fox returned, she looked radiant. Moreover, she was carrying and drooling over a white bundle in her arms. Stanley, for his part, was looking well pleased at being fussed over, tossing Winter a reproachful look as if to accuse the detective of neglecting him. “He’s gorgeous!” she repeated several times and kept the little dog on her lap for the remainder of her visit.

Winter met the dog’s steady look with one of his own. It’s the police station for you, my lad, once I’m done with your fancy woman, it said, and for once the scruffy tail did not wag. “It was a dreadful business, Miss Fox.” He turned his attention back to his guest at the point where their conversation had tailed off. There was no need to qualify his remark. She understood only too well what he meant. Out came the hanky again, but to his immense relief, she remained more self-controlled this time. “Were you having an affair with Ray Bannister?” he asked, not a little taken aback by his own bluntness.

She gasped and stared disbelievingly at him. “The epitome of chivalry one minute and as insulting as hell the next, you’re a strange man Mr Winter.”

Winter shrugged and spread his hands, “It’s the job,” he said by way of explanation. To his surprise, she seemed to accept this easily enough.

“No, Mr Winter, I was not having an affair with Ray. He was a good friend, a very dear friend, but that was all.”

“Yet he had a key to your flat.”

“I had already moved in with Nathan and Pip by then, but I kept the flat on as a sort of…”

“Insurance, in case things didn’t work out?” Winter suggested mildly.

“Not at all,” the grey-blue eyes flashed angrily, but she kept her voice steady and low. “We all need our own space, Mr Winter, as I’m sure you’ll agree.” Winter nodded. “Well, I’m no exception. I love Nathan, but he likes to, well, smother me. In the nicest possible way, you understand. But it can get too much sometimes. I needed a bolthole. Besides, there was Sammy to consider.”

“Sammy?”

“Sammy is my cat. Nathan is allergic to fur. He can’t bear to be near animals. So Sammy had to stay behind and dear Ray kept an eye on him for me. Naturally, he had a key to the flat.”

“And Nathan knew this?”

“Not exactly, no,” she demurred, “I didn’t want him…or anyone else for that matter…to get the wrong idea. Besides…” Winter raised a quizzical eyebrow, at which Stanley’s nose, too, appeared to twitch enquiringly. “Nathan had told me to get rid of Sammy, you see, and I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. But I told him I’d given him away to neighbours.”

“So he had no idea Ray Bannister was looking after your cat?”

Nina Fox shook her head. “I should have told him everything of course, and then perhaps …”

“My dear Miss Fox, you mustn’t blame yourself.  Jealousy is no excuse for killing another human being. No one is to blame but the killer.”

“But Nathan isn’t a killer, Mr Winter, he just…isn’t,” dabbing at her eyes again with a fresh hanky.

“I seem to recall he was found at the scene of the crime and admitted his guilt,” the detective felt obliged to point out.

“True, but he hasn’t admitted it to me. And why not, I’d like to know?”

“I understand he refuses to see you…?”

“She nodded. “Because I’d know he was lying. He no more killed Ray than…”

“You did?”

She started then, “That’s right, Mr Winter, no more than I did.”

Winter said nothing but poured two more brandies. She had arrived in a taxi and he assumed she would be taking one home so where was the harm? Besides, this interview was taking the oddest turn. He was starting to enjoy it. They were meant to be discussing Max Cutler and threatening notes. Now, though, the conversation had taken a subtle change in direction. Indeed, an extraordinary turn of events. He stroked his beard, aware that he already had more than a passing interest in a murder that, to all accounts and purposes, required no further investigation whatever. “Why did Nathan Sparrow go to the flat that evening?”

Nina shrugged, “I have no idea. He must have been looking for me, I suppose. We’d had a little tiff and he knew I sometimes went back to the flat to be on my own. If only I’d gone straight there instead of popping into the corner shop to say hello to old Mrs Hussein, maybe I could have…well...done something, prevented it, I don’t know…”

“Old Mrs Hussein, you say?”

“Brixton is a very community-minded area, Mr Winter. I have a lot of friends there, people who know me just as Nina Fox, not the Nina Fox on TV. I had to work damn hard to get where I am today, for what it’s worth,” she added with a note of bitterness that sounded genuine enough. “I’m a working class girl made good, Mr Winter, and a working class girl is always a working class girl. Do you know why? Because no one ever lets you forget it, that’s why.”

Not for the first time during their interview, Fred Winter found himself warming to this charismatic young woman. “About Max Cutler…” he began.

But Nina had risen to her feet and was depositing Stanley firmly on the carpet. “My taxi will be here in a minute. It has been an interesting afternoon, Mr Winter. As I said before, I can’t believe Max means me any harm. At the same time, it isn’t nice to receive threats through one’s letterbox. It isn’t nice at all. You’ll want a retainer of course…” She began rummaging in her bag.

“I’m committing myself to nothing, Miss Fox, and until I do neither should you.  I’ll let you know whether or not I wish to involve myself in your domestic problems.”  He wasn’t prepared for the hurt look she flung him and almost wished he had been more diplomatic.

“Yes, well, I hope to hear from you again very soon but if I don’t …frankly, I don’t give a damn.” The doorbell rang. “That will be my cab. Goodbye, Freddy. I do hope I haven’t wasted too much of your precious time,” she all but snarled and curled her lip. 

Winter suspected he wasn’t being treated to another performance. Or was he perhaps catching a glimpse of the real Nina Fox?  “By the way, the name is Fred, not Freddy,” he saw fit to remind her on the doorstep seconds later.

“Ah, yes, well…Fred it is then,” she murmured sweetly. Turning abruptly, she hurried towards the waiting cab without so much as a backward glance or wave at the window as the vehicle sped away.

Winter was so deep in thought as he shut the door on the outside world and returned to the sitting room that he forgot to reprimand Stanley when the little dog jumped up at him, wagging its tail furiously. “Why do I get the feeling I’ve just bitten off more than I can chew, eh?” the detective murmured, bending down to sweep the delighted animal into his arms.

To be continued on Friday

Predisposed To Murder - Chapter Three

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

Predisposed To Murder - Chapter Two

 CHAPTER TWO

 “Really, I ask you, do I look like a murderer?”

“Murderers come in all shapes and sizes Miss Fox,” responded Winter amiably enough. The schoolgirl giggle, fluttering eyelashes, hands help up in mock despair, green painted fingernails bored into him like cats’ eyes. It was a fair performance, he supposed, but not one that captured his imagination. On the contrary, he felt the urge to break into a slow handclap, but resisted.

They were in her bedroom. She had grabbed him by the hand only a few minutes earlier and fled with him up the stairs, practically flung him into the room and locked the door. He was not unimpressed since he was a big man and she gave the appearance of being a slight, if flighty little thing.

“For all I know, you may have murder in mind this very instant, having dragged me here without so much as a by your leave and locked the door behind us,” he grumbled.

She giggled again. “When a woman locks herself in her bedroom with a man, I’d say murder is the last thing on her mind, wouldn’t you?”

“I won’t flatter myself that you intend seducing me,” Winter conceded with a dry chuckle, “…so may I take it you want to talk?”

“Don’t put yourself down, Freddy dear, you have your fair share of charisma. I bet you’re quite something in bed. I’m told policemen invariably are but, sadly, I’ve never had that pleasure…”

Winter, furious with himself for blushing, chose to disregard the remark, “I’m retired,” he coolly informed her. “Now, can we please get down to basics, Miss Fox? And, no,” he added wryly, “…not those basics.

She burst out laughing. “Oh, my God, darling, you’re such a cutie. And I thought all policemen were dull, sober, souls. I could gobble you up, I really could!”

“So when was the last time you saw Max Cutler?” Winter asked, more anxious than he cared to admit to discuss the sole reason for his presence at the damn party. He hadn’t envisaged being alone with woman in her bedroom, and feeling absurdly embarrassed. For heaven’s sake, Winter, you’ve taken more than this in your stride before now. Get a grip, man.

Her face fell. “Oh, that. Well, if we’re going to get real, you had better sit down. I can’t be expected to think while you tower over me like this.”

Winter sat on the edge of the bed. Nina Fox paced to and fro for several minutes, opening her mouth and closing it again like a goldfish he’d once won at a fair. Winter judged it advisable not to prompt her.

“You had better know right away, I suppose, that you’re here on false pretences,” she said at last, ignoring the lift of bushy eyebrows and pressing on, slightly breathless, “Carol thinks she persuaded me to let you come tonight so you could ask me about Max. You can, of course, and I’m sure you will…but not tonight, darling. Not for long, anyhow. I have guests and I need to circulate. Besides, I have my own reasons for wanting a quiet word.”

“I’m sure Carol would have given you my number,” commented Winter testily, “I don’t play games, Miss Fox.”

“Nor do I Freddy dear.”

“The name is Fred.”

“Yes, well, whatever. No offence intended I’m sure. But I didn’t want any fuss, and your coming here seemed…”

“Don’t tell me, a good idea at the time?”

“Spot on. My, you are a good detective,” she teased but only briefly before adopting a deadly serious tone. “You see, Freddy, I need your help.” She crossed to a dressing table, took a small box from one of the drawers and handed it to him. “Open it and you’ll understand why.”

Winter complied and contemplated a wad of plain notepaper. He removed the first sheet and read aloud the words scrawled in red ink across it. “Your turn next.”  A cursory look through the others confirmed that each sheet was exactly the same. He looked directly into Nina Fox’s wide eyes. “What do you think it means?”

“I’ve no idea. At first I thought it was just a silly joke. People like me get weird mail all the time. It goes with the territory, you might say.”

“Have you been to the police?”

“You must be joking.  If the media caught so much as a whiff something was up, my life wouldn’t be worth living. Besides, it’s not even a threat is it?  It could mean just about anything.”

“But you do feel threatened.” It was not a question.

“I didn’t at first, not in the least. Then…when they kept coming, I began to feel…well, nervous. My agent handles most of my mail, you see. But these come to this address, as regularly as clockwork, every other Friday.  As I said, at first I didn’t take them seriously. I just tore them up and threw them away. Then I started to keep them. I’m not sure why. I suppose I thought they might come in useful one day…as evidence or something, just in case anything ever …well, happened.” Her voice faltered and she began pacing the floor again, pensive and silent.

Winter needed no convincing that she was genuinely upset. If this is a performance, it’s a damn good one. “There’s more, I take it?”

She stopped, nodded, went to the dressing table again without saying a word, took out a manila envelope and handed it to him. “This came yesterday.”

Winter withdrew a prettily embroidered ladies’ handkerchief from the envelope. A sharp intake of breath, however, reassured Nina Fox that his attention was instantly gripped.  She had begun to wonder if he was taking her seriously.

Winter continued to stare at the small square cloth in his hands. Scribbled on it, the same words leapt out at him. Your turn next.  Only, this time they were not written in red ink. Winter recognized blood when he saw it.

 “It’s your handkerchief?”

“Yes. I can tell because of the scorch mark in the corner where the violets are. I did that. I’m hopeless at ironing. It doesn’t help that I’m easily distracted.” She forced a laugh.

“So, how…?”

“Did someone else get hold of it? That’s easy. I lent it to someone. He had the sniffles and I couldn’t bear it a second longer. I always carry plenty of hankies so it was no big deal. Trust a man never to have a tissue when he needs one!”

“So, who…?”

“Why, Max of course, Max Cutler.”

Winter took his time digesting this interesting development then, “I think, Miss Fox, you need to make an appointment.”

“I suppose I do. But I’m shooting all next week so it will have to be tomorrow, and I’ll come to you. You can’t possibly come here. Not a soul must know about this. You do understand?”

He nodded, extracted a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Shall we say two o’clock tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday, for God’s sake.  No civilised person is even awake at two o’clock on a Sunday. I’m a working girl, too, remember. Shall we say five o’clock?”

Winter nodded. He was in no mood to argue. Besides, his curiosity was aroused. Nina took the card and went to take the box and envelope containing the blood-stained as well, but he shook his head and only offered her the empty box. Nina hesitated before agreeing, “You can borrow them so long as I get them back and you promise not to contact the police.”

“No promises,” Winter stated flatly, meeting her angry, defiant glare with a steady, determined look. She was the first to turn away, went to the dressing table and deposited his card in a drawer. Shoving the envelopes inside his suit jacket, Winter rose, impatient to leave. “The door, if you don’t mind?”

“What? Oh, yes…” She went to unlock the door, and had barely opened it to let him through when she said quietly, “I can’t believe Max means me any harm, can you?”

Winter shrugged. “Do you have any examples of Max Cutler’s handwriting…any letters, for example?”

“I might,” she replied tight-lipped.

“Bring something with you tomorrow. Oh, and I’ll need a sample of your own handwriting too.” 

“You don’t think I wrote those notes myself?” she hissed angrily, the lovely face flushed.

“I need to rule that out,” he explained, but she appeared only slightly mollified.

“Oh, well, if you say so.” 

Winter merely nodded, grabbed the door handle and would have stepped though to the noisy landing. Nina Fox appeared to brace herself. Suddenly, she started laughing, seized his free arm and proceeded to run with him along the landing and down the stairs, by which time she was waving one hand wildly and singing a current pop song at the top of her voice. 

Taken by surprise yet again, Winter stumbled after her. A few people called out her name but no one paid any real attention. At the bottom of the stairs, she grabbed both hands, swept him across the floor in a few perfect dance steps and then abandoned him for a young man with ginger hair whom she dragged off in another direction altogether. “Darling, there’s someone you absolutely must meet!” Winter heard her cry above the hubbub before she disappeared in a sea of bobbing heads.

Winter was shaking his head, more than a trifle bemused, when a stunning painting on the wall caught his eye and he crossed towards it. It portrayed a bird caught in a shrub whose striking red, orange and yellow berries gave the impression it was on fire. Winter was struck by the bird’s agonized expression. At the same time, he began to review his opinion of Nina Fox. She was, he realized, nobody’s fool. How better not to draw attention to yourself than by drawing attention to yourself?  He threw back his head and roared with laughter, relieved to shed some of the uneasiness imparted by the painting.

“Can anyone share the joke?” Someone had come to stand at his shoulder. Winter was slightly taken aback to see Pip Sparrow smiling at him, a trifle frostily he thought, as if she’d caught him out in some dreadful faux pas.

“If I could remember what it was.” He grinned amiably, but sensed she was not amused. “Actually, I was looking for Carol,” he added for the sake of something to say, “You can’t see her anywhere can you?” He made a show of peering into the crowd.

“She went to the bathroom a few minutes ago. I’m sure she won’t be long. But you’re not leaving already?”

“I’m afraid my party days are long gone,” said Winter gruffly, his expression one of self-deprecating mischief. She relaxed, perceptibly, the frozen smile visibly thawing. He warmed to the girl and felt sorry for her although her next question immediately put him on his guard.

“Did Nina tell you about the notes? She did, didn’t she? Good. It’s high time she told someone.”

“She told you, obviously,” remarked Winter whose deceptively mild tone disguised an irrational peevishness. These two young people lived under the same roof, after all. Wasn’t it only natural they should be confidantes? Certainly, he saw nothing to be gained by any pursuit of the obvious. Even so, it struck him as odd that the Fox woman hadn’t mentioned it.

“We tell each other everything. Nina has been like a sister to me since my father…” Her voice trailed off then picked up again, “But I’m sure you know all about that, being a policeman.”

“It’s not only policemen who read newspapers Miss Sparrow,” he felt bound to say.

“You’re perfectly right, of course. I bet there’s no one here tonight who doesn’t know my father is in prison for killing a man.”

“Does it bother you?” he couldn’t resist asking. She looked, suddenly, very small and vulnerable. Sparrow by name, sparrow by nature, he mused sympathetically, and almost wished he had kept his big mouth shut.

“Not in the least. Why should it? This is Nina’s home, not mine. She’s the centre of attention here. No one gives me a second thought.”

“And you find that…”

“Very reassuring, I can tell you. I feel safe here. I’d have been taken into care otherwise, since I was only fourteen at the time. Well, nearly fourteen,” she corrected herself with a shy smile. Nina has been wonderful, absolutely wonderful. She’s doing it for daddy of course, not for me, but it’s a beautiful gesture all the same don’t you think?” He wasn’t sure what to think. ‘A beautiful gesture’ struck him as an odd choice of phrase. Before he could form an appropriate comment, however, he was distracted by an urgent tug at the sleeve.

Winter turned to find Carol giving him a long, old-fashioned look before putting her lips to his ear and whispering earnestly, “Can we go now?  There’s a boozy slob about who’s not only as boring as hell but seems dead set on seducing me. I can’t keep running to the damn bathroom!” Winter nodded, almost choked on a burst of laughter that her expression warned him he’d be wise to stifle, and turned to say goodnight to Pip Sparrow.

But that curious young woman had already melted into the crowd.

 To be continued on Friday