“Now that you’re free, is it still your wish that we go on looking for Jeremy Alexander?”
“Yes,” I replied, without a moment’s hesitation. “I’m even more determined, now that I can taste the freedom he’s enjoyed for the past three years. Never forget, that man stole my freedom from me, along with my wife, my company, and more than half my possessions. Oh yes, Donald, I won’t rest until I come face to face with Jeremy Alexander.”
“Good,” said the Don. “Because Williams thinks Rosemary is beginning to trust him, and might even, given time, start confiding in him. It seems he has made himself indispensable.”
I found a certain irony in the thought of Williams pocketing two salaries simultaneously, and of my being responsible for one, while Rosemary paid the other. I asked if there was any news of Jeremy.
“Nothing to speak of,” said Donald. “She certainly never phones him from the house, and we’re fairly sure he never attempts to make any direct contact with her. But Williams has told us that every Friday at midday he has to drop her off at the Majestic, the only hotel in the village. She goes inside and doesn’t reappear for at least forty minutes. He daren’t follow her, because she’s given specific instructions that he’s to stay with the car. And he can’t afford to lose this job by disobeying orders.”
I nodded my agreement.
“But that hasn’t stopped him having the occasional drink in the hotel bar on his evening off, and he’s managed to pick up a few snippets of information. He’s convinced that Rosemary uses the time when she’s in the hotel to make a long-distance phone call. She often drops in at the bank before going on to the Majestic, and comes out carrying a small packet of coins. The barman has told Williams that she always uses one of the two phone boxes in the corridor opposite the reception desk. She never allows the call to be put through the hotel switchboard, always dials direct.”
“So how do we discover who she’s calling?” I asked.
“We wait for Williams to find an opportunity to use some of those skills he didn’t learn at butlers’ school.”
“But how long might that take?”
“No way of knowing, but Williams is due for a spot of leave in a couple of weeks, so he’ll be able to bring us up to date.”
When Williams arrived back in Bradford at the end of the month, I began asking him questions even before he had time to put his suitcase down. He was full of interesting information about Rosemary, and even the smallest detail fascinated me.
She had put on weight. I was pleased. She seemed lonely and depressed. I was delighted. She was spending my money fast. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic. But, more to the point, Williams was convinced that if Rosemary had any contact with Jeremy Alexander, it had to be when she visited the hotel every Friday and placed that direct-dial call. But he still hadn’t worked out how to discover who, or where, she was phoning.
By the time Williams returned to the south of France a fortnight later, I knew more about my ex-wife than I ever knew when we were married.
As happens so often in the real world, the next move came when I least expected it. It must have been about 2:30 on a Monday afternoon when the phone rang.
Donald picked up the receiver, and was surprised to hear Williams’s voice on the other end of the line. He switched him on to the squawk box and said, “All three of us are listening, so you’d better begin by telling us why you’re ringing when it’s not your day off.”
“I’ve been sacked,” were Williams’s opening words.
“Playing around with the maid, were you?” was Donald’s first reaction.
“I only wish, chief, but I’m afraid it’s far more stupid than that. I was driving Ms. Kershaw into town this morning, when I had to stop at a red light. While I was waiting for the light to change, a man crossed the road in front of the car. He stopped and stared at me. I recognized him immediately, and prayed the light would turn to green before he could place me. But he walked back, looked at me again, and smiled. I shook my head at him, but he came over to the driver’s side, tapped on the window, and said, ‘How are you, Inspector Williams?’”
“Who was it?” demanded Donald.
“Neil Case. Remember him, Chief?”
“Could I ever forget him? ‘Never-on-the-Case Neil’,” said Donald. “I might have guessed.”
“I didn’t acknowledge him, of course, and as Ms. Kershaw said nothing, I thought I might have got away with it. But as soon as we arrived back at the house, she told me to come and see her in the study, and without even asking for an explanation, she dismissed me. She ordered me to be packed and off the premises within the hour, or she’d call the local police.”
“Damn. Back to square one,” said Donald.
“Not quite,” said Williams.
“What do you mean? If you’re no longer in the house, we no longer have a point of contact. Worse, we can’t play the butler card again, because she’s bound to be on her guard from now on.”
“I know all that, chief,” said Williams, “but suspecting that I was a policeman caused her to panic, and she went straight to her bedroom and made a phone call. As I wasn’t afraid of being found out any longer, I picked up the extension in the corridor and listened in. All I heard was a woman’s voice give a Cambridge number, and then the phone went dead. I assumed Rosemary had been expecting someone else to pick up the phone, and hung up when she heard a strange voice.”
“What was the number?” Donald asked.
“6407-something-7.”
“What do you mean, ‘something-7’?” barked Donald as he scribbled the numbers down.
“I didn’t have anything to write with, chief, so I had to rely on my memory.” I was glad Williams couldn’t see the expression on the Don’s face.
“Then what happened?” he demanded.
“I found a pen in a drawer and wrote what I could remember of the number on my hand. I picked up the phone again a few moments later, and heard a different woman on the line, saying, ‘The director’s not in at the moment, but I’m expecting him back within the hour.’ Then I had to hang up quickly, because I could hear someone coming along the corridor. It was Charlotte, Rosemary’s maid. She wanted to know why I’d been sacked. I couldn’t think of a convincing reply, until she accused me of having made a pass at the mistress. I let her think that was it, and ended up getting a slapped face for my trouble.” I burst out laughing, but the Don and Jenny showed no reaction. Then Williams asked, “So, what do I do now, chief? Come back to England?”
“No,” said Donald. “Stay put for the moment. Check yourself into the Majestic and watch her round the clock. Let me know if she does anything out of character. Meanwhile, we’re going to Cambridge. As soon as we’ve checked ourselves into a hotel there I’ll call you.”
“Understood, sir,” said Williams, and hung up.
“When do we go?” I asked Donald once he had replaced the receiver.
“Tonight,” he replied. “But not before I’ve made a few telephone calls.”
The Don dialed ten Cambridge numbers, using the digits Williams had been able to jot down, and inserting the numbers from zero to nine in the missing slot.
0223640707 turned out to be a school. “Sorry, wrong number,” said Donald. 717 was a chemist’s shop; 727 was a garage; 737 was answered by an elderly male voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” Donald repeated: 747 a news agent; 757 a local policeman’s wife (I tried not to laugh, but Donald only grunted); 767 a woman’s voice—“Sorry, wrong number,” yet again; 777 was St. Catharine’s College; 787 a woman’s voice on an answering machine; 797 a hairdresser—“Did you want a perm, or just a trim?”
Donald checked his list. “It has to be either 737, 767 or 787. The time has come for me to pull a few strings.”
He dialed a Bradford number, and was told that the new deputy chief constable of Cambridgeshire had been transferred from the West Yorkshire Constabulary the previous year.
“Leeke. Allan Leeke,” said Donald, without needing to be
prompted. He turned to me. “He was a sergeant when I first became an inspector.” He thanked his Bradford contact, then rang directory inquiries to find out the number of the Cambridge Police headquarters. He dialed another 0223 number.
“Cambridge Police. How can I help you?” asked a female voice.
“Can you put me through to the deputy chief constable, please?” Donald asked.
“Who shall I say is calling?”
“Donald Hackett.”
The next voice that came on the line said, “Don, this is a pleasant surprise. Or at least I hope it’s a pleasant surprise, because knowing you, it won’t be a social call. Are you looking for a job, by any chance? I heard you’d left the force.”
“Yes, it’s true. I’ve resigned, but I’m not looking for a job, Allan. I don’t think the Cambridge Constabulary could quite match my present salary.”
“So, what can I do for you, Don?”
“I need a trace done on three numbers in the Cambridge area.”
“Authorized?” asked the deputy chief constable.
“No, but it might well lead to an arrest on your turf,” said Donald.
“That, and the fact that it’s you who’s asking, is good enough for me.”
Donald read out the three numbers, and Leeke asked him to hang on for a moment. While we waited, Donald told me, “All they have to do is press a few buttons in the control room, and the numbers will appear on a screen in front of him. Things have changed since I first joined the force. In those days we had to let our legs do the walking.”
The deputy chief constable’s voice came back on the line. “Right, the first number’s come up. 640737 is a Wing Commander Danvers-Smith. He’s the only person registered as living in the house.” He read out an address in Great Shelford, which he explained was just to the south of Cambridge. Jenny wrote the details down.
“767 is a Professor and Mrs. Balcescu, also living in Great Shelford. 787 is Dame Julia Renaud, the opera singer. She lives in Grantchester. We know her quite well. She’s hardly ever at home, because of her concert commitments all over the world. Her house has been burgled three times in the last year, always when she was abroad.”
“Thank you,” said Donald. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Anything you want to tell me?” asked the deputy chief constable, sounding hopeful.
“Not at the moment,” replied Donald. “But as soon as I’ve finished my investigation, I promise you’ll be the first person to be informed.”
“Fair enough,” came back the reply, and the line went dead.
“Right,” Donald said, turning his attention back to us. “We leave for Cambridge in a couple of hours. That will give us enough time to pack, and for Jenny to book us into a hotel near the city center. We’ll meet back here at”—he checked his watch—“six o’clock.” He walked out of the room without uttering another word. I remember thinking that my father would have got on well with him.
Just over two hours later, Jenny was driving us at a steady sixty-nine miles per hour down the Al.
“Now the boring part of detective work begins,” said Donald. “Intense research, followed by hours of surveillance. I think we can safely ignore Dame Julia. Jenny, you get to work on the wing commander. I want details of his career from the day he left school to the day he retired. First thing tomorrow you can begin by contacting RAF College Cranwell, and asking for details of his service record. I’ll take the professor, and make a start in the university library.”
“What do I do?” I asked.
“For the time being, Mr. Cooper, you keep yourself well out of sight. It’s just possible that the wing commander or the professor might lead us to Alexander, so we don’t need you trampling over any suspects and frightening them off.”
I reluctantly agreed.
Later that night I settled into a suite at the Garden House Hotel—a more refined sort of prison—but despite feather pillows and a comfortable mattress I was quite unable to sleep. I rose early the next morning and spent most of the day watching endless updates on Sky News, episodes of various Australian soaps, and a “Film of the Week” every two hours. But my mind was continually switching between RAF Cranwell and the university library.
When we met up in Donald’s room that evening, he and Jenny confirmed that their initial research suggested that both men were who they purported to be.
“I was sure one of them would turn out to be Jeremy,” I said, unable to hide my disappointment.
“It would be nice if it was always that easy, Mr. Cooper,” said Donald. “But it doesn’t mean that one of them won’t lead us to Jeremy.” He turned to Jenny. “First, let’s go over what you found out about the wing commander.”
“Wing Commander Danvers-Smith DFC graduated from Cranwell in 1938, served with Number Two Squadron at Binbrook in Lincolnshire during the Second World War, and flew several missions over Germany and occupied France. He was awarded the DFC for gallantry in 1943. He was grounded in 1958, and became an instructor at RAF Cottesmore in Gloucestershire. His final posting was as deputy commanding officer at RAF Locking in Somerset. He retired in 1977, when he and his wife moved back to Great Shelford, where he had grown up.”
“Why’s he living on his own now?” asked Donald.
“Wife died three years ago. He has two children, Sam and Pamela, both married, but neither living in the area. They visit him occasionally.”
I wanted to ask Jenny how she had been able to find out so much information about the wing commander in such a short time, but said nothing, as I was more interested in hearing what the Don had discovered about Professor Balcescu.
Donald picked up a pile of notes that had been lying on the floor by his feet. “So, let me tell you the results of my research into a very distinguished professor,” he began. “Professor Balcescu escaped from Romania in 1989, after Ceausescu had had him placed under house arrest. He was smuggled out of the country by a group of dissident students, via Bulgaria and then on into Greece. His escape was well documented in the newspapers at the time. He applied for asylum in England, and was offered a teaching post at Gonville and Caius College, Cambridge, and three years later the chair of Eastern European studies. He advises the government on Romanian matters and has written a scholarly book on the subject. Last year he was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honors.”
“How could either of these men possibly know Rosemary?” I asked. “Williams must have made a mistake when he wrote down the number.”
“Williams doesn’t make mistakes, Mr. Cooper,” said the Don. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have employed him. Your wife dialed one of those numbers, and we’re just going to have to find out which one. This time we’ll need your assistance.”
I mumbled an apology, but remained unconvinced.
Hackett nodded curtly, and turned back to Jenny. “How long will it take us to get to the wing commander’s home?”
“About fifteen minutes, sir. He lives in a cottage in Great Shelford, just south of Cambridge.”
“Right, we’ll start with him. I’ll see you both in the lobby at five o’clock tomorrow morning.”
I slept fitfully again that night, now convinced that we were embarked on a wild-goose chase. But at least I was going to be allowed to join them the following day, instead of being confined to my room and yet more Australian soaps.
I didn’t need my 4:30 alarm call—I was already showering when the phone rang. A few minutes after five, the three of us walked out of the hotel, trying not to look as if we were hoping to leave without paying our bill. It was a chilly morning, and I shivered as I climbed into the back of the car.
Jenny drove us out of the city and onto the London road. After a mile or so, she turned left and took us into a charming little village with neat, well-kept houses on either side of the road. We passed a garden center on the left and drove another half mile, then Jenny suddenly swung the car round and pulled off the road. She switched off the engine and pointed to a small house with an R
AF-blue door. “That’s where he lives,” she said. “Number forty-seven.” Donald focused a tiny pair of binoculars on the house.
Some early-morning risers were already leaving their homes, cars heading toward the station for the first commuter train to London. The paperboy turned out to be an old lady who pushed her heavily laden bicycle slowly round the village, dropping off her deliveries. The milkman was next, clattering along in his electric van—two pints here, a pint there, the occasional half-dozen eggs or carton of orange juice left on front doorsteps. Lights began to flick on all over the village. “The wing commander has had one pint of red-top milk and a copy of the Daily Telegraph delivered to his front door,” said Donald.
People had emerged from the houses on either side of number forty-seven before a light appeared in an upstairs room of the wing commander’s home. Once that light had been switched on Donald sat bolt upright, his eyes never leaving the house.
I became bored, and dozed off in the back at some point. When I woke up, I hoped we might at least be allowed a break for breakfast, but such mundane considerations didn’t seem to worry the two professionals in the front. They continued to concentrate on any movement that took place around number forty-seven, and hardly exchanged a word.
At 10:19 a thin, elderly man, dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and gray flannels, emerged from number forty-seven and marched briskly down the path. All I could see at that distance was a huge, bushy white mustache. It looked almost as if his whole body had been designed around it. Donald kept the glasses trained on him.
“Ever seen him before?” he asked, passing the binoculars back to me.
I focused the glasses on the wing commander and studied him carefully. “Never,” I said as he came to a halt by the side of a battered old Austin Allegro. “How could anyone forget that mustache?”
“It certainly wasn’t grown last week,” said Donald, as Danvers-Smith eased his car out onto the main road.