been abroad.’
‘Oh. Well, that
explains it. She rang me a few days ago. Said I’d be getting some money, and
not to bank it but spend it on something nice. It was so kind of her.’ She
frowned. ‘I didn’t want to take it, to be honest, but Helen can be very
obstinate when she wants to – just like her mother used to be. I’ll probably
use it to decorate her room, which will be honours even, don’t you think?’
Palmer nodded.
‘You weren’t a diplomat by profession, were you?’
She laughed
outright. ‘Good gracious, no. I’m far too blunt. Anyway, the cheque came – from
a place in London. She also asked me to bundle up any bits of paper she’d left
in her room from her last visit. Doodles, they looked like to me – the sort
people do when they’re on the phone a lot, like Helen always is, even when she
comes down here. So I did what she asked: I went through her room and put
everything in an envelope. Even the scraps in her wastebasket. Well, they were
no good to the dustman and I didn’t want to throw out anything important by
mistake.’
Palmer went
still. ‘Did she say why she wanted them?’
‘Not really. I
assumed she’d mislaid a jotting or something, and needed to find it. She was
always making notes of one thing or another.’
‘What did you
do with them?’
The old lady
gave him a wary look, as if he was simple. ‘Well, I did what Helen asked: I put
them in an envelope and sent them to you.’
‘Me?’ Palmer
was stunned.
‘Yes. You
should have received it by now.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Would you like more
tea?’
By the time Palmer
drove away from the cottage, his mind was in a spin. He felt guilty at not
having told Mrs Demelzer about Helen’s death. But to have done so would have
set off a train of action and reaction he would not have been able to explain.
It was best to leave it to the police family liaison people. They were trained
for it.
He thought
about the briefcase, which the old lady said Helen had been so pleased with.
Helen was the complete journalist and writer, virtually living by what she
could carry: notepad, digital recorder, mobile phone – actually, ditch that, he
remembered; she’d had a new Blackberry which did all of those things. She’d
shown it to him one evening, when they’d been out for dinner. Later, as they
were saying goodnight – Palmer had a late-night surveillance job on - Helen had
placed her briefcase on the ground by his car. He’d forgotten about it and
driven off, mashing one corner with a rear tyre. Fortunately, nothing else had
been damaged, and buying her a replacement was the least he could do. He knew
she liked black, but all he could find of a similar make was burgundy. It was
lightweight leather with gold fittings, and she’d been thrilled with it. He
could still recall her comment afterwards.
‘Frank,’ she’d
teased him with a gentle hint of sarcasm. ‘Where on God’s earth did a man like
you find a leather briefcase light enough not to pull a woman’s arm out of its
socket?’ She had followed it with a comment about his idea of luggage being an
army issue kitbag made of canvas with a rope handle.
‘Actually,’
he’d replied, feigning wounded pride, ‘I got it in a little place off Bond
Street. I’m not a complete Philistine.’
By the time he
was back on the M3 heading towards London, Palmer was wrestling with two major
questions. The answer to one could be in the large brown envelope sitting among
the junk mail on his desk. The envelope Helen had asked Mrs Demelzer to send
him, even though it was months since they’d seen each other. Exactly why she’d
done that was a mystery.
The other
question was less likely to be answered so quickly. It concerned Helen’s
burgundy briefcase with the gold fittings; the portable office that held every
detail of her day-to-day work. If it had been in the car with her, the police
would have known everything about her within minutes. There would have been
‘Oh. Well, that
explains it. She rang me a few days ago. Said I’d be getting some money, and
not to bank it but spend it on something nice. It was so kind of her.’ She
frowned. ‘I didn’t want to take it, to be honest, but Helen can be very
obstinate when she wants to – just like her mother used to be. I’ll probably
use it to decorate her room, which will be honours even, don’t you think?’
Palmer nodded.
‘You weren’t a diplomat by profession, were you?’
She laughed
outright. ‘Good gracious, no. I’m far too blunt. Anyway, the cheque came – from
a place in London. She also asked me to bundle up any bits of paper she’d left
in her room from her last visit. Doodles, they looked like to me – the sort
people do when they’re on the phone a lot, like Helen always is, even when she
comes down here. So I did what she asked: I went through her room and put
everything in an envelope. Even the scraps in her wastebasket. Well, they were
no good to the dustman and I didn’t want to throw out anything important by
mistake.’
Palmer went
still. ‘Did she say why she wanted them?’
‘Not really. I
assumed she’d mislaid a jotting or something, and needed to find it. She was
always making notes of one thing or another.’
‘What did you
do with them?’
The old lady
gave him a wary look, as if he was simple. ‘Well, I did what Helen asked: I put
them in an envelope and sent them to you.’
‘Me?’ Palmer
was stunned.
‘Yes. You
should have received it by now.’ She picked up the teapot. ‘Would you like more
tea?’
By the time Palmer
drove away from the cottage, his mind was in a spin. He felt guilty at not
having told Mrs Demelzer about Helen’s death. But to have done so would have
set off a train of action and reaction he would not have been able to explain.
It was best to leave it to the police family liaison people. They were trained
for it.
He thought
about the briefcase, which the old lady said Helen had been so pleased with.
Helen was the complete journalist and writer, virtually living by what she
could carry: notepad, digital recorder, mobile phone – actually, ditch that, he
remembered; she’d had a new Blackberry which did all of those things. She’d
shown it to him one evening, when they’d been out for dinner. Later, as they
were saying goodnight – Palmer had a late-night surveillance job on - Helen had
placed her briefcase on the ground by his car. He’d forgotten about it and
driven off, mashing one corner with a rear tyre. Fortunately, nothing else had
been damaged, and buying her a replacement was the least he could do. He knew
she liked black, but all he could find of a similar make was burgundy. It was
lightweight leather with gold fittings, and she’d been thrilled with it. He
could still recall her comment afterwards.
‘Frank,’ she’d
teased him with a gentle hint of sarcasm. ‘Where on God’s earth did a man like
you find a leather briefcase light enough not to pull a woman’s arm out of its
socket?’ She had followed it with a comment about his idea of luggage being an
army issue kitbag made of canvas with a rope handle.
‘Actually,’
he’d replied, feigning wounded pride, ‘I got it in a little place off Bond
Street. I’m not a complete Philistine.’
By the time he
was back on the M3 heading towards London, Palmer was wrestling with two major
questions. The answer to one could be in the large brown envelope sitting among
the junk mail on his desk. The envelope Helen had asked Mrs Demelzer to send
him, even though it was months since they’d seen each other. Exactly why she’d
done that was a mystery.
The other
question was less likely to be answered so quickly. It concerned Helen’s
burgundy briefcase with the gold fittings; the portable office that held every
detail of her day-to-day work. If it had been in the car with her, the police
would have known everything about her within minutes. There would have been
Similar Books
