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  But then she realised that what she was doing was pointless. She could hardly shut herself away within four walls for ever. She would have to go out sooner or later. No, the answer was not to succumb to blind panic, but to maintain a sensible perspective and at the same time keep her wits about her. She couldn’t do any more than that.

  Then she remembered her flowers, which she had left on the window sill. Taking them to the kitchen in search of a vase she looked for a card. There wasn’t one, but she knew instinctively who they were from and she smiled as she put them in water. Two bouquets in one week, Mr Murray, she mused. You really do know how to cheer a girl up.

  ****

  Detective Inspector Maureen O’Donnell frowned as she got out of CID car in the parking area a few yards from the clifftop where Freddie Baxter had met his death. She didn’t really know why she had decided to revisit the spot and she sensed that her cynical DS, Nick Halloran, who had driven her there under protest due to his own heavy caseload, thought she was simply wasting their time. After all, despite what the pathologist had intimated, the previous intensive police search of the scene had turned up nothing to suggest Baxter’s death had been anything but accidental and her own inquiries had produced a big fat zilch. Yet the voice deep inside her head telling her to go back to the scene had refused to be ignored, and in the end she had succumbed to its insistent nagging.

  It was mid-afternoon and the air was very still and humid as she sauntered towards the old ruined engine-house, with its attendant finger-like chimney stack thrusting grimly into the heavy grey sky above the gorse and tangle of stunted trees lining both sides of the footpath.

  A strand of the blue and white police tape which had been put up across the footpath during the search of the scene now curled around a nearby gorse bush just feet from the crumbling building, and the tyre tracks of the patrol car and Ford Transit were still clearly visible in the soft grass.

  She walked right past the engine-house to start with, following the footpath through the scrub to the gaunt skeleton of the wrought-iron seat close to the cliff edge. For a few moments she stood there, staring at the foot of the cliffs and the foam spewing over the rocks where Freddie Baxter had met his death. She could see nothing sticking out of the cliff face on which he could have struck his head as he’d pitched over, but there again, that was only one possibility the pathologist had put forward, and it was almost impossible to see all the way down the ragged drop because of the contours of the rocks and the clinging vegetation.

  Sensing Halloran fidgeting impatiently behind her, she turned with a smile. ‘Okay, Nick,’ she said, ‘let’s just have another look at the engine-house. Then we’ll head back.’

  As before, a dank, urine-like smell greeted her when she approached the ruined building. She ducked her head through the doorway, shining her torch around the gloomy interior. But there was nothing to see – just a cleared area, where her colleagues had found the sleeping bag and blankets, and a couple of small heaps of rubble poking through a patch of undernourished nettles and weeds that strained towards the light filtering into the place via the doorway and the single high window.

  So what had drawn her back here? In the past her hunches had proved to be worth following up, but maybe this time she had been misled. Perhaps she was finally losing it? Making something out of nothing. Sensing things that just weren’t there. Everyone in the department seemed to be satisfied that Freddie Baxter had simply fallen off the cliff, so why didn’t she just accept that as the most likely scenario and move on? Give herself and the rest of the team a break? Claim her leave and head for Corsica?

  She was on the verge of doing just that as she turned to leave the engine-house – ready to drop the whole thing there and then and eat humble pie – when she heard Halloran’s shout. Ducking back through the doorway, she was just in time to see her overweight 40-year-old DS charging across the heath after a slender figure in a short hooded coat. Halloran certainly had some bottle, but it was pretty obvious that his cigarette-weakened lungs left him little chance of catching his quarry. With an oath, she dug her toes into the soft earth and joined the chase.

  Easily outstripping the DS, she homed in on the fleeing figure like a human torpedo and hurling herself at him in the last few feet, brought him down with a rugby tackle. It was only then that she suddenly realised she hadn’t the slightest idea what her prisoner had done and why they were pursuing him.

  ‘Great tackle, Guv,’ Halloran wheezed, stumbling up to them. ‘Shit-bag was making for the engine-house when he saw me and bolted.’

  Bruised and winded, O’Donnell climbed to her feet, hauling her captive up with her by one arm. A thin florid face, with a long narrow nose and a straggly grey beard peered at her out of the hood. Pale blue eyes, one of them half-closed, studied her with a crafty half-smile hovering over the thin lips and a dirty bony hand clutched at the front of the hooded jacket, as if trying to pull it tighter in an effort to retreat inside it.

  The man was obviously elderly – probably in his 60s – and from the state of him and the earthy unwashed smell which clung to him like a miasma, it was apparent that he was a vagrant.

  ‘And who the devil might you be?’ O’Donnell queried sharply, pulling away from him slightly to distance herself from his unpleasant odour. ‘And why did you run away?’

  To her surprise, the old man chuckled. ‘Daniel Froggett at your service, madam,’ he replied a little breathlessly and in a soft, cultured voice. ‘As to why I ran, well, I sussed your companion was Old Bill and I’m not particularly fond of the police, you see.’

  ‘So what were you doing here?’

  He sighed. ‘I left my worldly belongings in the engine-house a few nights ago and came back to retrieve them.’

  ‘Did you now? But why leave them there in the first place?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Had to,’ he said. ‘I came back one evening to find police all over the place and my little doss sealed off, so I made myself scarce.’

  ‘Do you know why the police were there?’

  ‘I saw later in a newspaper that a poor fellow had fallen off the cliffs. Tragic.’

  O’Donnell studied him thoughtfully for a few seconds, but for some reason decided not to pursue that line of questioning for the moment. Instead, she released his arm and nodded to Halloran. ‘So let’s see what you’ve got in your pockets, Mr Froggett – Nick, do the honours, will you?’

  Halloran gave her an old-fashioned look. ‘Me?’

  She nodded. ‘RHP, Sergeant—’

  ‘That means rank has privileges,’ Froggett patronised.

  ‘I know damned well what it means,’ Halloran growled, sliding one hand into the pocket of his hooded coat. ‘Thing is, how do you know?’

  ‘Oh, I know many things, Sergeant.’

  ‘I’m sure you do,’ O’Donnell agreed drily. ‘But what sort of things would they be now?’

  The old man chuckled. ‘You’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll enlighten you before the day is done.’

  ‘Well, first off, you can enlighten us about these,’ Halloran retorted, producing a pair of binoculars from the pocket of his coat. ‘What have you got these for? Bird-watching? I wonder what sort of birds they might be, eh?’

  Froggett said nothing, simply smirking at him.

  Checking another pocket, the DS held up a pair of lace panties and held them aloft. ‘And what about these? Where’d you get them? Marks and Spencer’s?’

  Froggett sighed. ‘I succumbed to temptation in a moment of weakness,’ he replied. ‘I’m afraid I have no will power at all. Especially where ladies’ fripperies are concerned.’

  Halloran snorted and now held up a small plastic bag. ‘Was this lot down to a moment of weakness too?’

  O’Donnell’s eyes narrowed when she saw the expensive looking necklace curled up in the bottom of the bag with some other jewellery. ‘Well now, you’re not just a dirty old perv then?’ she murmured.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Frogge
tt replied. ‘I have hidden depths.’

  She nodded grimly. ‘Aye, and those hidden depths have now earned you a nice wee en suite room at the nick, so they have,’ she said.

  ‘On what charge?’

  ‘Let’s start with “on suspicion of burglary”, eh?’

  Froggett chuckled yet again. ‘As good a charge as any, madam, I would agree. Two sugars with my tea, please and I would like a decent mattress in my en suite room, if you don’t mind.’

  ****

  ‘So, Daniel,’ Maureen O’Donnell said, studying Froggett across the police station’s interview room table following the obligatory caution, ‘you intimated up on the headland that you knew things. Could one of those things be about the man who plunged to his death from the clifftop?’

  The old man treated her to a crafty grin, his gaze switching briefly to the recording machine in the corner, which had been switched on. ‘Perhaps, but there again, perhaps not.’

  Seated beside his DI at the table, Halloran tensed. ‘Did you see how it happened?’ he snapped.

  ‘Now, that’s a question and a half, isn’t it?’

  Well, did you? Maybe you actually pushed him?’

  Froggett chuckled. ‘Why on earth would I want to do that? And how could a little old man like me heave a big lump like that off a clifftop?’

  O’Donnell could feel the adrenalin surge inside her. ‘How could you know he was a “big lump” if you hadn’t seen him?’

  ‘I never said I hadn’t seen him.’

  ‘Well, did you see him?’

  ‘Might have done.’

  ‘Either you did or you didn’t.’

  ‘That’s very logical.’

  ‘So what’s your answer?’

  Froggett sighed and looked down at the empty mug on the table in front of him. ‘Could I have some more tea?’ he said. ‘I’m rather thirsty.’

  Halloran exploded, forgetting that the tape-recording machine was running, ‘Stop pissing us about, Daniel!’ he snarled.

  ‘My dear boy,’ the old man chuckled, studying him through half-closed eyes, ‘there’s no need to lose your temper or be offensive.’

  O’Donnell threw her DS a withering look. ‘Of course I’ll get you some more tea, Mr Froggett,’ she went on, ‘and I might even throw in a currant bun as well. But there are some questions to be answered first, so there are. To start with, did you or did you not see the man who went over the cliff?’

  Froggett sighed. ‘Oh I saw him all right. A nasty bit of work he was too. Walked right into my doss, he did, and when I challenged him he said he would feed me to the seagulls if I didn’t get out of his way. Most rude.’

  ‘That must have made you quare and angry?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t get angry these days, and I disregard Neanderthals like that anyway.’

  ‘What happened after he left your doss?’

  The crafty grin was back on the florid face. ‘Don’t you want to know about the jewellery and those nice panties?’

  O’Donnell nudged Halloran sharply under the table with her knee when she sensed him tensing in his chair. She could see that their prisoner was playing with them. He was obviously well educated, probably with a very high IQ, and no doubt regarded the thrust and parry of interview as intellectually stimulating. He would not respond to threats or the kind of heavy-handed approach Halloran favoured and would only tell them what they wanted to know when he tired of the game. So all they could do was to go along with him and hope he slipped up in due course and unintentionally revealed something significant.

  ‘Okay, Mr Froggett,’ she went on patiently, ‘where did you get the stuff?’

  ‘Well, I stole it, didn’t I, Inspector? Broke into a house and lifted it.’

  Halloran gaped at him, astonished by his sudden admission after all the prevarication. ‘You what?’

  ‘But that’s what you wanted to hear, isn’t it – my confession?’

  ‘Sure it is, but which house?’ O’Donnell queried.

  ‘Froggett smiled and leaned forward slightly, his gaze now fixed on O’Donnell. ‘Problem is, I’m a bit of voyeur,’ he said, going off at a tangent. ‘Always have been, you know. Cost me my career as a senior tutor at uni some years ago too. All those leggy things at play in the halls of residence after dark. Couldn’t stop watching them.’ He looked almost wistful. ‘The old libido has never been much good, you see, so I’ve tended to go in for a bit of peeping. Passes the time, after all, doesn’t it? And I do love ladies’ perfumed fripperies too. Helps me to fantasize. Do you wear lacy underwear, Inspector?’

  The DI smiled faintly. It was obvious that he was trying to shock and embarrass her and was getting off on it in the process. But he was going to be out of luck. She had been too long in the business to be shocked or embarrassed by anything. ‘Which house, Mr Froggett?’ she repeated, without turning a hair.

  He still didn’t answer the question. ‘This beautiful young lady first attracted my attention when I saw her sunbathing in the neddy,’ he rambled on. ‘Made quite an impression on me and I even followed her home one night. Kept my eyes on her after that—’

  ‘That’s why you had these then, is it?’ Halloran cut in harshly, producing a pair of binoculars which he slapped on the table in front of him.

  Froggett raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, they certainly weren’t for bird-watching, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Very powerful lenses they have too. Enabled me to see, even from a distance, that she had sustained some sort of dreadful injuries and was quite badly scarred.’

  O’Donnell stiffened. She knew straightaway whose house he was referring to. It could only be that of Lynn Giles, the victim of the Islington bombing, but she said nothing.

  ‘Well, I still found her very attractive – lovely tanned skin and all that – so I decided to take a look at where she lived. Place above the beach it was – lovely views. Anyway, when I went there, I found she was out, so being me, I thought I’d have a look around inside—’

  ‘And then ransacked the place?’ Halloran finished for him.

  Froggett looked horrified. ‘Ransacked? Good lord, no, I don’t ransack, Sergeant, I … er … do a thorough search, but I’m always very careful not to damage anything. That’s when I found the jewellery and some cash – and of course, those delightful knickers. I feel I know that young lady so well now, you know. Perfumed underwear is so personal, don’t you think? It’s like an extension of personality.’

  Neither O’Donnell nor Halloran answered him and he smirked again. ‘Naturally I felt bad. But …’ and he shrugged again ‘… it’s all about economics today, isn’t it? So I took possession of the stuff, intending to sell it to an interested party, such as a pawnbroker or jeweller, on my travels.’

  ‘Which house?’ O’Donnell repeated quietly, seeking confirmation of what she had already guessed.

  Froggett shrugged. ‘I believe it’s called The Beach House,’ he said. ‘Charming little bungalow. I spent many happy hours outside with my binoculars.’

  ‘Saw a lot there then, did you?’

  ‘Oh yes and it was most rewarding for someone like me.’

  ‘For a pervert, you mean?’ Halloran growled.

  ‘Exactly so,’ the little man agreed without the slightest embarrassment. ‘Especially as the lady resident had a penchant for wandering around the place naked.’

  ‘When was the last time you were there?’ O’Donnell slipped in quietly.

  Froggett thought for a moment. ‘Must have been the night the fat man was pushed off the cliff,’ he replied.

  ‘Pushed off?’ Halloran exclaimed, once more taken aback by another sudden unexpected admission. ‘You’re actually saying he was pushed?’

  Froggett regarded him with his usual amusement. It was evident that he enjoyed making surprising disclosures out of the blue to wind up his interviewers. ‘Of course, Sergeant. I had a ringside seat.’

  ‘You saw it happen?’ O’Donnell echoed.

  Now Froggett had the bit between his teeth a
nd couldn’t wait to give up his information. It was his big moment – his brief moment of power. ‘Oh yes. It was shortly after the fat man had made his threats to me and left. I followed him to see where he went and saw him sit down on the iron seat by the cliff edge. He appeared to make a call to someone on his mobile. Then just as he seemed to finish his call and get up off the seat, this figure appeared out of the scrub, went straight up behind him and hit him over the head with something – I couldn’t quite see what – before pitching him over the edge. All rather dramatic.’

  ‘Could you describe his assailant?’

  He screwed up his face in thought. ‘Tall, slender, long dark hair, wearing a beret of some sort and a short coat – it was getting dark, so I couldn’t see a lot more.’

  ‘So you didn’t see the man’s face?’

  Froggett looked almost gleeful. ‘No, I didn’t see her face.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘Precisely, Inspector. The fat man’s assailant was a woman. Now, can I have my tea and bun?’

  CHAPTER 16

  Lynn Giles made the decision to call and see Alan Murray again when she reluctantly climbed out of bed at well after 11am the following morning. Felicity Dubois’ sudden appearance and ominous warnings the previous day had certainly not helped her to get a good night’s sleep and the humid atmosphere in her room, despite the close proximity of The Beach House to the sea, had only made things worse. In the end, she had spent the early part of the night sitting naked on the steps of her bungalow, letting what breeze there was fan her hot, perspiring body and for the first time since she had moved to Cornwall, not caring whether there were any press photographers hiding in the rocks nearby with their long night lenses. She had only returned to bed after her third gin and tonic at around 3am, exhausted and oblivious to everything save the need to achieve a few hours shut-down to recharge her batteries.