Chapter Five

Angela Margerison

The waiting or interview room where Angela Margerison sat was one of several equipped with one way win-windows. Anyone inside could be seen from outside, but they couldn’t see out, had no idea they were being observed. Angela was in an upright armchair, not too comfortable, and a policewoman sat in a similar armchair, leafing through a copy of the Police Gazette. Roger pressed a button, to announce his arrival, and the policewoman rose at once. Angela seemed to stiffen as she turned her head towards the door.

Roger went in.

“Good afternoon, sir,” the policewoman said.

“Good afternoon. Do you take shorthand, officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’d like a verbatim report of this interview, please.” Roger spoke stiffly, all the time looking at Angela Margerison, who seemed now to be nothing but eyes. Another chair was at hand but he preferred to stand. “We have the formal details of Mrs. Margerison’s full name, address and status, haven’t we?”

The policewoman tapped her notebook.

“Yes, sir.”

“Has Mrs. Margerison been given any information?”

“None, sir. She was escorted here by Detective Sergeant Green and I have been with her since her arrival. No information has been passed on to her.”

Roger nodded, still looking at the tiny woman who shrank back in her chair. There was something about her which was exceptionally appealing, and he had an unpleasant certainty that he was going to hurt her very much indeed with the news of her husband’s death. His intention, on his way down, had been to tell her bluntly, even brutally, so as to weaken her resistance and persuade her to talk. But there was something so fragile about her; and a kind of innocence too. It was easy to warn himself that she had taken him in before; as useless to try to forget that she was a woman about to be given a heavy blow: a cruel enough hurt in itself.

So, he drew up a chair and sat down.

“Mrs. Margerison,” he said. “You went to the house in Lyon Avenue hoping to see your husband, didn’t you?”

She gave no answer.

“Had you been there before?” he asked, and when she didn’t reply he went on: “The neighbours there are extremely observant and were very curious about the new people at Number 17. There is no doubt at all that if they were here with us they would recognise you as a frequent caller.” There was doubt, but it was a fair enough assumption. He gave her long enough to understand what he had said, and then asked again: “Had you been there before?”

“Yes,” she managed to say in a voice it was difficult to hear.

“To see your husband?”

“Yes.” Her voice was still muted, and her eyes seemed to burn.

“How often did you go there?”

“Once—once a week.”

“When did you start these visits?”

“As—as soon as it was certain you weren’t having me watched,” she answered simply, and she could not know how barbed that answer was for Roger.

“Are you used to being followed by the police?” he asked wryly.

Her eyes suddenly burst into flame; life seemed to pour back into her, and her voice was clear and positive as she replied. “Oh, wo!”

“Then how did you know when we stopped watching?”

She didn’t answer at first.

There had been so many pauses in this dialogue that the policewoman could have had no difficulty in keeping up with her notes, and she sat very still in the corner. Roger had forgotten her until this moment, when he glanced across and asked: “Will you have some coffee sent in, please?”

“Yes, sir.” The woman picked up a telephone, and Roger turned back to Angela. That “Oh, no!” seemed to hover still about her head. He waited long enough for the coffee to be ordered before asking: “Then how did you know you had been followed and then the men had been withdrawn?”

“I—I telephoned David.”

“Where?”

“At—at that house in Lyon Avenue. But I only had the number at first, I didn’t know where it was. And—and I didn’t know anything when you were questioning me, I promise I didn’t lie to you. It wasn’t for over a month that I had a telephone call from David. He told me the address: and he told me I could go and see him every week. He—he usually telephoned me the day before. He missed this week, I had to come and find out why.” Now she was beginning to talk not only freely but fast, and Roger made no attempt to slow her down. “Sometimes I had lunch and spent the afternoon and the evening there, it—it was wonderful!” She threw that out almost in defiance, and as if she expected to be rebuked for taking pleasure in these visits to her husband. Suddenly, she sprang to her feet and began to walk about the room. “It was wonderful! It’s always wonderful with David, those awful weeks when I couldn’t see him were terrible, the worst time I’ve ever had in my life. And he didn’t tell me anything about what he’d done. He—he just made me feel as if I were the only person in the world who mattered to him! He did!” She stopped just in front of Roger, glaring wild defiance. “I don’t care what he’s done, I don’t care what you think he is, he’s the most wonderful man who ever lived!”

And her tone, her manner, her poise all seemed to cry: “And don’t you dare say that he isn’t!”

And the “most wonderful man who ever lived” was dead.

Roger felt a heavy weight of depression, a touch of nausea. Her reaction to hearing the brutal truth was going to be very bad indeed. The recollection that he had come here intending to use the husband’s death to make her talk turned sour on him, he wished he were anywhere but here, wished anyone but he had this job to do. For he believed all she had said: despite his sense of having been fooled before, he believed her now. It wasn’t her fault that he had withdrawn the watch, and no amount of wishing he hadn’t would help.

But she had told him one thing, perhaps without realising it: someone else had been watching her – someone who had realised how closely she had been kept under surveillance for a while, and when the police had withdrawn. Well, he needed no telling that the bullion robbers were very shrewd and efficient, they were probably very experienced in police watching, too.

There was a tap at the door, and a woman in a blue smock brought in a laden tray: coffee, milk, biscuits. She did not look at Angela but only at West, put the tray down, said: “There you are, sir,” and went out on his: “Thanks.” That was mechanical, he was thinking only of Angela and the news he had to break, and whether he should ask more questions now or tell her about her husband and then put the questions to which he must have the answers.

It was a heartbreaking decision to have to make.

The obvious thing was to ask now, but if he did that, the shock effect of the news might be greater; and once she had recovered a little she would understand that he must have been killed by his accomplices: that her revenge could only come by telling everything she knew of them.

Slowly, he became aware of a change in her expression and in her manner. She stared at him intently and with a dawning horror. He was puzzled; and suddenly wondered if this were some trick – whether he had been fooled yet again by her look of innocence.

“What is it?” she asked tensely.

“What is what?”

“What made you look like that?”

He didn’t answer, but he understood what had prompted the question. His expression had been too easy to read, the compassion he felt showing clearly. She was ultra sensitive about her husband, and the way she had talked had filled him with dread at the thought of telling her.

“What is it?” she cried again. “What’s the matter?”

This was the moment when he had to tell her; there was no choice at all.

He put his hands out towards her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the police officer stand up; he could not see her expression clearly but had a sense that she was aware of the coming crisis.

Angela did not take his hands, but backed a pace and almost screamed: “What is the matter?”

“Mrs. Margerison,” Roger said, huskily, “I am very, very sorry.”

“Sorry!” she echoed wildly. “What do you mean, sorry? What’s happened?”

He said: “Your husband is dead. We learned that this morning. I am—dreadfully sorry.”

Now her expression changed. Her eyes narrowed. Her lips closed and went into a a thin line; the little face became not pretty but spiteful – not young but old.

“You’re lying!” she spat.

“I wish I was.”

“You’re lying! You’re trying to make me talk, and I won’t. I won’t, I won’t! You’re lying to me!”

“He’s dead,” Roger insisted. “You must believe that.”

“It’s a wicked lie!”

“His body was found in the Thames this morning.”

“No!” she gasped, and now the colour drained from her cheeks. “No, I don’t believe you. It’s not true!”

“We think he was murdered,” Roger stated, as flatly as he could.

“You’re lying to me!” she screamed again – and then without the slightest warning she flung herself at him and before he had a chance to defend himself, she had struck him across the face, scratching his cheek; she kept beating at him as he put out an arm to restrain her. She was gasping and screaming on a suffocating note, but as the policewoman jumped up the outburst began to ebb. The policewoman reached her and put an arm round her shoulders. Angela Margerison buried her face in her hands.

Words came, almost unintelligible: “He’s not dead. Tell me he’s not.”

Roger said heavily: “I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

“Oh, no,” she gasped. “Not David.” Then her voice rose again: “He can’t be dead.”

For one moment she drew her hands from her face, to look at Roger as if searching for the truth. And what she read made her bury her face in her hands again, and begin to sob. At first, only her shoulders moved, but slowly the crying racked her whole body. The policewoman shifted her stance, cradling and supporting her, then spoke in a low pitched voice.

“I don’t think she’ll be able to talk for a while, sir.”

“No,” Roger agreed. “No. Do you need a doctor?”

“It might be wise, sir, but I’d rather stay here with her for a few minutes, if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” Roger said, and after a pause, went on: “What is your name?”

“Nicholson, sir. Rose Nicholson.”

“Do what you think best,” Roger said, and went on with more effort than he had dreamt would be needed: “You know that we may have to hold her, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be in my office,” Roger said. “Let me know when she’s better and if we need a doctor.”

“Very good, sir.”

“We certainly need to know everything she can tell us about the house where she saw her husband,” Roger said. “We now know that two people who were at the house are dead. It is getting very ugly. We need to know how many she saw, we want descriptions, names, absolutely everything she can tell us, and every minute’s delay might be serious.”

The policewoman said, pleadingly: “I do understand, sir.”

Roger nodded and went out.

He was back in his office before he realised that he’d had no coffee or biscuits, and his headache and nausea might be due simply to the fact that he had eaten nothing since an early breakfast, consisting only of toast and marmalade, with strong coffee. He went along the passage and up to the big canteen on the fifth floor. Only one section and one cafeteria here was open. At a table near the windows of the long room was Coppell and another chief superintendent; senior officers often ate here instead of in their special dining room on the floor above. Coppell saw him but didn’t beckon, so he was concentrating on another case. Roger took some soup, and some sausages and mashed potatoes standing on a hotplate. He put a roll and some butter on his tray, added coffee, and went to a seat at the far end of the room.

At first, he felt almost too queasy to eat, but once he started he felt better. What was the matter with him? First Venables, then the uniformed man in Lyon Avenue, then Angela Margerison: was he reacting far too emotionally to people? He ate and pondered and asked himself what else he could have done: and he didn’t see any other course. That made him feel better. He heard a heavy tread behind him and looked round, expecting to see Coppell. Instead, it was a man of Coppel’s build but very different in appearance: sandy haired, fresh complexioned, the kind of man and face which would be good in television advertisements for fresh farm produce.

It was Chief Inspector Jacob Smythe, from the laboratory. In civil life he would be Professor Smythe.

“Hallo, Handsome. Feeling solitary?” Smythe had a tray in his hand, too.

“Yes. Sit down, Jake.”

He shifted some things from the other side of the table, making room for Smythe to put his tray down: it was heavily laden with steak, eggs, chips and a big slice of suet pudding topped with treacle.

“Peckish?” asked Roger.

“Starving. You don’t think I eat like this every day, do you? I will say they’ve got a couple of good cooks here at the moment. Ever reflect that cops used to go to the cooks of big houses to get a square meal? Ah, me, how things change.” He speared half a dozen chips. “Ah! Not re-fried, thank God.” He cut a piece of tender looking steak, and his expression was positively beatific. “What a lucky man you are,” he went on.

Roger, watching Smythe eating, hardly took in the significance of the last remark, then suddenly realised what the other had said.

“If I’m lucky, I’d like to meet an unlucky man,” he said.

“Still got your head bloodied from bullion?” asked Smythe, knowingly. “Well, you’re still lucky, Handsome. You could have brought me a sliver of glass from a hundred sources which I couldn’t identify, but that long streak Venables brought me a piece I can help to identify. How about that?” he demanded, and placed another juicy piece of steak into his mouth.