A Woman Unknown Page 0,11

Marten and Flint Jack running neck and neck. Everett Runcie called for Little Marten, I for Flint Jack.

I kept the binoculars trained on Little Marten and Flint Jack. Come on Flint Jack. And just as if he had heard me, he pulled ahead and was suddenly leading by a length.

From behind, Marcus asked, ‘Did you put my two bob on Flint Jack?’

‘No! You said you want to back the favourite.’

The race ended to cheers and groans.

The viciousness in Everett Runcie’s voice sent a shiver through me. He tore his betting slip and dropped it to the floor. Staring at Philippa with something like hatred, he said, ‘I backed the wrong horse. Again.’

She coloured up, and turned away. I was grateful to Marcus for starting a conversation with Philippa. He grabbed the waiter’s attention and passed her a drink.

I returned the binoculars to Cromer. ‘Thanks. They brought me luck.’

He smiled. ‘Always happy to oblige.’ He offered his hand. ‘Rupert Cromer.’

‘Kate Shackleton. I came to your exhibition last year.’ Perhaps the thought of scooping winnings turned me giddy. I had never thought of buying paintings or sculpture.

‘What did you like best in the exhibition?’

Now I’d done it. I muttered something about his mother and child and tried to remember my impressions. The piece that caused the greatest stir was an abstract nude, rumoured to be modelled on the Viking Queen.

Whatever I said must have either been satisfactory or given the impression of solvency.

He said, ‘Come out to my studio sometime.’

‘Thanks, I’d like to.’

‘Bring your friend.’ He nodded in the direction of Marcus who was still engrossed with Philippa.

Poor Philippa. And poor Everett. What would he do without Philippa’s money?

Philippa and Everett. Fitzpatrick and Deirdre. Perhaps one day an enterprising insurance company would come up with a policy to cover fire, theft and marital breakdown.

There could be no more putting it off. I had agreed to tail Deirdre Fitzpatrick and that was what I must do.

Sykes and I sat in the parked motor on Abbey Road, a hundred yards or so above Norman View, where the Fitzpatricks lived. Now it was just a matter of waiting; waiting in the morning fog.

For almost an hour, we watched the up and down trams, the rag and bone man’s horse and cart, a coal wagon, and a window cleaner, his ladders on a bogey. We agreed to meet, around midday, in the lounge bar of the Lloyds Arms. If I had not finished my surveillance by one o’clock, our comparing of notes would have to wait until this evening. Just as I began to think the surveillance would not happen at all, Sykes nudged me. ‘There she is.’

As if recognising a greater force than itself, swirls of fog parted for the figure in the silver-grey dust coat.

She wore black heeled shoes and carried a dolly bag. That was reassuring. With such a small bag, she would be unlikely to travel far, or elope with her fancy man.

‘Just the coat for a shoplifter,’ Sykes murmured. ‘Loose and with big pockets. She’d easily leave a shop wearing three frocks under that.’

The long wait had done nothing for my patience. ‘For heaven’s sake, it’s a coat, not a weapon for destroying the retail trade.’

Deirdre walked briskly, making a bee-line for the tram stop. A woman with a shopping basket waited there already and spoke a word or two, looking up Abbey Road, as if she might make the tram appear.

‘Drive to the next stop, Mr Sykes. I’ll board before her. That way she won’t notice me.’

Within a couple of minutes, we were at the previous stop. I hopped out of the motor just in time to catch the town centre tram.

I settled for a seat midway on the left of the lower deck, facing the rear. At the next stop Deirdre Fitzpatrick climbed aboard. She was slim, with a good figure, a pale, heart-shaped face, high cheek bones, and a wide mouth. Black curls escaped from under her cloche. She laughed at something the conductor said, before trotting up to the open deck.

An earlier occupant of my seat had enlivened the journey by squashing tiny insects with a tram ticket. The window was decorated with slaughtered baby flies. I looked through them at row after row of terraced houses, dye works, factories, and a tannery that gave off a powerful stench. As we neared the town centre, I moved closer to the tram stairs. The conductor coughed deeply, caught something interesting in his hanky and took a good look.