A Woman Unknown Page 0,35

that this was on one of the Fridays when his wife didn’t come home. He could not decide whether the photographer was hinting that she was meeting another man.’

‘You said there were two things. What else?’

‘Apparently, Deirdre brought something home and forgot about it. Fitzpatrick seized on it, and he had it in his pocket – a table napkin, embroidered with a letter A. He asked me to find out where it might have come from and whether she was eating out in restaurants. I refused.’

I felt a sudden chill. The sun did not reach this alley. Even the pigeon had flown. A terrible stillness settled around us.

‘Are you all right?’ Sykes asked.

‘Yes. Someone walked over my grave. Did you ever see Othello?’

‘I know the story, but I never saw it.’

‘Iago produces Desdemona’s handkerchief, as proof of her infidelity. Othello is so convinced of Desdemona’s guilt that he strangles her.’

Sykes’s matter-of-factness can be very reassuring. ‘I think the napkin’s from the Adelphi. That’s just across Leeds Bridge. Maybe Diamond took her to supper and was having a laugh at Fitzpatrick’s expense.’

‘Do you still have a note of the occasions when Fitzpatrick said she spent nights away from home?’

Sykes tapped the notebook in his breast pocket.

‘Good. Here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to call at the Adelphi and make a few discreet enquiries.’ I delved into my satchel. ‘Take this photograph of the Fitzpatricks’ wedding, but make sure you only show Deirdre’s picture. Find out if she stayed there.’

‘When? I’ve to be back at the Metropole for six.’

‘Plenty of time. I’ll meet you back here just before six. I’m going to pay Mr Fitzpatrick a visit. Since his wife was still at the nursing home, I can be there before she gets back. We’re missing something, and I’m not sure what.’

‘I know what I’m missing. My Yorkshire pudding.’

‘Have it cold later. Sprinkle it with sugar.’

I drove across to Kirkstall, parking the car on Abbey Road so as not to draw attention to myself. Norman View is a steep street, with well-tended gardens. I did not have to knock. Fitzpatrick was in the garden, emptying a teapot. He was wearing a dark blue striped apron.

He stared at me. ‘Mrs Shackleton.’

‘Hello, Mr Fitzpatrick. What a pretty garden.’

Fitzpatrick tipped the contents of the teapot onto the soil.

Sykes would have sniggered at the sight of Fitzpatrick in his apron.

‘What brings you to Kirkstall, Mrs Shackleton?’

Good question. What did I hope to achieve? I had a sudden mental picture of the evening gown that hung in the wardrobe of Runcie’s hotel suite, and of the dainty shoes. I should have brought one for Deirdre to try. It would be a great relief to see that they did not fit.

‘Is Mrs Fitzpatrick at home?’

Fitzpatrick froze. His heavy face turned pale. ‘Is something wrong?’

I had thought up a story on the way over, and now it sounded ridiculous: that my sister was about to be married (true) and had heard of a house to rent in one of these streets (false). She had asked me to take a look (whopper). Houses round here would be snapped up in an instant, and we both knew that.

He held the teapot close to his chest.

‘I had a question, for you or for Mrs Fitzpatrick.’

‘Deirdre isn’t here. We both went to see her mother at the nursing home. Deirdre was anxious that her mother see us together and know that everything’s all right. Be reassured you know.’

As though he suddenly remembered his manners, Fitzpatrick went to the already open door and held it steady. ‘Will you come in?’

‘Thank you.’

We stepped into a square kitchen, with the usual range, table and chairs, and the refinement of a curtain to cover the sink set in the recess. A giant picture of a sad-faced Jesus, his delicate hands exposing the bleeding heart on his chest, looked down from the wall. Beside it was the Virgin Mary, immaculately dressed in blue and white, wearing a sorrowful expression, head tilted to one side.

The table was set for tea, with three good China plates, cups and saucers. A dish of lettuce and a plate of tomatoes lay under a mesh cover. A snowy white cloth covered what must be slices of bread and butter. Under a glass cover lay slices of boiled ham surrounded by a boiled egg, neatly sliced. A cake stand held small, square iced creations. There would be a trifle somewhere, keeping cool.

‘You’re obviously expecting company. That’s a grand spread you’ve put