‘Unofficially,’ he said, walking slowly with me along the pavement, ‘I’ll tell you that the Melbourne police found a list of names in the gallery which it turns out are of known housebreakers. Divided into countries, like the Overseas Customers. There were four names for England. I suppose I shouldn’t guess and I certainly ought not to be saying this to you, but there’s a good chance Mrs Stuart’s killer may be one of them.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. But don’t quote me.’ He looked worried.
‘I won’t,’ I said. ‘So the robberies were local labour?’
‘It seems to have been their normal method.’
Greene, I thought. With an ‘e’. Greene could have recruited them. And checked afterwards, in burnt houses, on work done.
I stopped walking. We were standing outside the flower shop where Regina had worked. Frost looked at the big bronze chrysanthemums in the brightly lit window, and then enquiringly at my face.
I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the six revolver shell cases. Gave them to Frost.
‘These came from the gun which the man called Greene fired at me,’ I said. ‘He dropped them when he was reloading. I told you about them on the telephone.’
He nodded.
‘I don’t imagine they’re of much practical use,’ I said. ‘But they might persuade you that Greene is capable of murder.’
‘Well… what of it?’
‘It’s only a feeling…’
‘Get on with it.’
‘Greene,’ I said, ‘was in England at about the time Regina died.’
He stared.
‘Maybe Regina knew him,’ I said. ‘She had been in the gallery in Australia. Maybe she saw him helping to rob her house… supervising, perhaps… and maybe that’s why she was killed, because it wouldn’t have been enough just to tie her up and gag her… she could identify him for certain if she was alive.’
He looked as if he was trying to draw breath.
‘That’s all… guessing,’ he said.
‘I know for certain that Greene was in England two weeks after Regina’s death. I know for certain he was up to his neck in selling paintings and stealing them back. I know for certain that he would kill someone who could get him convicted. The rest… well… it’s over to you.’
‘My God,’ Frost said. ‘My God.’
I started off again, towards the bus-stop. He came with me, looking glazed.
‘What everyone wants to know,’ he said, ‘is what put you on to the organisation in the first place.’
I smiled. ‘A hot tip from an informer.’
‘What informer?’
A smuggler in a scarlet coat, glossy hair-do and crocodile handbag. ‘You can’t grass on informers,’ I said.
He sighed, shook his head, stopped walking, and pulled a piece of torn-off telex paper out of his jacket.
‘Did you meet an Australian policeman called Porter?’
‘I sure did.’
‘He sent you a message.’ He handed me the paper. I read the neatly typed words.
‘Tell that Pommie painter Thanks.’
‘Will you send a message back?’
He nodded. ‘What is it?’
‘No sweat,’ I said.
I stood in the dark outside my cousin’s house, looking in.
He sat in his lighted drawingroom, facing Regina, unframed on the mantelshelf. I sighed, and rang the bell.
Donald came slowly. Opened the door.
‘Charles!’ He was mildly surprised. ‘I thought you were in Australia.’
‘Got back yesterday.’
‘Come in.’
We went into the kitchen, where at least it was warm, and sat one each side of the table. He looked gaunt and fifty, a shell of a man, retreating from life.
‘How’s business?’ I said.
‘Business?’
‘The wine trade.’
‘I haven’t been to the office.’
‘If you didn’t have a critical cash flow problem before,’ I said. ‘You’ll have one soon.’
‘I don’t really care.’
‘You’ve got stuck,’ I said. ‘Like a needle in a record. Playing the same little bit of track over and over again.’
He looked blank.
‘The police know you didn’t fix the robbery,’ I said.
He nodded slowly. ‘That man Wall… came and told me so. This morning.’
‘Well, then.’
‘It doesn’t seem to make much difference.’
‘Because of Regina?’
He didn’t answer.
‘You’ve got to stop it, Donald,’ I said. ‘She’s dead. She’s been dead five weeks and three days. Do you want to see her?’
He looked absolutely horrified. ‘No! Of course not.’
‘Then stop thinking about her body.’
‘Charles!’ He stood up violently, knocking over his chair. He was somewhere between outrage and anger, and clearly shocked.
‘She’s in a cold drawer,’ I said, ‘And you want her in a box in the cold ground. So where’s the difference?’
‘Get out,’ he said loudly. ‘I don’t want to hear you.’
‘The bit of Regina you’re obsessed about,’ I said, not moving, ‘is just a collection of minerals. That… that shape lying in storage isn’t Regina. The real girl is in your head. In your memory. The only life you can give her is to remember her. That’s her immortality, in your head. You’re killing her all over again with your refusal to go on living.’
He turned on his heel and walked out. I heard him go across the hall, and guessed he was making for the sittingroom.
After a minute I followed him. The white-panelled door was shut.
I opened the door. Went in.
He was sitting in his chair, in the usual place.
‘Go away,’ he said.
What did it profit a man, I thought, if he got flung over balconies and shot at and mangled by rocks, and couldn’t save his cousin’s soul.
‘I’m taking that picture with me to London,’ I said.
He was alarmed. He stood up. ‘You’re not.’
‘I am.’
‘You can’t. You gave it to me.’
‘It needs a frame,’ I said. ‘Or it will warp.’
‘You can’t take it.’
‘You can come as well.’
‘I can’t leave here,’ he said.
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he said explosively. ‘You know why not. Because of…’ His voice died away.
I said, ‘Regina will be with you wherever you are. Whenever you think of her, she’ll be there.’
Nothing.
‘She isn’t in this room. She’s in your head. You can go out of here and take her with you.’
Nothing.
‘She was a great girl. It must be bloody without her. But she deserves the best you can do.’
Nothing.
I went over to the fireplace and picked up the picture. Regina’s face smiled out, vitally alive. I hadn’t done her left nostril too well, I thought.
Donald didn’t try to stop me.
I put my hand on his arm.
‘Let’s get your car out,’ I said, ‘And drive down to my flat. Right this minute.’
A little silence.
‘Come on,’ I said.
He began, with difficulty, to cry.
I took a long breath and waited. ‘O.K.,’ I said. ‘How are you off for petrol?’
‘We can get some more…’ he said, sniffing, ‘… on the motorway.’
Dick Francis, In the Frame
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