Читать книгу The Red 65 - Grant Peake - Страница 7

It was a cooler day as Hislop drove along the winding road leading up to the spacious, palatial mansions in the Hollywood Hills. He thought again of Billy Parsons. According to the case notes, there was nothing there to tell Hislop if Billy was unhappy or was he really enjoying himself, all that way from his family.

Eventually Marty located the home of Mrs Marjorie Femmer. Number 1768 North Beaumont was located in an older, yet quieter part of the district. Hislop had to slow down as the driveway sloped down from the main road. Hislop was hoping that she would be home. He had not phoned to warn Mrs Femmer of his visit. Hislop liked to catch people unawares, they often slipped up and gave themselves away. Spontaneity was Hislop’s tool to break open hidden knowledge that otherwise lay nestled away with care or just completely dormant.

So, let’s see what this dame has to say after all this time, thought Hislop, as he parked the unmarked car in the wide semi circular driveway.

The house was from the ’50s, definitely. Stone feature front porch, fashionable from that era. The cement between the stones was crumbling in places. Wide windows, however the wooden frames were in need of a paint job to freshen the place up. The roof tiles looked tired, but for its age, the house was in average condition, on the outside anyway.

Someone is tending to the house, long time to be still living at the same address. This Mrs Femmer is probably getting on in years now. I wonder if there is a Mr Femmer? Marty thought.

The bungalow spread across the wide block and he noticed a below ground garage, probably under the lounge room, Marty assumed. That was typical for these homes too. The garden was mostly cacti, planted amongst small stone pebbles – another characteristic of homes from that period. Some of the cacti plants had seen better days. Would be better if they were dug out, thought Marty. There were light coloured pavers surrounding the cacti beds. Some of the cacti were in flower and had attracted the bees; who were busy humming away and collecting nectar.

Marty skipped up the two stairs on to the porch and pressed the doorbell. He was quite agile for his age, hair thinning a bit and going grey at the temples, but to look at, he was still a pleasant looking chap. Straightening his tie and wiping his shoes on each trouser leg, he waited for a response to the bell.

Shortly, the door was carefully opened by an elderly woman with dyed brunette hair. There was a tortoise shell hair comb pushing the hair up in the centre, something reminiscent of the ’60s period. She wasn’t young, could be late seventies or eighties even. Hard to tell with all this makeup they wear these days, Hislop thought. This woman’s makeup was quite thick. She must scrape it off with a knife, it was certainly well applied. She was dressed in a brown slack suit that was well worn and definitely not from the chic boutiques of today’s fashion houses. From the ’70s, Marty reckoned. An orange and white scarf adorned her neck. The woman’s lips were painted a vivid red and she wore gold bangles on her thin left arm. The face was pale, but the skin had been tended to. Not unattractive, even for advanced years, Marty mused. Her eyes were sunken and puffy bags were thinly disguised by makeup. The hands were shaking a little, Marty observed. An odour of perfume lingered about her, along with the smell of liquor.

Before the woman could speak, Marty got in first and introduced himself and asked if she was Mrs Marjorie Femmer.

“Yes, I am Mrs Marjorie Femmer.” came the croaky and suspicious reply. The voice was quivering a little and she seemed on edge, almost frightened.

Strange, thought Marty. Perhaps she did live on her own.

Showing no sign of observing anything amiss, Marty explained the reason for his visit and requested if he might come in to go over the events of that day she saw Billy Parsons.

Mrs Femmer was now unwilling to open the door, and with almost hysteria in her voice replied, “I gave the police a statement about what I saw years ago, and I don’t know anything else! I cannot help you, I’m sorry.” Mrs Femmer attempted to close the door in Marty’s face but he was too quick and placed his foot between the doorframe and the wood door. Mrs Femmer’s body was slightly shaken and she seemed to become unbalanced. Hislop grabbed her by the right hand and steadied her. She was visibly shaking and teary.

“I think it may be better if I helped you inside Mrs Femmer, to sit down. I know this has probably come as a shock to you, but I just need to ask a few questions and then I will be on my way.” said Marty gently. He was using his skills of diplomacy to gain access to the house and then he would strike.

Carefully, he guided the clearly distressed Mrs Femmer inside. Into a large lounge they slowly walked. The room was bright and airy and had a large window overlooking the front cacti garden. Mrs Femmer slumped down into a well worn sofa and just seemed to stare ahead into space. Her body was trembling and Hislop could detect that a sweat had broken out on the woman’s forehead.

So, thought Marty. Something to hide have we, be sure I shall get it out of you my dear, by any means.

Marty’s eyes were fixed on this woman who was trembling.

“Can I get you a drink Mrs Femmer?” was Marty’s first draw card to get into this woman’s mind and unlock the dark secrets that lurked there. Water was what Marty had in mind – but not Mrs Femmer.

“Yes, over there by the window. The drop down cabinet has whiskey.” she managed to quiver out of the depths of her silent reverie. She pointed to the cabinet with an unsteady arthritic finger.

Marty noticed that she wore no wedding band but had rings on the right hand only. The jewellery appeared to be good quality with one ring having a large brilliant cut green stone, possibly an emerald Marty surmised.

Hastily, Marty walked to the old cabinet and poured Mrs Femmer a stiff whiskey. He walked back to the anxious looking woman and handed the glass to her. Mrs Femmer grabbed the drink and gulped the liquid down as though it was just water.

“Another, please,” she blurted out with an audible burp.

Marty raised his eyebrows, without the woman seeing him and went back to the cabinet to pour another drink. This time he noticed that the cabinet was well stocked with mostly whiskey and some crème de menthe. There was also an opened bottle of sherry.

Well, well, thought Marty. Mrs Marjorie Femmer likes a tipple, if ever anyone does! Pacing back over to the hapless creature, who just seemed to be languishing amongst the many cushions, Marty handed the second drink to Mrs Femmer. She was fiddling with a thick gold chain around her scrawny neck. Once again, the fluid was washed down with a flourish. The effects of the whiskey had settled Mrs Femmer and Marty purposed to go ahead with his questions.

“There, is that better Mrs Femmer?” asked the inquisitive Marty

“Yes, thank you, much better. It was just the heat, it will pass.” the woman gasped in reply. The head was lolling around a little bit but the hands were now settled.

Poor bitch, thought Marty.

The day was actually on the cool side, so Marty knew that the answer was just a lame cover up.