Chapter Twelve

George knew where Jasmine Carson lived. He had given her a lift home once, after one of the Gillibry weekends. He had time still before meeting Molly. He was haunted by the image of Jasmine Carson bending painfully over the wastepaper basket in Paul Derbyshire’s room on the island. What could she have been doing there? He rang the bell at the front door of her flat and waited while she came to open it. She welcomed very few visitors to her flat and at first felt a rush of panic. She had never entertained a gentleman there.

She invited him in, then left him almost immediately in her living room, while she went to the kitchen to make coffee. He stood by the large window and admired the view of the island. He was intrigued by the different perspective.

“How strange it looks from here!” he said as she came in, awkwardly carrying the coffee tray. “What a wonderful view.”

She was proud, as if he had complimented her skill at interior design. The flat was bare and impersonal. Much of the furniture had been provided by the developer. Only the view expressed any individuality. It was as if she owned the view and the island.

“Would you pour the coffee?” she said. “I’m afraid that I might make a mess of it. My hands are very stiff this morning.” She had set the tray on a dining table, and sat on a high, hard-backed chair.

“Do take a more comfortable chair, if you prefer. I find it so much easier to stand up from here.”

He sat with her by the table by the big window. The tide was beginning to come in. The sandbanks beyond the island were covered. He poured coffee for her. Her hand shook as she was adding sugar and she spilled it over the table and floor. He sensed her anger and frustration. He had not realized how disabled she was.

“I have come,” he said, “to take up your offer of help.”

“How can I help you?” She seemed surprised, but very pleased.

“What did you find in Paul Derbyshire’s room yesterday?”

She did not speak. He could not tell at all what she was thinking.

“You did take something from his room?”

She seemed to make up her mind. “Yes,” she said. “I don’t know how you know, but I did take something from his room. I’m sure that it has nothing to do with the murder, but I felt that if it were to be found by someone else, it might be misinterpreted. Especially by the police. I am sure that Superintendent Savage has many qualities which would suit him to his profession, but he did not seem to me to be an intelligent man.”

She levered herself carefully to her feet, walked to a wall unit of veneered plywood which had obviously come with the flat, and from a drawer took a piece of paper. It had previously been torn and had been stuck back together with Sellotape.