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11

Penrose put the telephone down, shocked by the brutality of the news from London, even though he had feared the worst. Had Alex Fielding been murdered simply to pave the way for someone with a very different agenda to take her place, he wondered, or was there more to it? The details of the photographs that Fallowfield had found in her suitcase bewildered and troubled him. Thinking back, he vaguely remembered a woman among the crowd of regular journalists who covered the city’s high-profile crimes, but he hadn’t known her name or even which newspaper she represented, and she had certainly never spoken to him. If that had been Alex Fielding, he was at a loss to know why she had found him so interesting.

He glanced at his watch, assessing how long he might have to wait for the back-up from Penzance; he would rather not make an arrest until they arrived, but neither did he want to waste time. Looking through to the bar, he studied the suspect now firmly in the frame for at least one murder, and was annoyed by his own reluctance to believe it – annoyed because the feeling had nothing to do with evidence or logic, but with the simple fact that he had come to like the man who called himself Fielding. There was no doubting the deception, though, and something as audacious as this could surely only have been achieved by someone familiar with the photographer, or at least with her 261lifestyle; the impostor had been convincing enough to fool most of them, and if Marlene had been less knowledgeable about photography, he would probably still be getting away with it.

Dick Robertson’s line was engaged, but he got through to the editor at the second attempt. ‘Mr Robertson? It’s DCI Archie Penrose. One of my colleagues should have been in touch with you …’

‘Yes, just now. I’m still trying to take it in. Have you got the bastard who did it?’

‘That’s why I’m phoning. I was hoping you might be able to help me identify the man who’s been passing himself off as one of your photographers.’

There was a silence at the other end, as Robertson considered the implications of what Penrose had said, and the instinct for self-preservation kicked in. ‘You think he’s connected to this paper?’ he asked guardedly. ‘Unless you’re sure, Penrose, I’d be very careful—’

‘I’m not saying that the newspaper is in any way culpable for Miss Fielding’s death, but it’s reasonable to assume that the man who has taken her place knew her routines and her schedule for this weekend. He obviously knew where she lived, and he was convincing enough for his deception to go undetected, at least at first.’

‘Go on, then. What does he look like?’

‘He’s about thirty, with sandy brown hair, worn quite long, and a beard. Six foot, or thereabouts, and a London accent. Are there any reporters or photographers who fit that description?’