Free Death of a Salesperson by Robert Barnard Page B

Rotherham, run by a formidable lady who took a fancy to me. That was the beginning of it all . . .’
    â€˜Fascinating,’ said Janice, as she felt his hand return to her shoulder. The hand, she noticed, was not quite still, but yet it showed a practised confidence, as well it might. Soon she was far beyond noticing whether it was still or not.
    Some hours later, when the hotel was quiet, in the middle of a very dark night, Janice, more satisfied than she wouldhave believed possible, heard Jeremy breathe in her ear: ‘I always do it as if it were the last time.’ Janice giggled and said:
    â€˜Do you know what my mother calls you?’
    â€˜I can imagine.’
    â€˜A fornicator, a child-molester and a drunkard.’
    â€˜She was fourteen, but she looked twenty-one,’ said Jeremy Fortescue. ‘Anyway, she did when I’d finished with her.’
    â€˜I notice you don’t deny the rest.’
    â€˜How could I?’ he asked, his breath now strong with whisky, and very close.
    In the morning he insisted they have breakfast in his suite. When the waiter from the Prince Frederick dining-room brought it in, Janice was in the bathroom showering, but Jeremy shouted:
    â€˜Breakfast up, darling. But don’t hurry.’
    And Janice replied: ‘Won’t be a minute.’
    They ate companionably, Jeremy seeming not to have eaten for hours. When they left, Jeremy brought the car round, and paid his bill with a credit card. He fetched Janice, and they sailed together through the foyer—how lucky she had had with her that enormous hat! she could not have looked anyone in the face—and then out into the car. He dropped her at the station, and behind the car’s smoked windscreen they kissed goodbye. Jeremy got out of the car as Janice disappeared through the arch into the darkness of the station, and waved and called goodbye. On-the station forecourt he created a small sensation, and signed a few autographs.
    Once inside the station, Janice telephoned to the chairman of the meeting (‘I’ve suddenly got this appalling headache’), and then took the next train home. Jeremy tore himself away from his little knot of fans, and drove straight to Markham studios, where he was due to begin work on an American adaptation of The Last Days of Pompeii. Helooked marvellous in a toga, and he struck up an immediate rapport with the actress playing Nydia. From that first day they were inseparable, and the rest of the unit commented on it. ‘Jeremy usually plays it so casual,’ said one of those who’d worked with him before. ‘Like he was one of nature’s loners. Not this time.’ One or two of them who were really friends of his added: ‘Perhaps she’s the one who’ll finally get him away from that bitch.’ The remark got around the studio, and was taken up even by those who did not know Jeremy Fortescue’s wife. They were saying it when her body was found, six days later.
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    When the policeman came to the Prince Frederick, the clerk at Reception had been expecting him for some time, and was quite twittery with excitement. He had read of the death of Mrs Jeremy Fortescue in the papers, naturally, and had begun to think of himself as one of the last to see the dead woman alive. He even had a bookmark in the register, to show the Inspector where Jeremy Fortescue had signed in.
    â€˜But it’s Mrs Fortescue we’re interested in,’ said the Inspector. ‘You’re quite sure she was with him?’
    â€˜Not with him. She came later. But I saw her—oh, definitely I saw her. I was on the desk here when she arrived.’
    â€˜She didn’t sign the register?’
    â€˜Of course not. Her husband had already signed.’
    â€˜You’ve seen pictures of Mrs Fortescue?’
    â€˜Oh yes. In the newspapers. They weren’t good , but I recognized them: the hair, that nose. Of