‘You’re being very kind.’
‘That’s because this is the classic situation,’ said Michael lightly. ‘Damsel in distress turning up out of the blue and requesting help. How could I refuse? Although to be correct you should have waited until a blizzard was raging, or at the very least a thunderstorm – you said you taught drama: where’s your sense of theatre, Ms Holland?’ He smiled and suddenly he no longer looked quiet or scholarly; he looked mischievous and as if he might be rather fun if you could get through the outer layers of reserve.
The phone call was brief but productive. ‘Your friend did talk to Edmund Fane,’ said Michael, putting the phone down. ‘And he somehow managed to arrange for her to get into Ashwood Studios.’ He saw Fran’s reaction, and said, ‘Didn’t you think of checking Ashwood? It’d be the first place most people would think of in connection with Lucretia. And if you live in North London it isn’t very far, is it?’
Francesca thought it was not very far at all. She thought Trixie could have got there and back in an afternoon. ‘But she didn’t believe she could get access, so I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘Edmund Fane got access for her. He tracked down a solicitor who holds the keys. And,’ said Michael, looking at her very intently, ‘he met your friend there on Monday afternoon.’
‘Monday afternoon would fit,’ said Francesca, thinking back. ‘I didn’t actually miss Trixie until Tuesday night. I had a parents’ evening on Monday, and some of us went out for supper afterwards. I got back quite late and went straight to bed. Mornings can be a bit of a scramble, so it was Tuesday evening before I realized properly that she wasn’t around.’
‘Would she have gone out to Ashwood without telling you?’
‘There was no particular reason for her to tell me. I’m only a sort of lodger. She’d probably have talked about it afterwards though, because she liked talking about her thesis, and she’d have been pleased with herself for getting into the studios.’ This sounded rather nastily critical of Trixie, so Fran said, ‘But we’re midway between East Barnet and Enfield, so it’s not far.’
‘Edmund Fane said he left her at the studios at about five,’ said Michael. ‘She wanted to prowl around a bit and draw some plans of the layout, so he left her to it. Fane says he drove home and as far as he recalls, got back about half past seven.’
For some reason – perhaps something in Michael’s voice – Francesca did not much like the sound of Edmund Fane. She said, ‘Why did he have to go all the way there? Couldn’t Trixie go on her own?’
Michael considered and then said, ‘Yes, I think she could have done, but Fane is very meticulous and a bit fussy. He probably thought it was the correct thing to do. Or maybe he was asked to go along to verify your friend’s genuineness. Solicitor to solicitor, or something.’
‘Oh, I see. That doesn’t give us any leads though, does it?’ said Francesca. ‘Unless Trixie crashed her car driving back.’
‘A crashed car would have been found and reported by now, I should think.’
‘But if it happened on a lonely stretch of road—’
‘Nowhere’s that lonely these days.’
But Francesca had a sudden vivid image of Trixie lying dead in a ditch somewhere, being rained on and investigated by weasels, and because this was not an image she wanted to get stuck with, she said firmly, ‘What I think I’d better do is get in touch with this Ashwood solicitor.’
‘All right. Fane gave me his number. His name’s Liam Devlin. D’you want to borrow my phone?’