Quick and the Dead

by Susan Moody

  Again he narrowed his eyes at me, as though this in itself was an admission of guilt. Maybe someone had told him he looked like Sherlock Holmes when he did that. ‘Quick,’ he said. ‘How do I know your name?’

  ‘Are you an art-lover? Because in that case, you might have seen one of the anthologies I’ve produced with Doctor Drummond.’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t have much time for that sort of thing.’ He looked smug about this piece of information. He smoothed his forehead, as though hoping to iron out some of the hostility. It didn’t work. ‘Have you considered the possibility that Doctor Drummond killed this woman herself, perhaps not intending to, and then took off in a panic?’

  ‘Of course I have. But this is just not her style.’ Style? Even as I spoke, I realized that with murder involved, the remark sounded unsuitably offhand. ‘I mean, I simply cannot imagine Helena indulging in this kind of violence. Especially when you consider that the victim had been stripped more or less naked, and her eyes had been obliterated. Not to mention the papers which had been stuffed inside the body. In my book, that points to some kind of kinky sexual crime. Has to.’

  ‘Not necessarily. Maybe she stripped willingly. Maybe Doctor Drummond, you know, dances down the other end of the ballroom.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  He leaned back, smiling with self-satisfaction. Inspector Alan Garside, the latest in a long line of perspicacious hawk-eyes, up there with Philip Marlowe and Nero Wolfe, Lincoln Rhyme and Jack Reacher. ‘So Mrs Drummond didn’t have any tendencies towards … uh … the other direction, if you see what I mean? Play for the opposite team, as it were?’

  ‘If you’re asking if Doctor Drummond was a lesbian, then the answer is a resounding no,’ I said, again emphasizing Helena’s title. ‘I’ve been her close friend and collaborator for some years now and I can assure you that she is totally straight. Heterosexual,’ I added, seeing a faint look of incomprehension on Garside’s face.

  ‘There’s always the possibility, of course, Miss Quick …’ He coughed into his fist. ‘… that much as one hesitates to accept the fact, there is such a thing as pure evil. Sadistic psychopaths do exist.’

  ‘And spend their time lurking around houses in rural villages in the hope of finding a victim? I don’t think so.’

  ‘The person responsible for this might have been stalking the victim for days.’

  Again I was flooded with guilt. I hated to hear this. Stalker, kidnapper, psychopath: why had I taken so little notice of Helena? Though I don’t know what I could have done to protect her. Unwillingly, I told Garside what Helena had said to me just the evening before.

  ‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘It needs investigating, of course.’

  ‘She also told me that this stalker might have a motorbike, since a couple of times she’d heard an engine revving or a machine roaring away down the street. So the neighbours might have seen or heard something. She told me she saw him across the road sometimes, watching her house after dark, waiting for her. Like Nemesis, she said.’ I didn’t tell him how Helena had shuddered as she told me this.

  ‘Nemesis?’

  ‘The spirit of divine retribution. Another name for her means “The Inescapable One”.’

  ‘Any description of this possible stalker?’

  ‘Nothing specific. Tall, slim, wearing what looked like black leathers. That’s all she said.’ Once more I castigated myself for not asking for more details.

  ‘Not a lot to go on, is it? Meanwhile, Doctor Drummond will have to remain our prime suspect until we have reason to believe otherwise. Unless you have any ideas about who else might have been responsible for this killing.’

  ‘Since I still don’t know who the victim is, any more than you do, it would be difficult to say. It’s always possible that the dead woman came to visit Helena last night and the two of them were ambushed by a third person who entered the house after that.’

  ‘Or,’ Garside said, with a knowing look, ‘had already secreted himself inside the house.’

  ‘In that case, though far be it from me to tell you your business, it might be a good idea for you to search among her students, see if anyone resented a grade she’d given them, or whether she’d had some kind of falling out with a colleague.’ I thought back to the scene I had stumbled upon in the bedroom. ‘Though as I said, the death seems to have a clear sexual component, implying that the victim was the intended target, rather than Doctor Drummond. Not that she isn’t sexy enough in her own right. And she did mention this black-clad stalker more than once.’

  Garside seemed vaguely discomfited by all this talk of sex. He straightened the notes in front of him. ‘What, if anything, do you make of the words …’ He looked down. ‘dei Branca? Or bute mon?’

  ‘Just off the top of my head, I would guess them to be part of the name Cappella dei Brancacci – that’s the Brancacci Chapel in the church of Santa Maria del Carmine,’ I said. ‘Plus a reference to a fresco by Masaccio called The Tribute Money, which is in that same chapel. In Florence. In Italy.’

  He looked irritated at the implication that he didn’t know where Florence was. ‘You said Doctor Drummond had been married twice. Has she told you anything about her former husbands?’

  ‘She hardly ever mentioned them. I have a feeling that one of them was Australian or Canadian, or that she met him in Australia – among other things, she’s a Visiting Fellow at the University of Melbourne. He may be the one she called an absolute bastard, but I don’t know for sure because she didn’t expand on him.’

  The Inspector wrote something down. ‘What about the other one?’

  ‘Nothing at all, really, except that she referred to him once as a lovely fellow, but a bit of a shit. In an affectionate sort of way.’ Repeating the words, I felt a sudden sharp pang. Oh Helena, where are you? I thought. What is being done to you? Are you safe, or are you lying somewhere, trussed up and in abject terror?

  ‘Doesn’t sound all that affectionate to me.’

  ‘Her idea of a joke,’ I said.

  ‘Can you give me names? Occupations?’

  I shook my head. ‘As I said, she rarely speaks of either of them. I don’t even know if Drummond is her own surname, or whether it belonged to one of the husbands. As for occupations, my best guess would be that they were somehow involved in the world of academe, or art. Or both.’

  The two of us sat without speaking as footsteps went bumping heavily past the closed door. The body being removed, I assumed.

  Garside resumed his interrogation. ‘Have you ever had reason to believe that Helena Drummond was in any kind of trouble? Did she do drugs? Or owe money to some criminal gang, the sort that might have sent an enforcer to break into her house and murder her as a warning to others?’

  ‘Are you thinking mistaken identity?’ The possibility occurred to me for the first time. Helena wore her hair in a similar style to the victim and it was more or less the same blondish colour. It seemed perfectly feasible that a commissioned enforcer, not acquainted with either woman, might have killed the wrong one.

  ‘At the moment I’m not thinking anything. Or, rather, I’m keeping an open mind. But certainly mistaken identity is a possible answer. Which is why I’m asking you so many questions about the homeowner, this Doctor Helena Drummond, who is, as far as we know, alive and well and possibly drinking a latte or espresso in the nearest coffee bar, even as we speak.’

  ‘That’s quite an assumption.’ And although I didn’t say so, a bloody stupid one. If Helena had discovered a mutilated body on her bedroom floor, ditzy as she could sometimes be, she was hardly likely to head out to the nearest Costa coffee shop without informing the police.

  He shrugged. ‘So what’s your answer?’

  I had to think for a moment to recall his question. Then I said, ‘I’ve never heard her say anything at all which would indicate that she was worried about anything criminal. Students, yes. Publishers, sometimes. Tracking down a painting she was certain would be perfect for one of our books, y
es. She used to get really frustrated if she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it. Granted she’s eccentric. But under the eccentricity, she’s pretty much on the ball. About everything.’

  ‘No money troubles? No problems with family or boyfriends?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware. As for drugs, she didn’t touch them. She often told me she’d seen too many of her most promising students frying their brains with toxic substances, turning into zombies, and completely dropping out.’

  ‘Very interesting.’ He placed his palms flat on the table and stood up. ‘Well, thank you for your help, Ms Quick. Perhaps you would give one of the uniforms as comprehensive a list as you can of Helena Drummond’s associates, insofar as you know them.’

  ‘Including myself?’

  ‘Of course.’ He grimaced, which might have been intended as a smile. ‘The person who telephones the police often turns out to be the one who perpetrated the crime.’ He paused, then added, ‘As I expect you know. But for the moment, we shall be giving priority to finding Doctor Drummond.’

  ‘I can tell you categorically, here and now, that whoever it is lying dead upstairs, Helena Drummond is not responsible for her death. It’s absolutely out of the question.’

  ‘People always say that after the event, don’t they?’ He adopted a high-pitched sing-song accent. ‘I can’t believe it, he was always so quiet, always had a nod and a smile, always nice to the kiddies when we walked past.’ He gave his grimace of a smile once again. ‘But who am I to be telling you that?’

  I raised my eyebrows at him. Had I been rumbled? I rather thought so, not that it mattered. As I left the room, I heard his voice behind me informing me that he might have to question me further and if I heard from Dr Drummond I was to contact him immediately.

  Seated in the chilly shelter of my car, I considered the overriding question: what was Helena up to? And why was she not answering her phone? I tried to imagine what could possibly have happened in the house the previous evening. Helena must have been picked up by friends, since her car was still outside. She had presumably attended the concert with them. She’d then gone out to some restaurant for dinner. Then what? Had she come home?

  I found the number for the antiques and antiquarian bookshop Helena had mentioned and pressed the digits, wondering if they would still be open this late on a winter’s day. They were. A female voice answered the phone.

  ‘This is Alex Quick here,’ I said. I swallowed. ‘Uh … Detective Inspector Alex Quick.’ I felt uneasy about the deception. I knew it was a crime to impersonate a police officer, but I had been one once and rules sometimes have to be broken when needs must. With any luck, I would get away with it.

  ‘Oh …’ The woman sounded worried. ‘Is anything wrong, Officer?’

  ‘No, no. It’s just a routine enquiry.’

  ‘Paul’s in the office. He’s terribly busy, though. I don’t know if he’ll be—’

  ‘I only want a minute of his time.’

  ‘All right. I’ll just put you through.’

  There was the usual clicking, dead pauses, buzzing. Then a bad-tempered male voice said, ‘Paul Sandbrook here. What seems to be the trouble?’

  ‘I believe you joined Doctor Helena Drummond last night for dinner?’

  ‘That’s right. In Prego’s.’

  ‘And how did she seem?’

  ‘Her usual gung-ho self.’

  ‘Did she mention anything unusual?’

  ‘Such as what?’

  ‘A … uh … new man in her life? Something abnormal or out of the ordinary?’

  His voice changed. ‘Look here. What’s this all about? Has something happened to her?’

  ‘Not as far as we know.’ I attempted a small laugh. ‘It’s just that we can’t locate her at the moment.’

  ‘How did you even know I had dinner with her?’

  ‘She told me.’

  There was a pause, then he said, ‘Hang about, don’t I know your name? My assistant mentioned the name Quick … aren’t you Helena’s collaborator?’

  ‘That’s ri—’

  ‘And, I believe, ex-DI Quick.’

  ‘Very ex.’

  ‘You do know that it’s an indictable offence to impersonate a—’

  ‘They said you were busy, and I couldn’t think how else to get you to come to the phone.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Another pause. ‘Let’s start again,’ Sandbrook said. ‘What exactly are you after?’

  ‘Helena was supposed to join me this morning for an important meeting with a publisher, but she never showed,’ I explained. ‘And when I went to her house this afternoon to find out why she hadn’t turned up, there was … well, she wasn’t there. But … someone else was.’ I wondered whether it would matter if I mentioned the body and decided it would not since it was bound to hit the local news media any moment now.

  ‘Someone else?’

  ‘Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr Sandbrook, there was a body.’

  ‘What?’ I waited while he digested this information. ‘There’s no suggestion that it’s Helena, I hope.’

  ‘No, no. It was somebod—’

  ‘Nor that Helena is responsible,’ he said.

  ‘Not from me.’

  ‘Because she’s the very last person I would have thought—’

  ‘But I can’t speak for the police. Which is why I want to get hold of her as quickly as possible. Except I don’t know where she is.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Did she say anything last night about expecting visitors after supper? Or mention that someone had arrived to stay with her?’

  ‘Nothing whatsoever. As I said, she was on good form, looking forward to your meeting this morning, hoping it would lead on to contracts and so forth. And, if I may say so, very well-deserved they would be.’

  ‘Thank you. Meanwhile, where might Helena have gone?’

  ‘Give me your number, and if I think of something, or remember anything else, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘What about the others who were there last night?’

  ‘They were mostly Helena’s friends. I don’t think I even caught their names. There was a Fergus, I seem to remember. Or maybe it was Angus. Yes, Angus. And there was a Mona, with her husband Guillaume. A couple of others. Some man she was flirting with – but she always does. Peter Someone.’

  ‘No surnames?’

  ‘Nothing that springs to mind. Except the Angus person was MacSomething. I’m not very good with names, I’m afraid. The Guillaume guy runs some kind of art gallery somewhere local. But before you ask, I’ve no idea where.’ He paused, then added, ‘Oh, and then there was some woman at another table who came over. A former student, I believe, who was in town to deliver a lecture today to the art department.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. Didn’t catch it, I’m afraid.’

  ‘If you talk to any of them, I would suggest you don’t mention the … uh, the body to anyone. Not until it’s public knowledge.’

  ‘See what you mean. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘And what time did this gathering break up?’

  ‘Close to eleven, I’d say.’

  ‘So when would Helena have got home?’

  He thought about it. ‘She’d have had to walk to the multi-storey car park. Find her car. Drive out into the street. Her place is fifteen minutes or so from Canterbury. So provided she didn’t stop anywhere on the way, she should have got there before midnight. But not much.’ He paused. ‘Except come to think of it, I don’t think she drove herself into town last night. She was picked up by a neighbour, I believe.’

  Ending the call, I had to ask myself how I would have reacted if one of my former colleagues had behaved as I had just done, giving false ID. No getting away from it, I would have been livid. But until I found Helena, this was personal. The end justifies the means, I told myself. Nonetheless, I was uncomfortably aware of rules breached, of principles betrayed.

  Back home, I parked in my al
located space outside the former convalescent home which ten years ago had been converted into a dozen comfortable flats overlooking the sea. Jack and I had been lucky to be able to afford to buy one of them, which we had done with help from my parents and his, plus a small lump sum from my godmother, a rich and chilly friend of my mother’s. Reluctantly handing over a reasonably sized cheque, she had added, ‘And don’t expect anything further in my Will.’

  Hot coffee in hand, I stared out at a wintry sea, mulling over the names I’d been given by Sandbrook. Angus was a Scottish name, and Helena was originally from a small town outside Edinburgh – not that it made any difference, beyond the fact that this Angus might be a close enough friend to be aware of places she might go to earth if she needed to. Guillaume was French – which wouldn’t stop some poncey middle-class English parent giving the name to his or her child. The first name, Angus, produced the faintest tinkling in my brain; the second, Guillaume, I had no recollection of ever hearing before. How soon would I be able to get back into Helena’s house and poke around? The police would almost certainly be taking her computer away for examination; after all, she must be considered a person of interest, with a body found in her house, and she herself missing.

  The worst-case scenario would be that some maniac had killed the first woman and abducted Helena with a view to murdering her at his sadistic leisure. But I felt instinctively that this was not the case. Why, I could not have said. But if I was right, I had to come up with an alternative – and plausible – set of circumstances to explain Helena’s vanishing act.

  First of all, though, how and why had the dead woman got into Helena’s house? That might offer some clues as to her disappearance – but then again, it might not.

  Staring out of the windows at rain which was rapidly turning into serious sleet, my thoughts were still dominated by Helena, trying to imagine where she might be. Was the stalker she had mentioned several times a reality after all? She had spoken with such over-exaggerated melodrama that I had never taken her seriously. Now I wished with all my heart that I had not been so sceptical. Is that what had happened? A deranged stalker had broken into the house, seen a naked woman on the bed, bashed in her head, mutilated her eyes, forced pieces of paper into her body, only to discover, too late, that it wasn’t Helena at all?