by Susan Moody
Time passed. Although it had been a bright day, the weak winter light gave way early to the thick black clouds of advancing night. At my feet, Anton moaned, bringing me back to the reality of a dog needing to be walked. I glanced out of the window up to street level, and saw a figure standing on the pavement staring down at me. Man or woman? It was impossible to be sure. I frowned. How long had whoever it was been there? Was it just a nosy passing stranger, or someone spying on me? And if the latter, how would they have known I was there? I briskly tugged down the blind, then rattled the curtains across the window. I pulled on a warm jacket and attached Anton to his lead, locked the door securely behind me and climbed the basement steps to pavement level. I stared up and down the street, but could see no one lurking in the shadows. Reminding myself that this was one of the best neighbourhoods in London, I set off towards the Embankment. Bare trees rattled in the darkness above my head; dried leaves scuttled along the pavement. Anton the dog had evidently been trained to do his repulsive business in the gutter, which I took to indicate that, unlike earlier in the park, I didn’t have to pick it up.
The houses on either side of the street were settling into early evening. Lights had been switched on in book-lined rooms, soft lamp light illuminated high ceilings and elaborate plaster cornices, walls in sage green and Chinese red served as admirable backgrounds to pictures which needed no price tag to inform viewers (including the sneaky ones like me, standing outside on the street) that here were some serious paintings.
I heard footsteps behind me and turned quickly to see a man coming up fast at my rear. I bent unnecessarily to adjust Anton’s lead, ready to launch myself like a coiled spring at the guy, should he attempt to attack me. Anton growled low in his throat, as the be-scarfed and be-hatted man, features almost invisible under the brim of his headgear, came up level with me, tipped his hat, said ‘Good evening,’ and walked rapidly on.
Wreaths of fog trailed across the river as I reached the Embankment and looked down at the murky water. There were lights on the other side, and a party boat was moving slowly upstream, discharging brightness and laughter into the night.
A pang for the lost days of my marriage darted through my heart. I kicked it away. Perhaps the worst aspect of Jack’s betrayal was the realization that all the happy times had been a sham, like a toadstool found hidden under dead leaves which had been hollowed out by woodland creatures. The single discovery of his infidelity had undermined and tainted my entire perception of the time we had been together. We had always enjoyed spending a few days in Hereward’s flat, walking hand-in-hand along the river, visiting galleries and museums, admiring the splendour of London’s monuments, getting tickets for the theatre. Happy times.
At the end of his lead, Anton moaned and tugged, wanting more freedom than he could be allowed on these Chelsea pavements. When I got back to my brother’s house, I would let him out unleashed into Herry’s back garden for five minutes. And if he did anything on the little lawn, Herry could pick it up when he came back.
A new idea struck me. Was it possible that Amy’s killer had in fact been after Helena, which would be one explanation for Helena’s disappearance? Perhaps I was wasting my time, trying to pinpoint those who might have hated Amy strongly enough to kill her. Possibly I should be trying a different tack altogether, concentrating my efforts on someone who had it in for Helena. But the well-developed sixth sense which all good coppers possess told me that I was looking in the right direction. It was a pity I didn’t have the slightest idea which way it was.
EIGHT
Donald Lewis belonged to the old school of publishing. So did his publishing company, Lewis & Barton, housed on many creaking levels of a narrow building fronting a Georgian square near Soho. Lewis was wearing the exact same clothes he’d worn at Amy’s launch party; I hoped he’d washed the shirt in the interim.
‘I recognize your name, of course, and have met your collaborator, Doctor Drummond, on a number of occasions,’ he said. ‘And of course the two of you were at Amy Morrison’s launch party not long ago.’ He sighed out some tobacco breath. ‘I wish we could have afforded to take Drummond & Quick on. Thing is, the kind of books we publish are expensive to produce, and frankly, don’t make a lot of profit for us. We’re in it for the love of it, rather than in the hope of retiring early as millionaires. So quite often it’s a toss-up: do we undertake an attractive compilation like yours, or a more learned tome like the Morrison book on Masaccio.’ He heaved a deep sigh. ‘Poor Amy,’ he said. ‘She always was her own worst enemy.’
‘Looks like she just came across an even worse one,’ I said.
‘True, true.’ He leaned across his desk, reaching for one of the pipes which sat in a teak rack in front of him. ‘Now, Miss Quick, what can I do for you?’
Once again, I explained the situation: my visit to Helena’s home, my discovery of Amy’s body, the disappearance of Helena. ‘And according to my sources, Doctor Drummond is now the main Person of Interest,’ I said. ‘And if you knew her at all you would be aware that she could not possibly have killed Amy Morrison.’
He sucked on his pipe and assumed a professorial mode. ‘Can one ever really tell what another human being is capable of?’
‘I suppose not, but—’
‘Don’t the neighbours, or the friends or families, always say that it’s impossible to believe when their son or uncle or work colleague is carted off to the police station and charged with murder? He was so quiet. Always had a smile for you. Drove old ladies to church … You know the kind of thing.’
Just what Garside had said. ‘Helena didn’t take old ladies to church, or anywhere else,’ I said. ‘But I would stake my life on her not being a stone-cold killer.’
‘Hmmm …’ Lewis picked up a box of matches ‘So what information are you hoping to get from me?’ He tapped the upside-down bowl of his pipe with the matchbox until various bits of dried-up tobacco fell out of it, then found a waterproof packet from some inner recess of his clothing and unwrapped it. A rich smell of oranges, nuts and sherry flavoured the air above his desk as he stuffed tobacco into his pipe.
‘Were you aware of anyone at all who might wish Amy Morrison ill?’
Again he sighed. ‘Nil nisi bonum and all that, but there’s no denying that Amy was a difficult woman. I should imagine that she alienated quite a lot of those with whom she came into contact. My assistant, for example. Miranda. Couldn’t stand the sight of her. She’d hide in the stationery closet whenever she knew Amy was expected.’
‘What did Amy do to her?’
‘For starters, she behaved as though Miranda were an incompetent flunkey, whose role in the company was to wait on Amy hand and foot, with a large dose of brown-nosing thrown in. I can tell you Miranda didn’t take at all kindly to it, refused to play ball. Amy even tried to get her sacked for insubordination. Miranda took a first at Oxford and is one of our key staff members. Naturally we refused.’ He shook his head. ‘Quite extraordinary.’
‘Was there a husband?’ I tried not to cough as Lewis set a match to the tobacco, sending a plume of scented smoke puffing to the ceiling and swirling round his office.
‘Indeed there was. Mark … but he’s only the current one.’ Lewis brushed at the burning shreds of loose tobacco which had fallen from the bowl of his pipe and were now smouldering gently on his waistcoat.
‘Mark?’
‘Sheridan, son of General Sheridan who played a big part in the Kosovo conflict.’
‘Any idea where I might find him?’
‘If he’s got any sense, he’ll still be occupying the marital home. I’ve no idea how Amy planned to dispose of her assets, whether she’d even made a Will, but he would certainly be in the running. She wasn’t a pet lover, so unlikely to have left the lot to some animal charity. And if she has any other family, we have no idea who or where they are.’
‘What about previous husbands?’
‘Before Mark was Jason, a body-builder and judo expert – Fourth Da
n or something – she met at her gym. And the first one, Seamus, was a handsome brute from County Cork, who enjoyed beating her up when he’d drink taken. I’m extrapolating a bit, you understand. I only ever met Mark.’
‘What did he do?’
‘Worked at the local supermarket, I believe.’
‘Were these happy marriages?’
‘God, no. Violent, vicious and tear-filled, as far as I could make out. Amy was always partial to what my mother would have called “a bit of rough”. Sometimes she came in to the office in sunglasses to hide a nice shiner.’
‘Why on earth would she want to marry men like that?’
He leaned back and steepled his fingertips across his chest. ‘The in-house theory was that Amy was too moral for her own good.’
‘Moral? Can you clarify that?’
‘Selfish though she was, somewhere deep down she felt that having slept with them, she had to make honest men of them. I don’t think they quite realized what was happening until they found themselves saying “I do” at the nearest registry office. Some of us went to her last wedding and the thing that struck us most was the piteous look of bewilderment on poor Mark’s face.’ Puff, puff … ‘It really was rather comic.’
‘Would any of them be likely to come and smash her head in?’ I asked. ‘Were there grudges held? Vows of vengeance? Threats uttered?’
‘I never heard of any.’ Lewis puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. ‘But given what might be deemed their anti-social tendencies, I should imagine any of them might be capable of it – certainly the first two – though I only have this from Amy herself. On the other hand they’re all – how shall I put this? – simple men. Hollow between the ears. I can’t really see them planning to bump Amy off, in the sense that I can’t imagine them organizing anything as sophisticated as following their former wife in order to kill her in someone else’s house. Why not do it in the comfort of their own home? Spur of the moment men, all three of them. Or so I gathered, from the things Amy let drop.’
‘So they weren’t marriages of true minds?’
‘True bodies, possibly, but minds? Absolutely not.’
I hastily repressed an unbidden image of Amy wrestling sweatily with one or other of her husbands, sheets tangling under their bodies, grunts of pleasure or squeals of orgasmic delight. I wondered if the neighbours on either side of Helena’s house had heard anything the night Amy was killed and reflected that, by now, the police would surely have made enquiries, and in any case, the Forensic Scenes Investigators would have picked up any remnants of sexual activity and been able to extract DNA from the bed linen. There would have been various body hairs: pubic, facial, head. Not to mention semen or vaginal secretions, saliva, skin traces … it must all be there.
‘Strange, for such a scholarly woman,’ I said.
‘And she was scholarly, no question about it. The Masaccio book is a masterpiece of meticulous research.’
‘You’d think she’d go for someone of her own calibre.’
‘You would, wouldn’t you?’ A flame shot out of the pipe bowl, causing Lewis to start back, and scattering red-hot debris over the papers on his desk. ‘Damn thing,’ he said.
‘Did you like Ms Morrison?’ I asked.
‘Like Miranda, I couldn’t bear the woman. Arrogant, ill-mannered, conceited. A frightful snob – though God knows she had nothing to be snobbish about, except possibly academically – and extremely unpleasant with it.’
‘When you say she had nothing to be snobbish about, what exactly do you mean?’
‘She never talked about it, but I understood that her origins were … uh … not of the highest.’ Lewis looked furtively from side to side as though worried there might be a member of the PC brigade lurking in the corner.
‘Where did you understand that from?’
‘I’m not quite sure.’ He pondered. ‘Something we picked up from somewhere, but I couldn’t tell you from where.’
‘Is that why she was attracted to these rough types, do you think? A return to her roots?’
‘You could be right.’
‘Is it possible that someone from her earlier days might have held a murderous grudge?’
‘My dear Miss Quick, anything’s possible.’
Of course he was right: anything was possible. But you couldn’t include the entire human race in your list of suspects. You had to narrow things down a bit.
‘What about that Graziella Montenegro?’
‘Terrifying woman. Eats iron bars as an hors d’oeuvre, along with a litre of whisky – or so I’ve been told on the most reliable authority.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a journalist. A critic, too. Works for some arty Italian magazine. As far as I can tell, she’s in love with Amy. Or was, of course.’
I looked at the view from a fine floor-to-ceiling window of a bare-branched lime tree and the backs of houses, and then more closely at the book-crowded shelving which took up two sides of the room. There were at least a dozen books I would love to own. Did I dare ask for one?
Helena would have done.
I was about to open my mouth when Lewis’s phone rang. ‘Good morning,’ he said courteously. ‘Oh, it’s you, Miranda. The who?… What do they want?… Oh, I suppose it was to be expected. Send them up.’
Replacing the receiver, he said, ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. That was my assistant, informing me that the police are on their way here to question me with regard to Amy, though I don’t know how I can be of help to them.’
‘You’ve certainly been of help to me.’ I said, getting out of my chair.
He rose too. ‘Good luck with the search for your collaborator. And of course, if I hear anything that might be germane, I’ll pass it on.’
‘Thank you.’
As I reached the door, he called, ‘I agree with you … I cannot see Doctor Drummond as a murderer, however provoked she might have been.’
I trod cautiously down the slippery brown-linoleumed stairs, passing open offices where people were variously staring dispiritedly at computer screens, drinking coffee, or talking on the phone. At one of the open doors, a woman waited. A strangely glamorous lady, in spiky heels and a figure-hugging dress of navy jersey, with a brilliant scarf tied loosely round the shoulders. She seemed somewhat out of place in this benignly seedy location.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Miranda Railton, Don’s assistant. Any luck in your quest?’
‘Depends how you define luck.’ I wondered what she thought I was trying to find. And why she was interested in the result. ‘But not much, unfortunately.’
‘We were all very shocked to hear about Amy,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t wish something like that on your worst enemy, would you?’ Her brilliant smile was completely at odds with her words.
‘Not really.’
‘I expect Don told you about Amy’s recent husbands, didn’t he?’
‘Recent?’
‘He doesn’t always mention the first one. A rich old American she came on to at age seventeen or so, who took her off to New York. She was with him for quite a long time. Until he died, actually. Now it’s her turn. So sad, isn’t it?’ She smiled at me again. ‘You were the one who discovered her, weren’t you?’
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
She switched off the smile. ‘I wish it had been me,’ she said.
Not a lot I could say to that.
Armed with the address, Amy’s house had not been difficult to find. I came up out of the Underground at Highbury & Islington tube station, consulting my A–Z as I went, fetching up eventually in front of a handsome little terraced house. The woodwork had all been freshly painted white. The navy-blue front door was decorated with shiny brass door furniture. An ornamental bay tree stood to one side of the entrance in a square lead pot and the small front garden held a smartly trimmed design of low box hedges. But there were signs of recent neglect. The curtains in the front window had been carelessly pulled half-open, dead leaves cl
ogged the roots of the box hedges, and were lined up along the path. If the latest husband stood to inherit this, he was sitting pretty. And it went without saying that he had a fine motive for eliminating his wife.
Standing under a small trellised porch, which in the spring would have a clematis (now badly in need of cutting back) covering it, I could see into the front room. On a sofa covered in old-rose linen piped in white, a man was sitting with his head buried in his hands. Was this Mark, the current husband? Or a candidate for a future one? I rat-tat-tatted at the door.
The man who opened it was in need of a shave and probably had been for several days. His eyes were red-rimmed, and although his sweater was cashmere, it was stained with what looked like HP sauce. He was barefoot and had a can of beer in his hand. ‘Yeah?’ he said. He was obviously drunk but it was clear that he was undeniably a bit of a hunk.
‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I said formally.
‘Fuck my loss. What are you, someone from the church round the corner?’ He burped slightly. ‘Sorry but we don’t attend, don’t believe in all that crap about God. You’ve come to the wrong place, lady, and I—’
‘If you’d let me explain,’ I said.
‘Explain what?’
‘Your wife – your former wife, that is – was killed in my friend’s house, and they think she did it.’
‘And did she?’ He swayed slightly, clutching at the edge of the door.
‘No. And I’m trying to prove it.’
‘So you’ve come round here to try and pin it on me, right?’ He sounded so aggressive that I took a step backwards. Yet he spoke with an educated upper-class accent that was strangely at odds with his appearance and behaviour.
