Quick and the Dead

by Susan Moody

  I was prepared to bet that the Lamonts would have the very latest state-of-the-art thief-repellent devices, but even so, a determined burglar would probably crack them eventually, especially as required reading for would-be intruders these days included manuals which showed how to bypass or unlock most systems. I looked forward to seeing the two new paintings, and sent off my acceptance of the invitation. I wasn’t quite sure what ‘Black Tie’ meant these days for women: short or long? Not that I had much choice. I went to my wardrobe and hoicked out the cocktail dress I had bought for Meghan’s reception in Italy, after her marriage to Leonardo. I noticed a dribble of Leo’s expensive wine on the skirt, sniffed it and smelled traces of sweat under the arm. It would need cleaning. New tights would have to be bought. Hairdresser’s appointments made. Soon I would have to turn from private individual to public persona, from comfy to chic, something I hated.

  The room I was shown into was not a living room by any stretch of the imagination. It was not even a drawing room. A salon was the only word for it, a huge space in which to display a collection of museum-quality furniture, from seventeenth-century antiques in rosewood or walnut to Duncan Phyfe sofas and tables and a collection of his chairs which quite literally made me drool. In one quick survey, I clocked two four-foot-high urns of Sevres porcelain, the glazed display cabinet holding a set of rare Flora Danica plates and bowls, a collection of little boxes made of enamel, silver, ivory, porcelain, and the gorgeous paintings hanging on the walls.

  The guests were nearly all in dinner jackets, except for a few consciously arty types in unstructured black linen suits and open-necked white silk shirts. Très classy, I had to admit. Très hunky. There to be seen as much as to see. Especially the curly-haired one talking animatedly to a corpulent man with white hair who often fronted arts programmes on the TV. Most of the women were in long gowns, though a few of the younger ones wore cocktail dresses of various kinds, like mine. All glammed up, I smoothed down my French navy satin skirts, feeling that while I couldn’t begin to compete, at least I had struck the right note. Since there was a buzzing crowd around my host and hostess, I decided I would greet them later, and instead made my way across the room to gaze at the latest Lamont acquisitions.

  Ten minutes later, I was still staring when Mrs Lamont came up to stand beside me. ‘Yes, we’re absolutely delighted to have been able to buy two such paintings in such a short time,’ she said. She held out her hand and when I offered mine, took it in both of hers. ‘Alexandra! We’re both so glad you could come tonight.’

  She stood erect as a dowager princess, in a long jacket over a matching skirt, both made of coffee-coloured silk. There was a gorgeous choker of golden pearls around her neck, with more of them hanging from her ears. She glanced up at her new paintings. ‘They hardly ever come up for sale, so we feel immensely fortunate.’

  ‘They’re both so beautiful,’ I said. I wanted to stand in front of them for the rest of the evening, absorbing the juxtaposition of the flat planes, the blocks of pale colour. ‘It looks as though we have the same tastes.’ Though obviously not the same income.

  She smiled at me. ‘Last time we met, I mentioned the possibility of setting up a small publishing concern, and my husband and I should very much like to talk to you further about it.’ Her gaze wandered towards her other guests and returned to me.

  ‘I look forward to it.’

  ‘As I said in my invitation, we would be delighted to put you up at a hotel tonight, and send a car for you in the morning, at eleven o’clock, if you would like.’

  She had indeed made such an offer, but I had refused it. I don’t like being beholden. Or steam-rollered, for that matter.

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but I’m staying in Chelsea with my brother,’ I said.

  She put her elegant head on one side. ‘On the contrary, it’s you who are kind, to join us.’

  Oh, so gracious. And behind the careful hair, the discreet make-up, the gorgeous but understated jewellery, oh so desperately sad. I dredged up what my mind had retained about the Lamonts, but could not recall any personal tragedy.

  ‘Your brother is Hereward Quick, isn’t he?’ she said.

  How in the world would she know that? ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We run into him from time to time. He’s obviously very proud of you.’

  ‘Oh, is he?’ I coughed, not wanting to sound as if I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t imagine my brother discussing me with anyone. Or being complimentary. ‘Um … would it be ill-mannered of me to wander round and gaze at your paintings?’ I asked, knowing full well that it would be.

  Another gracious smile. ‘Of course not,’ she said in her low-pitched voice. Her golden-brown eyes were almost the exact shade as her pearls. ‘It’s nice to have someone who seems to appreciate them as much as we do. Now, please make yourself known to our other guests, won’t you?’ She greeted a couple who had walked over to the two of us and were now standing patiently waiting to talk to her, then moved away to talk to a group who had just come in, among whom I noticed a well-known art critic, a TV guru and a famous author.

  I thought of the gold link, wrapped in tissue, which lay at the bottom of my sequin-encrusted evening bag. Was it possible that there was more than one of these necklaces? I thought it extremely unlikely. Should I mention the link to Mercy Lamont? Definitely not, at least not until I’d worked out her connection – if any – to Amy. And to Helena.

  Which reminded me of the crude little message which I had received. imok … I am OK. Thank God for that! I raised my glass in a silent toast to my absent friend, then took another glass of wine from the black-jacketed servitor who appeared, one white-gloved hand behind his back, the other hand balancing a tray of glasses, both full and empty. I wondered if it was a requirement for serving at posh parties like this one.

  One of the arty lot came over. The curly-headed one. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m Lev Goldsmith.’

  He paused in that way that implies that of course you’ve heard of whoever it is. And although I hated to admit it, of course I had. I nodded. Non-committal. But I knew perfectly well, since it’s my business to know such things, that he was the editor of an upscale arts magazine. I’d never met him before, but I had written three articles for his publication.

  ‘You’re Alex Quick,’ he stated eventually, when I failed to respond in the awestruck manner he’d clearly expected.

  ‘This is true.’ He was after something, I could tell by the bright look in his eyes. I hoped it was another piece from me.

  He produced another statement. ‘You’re the one who found Amy Morrison.’

  He seemed to deal in declarations rather than questions. Or even conversations. ‘This is also true.’ I waited for the usual rejoinder about Amy but it didn’t come.

  He sighed. ‘Poor Amy.’

  ‘Poor? Not many people use that word about her.’

  ‘That’s because they didn’t go to school with her.’

  He didn’t elaborate. ‘And you did,’ I eventually prompted.

  ‘Sir Francis Jefferson Primary,’ he said. ‘Catholic, of course.’

  ‘And why did you call her “poor Amy”?’

  ‘Anyone with Big Pete and Fatty Fee for parents was bound to be overwhelmingly disadvantaged in the great Race of Life.’

  I digested this. Fatty Fee … I could almost see her, tits slung bra-less into an over-sized cotton jumper pilled with too many washings, roll of stomach over the waistband of her sagging jeans, missing teeth. A million miles from the fastidious Amy I had met at her book launch, several aeons ago, or so it felt.

  ‘Not to mention her charming brothers, Vince and Terry. Shaven-headed bruisers, tats on every available surface, I’m sure you know the type. Bullies at school, chanting racist slogans at football matches, glassing innocent members of the public in the pub, beating up girlfriends. Progressing to drugs as they grew older.’

  ‘Sounds like a nice family.’

  ‘Oh, believe me, it was. The
brothers had ASBOs more or less as soon as they were old enough to reach double figures, if not before. Big Pete was in and out of the nick, Fatty Fee wasn’t above turning a trick or three for beer money and a fag. And then of course there was Mel, the sister, a right little slag she was, boyfriend killed her in a drunken rage.’

  Despite myself, I began to feel almost sorry for Ms Morrison. ‘And how did Amy escape all this?’

  ‘She was clever,’ Lev said. ‘She could see that the only way out was to reinvent herself. So once we went on to secondary school, while all her contemporaries were getting themselves knocked up and applying for benefits and housing and so forth, Amy – not that that’s her real name – was working hard at school, taking Saturday jobs, sucking up to everyone worth sucking up to. Especially rich old gentlemen …’ He winked at me. ‘If you take my meaning.’

  I rather thought I did. I rather wished I didn’t. I remembered an old song my parents had liked. ‘Where do you go to, my lovely?’ I said.

  He obviously knew it too. He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Nail on head.’

  ‘If it’s not a rude question, how did you … erm … move on yourself?’

  ‘Got into art college. Looked around, liked what I saw, went for it. And anyway, I didn’t have quite so much dust to shake off my feet as she did. My family was perfectly respectable. Poor but honest.’

  ‘So what was Amy called, back in the day?’

  He grinned, showing small white teeth. Eyes shining, he said, ‘I hardly like to say …’

  ‘Oh, go on. You know you want to.’

  ‘Noreen.’

  ‘You’re joking!’

  He shook his head.

  ‘No wonder she changed it.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Presumably Morrison wasn’t her real name either.’

  ‘She was born Noreen Briggs. Morrison was the name of the extremely wealthy American guy she seduced and then married. He swept her out of art school and off to sunny New York and there she remained until he had a heart attack about eight years ago, leaving her very comfortably off, thank you.’

  ‘What about the rest of the family? Were they aware that little Noreen had metamorphosed in Amy?’

  ‘I doubt it. Big Pete’s dead – fell down a lift-shaft when pissed – and Fatty Fee’s got alcohol-induced dementia and is in a home.’

  ‘What about the brothers?’

  ‘Vince took after his father. Inside more often than he’s out. And Tel? No one’s seen hide nor hair for years. I think he may have joined the Army but I’m not sure.’

  ‘So you’re still in communication with friends from the old days, are you?’

  ‘To a large extent, yes. But then, unlike Amy – or should I say Noreen – I don’t mind going back to visit.’

  The party was beginning to thin out now. People were thanking their hosts, starting to leave. The servitors could be seen in the hall, holding coats and wraps.

  ‘Look here,’ Lev said. ‘Why don’t we continue this somewhere else? There’s a pretty reasonable wine bar about five minutes’ walk from here.’

  ‘I’m not going into a wine bar – or anywhere else – dressed like this,’ I said. I looked down at my satin dress, my sparkly high-heels.

  ‘Point taken. Lunch tomorrow?’

  ‘That would be good.’ I had a number of further questions I wanted to ask him about Amy.

  He mentioned a restaurant I knew. Said, ‘Better exchange numbers, in case something happens to either of us.’ Smiled his small-toothed smile again. ‘Looking forward to it.’

  ‘Me too.’

  We swapped cards. I deliberately didn’t look at his, just put it into my sequinned (God help me!) bag.

  He took hold of my hand and raised it to his lips. It was a gesture I loved: nothing made me feel more special. If I’d been able to dimple, I would have done. ‘See you tomorrow.’

  Walking over to Mercy Lamont, I smiled at her. ‘Thank you for a lovely party,’ I said.

  ‘I do hope you enjoyed yourself.’

  ‘Very much. There were some really interesting people.’

  ‘Good. Now, when can you come and examine our paintings at a more leisurely pace?’

  ‘When would suit you?’

  ‘Sooner rather than later. I’ll contact you. My husband and I have to return to New York very shortly and I’ve no idea when we’ll be back.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing from you,’ I said.

  THIRTEEN

  The restaurant was small and pretty, decorated with tablecloths in sweet-pea pastels, and different walls painted to match. I’d been there before with friends, and knew that it had won all the accolades going from the food critics for its innovative cuisine. Nonetheless, it had managed to stay unpretentious, a place where you went to eat, rather than to be seen.

  From the seriously gastronomic menu, I chose tiny lamb chops with a lemon and rosemary sauce, braised red cabbage, and chanterelle mushrooms sautéed in butter.

  ‘So,’ I said, as we waited for our food to arrive, ‘do you have any theories about who might have murdered Amy Morrison?’ That was the main reason I had agreed to this lunch: I hoped Lev wasn’t working to a different agenda. Me, in other words.

  As he had yesterday, Lev sighed. ‘Trouble with Amy was, she was so determined to remove herself from her background that she didn’t allow anyone to get close.’

  ‘Despite all the husbands?’

  ‘Apart from poor old Dexter Morrison, or whatever he was called, she married for emotional security and, of course, for sex. Don’t forget that she was raised within the Catholic Church, and sleeping with someone outside the holy bonds of matrimony is a sin.’

  It was more or less what Donald Lewis had said. ‘So no ideas as to whom her killer might be?’

  He looked pained. ‘Must we, over lunch?’

  As our food was placed on the table, I explained my need to get the police off Helena’s back.

  ‘I can see your point. And if someone told me that it was someone from her past, I’d be completely ready to believe it,’ he said. ‘Thing is, I don’t really know to what extent she still kept up with anyone from those days. She and I lost touch for years until she swam into everyone’s ken with this brilliant Masaccio book.’

  ‘And there’s nobody from the old days that she got seriously across?’

  ‘Plenty, I should think. And I heard a rumour that there was at least one guy who committed suicide because of her, although I never heard the details.’

  ‘Goodness.’

  ‘Or badness …’ He snorted slightly. ‘To put it bluntly, she was a bit of a prick-tease.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ I sipped at a glass of the chilled white wine he had ordered for us. ‘So you can’t give me any leads at all as to the possible identity of Amy’s killer?’

  ‘They would be purely speculative if I did.’

  ‘That’s okay by me.’

  He considered the point, stroking his chin. ‘Well, if I were a detective, I think I would almost certainly check out those brothers of hers. At least,’ he amended quickly, ‘I’d check out Vince. Terry seems lost to us, and for all I know he’s reinvented himself, just like his big sister, and lives a life of impeccable propriety.’ More chin-stroking. ‘Though I must say I can’t see Tel as a solicitor or architect, or even schoolteacher.’

  ‘Maybe he followed his sister into the world of art.’

  ‘It’s a possibility. He’s younger than me, so I didn’t really keep up with him. One doesn’t really, does one?’

  ‘Any idea what he was good at?’

  He shook his head. ‘None at all. I only knew he was one of the bad boys at school. Just like his brother – when Vince bothered to attend, that is.’ Leaning towards me, he reached out and touched the back of my hand. ‘Look, I hate to sound prurient, but could you give me more details – how you found Amy, what the poor girl looked like, and so on? They never print these things in the papers …’

  I moved my
hand from the table to my lap. ‘With good reason.’ I couldn’t decide which I disliked most: the tiny rodent teeth, or the perverted interest in Amy’s death. I wasn’t going to say anything negative to his face – you never knew when he might not commission another article from me – so I gave him a very watered-down description of what I had found in Helena’s bedroom. Even if you believe that no man is an island, I couldn’t really blame him for his schadenfreude. Hearing of the death of another is one sure way to reassure ourselves of our own invulnerability, even while the world around us tumbles into mayhem and anarchy.

  ‘Poor poor woman. What a way to go,’ he said. Okay, so I didn’t care for the teeth, but he was the only person I’d met who hadn’t been one hundred per cent negative about Amy Morrison – whom I would never ever manage to think of as Noreen Briggs. He dug at his pheasant. ‘And you don’t think Doctor Drummond was responsible.’

  ‘Even if I could come up with a motive, I still wouldn’t see her as the perpetrator.’

  ‘So where do you think she is?’

  I shrugged. ‘Anybody’s guess.’

  ‘But … uh … still with us?’

  ‘I very much hope so.’

  It was late when I pulled into my allocated parking spot outside the flats. It was a freezing black night. Somewhere in the darkness, the sea was rough, pounding away at the shingle, alternately sucking and roaring, waves crashing onto the beach. The wind was fiercely cold.

  Head bent, shoulders hunched against the gathering storm, I hurried in through the entrance doors and into the communal lobby. I took the stairs, too cold to wait for the lift to descend from the top floor, and let myself in to my flat. As soon as I shut the door behind me, I was instantly alert. Someone was, or had recently been, in my flat. I listened but could hear nothing. It was the smell which warned me; not a smell exactly, more a suggestion of one. Faintly acrid. Alien, and yet familiar in some way, though I couldn’t have pinpointed how.

  Unhooking the antique policeman’s truncheon – a wedding present from our colleagues when Jack and I got married – from among the coats by the front door, I walked through the flat, switching on lights as I went.