by Susan Moody
Were there signs of a break-in? I examined the possibility of a scenario in which the killer in some way kidnapped or disabled Helena after her meeting with friends, took her keys, got into her house, waited for Amy to show up (having arranged a rendezvous there beforehand?), and as soon as she did, pulled her inside before she could escape, got her upstairs and proceeded to brutally kill her. I wondered if there was evidence of sexual activity prior to that. Perhaps Amy was aroused by the whole set-up.
Which set me thinking. Since the body was almost naked, I had assumed that sex had taken place, but perhaps it hadn’t. Did I dare ring Inspector Garside and ask? Of course I did.
‘Why do you want to know?’ he said, when I was put through.
‘Just wondering,’ I said. ‘When I found Ms Morrison’s body, it looked as if she had been in the middle of some hanky-panky and it was after that that she was …’ I shuddered, thinking that unpleasant as the woman had been, nobody could have wished her to still be alive when that implement was driven into her eyes.
‘Mmm,’ he said, giving nothing away.
‘Any signs of a break-in?’ I was pushing my luck, I knew. On the other hand, I was an ex-copper myself, so I knew he was unlikely to be divulging details of the investigation which the police were repressing for the time being. And besides, I could always get into the house with a legitimate excuse about work or papers, and check for myself.
I could feel him considering all these points. Then, grudgingly, he said, ‘No.’
‘Thanks.’ This was information which bore out my suppositions. Unless Helena had simply left the door unlocked when she set off for her evening out. Which still left the question of why Amy would have appeared at the house of someone she knew disliked her, especially late at night.
I called Paul Sandbrook again. He gave an exaggerated sigh when I identified myself. ‘What now?’ he said. ‘I’m really frightfully busy.’
I ignored him, knowing perfectly well that he spent most of the day sitting at the back of his shop, drinking tea and reading Mills & Boon romances, of which he had an extensive library. ‘Do you know who picked Helena up on the evening of the concert and drove her into the city?’
‘That neighbour of hers, I believe. He lived in her village, name of Peregrine or some such.’
I longed to ask if Awesomesuch was the neighbour’s name, but guessed it wouldn’t go down too well. ‘But this guy didn’t join you for the evening?’
‘Apparently he runs evening classes twice a week. Aromatherapy and massage, body-painting, poncey stuff like that.’
‘Is that how he earns his living?’
‘I think he’s in the art department of the university, actually. Or associated with it in some way.’
Peregrine … aka Perry. Perry Nutley. I’d already met him. ‘Got an address?’
He gave me one and ended the call.
‘So do you know how, or indeed if Helena got home that night?’ Trying not to make a face, I tasted the coffee Perry Nutley brought me. It had not improved since my last visit. I knew the answer, of course, but did he?
‘Is that the same night the … uh … person was … found dead in her house?’ he asked. He laid one of his delicate but manly hands on my arm. ‘It must have been ghastly for you.’
‘It was pretty awful – but it was the following day that I was there. Helena’s car was still outside her house, but there was no sign of her and I wondered if you knew where she went after she ate out with her friends.’ I had gone to his address, just round the corner from Helena’s place, but there was no answer. I had tracked him down at the university.
‘I’m not sure. I usually brought her back on these occasions, but that particular night she said she would be late and I wasn’t to wait for her. So I didn’t. In fact, I know perfectly well that she went off with Peter Preston, classy car salesman.’
‘Did you notice anything different from other nights that you gave her a lift into town?’
‘Not really.’ He wrinkled his smooth brow. ‘There was that idiotic motorbike, mind you. Kept behind us all the way, wouldn’t overtake even though I slowed down where I could to let him by.’
‘Did Helena say anything?’
‘Started babbling on about a stalker!’ He smiled. ‘So ridiculous.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Dear dear Helena. I love her – loved her – dearly but she was always such a drama queen.’
‘Wasn’t she, though?’
He stopped being so dismissive in tone. ‘Though come to think of it …’
Another of my brilliant notions hit me. I could so easily see the motorcyclist following Perry and Helena into Canterbury, hanging about the cathedral precincts while they attended the concert, maybe even going inside to listen as well, then tracking Helena and her friends to the restaurant afterwards. More than that, I had a good idea who it might be.
And after they emerged from the restaurant … what then?
I was beginning to get a reasonably clear idea of the course of events in the twelve-hour time span during which Amy must have died. It was all just feasible, though I still needed to work on the finer details. Such as why he was in town that night. And, of course, establish the identity of the stalker/murderer with enough credibility to present a case to Inspector Garside.
A man came hustling through the swing doors of the studio where we were sitting. ‘I’m looking for Professor Nutley,’ he said. His deep antipodean tones rang round the studio.
‘And you are?’
‘I believe he’s Helena’s former husband,’ I said. ‘Professor Liam Hadfield.’ I surveyed the newcomer. Tall, fit, sunburned in that bone-deep way Australians have. Wearing one of those full-length, rust-coloured Drizabone raincoats. And very good-looking. No wonder Helena had fallen so heavily for him – and got out so quickly when she realized what a sod he was to live with. You only had to look at him to see it. It was obvious that Perry wasn’t impressed.
‘She’s not here,’ he said.
‘For God’s sake, man, I know that,’ said Hadfield impatiently. ‘She’s dead.’ He swung round to me. ‘Do I know you?’
‘We’ve never met, if that’s what you mean. I’m Helena’s partner. Alexandra Quick.’
‘Partner? She hasn’t gone over to the other side, has she?’ His rich voice resonated. His face sneered.
‘How do you mean?’ Perry asked politely. His fists were clenched. I admired his self-control.
‘Gone lezzy on us. Turned queer. Started hanging out with the arse bandits and muff divers. She was never picky about the kind of riff-raff she shagged—’ The man was an impossible boor.
‘We have a thriving LGBTQ group here at the uni,’ Perry said, his voice even but quivering with rage. ‘Maybe you’d like to have a word with the President of the society. I happen to know she’s on campus at this very moment. I’m sure she would be very interested to meet you and hear your antipodean views.’
‘I didn’t come here to discuss sexual deviants,’ Hadfield said.
‘So why did you come?’
‘I’m giving a talk on Homer’s Influences to the classics faculty. Thought I’d stop in and say g’day to Helena’s colleagues. Least I could do, given the circumstances.’
‘Expecting a large crowd this afternoon, are you?’
Hadfield gave a smirk. ‘Given that I’m quite well-known in my field, I would anticipate that a fair old number would show up, yes.’
I could see from the glint in Perry’s eye that the chances were slim of more than half-a-dozen brave souls getting through the LGBTQ picket line he was undoubtedly planning to organize in the lunch hour. I wondered whether I might not even join them.
‘Where were you last Monday?’ I asked.
‘Last Monday? Almost certainly in Oxford, fast asleep, catching up on the jet lag. I’d only arrived the evening before after a long journey from Sydney.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘If you mean was I sharing my bed w
ith some Anglo-Saxon beauty – or any other kind, for that matter – unusually the answer’s no.’ Another complacent smirk. His macho self-satisfaction was beginning to grate.
‘So,’ said Perry, ‘you can’t have had anything to do with Ms Morrison. But how about Helena, your former wife? You hated her, I bet. She had the audacity to discard you—’
‘And who could blame her?’ I murmured.
‘—and you couldn’t forgive her for the humiliation. So when you were offered the chance of a semester in Oxford, you jumped at it, seeing an opportunity for revenge. Is that about the size of it? Hmm? Hmm?’ He squared up as though he was about to land one on the prof’s nose.
Hadfield and I stared at him in astonishment. ‘What?’ spluttered the Aussie. ‘Have you gone stark raving bonkers?’ His sunburn had turned greenish. ‘Kill Helena? You shonky little shithead, why would I kill her? I loved her …’
All of which I found interesting. And, reluctantly, credible.
Back at home, I had no sooner sat down at my desk than the phone began jittering around on the desktop in front of me. It was Bob Lamont.
‘Hi, there,’ he said. ‘I’m calling to ask if you’ve had any further thoughts about the proposition which my wife and I put to you last time we met.’
‘I haven’t really had—’
‘I understand. After Doctor Drummond’s death you must be in a state of total shock.’
‘I am rather.’
‘And Christmas is nearly on us, as well.’
‘I’ll be spending it with my family,’ I said. ‘I can’t do much until after that.’
He laughed. ‘We Yanks always find it kinda strange how England closes down for nearly two weeks over the holiday season. Lord knows what it does for the economy. But be that as it may, my wife and I would very much like to talk to you further, iron out any problems you foresee, look at details and so on. Then we would draw up a contract, have it delivered to you and wait for you to send a signed copy back.’
‘Sounds good.’ Obviously I would need to discuss with the Lamonts the fact of the three-book contract from Nichols. It would mean a great deal of work on my part for the next three or four, even five years, but that was probably a good thing.
‘So is there any day in the near future which would suit you best?’ In the background, someone murmured at him. ‘Oh yes, there is one small snag. My wife’s just reminded me that I’m booked to fly to the States on the sixth of January.’
‘I can’t possibly get up much before …’ I looked at the new leather-bound desk diary which had been a gift from my sister Meghan. ‘… January ninth at the earliest.’
‘Pity. But you can talk to Mercy on her own, can’t you? She’s just as savvy about the terms and conditions of the operation as I am – if not more so – and she won’t be leaving London for at least a week after I do. Would that work?’
‘It sounds very workable indeed.’ I almost slavered at the thought of standing in front of some of the Lamonts’ paintings again. That Feininger, for instance. The small Cranach. And I would love to see their Ainslie Gordons, if they kept them in the London flat. ‘Yes, give me a date which would be good for her.’
We settled on a time and day in the early part of January. Truth to tell, I was rather glad that Bob wouldn’t be present at the meeting. Despite the fact that I liked the man, I found him rather disconcerting, though I couldn’t have said why. He was charming and positive and obviously an extremely competent businessman. And I had a warm and exhilarating feeling that we would be working together on a lucrative deal over the next years. If I accepted their offer (and why on earth wouldn’t I?), I might even find myself lifted out of my financial slump at last.
TWENTY
For nearly a month, I seemed to have been simply chasing shadows. But now it was Christmas; hard as it was, I had to put all thoughts of Helena out of my head, though my heart mourned. She’d spent last Christmas with us. This year, Hereward and Lana, plus Anton, came down to my parents’ house, and I joined them. Meghan and Leo flew over from Rome for three days along with their children. We played Charades and Monopoly and Consequences. We ate roast beef and clove-studded ham. My uncle, Sir Aylward de Cuik, sent down a whole salmon fished from his own stream in Scotland, which we simmered in orange juice for four minutes, two on each side, and ate with Mary’s lemon and garlic mayonnaise, almost the only thing she could make.
My other uncle, Hengist Dee Quick, as he styled himself, who was an attorney in Tennessee, (he was what he called a Love Refugee, married to a girl from Memphis who wanted to stay close to home), sent his annual care package of maple syrup, Oreos, peanut butter, vacuum-packed Cornish game hen, canned clam chowder, blue cheese dressing and other assorted American goodies. None of us had the heart to tell him that all these items were now easily available in England, at Harrods, Fortnums or even on the shelves of supermarkets.
We sang carols and opened stockings. Father Christmas turned up, shouting ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ at frequent intervals, and handed out presents. We took Anton for long walks. With the turning of the year, these were the family customs which had evolved over all our childhoods, the perfect way for me to try and restart the life, both personal and professional, which had stopped so abruptly with the murder of Amy Morrison. The evening before she and Herry returned to London, Lana told us they were expecting their first child, scheduled to arrive in May. A good end to a bad year.
I tried several times to get my parents alone, in order to ask them about Helena, but it proved impossible. Too many people there. Too much going on. Too many interruptions. Or were they deliberately avoiding me, knowing what I wanted to talk about? I would have to drive over, take them by surprise.
Now, with Christmas and the New Year over and a new beginning ahead, I decided that the best thing I could do for Helena was to continue with Ripe for the Picking, just as if she were still around, since between us we had already done ninety per cent of the work.
Sitting at my desk a week later, I telephoned Clifford Nichols.
‘I heard about Doctor Drummond’s tragic death,’ he said, before I could say anything more than my name. ‘I’m so very sorry.’
‘It’s terrible,’ I said. ‘But unfortunately life has to go on. So at the risk of sounding mercenary and uncaring, I have your contract right here in front of me, and want to know if you are willing to let me carry on as planned, but from now on as a solo effort.’
‘Elaine and I were just talking about this. We both feel that you’re more than competent to produce the anthologies on your own. After all, you did Baby, Baby, and Tell Me a Story before you even met Doctor Drummond.’
‘So you’re happy for me to sign the contract and send it back to you?’
‘More than.’
Standing in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to finish gulping and burping in its glass cylinder, I watched a heavily-built runner plodding into the wind along the seafront. I felt guilty that I wasn’t running too. Remembered my new year’s resolution to get out there and go jogging more often. Especially when the guy glanced up at my window in an almost accusatory manner. I shivered. Told myself that tomorrow I would definitely do it. Run to the railway bridge almost two miles away. Run back. At least it would be away from the north-easterly wind currently driving white-capped waves fiercely towards the shore.
The afternoon wore slowly on. Any light in the sky began to merge with the heavy grey cloud cover. I wasn’t ready to settle down for the evening. Maybe I would get myself into a jogging frame of mind by walking briskly down to Willoughby’s Books. I wrapped up warmly with a scarf, gloves and my full-length quilted coat. Which immediately reminded me of Helena. As so many things did. Where would she have acquired a leather coat? Or to put it another way, how had her killer persuaded her to put on a leather coat, which he must have brought with him. Again, my mind flew towards motorbikes and studded leather jackets and shiny leather trousers. New and expensive, DI Fairlight had told me. Which strongly implied that
he had bought it specially. And if Helena had been hiding out with Edred and Mary, how had her killer discovered her? Was it pure coincidence? I very much doubted it: this killer was both meticulous and organized.
Neither of them were attributes I would have connected with what I had so far seen of Laurence Turnbull. Nonetheless, he seemed to be a ripe candidate for the crime: he had means, motive and opportunity.
I walked through the town, eyes closed into slits against the by-now driving snow. In the falling darkness, shop windows glowed, still hung with Christmas baubles. Even the austere woman who owned Hinton’s Shoes had unbent far enough to add a few shiny glass balls to her display of fur-lined Ugg boots and thick-soled ankle-high walking shoes. I passed the Polish guy selling the Big Issue, the Salvation Army lot rattling tins, the local volunteers collecting for the lifeboats. I dropped a pound coin into each box. Didn’t take a copy of the Issue.
In the wine shop, I could see Edward Vine sitting on a high stool at his counter. His impressively bald dome of a head shone like a low-lying sun. A couple of bottles and a few glasses stood in front of him. When I walked in, he looked up and smiled.
‘Quick! How are you, my dear?’
‘Just fine, thank you.’ I pointed to the glasses in front of him. ‘You look like you’re enjoying yourself.’
‘Enjoying myself? Are you joking, madam? This is hard work. I’m tasting samples from a mixed consignment I purchased recently. Chilean wine. Some of it is excellent, at least as good as a grand cru. Other stuff is only fit to clear the drains with. Want to try a glass of the good stuff?’
‘Love to.’
I sat down on the customer chair on the shop side of the counter. He poured me a glass. I did all that wine expert stuff: sniffing and swilling and slapping against my palate. I couldn’t bring myself to spit it out: it was far too good. ‘I’ll take a bottle of that,’ I said.
