A Detective in Love
H.R.F. Keating
© H.R.F Keating 2001
H.R.F Keating has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2001 by Macmillan.
This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Grateful acknowledgement is made to William Heinemann for permission to publish copyright material from The Heart of the Matter by Graham Greene.
Grateful acknowledgement is made to William Heinemann for permission to publish copyright material from The Tree of Pearls by Louisa Young.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter One
‘Right, how was it for you?’ Detective Superintendent Harriet Martens asked, if with a hint of mischief in the snapped-out demand.
John gave a grunted chuckle at her well-worn joke.
‘One hundred per cent satisfactory, thank you, ma’am,’ he answered.
Silence for a time in the tumbled bed.
Then John sent a reflective thought up towards the ceiling.
‘Just think, I’ve been away more than six months, and it all goes as well as it’s done at any time in the past — what’s it? — twenty-two years.’
‘You been keeping in practice with Brazilian whores?’
‘In accordance with our long-standing agreement? But, no, I really put that success just now down to what old Tolstoy called the feeling of amorousness that has the greatest power over human beings. Words you may have heard from me before. And that power doing its stuff for you too?’
‘Well, something was. I think in the circumstances I could say Wow.’
‘Wow, it was. But then perhaps you, too, have been taking advantage of that agreement?’
‘You know me better than that. Had the occasional amorousness twinge, of course. When I happened to see someone of your build, actually. Nice and lithe. So sometimes in bed there was a bit of masturbation.’
‘Uh, oh.’
‘However, being the Hard Detective, as the media loved to call me, plainly took up more of my energies than you expended negotiating away out there for Majestic Insurance.’
‘Okay, I’ll grant you the more demanding time. But don’t get to thinking you can always escape. Brazil or Britain, the greatest power is always there. I see it as a huge hovering cloud, over the whole wide world. And tense with lightning that can strike at any time.’
‘You don’t need to tell me. A police officer knows all about rampant sex.’
She let loose a little giggle.
‘Pun not intended. But,’ she went on, ‘everybody who can read a newspaper knows how rampant sex is.’
‘Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong. Oh, yes, you might say we’re all media-immersed in sex. But, in fact, I doubt if most people actually realize how totally ubiquitous the sex impulse is. And always has been.’
‘Oh, come on. We do. The vast majority of us. Nowadays.’
‘No, no. All right, in that mythical Victorian piano-legs-in-pantaloons era people, at least in the respectable classes, may have convinced themselves sex was something that manifested itself only when a baby had to be made. But in fact it’s us, the sophisticated, we-know-it-all generation, who still don’t really acknowledge how we’re all in every way all the time at the mercy of that louring cloud.’
‘No, listen, where I don’t go along with you — and, God, what are we doing discussing what Tolstoy said at this hour of the morning? — where I don’t go along with you is in believing your great cloud is as looming as all that. I still think, however much you say we’re thinking of sex all the time, it’s actually something that’ — bare-armed, she made quote-marks in the air — ‘rears its ugly head just from time to time.’
‘No, no. I ––’
‘No, listen, I certainly don’t believe I’m thinking of sex morning, noon and night. I’ve got better things to do. And you actually? Joking apart, how often did you really resort to your Brazilian whores?’
‘Oh, I suppose only a couple of times, when it was just a matter of alivio. Of, as the jargon here has it, relief. You know how it is. There you are, deprived of what they call conjugal rights but seemingly getting along fine, until suddenly something starts it up. Often something ridiculously trivial or unexpected. Remember my favourite Graham Greene quote? A hunchback, a cripple — they all have the trigger that sets love off?’
‘Number five hundred and forty-three from the John Piddock collection of pithy remarks.’
‘Touché, Mrs Piddock, touché. Or should I say, Miss Martens?’
‘I answer to both. Or — hey, my quotation, my quotation, The Hunting of the Snark — I answer to Hi or to any loud cry. And, d’you know something? When we first met I nearly went right off you when I heard what your surname was.’
‘Oh, yes? But you didn’t, did you? Know why? Because two were playing at the game. Not that it’s really any sort of a game, much more charged than a game. No, what it was on both sides with us then was Amor vincit omnia, as Chaucer neatly put it. Right?’
‘Chaucer now. Love conquers every —’
The phone was shrilling out.
‘For God’s sake,’ John spluttered. ‘What time is this? Damn it, half-past six.’
Harriet turned on to her side, lifted the receiver, listened.
In a moment she put her hand over the mouthpiece and, twisting half-way round, muttered, ‘Bloody Chief Constable.’
Then, back with the phone, she said, ‘Bubbles Xingara? The tennis star?’
A jabbering from the far end.
‘And you say murdered? You’re sure you — I mean, how did you learn about this, sir?’
More quacking from the far end.
‘Right, I’ll switch it on as soon as you —’
Now a more prolonged jabbering.
‘Very well. But I’d better have one of our own cars. Could you possibly arrange one, sir? I’ll need all my time here.’
Quack, quack.
Thank you, sir. And I’d better take someone with me, a DI for preference.’
She put the phone down, reached further over, snapped on the radio.
The newsreader’s voice, still urgent with excitement: ... stabbing is thought to have taken place while Bubbles was out for her early morning training run. Adam and Eve House, which the nineteen-year-old tennis star bought about a year ago, is a remote property on the banks of the River Leven. It is believed to have cost a sum in excess of three-quarters of a million pounds. A statement, issued a few minutes ago, from Leven Vale Police headquarters said that inquiries are being pursued with vigour. Meanwhile speculation is already growing about how the death of the favourite for the Ladies’ trophy at Wimbledon will affect the tournament. More news on the hour every hour. You’re listening to Greater Birchester Radio, 98.4 FM.
Harriet clicked it off.
‘Bubbles?’ John said. ‘Bubbles Xingara’s been murdered?’
&n
bsp; ‘She has, and all hell’s breaking loose.’
‘But didn’t the radio say the Leven Vale Police? So what’s it got to do with you?’
‘I’ve been seconded,’ she said, scrambling out of bed and looking for clean underwear. ‘That’s what the Chief was on about. Leven Vale’s CC feels they can’t cope. And I can see why. They’re a tiny force policing a big rural area. So, as they abut on to Greater Birchester territory, I’m to take charge. A car’ll be here in a few minutes. I must shower, get some clothes on. Grab a bite, if there’s time.’
‘I’ll go and make some coffee.’
‘Okay. But instant.’
‘Instant, it is. And I suppose this means I shan’t see you till late this evening?’
‘You’ll be lucky if you see me at all today, or tomorrow. This looks as if it’s going to be a major, major inquiry.’
‘You’re right. I dare say I know more about that girl than you do. You were never one for the gossip columns.’
He was calling now through the open doors into the bathroom.
‘Bubbles Xingara’s not just the next new tennis Number One, she’s wildly pretty as well, and she’s — she was, oh, God — fun. That’s what got to people. When she won a point she gave a great big smile, and when she lost one, even unfairly, it was just a wry grin. Bubbles by name and bubbly by nature. God’s gift to the media — from China to Peru, as Sam Johnson neatly puts it.’
‘Number five hundred and forty-four.’
*
Driven through the gates in the high wall surrounding Bubbles Xingara’s Adam and Eve House and on round the sweep of its drive, Harriet found herself — all that the investigation meant she would have to do laid out in order in her mind — in a poles-apart scene.
Peace lay like a blanket over a wide stretch of lawn running down to the River Leven. In the quiet sunshine of the early morning all the scents of the countryside came drifting in, a waft of sweet orange from a big untidy syringa bush at the corner of the house, a heavier, acid-edged odour from a long row of lavender bushes, a smell of gently rotting plants from the edge of the trickling Leven, and, distantly, the rich tang of cows and cowdung blown on the gently shifting air from fields stretching away as far as the eye could see. A cuckoo was calling somewhere in the distance. The faded red brickwork of the old mansion, straggled over by ancient creepers, made it seem as if nothing had changed here over all the years and that nothing ever could.
But something had.
Just a few feet from the river’s edge, cut off from the rest of the wide lawn by a drooping Scenes-of-Crime tape, a staringly blue plastic tent was concealing what must be the body of the dead girl. A Leven Vale constable, already looking overheated, was standing guard beside the entrance to the secured area.
Pausing only to pull out her mobile and log herself on, Harriet went over to him.
‘Detective Superintendent Martens, Greater Birchester Police,’ she said. ‘Who’s in charge here? Where are they?’
The constable, with some haste, saluted.
‘It’s DI Brent,’ he said. ‘He — He’s in the Incident Room. It’s been set up over there. In what they call the Boathouse, only it isn’t one any more. It’s — Well, it’s Bubbles’ sort of gym really.’
‘Miss Xingara, Constable.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Yes.’
‘Right, get Mr Brent. Now.’
The constable went at a heavy trot across to a lichen-stained, shed-like brick building projecting over the baked-hard mud of the river bank, and a moment later the Leven Vale inspector emerged. Someone much as Harriet had expected, not totally a yokel but not far from it. Stocky in build, though still in his early thirties, his face under a thatch of fair hair burnt by sun and wind to the dull red of a flowerpot and lit by a pair of observant forget-me-not blue eyes. In place of the sharp suits senior detectives in her Greater Birchester force affected, there was, dangling half-off broad shoulders, a well-worn jacket in dull orangey tweed and heavy grey trousers straining at solidly muscular thighs. As he came close she caught the tang of the drying sweat at his armpits. None of your poncy deodorants here.
Ah well, she thought.
But, in answer to her shot-out questions, DI Brent, voice laced with a country burr, provided answers quickly enough.
Yes, he had managed to get here within half an hour of the murder being reported. Mr Peter Renshaw, the victim’s stepfather and coach — Harriet noted with a quantum of pleasure that the DI had avoided familiarly talking about Bubbles — had called Levenham police station shortly after six a.m. when, coming out as he always did to check his charge’s blood pressure after her morning run, he had found her body lying on the grass beside the river.
‘Death been certified?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Police surgeon came out with me.’
‘But the pathologist hasn’t seen the body yet?’
‘No, ma’am. Someone’s coming from Birchester for that.’
‘I take it you haven’t found a weapon?’
‘No, ma’am. I organized as much of a search as I could. But no luck.’
‘Whoever it was took it away with them, no doubt. Or hid it, if we’re looking at an inside job. Try the river when you’ve got the manpower, if you can call that trickle down there a river. And callers? You checked on them? Milk van? Post? Papers?’
‘They fetch their milk from a farm about half a mile away, ma’am, and the papers are delivered by a schoolgirl on a bike. Post came shortly after we got here. Van driver gave a pretty good account of himself. I put in a radio check on him, and back came NCR.’
‘Right. I suppose most postmen will register No Criminal Record. But check whether he saw anybody unusual about. And with that paper girl. Then the minute you’ve got the personnel I want a full-scale search for the weapon. Find that, and perhaps we’ll make a quicker job of this than looks likely.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And now you can show me the body.’
Yes, Harriet registered as DI Brent lifted away one side of the blue tent. Yes, Bubbles Xingara had been pretty. Wonderfully pretty.
Even in death she seemed to have kept the liveliness of a face framed in a cluster of dark curls with cheekily tip-tilted nose and full, ready lips just parted as if in surprise. Somehow as outgoing and even cheerful as she must have been in life. Cheerful, even with blood from the wound in her throat, round and almost an inch across, that had spurted all down her white running singlet. Cheerful, even lying in the drying puddle of her own suddenly voided faeces escaped from her white shorts, flies buzzing round and down on to it in lazy summer circles.
Hardened as she was, Harriet felt a stab of sharp regret. That someone, something, so pulsingly alive should have been in an instant transformed into nothing but putrefying flesh ...
Faintly again came the cuckoo’s call, a requiem.
‘At least it isn’t likely she was raped,’ Harriet said. ‘I can’t see her attacker pulling those shorts up again afterwards.’
‘No, ma’am. And anyone trying to get near her would have had a hard time of it. Look at those arm muscles. You know, in the States she’s called the Brit with the hit.’
‘I didn’t know. Not much of a sports fan. But you’re right. She’d have made a fight of it. Hey, wait, her hand. The right one. All those calluses on it. What can she have been doing to have got it into that state?’
DI Brent turned and gave her a quick blue-eyed, shyly come-and-gone smile.
‘She’s been playing tennis, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Day in, day out for four, five, six years, I’d say. Or more. I play a bit myself, so I know. Look.’
He held out his right hand, palm uppermost.
Glancing down, Harriet saw reddened skin dotted with yellowy-white calluses, the broad masculine palm innocently held up for her inspection as if it was a child’s being checked before a meal. And, in a sudden jolt that seemed to run from the top of her head to her very feet, she felt one single outflame of sexual arousal.
Chapter Two
Harriet, astonished and embarrassed by the sudden rush of plain desire she had felt, inwardly shouted at herself No. No, no, no. No bloody amorousness. Christ, I’m on an investigation. And one, damn it, that’s going to make demands, even if I get to the heart of it in the next couple of hours. Bubbles Xingara. The media will go crazy. Are already, no doubt. Cameras, reporters here almost as soon as the bloody Scenes-of-Crime team, if they ever turn up. And if I don’t detect this in the next few hours, and it’s almost certain I won’t, then I’m going to need all my energies day and night, day after day too. So, no, no. Not another sodding thought about DI Brent’s calloused palm. Nor any other part of his anatomy.
‘Yes,’ she said, as the Leven Vale DI let his hand fall to his side, ‘I should have seen what the thickened skin there meant. But I haven’t played tennis since I was at school. And — And —’ Why do I feel obliged to say this? To tell him I’m married? ‘And my husband isn’t much interested in sport either.’
She choked out a sort of laugh.
‘He’s a terrible bookworm,’ she torrented on, forcing herself not to look directly at the DI in case he might see how still she longed just to touch him. ‘Always jotting down things he’s read. Or heard. Pockets full of little notes. Quotations, bits of verse. On restaurant napkins, old envelopes, matchbooks, anything.’
She brought herself to a halt.
God, what will he be thinking of me? Going on and on about John, the casual references to the big-city life he leads, restaurants, literary talk. And it’s not even as if that’s really the true picture.
But, no, I am not, not, going to look at DI Brent any differently than I look at any male I come across. Well, if I do just occasionally ...
‘Right, DI,’ she snapped out. ‘By the look of it we don’t need to wait for any forensic nonsense to have a pretty good idea of the time of death. I gather she finished her morning run just before six at this time of year.’
A Detective in Love (A Harriet Martens Thriller Book 2) Page 1
