So what next? Yes, Wimbledon almost on us. And there, somewhere among the crowds, may be the person who, in the solitude of dawn at isolated Adam and Eve House, let the screeching red, sex-fired impulse to kill have its way.
All right, one thing to be done. Probably should have been done already. Message to the Met: please detail as many officers as you can spare to work the Wimbledon crowds looking for any individual behaving in any bizarre way. Maybe nothing will emerge. The killer may be far away from any tennis tournament, this individual who murdered the tennis darling of three-quarters of the world. All right, perhaps we’ll eventually find it’s a man now back swanning it in Marseilles, an insult avenged. Still, combing the Wimbledon crowds is something that should be done. No stone ... Every avenue ... As I managed not to say at the inquest, or when the media caught me.
*
By special request of the family, the funeral service for Bubbles at St Anselm’s Church was to take place before Wimbledon got under way. Aware that, if the murder was the work of an obsessed stalker, whoever killed her could be among the hundreds of onlookers expected to watch the cortège or even, just possibly, be one of those admitted to the church by invitation, family and friends only, Harriet had been grateful that it was the duty of the senior officer on a case to attend. It would give her the chance of scrutinizing the mourners there. Less likely to bring a result than the large squad of detectives she had tasked to work the crowds, together with a team of video operators from Birchester. But worth doing.
When it came to it, there were even more people round the church and along the road leading to it than she had expected. The walls of the churchyard, too, were alive with television cameras, swinging to and fro like so many this-way-and-that Centre Court tennis watchers.
It was all Harriet, militarily correct in uniform, could do to squeeze her way behind one of the eight-foot-high flower pillars, rotund as barrels, on either side of the porch and make her way in. Momentarily she recognized the flowers as what someone had said were Bubbles’ favourite, blue-and-white nigella.
Love-in-the-Mist, she thought, hardly appropriate for Bubbles, dedicating every hour of her time, not like the majority of teenagers to dating and thoughts of dating, but to tennis. Yet nigella, she abruptly recalled marvelling at what the subconscious can suddenly throw up, was once called Devil-in-the-Bush. And under that name the flower was grimly right at the funeral of the girl murdered by an unknown for their dark reason.
Or was that bush devil actually Pierre le Fou? And would it turn out that Anselm, after wrestling with the harsh French of southern France, would come back with something more definite than the rumour passed on by the Daily Dirt stringer. Or would he be defeated by the world of Marseilles crooks, surely in a different class from the occasional burglars of Levenham and such odd flashers as stinky Old Rowley?
Standing at the back of the big church, filled to capacity and with its every available surface carrying more huge pots of blue-and-white nigella, Harriet began an up-and-down survey of each crowded pew.
Family and friends only, she saw, had been interpreted in a decidedly generous spirit. Only two pews right at the front were strictly family, with Peter and Aimée Renshaw and Fiona Diplock supplemented by a handful of plainly ill-at-ease ‘country cousins’. A little further back the Fairleys sat, stiff in their best clothes, Betty dabbing at her eyes with Arthur’s big coloured handkerchief.
But otherwise the congregation consisted of a large number of tennis stars — every now and again there was a face Harriet thought she recognized — taking an hour or two out of Wimbledon preparation to pay their respects to a fellow player always with that spreadingly cheerful smile. Or, perhaps, not so much to pay their respects as to get their pictures on television or in the papers.
But, not only were players there in strength, there were also — she had made it her business to see the final invitation list — all sorts of people from the circus that attends the stars, from officials of the Women’s Tennis Association flying in from America, and of the Lawn Tennis Association up from London, right down to coaches and practice partners, even to a would-be player who had the year before acted as Bubbles’ racquet carrier. Then there were the agents, both Bubbles’ own and those of several other players, and the sponsors’ representatives, the sports-clothing designers, the gossip columnists and tennis writers, the sports beauticians and sports hairdressers.
Tennis, after all, Harriet knew now from the rapid reading of newspapers and magazines she had interspersed with her other work, was business. Big business. Bubbles Xingara was by no means the only financial corporation due to play on the Centre Court at Wimbledon. And, she thought, with big business goes greed, the desire for money and power that is, despite John’s theories, surely as powerful as that overhanging cloud of sex. Or is it at least nearly so?
A different motive here for Bubbles’ death? It could be. Get the fraud-and-figures people in Birchester on to it. Some advantage in belonging to one of the big battalions.
But, more urgently, somewhere among the pews at this moment there could be someone who had had some grudge against Bubbles. Or who had been caught up by sexual obsession for her and come stalking through the dawn mists rising from the Leven to thrust that spiked weapon into her throat.
Was anyone looking unduly tense? Was someone in the rows of fidgeting mourners sitting frozen by guilt into give-away immobility?
Pew after pew scrutinized.
Then, beside her, through the wide-open doors, the black-coated, top-hat-carrying, stiffly reverent-faced undertaker appeared, leading in the flowers-smothered coffin. The opening hymn rolled out — organ deplorably squeaky, choir valiant — and at last tailed into silence.
‘Good afternoon,’ said the Vicar, black cassock, white surplice, richly coloured academic hood. ‘Welcome to this ancient church of St Anselm.’
Oxford hood? Think so. But why must he conduct the service as if it was some sort of social gathering, a whist drive, a bun fight? Damn it, when I used to go to church vicars did what vicars were there to do, praise God, announce the hymns, lead the prayers. Doing their job.
But the chit-chat came to an end soon enough, and then up to the front of the chancel, where a shining brass reading-stand had been placed, came Fiona Diplock.
‘I am going to read to you,’ she announced, still seemingly as unaffected as at first by her friend’s death, ‘a poem that reached us only this morning, sent by one of Bubbles’ fans who gave no address and who signed himself simply Angus. We don’t know who he was, but we think his simple words say all that should be said about — about dear Bubbles.’
Does that pause mean she checked back a sob? Is she really deeply affected by Bubbles’ death? Or putting on an act? Bitter about the once despised schoolfriend who gave her a job, better paid no doubt than whatever she had found to do after Daddy’s wealth had suddenly evaporated?
No telling. But something to keep in mind.
Then in her water-clear, upper-class voice Fiona read out the poem.
She was a vision of delight
Our tennis girl in dazzling white.
She hit the ball as hard as hard,
She hit our hearts, got through our guard.
Never, never shall we forget
That grin, that laugh that won each set.
Terrible, of course, Harriet thought. Derivative, when it wasn’t banal. Who in the family had decided it should be used? Not Fiona, in so far as she was family at all. More like Aimée. Yes, almost certainly her. Her taste. Think pink, think whore’s parlour sitting-room.
No, wait. All right, there are dozens of bits of verse I’ve seen from Bubbles’ records every bit as clumsy as those. But they were all sent when she was alive. They were, if you like, just messages saying, Look at me, look at me. But this was sent after Bubbles had been killed. And, unless I’m mistaken, it’s the only thing of its sort. Yes, there’ve been letters of condolence that I’ve got the Renshaws to hand over. But none o
f them were anything like this. So isn’t it possible that Never, never shall we forget was written by someone who won’t ever forget? Won’t ever forget Bubbles because they killed her.
Angus, the versifier. Been noted as sending something else earlier by the detectives going through those 370 index cards? Or by whoever’s working on Fiona’s computer records? Angus not an uncommon name. So what chance of identifying him from either source? And the poem must have arrived at Adam and Eve House just this morning. Didn’t Fiona say that? So the envelope? Don’t tell me they threw it away. Must check.
But is this really what we’ve been looking for? Can it be that six lines of jarringly awful verse, however pleasing to pink lady Aimée Renshaw, really point to someone in the grip of too-intense, unhealthy feelings?
Action all this, as soon as I get back. And, damn it all, why am I stuck in the church here? There’s work to be done. All right, someone here may, pressured by the moment, give some sign of not being a simple mourner or a not-so-simple publicity seeker. But no one has so far, and with every minute that passes I guess no one will.
So, go? Force my way past the people clustered at the doors? No. No, I suppose not. Senior police officer in uniform, mustn’t draw undue attention.
God, what are we getting now? Prayers from the Vicar. Succour sought from above for the bereaved family. Not all that much needed, judging by what I’ve seen of them, except perhaps shocked Peter Renshaw. Nothing, though, for any devoted staff at Adam and Eve House, yet I rather think both the Fairleys were more hit by the murder than any of those closer to Bubbles.
Prayer now for all those who followed from afar the bright star — God, that Vicar — but among the crowds out there listening to the loudspeakers muffledly relaying these muffly words how many will know he’s praying for them, the Bubbles Xingara fans? And, if those prayers have any effect, will they touch the one fan who, possibly, possibly, was so obsessed by the bright star that eventually they could do nothing else but take some heavy pointed instrument and thrust it into her neck?
Hear our prayer, O Lord, for the police. Help its officers with their onerous task. May Thy justice be done.
Will that prayer help in distant Marseilles one Leven Vale Police officer needing to wriggle his way through the unknown, find the facts that could nail Pierre le Fou ... ? If Pierre’s to be nailed. And then come home. Anselm.
Another hymn. He Who Would Valiant Be. Fair enough. Except it’s a she we’re burying. But Bubbles, from all I’ve learnt, was valiant. A little cheerful fighter.
And the Vicar — get a move on, get a move on — solemnly going up into the high pulpit now. And it’s Barbara was one who was an inspiration to us all. Nasal hoot.
Barbara. Name on her birth certificate and I dare say a dozen other official documents. But, damn it, she was Bubbles. Bubbles, an inspiration to us all. And, yes, she was that, I suppose. Someone who got to the top of her tree, who worked like a demon at her chosen way, worked till her right hand was no longer a girl’s pretty palm but a working woman’s calloused one — oh, God, Anselm — someone who worked at what she believed she was there to do, even sheltered under that steel umbrella of work, work, work to the exclusion of Eros bolts from that great hovering cloud.
But, me. Am I going to find, after all, that I can put up my steel umbrella? That work, work, work to find the person, man or woman, who put an end to Bubbles’ life of work will protect me, when Anselm — when DI Brent comes back, will protect me from — what? — the moment of madness that came over me beside Bubbles’ dead body? Is all that I’ve learnt over the years going to help me, with prayers or without them, to free myself from that?
Vicar hooting on. Fame and fortune did not spoil her. Well, that’s true enough. With her sad death a bright light in the world was in a moment extinguished. A long pause. Let us pray.
Heads in front dipped. One or two kneeling, but not many.
Second bout of prayers ended. Last hymn as the coffin is carried out through the side door.
And away.
Enough bods detailed to watch at the cemetery? Think so. And the reception at Adam and Eve House, right to have ducked out of that? To leave it to DI Anderson to keep his eyes on the guests there, Bubbles’ killer just possibly among them? Ought to be sharp enough — unless he takes it into his head to chat up some piece of femininity.
*
Back in the Incident Room, Harriet at once tasked as many officers as she could lay hands on with rechecking all the letters and cards Fiona Diplock had filed over the whole time she had been Bubbles’ secretary. Angus, that was the signature to look for. Hopefully, it would be found in front of a surname, and with an address at the head of the letter. But find the man who had written that absurd poem they must.
She turned to go. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw lying on the big table near her a pencil, its end thoroughly chewed. Before she knew what she was doing, she had picked it up.
Put it down, put it back, she told herself.
But, holding it intertwined between her fingers, she walked briskly out of the Incident Room. A quick run up the stairs to her office, door unlocked, a step inside, door closed with her back, and — yes, the wretched chewed little length of coloured stick put to her lips. To feel for one long delicious moment the tiny craters and hills those teeth had made on the wood.
And a jolt. If ... If I give way to this Eros amorousness, what will I be caught up in? Will I go spinning, in Aphrodite’s coils, into something that goes against all I believe in? Oh, yes, nowadays in theory it’s not wrong to have an affair, a fling, and I’ve a feeling that, if I were to make a move, a definite move, Anselm wouldn’t be altogether unresponsive. He wouldn’t freeze away from me as he froze from man-gobbling, twice-his-age Aimée Renshaw. He wouldn’t smash some rebuff into my face as Bubbles did into Pierre le Fou’s. All right, a fling might mysteriously get him out of my hair. But it might not. It might send him deeper in than just my hair? What if — fucking ... leads to kissing — it’s not Eros but tangling Aphrodite I get in thrall to? What if in the end I find myself twisting and turning to keep Anselm? To keep him and chuck everything else?
But, think, what could go spiralling down from that? It could even lead to me leaving John. And could I cause the twins, all but fully adult though they are, confusion and division of loyalties? Could it ever come to that? It might. It might. And the job might have to go. Yes, it could come to that. Setting up with a junior officer, that alone would be frowned on, and it might well put a stop to any career I may have ahead of me. It would almost certainly get me shunted away somewhere out of sight at the very least. A detective superintendent going off with a detective inspector. And, damn it all, I’m actually more than a detective superintendent. I’m the famous-notorious Hard Detective. I’d be a big headline in the Daily Dirt. Yes, Soft Side to Hard Detective. Iron Fist but Chocky Heart.
No, no, no, no, no. I can’t let that happen. I won’t. I’m here doing my job, and I’ll do it. I’m here to find whoever killed Bubbles Xingara, and, if it takes me a year, if it takes more than that, I’ll do it. Murderers must be brought to justice, whether they have killed a star of the tennis world or some poor victim in the course of a burglary.
Chewed pencil dropped on to the desk.
*
At last and very late, home. The promised long hot shower, long cool drink. And John, the book devourer, patiently waiting up, a slim Saul Bellow novel now on his lap, ready for a little easy talk. And with a small piece of news.
The twins coming home, too. Tomorrow, probably. Jaunt to London with a couple of girls gone a bit wrong.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ John says. ‘Not a police matter or anything.’
‘All right, I suppose we’ll hear more when they arrive. Or most probably not. Not the full story certainly.’
‘Yup. I guess there may have been a row with one of the girls, or both, born of disappointment. Though who’s to say on which side. But how was your funeral?
Funerals always interest me. There’s all the deceased’s family and friends, they see the coffin being put into the ground and afterwards it’s all right to talk about it, say things like Poor old Tom, he’d be turning in his grave. But nobody likes to say anything about what’s buried in the body in the coffin, the secret thoughts, what really went through old Tom’s mind.’
Harriet laughed.
‘Trust you to have an idea about everything.’
‘No, it’s more than an idea. It’s a metaphor, if you like. For our really secret lives. For the sexual ideas we all have that no one actually mentions. All right, nowadays it’s okay to talk about people going to bed together. But that’s just the putting of the coffin into the earth. It’s what’s buried with the dead man that can’t be mentioned.’
‘John, I think you’re talking through your hat. People now tell each other everything.’
‘Oh, yes, there are people, the young adults mostly, who happily talk about every sort of sexual activity, almost. But they’re not everyone. In most people’s minds there’s still a lot that stays buried out of sight.’
‘You could be right, I suppose. But you were asking how my funeral was before you leapt on your hobbyhorse. So let me tell you it wasn’t my funeral. Bar one odd thing that emerged, which I’m having painstakingly followed up, it was just one long bore. You should have heard the Vicar.’
‘I have. Only too often. Or countless clones of him. But didn’t you get any little bits of enjoyment out of it? Funerals and the wakes after them are hotbeds for Eros work, you know. And that’s amusing enough to watch.’
Handy Andy, she thought for a moment, I wonder if this afternoon he neglected his duty at the post-funeral reception at Adam and Eve House? Fastened on some luscious piece of prey there?
And where did you acquire that unlikely piece of curious information?’ she asked John.
A Detective in Love (A Harriet Martens Thriller Book 2) Page 8
