Beau Death

by Peter Lovesey

  “What?”

  “It’s all downhill from here. I’m going to make an arrest.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I must.”

  “These are my friends.”

  “Mine, too,” he said. “Paloma’s here, in case you hadn’t noticed. My main concern is to avoid a shootout.”

  “Oh God.”

  “When the moment comes, I’d appreciate your assistance in controlling the situation, ma’am. If necessary tell them to throw themselves on the ground.”

  “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Look at my arms. They’re covered in gooseflesh. Can’t you wait for a better moment?”

  He shook his head. “It’s all set up. The place is surrounded.”

  Georgina had difficulty finding words. “Why wasn’t I informed?”

  “No time, unfortunately. I had to act fast.”

  “You’d better tell me who you’re planning to arrest.”

  “I would, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “We’re about to be interrupted. Don’t step to your right, whatever you do.” He’d noticed an electrically powered wheelchair moving in rapidly from the rear. He pitched his voice higher to make the introduction. “This is my friend Algy, the most senior member of the Beau Nash Society.”

  “Don’t know about that,” Algy said, ready for a jovial chat. “I’ve never held office. I just go on and on.”

  “Georgina is my boss, the assistant chief constable.”

  “Making sure you behave yourself?”

  “Too late for that,” Diamond said and Georgina’s look showed that for once they were in agreement.

  Algy was looking dapper in a striped shirt and white chinos. “Peter is a hero as far as I’m concerned,” he told Georgina. “A credit to the force. Rescued me at our last meeting from what I can only describe as an incommodious situation. I said I wanted to put him up for a commendation, but he wouldn’t have it. Such modesty.”

  “‘Secrecy’ sums it up better,” Georgina said. “He doesn’t tell me anything.”

  Diamond’s attention was elsewhere. “Tell me, Algy, is the small man with the fluffy blond hair and the purple kaftan one of your Beau Nash people?”

  Algy had to crane for a look across the pool. “Him? No, no, he doesn’t belong to us. That’s Duncan Newburn, the owner of the Upmarket Gallery in Broad Street.”

  “I thought so. What’s he doing here?”

  “Top secret,” Algy said. “My lips are sealed.”

  “A friend of the Parises?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. All will become clear at some stage.”

  “He was definitely invited?”

  “Certainly.”

  Georgina commented, “Which is more than one can say for everyone here.”

  “Speaking of which,” Diamond said, “I’m going to circulate. That’s what you do at cocktail parties, isn’t it? I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted.” And he moved off before they could stop him.

  Lady Sally was still offering canapés so he went over.

  “Pete, how nice to see you,” she said. “Did Georgie bring you?”

  He had to think who Georgie was. “No, I’m a grown-up. I found my own way here.”

  She smiled. “These are nice. Try a mini quiche—or three. You look as if you could do with a bite to eat.”

  He didn’t turn down the offer. “I was just saying I’m surprised to see one of your guests, Duncan Newburn, the gallery owner. He’s nothing to do with the Beau Nash Society, is he?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Lady Sally said. “I only met him for the first time a few minutes ago. But I do know what he’s doing here and it’s top secret, only not for much longer.” She looked across the pool to where Newburn was telling some story with animated gestures. “He seems to be enjoying himself. Do you know him?”

  “Our paths have crossed, yes.”

  She laughed. “I hope he doesn’t have a criminal record.”

  “Speaking of which,” he said, “I’ve been talking to your chauffeur.”

  “Jim? What about? Gossip? My failing marriage?”

  The last remark caught him off guard and sounded as if it was a whole different story she might not wish to enlarge on, so he let it pass. “He had nice things to say about you and your husband—like the second chance you gave him when you offered him the job.”

  “That was years ago. He’s more than justified our faith in him.”

  “He said you paid for their honeymoon.”

  “Did he? I’d almost forgotten. With Ed’s money, we can afford it.”

  “Even more generously, you made Astra’s wedding dress.”

  “And delighted to do it. Dressmaking can be awfully humdrum. A wedding dress is a joy to work on.”

  “But you’ve got to be experienced to take on a job like that.”

  “Actually, it’s not the most difficult, provided that the bride knows what she wants and doesn’t keep changing her mind. Astra was fine.”

  “Where did you learn?”

  “Most women take up the needle at some point in their lives. I started young.”

  “But you don’t do it professionally any more?”

  The colour rose to her cheeks. “You’re not an income tax inspector as well a policeman, are you? No, it’s my hobby. Everything I do—the beauty therapy—is because I enjoy it. My clients pay a nominal fee, but that barely covers the materials. It’s more for their peace of mind than mine.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of metal on glass, Jim Spearman striking an empty bottle with a large serving spoon to get attention. At his side was the host, Sir Edward Paris. People stopped their conversations and turned to hear the announcement.

  “I know, I know, I know,” a smiling Sir Ed wooed his audience with the confidence of a man who had paid for everything in sight and was on home territory among friends, “we told you it was just a bash by the pool. No speeches and no presents, but there’s a reason why we’re here—a very attractive reason—and she’s gone all shy and trying not to be noticed, and that’s difficult in a yellow trouser suit.”

  Estella was laughing.

  Diamond looked to his left to see how Lady Sally was taking this. She wasn’t sharing in the amusement. Evidence of the failing marriage? For all the banter between them, she and Ed had seemed a devoted couple until a moment ago.

  Ed was saying, “Most of you know Estella is taking over from me as president of our esteemed Beau Nash Society—our new Beau—unless she decides to call herself the Belle. Does that have a good ring to it? Whatever it is, I want to congratulate her and wish her well, and if you’ll just step forward, Estella . . .” He turned to Spearman. “Where are they, Jim?”

  Spearman dipped behind a low wall and came up with a bouquet the size of Somerset. The mobile phones were out to take pictures but if a kiss was exchanged no one could tell behind the flowers as they passed from the Beau to the Belle. Estella had to return them to the ground straight away. She smiled and nodded her thanks and someone shouted, “Speech,” and Sir Ed said, “No speeches. That’s all, folks.”

  But somebody had other ideas. Who else but Crispin? He raised a hand and announced in beautifully articulated words, “Not quite all, Ed. After so many years as president you can’t be allowed to walk into the sunset without some token of our affection. We have a small surprise for you in the main reception room of your house. Yes, it’s come to that—you don’t even know what’s going on in your own home. If everyone would kindly move inside, we’ll unveil our small tribute to Sir Edward in a few minutes.”

  “Was this the secret you mentioned just now?” Diamond asked Lady Sally.

  “Yes. I had the job of distracting him while they got it ready.”

  “Something involving Newburn?”

&nbs
p; “Indirectly, yes. I’d better go inside,” she added. “They want me near the front.”

  Diamond was pleased to have a moment to himself—the chance to contact his back-up team by phone. He moved across the lawn to a shaded area under a willow.

  Success at the first touch of the controls—and no one at his side to appreciate it.

  “Guv?” Halliwell sounded pleased.

  “How far away are you?”

  “Some distance to go, I’m afraid. Maybe twenty minutes more climbing.”

  “As long as that?”

  “It’s bloody steep and overgrown in places. No one has come through here in years as far as I can tell. But we made a find.”

  “Oh?”

  “Almost at the bottom of the steepest part, a gun.”

  Diamond pressed the phone harder to his ear. “Did I hear you right? A gun?”

  “Handgun.”

  “Really?” His heart started pumping at a rate he could practically hear. “Amazing . . . What sort—a revolver?”

  “A Smith and Wesson and what’s more it says nine millimetres on the barrel. It’s in good nick as far as I can see. Obviously hasn’t been lying there long. Scarcely any dust and muck on it.”

  “Have any of you handled it?”

  “It’s okay. It won’t get contaminated. John Leaman had a spare evidence bag in his pocket. He thinks of everything. But he wasn’t the one who found it. That was one of the uniformed guys.”

  Diamond was silent for some seconds, processing this sensational new information. “You were just telling me no one had been through before.”

  “It must have been thrown from the top where you are. It’s a sheer drop of maybe a hundred and fifty feet below the pool.”

  “Can you see the pool from where you are?”

  “You’re kidding. It’s huge. From down here it looks like a multistorey car park built into the side of the hill. If someone stood where the water tips over and slung the gun as far as they could, it would land roughly where we found it.”

  He didn’t have time to trade theories with Keith. They both knew the whopping significance of the find.

  “Anyhow,” Halliwell continued, “we marked the spot on the ground and moved on. Serious climbing in front of us and there’s thick bracken here. A machete would be more use to us than a gun. How’s it going with you?”

  “Tough. I don’t think I can manage another sausage roll.”

  “Still on for an arrest?”

  “Definitely. I can’t stand here talking. There’s some kind of presentation underway. I’ll call you again when I need you.”

  He pocketed the phone and stepped out towards the house. Most of the partygoers were already inside but a voice hailed him from behind. “What do you think of the building, then?”

  He turned and saw Algy fast approaching in his scooter. A distraction he could do without.

  “I haven’t given it a proper look,” he answered in all truth. “I got to the party late and came round the side without taking it in.” Forced to take an interest in Ed’s dream home, he wasn’t over-impressed now he was facing the twisted steel and glass north aspect.

  “Hideous, isn’t it?” Algy said.

  “Wouldn’t be my choice, I have to say.” Right now he didn’t want to debate modern architecture.

  “Nor mine. Frank Lloyd Wright, who knew a bit about designing buildings, once said something along the lines of a doctor can bury his mistakes, but an architect can only advise his client to plant vines.”

  “Nice one.”

  “And I don’t think it’s wheelchair-friendly. Ed ought to know better than that, being a builder. Will you help me up the steps?”

  Diamond should have guessed Algy had been leading up to this. He meant the set of ten steps in front of the entrance. The house was sited on a steep slope.

  Hard to refuse.

  “We’ll need a second person.” Algy was already waving to recruit another helpmate. “When you’re handicapped you soon learn it doesn’t pay to be shy.”

  One of the Beau Nash regulars came over, a clergyman Diamond remembered from the meeting in the Circus and so thin that his dog collar gaped like a pouch. Surely capable of lifting hearts and minds, but a wheelchair containing the chunky Algy might be more of a test.

  “The only way up is backwards,” Algy told them both. “You take the handles, reverend, and Pete will provide the beef. He’ll face me, hold on to the frame and do the lifting.”

  No point in suggesting Algy vacated the chair while they took it to the top. Diamond would end up trying to carry the overweight man upstairs in his arms. The wheels definitely had to be employed in this operation.

  The two good Samaritans obeyed orders and with a bit of a struggle succeeded in raising the scooter step by step to the top. Diamond was on autopilot, absorbing the news he’d got from Halliwell. There was no proof yet that the revolver was the weapon that had murdered Perry Morgan, but everything suggested it was.

  “Deeply obliged, gentlemen,” Algy said. “Haven’t delayed you much, I trust. I didn’t want to skip the tribute after I helped pay for it. We won’t have missed much. If Crispin’s in charge, he’s awfully long-winded.” Free to go, he went—at some speed into the house.

  The room was packed for the presentation. On this hot afternoon no one in his right mind would want to be there long. People were making room for the wheelchair and Diamond followed far enough inside to get a reasonable view. At the front, Crispin was standing like an old-fashioned schoolmaster beside an easel, except that it wasn’t supporting a blackboard but some substantial object draped in red velvet. Close by was Newburn, the drug-pusher and gallery owner. From his expression you would think he was an angel in a nativity play.

  “. . . and we decided at an early stage,” Crispin was saying, “that we should look for something he could keep, a memento of his years as our Beau, and one of us happened to look into the window of a shop in Broad Street, the Upmarket Gallery, and see a rather novel work of art, a trompe l’oeil—is that the term, Mr. Newburn?”

  Happy to be mentioned, the golden-haired cocaine-seller bestowed his blessing with a smile.

  Crispin was in full flow. “This serendipitous event—the sighting of the object in the window—gave us the idea of commissioning a unique gift for Ed, something we believe he will enjoy for at least as many years as he has served as our president and, we hope, much longer than that. There wasn’t a lot of time and there was research involved and official permission, questions of copyright and all manner of things Ed was blissfully unaware of. We took Lady Sally into our confidence and she has conspired with us to make sure the artist knew exactly what was required while Ed knew nothing.”

  On Crispin’s other side, Lady Sally nodded. She was standing beside her new friend Georgina.

  “So without more ado,” Crispin said (and you could almost hear the sighs of relief), “I invite Sir Edward Paris, our respected Beau, to step forward and unveil his leaving present from the society.”

  To huge applause, the man of the moment appeared from the front row, shaking his head in a way that was both gratified and baffled. He grasped the velvet cover and lifted it from a gold-framed picture of . . . who else but Beau Nash? Ed was getting a full-sized copy of the portrait in the Pump Room, the white tricorne, wavy black wig, pouched blue eyes, ruddy complexion and double chin—the fat old dandy in his dotage.

  There is a famous film clip of Sir Winston Churchill on his eightieth birthday being presented with a gift from both houses of Parliament—his portrait by Graham Sutherland. The likeness was not flattering. Seated against a brown panelled background, Winston was depicted with chin thrust forward and brow foreshortened, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared and mouth downturned. He had seen the painting ahead of the unveiling in Westminster Hall and taken a firm dislike to it. After the curtains part
ed the old warrior took a theatrical look at the work before stepping up to the microphone. He was eloquent as always. This was “a remarkable example of modern art. It certainly combines force and candour.” A moment of uneasy silence followed and then a wide grin from Churchill gave the audience the cue to laugh. The remarkable example of modern art was afterwards dumped in a cellar at Chartwell until it was taken out and burned on the instructions of Lady Churchill.

  Ed’s reaction to his gift from the Beau Nash Society was equally unappreciative, but far less polished than Churchill’s. He glared at the old Beau as if he was the grim reaper making an appearance on Christmas morning. As he’d made clear several times, he’d “had it up to here” with Nash, who was “an old poser” and a “silly arse.” He turned away from the offensive image, twisting the red velvet as if he was preparing to strangle someone and Crispin was the closest.

  However, Crispin wasn’t fazed. He stepped behind the portrait and shifted the angle a fraction and a remarkable thing happened. The image of Beau Nash underwent a change. It morphed into Sir Edward Paris himself, in the identical eighteenth-century costume, wig and hat. Gasps and cries came from the audience. Then they realised they were looking at a hologram and burst into applause.

  Well and truly caught out, Ed was clapping harder than anyone.

  29

  Find Paloma first.

  Diamond’s planning was meant to avoid violence, but every plan is imperfect. He couldn’t predict what would happen at the end. Faced with exposure, any criminal is a wounded tiger.

  So his self-imposed duty as the guests streamed out of the house was to persuade Paloma to leave the party at once. If she remained, there was a real danger she would get caught up in the serious events to come. They hadn’t spoken all afternoon, but she must have spotted him and she’d think it inexcusable to ignore him. It was sod’s law that she would innocently pick the moment he was poised to make the arrest.

  Find Paloma.

  Before him was a civilised scene played out by decent people used to the conventions of the English garden party. Most were strolling towards the infinity pool and the view across the valley. A group was forming around a barbecue trolley in the marquee. Some were laying claim to the patio tables. A few more had found the circular tree seat surrounding a huge oak. All in a country garden on a perfect summer afternoon innocent of anything more dangerous than a few flying insects.