The Circle

by Peter Lovesey

  Inside the hour she was doing penance, sitting on the chintz sofa opposite the Swiss mountain scene in Fran's front room in Lavant, a tray of tea and fruitcake in front of her. She hadn't dismissed the idea of Fran as the arsonist, but she had to stretch her brain to picture this silver-haired old lady patrolling the streets in the small hours with a can of petrol and a bundle of oily rags. The thing that made her hesitate was the voice. Tough, hard, resolute.

  'I'm surprised you have the gall to come back,' Fran said as she poured the tea, making it clear from the start that she was no pushover.

  'I'm the one who released Maurice,' Hen said. 'When I took over he was already in custody.'

  'What's this about, then?'

  'Like I said on the doorstep, it's more about you than Maurice.'

  'You bastards never let go, do you?' Fran said with all the bitterness of long experience. 'Just because I made an unfortunate marriage a long time ago, I'm listed as a lowlife for ever. How do I get through to you people that I was never involved in crime?'

  'It's not about the past. It's about last night. I expect you heard another woman died in a fire in Chichester.'

  'That. It was on the radio.' Not much sympathy there.

  'She was one of the circle. You probably knew Mrs Warmington-Smith.'

  A shake of the silver curls. 'They're just names to me. The circle is Maurice's baby. I'm not interested in writing.'

  You haven't met the members?'

  'One came on his own when Maurice was in custody. Bob, he said his name was. I'd never even heard of him. He was back later with a woman, something like Tamsin.'

  'Thomasine O'Loughlin.'

  'They said they were trying to get Maurice released so I took them at their word. I'm very trusting.'

  In trying to assess her character, Hen hadn't thought of 'trusting'. Words like 'canny' and 'hard-nosed' sprang more readily to mind, try as Fran might to cultivate the little old lady look.

  'Can we turn to last night, or, rather, early this morning between three and five? We're asking everyone where they were.'

  'Here, as usual.'

  'Is there any way of proving it?'

  'Maurice will tell you.'

  'Thanks, but it would count for more if there was some independent proof.'

  'That's ridiculous. What do you expect, some neighbour knocking on the door at four in the morning?'

  'Point taken,' Hen said. 'Do you drive?'

  'Can do, at a pinch. I rely on Maurice mostly.'

  'But you keep your hand in? Sensible. What make of car is it?'

  'Ford Escort'

  'An old model?'

  'Depends what you mean. The mileage has gone round the clock.'

  'I'd like to see it before I go. Have you used it today?'

  'We took a shopping trip into town.' She gave a sharp, impatient sigh. 'Listen, you're wasting your time with me. I've got nothing against the writers. Maurice gets a lot of pleasure from the meetings, and I'm happy for him. There's no earthly reason why I would want to set fire to people's homes.'

  'Oh, if we're dealing in earthly reasons, I think there's one you have to face,' Hen said. 'The second victim, Miss Snow, knew about Maurice's past, the prison sentence, and she blabbed about it to Bob Naylor, the man you met. Each of them was attacked by the arsonist - fatally, in the case of Miss Snow, though Naylor escaped. Both incidents happened while Maurice was in custody, which let him off the hook, but not you.'

  Her hands formed bony little fists and she leaned forward, glaring. 'Maurice's past is public knowledge. It was in the papers at the time.'

  'The Brighton papers, yes, but hardly anyone in this town knew of it. Most of the circle hadn't the faintest idea. They respect him. Miss Snow had the potential to blow away his reputation.'

  Fran switched to a more defensive tone. 'Nobody told me Miss Snow was putting this about. I agree it would have angered me. I don't know what my reaction would have been except I wouldn't have torched her house. That's sneaky and detestable. I'd have had it out with her, face to face. Besides, I didn't even know where the Snow woman lived until I read about the fire in the paper.'

  'Presumably Maurice has an address list for the circle.'

  'If he has, it's in his office upstairs and I don't go in there.'

  'But you know where to look.'

  'That's unfair.'

  'Where is he right now?'

  'In Chichester library, I should think. That's where I left him. He'd arranged to meet one or two of the circle there, to talk over this latest fire.'

  'So you drove home alone? You do use the car?'

  'Just as I said, at a pinch. I may be older than Maurice, but I'm not decrepit, you know'

  Anything but, Hen thought. This was a foxy lady with a sharp mind. 'Do you keep a can of petrol here? People sometimes do, as a back-up.'

  'You'd have to ask Maurice. He deals with things like that. You haven't had a slice of my cake.'

  'I've got no appetite, thanks. Mind if I look at the shoes you were wearing?'

  'Wearing when?'

  'This morning, when you drove the car.'

  'What for?'

  'Just to check. It's my job.'

  Shaking her head, Fran got up and left the room and presently returned with a pair of flat-heeled brogues. Hen examined them and found no trace of petrol or of burning, but then she wouldn't have expected this with-it old woman to leave anything so obvious.

  She asked to see the car and took the opportunity to poke around the garage in search of the spare can of petrol. She didn't find one.

  'Are you sure you don't want a specimen of my DNA as well?' Fran said.

  The sense of failure still nagged at Hen as she drove back into town. Johnny Cherry, blast him, had touched a raw nerve. No question: Fran was a suspect now and should have been from day one.

  24

  www.ChichesterMurderDetectives.com

  Latest Developments on the Chichester Arson Case

  from Naomi Green

  It's all over the papers and television, so you'll know. The arson attacks in Chichester continue. Yesterday another of the circle, Jessie Warmington-Smith, died in a house fire deliberately started in the same way as the others. It was a shock to us all. Jessie was not an easy person to get on with, but who am I to talk? Whatever one thinks about her, she didn't deserve this.

  For me, it was a hugely frustrating night. Having decided the conditions were ideal for another arson attack (dry, warm, new moon), I put on dark clothes and trainers and left the house about twenty to two and drove to North Street to keep watch on the Welshman. Took up position in a shop doorway opposite and was encouraged to see the light still on in his flat over the building society. He was still my number one suspect. So I was ultra-cautious. I waited nearly an hour and then the light went out. Expecting him to come out immediately, I watched the door to the street. Nothing. There's no back door. He had to come out that way. I kept watch for another hour and twenty minutes. Finally, around four thirty, with the sky already getting lighter, I decided this wasn't to be the night. Stiff-legged from standing for so long, I returned to the car and drove away.

  I discovered later what had happened. The fire was in Vicars Close, up by the cathedral, while I was keeping watch in North Street - so I'm forced to conclude that the Welshman was not responsible. He was at home in his flat while I was watching.

  Everyone is asking why the arsonist should have chosen Jessie this time. Is it because she was a soft target? She lived alone in a quiet terrace and unlike some of the others she hadn't taken any precautions against someone pouring petrol through her letterbox.

  Later, we were all questioned about our movements. Guessing how the police would react, I was going to say nothing about my night's adventure, but Greenfingers, stupid oaf, blurted it out. I should have realised he'd throw me to the wolves. In the end I managed to convince them what I was doing was research for this book, but it took some while.

  And so the focus has to shift
again. If Welshman is off the list, and so are The Chair, Nitpicker, Zach and Blondie, who is left? I can forget Greenfingers. Only the Schoolmistress, Passionella and the new man, Parcel Force. Two strong-minded women and one man who reveals very little about himself. But what motive could any of them have?

  The police have a new theory: two perpetrators working together. Interesting. There are several partnerships within the circle of suspects. By this I don't mean man and wife. You might think of Basil and me as a team - unless you know our situation. Mostly these are twinnings of another sort. I thought I'd found an ally in Zach, but he has disappointed me. Ever since he went to the Fantasy Convention with the dumb Blondie he seems to have lost interest in the e-book. If you visit this website regularly you'll know he promised to collaborate with me, and he had some promising ideas, but he has produced nothing. It's his loss. I've registered over a thousand hits since I installed the hit counter.

  Partnerships? Well, we have The Chair and his lady.

  Parcel Force, the new man, and his friend Schoolmistress (wanting to see him after lessons, I suspect).

  Romantic novelist Passionella and Schoolmistress (yes, her again, they're old chums).

  And Zach and Blondie.

  The point about two killers working together is that they can cover for each other. Some of the alibis the police have checked out would be worthless. It would throw everything back into the melting pot.

  I am going back to my list to see who ought to be suspect number one. I'll keep you informed of everything that happens.

  YOU ARE VISITOR [1021] TO THIS SITE

  25

  You shan't evade

  These rhymes I've made.

  Catullus (87-54BC) Fragments, trans. Sir William Marris

  Just to recap, you were at home all night?'

  'All night,' Bob said.

  ;But you were up early?'

  'My job. I was on the Bristol run.'

  'Which meant leaving home at . . . ?'

  'Five thirty.'

  'So you got out of bed at what time?'

  'Quarter to five. "Early to rise and early to bed makes a man healthy, wealthy and dead."'

  Stella Gregson smiled. 'One of yours?'

  'Wish it was.'

  'You're sure about the time?'

  'I leave it to the last possible second to pull back the duvet. Quick shower and shave, sling on some clothes, slice of toast and a cup of coffee, in that order if my head is working. Then off.'

  'A quarter to five this morning? No earlier?'

  'I told you. I like my bed.'

  'And of course there's no way to prove you were there all night?'

  'How could I? Ah - you mean like someone sharing my bed? You reckon?'

  'Fair enough,' Stella said. She'd enjoyed interviewing him.

  'You said that wasn't one of your verses just now?'

  'James Thurber.'

  'But you do write poetry. You read me a sample when we last met'

  'Doggerel is a better word.'

  'I thought it was all right.'

  'It's meant to raise a laugh here and there. Things that happen to me, people I meet. Nothing deep.'

  'Is any of it published?'

  'God, no. I'm a beginner.'

  'I noticed you write it down in a pocket book.'

  'An old diary. When I first came to the circle one of them told me to keep everything. Most of it's crap.'

  Stella leaned forward like a conspirator. 'Anything on the other members? I'd love to read some more.'

  He hesitated. 'Well, some of it's a bit... you know, below the belt. I wouldn't want them to read it.'

  'But I'm not in the circle,' Stella said. 'And there aren't many laughs in this job.'

  'All right.' He put his hand into his hip pocket and took out the small black diary. 'Don't expect Tennyson, will you?'

  'I wouldn't want him, thanks. He's dead, isn't he? May I keep it overnight? I'll take care of it.' She slipped it into a drawer, and for a moment Bob Naylor looked as if he'd been duped and didn't understand how.

  'We're done.' Stella parted the slats of the blinds. 'She's waiting for you downstairs.'

  'Who is?'

  'Your friend from the circle. That's Dagmar's little car, isn't it?'

  He looked out. 'Doesn't mean a thing.'

  But when he emerged from the police station it was Thomasine who stood outside the car waving. Dagmar was at the wheel. 'We thought you might be hungry if you came here straight from work,' Thomasine said. 'I got you a bite to eat from the pasty shop. It's still warm, I think.'

  'Kind of you.'

  'Some of the circle are in the bar at the New Park. We would have had a meeting, but it doesn't seem right somehow. We thought we'd join them.'

  'Okay with me.'

  It was good to see Maurice there, restored as the father figure of the circle, his big hand clasped round a pint glass. Less good to see Tudor, flushed with the drama of another death and ready to badmouth anyone who couldn't be there. Of the ladies, only Thomasine and Dagmar had come.

  'Why on earth should this happen to Jessie?' Dagmar said.

  'Obvious,' Tudor said. 'She got up someone's nose.'

  'You don't murder people just because they upset you.'

  'Oh, but you do. Well, plenty of murderers do. Let's face it, she put herself on a pedestal. Holier than thou, forever reminding us she was once married to an archbishop.'

  'Archdeacon.'

  'What's the difference? You wouldn't think there was any, the way she went on. You'd never find her drinking in this bar, for instance.'

  Thomasine said, 'She obviously got up your nose, Tudor.'

  'You know yourself, there were times when she would have made a nun feel guilty. As for us, we were the children of darkness.'

  Maurice said, 'Let's try and be more charitable, shall we? There was nothing in Jessie's attitude that remotely justified anyone killing her.'

  Dagmar said, 'Thank you, Maurice. I can't abide people who speak ill of the dead.'

  Tudor said, 'So you're carrying the torch now, are you?'

  'What torch?'

  'Our moral conscience. Someone has to do it, I suppose. Well, you want me to be more charitable. Here's a more charitable theory for you. She was killed because of that book she was writing.'

  '"Tips for the Twenty-First Century"?' Thomasine said in disbelief. 'What's the problem with that?'

  A knowing smile spread across Tudor's face. 'No problem any more. It's all gone up in flames, hasn't it, like "The Snows of Yesteryear", another apparently inoffensive book. Has anyone yet considered the theory that it wasn't the people the killer wanted to destroy, it was the books?'

  'That's bullshit,' she said.

  'So were the books. This is literary criticism taken to the ultimate. Kill off bad books before they get published.'

  'Tudor.'

  'Yes?'

  'Does your mother know you're out?'

  Bob saw this descending into a slanging match. 'Hold on, hold on. We're all on edge,' he said. 'Let's keep it friendly, huh?'

  Maurice backed him. 'The circle has always been about support for each other. Together, we ought to be able to make some sense of what's happening. In some ways we're better placed than the police to get to the truth of it. We have a fair idea what we're all about.'

  'We're creative people, or we wouldn't have joined the circle,' Dagmar said, extending the idea. 'How can any of us be a murderer? Killing is destruction, the very opposite of what we are.'

  'Unless one of us joined for the wrong reason,' Thomasine said with her peculiar talent for speaking up at the wrong time.

  'What do you mean?'

  'That they had an agenda of their own and are using the circle as a cover for their killing.'

  Tudor rose to this at once. 'A cover? You've got something there. We know who the bona fide members are. They're the people who write stuff and read it out week after week.' The direction of his thoughts was clear as he eyed the others seat
ed around the table. 'Maurice finished his book and delivered it. Dagmar has done about twenty.'

  'Twelve,' Dagmar said.

  'That's enough to prove you're genuine. Thomasine has a great folio of erotic verse.'

  'Poetry,' Dagmar said.

  'And far from great,' Thomasine added.

  'Sorry. Poetry. Great in number, by any standard. We all admire your body - of work.' He paused to have his wit appreciated. 'And I've completed over a hundred thousand words of autobiography.'

  While this was going on, Bob felt the spotlight moving inexorably his way. 'That makes me the killer,' he said, to cut short the process. 'Nothing to read out. No form at all as a writer.'

  Thomasine was quick to defend him. 'You're not the only one, Bob. Anton never reads his work in our manuscript sessions.'

  'Neither does Sharon,' Dagmar said.

  'Right,' Thomasine said. 'She just doodles through the meetings.'

  'Yeah, but they're the ones with the alibis,' Bob said. 'On the night Miss Snow was killed, Anton was using his computer and can prove it and Sharon was up in Harrogate.'

  'And Zach was up in Sharon,' Tudor added.

  'Tudor, why do you have to lower the tone at every opportunity?' Thomasine said.

  'Like I said, it comes back to me,' Bob said. 'No alibi. Bugger all to show as a writer.'

  Concern was etched deeply in Thomasine's face. 'What about your rhymes? It's no good being coy about them.' She hesitated, but not for long. 'He's a wiz at making up funny rhymes.'

  There was a silence. Then Maurice said, 'Could we hear one?'

  Bob's leg jerked under the table. 'This isn't the moment, is it? I'd rather be the number one suspect.'

  'Go on,' Thomasine said.

  Dagmar said, 'Do it, Bob.'

  He took a deep breath. 'I guess there's the "Writers' Prayer".'

  'What's that?' Maurice said. 'Let's hear it.'

  'A bit of nonsense really. Don't know if I can do it from memory:

  Lead me not into temptation,

  Overusing punctuation.

  Kindly show me where to drop

  Comma, colon and full stop.

  But if I falter, grab me, please,

  And cut out my apostrophes.'