The Circle

by Peter Lovesey

  There was a silence that threatened to go on for ever. Tudor's eyes had opened wider and Dagmar's had closed, it seemed, in embarrassment.

  Maurice was the first to speak. 'You wrote that?'

  'Like I said, this isn't the time.'

  'It's good.'

  Maurice's approval always carried weight in the circle. There were murmurs of agreement.

  'When did you compose it?' he asked.

  'I wouldn't say "composed". "Made it up" is more like it. Today, while I was out on the road.'

  'You see?' Thomasine said to them all with undisguised pride. 'He's one of us.'

  Tudor gave a hollow laugh. 'I bet that pleases him no end.'

  Hen Mallin worked until after midnight, repeatedly reviewing the videotapes of Blacker's visit to the circle and the witness interviews the team had carried out. Somewhere in that lot was the arsonist, unless it was Fran, the one person she hadn't got on tape. She wasn't excluding Fran. But it was hard to visualise any of them with the level of cruelty required. Even Naomi, the most obsessive one, seemed focused on writing a book, not taking a life.

  She was late getting in next morning and there wasn't much to encourage her in the latest report from the forensic lab. Samples had been taken of the lead content of petrol owned by certain suspects. The residues of the leaded petrol used by the arsonist gave at least a reasonable chance of making a comparison. Basil had a couple of cans in store for his motor mower. Checks on the old cars owned by Dagmar and Fran had confirmed that they ran on leaded. Zach ran his motorbike on leaded. None of the samples matched.

  She showed the report to Stella. Trying to be helpful, Stella said it was one more factor in the case, something to add to their database.

  Hen was not so upbeat. 'It doesn't help us at all, Stell.

  All this proves is that we haven't found the killer's supply. Any of those people could have used a can we didn't trace.'

  Stell nodded. 'Are we checking the local petrol stations?'

  'Done. They have no idea. A can can be bought in the shop or filled at the pump.'

  'And you can bet this killer isn't going to use a local garage.'

  'I did have one thought,' Hen said. 'Bob Naylor.'

  'What about him?'

  'He's a Parcel Force driver. Presumably they have their own depot where they fill up.'

  'They'd be using diesel, guv.'

  'Yes, but it's a garage set-up. The odd can stored there for private use. Have someone check it, Stell.'

  Stella's eyebrows rose. 'You rate Bob Naylor as the arsonist?'

  'He's the newcomer, isn't he? You interviewed him. What's your opinion?'

  'I rather liked him, tell you the truth.'

  'But did he tell you the truth?'

  Later, towards midday, DC Shilling found Hen in the incident room.

  'Guv.'

  'Mm?'

  'I've got something for you. Remember you asked me to track down the second man in the Blacker photo?'

  'Innocents magazine.'

  'Right. It turns out he was the owner of Lanarkshire Press, the publisher of all those men's magazines. Mark Kiddlewick.'

  'Have you found him?'

  'Sort of.'

  'He's not dead?'

  'No.'

  'Banged up?'

  Shilling shook his head.

  'So what do you mean by "sort of"?'

  'He changed his name by deed poll in nineteen eighty-seven. He was Marcus Chalybeate after that.'

  'Bit posh.'

  'It was meant to be. He sold his publishing interests and wanted to forget them. He went into the health club business just when it was really taking off, got in with a couple of hotel chains and started equipping hotels up and down the country with all the latest treadmills, rowing machines, weightlifting gear and the rest of it. The turnover was huge. He started buffing up his image, making donations to charity and the Labour Party, rubbing shoulders with the great and the good. Five years ago he was given a life peerage. He's Lord Chalybeate of Boxgrove now.'

  'I think I've heard of him,' Hen said. 'Not that I've ever stepped inside a health club. Where can we see him?'

  'Problem there,' Shilling said. 'He's unavailable.'

  'What do you mean - "unavailable"?'

  'I made enquiries. He has a secretary and she says his diary is full for the next week. The government are trying to get some bill through the House of Lords and every vote is crucial.'

  'I'll see him in London, then.'

  'You won't get past that secretary, guv.'

  'Watch me.' She handed him the phone. 'Get me the number.'

  Without another word, Shilling pressed the buttons and handed it across.

  'Is that Lord Chalybeate's secretary?' Hen said. 'Good. May I speak to him? . . . Detective Chief Inspector Mallin of West Sussex Police . . . Isn't he? Oh, but I think he'll make an exception for me. Tell him it's about an old colleague of his at Lanarkshire Publishing, Edgar Blacker. Yes, Blacker ...' In a short while she winked at Shilling. 'Lord Chalybeate? Good of you to come to the phone. DCI Mallin here. Bit of a blast from the past, this. I need to see you urgently about your connections with the late Edgar Blacker. You probably heard he was murdered . . . This afternoon, please . . . That will do nicely. Three thirty? . . .' She put down the phone and said to Shilling, 'Do you own a suit and tie? Get home and togged up. We're meeting him at the Garrick Club.'

  They didn't step far into the Garrick. Just enough to announce themselves to the porter. Lord Chalybeate was waiting at the top of the steps and came down when he heard his name. He was silver-haired now and wore designer glasses and a pinstripe suit. He was just recognisable as the man in the photo.

  'I thought I'd take you to my hotel,' he said with one hand steering Hen out to the street again.

  'Here will do,' she said. 'Your time is precious and so is mine.'

  'We can talk more freely there.'

  He was well organised; he had a taxi waiting. They were driven along the Mall and past the palace to the Goring Hotel in Beeston Place, around the corner from the Royal Mews.

  'Would tea and sandwiches in the garden suit you?' he asked.

  They stepped right through the small hotel to the rear, where a large square lawn was intersected by a paved path. No one else was there. They chose a spot in the shade and the tea and sandwiches arrived while Lord Chalybeate was still talking about the advantages of living close to Victoria Station.

  'Do you remember Edgar Blacker?' Hen asked as soon as the waitress had stepped away.

  'Not particularly well,' he said. 'It was a brief association.'

  'Is that a joke?' she asked.

  'What?'

  'Brief, briefs. Girlie magazines.'

  His face was a mask of displeasure. 'What about them?'

  You published them, didn't you?'

  After a long pause he said, 'The odd title. It was a tiny part of our output. Glamour mags, we called them in those days.'

  'Blacker edited some of them.'

  'Probably.'

  'I'm telling you,' Hen said. 'He did. One of the tides was Innocents. We found a picture on his bedroom wall of the two of you with your arms around each other's shoulders at what looks like an office party. On the back is written "Innocents, Christmas 1982".'

  'I wouldn't recall it.'

  'Wouldn't recall, or would rather forget?'

  'Both,' Chalybeate said. 'It's not a time I wish to revisit.'

  'But you remember the magazine?'

  'Just about.' He looked away. 'We were publishing scores of tides on any number of topics: music, motoring, wildlife, sport. The top-shelf stuff was a tiny part of the output.'

  'That you'd rather forget.'

  He shrugged and tried to seem unconcerned. 'In fact it was all very tame. More nudge-nudge, wink-wink than porn.'

  'Blacker was your editor, right?'

  'Yes.'

  'He seems to have looked back on his time at the magazine with some affection. He kept that phot
o for over twenty years. Have you any idea why?'

  'No.'

  'Arms around each other. You must have been close.'

  Chalybeate held up a warning finger. 'You won't tar me with that particular brush, inspector. I'm straight and always have been.'

  'Was Blacker?'

  'I'd be surprised if he wasn't.'

  'Perhaps he was simply proud to be linked with a peer of the realm, then. Found the photo in a drawer and thought, "Lord Chalybeate and I were mates once." Helped his self-esteem.'

  Chalybeate gave a shrug, and it seemed like acquiescence.

  'Did he try to make contact again?'

  'He may have done.'

  'He set himself up as an independent publisher. He'd have been looking for financial backers.'

  'I dare say.' His tone suggested he was thinking of other things. Or trying to.

  'Did he put the bite on you, Lord Chalybeate?'

  A sigh. 'All right. You know, don't you? I chipped in a couple of grand, mainly to keep him quiet. I'm a politician. I could be in line for a government post. We have to be squeaky clean these days.'

  'Hush money.'

  'I don't care for the term, but that's what it amounted to.'

  Hen exchanged a glance with Shilling. 'And there was no guarantee that he wouldn't come back for another handout.'

  'If you're thinking I caused the man's death, forget it,' Chalybeate said. 'I was in Los Angeles until last weekend attending the World Fitness Fair.'

  'Actually we're investigating three separate deaths by fire,' Hen said. She let him stew before adding, 'You're not a suspect.'

  He relaxed as if he'd just completed a lift on one of his machines.

  Hen said, 'But I'd like to know more about the men's magazines.'

  He tried laughing it off. 'That was over twenty years ago.'

  'Blacker was editor, and you owned the tides, right? What was his role exactly? My impression of soft porn is that it's more pictures than words.'

  'There's a certain amount of text. But, yes, the pictures sell the magazine.'

  'Would he have taken the pictures?'

  'No, no. We had a couple of professional photographers.'

  'Blacker hired the models and set up the photo sessions?'

  'Yes, and chose the shots for publication.'

  'The girls were professional models?'

  'In the main.'

  'Not all of them, then? The idea of a magazine like Innocents was that the girls hadn't posed nude before. Am I right?'

  'Supposedly they hadn't. You can make it look like an amateur shoot in a number of ways, varying the lighting and the location, and so forth.' He was more willing to talk now he'd been told he wasn't a crime suspect.

  'So they weren't amateurs?'

  He rolled his eyes.

  Shilling said, 'Blue, but not true blue,' and got a glare from his boss.

  'Some did it for love, if you know what I mean,' Chalybeate said.

  'I'm not sure if I do,' Hen said.

  'When we could persuade a girl to pose, we did. These were low-budget mags. Any savings we could make were a bonus.'

  'How did you find such girls?'

  'Don't look at me personally. This was more Blacker's department than mine. My understanding was that some of them were pickups. He'd buy them a few drinks and chat them up, flatter them into stripping off.'

  'Drinks or drugs?'

  His mouth gave a twitch that answered the question.

  'Same old trickery men have used on gullible girls from time immemorial,' Hen said. 'I'm not surprised you want to distance yourself from all that'

  'Blacker, too,' he said. 'Let's be fair. He was trying to cut it as a serious publisher.'

  'But not without some gentle blackmail to fund it.'

  'I wouldn't call it that'

  'I do,' Hen said. 'And if he'd lived you can bet your life he'd have been back to you for more.'

  26

  One can survive everything nowadays, except death, and live down anything except a good reputation.

  Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance (1893)

  The printout of Naomi's website material on what she called 'The Chichester Arson Killings' amounted to thirty-three pages. Each now bore Hen's imprint, the whiff of cigar.

  She'd asked Stella to look through it.

  'Done?'

  Stella nodded.

  'Close the door.'

  Stella knew what was coming. The anger had brought a kind of paralysis to Hen's normally mobile face.

  'It's obvious, isn't it, that someone's been talking out of school? This stuff about two people working together. It comes straight from our last meeting.'

  'I thought so, guv.'

  'Scumbags. I knew as soon as you and I walked into this nick we were in for a hard time, but I didn't reckon on this.'

  'They're not all bad.'

  'One is, at the very least. One of the team is bending Naomi's ear. Who is it? Who did the interview with her?'

  'The first one? You did, guv.'

  'No - the latest. After Jessie was killed.'

  'Andy Humphreys.'

  'Him?'

  'Don't rush in, guv. I know he got off to a bad start with you, that crack about gays, but he's keen.'

  'Too damn keen if he's playing his own game, feeding titbits to one of the suspects.'

  'Want me to talk to him?'

  'No, I will.'

  Stella feared for Andy. She'd seen Hen in warlike moods, but this was Armageddon. 'It could be one of the others.'

  'I don't think so. Who else in the team has spent time with Naomi? Duncan Shilling hasn't been near her. I made a point of clobbering Johnny Cherry with the dumb blonde. It's Humphreys, bang to rights.'

  Stella decided to let her simmer for a while. Finally, she said, 'What about this website? Shall we close it down?'

  'No need, if I plug the leak. Most of it's self-serving rubbish. Let the woman rant on as much as she likes.' Realising that she was ranting herself, she gave a half-smile and made an effort to lighten up. 'I must say I enjoyed some of these names. Nitpicker.'

  'Passionella.'

  'I wonder what she calls you and me.'

  'Better not ask,' Stella said. 'Anyway, I've read it, like you asked. Seems to me she wants to be a part of the action even at the cost of drawing suspicion on herself. Basically the diary shows she's in the clear, if it's true. And this latest entry supports Tudor's statement that he was at home all night.' She reached for another stack of printed sheets.

  'Tudor.' Hen pulled a face. 'His stuff is even more of a pain to read. Remind me what he says about yesterday. Don't give me earache by reading the whole thing.'

  Stella picked up the printout of Tudor's book and turned to the last sheet. '"And so to bed about three in the morning, dog-tired, pooped and tuckered, but with another two thousand words of purple prose in my trusty computer.'"

  'Can you beat it? These bloody writers think they're God's gift. But you're right, Stell. Three a.m. was when his light went out according to Naomi.'

  'So they're both in the clear.'

  'Apparently.'

  'Which means Naomi is right. We're down to the last three. Or four, if we include Fran.'

  'Five,' Hen said. 'Naomi doesn't know if Basil went out that night, and neither do we.'

  'Basil?' Stella had some difficulty grasping Basil as a serious suspect. 'He's easy to overlook, I'll grant you. Inoffensive, modest, devoted to his garden. Is he the worm that turned? But if he is, wouldn't he turn against Naomi? He had nothing against Blacker, or Miss Snow or Mrs Warmington-Smith.'

  'Nothing we know about,' Hen said, and then added, 'He stays on my list.'

  'He's on the fringe,' Stella said, giving serious consideration to Basil for the first time. 'Doesn't regard himself as a serious writer. Only joined to make up the numbers. I wonder if he hates the lot of them.'

  'Might do.'

  'But he's an ex-fireman. They don't start fires, do they?'

 
'Coppers can go wrong, so why not firemen?'

  'He'd have to be a nutcase.'

  'Whoever is doing it has to be a nutcase,' Hen said. 'But if you think about it, we're left with the level-headed ones. Dagmar never says anything outrageous. Thomasine is more animated, but has her feet on the ground. Fran has a kind of worldly wisdom learned from those years as the wife of a gangster. And Bob is the guy on the Clapham omnibus.'

  'The Parcel Force van.'

  'Right. Your all-round good egg. Not a nutter among them that I can see.'

  The mention of Bob reminded Stella of something. She opened the drawer of her desk and took out the diary he had loaned her. 'While we're looking at their literary efforts - I didn't tell you about this, guv.'

  'What is it?'

  'Bob's poems. His doggerel, he calls it.'

  'He lent them to you? He's very trusting. I wouldn't lend you an umbrella on a wet day.'

  'Thanks!'

  'Anything of interest?'

  'I haven't had time to read them.'

  'Let's hear one, then. They can't be worse than these other literary efforts.'

  Stella thumbed through the pages and smiled. 'Here's a sample:

  Is Basil green

  When his wife is seen

  With the new Tolkien?'

  'Likes his puns, doesn't he?' Hen said, not much impressed.

  'Okay,' Stella said, turning to another page. 'Here's one about a cat:

  Amelia was a dancing cat, I'm able to disclose

  Before she started writing the lives of all the Snows.'

  'We're into T. S. Eliot territory now,' Hen said. 'One of the few things I remember from school, his poems on cats. Is there any more?'

  'At the local writers' circle she sits beside the Chair

  Keeping minutes of the meeting with single-minded care.

  If the members criticise her she might give a little shrug

  And privately remember how she used to cut the rug.

  At home, she does her writing and if it doesn't flow

  She'll choose another chapter, start another Snow.

  But as the night approaches and the work gets really tough

  She allows herself a memory of how she'd strut her stuff.

  For Amelia was a dancing cat, I'm able to disclose

  Before she started writing the lives of all the Snows.'

  'What's he on about here?' Hen said, frowning. 'This is Miss Snow, right?'