Quantrill cautiously inched himself nearer. His wife was very rarely in a co-operative mood; keen enough in their younger days, but for the past few years she’d gone off it, or him, almost completely. He didn’t know why because they had never been able to discuss the subject of sex. When they had first gone out together, he had been tongue-tied and she was far too prudish; then, in the early days of their marriage, they had hidden their mutual embarrassment behind lovers’baby-talk. Later, discussion had seemed superfluous. Now it was impossible, because they had no common adult vocabulary.
Here then was an unlooked-for revival of her interest. The fact that it was of Jasmine Woods’s contriving rather than his own was immaterial; Molly was in the right mood, and that was enough. He reached out a hand and spread it experimentally on her plump thigh.
Molly’s muscles twitched absently, like those of a grazing mare plagued by flies in summer.
Quantrill edged closer, and explored a little further.
‘Give over,’ Molly muttered, closing her legs and crossing her ankles and continuing to read.
Quantrill, with the finesse of a salesman who keeps his foot in the door, left his hand in place and pressed his shoulder against his wife’s. She was a page or two from the end of the book, and he began to read with her:
‘Nicolai,’ she whispered. She could not look at him, but she was overwhelmingly conscious of his presence beside her on the furs of the troika, of the length of his body, the turn of his head, the shape of his hands. ‘Nicolai,’ she said again, and he caught her to him, pressing his body against …
Quantrill grinned expectantly at his wife. ‘Hurry up,’ he said with a lecherous nudge, ‘turn the page!’
Molly sat up, exasperated. ‘Ooh!’ she cried, clutching the open book to the front of her nightdress like a chastity shield, ‘mind your own business! Why can’t you go to sleep?’
Her husband plucked tentatively at one of her rounded pink frills and tried a revival of the boyish grin that had rarely failed to work in the distant past. ‘You know why not,’ he pleaded, half-laughing, half-intense. ‘Come on Molly …’
Typical, she though bitterly. Just like her husband, to start making demands when she was enjoying herself; just like him to go straight to one of the sexier passages in the book and want to put it into practice, ignoring the preliminaries of affection and tenderness that had been woven into the excitements of the story.
This was the difference of course, she told herself, between romantic novels and real life. Jasmine Woods understood and wrote about the importance of the smaller intimacies, the things that really mattered, like the entwining of hands and fingers and the exchange of words of reassurance and love; whereas in real life it was just a sudden ‘Come on, Molly,’ and a lot of heavy breathing and a clumsy tussle under the bedclothes, and then nothing but lying disappointed in the dark.
She glared at her husband through the gap between the pink elastic edging of her hair-net and her half-mast reading glasses. ‘Leave me alone, do,’ she snapped. ‘I want to finish my book in peace. And it’s no use your looking at me like that, Doug Quantrill, because I’m too tired.’
She turned away, hunching her shoulder against him: another small victory to help balance her account.
Quantrill sighed and rolled back to his own side of the bed, and counted the unsolved crimes in the division until eventually he fell asleep.
Chapter Four
With a little persuasion from Quantrill, Martin Tait made up his mind to invite the Chief Inspector’s daughter to accompany him to Jasmine Woods’s party.
Like any other agile bachelor, Tait was equipped with an inbuilt early warning system. It had bleeped loudly when Quantrill asked him to supper and mentioned that his daughter would be at home. ‘Oh yes …’ Tait had told himself cynically, assuming that Mrs Quantrill – an embarrassingly fussy woman, he thought, who had been married for years to an ordinary police constable and found it difficult in middle age to adjust to being a senior officer’s wife – was angling for a likely son-in-law. While Tait had no objection at all to meeting girls, he had his priorities absolutely clear: senior – very senior – rank first, marriage later; and to a girl who would be capable, early in her marriage, of playing the part of the wife of one of the country’s youngest assistant chief constables.
Meanwhile, he was conscious of being only a sergeant. When his Chief Inspector issued a summons to supper he thought it politic to accept, and to look glad at the prospect of being introduced to the old man’s daughter.
Quantrill, however, wanted no misunderstandings. ‘Alison has plenty of friends in Breckham Market when she wants to pick up her social life again,’ he had said firmly. ‘She’s not in any need of a regular escort, or short of parties to go to, but she does happen to be a particular fan of this Jasmine Woods woman. So I’d appreciate it if you’d invite her to go with you, Martin – unless of course you’ve already asked the Mayor’s daughter … or the girl from the Shell garage?’
The lobes of Tait’s ears had reddened. His social life was less successful than the old man imagined, because the Mayor’s plain daughter Fiona was given to drinking too much and making embarrassingly randy remarks in public, whereas Sally from the garage, who looked so promisingly sexy when they set out on their private excursions, drank nothing but Coca-cola and had frequently proved herself to be rather more difficult of access than Fort Knox.
In the circumstances – and especially as the Chief Inspector didn’t expect him to make a habit of it – Tait was agreeable to escorting Alison Quantrill. ‘There’s one snag, though, sir. You did say that you wanted me on observation on the industrial estate from eleven on Friday night, after that tip-off we had about a warehouse raid. So I’ll have to bring your daughter home early from Jasmine Woods’s party – I hope that won’t spoil the evening for her.’
Quantrill scratched his chin. ‘Ah, yes, I’d forgotten. Pity. Well, tell you what, I’ll come to the house in time to relieve you, and then I can take Alison home as soon as she’s ready. I’d quite like to have a look at this Jasmine Woods myself.’
‘Did you discover whether Mrs Quantrill is a fan too?’ asked Tait, pretending innocence. He had not failed to notice that the Chief Inspector’s voice had taken on an edge when he mentioned the writer’s name.
‘Yes … hanged if I know what the women see in that rubbish,’ said Quantrill with savage gloom. He stared at a paperclip that he had picked up a few seconds before; it had, quite suddenly, snapped into two pieces in his fingers.
Tait had noticed that, too. The Chief Inspector, he surmised with an inward grin, was someone else who was at present suffering from frustration.
But at least he himself had hopes of Jasmine Woods. He remembered that horizontally ridged sweater, the frank assessment in those large grey eyes. With Jasmine Woods available, he would have no need of Fiona and Sally – nor yet of the Chief Inspector’s daughter.
Chapter Five
Alison Quantrill had, as she had told her father, gone off men.
Specifically, she had gone off a man called Gavin Jackson, who had made use of her and then moved on. More generally, she wanted nothing further to do with men who, like Gavin, were tall and dark, soft-bearded and soft-voiced. About slight, sharp, fair men like Martin Tait she had no views at all, except that she could manage perfectly well without them.
Tait, however, had one point in his favour: he knew Jasmine Woods, and for that reason alone he was worth being civil to. Alison was aware that the invitation to go with him to the party had been prompted by her father, and that suited her very well; so did the knowledge that it would be her father who would bring her home. She could make the most of the opportunity to meet one of her favourite writers without feeling especially beholden to Martin Tait.
Alison dressed for the party with care, although not for her escort’s pleasure. Her mother had talked about Jasmine Woods’s probable appearance in some detail. Molly was convinced that a romantic novelist
ought to be middle-aged, tall and beautifully dressed, with a blue rinse and damson fingernails and a good many teeth and diamonds; as glamorous as Danny la Rue, but exuding sensibility rather than sauce. Alison, who had inherited her father’s pessimism, had thought it more likely that the writer would turn out to be ordinary if not dowdy, until she saw the look in Martin Tait’s eye.
When he had visited the Quantrill family for an unnecessarily elaborate meal of roast chicken with all the trimmings followed by sherry trifle, Tait had made it clear that Jasmine Woods was attractive. Alison, who was anxious not to make a bad impression on her, had begun to feel nervous. On the evening of the party she took more trouble over her appearance than she had done since the ending of her affair with Gavin.
Martin Tait took note of the shyness, and of the shining hair and the long flowery dress with the demurely high neckline, and naturally assumed that it was for his personal benefit. A pity in some ways, he thought, as he drove to the party, that he wouldn’t be taking her home afterwards; Alison was pretty, and it would do no harm to add her to his list.
But then they reached Yeoman’s and Jasmine Woods met them at the door, and he lost interest in anyone else.
Jasmine looked stunning. She wore a long black velvet skirt and a peacock-coloured top with a mandarin collar, and her eyes seemed bluer than grey and her dark hair swung forward against her cheeks, and the selection of rings on her hands was more dramatic than ever. She greeted Tait like an old acquaintance, and was reassuringly friendly to Alison.
A good deal of noise was coming from the direction of the sitting-room. Jasmine Woods showed Alison a side room where she could leave her coat, and while they waited she and Tait looked each other over with approving smiles.
‘So now I know what the well-dressed young man is wearing for parties,’ she said lightly. ‘A pale grey suit, an open-necked dark blue shirt and a silver chain, casual but elegant – thank you, I must make use of that in a short story I’m writing. One gets a little out of touch here. I see plenty of men, of course, but very few of them seem to measure up to my heroines’exacting standards.’
Tait rose several inches in his own estimation. ‘I’m here simply for your research, is that it?’ he mocked her.
She laughed. ‘Of course. Why else?’
‘Why indeed. Will you do a complete portrait while you’re at it, warts and all?’
‘Certainly not,’ she said promptly. ‘All my fictional characters are composite, and any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.’
‘I’ve never really believed that one,’ said Tait.
‘That’s what comes of being a detective and having a suspicious mind. But it’s true, as far as I’m concerned. I need to understand my characters completely, and real people are so very difficult to get to know. They’re always far more complicated than characters in fiction. I imagine that this is one of the problems of detective work. Real human beings erect barriers to hide behind, and then put up façades in front of the barriers. When you question suspects, I suppose what you’re doing is breaking the barriers down … Fascinating. I’d love to talk to you about it some time.’ She changed the subject, glancing towards Alison. ‘That’s a very attractive girl-friend you have.’
Tait looked too. The girl stood in profile in the open doorway of the room where she had left her coat, with both hands raised to flick her long hair away from the neck of her dress. It was a feminine stance that always aroused his interest. ‘Yes, isn’t she?’ he agreed, accepting the implied compliment on his taste.
‘She looks sad though,’ Jasmine Woods commented quietly. ‘You must take care of her this evening – most of the people here are my relations and neighbours, rather than personal friends, and I’m afraid that some of them get a bit loud-voiced and opinionated after they’ve had a drink or two. I imagine that she must be feeling vulnerable at the moment, so don’t let any of them intimidate her.’ She smiled at the girl. ‘Ready, Alison? I do like your dress—’
The low-ceilinged sitting-room was already hazy with smoke, and loud with talk and laughter and the plangent warmth of Cleo Laine’s recorded voice. Most of the other guests seemed to be in their late thirties or older, and there was a preponderance of men. Alison kept close to Martin Tait as the introductions began.
‘This is my brother-in-law, Paul Pardoe. He’s a surveyor in Yarchester, and he found this house for me so I’m eternally grateful to him. He’s also very good at pouring drinks—’
‘Have some wine,’ said Paul Pardoe in a lugubrious voice, offering two filled glasses. He was tall and grievously thin, with deep-set eyes and greying, fly-away fair hair. ‘When Jasmine says “drinks” at one of her new-book parties, all she means is Anjou rosé.’
‘But only to make it easier for you, Paul dear,’ his sister-in-law apologized. ‘I don’t want you to spend the entire evening mixing drinks for everyone else. Besides, you know I’m superstitious. I celebrated the publication of my first book with Anjou rosé, and I don’t like to break the pattern. And you must admit that you find it drinkable, or you wouldn’t be here.’
Paul Pardoe shrugged and refilled his glass from one of the many tall long-necked bottles of the Loire wine that stood on the table near his elbow. ‘Oh, you’re right of course,’ he said. His voice was already slightly slurred. ‘I’ll go anywhere for a free drink.’
‘It’s very drinkable indeed,’ said Tait quickly. He had always avoided rosé on masculine principle and was agreeably surprised to find that it could taste fruity and at the same time dry.
Alison found her voice. ‘It’s a lovely colour,’ she said.
Jasmine Woods stared at her glass doubtfully, as though she herself might have chosen a different adjective, but she let it pass. ‘The wine’s more potent than it looks,’ she advised with a smile. ‘Ah, this is my sister Heather, Paul’s wife.’
Heather Pardoe wandered towards them, so busily transferring food from a heaped plate to her mouth that she did not at first hear her name. She was as short and dark as her sister Jasmine, but older and fatter, coarser featured and considerably worse dressed; her bulk was draped in layers of what looked like curtaining material. When her husband repeated her name sharply she looked up from her plate, dropped a half-eaten miniature sausage roll back into a greasy nest of coleslaw, swallowed with haste and wiped her fingers guiltily on her bodice. Then she produced a dazed smile and acknowledged the introduction.
‘How do you do – so sorry; I didn’t have time to eat before we came out, you see. We’ve five children, and it takes so long to get them to bed and to explain things to the baby-sitter … and with another on the way, I don’t seem able to stop eating.’ She wolfed the remains of her sausage roll and licked her fingers compulsively. Her husband looked away, and swallowed some more wine.
‘Help yourself to whatever you want, Heather – you know where the kitchen is,’ said Jasmine Woods affectionately. Then she gave her elder sister a sudden, cheeky grin: ‘Only I hope it’s not coal you’re craving for, love, because I’ve nothing but logs … Excuse me, I think there’s someone else at the door.’
She hurried away, and Paul Pardoe stared after her morosely. ‘Bitch,’ he commented.
Alison Quantrill felt as shocked and hurt as though the word had been applied to herself. She covered her embarrassment by asking his wife the names and ages of their children.
Heather Pardoe gave an eager recital. ‘They keep us poor, of course,’ she added, ‘but we wouldn’t have it any other way. Would we, Paul?’ Her husband, who had been peering into the emptiness of his glass, did not at first bother to reply; but then he seemed to remember that there was plenty more wine where that came from, and poured himself a refill. ‘No,’ he answered her.
‘Besides,’ Heather went on defiantly, ‘money isn’t everything.’ She glanced round the room at the evidence of her sister’s wealth, and tried to refuse to be impressed by it, but her eyes gave her away. ‘I mean, look at Jasmine.’
> Martin Tait had been doing little else for the past five minutes. Jasmine Woods – laughing, poised, well-groomed, self-assured – was standing at the centre of a small group of interested men. The contrast between her and her sister needed no emphasis, but Heather obviously felt a compulsion to draw attention to it.
‘Jasmine may have money,’ she said, ‘but it can’t buy happiness. After all, she’s on her own. She married eleven years ago, but they separated after about eighteen months together. She never had a child, poor dear. Oh, she says she’s a natural loner, but I don’t believe it. I feel sorry for her, really I do. It must be so painful for her to write about love and happy endings when her own life is so unfulfilled.’ She bit into another sausage roll and left some strands of coleslaw adhering to her upper lip like a lop-sided yellow moustache.
Her husband gave an abrupt laugh. ‘Don’t waste your time,’ he jeered. ‘Jasmine doesn’t need any sympathy; she’s got it made, we all know that.’ His wife frowned at him, and retired to replenish her plate. Paul Pardoe looked at his plate, finding it half-empty again. ‘Anjou rosé,’ he muttered contemptuously.
‘A romantically pretty drink,’ observed a horn-rimmed man with thin flat dark hair who had pushed his way forward to reach the bottles. He was Tait’s height; rotund, but fashionably dressed with a silk scarf filling the open neck of his shirt. He poured himself a generous glassful of wine, held it up to the light, and shrugged. ‘Hardly a man’s drink,’ he continued in a plumply patronizing voice, ‘but appropriate for a romantic novelist, eh Paul? An ideal drink for the ladies, bless them.’
He bestowed a salacious smile on Alison. Tait, who had been hoping to leave her and ease himself into Jasmine Woods’s orbit, thought that it might perhaps be advisable to stay put.
The Chief Inspector's Daughter Page 3
