Another One Goes Tonight

by Peter Lovesey

  “So where do the urns come in?” Ingeborg said.

  “If you were a railway fanatic, where would you want your ashes scattered?”

  “Somewhere along the tracks.” Then her voice became as shrill as a steam whistle approaching a station. “I’m with you, guv. The railway companies wouldn’t allow that. Dangerous for one thing and not very good for their image either. So the club has to do it in secret. Each time one of them dies and is cremated, Pellegrini gets on his trike and pedals out to some quiet spot along the main line to empty the urn. That’s what he was doing on the night of the accident.”

  “Right. And in case he was stopped he had his cover story ready.”

  “He was studying the wildlife?”

  “In the company of his late wife. Hence the urn in the saddlebag.”

  “Which we know didn’t contain her ashes, because she wasn’t cremated, she was buried,” Ingeborg said, picking up the narrative as if she’d known it all along. “We’ve cracked it, guys. When the urn was found, it was empty. Pellegrini had done the job. He’d already taken the ashes to the top of the footbridge at the end of Hampton Row and tipped them over. If he hadn’t crashed, he would have brought the urn back to the workshop and given it a label and a bright new sticker and placed it on the shelf with the others.”

  Diamond was nodding. He couldn’t fault the explanation. The purpose of the night ride was accounted for.

  “Mystery solved, then,” Halliwell said.

  “And no arrest,” Ingeborg said. She got up from Diamond’s chair and rubbed her hands as if to remove any dust from her fingertips.

  The pair of them wanted to draw a line under the crash investigation and move on. Diamond understood why. He was becoming embroiled in a matter that wasn’t legitimate CID business. But he wasn’t satisfied. “It would be good to find out if this club really exists. There might be current members about.”

  “Shouldn’t be difficult to trace them,” Ingeborg said. “But isn’t this more a job for the railway police than us?”

  “If you’re thinking about people trespassing on railway property, you’re right,” he said, “but there’s another element here.”

  “The dresses?”

  “Exactly. They look special to me.”

  “They are,” she said, glad of a chance to pick up the dress and feel the silk in her hands again. “Believe me, they are. There’s some faded writing here, where the beads are sewn in, and I can’t make it all out, except the word ‘Venise,’ which is French for Venice. It’s a fashion item for sure.”

  “So where do they come from?” Diamond said. “How did Pellegrini acquire them and why did he keep them hidden and locked away? I’m sorry but I don’t buy the theory that these wannabe engine-drivers also happened to like dressing up in women’s evening gowns.”

  “Do you think they’re stolen property?”

  “They could be. Or he could have bought them.”

  “As an investment, like antiques or works of art? Who would know?” Ingeborg answered her own question. “Paloma.”

  8

  Paloma Kean was Peter Diamond’s close friend, close enough to be intimate sometimes. But to call them lovers or partners wasn’t right. They slept with each other when it suited and the feeling between them was warm and affectionate. Until her divorce, Paloma had been in an abusive relationship and she valued Diamond’s respect for her. Although no one in their wildest dreams could describe him as romantic, he was strongly appreciative of her and he could be amusing, qualities that met her needs. On his side, there would always be the memory of his late wife, Steph, the one love of his life. He wasn’t looking for anyone to replace Steph and never would, but he liked the company of women and Paloma was attractive, intelligent and forgiving. As long as she would tolerate his rough edges, he was more than happy to share her company and sometimes her bed.

  This afternoon, he made clear, he wanted her professional opinion. She had a successful business providing fashion information for film and TV companies. Her collection of images of historical costume was unmatched anywhere. If researchers needed to know about anything from bustles to bustiers she could supply online illustrations and information within minutes. Just about every TV costume drama in the past decade had benefited from Paloma’s expertise.

  “Where did you nick that from?” was her first question on seeing the coil of pale silk he’d brought with him.

  “I’d rather not say, but I need your opinion.”

  With care, she unfurled the gown, shook it gently and held it at full length in front of her before draping it over her arm to examine the fixings.

  “These are Murano beads, the best.”

  “Is that a clue?”

  She didn’t answer. She was examining the faded lettering Ingeborg had noticed along a seam close to the beads.

  “We’re going to my office. I want to see this on a mannequin. If it’s what I think it is, an original, you’d better have a good explanation.” She was half playful, half suspicious of his conduct.

  “Original as in handmade, you mean?” he said as he followed her upstairs.

  “I mean a lot more than that.”

  In the studio was what he would have called a dressmaker’s dummy, a headless female torso shape on a stand. As delicately as if she was handling spider threads, Paloma gathered the fabric and arranged it over the mannequin’s shoulders, letting it slip into the shape of the dress, weighted by the glass beads. She stepped back. “Isn’t that the most exquisite creation you’ve ever set eyes on?”

  “I’m not the best judge.”

  “Come on, Peter. Anyone can see it’s a classic. Is there another piece—a cape, a jacket?”

  “I don’t think so. This is all there is.” He hesitated, the professional detective in him reluctant to volunteer information unless it brought a return. But this was Paloma, he reminded himself, and he was her sometime lover seeking advice. “Where this came from are two other gowns in different colours.”

  Her eyes switched to full-beam. “You’re not serious?”

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “What have you done, you wicked man—raided the Fashion Museum?”

  “An engineer’s workshop.”

  “Get away.”

  “True. I left the others stuffed in plastic pots, as this was.”

  “You mean twisted into skeins?”

  “Yes.”

  “It wouldn’t do them any harm. They were often carried in small hatboxes. This is made from a single sheet of silk and the pleating is a legend in the rag trade, a secret process that died with the designer. Have you heard of Mariano Fortuny?”

  He shook his head.

  “I didn’t think you would have,” she said. “He didn’t murder anyone.”

  That was below the belt but he was too interested to protest.

  Paloma told him, “He was a genius from Spain who could turn his hand to anything creative. Funny you should have mentioned engineering, because Fortuny made his reputation as a lighting engineer in the early years of the last century, inventing new methods of stage lighting that were adopted by most of the great theatres and opera houses of Europe. The fashion was a secondary interest, but he married a dressmaker and she had a huge influence. They bought a palazzo in Venice and Fortuny used his analytical skills to revolutionise the preparation of silk fabric, in particular the dyes, using luminous colours and vertical pleating no one has ever matched. He became the designer every woman of taste would kill for. The man himself could have excelled at anything—painting, photography, architecture—and he hated being known only for the dresses he made.”

  “And this is definitely one of them?”

  “I’m certain it is, his Delphos gown, about a hundred years old and inspired by classical sculpture, the pleated robe worn by the charioteer of Delphi. There was a time in the
twenties when all the great ladies of the theatre insisted on being seen in a gown like this. I could show you pictures of Sarah Bernhardt, Eleonora Duse, Isadora Duncan, all in their Fortuny dresses.”

  “So it could be a valuable item?”

  “At auction, anything up to ten thousand pounds.”

  His lips vibrated softly. “Because of the rarity value?”

  “And the fact that any woman will look incredible in it.” Paloma herself seemed mesmerised. The simple act of turning her eyes away was clearly difficult. “What’s going on, Peter?”

  “Long story,” he said, and at once made clear that she wasn’t about to hear it. “A mystery asking to be solved—which is why I’m here. If a dress like this is as special as you say, experts like you must know about it. Is there any chance you can tell me its owner?”

  She shook her head.

  “I was hoping you could point me in the right direction.”

  “But you haven’t even told me where it comes from. A workshop could be anywhere.”

  “A private address in Bath.”

  “Is that where they belong?”

  “An open question.”

  “I know of several in the Fashion Museum at the Assembly Rooms but I doubt if this came from there. You said there are two more. Fortuny gowns are masterpieces, Peter. They don’t often come on the market, even at the great auction houses.”

  “Some well-known collector?”

  “Not all collectors care to be well known. You say the gowns are shut away in a workshop. Are you thinking they’re stolen?”

  “I can’t say for certain but I have my suspicions.”

  “Well, they’re easy to coil up and take away, but a thief would find it difficult to sell them on, or fence them, or whatever the expression is. Have you checked the police computer to see if they are listed?”

  “Not yet. I only found them this afternoon.”

  She smoothed her fingers between the narrow seams for the pure pleasure of the touch. “Some people aren’t interested in making money. They’re the ones the tenth commandment was written for.”

  “Was it?” Long time since he’d looked at the Ten Commandments.

  “Thou shalt not covet.”

  “I remember now: thy neighbour’s ox.”

  “And a few other things, such as his house, wife, manservant, maidservant.”

  “And you’re thinking a Fortuny dress might be coveted by someone?”

  “By every woman who ever saw one.”

  “But this is an old man, retired engineer, living alone.”

  “Old men have their memories. Is he married?”

  “Was, until his wife’s death last November, and she wasn’t interested in fashion.”

  “A mistress, then?”

  Caught unprepared, he gave it a moment’s thought first. “I could be mistaken but he doesn’t seem the sort. Railways are his secret passion. He has a toy train layout in the workshop.”

  She laughed. “I’m with you, then. I doubt if he’s a ladies’ man. Can’t you question him about the dresses?”

  “He’s in the RUH, on life support.”

  Paloma nodded. “I’m starting to understand. Was he attacked?”

  “I’d rather not go into that,” he said. “So can’t you give me any pointers as to how three Fortuny gowns ended up in Bath?”

  She smiled. “I could insist on seeing the others before I give an opinion. In truth, I don’t know. If you like I can call Denise, my contact at the Fashion Museum, but I’d better warn you. She’s highly excitable. Just the mention of Fortuny will send her into ecstasy. She’ll demand all the details.”

  “She can’t have them.” He’d been invaded by this image of a hyped-up Denise telling the whole of Bath about Pellegrini’s double life.

  “Fine,” Paloma said. “You’re probably right.”

  And yet . . . was he turning down the only chance of a breakthrough? The people at the Fashion Museum were more likely than anyone to know about collectors of rare and valuable items. “Is there any way you could get her opinion without actually saying we found these dresses?”

  “Not easy. She’d be quick to pick up on anything like that.”

  “But you . . .”

  “You want me to try after all? All right.” She picked up the phone. “Would you like to speak to her yourself?”

  “Christ, no.”

  She smiled. “The look on your face.” Then, as the call was answered, she turned away from him and started speaking into the phone. He could hear only her end of the conversation. “Denise? How are you doing? It’s been far too long.” There followed some chat about a trip to Paris, a frustrating wait until she said, “I’m calling on behalf of a friend who’s trying to trace a person from this area with some extremely rare fashion items and I know you have contacts with people who loan things for special exhibitions. Can you think of anyone who specialises in Fortuny? . . . That’s what I said, but no, darling, nothing is being offered for sale. If it was, I’d tell you . . . Absolutely not. You’d be the first to know, I promise, cross my heart and hope to die . . .”

  Diamond listened in awe of Paloma’s convincing rationale.

  “I’m not explaining this very well . . . Yes, I did say Fortuny and there’s nothing, I repeat nothing, you should know . . . Actually my contact is a man.” She swivelled her chair and eyed Diamond.

  He gave an encouraging smile.

  She smiled back and seemed to take wicked delight in watching him as she said, “A rather sad guy who was adopted and is trying to trace his real parents and the only information he has is that one of them lives locally and owned some Fortuny gowns . . . That’s the thing. He has no idea, poor lamb. Definitely on the level, yes. A thought like that hasn’t crossed his mind, I’m certain. If you could only point him in the right direction, it will make his day, his year . . . You can? Well, that’s brilliant!”

  Diamond leaned forward, eager not to miss a syllable. He’d already forgiven the bit about the sad guy.

  “You’re better placed than anybody. You’ve got to be right. There can’t be any others in Bath. We both know you can’t get them for love nor money . . . Very rich? Well, they’d have to be . . . Cavendish Crescent? I know it . . . But how public-spirited. When people who possess beautiful things are willing to allow others to appreciate them it restores one’s faith in humanity.”

  This was promising. Generous owners and just up the hill in Cavendish Crescent.

  Then Paloma said into the phone. “Dear God, he’ll be heartbroken. How long ago was this? . . . A good age, yes, but so sad when it comes. What was her name? . . . Could you spell that? . . . Filiput. Got it. And what happened to the collection after her death? . . . The husband is dead, too? This is too much. I’ll have to break the news to my little guy . . . And the dresses? I suppose they were part of the estate . . . Never! What happened, then? . . . What do you mean ‘disposed of them’? . . . I’m speaking for myself now, Denise. My little guy’s interest was entirely in the couple, not their possessions. But you and I have a right to be concerned. The world needs to keep tabs on irreplaceable items like this.”

  “Such lies,” she said to Diamond after switching off. “I’ll roast in hell for this. I think you heard most of it. Good news and bad. There were definitely Fortuny gowns in private hands in Bath. The owner was a woman of East European origin married to an Italian, and the gowns were handed down through three generations. She wasn’t really a collector but she treasured them for their sentimental value and she did once lend a gorgeous blue one to the museum for an exhibition about Fortuny and his influence on design.”

  “Sounds like the one I saw coiled up.”

  “Yes, she had two in the Delphos style and one Peplos, a variation with an attached tunic.”

  “Did I hear you say her name?”

 
“Filiput. Olga Filiput. She and her husband had a large house in Cavendish Crescent.”

  “A whole house to themselves.”

  “Old money. She was over ninety when she died in 2013 and the old man lasted about six months longer. But—and this is the bad bit—during that time he seems to have disposed of a lot of her things, including the Fortuny gowns. When he died, they weren’t among the items listed as part of the estate.”

  “Did they have family?”

  “No heirs, apparently.”

  “And didn’t Denise have any information about where the gowns ended up?”

  “You don’t need to ask,” she said. “You know.”

  “The engineer’s workshop. So she has no record of them being acquired by a local engineer?”

  “None whatsoever—and Denise wouldn’t miss news of a transaction like that. She’s alert to everything. You should have heard her when I mentioned Fortuny. Peter, I’m suspicious.”

  “Me, too.” He grasped Paloma’s hand and squeezed it. “You did brilliantly. I owe you a meal out for this.”

  “Is that the best you can do? I was telling the most horrendous lies for you.”

  “And a theatre trip.”

  “Not good enough, big spender.”

  “A weekend away. A hot-air balloon ride. What more can I offer?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’ll settle for the dress.”

  Driving home (with the dress), Diamond felt elated by the fresh discoveries, yet wary of where they were taking him. Valuable fashion items owned by one family for three generations end up with rich old lady. Death of old lady. Death of old lady’s husband. Items missing from the estate turn up hidden in cremation pots in engineer’s workshop. Engineer has a macabre interest in ways of killing. What could you read into that except a rising scale of suspicion? A deal? A dirty deal? Confidence trickery? Theft? Murder? Double murder?

  Hold on, he told himself. This is the man whose life I fought for. He and I are linked by the intensity of those desperate moments. I was alone with him, willing him to survive, mouth to mouth, forcing my breath into his lungs, an intimacy you can’t forget. Nothing in my world mattered more than his precious life.