‘That’s what he thinks the police have been trying to get him to admit.’
‘Without knowing about the baby story,’ Iris pointed out. ‘Wait till they hear that.’
‘They won’t get it from Barney. I’m the only one that knows and he never meant to tell me.’
‘But you’re going to tell them.’
‘Me?’ Melissa looked aghast.
‘Yes, you,’ said Iris drily. ‘Not going to withhold vital information, are you?’
Melissa shifted uneasily. ‘You’re asking me to betray a confidence?’
‘Suppose it comes out? Your policeman chum’ll be pretty miffed if you’ve been holding out on him.’
Melissa sighed. The thought had already occurred to her. A vision of Harris loomed into her mind, his burly frame engulfing the chair beneath him and the occasional smile crumpling his rough-hewn features. He wouldn’t smile if . . . Normally, the thought of being under his inquisition while in possession of a guilty secret would make her shiver and yet, at this moment, for some unaccountable reason, it struck her as hugely comic.
‘Go bananas, wouldn’t he?’ she chortled. ‘But I’m not telling him, and that’s that!’
Iris shrugged and picked up the wine bottle. ‘Suit yourself. Just trying to help. Have some more bubbly? Last bottle till we make this season’s brew.’
‘Thanks.’ Melissa drained her glass and held it out to be refilled. From being utterly downcast, she felt suddenly buoyant and free from care. ‘’s gorgeous,’ she said happily. ‘Got a t’rrific kick.’ She stood up; the room swayed a little and she grabbed hold of the table until it steadied itself. ‘Le’s leave this lot and go in the sitting-room . . . don’t like shitting . . . heeheehee . . . sitting among dirty dishes.’ She led the way, still tittering. Iris followed, carrying the bottle. They had just sat down, Melissa in an armchair, Iris on the floor as usual, when the telephone rang.
‘Oh, get stuffed!’ said Melissa. Then it occurred to her that it might be Barney and she leapt out of her chair.
‘Watch it! Nearly spilt your drink!’ said Iris reproachfully.
Joe was on the line. ‘Mel! Where have you been?’
Stupid man. Stupid question. ‘Here, of course. Wha’s the problem?’
‘I tried most of yesterday to get you. I rang in the evening as well, quite late . . . ’
‘Wasn’t here then.’ Melissa directed a beatific smile at the ceiling.
‘So I gathered. I wasn’t worried then . . . ’
‘Sh’d think not. I’m a big girl now. Go out by myself quite often.’
‘ . . . but when I read in the paper about the murder . . . ’
‘You were sooo worried you waited till now to call me.’ Melissa took a mouthful from her glass and gave a gentle hiccough. ‘Oops . . . manners!’
‘I’ve been at meetings all day and I’ve only just seen the report,’ said Joe, sounding huffy. ‘Mel, are you sure you’re all right? You sound strange.’
‘Never felt better!’ said Melissa dreamily.
‘It’s just that, not knowing where you were, and then reading about the murder . . . ’
‘You thought the big bad wolf might have got me!’ Melissa let out a high-pitched hoot. ‘Poor old Joe!’ She took a noisy swallow of elderflower champagne. ‘I’ll tell you what I was doing.’ She dropped her voice to an exaggerated whisper. ‘I was grilling number one suspect . . . aaawll night long!’
There was a five-second pause before Joe spoke again. When he did, there was a cool, slightly acid note in his voice. ‘Mel, you’ve been drinking. You sound distinctly . . . ’
‘Oh, I am!’ Melissa interrupted proudly. ‘As a newt!’
‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow,’ said Joe and hung up.
Melissa put down the phone and went unsteadily back to her chair. ‘Silly ol’ fusspot!’ she said gleefully, trying to picture Joe’s face.
‘Shouldn’t have said that!’ said Iris, looking disapproving again.
‘Why not? Not my minder. None of his business where I spend my nights.’ She held out her empty glass. ‘More elderbubbly, please!’
Very deliberately, Iris got up and walked out of the room, carrying the bottle. ‘No more tipple for you tonight!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘Cup of tea’ll sober you up. I’ll make it.’
‘Don’t want to sober up,’ said Melissa sulkily as she followed Iris into the kitchen. She slumped into a chair and watched as her friend bustled about. Her brief surge of elation had subsided like a spent firework and she felt weary and depressed. She had the beginning of a headache, her eyes were smarting and her mouth trembled. She sniffed and swallowed hard.
‘None of that!’ Iris commanded. ‘Big girls don’t cry.’
‘I’m so worried!’ Melissa faltered.
‘About Barney Willard?’
‘He’s so kind, so gentle . . . I’ll never believe . . . ’
‘Now you listen to me!’ Iris planted two mugs of tea on the table, sat down opposite Melissa and grabbed both her hands. ‘You took one hell of a chance last night. Don’t do it again, not until this is cleared up. D’you hear me?’
Melissa nodded miserably.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise.’ Tears escaped in spite of her efforts and she released one hand to grope for a handkerchief. ‘I feel such a fool!’ she gulped.
‘Nervous reaction. Perfectly natural!’ Iris gave her other hand a consoling pat. ‘What you need is sleep. Drink your tea and get to bed.’
‘Thanks, Iris. You’re a good friend.’
Ignoring Melissa’s feeble protests, Iris insisted on clearing the supper things from the table and loading the dishwasher before going home. It was nearly eleven by the time they said goodnight. Melissa waited in her own front porch until she heard Iris’s door close, then switched out the exterior light and stood for a few minutes in the dark, letting the peace of the Cotswold night quieten her tired brain. A soft breeze lifted her hair and soothed the ache in her head. She thought of Barney and wished she could be with him – not just to make love, but to give the comfort and support that he must surely need.
She had just finished locking up when the telephone rang.
‘Melissa? I hope I’m not disturbing you?’
‘Barney! I was thinking about you. How are you feeling?’
‘Terrible. The police have been here, asking more questions. After they’d gone I drank several whiskies and then crashed out in a chair. I’ve just woken up and I feel like hell.’ He sounded distraught; before she could utter another word, he burst out, ‘Melissa, Angy lied to me!’
‘What about?’ she asked, but already she had guessed.
‘About the baby. It wasn’t true! Why would she lie to me like that?’
‘I don’t know, Barney. Who told you this?’
‘That Inspector Harris suddenly asked me if I had any reason to think that she might have been pregnant. I said I hadn’t – I remembered what you said about motive – but I don’t think he believed me. He went on and on, and when I asked him if it was true, he said it wasn’t. I was shattered. I didn’t know what was going on . . . and then he asked me all over again whether I’d thought she might be having a baby, and if so, if it could be mine.’ His words were punctuated by intervals when his self-control seemed to be at breaking-point.
‘Barney, listen to me!’ said Melissa urgently. ‘Did you admit that she’d hinted . . . ?’
‘No! That’s what I can’t understand. If it wasn’t true, what put the idea into the man’s head?’ Suddenly, his voice grew harsh. ‘You’ve been talking to the police – you told them! Melissa, how could you?’
If he had shouted at her, screamed abuse down the phone, she could have understood and endured it. It was the resignation, the sense of betrayal in the final, sad little question, that made her throat contract.
‘Barney, I promise you I never breathed a word about what you told me. It’s true!’ she insisted, sensing rather than hearing his dis
belief. ‘DCI Harris told me what was in the post mortem and she definitely couldn’t have been pregnant.’
‘Why should he tell you? What’s it got to do with you?’
‘Don’t be angry, Barney. I’ve known Ken Harris for a long time. He helps me with police procedure and stuff for my novels.’
‘That doesn’t explain . . . ’
‘Look, he came to see me as part of the murder enquiry and while he was here he told me about the PM report, purely because he knew I’d be interested – professionally, I mean.’ Put like that, it sounded clinical and heartless and she hurried on, ‘I checked that Angy wasn’t pregnant but I never let on about what you told me.’
‘You must have said something to make him suspicious.’
‘I promise you I didn’t. All I can say is that my mentioning it might have put it into his head and he decided it was worth following up.’ There was a long silence. ‘I’m sorry, Barney. You’d have found out, sooner or later.’
He sighed heavily. ‘All right, I believe you. What I can’t understand is why she should say those things. She must have known how upset I’d be. Anyway, what difference does it make?’ His voice took on a dead quality; it was the voice of a man who was past caring.
‘I think,’ said Melissa gently, ‘that you have to face up to the fact that there was a side to Angy that you never saw. None of us really knew her.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Was that all the police wanted?’
‘No, there was something else. They asked if I knew a young artist called Rick Lawrence. At least I was able to give them some help there.’
‘You know Rick Lawrence?’
‘I met him on Monday. A friend of mine is helping some youngsters to mount an exhibition in Cheltenham and this guy Lawrence was helping him.’ There was a pause. ‘You sounded surprised. Do you know him too?’
‘Not exactly but I know of him. Didn’t Angy ever mention him?’
‘Not that I remember.’
‘Perhaps she referred to him as Ricardo Lorenzo.’
‘You mean the maniac who slashed her portrait?’ Barney’s voice seesawed in astonishment. ‘Is that the same man?’
‘Yes. It seems that someone answering his description was seen near Angy’s flat the day of the murder.’
‘My God! He must have found out where she was living and gone there to kill her!’ The seesawing became wilder, ending in a thin note of anguish.
‘You mustn’t jump to conclusions,’ said Melissa. ‘We don’t know for sure that he did it.’
‘But it’s obvious, isn’t it?’
‘He could have had some other reason for going to see her.’
‘Like what?’ He sounded hostile.
‘A little matter of a ring,’ said Melissa cautiously.
‘Ring? What ring?’
‘Didn’t Angy tell you . . . ?’
‘She told me that fellow Ricardo had beaten her and she ran away to hide from him. The poor little girl was terrified of him. He must be the killer!’
‘That was my first reaction and it does seem the most likely but . . . ’
‘Of course it is.’ Like a weak radio signal, his voice wavered, faded and then grew strong again. ‘If I could get hold of him I’d choke him with my bare hands! But why were the police wasting their time talking to me when they should be out looking for him?’
‘They’ll find him soon enough, don’t worry. They have to follow every possible lead.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’ The deadness had come back into his voice. She longed to put her arms round him and soothe his hurt.
‘Try not to brood,’ she said, thinking how banal and useless the words sounded. ‘Go to bed and get some rest.’
‘May I call you tomorrow?’ he said.
‘Of course . . . any time. Goodnight Barney.’
‘Goodnight Melissa.’
Twelve
Melissa slept late and awoke with a splitting headache. Grumbling to herself, she put on her dressing-gown and tottered downstairs, filled a kettle and rummaged in a drawer for aspirin.
After a cup of strong coffee and a slice of dry toast, she contemplated the day ahead. She normally did this quietly in bed before getting up and almost invariably began with an early breakfast followed by three or four hours’ work on her current novel. This morning, having forced herself to her study, still wearing her dressing-gown and clutching a second cup of coffee as if it were attached to a lifeline, she began searching among her papers for the output of the previous day. It came as a mild shock to realise that there was none. Today was Saturday and she had not written a word since Thursday morning.
Ruefully, she recalled her pleasure at the way the book, after a difficult patch, had begun to develop. She had been reluctant to put it away, wishing she had no other commitments so that she could continue with the next chapter and looking forward to getting down to work again the following morning. And all the time, she thought as she sat at her desk nursing the remains of her hangover, Angy had been dead in her little one-room flat, alone and open-eyed, lying where she had fallen with the knife in her throat and her lifeblood flooding her lungs. With her vivid imagination, Melissa could visualise the scene and it sickened her. How much worse must the recollection be for Barney, who had seen the hideous reality?
She got up and opened the window. The sky was clear and the sunlight had a brilliance and intensity that made her head reel. She winced and shaded her eyes. It was no good, she simply couldn’t concentrate. The best thing she could do was take a shower, get dressed and go out for some fresh air.
By the time she was ready it was almost ten o’clock. Normally, she would have been up for several hours and written a couple of thousand words. Today threatened to be a write-off as far as work was concerned, but perhaps she could recoup some of the lost time later on. She was about to leave the house when the telephone rang.
‘How are you this morning?’ asked Joe.
‘Fragile, thank you. Iris’s elder brew is not for the faint-hearted.’
‘Serves you right for overdoing it.’
‘Your sympathy is just what I needed. What can I do in exchange?’
‘Mel, just how involved are you in this murder?’ He sounded hesitant, embarrassed almost. She vaguely remembered saying something rather foolish and provocative last night. ‘I mean,’ Joe stumbled on, ‘you aren’t doing anything . . . silly, are you?’
‘Silly?’
‘Dangerous, then. You said something about “number one suspect”.’
‘Oh, that.’ Damn, why did I have to go and let that out? Aloud, she said, ‘I was a bit tight . . . just talking nonsense.’
‘I hope you’re not taking any risks.’ An authoritative note had crept into his voice and Melissa felt a stab of resentment. First Harris, then Iris, and now Joe, all telling her what to do.
‘Did you ring to give me a lecture or have you got something you want to discuss?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Don’t take offence, Mel. I’m only thinking of your safety. You have been known to get yourself into scrapes.’
‘Well, I’m not in a scrape this time, so stop fussing.’
‘All right, all right!’ Now he was getting irritable with her. She’d have to be more discreet in future. ‘The reason I rang last night is that I had a message from your publishers,’ he went on. ‘A girl called Louise Stacey has been on to them, asking how she could contact you. They wouldn’t give her your address, of course, but promised to refer to you through me.’
‘Did she leave a number?’
‘Yes, do you want it?’
‘Please.’ He dictated a London telephone number and she wrote it on her pad.
‘Do you know this girl?’ he asked.
‘I’ve met her.’
‘Any idea what she wants?’
‘It could have something to do with Angy’s murder. They used to be friends.’ Melissa made herself sound casual but the curiosity that Lou’s call had aro
used was breaking through her lethargy.
‘Does she know you’re connected with the college?’
‘I’ve no idea. I’ll give her a call and find out.’
‘Remember what I said. Don’t go getting involved in anything dodgy.’
Melissa restrained a sharp retort. ‘I’ll remember. Was that all you called to say?’
‘More or less. How’s the book going?’
‘It’s been buzzing along quite well lately but the murder – the real murder, that is – has thrown me rather badly. I expect I’ll get back to it quite soon.’
‘Would you like me to come down?’
‘What for?’
‘I could help take your mind off the unpleasantness.’ The signals were unmistakable. Alarm bells rang; some quick thinking was called for.
‘Weren’t you saying something a few months ago that too quiet a life was bad for a writer’s creativity? Now something exciting has happened, you want to dull the effect!’
‘Meaning, you don’t want me to come?’
‘Not this weekend, Joe. I must get down to some work.’ She adopted a brisk, businesslike tone. ‘I’ll be in touch when I’ve got something to show you.’
There was a short silence before he said, ‘Sure, goodbye then,’ and hung up. Immediately, Melissa dialled the number he had given.
Lou answered in a voice distorted by stress. When Melissa gave her name, she burst out in mingled relief and fear, ‘Ms Craig, the police are looking for Rick!’
‘Yes, I know,’ said Melissa.
‘You know? But how . . . ?’
‘I do some tutoring in the college where Angy worked. I was there the day her body was found.’
Emotion overwhelmed Lou for several seconds. When, at last, she managed to speak, the words fluttered out so faintly that Melissa had to strain to catch them. ‘Ms Craig, I need your advice.’
‘I’m listening. Just take your time.’
‘I’d rather not . . . not on the phone. Someone might . . . could I possibly come and see you? It must sound a bit of a cheek,’ Lou rushed on as Melissa hesitated, ‘but I don’t know who else to . . . ’
‘Was Rick at Angy’s flat last Tuesday?’ Melissa interposed.
Murder in the Morning: An absolutely unputdownable cozy murder mystery novel (A Melissa Craig Mystery Book 2) Page 10
