"Detective Chief Inspector St. Just," he said. "How can I help you?"
"You're not Scottish?" the man surprised him by saying.
St. Just smiled, shook his head. Really, the man looked as if he hadn't slept; his handsome features were haggard, his jaw covered in steel-blue stubble. This might just have been a testament to the latest fashion, but only added to the impression of a man who desperately needed a good night's sleep. His dark hair was closely, neatly cropped at the sides, and he wore glasses with thick black frames of the type only "nerds" used to wear, most often held together at the bridge with a sticking plaster. But his were the hip, trendy version. He had an athletic build that suggested regular visits to a spa with an iPod stuck in his ear rather than manly outdoor pursuits. St. Just guessed he was what they called a metrosexual, without being entirely sure what the word meant.
St. Just said, "I happened to be here when… the incident… happened. I'm just helping out my colleagues from the local forces."
The young man said, "I'm Desmond Rumer, Kimberlee Kalder's husband. I came down from London as soon as I heard." His voice had the solemn tones of a BBC announcer carrying bad tidings. It was a good, clear voice.
"Yes. I'm terribly sorry-I didn't realize who you were. I was just looking at your marriage license." He turned the pages toward him. "You're the Desmond whose message we found on Kimberlee's mobile, of course. Let's find some tea, shall we? It's colder out here than I thought it would be."
Indeed, the short day had crept on, and a hint of darkness now stained the horizon. The two men turned and walked slowly back toward the castle.
"I am very sorry for your loss, Sir. How did you hear?"
"My God. How could I not? The news services have it now and they are making a feast of it. She wasn't royalty, but she was fairly well known. Better known, in a way."
St. Just, who had seen only the day's headlines and a few seconds of coverage by the exhilarated BBC announcer, again could only hope the media hadn't got hold of the fact the murdered woman had been found in a bottle dungeon: It was not the kind of news family and friends wanted to hear at all, let alone in that particular way. But what were the chances? That scabby little Quentin was behind the frenzy, he was certain, and it was doubtful he'd have left out the most titillating detail. He should have warned Quentin to put a lid on it-but too late now.
"I see," said St. Just, peering at the somewhat smudgy fax, "that you have been married just two years. Perhaps you should start at the beginning, by telling me where you met Kimberlee?"
Desmond looked stricken by the question. He visibly took a moment to collect himself before he began to speak.
St. Just waited quietly. He remembered the day he became a widower too well. All the pieties in the world were useless against such a loss.
"I'm sorry," said Desmond. "I was just stunned rigid when I heard." He passed a shaking hand over his eyes. "We met at a party. We often said that the odd thing was, it wasn't my kind of group, nor hers. An odd grab bag of staid academics and insurance executives. God knows how or why I was invited, or Kimberlee. Probably someone wanted something from one of us. She was highly, well, decorative, as you know. And I-I was fairly well off. Anyway, meeting her was one of those heart-stopping things, like finally seeing the Southern Cross. You feel you've waited all your life for this. Do you understand?"
St. Just took a moment to reply.
"I believe I do."
"Let me start by telling you," continued Desmond, "that I made my money designing trading software for stockbrokers and investors. I hold the patent on various of these designs." He paused, brushing back the thick dark hair that had fallen across his brow. He adjusted his glasses. "I guess what I'm really trying to say is I'm kind of a computer geek, Inspector, happiest with my fellows, discussing the cure for some computer virus or other. Kimberlee, as you probably know by now, was a vibrant, elegant, gorgeous creature. Just drop-dead gorgeous. I couldn't believe she'd stoop to even talk to me. Maybe if we hadn't been bored to tears at that party, she never would have done. Anyway, we were introduced. The world… well, the world stood still for me-truly. We were married six months later."
"But, no one knew about it? Why all the secrecy?" St. Just asked, although he thought he knew the answer.
"Her image, of course. You see, her career started to take off right about then. I remember one night she came home from some restaurant where some journalist or other had interviewed her. The subject of her marital status never came up. She told me she realized then that, of course, they had all made the classic mistake of assuming that because she wrote about some hip, ditzy single chick with a freewheeling lifestyle, she must be that person. The reality couldn't have been further from the truth. Kimberlee was frightfully bright, Inspector-well read, well educated. Certainly no ditz-brain. She worked hard-I saw the work that went into those books. In no way did they just fall out of the pen, as some of her reviewers seemed to think."
The men had reached the castle by now, and began walking across the drawbridge. St. Just looked up just in time to see five or six faces disappearing from the window of the sitting room. That left the sitting room off-limits as a spot to continue their talk. Just then his eye caught the flare of a flashbulb going off from somewhere in the surrounding woods. An emissary from the media world, no doubt-one of many. He signaled to Desmond to follow him upstairs. They'd use the incident room unless there was too much going on in there.
Moor looked up in surprise from an easy chair, where he was reading through another page of what was becoming a mountain of forms, reports, and witness statements.
"DCI Moor, may I introduce Desmond Rumer. He was, or is, Kimberlee Kalder's husband."
Moor collected himself and stood up. He made the conventional expressions of sorrow, which Desmond stoically absorbed. Everyone accepted Moor's offer of tea.
"I saw the report come in and sent yon Kittle down with it," said Moor over his shoulder as he fussed with the electric teakettle the hotel had provided to the police, probably tired of their endless orders of room service.
"Sergeant Kittle was almost in time. Please take a seat, Mr. Rumer." St. Just indicated one of the upright chairs across from Moor's. "Mr. Rumer and I were just discussing the reason for all the secrecy about this marriage, the reason being Kimberlee's career. Or her 'image.' That would be the term most likely to be used these days, wouldn't it?"
Desmond Rumer nodded.
"She told me, when she came back from that interview I told you about, that she thought it would hurt sales to suddenly project this completely different picture of domestic bliss. Image was what Kimberlee Kalder was all about-you have to be aware of that. As I said, she was a hard worker. She wore pretty dresses and high heels and makeup when she went out, sure, but she was more often to be found at the computer in some tattered old tracksuit, her hair knotted back with a pencil holding it in place. I swear," and here Desmond gave a small, reflective smile, "I swear she would forget to eat when the writing was going well." He sighed. "I would cook for her sometimes, you know, just to keep her alive… Oh, God…"
The two inspectors nodded, whether in understanding or encouragement it was difficult to tell. But St. Just was thinking: And you? Did she forget about you as well as dinner, Desmond?
"She was clever, I tell you," Desmond insisted, as it were somehow essential for the policemen to grasp this point. "Crisply decisive, businesslike. Did you know, she was selling posters and calendars of herself? There is even talk of a line of clothing, and a shoe design called the 'Kimberlee.' And some affiliation with a coffee store chain. So it's not just the books, you see. It's the entire Kimberlee package. And make no mistake-this was her doing. No one helped her. Not Ninette, not Easterbrook. She came up with these ideas herself, handled all the negotiations. No one else thought it would work."
"What can you tell us," said Moor, "about her? Her background? Her parents, for example?"
"Her parents divorced when she was six. Her f
ather, who was a British businessman-later a stockbroker-raised her. To be exact, a series of nannies and the occasional stepmother raised her. She only heard from her father when he wanted something from her, after she became successful."
"He wanted money?"
"No, no. He had some book he'd written- Naval Architecture in the Midlands: 1205-1538 or some such, you know the sort of thing-and he thought Kimberlee could use her connections to get it published. She told him that was doubtful."
From what St. Just thought he knew of Kimberlee thus far, he imagined she'd more likely laughed herself into hiccups and refused him pointblank, but Desmond was probably indulging the natural tendency to gloss over the worst failings of the deceased.
"You said 'the occasional stepmother'?" he said instead.
"That's right. Her own mother ran off, back to America. Kim never, ever got over that." He shook his head. "She always needed-and, you could say this turned out to be a positive in her life-she always needed to prove that her mother was wrong to abandon her. If only because, in pragmatic terms, there would have been a lot of money and a bit of fame involved for anyone who showed loyalty and love to her. Becoming successful was how Kimberlee coped with being unwanted, or feeling that she was. And I think it also goes a far way toward explaining her drive to succeed. Doesn't that make sense to you?"
St. Just nodded. He thought in fact it was a generous assessment of Kimberlee's ambitious character, and probably accurate.
"Is this how she explained it to you?"
Desmond shook his head, a little sadly, thought St. Just. There was a distant look in his eyes, as if he were trying to conjure the ghost of his dead wife.
"She wasn't given to introspection, Inspector. This was simply my own assessment."
"This is a bit indelicate, Mr. Rumer, so I hope you will forgive us-we have to ask. But was Kimberlee the type to make enemies, in your estimation?"
Desmond grimaced slightly, as if he'd been dreading the question. Finally he said, "She was a bright, warm, loving human being, and I loved her. She could also make enemies among those who didn't know her-those who just saw the surface."
"And were there a lot of those?"
"I wouldn't say a lot. A few. It was jealousy and spite, pure and simple. That's why…"
"That's why what?"
Desmond's words came in a rush, as if he were afraid he'd lose confidence before he could get the words out.
"When I heard she was killed at this conference, I knew it had to be one of them. These other writers. You've no idea how nasty some of them have been to her over the years."
"Anyone in particular?" asked St. Just.
"I don't remember the names, I'm afraid," Desmond said. "I don't follow the mystery scene-I read science fiction. But she'd come back from some conference or other annoyed or hurt, sometimes crying, sometimes angry, because of some snub or other. Mostly she was able to laugh it off. I see now that was dangerous. I should have pressed her for details."
St. Just paused, watching him. The castle's thick walls seemed to shield them from any sound but the faint electronic hum of the office machines. Moor broke the silence.
"Was she afraid of anyone?"
"Not that I'm aware. I tell you, she just shrugged it all off for the most part-eventually-and put it down, quite rightly, to jealousy. You have to remember, Inspector, that not only was my wife a successful author, she was a beautiful woman as well. No matter what she did, she'd make enemies, with a certain type of personality, without even trying."
St. Just asked, "Did she talk about anyone at the conference? Anyone who was going to be at the conference?"
Desmond thought. "She mentioned some guy named King. He used initials rather than his first name."
"B. A. King?"
"That's right."
"And what did she say about him?" asked St. Just, as Sergeant Kittle's pen began flying across his notebook.
"She said if they gave out prizes for treachery, he'd win. She said he was a snake."
The policemen exchanged glances.
"Any particular reason?" asked Moor.
"She just called him that in passing. There was no specific reason, no-it was something to do with some manuscript. I'm sorry, I really don't know the details. Again, I should have pressed her more."
"Anyone else?" asked St. Just.
"Not that I recall. And believe me, I've already racked my brains over this on the train coming up. She did mention some woman with an unusual name. Said she would be going head to head with the 'raddled face of chick lit' and was rather looking forward to it."
"Magretta Sincock?"
Desmond looked doubtful.
"I think that was it, yes."
St. Just gave Moor a questioning look. You or me?
Moor shook his head.
St. Just inhaled deeply and said, "Sir, I am sorry to be the one to tell you-but your wife was pregnant. Four weeks pregnant."
Desmond Rumer's eyes widened.
"No," he said, disbelievingly. " No."
"I'm afraid there is no mistake. Obviously, she didn't tell you."
Desmond shook his head back and forth.
"She might not have wanted me to know. Until she was sure. Maybe she didn't know herself. Only four weeks. Jesus. This is a nightmare."
"We'll get someone to arrange a room for you here for tonight, Mr. Rumer," said DCI Moor.
"When can I… I want to…" The man looked weighted down-pale and very on the edge of tears, totaling the double loss. "Has she been taken… somewhere?"
"Yes, sir," said Moor gruffly, but with a surprising gentleness. "Don't you worry. My men are taking care of her. You can see her tomorrow. We'll do all we can to help with arrangements for her… transport… once she's released." He repeated, "Don't you worry."
Desmond nodded. St. Just wasn't sure Kimberlee's husband had heard the words, but perhaps he had just registered the gentle tone. Moor got on the phone and a few minutes later one of his sergeants appeared to lead Desmond downstairs. Desmond stood and began shuffling slowly to the door. He turned in the doorway and said, "Find whoever did this. For me. For her. Please."
Once he'd departed, St. Just and Moor looked at each other. Moor puffed out his lips and said, "That's the part of this job I cannot take. The rest of these people don't much care about anything except getting out of here. The family, though…"
"Yes, indeed," said St. Just. "Any luck tracing the parents?"
"Still trying to get a reply from the father. Can't locate the mother, as of yet. But I didn't get the impression they'd either of them much care, did you?"
St. Just shook his head. "Not overmuch. Listen, I'm afloat in tea and coffee. I need something to eat. Catch me before you leave if you can find me, will you? Oh, and listen…" He tilted his head in the direction of Desmond's departing back. "Check him out, too."
St. Just again took the back way downstairs. If he were hoping to run into a blue-faced Portia again, he was out of luck. He'd just reached the door to the spa when Portia's agent, Ninette, emerged, however. Perhaps a different form of luck, because he realized he had a follow-up question for her.
"My second sauna of the day. I'll positively be a shade of my former self before this is over, not to mention, completely dehydrated," she informed him. She was nearly unrecognizable when not wearing half the contents of her makeup kit.
"Ms. Thomson, did you know Kimberlee Kalder was married?"
" What? No!" she said. Since either surgery or Botox injections seemed to prevent her lifting her eyebrows in surprise, she gaped at him, pop-eyed. "Who to?"
"You worked with her a long time. You really didn't know about this?"
"We hardly sat around swapping recipes and referrals for wedding planners, Inspector. It was a business relationship. We talked marketing, and strategy-things like that. I took out my percentage, and sent the rest of the cheque straight to her bank."
"You never heard one name come up consistently? You never visited her at ho
me?"
She shook her head emphatically. "All of our business was transacted in my office. But… you know, now that I think about it, I'm not terribly surprised to hear about the marriage, somehow," she added slowly. "Kimberlee always seemed to have a life totally at odds with her image. She was not out on the town hoisting Manhattans every night, by any means, so far as I could tell. She'd call me at all hours and there was no hip-hop or disco beat blaring in the background-nothing like that. If she went out, it was done rather more in a strategic way, depending on whether photographers would be around. Of course, books don't get written that way, do they, with the author out carousing every night? Anyway, no, I tell you I didn't know anything about it."
He guessed he had to take her at her word, although it seemed an incredible ruse for Kimberlee Kalder to have pulled off.
"Look, Inspector, Kimberlee kept her own counsel. It was really none of my business but I can see why she kept it quiet. Bad for sales. Kimberlee did nothing that was bad for sales. If you don't mind, I have to run. Hot rocks massage in ten minutes, followed by eyebrow threading."
Somehow he felt confident that Moor, with his long experience of esoteric beauty rituals, might know what she meant.
"Before you go-I'd like to say it was good of you to agree to look at Donna's manuscript."
She gave a hoot of laughter. "Goodness has nothing to do with it, to borrow a phrase from Mae West. From what I've seen so far, that bizarre little book of hers will sell like hotcakes, just you watch."
St. Just, who was beginning to realize he would never understand the whys and wherefores of publishing, waved her on her way.
THIS JUST IN
On the next landing he ran into Quentin. Rather, he saw the posterior view of a man he took, from the narrow hips and low-slung, denimed covering exposing two inches of boxer shorts, to be Quentin. He was at the moment leaning precariously out of one of the windows, punching furiously at the keys of a mobile phone. No doubt texting in his latest breaking news item, thought St. Just.
He sighed. It was getting on for well past dinner time. He was completely hollowed out, but wanted to wrap up as many of the interviews as possible, while there was still a chance of catching his suspects awake. He tapped Quentin on the shoulder.
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