“She was very careful. She’d buy a ticket like anybody else, then mix with the other passengers during the cruise. She’d single out one bloke—usually a widower, they seem to have a thing about cruises once the wife’s dead. And what could the company say about that?” She raised an eyebrow. “You can’t forbid ‘love’ can you? The cruises are meant to be romantic.”
A tabby cat came out of the kitchen, slinking towards the window. Ignoring him, Sally went on, “After that, I didn’t see Monica so much.” Occasionally they would coincide in a harbour; and back in England during the summer they always got together. Interestingly Monica never plied her new trade in her home country: “I think she was still hoping she might meet Mr. Right, and she didn’t want a reputation—not here anyway.” By then, of course, Monica was in a different league financially from Sally, but she was always generous with her old mate. Once she even paid for Sally to join her on a cruise as a passenger.
“Did she expect you to join her”—Peggy hesitated, unsure of how to phrase this—“professionally?”
“No,” said Sally, and gave a sad smile. Then she put her fingers against the ragged ribbon of pink on her face. “This kind of disqualifies me, don’t you think?” She didn’t seem to expect an answer. “Actually, Monica didn’t work on that trip. It was just two girlfriends on a treat together. We had a lovely time.”
But then why aren’t they still friends? wondered Peggy, watching as the cat hopped up on to a pine table, littered with toast crumbs and a folded copy of the Mirror. “When did Monica stop working the cruises?” she asked.
“Three years ago. I came home in the summer and rang her up, like I always did. She was nice, but she said she was very busy—she was living in Beirut or somewhere like that. She’d got some Middle Eastern guy in tow, very well heeled, she said, only she didn’t think he’d be crazy about what she used to do for a living. Then I saw her picture a couple of months ago in Hello! with a Russian guy. It said he had more money than the queen.”
“And you haven’t heard from her since?”
“No. I gave up trying. I know when I’m not wanted,” she said fiercely. Behind this show of pride, Peggy sensed, was a festering hurt. About the disloyalty of her old friend; perhaps about the way things had turned out for her; possibly about the shocking blazoned stripe nature had deposited across her face like paint. “You know,” she said, “Monica was wonderful to be with when things were going her way. I worshipped her, I did really—but underneath she was as hard as nails. I thought—yes—I thought she’d kill you to get what she wanted.”
Suddenly a tear formed in the corner of her eye. She dabbed at it with a tissue. It was time to go. “Thank you very much for talking to me,” said Peggy as she rose from her chair.
“Don’t you want to take my picture then?” Sally was almost defiant.
Peggy looked at the dismal room: the cat was cleaning himself on the floor now, beside a grease stain that ran up to the kitchen door. “I’ll ask my editor,” she said.
“Whoever he is, he can’t be very nice,” said Sally, making no effort to get up. She sloshed another inch of whisky into her empty mug.
“Who?” asked Peggy, puzzled.
“This Russian bloke.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Before she started picking them for their money, Monica never liked nice men. She always went for the rough ones—you know, the kind who’d rather belt you than talk things over. I know she’s very grand now, but I bet that hasn’t changed.”
“Do you still work on the cruise ships?” asked Peggy, turning at the door, wanting to be polite.
Sally nodded, but there was nothing happy in her face. “I’ll be back there in autumn.” She paused, and a summary bleakness settled in her eyes. “But they don’t let me sing any more.”
45
This was the third time Detective Constable Denniston had tried the flat without finding anyone in. Only three months into his posting to the Art Squad, he did things strictly by the book, but he was starting to think that continuing to ring the bell of Mr. Marco Tutti was a major waste of time. On this occasion, however, he tried the neighbours as well and was surprised to find himself rewarded right away.
“Who is it?” demanded a woman’s voice over the intercom, and when he explained she buzzed him in.
Getting out of the lift on the third floor, he found himself face-to-face with an exotic figure. The thin, pale young woman wore a purple minidress over black leggings. Her bright red hair was tied back in a ponytail and in her arms she held a meowing Siamese cat with a rhinestone-studded collar.
“You looking for Marco?”
“Yes, madam. Have you seen him?”
She shook her head and scratched the cat’s ears. “Not for a couple of days.”
“Do you know anything about his movements? Could he be away?”
“No, I don’t think so. He does travel a bit, but I always know about it because then I look after Gobbolino.”
“Who’s that?”
“His cat, of course.”
As if I should know, thought DC Denniston. Just what I need—a dodgy neighbour. He sighed. This Marco bloke was going to stay on his list until he’d either found him or discovered where he’d gone. He was about to go back down the stairs when the woman said, “Come to think of it, Officer, now that you mention it, it’s a bit odd.”
He looked at her enquiringly and she explained. “When Marco goes away he always tells me so I can feed his cat. But I haven’t heard him around since the day before yesterday. And I’ve been at home a lot because I’m between jobs. I’m a dancer with Cupid’s Children but we haven’t got any bookings till June. Do you think something’s wrong with Marco?”
“I don’t know, madam,” said Denniston, though for the first time he wondered if something was. This could be a real nuisance, he thought, wondering how much trouble this enquiry was going to cause him. I’ll have to get into the flat first, he supposed, just to confirm the man had done a runner. The guvnor isn’t going to like that one bit; they’d need a warrant, which meant paperwork and time and no guarantee of getting one at the end of it all.
“Couldn’t you just check on him?” she asked.
“I’ve rung his bell. He didn’t answer.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing else I can do right now.”
“Why don’t we go and have a look?”
“Pardon?” he said, startled. “Do you have a key to his flat?”
“Of course. How else do you think I feed Gobbolino?”
DC Denniston took out his notebook. He knew the rules. This had to be done properly. “May I have your name and address, madam?” he asked.
“I’m Amanda Millbrook. My stage name’s Mandy Mills. I live here. Number 8.”
Upstairs, she opened the door and led the way into Marco Tutti’s flat. A small black-and-white cat immediately shot out from somewhere and ran for cover under the sofa, skidding slightly on the polished floor. “Here puss, puss, here Gobbolino,” said Mandy, bending down with her hand out. The cat didn’t budge until, as Mandy moved towards it, cooing, it suddenly broke cover and streaked for the back of the flat.
Mandy followed it while DC Denniston looked around. The flat was spic and span and he supposed that if you liked modern furnishings, it was very nice. Tasteful—a bit too tasteful for the policeman’s liking. Wasn’t there something a bit prissy about keeping your home like a trendy restaurant? Mandy stuck her head out of the rear hall. “He’s not in the bedroom,” she said, then disappeared again.
Did she mean the cat or Tutti? Denniston shook his head wearily when, like a squad car’s siren, a scream filled the air. He ran through the doorway to the back and found Mandy leaning against the wall in the bathroom, the light on, an expression of horror on her face.
Reaching her he saw why. A man, obviously dead, lay naked in a bath of what had once been water, but was now a murky, sable-coloured soup. The body was fully extended, its feet splayed out like gruesome chick
en wings, its arms draped over the sides, each wrist with deep gashes that were partly obscured by congealed gumdrops of blood. At the end of the bath, the man’s face lay half-submerged under the sepia slime of blood and water, a trim goatee just visible below the surface. His eyes were wide open and staring—staring horribly at his pale white toes.
Mandy stifled a sob and said, “It’s Marco.”
You mean it was Marco, thought DC Denniston, reaching for his radio.
46
This time Liz didn’t care what operation Brian had on, he was damn well going to listen to her. He was reading the Evening Standard article she had clipped for him; she’d first seen it the previous evening as she took the Underground back to Kentish Town. It had given her such a shock that she had missed her stop.
The body of Marco Tutti, an Italian fine-art specialist based in London, was found naked in the bath in his luxury W1 penthouse yesterday morning. According to police he had filled the bath, climbed in and then cut his wrists with a Stanley knife found nearby. A police spokesman said there was no suspicion of foul play, but would not confirm reports that prescription drugs and a note were found in the flat.
Tutti, 44, was well known in the gay clubbing scene. Clients of his exclusive interior design business include prominent Russians based in London, among them Prince Rupert von Demski and Nikita Brunovsky, the oligarch and art collector. Neither were available for comment
Dancer Mandy Mills, 23, of Cupid’s Children, a neighbour, who was with police when the body was found, said that Mr. Tutti had shown no signs of depression. “He was a gentle man, who was particularly fond of animals,” said Mandy. “I used to look after his cat Gobbolino when he was away. We are all shocked by this, and Gobbolino is devastated.”
A friend, Alvo Bertorelli, commented, “He had no reason to be depressed. I don’t know why he should do this. But he did tell me he did not want to grow old.”
The accompanying picture showed an exotic-looking young woman clutching a small cat.
“So,” said Brian, finishing the article, “Marco Tutti killed himself. Was he that frightened of the Art Squad?”
“Possibly. Perhaps he was afraid of his fake identity being uncovered. But he’s survived brushes with the law before and he was a con man through and through.”
“So why do himself in?”
“I’m not sure he did.” She handed him the report she’d had from the police, and with her eyes dared him not to examine it carefully. As he read, she looked out the window, where a brisk shower was spotting the placid surface of the Thames.
Finished, he looked up at her doubtfully. “Have I missed something? This also seems to say he committed suicide.”
Liz said, “I know it does, but look at the facts. The blood tests indicate he’d drunk over ten ounces of cognac and taken at least twelve Valium.”
“Presumably he wanted to sedate himself first. It must be rather painful cutting one’s wrists.” Brian sniffed to indicate his distaste.
“Sure. But three Valium would do that. Why take twelve? Why not take seventy and kill yourself that way? It would have been much less messy, and painless.”
“Who knows?” said Brian bluntly. He put the report on his desktop and slid a hand back through his thinning hair. “In his state of mind he might have done anything. Suicide isn’t exactly rational behaviour, so why expect him to behave rationally?” He pointed to the police report. “This looks straightforward to me. I know there will be a coroner’s inquest, but I can’t see how he’ll have any option but to call it suicide. Especially as there was a note.”
“A pretty enigmatic one.”
“Because it was in Italian?” There was a cutting note to his voice. He read from the report, “La mia vita é diventata un incubo. What does that mean?”
“‘My life has become a nightmare.’”
“There you go then. It couldn’t be much clearer than that.” He tossed the file across the desk at Liz, but threw it too hard, and it slid off the front of the desktop. Liz didn’t reach down to pick it up.
Brian looked at her appraisingly. “Is something else the matter? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said swiftly, then realised she sounded touchy, just like Brian often did. “There was another thing.”
“Yes?” he said, sighing.
“Tutti’s wrists were slit with a Stanley knife. It was left behind the taps on the bath.”
“Tidy to the end,” said Brian blithely.
“When I was attacked in Battersea, the mugger had a Stanley knife. I know because she waved it in my face.” And she was going to do more than wave it around, thought Liz. But saying so would probably only fortify Brian’s feeling that she was being paranoid.
He gave her a sharp look that suggested his patience was running out. “What are you trying to say, Liz?”
“I think I should be pulled out of Brunovsky’s house. Contrary to what I said before, I think Brunovsky may need protection after all. The kind of protection I’m not qualified to give. We should explain this to him and get him to up his protection level or get Special Branch to take my place if it’s considered a matter of national importance.”
Brian made a show of thinking hard about this, but from the way his eyes hardened Liz knew his mind was made up. “I can’t agree with you. It’s exactly your presence that is needed. And Brunovsky’s already got his own bodyguard.”
She wanted to argue but Brian held up a warning hand. “That’s my decision, and it’s final.” He suddenly leant forward, his features softening in a way that immediately struck Liz as false. “However, if you’re concerned about your own safety that’s another matter. If you’re frightened just say so, and I’ll pull you out of there right away.”
Liz could not believe her ears. Of course she was frightened—what sane person wouldn’t be? When she’d read about Tutti’s death in the bath, she’d remembered something else—that unpleasant pool of red in her bath at the hotel in Cambridge—but she wasn’t going to mention that to Brian. She was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of thinking she couldn’t cope. She felt so outraged that she could hardly trust herself to speak.
“No, Brian. If that’s your decision, I’m not going to argue with you,” she said at last. She looked down at the floor and the strewn pages of the police report. When she left the room a moment later they were still on the floor.
Walking into Liz’s office, Peggy could see immediately that she was upset. She hesitated, wondering if she should come back later but Liz waved her in and pointed to a chair. Liz herself was standing up, looking with even greater distaste at the government-issue prints on her wall. I really can’t put up with these much longer, she thought. There were some pleasant watercolours in her old bedroom at South Lodge. Her mother couldn’t object if she reclaimed them. “Edward” might even be happy to get rid of what little presence Liz still had there. The last time she’d been at Kentish Town she’d had a long phone conversation with her mother. Most of it was about Edward and the things they were doing together. Even though she hadn’t met him, Liz had created a mental picture of the man. He had grey hair and wore tweed suits and brogues—some days, when she was feeling down, she gave him a moustache and a pipe. In her mind, he spoke in a military voice and she didn’t like him. Thoughts of Edward snapped her out of her reverie, as did Peggy’s question, “What did Brian think about Tutti?”
“He thought it was suicide. An obvious suicide,” said Liz, raising an eyebrow.
“You must be joking.” Peggy had seen the police report and shared Liz’s doubts. They’d both agreed that it seemed far more likely that Tutti had been drugged, stripped, put in the bath, then had his wrists slit.
“Afraid not,” said Liz, frowning. She seemed to pull herself together. “What’s your news?”
“I’ve found out a lot more about Monica’s background. Seems she’s been an upmarket tart for years, living on whoever would support her in the style she enjoyed. The only slightl
y odd thing is that immediately before she shacked up with Brunovsky she was living with some man in Beirut. I did wonder whether she could have been recruited and then targeted against Brunovsky, but it seems rather unlikely.”
“I’m beginning to think anything’s possible.”
“Yes. Well, I’ve also been talking to our friends at PET in Denmark. I’d asked them to check out Greta Darnshof and I only heard back from them this morning.” Peggy glanced at her notes. “Greta Darnshof was born on the island of Samso in 1964. She has no criminal record of any kind, owns a small flat in Copenhagen, and has a healthy balance in a savings account with the Jyske Bank.”
“But?” asked Liz.
“Someone at PET was pretty diligent and took a second look. They discovered that there was no record of any Greta Darnshof attending a Danish gymnasiet, taking the baccalaureate exam, or attending university.”
“She probably grew up abroad.”
“That’s what they think at PET. But I still haven’t been able to discover who’s backing her magazine. One company leads on to another. I’d have said it was money laundering but I wouldn’t have thought an art magazine was ideal for that.”
“Don’t say she’s another crook,” said Liz with a sigh. “Poor Nicky’s surrounded by them.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Peggy. “Every one of them is dodgy—Tutti, Monica, Harry Forbes and now Greta. At least the secretary Tamara seems to be what she claims to be. She’s been with Brunovsky for fifteen years.”
“What about your other operation?” asked Liz, only too pleased to change the subject. “What does Herr Beckendorf make of the fact that Ivanov was out publicly lunching with Rykov?”
“He’s sure it was meant to be cover for something else. He was pretty annoyed when I told him we’d had to withdraw surveillance at the last minute. Catching an Illegal before he retires turns out to be his ambition and he thought Ivanov was going to lead him to one.”
“The question,” said Liz, reverting to the subject that most interested her, “is whether this bunch of crooks round Brunovsky are part of some Victor Adler–type of plot or whether they’re just hovering like wasps round a jam pot.”
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