Whoever Has the Heart

by Jennie Melville

  She was a mixture of childlike emotion and social sophistication. So like her the trip to Paris with Damiani. I shook my head at her and laughed.

  ‘Liar. Of course, you did.’

  ‘Oh well, I have to be forgiven. I’m in misery about my young man and it makes me evil.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  She shrugged. ‘Somewhere dangerous.’

  I knew that her beloved specialized in bombs and their violent behaviour. She was probably right to be miserable.

  ‘I heard about the find in the village … It is Chloe Devon?’

  ‘Yes.’ She did not, of course, yet know about the finding of the head. This had not yet been formally identified but it fitted her description, and the knife marks on the base of the neck matched those on the torso. There were not two bodies. It seemed there were other marks too, bite marks as on the hand which had been found in south London. ‘Did you know her?’

  She shook her head. ‘ No, thank goodness. Saw her in the distance once with Billy.’ She added: ‘Did he do it, do you think?’

  I shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  ‘He’s quite frightening sometimes, cold, hard. But I don’t think he’d kill in that way.’

  I was inclined to believe her. Billy would hire a killer.

  ‘And why should he?’

  ‘Oh, motive. Sometimes you only establish the motive at the end, sometimes never.’

  But Mary was following her own thoughts through. ‘If Billy did kill her, then it wouldn’t be sex, not even money. Be position. If she threatened that in some way, then he might.’

  ‘Position?’

  ‘Status, social position, you know. Who asked him to dinner, where he could visit, the parties and private views he was asked to.’

  The snob killing, I thought.

  ‘Bea met him once, I introduced him, and she said: “ Only a second-rate scoundrel.” ’

  ‘So he was in the house?’ Somehow, I didn’t like that thought.

  ‘Oh, yes, in fact, he thought of buying the house himself.’

  ‘After Mrs Armitage died?’

  ‘That’s how he met Chloe. She showed him round. She worked for Astley Green, the estate agents. He liked her and offered her a job.’

  I had the feeling that I was hearing something important.

  ‘Thanks for mentioning it,’ I said. ‘Can I give you a lift? I’m just off.’

  ‘No, my car is round the corner. See you.’ She gave me a sad smile and a little wave. She had that wave to perfection.

  Lady Mary in sorrow, I thought cynically, as I watched her walk away. I let her go, then checked my house. Repairs were under way but by no means complete. Not a workman to be seen, of course.

  I drove to London for my meeting, but my deeper thoughts remained in Windsor.

  I had sent Rewley out to investigate Billy Damiani, and I thought he could handle it. However Barney reacted, I could leave it there and return to other duties. One of these duties was to run an assessing eye over any case which seemed to hang fire, not to be coming to a satisfactory conclusion. Since all information came into my office sooner or later, I was in a position to give an overall judgement.

  That was the theory at least. But since all CID units were past masters at keeping what they wanted to themselves, I had to be sharp-eyed and suspicious. Nature had equipped me well for just that function and I had developed a kind of sense of when I was being fogged.

  What I did not expect was that the case involving Chief Superintendent Barney and the suspect in the triple killing should be such a case.

  In Slocombe Regis, which bordered Slough, and which had once been a small village and was now a sprawling industrial estate, three people had been shot dead in the waiting room at the railway station. It was not a regular stop, it was known as Slocombe Halt, and carried no staff. A grubby, dusty windswept spot in which to die. After the shooting of the three men, all of whom were his friends, Michael Finnucane had gone drinking, been arrested for causing a brawl, and had then confessed to murder.

  Slocombe Regis might not have a proper railway stop but it had its own police station to which Finnucane was taken. It was quite by chance that Chief Superintendent Barney had been on the spot, since he would not have been involved in this apparently straightforward murder. He had been visiting an old mate. He had taken over, questioned Finnucane, who had then made his confession, and that had tidied things up nicely.

  He had then hanged himself in his cell. Next day, it had been discovered he had no gun and had the mental age of seven.

  Not so tidy.

  So I was now in contact with Clive Barney on two fronts. I would need to use some tact. My friends said that tact was not what I was good at, my enemies put it even stronger.

  Tired and still preoccupied, I returned in the late afternoon to my office.

  I checked all calls and messages. Nothing as yet from George Rewley.

  My secretary said goodbye and departed. ‘I’ve left you a pot of coffee,’ she said. ‘ Drink it while it’s fresh.’

  ‘Will do.’ She did her best to mother me, which was ridiculous since I was older than she was. But she meant well, so I would humour her and drink the coffee.

  With some impatience, I was waiting for Rewley to report. I felt restless, tired and yet unable to relax. So I worked away at papers, made several telephone calls, and studied the tapes of the interviews with the hanged man. It didn’t seem to me that Clive Barney had pressurized him. I stayed late at my desk, hoping Rewley would call.

  I was on the point of going off, driving back to Brideswell, when he telephoned. He had a good telephone manner.

  ‘Do you want to take this call or shall I send in a report? I’ve got plenty to say.’

  ‘I want to hear.’

  He did not need to consult notes, although I guessed he had several careful pages; Rewley did not forget details.

  ‘It took me some time to get what I wanted. No one wanted to talk about Chloe Devon. I think Damiani must have got there before me with a warning … I found out some things about him, too.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything I have will solve the case, but it’s interesting. To begin with, Chloe Devon had not been working for Damiani for long. Before that she had a job with a big Knightsbridge estate agent, Astley Green, you know them, I expect. She was selling for them. She didn’t stay long there but moved to another firm, I haven’t got the name of that as yet. But you may have heard of Astley Green?’

  ‘I’ve come across them.’

  ‘It was how she met Damiani. I got that from one of the girls in the Avian office, tell you about that later. And I went along to Lowndes Square where Astley Green have their office.’ He paused. ‘Smart place.’

  I had gone there once in the way of business, tracking down a swindler with a taste for smart rented apartments. I could remember the office with its soft thick carpet, the pale polished-wood desks, the pretty young women, with the view of a distinguished-looking grey-haired man in an inner room. The image was carefully constructed: expense personified.

  ‘I had to make myself felt,’ said Rewley thoughtfully.

  I nodded. I could imagine the impact of Rewley’s arrival, tall, quiet of voice, but so clearly not a buyer, nor a seller, but a policeman.

  ‘They don’t like the police dropping in, scares off some of their trade.’ Arabs, Lebanese, rich world-commuters, millionaire gypsies, these were the sort on whom Astley Green prospered.

  ‘One or two of the girls remembered Chloe Devon. The turnover of young female staff is high there. Most of the girls get married, or just move on.’

  ‘As Chloe did.’

  ‘As she did. But while there she got the reputation of being a hard worker. She was good at selling and seemed to enjoy it. She might have moved up the ladder fast, but she met Damiani and he took a fancy to her and lured her away.’

  ‘Is that what was said?’

  ‘It was the implication, but to be fair,
fine art was her chief interest, she’d been working in Rome.’ He paused. ‘In the Astley Green office I managed to talk to one of the girls, Susie Marker, who had known Chloe a bit better than most. She let me take her out and give her a cup of coffee. She said that something happened to Chloe when she went to the house in Brideswell to show Damiani round … An episode, she called it.’

  ‘With him?’

  ‘Not necessarily, just something that intrigued her … It’s your house, by the way.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  There was a coffee house near to Astley Green’s, I’d stopped in it myself, the coffee was good and hot. I remembered a warm brioche and cherry jam. It was always crowded with theatre people because it was near a casting agency. Rewley must have marked it down as a good spot for a meeting on his way past.

  Already I had learnt bits of the story Rewley was unfolding. I knew Chloe had met Damiani in my house. I could imagine her waiting for him, walking up and down to keep the cold out, and then seeing him drive up in that big car.

  Of course, that picture might be quite wrong, and they might have driven down together.

  ‘Are you sure the episode had anything to do with Damiani?’

  ‘Susie did not know, but she thought not. Chloe did go to work for him shortly afterwards.’

  Susie could be wrong.

  ‘I think I got all I could out of Susie. Nice kid. None of the people I was talking to there knew Damiani, he had no contact with them except for that one time he wanted to view the house in Brideswell. He never made a serious offer, and never came back. After leaving Susie, I went back to the Avian office. I’d made an arrangement to give one of the girls there a drink.’ He paused.

  Rewley was good-looking and dressed well; he wouldn’t have found it hard to engage the interest of the girls.

  ‘There’s a wine bar next to the Avian offices and we went there. One of those dark little places like being inside a leather box. Dark red leather in this case and probably plastic. I was right, this girl Deborah, with the rest of them, had been told by Damiani to watch her tongue if anyone asked questions, but she’s leaving anyway. She’s a serious art historian, says he isn’t, doesn’t know a Picasso from a Giotto. The magazine loses money, of course, and she thinks he might be getting fed up with it. Or even getting short of money.’ Rewley laughed. ‘I think she hopes it is that. You can see she doesn’t rate him, she says people like him upset the art market.’

  I knew Avian, it was a beautifully produced magazine on lovely thick paper, the illustrations to the articles were of very high quality, while the articles themselves were the work of important scholars. It was a useful showpiece for the art world and would be missed.

  ‘Damiani subsidizes it for social reasons. They are both social climbers but at least the sister knows more what she’s doing in the art world. So Deborah says. And he’s a womanizer.’

  He had come to his main point.

  ‘Worked through the office, as far as he could that is, not everyone took him on, Deborah says she didn’t, but he liked to pursue. Could turn nasty. Lately, he’s been a bit quieter, not getting out to so many smart parties. She thinks he’s got problems.’

  Chief Superintendent Barney would certainly have picked that fact up and be asking questions. Dr Harlow and Billy Damiani would both be in his sights.

  People like Damiani always have problems, I reflected. In the end, they either go under or get a seat in the House of Lords. It could go either way.

  ‘Something else: she said that Chloe had hinted that Brideswell was a place where things happened.’

  ‘The episode again?’

  ‘I reckon so, and if she was still talking about it when she’d left the estate agency business, that’s interesting in itself. But she didn’t seem frightened.’

  ‘I wonder if she was there more than once?’

  ‘She might have been. No evidence.’

  We talked for a while after that, on a more personal level. About Kate, and about Annie Cooper, Kate’s mother and my friend, who was getting through one of her madder periods.

  Then I packed up all my papers, pushed them into my case, and took the whole lot back to Brideswell. I enjoyed the drive there, appreciating the soft autumn beauty of the woods and fields.

  Muff was waiting for me, pacing the kitchen floor hungrily. She opened and closed her mouth several times in silent reproof. I wondered if she was missing Maid of Honour Row.

  ‘The roof is nearly repaired,’ I said, ‘and we have windows, but you may be making a long stay in Brideswell, so get used to it.’

  I lit the fire in the big front living room, standing for a moment to enjoy the blaze as the wood caught. Then I joined Muff in the kitchen, handing out her supper before I ate myself. Food was not important to me at the moment. Time to pause in thought was important.

  I was a successful professional but I wasn’t handling my life very well. By my behaviour when Chloe’s body was discovered I had driven away a man I was fond of. I hesitated to use the words ‘in love with’, I wasn’t sure if I was capable of that state any more, but Humphrey certainly aroused emotions I had thought dead.

  I liked that arousal and disliked it at the same time. That was the root of it really, I was two-faced. In two minds. But it was idle to pretend my mood was entirely because of Humphrey.

  I opened my case and took out all the reports and documents that I still needed to work on. I piled them on the table.

  Chloe Devon had been in this house, my house. She had walked in the rooms, looked out of the window.

  Billy Damiani had been here.

  They had both been here. I didn’t like it.

  With a sigh which acknowledged my irrationality and weakness, I pulled the papers towards me and started work. I read, signed, initialled, and then began to put them away.

  Among the last papers was a copy of further forensic work on Chloe Devon’s remains. It had been argued that the one forensic laboratory should deal with all the different pieces.

  Pieces, I said to myself. This is a human body you are talking about.

  The report itself was matter of fact. An interim statement of progress for the benefit of the police team: work was continuing. Scientists expert on various different disciplines had been at work.

  One group had discerned various particles of textiles, wool and cotton, which might be useful when a killer was eventually located. When further investigated these particles might even hint where he could be found.

  It could happen, I knew.

  There were flakes of skin particles which did not belong to Chloe, hence were probably the killer’s.

  At some point, Chloe’s head and hair had been doused with disinfectant, perhaps to hide the smell of decay.

  The head and trunk had been severed with rough force by a sharp blade. Probably the same as that used to separate the limbs already found. The style and cut was similar.

  The final few sentences dealt with some bite marks on the neck which could now be compared with those on the hand discovered earlier. The scientist, who signed himself T. Trent and who was not known to me, said that in both cases he believed them to be marks made by teeth, but he was now reserving judgement on the animal origin of those teeth.

  Teeth marks were a special area in which T. Trent was not expert. A forensic odontologist was being called upon.

  I folded the papers away. I was picking up some strange vibrations here. Teeth belonging in an animal’s mouth. But which animal had been in two different places? Chewing a severed hand in one place, and the girl’s neck in another?

  The forensic scientist was worried, I was worried. Chief Superintendent Barney, if he was not a fool, would also be worried. I wondered if I should make contact with him?

  I had a hot bath, washed my hair (clean hair suddenly seemed important), then stood over the basin, cleaning my teeth hard. Clean teeth seemed important too.

  We were carnivores, weren’t we?

  I was in the kitch
en, making a hot drink while watching Muff, who seemed to be having bad dreams, when the doorbell rang. I let it ring again before going to the door. Even then I hesitated before opening it. Security was second nature to me, and I had the mobile telephone close by before I did.

  Humphrey stood there. It was raining again and he was wet.

  ‘I thought you’d gone for good,’ I said.

  Chapter Nine

  He laughed. ‘You know better than that.’

  ‘It’s late.’ I held the door open wider, a gust of wet damp wind blew through. ‘Come on in, and let me shut the door.’

  He walked past me, and then turned back to look at me.

  ‘I’m staying. That invitation, remember? I’m taking you up on it. I left the ring.’

  ‘That was a message? I read it wrong. I thought it was goodbye.’ I am too old for this, I thought.

  ‘The sapphire is a family ring. I don’t say goodbyes with it. In fact, I have never given it to anyone before.’

  I looked at him cautiously. What about your wife, I thought.

  He displayed the trick he had of reading my thoughts. ‘No, not even to her.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I thought you were angry.’

  ‘I was. And I was right to be angry. One minute I was with you, important to you, I thought. Then the next minute, I’d gone. Down a black hole. Invisible.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’d do it again tomorrow in the same circumstances.’

  I had to admit it. ‘Probably. Yes, probably I would.’

  ‘It’s the first time I have seen you at work. It was a shock.’

  I went over to the fire, which was dying down. I threw a log on and waited for it to blaze. I was very conscious that I was wearing my old striped blue and white dressing-gown, and that the room was not tidy. These things matter; they shouldn’t, but they have their own weight on behaviour and events. ‘I have to share you with your work.’

  ‘Share, yes, not to be totally obliterated. I wasn’t there. You didn’t see me or hear me.’