Whoever Has the Heart

by Jennie Melville

  I found myself a sheet of writing paper upon which I began to make notes.

  There was one factor that I was not going to write down: my own vibrant reaction to Clive Barney. It was irrational, unexpected, and unasked. Unreturned too, as far as I knew. It was one of those shocks that life turns up for you, usually when you are off your guard.

  The smell of coffee and toast brought Humphrey down. Muff scratched the door to get out, while the dog scratched from outside to get in.

  ‘Terrible night,’ said Humphrey. ‘You were tossing and turning and muttering all night.’

  ‘I was worried.’

  ‘I guessed that from what you were saying. Ghosts seemed to come into it.’

  ‘Not real ghosts. Anyway, not ones that walk around with their heads under their arms and then disappear through walls.’

  ‘Well, that relieves me.’

  ‘No, I mean the sort that hang around in places like Brideswell. The sort that gets inside people’s minds and breeds hate and revenge.’

  ‘This isn’t like you.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said gloomily. ‘I’ve always been like this underneath but I’ve just kept it hidden. You think because I’m more than half Scots that I’m practical and down to earth, but we’re a moody, talkative, highly imaginative lot really. Driven. Think of Robert Burns, and Thomas Carlyle and James Barrie. And they’re the successes, think of what the unsuccessful ones are like.’

  ‘I was thinking more of Lady Macbeth,’ he said gravely.

  Our eyes met and I started to laugh.

  ‘That’s more like it.’

  ‘I don’t observe any of those truly awful traits you have called up. I think of you as a highly intelligent woman who has a very sharp notion of herself and the world she lives in.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘And who sometimes finds it painful,’ he finished.

  I poured us both some more coffee, and pushed the toast towards him. I had burnt the toast slightly but I usually do and I am quite used to the gently carbonized taste. Humphrey began to scrape off the burnt bits, scattering a black powder over his plate. I let him get on with it.

  ‘There are certain practical things that follow from being personally involved.’

  ‘Not personally.’

  ‘Look: I knew Billy Damiani, he asked about Chloe. He involved me, whether I like it not. I should have run hard at that moment.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I found Thomas Dryden, he died in my presence. He spoke to me of murder. And now it seems that blood from Chloe Devon can be found in my cellar. Oh, and she had a piece of paper with my name on it when she died.’

  ‘But you weren’t living here.’

  ‘I don’t know that,’ I said, desperately. ‘Don’t you see, I don’t know.’ It had been haunting me (that word again) that I might have been in this house while her body or parts of it were lying in the cellar.

  ‘I haven’t helped you much, have I?’

  I didn’t accept that. ‘Oh, it’s a professional thing.’

  ‘Clive Barney will be of more use.’

  I didn’t answer. It never did, I reflected, to underestimate the sharpness of Humphrey’s observation.

  ‘Have you noticed his hands?’

  I had as a matter of fact: although the rest of him had been untidy last night, his hands were very clean, and well kept with neat nails.

  ‘On both hands the first finger is the same length as the middle finger. Unusual.’

  ‘All hands have little oddities; Tim Abbey’s hands are decorated with a scar from a struggle with a Peke.’ I looked at my own hands; a manicure would improve them. Perhaps now I had some time on my hands (no joke intended), I would have a manicure. And get my hair washed and cut professionally. I would telephone my own special hairdresser, an old friend and small-time crook, Beryl Andrea Barker, usually known as Baby.

  He stood up. ‘I have to be in London tonight. I can’t ask you. One of those boring men-only dinners, but come up afterwards.’

  There was no denying that Humphrey did prefer women’s company to men’s when he could get it. He must have many such opportunities, I reflected, on those travels of his.

  ‘I’ll think about it. Telephone you?’ It was a kind of no and he knew it, accepting it with a shrug of one who has tried.

  I waited until he had gone before making my telephone calls. First my secretary, then Lord Bixhaven.

  His lordship listened quietly, pretending not to know what I was talking about at first, but I could tell that he had heard everything, indeed, had probably made it his business to find out. It was his business, I suppose, so I gritted my teeth and got on with telling him what he already knew.

  ‘Of course, you must have as long as you want. Rest that ankle. Awkward you being there in Brideswell, charming village, know it well.’ A chuckle of false laughter. Lord Bixhaven is not really a humorous man, he uses laughter as a cover. ‘Let Barney carry on and you keep out until it’s cleared up. And leave the investigation on Barney himself. Cheever can chair that committee, don’t you think?’

  He’d had it all worked out, I thought.

  Then I telephoned Rewley. I got him at last on his car telephone. ‘I’m supposed to be out of it, on leave. But I’m still interested. Keep digging into Damiani, I don’t like him.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘Most women,’ I said.

  ‘But not you.’

  ‘He hasn’t tried to charm me.’ Or given me expensive trips to Paris and diamond rings. ‘I don’t trust this engagement to Lady Mary.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s meant to be a permanent arrangement, is it?’ asked the cynical Rewley.

  ‘And enquire around about the Cremornes. They do own most of the village, after all.’

  ‘Will do.’ He sounded amused.

  ‘But handle it tactfully. I don’t know what underground taproots he’s got fastened into the establishment and I can’t afford trouble.’

  Rewley did not answer this with more than a grunt. He hated having to ‘handle’ people but he could do it, none better.

  I telephoned my hairdresser next.

  ‘Long time no see,’ said Baby chirpily. She always spoke in that way, so that I used to feel she must be permanently tuned into a 60s TV comedy show.

  I had known her for some years and had arrested her at least once. Inside prison she had been a social success, assisting fellow inmates with their hair and advising them on make-up; even the warders were sorry to see her go. Baby emerged to take up her chosen career of hairdresser and beautician, combined with a little light crime. She had prospered in the 80s, creating a chain of three beauty clinics, only lightly mortgaged. I used to wonder what bank she was robbing.

  ‘Now who’s been looking after your hair? No, don’t tell me, you’ve been doing it yourself. That’s false economy, Char, with hair your colour you can’t afford it. That russet colour can so easily go dull. Come along here and let me give you a few highlights to lift those little grey hairs.’

  Baby was the only person to shorten my name, nor had she waited for permission. I booked a manicure too.

  ‘I’ve got a lovely new red,’ said Baby. ‘Perfect for you.’

  ‘Just plain, I think.’ Nothing would convince Baby that I did not want my nails painted.

  ‘Or there’s a nice pink just come out. I could convert you to that, I think.’ Beauty was an act of faith to Baby, to which conversion was always possible. ‘ I’ll send you away looking beautiful … And who’s the lucky man?’

  That too was Baby’s style. No answer was required and none given. In Baby’s world there was always a man. Or, if you were that way, a woman. But always someone. For Baby herself it could be either.

  We settled on a time, later that day, and then I made the call I had been working up to.

  I telephoned the central HQ, identified myself, and asked for Chief Inspector Barney. He wasn’t there, I was told, but might be in the Incident Room in Brides
well.

  The Incident Room said he was not there either so I left a message asking him to telephone me. Then I waited.

  It’s interesting how guilty you can feel when only the tiniest seed of betrayal has taken root inside you.

  When he rang back, taking his time I thought, I said: ‘ I want to ask you something.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I’m stepping out of things. Temporarily, of course. Leave of absence. It means I will be dropping one or two issues.’

  I didn’t have to say more. He knew that I meant the enquiry into his own case.

  ‘I had heard.’

  I hesitated. ‘I don’t know if you care one way or another, but I think you’ve been badly treated by even having any questions raised.’

  ‘Thank you. I do care.’

  ‘And if it helps, I don’t expect the whole thing to go any further. I have made my thoughts clear to the powers that be.’

  He was silent. I sat at the end of the telephone, clutching it to me, wondering if I had done wrong somehow. Hurt his pride, irritated him.

  Then he said: ‘Thank you,’ quickly, in a way that reassured me. ‘And what is it you want?’

  ‘The injury to my ankle is put forward as the reason I’m taking sick leave, of course everyone knows the truth is that I am too closely involved, living here and with blood found in my own cellar.’ I was talking like a book, a police manual at that. Why was I talking in this way? He murmured something about understanding. ‘I know I’m out of it, but I want to look over the Dryden house.’ Once again he hesitated. Perhaps he was a man who always thought before he spoke. But when the answer came it was decided. ‘Sure, of course. I’ll see you get a key. Are you home now? I mean in Brideswell?’

  I looked at the clock. I had about an hour before I needed to set out for my hair appointment. ‘ Yes, I’m here.’

  ‘If you’re still interested, there is something else about Dryden. We don’t know where he was attacked, but traces of blood have been found on the paths across the fields and woods from the church and going towards the Folden road. It looks as if he came that way, falling about. Blood and skin scraps on the hedges and grass. No one admits seeing him, but it’s not much used, that path.’

  ‘I don’t know it.’ I was so new to the district that hardly any of the ways of it were known.

  ‘I’ll see you get a map with the key. It’s not clear he knew where he was going, or if he was just wandering round in a daze. And it was very misty.’

  ‘He got himself to the churchyard, I think that was where he meant to go.’ I found myself seeing that bloodstained figure stumbling along the lanes and through the wood towards the church.

  He did not ask me why I wanted the key, which was just as well since I would have been hard put to give an answer, but within me was a deep, instinctive feeling that I would know something more about Thomas Dryden if I saw where he had spent his last few days before death.

  Know the victim is a sound precept for any investigator. If you know the victim, you are getting close to the killer.

  I wasn’t giving up investigating the murders of Chloe Devon and Thomas Dryden whatever I said aloud and in public. Clive Barney knew it as well as I did.

  As if to confirm my continued interest, George Rewley came through with a call.

  ‘What do you want first, personal or work news?’

  ‘Personal.’

  ‘Well, first of all: Kate’s pregnant. We’ve discussed it for ages, but I wasn’t sure if she’d be pleased when it came to it. But she is.’

  ‘What would you have done if she’d decided she wasn’t?’

  ‘Well, with Kate, everything’s a gamble.’

  ‘I know.’ But inside her was a loving heart.

  ‘But she really loves the human race and she wouldn’t kill off a member of it, especially when it belonged to her.’

  I laughed. In spite of his detached tones, I could tell he was happy. And if he was happy, then it meant Kate was. It was impossible not to share her moods.

  ‘Now the work news, please.’

  His voice was amused, as so often with him. I didn’t know if he found life amusing or had decided it was better to see the joke. ‘I’ve discovered where Billy Damiani was after he left Chloe Devon and why it was hard to pin him down … He went straight to number seven Philadelphia Street.’

  ‘Happiness House?’ This was the name given to a quiet, expensive brothel in Soho which had never been closed down, so far. There were a lot of reasons for that, all suspect. ‘It seems he’s been a caller there for years. No special habits, all regular.’ He was laughing. ‘Anyway, that’s where he was.’

  I didn’t ask him how he had found out this news about Billy Damiani, the police picked up lots of odds and ends of information. In this case, the Vice Squad had probably always known.

  ‘It may explain his engagement to Lady Mary: if the story of his visits there came out, she’s so socially acceptable that it might stop the laughter.’

  There would be unkind laughter and to someone as socially insecure as Billy Damiani that would be worse than a prison term.

  ‘And there’s one more thing. He’s booked himself into the Nelson Clinic in St John’s Wood. Don’t ask me why, and doctors being what they are, I may have trouble finding out.’

  ‘Try. Thanks, Rewley.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything on your latest trouble in Brideswell. I wish I had.’

  ‘There will be a result.’

  ‘Inspector Barney’s a good man. Dolly Barstow worked with him once on a child-abuse case in Slough and she’d said he’s ace. She fancied him a bit, I think.’ There was something in his voice: I knew Rewley could read lips, but surely he couldn’t read minds.

  ‘Clever girl, Dolly,’ I said, keeping my voice neutral. Sergeant Dolly Barstow, soon to be promoted Inspector, was a girl I had got to know well in various cases. She was a close friend of both Kate and Rewley.

  ‘But she said she didn’t get the response she was hoping for.’

  ‘I’m surprised.’ Not many men could resist Dolly Barstow when she put her mind to it.

  ‘We’re thinking of asking her to be a godmother.’

  ‘Good idea. Dolly would be splendid. Give my love to Kate. How’s her mother?’

  ‘We haven’t told Annie yet that she’s going to be a grandmother. We haven’t felt strong enough.’

  ‘Oh, she’ll be delighted.’

  ‘Not counting on it.’

  Annie Cooper, artist, was as unpredictable as her daughter. She had been too talented and too rich for too long. All her life. I loved her.

  When Rewley had rung off, I telephoned Kate.

  ‘I know the news. How are you?’

  ‘Splendid, thank you.’ She sounded it.

  ‘And happy?’

  ‘I really am, truly.’ Now she sounded surprised at herself. ‘I thought I might suddenly hate the whole idea, but I don’t. I even like feeling sick in the morning. It’s sort of female, somehow.’

  ‘All the right hormones are piling in, Kate.’

  ‘Oh, give me some self-will. It’s not just automatic.’

  Very nearly, I thought, nature is a hard act to bust. And having been that way once myself, I knew how it happened.

  ‘You know it’s only an inch or so long but it’s got our name on it. And know what, I like the little creature? Already. I don’t even know its sex or if it’s got one yet. I must find out when that starts.’

  ‘And you haven’t told your mother yet?’

  ‘No. But I know what she’ll say: set up a trust fund at once. There’s only one thing Annie respects except for top-rank art, and she has her own views on that, and it’s money.’ There was some truth in that comment, but Annie was also a

  loyal friend and I valued that quality.

  ‘By the way, I shouldn’t let old Humphrey go too footloose for

  too long, he’s got his admirers.’

  ‘You’ve always been on his side.�
�

  ‘No sides; but I recognize an attractive man and a highly desirable

  property.’ Kate laughed and put the telephone down.

  The doorbell rang. Chief Inspector Barney held out his hand.

  ‘Brought the key round myself.’

  I hesitated. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And here is the map.’

  When he had gone, I telephoned Baby to say I would be an hour

  late for my appointment. I put the receiver down on her protesting

  voice.

  Then I played some music. Richard Strauss’s tone poem: Till

  Eulenspiegel.

  I listened to the last thrilling scream.

  Music does purge the soul.

  Baby pretended to be angry with me when I arrived. ‘You’re lucky I could fit you in.’

  But anger with me was hard for her to keep up because I was so important to her. She never knew when she might need me. She was so often in trouble. Baby attracted and was attracted to rogues of every sex and colour. She assured me that she had been clean for ages now, since her last encounter with a villain, but she was not to be relied upon. Trouble and Baby were twins.

  She ran her fingers through my hair. ‘It’s a mess. You’ve only just got to me in time. I may be able to save it.’ Having threatened me with baldness she was satisfied. ‘I’ll give you your manicure at the same time. On me, my treat. Good to see you, I’ve missed you.’

  In the years I had known Baby she had not changed: she was small boned, slender with big blue eyes and hair that was sometimes fair, sometimes red, and had once been walnut dark. Today it was golden and worn in a frothy mop like a dandelion.

  She settled me in a chair and beckoned to one of her assistants to do the shampoo. The girls in her salon wore pale pink tunics but Baby, being the boss, wore jeans from Gap and a personalized T-shirt with her initials on it. B.A.B.

  ‘What about a few highlights?’

  ‘Not my style.’

  ‘I could make it your style. You don’t do yourself justice, you know. You’ve got good bones, you ought to play up to them … You dress better than you did.’