“It’s not quite the same thing,” I said, picking my words carefully. “I’ve known Cath since we were kids. But the thought of Franny murdering anyone—”
“Okay, you like her. But I don’t know her,” said Max, “and I can look at her overall picture objectively. She’s tall, she’s Amazonian, she’s strong. She grew up there, she knows the territory, she could have gone hunting with the guys.”
“Rufus told me she taught him to shoot,” I said.
“There you are,” said Max, “and although it doesn’t necessarily follow, if she knew how to handle a shotgun, she could have been familiar with a crossbow. And she’s got a past Bettina knew about and it’s really in Franny’s interest that people don’t get to hear too much about it. She’s trying to set up a business, raise a kid respectably, and marry a local millionaire. And she admitted to you that she was out on her own both nights driving around looking for her son. She doesn’t have an alibi—for either night.”
“I can’t argue with you,” I said, “but I can’t help feeling that Dumpster knows more than he’s telling anyone. Bettina’s notes: ‘M saw something.’”
“And Dumpster’s her son. You think ‘M’ is definitely Martin, as in Dumpster?”
“Well, who else would it be? He was going to meet Bettina the night she died.”
“So of course he’d run a mile rather than tell anyone he saw his mother commit murder,” said Max.
“I have so much trouble with Franny as the killer,” I said, “just as I can’t see Shotgun murdering anyone. Especially,” I added, thinking about it and realizing I felt quite sure about this, “a woman. He’s not the kind of raucous, hell-raising type you associate with rock stars, at least not anymore. He’s quiet and thoughtful and cultured, he’s a gentle man. I just can’t imagine him exerting any kind of violence on a woman. Of course he may have been different back then but he claims he let the groupie sleep in his bed beside him rather than turn her out into the night. He felt it was the easiest option. Were you there that morning? Did you go to the apartment after they found her?”
He shook his head.
“So you never saw her. For some reason I’ve always been curious about what she looked like.” I had been carrying around a picture in my mind of Shotgun waking up beside a tiny waif of a creature but I realized I couldn’t put a face to her.
“You want me to describe a corpse in the morgue? Because that’s the first glimpse I got of her.” He shook his head. “But I tell you what I can do,” he went on. “Believe it or not, I’ve brought along some photos from the time.” He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Look, here’s one of Shotgun. I wanted to ask you what he looked like now. I don’t have any pictures of the groupie—her name was Anna di Santi, pretty name, I never forgot it—but here are some of her family. They came over from New York, the Bronx I think it was, to claim her body and I had to look after them. I didn’t know what to do with them. They had never been to London and so I showed them a few sights while we were waiting for the forensics to be dealt with and the body to be released. It was harrowing beyond belief. They had thought it would be better than sitting weeping in their hotel room but of course it was worse. I’ll never forget, they asked me to take a picture of them at the Tower of London and then weeks later, long after they’d gone back to New York, I got this in the mail.”
I stared at the photograph of a group of dark-haired Italian-looking people huddled together with the Tower of London rising above them. Not surprisingly, not one of them was smiling, a fact that was emphasized by the grinning face of a Japanese tourist standing to their right.
But it was the figure on their left that caught my attention. I held the photo in front of Max and pointed to the man. He seemed to be with Anna di Santi’s family and yet he was standing slightly apart from them.
“What in the world is he doing there?”
The picture had been taken fourteen years ago and since then he had filled out considerably, but I had no difficulty recognizing the young man with the groupie’s family as Evan Morrison.
CHAPTER 18
OH, HE WASN’T PART OF THE FAMILY,” SAID MAX.
“I know that,” I said. “I know who he is. But what was he doing there?”
“He was Anna di Santi’s boyfriend. He came over with her family and he was even more distraught than they were, if that was possible. I talked to him a bit because he was at the police academy in New York. It was clear he didn’t like her going to concerts the way she did. Not that I can blame him given what she got up to. But he was devastated by what happened and he arrived in the country out for blood.”
“How do you mean?”
“He wasn’t exactly pointing the finger at Shotgun but he wanted us to find someone he could blame, someone he could take his misery out on.”
“Max,” I said, “listen to me. That’s Evan Morrison.”
“That’s right,” he said, looking at me in amazement, “that was his name. I remember now. How do you know him?”
“Because he’s the detective investigating the murders of Sean Marriott and Bettina. He’s the one who is totally obsessed with pinning the murders on Shotgun. I told you, it’s like he won’t even consider anyone else.”
“It’s hard to credit it, isn’t it?” Max glared at me as if it were my fault. “But I suppose it’s a form of vengeance. He’s had fourteen years to fester. It’s the reason he’s been so blinkered about this case but by God, he needs a wake-up call.”
The revelation about Evan Morrison seemed to galvanize him into action. He called for the bill, paid it, and was marching off down the street, waving good-bye before I’d even realized what was happening. Feeling suddenly totally deflated I wandered off in search of a cab. I searched for a taxi rank although why I expected to find one outside one of London’s major prisons was beyond me. I was just about to give up and call my father to come and pick me up when Max appeared at my side and grasped me by the elbow. He stood right in front of me looking straight into my eyes and my heart began to pound. He was going to do it. He was about to kiss me. Was this the point of no return?
“What are you staring at?” he said testily. “Can you save me some time and give me a contact number for Evan Morrison? Angela Marriott too, if you’ve got it.”
“I don’t have it with me,” I said, aware that my face was going red, “but if you want to give me a call later—”
“Suppose I’ll have to,” he said. He sounded so ungracious that I barely recognized him as the person with whom I had just had a very enjoyable lunch. But as we set off once again in opposite directions, it didn’t stop me turning back once, twice, and then a third time for one last look at him. How could it have happened? A year ago I had spent a lot of time with this man in close proximity—on a professional basis, true—and more than one person had explained to me that he was mine for the taking. Yet I had not for one moment been attracted to him.
Or had I? Had the longing I felt for him now been lying dormant in my subconscious? Had there just been too much else going on in my life at that time for me to recognize that Max Austin was exactly the kind of edgy challenge I’d told myself I needed? Well, whatever comatose state I had been in then, I was wide awake now and I had to do something to regain his attention.
And by the time I’d got home I knew the perfect way to do it. I’d get Angie Marriott to spill the beans to me about Shotgun and then I’d invite Max around for a drink to tell him what I’d discovered.
To my amazement I had found that Angie Marriott lived just around the corner from Blenheim Crescent and she had suggested getting together for a preliminary drink to discuss her plans for a book. I had about a half hour to kill before walking over to her house so I tipped the contents of Bettina’s file onto the kitchen table. Immediately I understood why Genevieve had not done anything with it. There were pages and pages of unmarked transcripts, endless interviews with no indication as to who was talking to whom. I recognized them as such only bec
ause I used a similar format for the initial rough transcriptions of my own interviews. Get it all down on paper and then see what you’ve got. I would say one thing in Bettina’s favor: She had meticulously labeled each folder of transcripts by subject and date and I flipped through a pretty impressive list of bold-faced names before I came to the one I was looking for. Shaking slightly with anticipation I opened Shotgun’s folder.
And swore out loud.
There were just a few sheets of paper in it headed by a name, “Mike Molloy,” an address, “3 Queens Gate Mansions,” a time but no date.
I was aware that my heart had started beating quite fast. Shotgun had told me his apartment all those years ago had been in Queens Gate.
I began to read.
MM: Oh, I didn’t live there long. A month maybe. I’d come over from Sydney for a conference and when that was over, my wife and I drove around the West Country a bit visiting her family. She’s English, you know, not Australian and—
BP: You saw Shotgun Marriott in the lobby?
Bettina really was meticulous. She had transcribed what she said as well as her interviewee’s content. Not something I ever bothered to do.
MM: Oh, yes, sorry. We rented the flat so as to have a base in London. And as I said, I left Shirley down in Somerset with her rellies one week and came back up for some meetings. Can’t recall it too clearly but I think the traffic was bad so I didn’t get there till around one in the morning and there he was coming out of the building, none other than Shotgun Marriott. I mean it’s not what you expect, is it? I was a huge fan and suddenly he’s right in front of me. I was tossing it up in my mind, could I ask him for his autograph or should I—Anyway in the end I just nodded at him and he went out and I rang the bell for the lift and that was that.
BP: But then?
MM: The lift was slow. It took forever. You know how they are when they’re old? And then when I got upstairs—we were on the third floor—I remembered I’d forgotten to pick up the mail. We were given a little box in the lobby and I was expecting a document that I knew I ought to look over before my meeting the next day so I had to go back down again, didn’t I? At least the lift was right there. But once I was back down in the lobby and standing in front of the bank of mailboxes with my key all ready, I couldn’t remember which number to open. It was the number of our flat. So guess what?
BP: You had to go all the way up again to look.
MM: That’s right. It was number three. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? It was on the third floor. What? Oh, yes, sorry. You want me to get to the bit where I saw his wife. Well, of course I didn’t know it was his wife. I’m not sure I even knew he was married. I’d just picked up my package when this woman comes running in through the front door and she’s in the lift before I can even close the mailbox and I shout out to her, “Stop, wait! Hold the door.” Because I don’t want to wait for that lift again, do I? So we ride up together but she stops at the second floor and out she gets. She was good looking, dark. I smiled at her but she wasn’t very friendly. She didn’t smile back.
BP: And it was Angela Marriott?
MM: Well, as I say, I didn’t know who it was and I didn’t think anything more about it until I saw her on the television news a couple of days later. I recognized her.
BP: And you didn’t do anything about it?
MM: Like what?
BP: Tell the police you’d seen her.
MM: They never asked. They’d already spoken to me and the truth is, I forgot about her. They were very interested in hearing that I’d seen Shotgun Marriott go out because of course I gave him a bit of an alibi. And when I saw her on the TV, I didn’t really think anything of it beyond “Oh, that was his wife I saw.” It seemed only natural that she was going to their apartment.
BP: So what you’re saying, Mr. Molloy, is that when Angela Marriott arrived at the apartment that night her husband wasn’t there?
MM: Don’t see how he could have been. I saw him leave the building and I didn’t see him come back in with her. No, she was on her own when she went up in the lift with me.
I turned the page but there was no more transcript, just a note in what I assumed was Bettina’s handwriting. “Telephoned Shirley Molloy, Sydney, August 1, 2004. Mike Molloy died 2003.” August 1. Bettina must have followed up as recently as this summer once she learned that she might have another chance to do Shotgun’s book.
Shotgun had not mentioned Angie being at the apartment that night. He had given me to understand that the whole point of having the apartment was so that he could go there after a concert and leave Angie at their house to sleep undisturbed. What he had said was that she had barricaded herself into the house and if she had heard him banging on the door, she had probably not answered because she had thought it was one of his fans.
But what if she hadn’t been there?
Now I couldn’t wait to go around and see her.
She opened the door to me in what was obviously her version of mufti—a white polo shirt and lime green capri pants. On her feet were spangled flip-flops and her toenails were painted the same bloodred as her lipstick. It didn’t really go with the lime green but you can’t have everything. Her dark hair was tied back in a long braid that fell over one shoulder. It was unwashed and greasy and I realized it was dyed. It didn’t do her any favors; it made her strong face look hard and unforgiving.
Her house was a bit of a bombshell. When I arrived at the address she had given me I thought I must have misheard what she’d said. It was just off Portobello Road, a shabby nondescript door in a rather beat-up terraced house. More ordinary you could not get and it had to be one of the noisiest locations in Notting Hill. They started setting up the stalls for Portobello Market every morning around five o’clock and the racket was unbelievable. But then maybe Angie Marriott was one of those driven, edgy people who never slept.
But once inside I got the picture. The place had been gutted and given a mega makeover. I was standing in a kitchen with marble countertops and an impressive display of status appliances that would have given the Phillionaire a run for his money. The place was like a giant loft and I’d stepped directly into it, there’d been no hallway, no staircase. Suddenly I realized the ceiling was exposed to the rafters and the kitchen seemed to take up the whole house. There was no upstairs. So where did she sleep?
“Cath’s lovely, isn’t she?” said Angie, taking out a bottle of rosé and offering me a glass. “It’s all right,” she must have noticed my concerned look, “I’m on the pomegranate.”
“They say it’s the new cranberry juice,” I said.
“Do they indeed? Let me just throw some snacks together and then we’ll go and sit down. I only just got back from work.”
“Which is?”
“Oh, sorry. Don’t you know? I have a financial advisory service. Our main office is in London, in Chancery Lane actually, but we’ve got another one in Kent and I seem to have been running nonstop between the two recently. Suddenly the world is full of people who’ve just realized they haven’t given enough thought to their pension requirements—all those irresponsible baby boomers—and they want me to invest twenty pence for them. Still, it does me good to keep busy after what happened to Sean. By the way, what provision have you made for your old age, Lee?”
Give me a break! I hadn’t come over to be sold a pension plan.
“Do you use the name Angela Marriott at work?”
“I don’t use it at all, anywhere. I’ve been Angela Braithwaite for years. Ever since—well, you know. Come on, let’s go and make ourselves comfortable. Could you take these?” She handed me a bowl of crisps and the bottle of rosé. “And I’ll bring the rest.”
I couldn’t help noticing she picked up my glass of wine and hers of pomegranate juice and then she grabbed a third glass by its stem. Who else was she expecting?
“Oh, by the way,” I said, “has Max Austin been in touch with you?” Only a few hours had passed since lunch but I knew Max never wasted any
time. He hadn’t called me for Angie’s number but that didn’t mean he hadn’t got it from another source.
“Who?”
“Detective Inspector—well, no, hang about, he’s a detective superintendent now. Det. Supt. Max Austin. I saw him today and I told him what you told me, what you said about—about Shotgun killing the groupie. Back then he was working for the man who led the investigation, I don’t know his name.”
“Frank Shaw,” she said as if it were a name engraved on her memory for a lifetime, “Det. Insp. Frank Shaw. He’s retired now.”
“Right. Well, I saw Max Austin and I told him what you said about Shotgun. I was going to call and warn you he’d be contacting you.”
She looked at me for a long time. Then she said slowly, “You know, you shouldn’t have done that. Not without checking with me first.” Her eyes were wary. “Did he believe you?”
It was an odd question but in fact a perfectly reasonable one. Because I hadn’t believed her when she’d told me on the phone. Not because I didn’t think she was telling the truth but because I hadn’t wanted Shotgun to be guilty. There was a difference. Wasn’t there?
“More or less,” I said. And that was the truth.
“Well then, that’s that,” she said and suddenly she was sad and deflated. “One way or the other, Kip’ll go down now.”
“And there’s something else,” I said, wondering if it was a good move to let everything come rushing out like this but unable to stop myself, “I didn’t believe you at first but now I know you were there.”
She dropped a glass in shock. It slipped from her hand and clattered onto the floor.
“You do?”
As she kicked the broken glass into a corner and went to get another, I explained about Bettina’s tape.
“So you’ve been quite busy since you arrived. How long are you over?”
“I don’t know,” I told her and explained why.
How to Marry a Ghost Page 30
