A Splash of Red (18 page)

The 'live-in' relationship with Kevin John Athlone (no comment available) also received a great deal of publicity. A photograph of him in a white polo-necked jersey, wonderfully hand
some and somewhat thinner than
of late, received almost as
much
prominence as photographs of Chloe. Kevin John in his turn was described - but not by himself - as being 'shattered' at the break-up of their relationship and 'emotionally distraught'. Hints of his drinking, also employing the word 'emotional', were fairly heavy. The very detailed but soberly phrased account in the
Telegraph
,
ended: 'Mr Athlone, whose present whereabouts are unknown, is believed to have volunteered a statement to the police on Sunday.'

The inference, to those used to such things, was obvious. Jemima fancied she detected the hovering hand of the police in these mentions of Kevin John. A word in time, of a discreet nature, from the police, helped the Press to direct their eager noses in the right direction; and the Press in their turn helped on the police by their own enquiries. It was after all only an amplified version of Jemima's own relationship with Pompey.

Unlike the television channels, the Press gave no significant mention to Chloe's literary works. The measured warmth of Jamie Grand in the
Guardian
was the honourable exception (J.S. Grand, editor of
Literature,
writes: 'A talent to observe
..
.'). Otherwise the person was considered so much more newsworthy than the
oeuvre.
Jemima thought that Chloe would have found in that personal concentration matter for regret, despite the vast publicity given to her death - but could she be sure of anything to do with Chloe any longer? Perhaps her friend would have relished the street fame, the passionate popular interest
...
No, surely not, a writer must always hope for the elevation of the work over the personality. And Chloe, whatever her other qualities, had been at heart a writer. In that at least Jemima had not been deceived.

There was not even the merest hint in the Press of Sir Richard Lionnel's connection with Chloe. Even the fact that she had lived - and died - in that controversial modern building, creation of the Lion of Bloomsbury,
73
Adelaide Square, received little emphasis. Only the
Telegraph
seemed remotely interested in the subject, and this interest was limited to the phrase: 'recently in the news due to student protest at the demolition of Adam's work'.

Did she also detect the hovering hand of the police here? More likely the hovering hands of Fleet Street's eagle-eyed libel lawyers. No point in going for the (almost certainly) innocent Sir Richard Lionnel, armed with his own equally watchful lawyers, when the (almost certainly) guilty Kevin John Athlone, a picturesque enough killer for any editor, was there for their delectation.

Jemima's favourite editor, Jake Fredericks - brother of her own boss the ebullient Cy - did ring her up from the
London Evening Post
and suggest a piece about Chloe.

'I gather that handsome brute of a painter finally went over the top and did it,' he observed cheerfully. 'I never could stand him myself. Irresistible to women, I am assured, blows and all. Maybe I should deliver a blow or two myself. I must check with Eveline sometime. Anything to please. I used to meet Athlone at Cy's parties when he was with Sophie and he used to beat her up something terrible then. She went to hospital, needed stitches, all that kind of thing. And I think Oonagh Leggatt had something of the same experience. Ugh.' Jemima repressed a smile at the thought of the charming rather motherly Eveline Fredericks entering into some kind of sado-masochistic relationship with Jake. Unlike Cy, Jake had been happily married as long as Jemima could remember. 'Good painter, though,' he added. 'Still it's not quite enough, is it? We can't have our lady novelists dying like flies, can we?'

Jake Fredericks' notion was, as he expressed it, that Jemima should set the record straight about Chloe. 'After all she was a very good writer, as well as a grand horizontal, wasn't she? My colleagues have concentrated so far on the latter angle. Here at the
London Evening Post
we have always believed in a woman's right to be both.'

Jemima was not to be drawn. Thanking Jake politely, she declined and headed for the British Library. She felt depressed. Things were getting blacker for Kevin John. A known record of violence towards the women in his life was not going to help his case forward with Pompey -or, if it came to that, with a jury. It remained to be seen whether Valentine Brighton, in heaving something off his own chest, would also relieve Kevin John Athlone in some way of the burden of guilt.

But Valentine Brighton, pale but composed, speaking in a low voice in view of the regulations of the Reading Room, did no such thing.

'I saw him.' It was as bald as that. 'I was shattered. No, no, not doing the murder—' His voice rose slightly. 'Just afterwards. It must have been just afterwards.'

'Sssh' came very angrily from the middle-aged woman of foreign appearance at the desk next to Jemima's. 'Here iss not a place for talking.' Jemima, in her own state of shock at what Valentine had just said, vaguely resented the interruption but made no effort to curtail Valentine's stream of words.

'And further I must tell you, you are sitting in the place of Professor Leinsdorf,' hissed the woman, after a moment, plucking at Jemima's sleeve. It was true. Jemima had been waved to Bio by Valentine, but Professor
‘
books, as th
ey presumably were, were neatly
stacked in the corner. The theory of economics, mainly in German. As Jake Fredericks would say, ugh.

Valentine Brighton was at this moment saying: 'Jemima, I've got to use you as my mother confessor. Do I go back to the police and tell them? How on earth do I explain what I was doing there? My God, do I have to explain about - well - I mean will it all come out, be in the papers? It will kill Mummy, I tell you it will kill her—'

His voice, never particularly deep, rose to an accompanying angry 'Sssssh' from the friend of Professor Leinsdorf.

'It
did
kill Chloe Fontaine,' Jemima hissed back furiously. 'Or rather someone did. And of course you must tell the police what you saw. Besides, they already know a good deal of it - look, Valentine, I may as well tell you now. They found the peep-hole.' Pompey had confirmed the prints as being Valentine's that morning.

For a moment Jemima thought Valentine was actually going to faint. His slightly sweaty pallor increased dramatically and his eyelids closed and flickered. He swayed in his seat.

'Oh God, poor poor Mummy,' he groaned. Professor Leinsdorf
’
s friend stood up and regarded the pair of them with extreme disfavour; she arranged her own books and belongings all over her desk as though to prevent the possibility of any further territorial infringement by Jemima. Jemima noted the label on her briefcase, a surprisingly smart object of black leather, considering its owner's own careless appearance: Dr Irina Harman, it read, and the address was somewhere in Cambridge.

'I go to have a coffee,' Dr Irina Harman announced. Then: 'Those are the books of Professor Leinsdorf. It iss not in the rules to sit at that desk.' As Jemima did not react, she said in a louder voice: 'It is occupied.' Then Dr Harman stumped away.

'If it gets into the Press, I can't bear it. I simply cannot bear it,' Valentine was saying. 'I'll go and live abroad.'

'Oh for Christ's sake, Valentine. This is not the nineteenth century and you are not the wicked Lord Byron.
Do stop thinking about yourself.
What's a little harmless voyeurism among friends?' She forbore to remind him that she herself had received two of his calls.

Valentine groaned again. Jemima's furious flippancy only seemed to make him feel worse. For her part, she wanted to shake him.

'I take it you saw Kevin John Athlone - in Chloe's bedroom.'

'I don't know why I do such things. It started when I was a child. Perhaps because I was lonely. Anyway, where Chloe was concerned it all began one day by accident. I found the way up the fire escape when her buzzer didn't answer. There was a loose brick - I was looking for a key.

She was somehow so provocative, Chloe, wasn't she? I mean I almost felt she
wanted
me to watch her. But how can I tell the police that? As for Mummy—'

'Valentine,' Jemima whispered as calmly as she could. 'What did you actually see? The police aren't interested in your private tastes, they're only interested in you as a witness to murder.'

'I went up the fire escape and I looked through the peep-hole,' he said. 'Chloe hadn't turned up here. I had some vague idea of warning her about Francesca Lionnel. I'm not quite sure what I expected, I never am when I do these things. I suppose I also thought I might see you. I called you, you know, the night before and in the morning.' He spoke quite flatly. He seemed to have no shame where Jemima herself was concerned. Perhaps he imagined that life in television had inured her to such things.

'Leinsdorf? Your books.' An Asian carrying two large grey volumes was standing over Jemima. He deposited them without waiting for a confirmation. He was handsome and quite young; and was wearing a red
‘I
-shirt with the face of Marilyn Monroe on it. Jemima recognized him. He had tried to deliver some books to her desk - commissioned by someone called Hamilton - on Saturday. This time she accepted the Leinsdorf books without comment.

'Go on.'

'I saw him, Kevin John Athlone. In her bedroom. He was alone. At least I think he was. He was holding a razor in his hand. You can't see the top of the bed you know. The hole is too high. Only the bottom of the bed, the rest of the bedroom and the door. He was just standing there. Looking right at the picture. At me. I was terrified he'd see right through it and see me. And she'd promised me it was all over. I felt quite sick. I went away. Then I saw you walking towards the British Museum and I followed you. I followed you right into the Reading Room. I watched you looking for a place. I moved someone else's books just ahead of you and sat down. I made a place for you. You see - I wanted you to find me. I pretended to be asleep so you wouldn't suspect. I was still feeling sick.'

'Ah. The wrong books which were delivered—' Jemima began.

'Oh, Jemima, couldn't
you
tell the police? Explain I'm not feeling at all well, and I'm not, absolutely not up to it. Poor Mummy, how will she bear it—'

'You
must
make your own statement; it's vital, don't you see that? I can't give
your
evidence.'

'Pardon me, but I believe those are my books,' said a polite soft female voice above Jemima; this time
the accent was not mid-European
but American. 'Since I had not purposed to vacate this seat, you should provide yourself with another one. And adjust your seat number accordingly on any request slips you may have already filed.' Professor Leinsdorf spoke in the terminology of a firm but courteous public notice.

But contrary to Jemima's mental image, the Professor besides being female was comparatively young. She wore a neat white blouse and pale grey skirt, with a soft grey chiffon scarf at her neck. She might have been a member of some modern nun's order, which wore contemporary dress. She was also rather pinkly pretty with full lips and a high natural colour: although she wore no visible makeup, she hardly needed it to enhance her wholesome and attractive appearance.

'I'm so sorry,' said Jemima hastily, leaping up. 'Valentine, we have to talk. Let's go outside. Right?'

Valentine made a movement she interpreted as a nod. Professor Leinsdorf also nodded with the confident air of one who was used to restoring things to their rightful order wherever she went, and sat down.

She heard Valentine's voice calling rather faintly after her and returned. This time his message was only whispered: 'Give me five minutes to recover, old girl.' The sobriquet was somehow pathetically sportive. 'I won't rat on you,' he added, in the same Kiplingesque idiom.

'Sure. Meet you by the head of Rameses in, say, ten minutes' time? I'll fill in a book slip or two for when I return.' Valentine gave a rather more vigorous nod in which she discerned relief.

Jem
ima took herself off to find a new seat, succeeding finally among the L
’
s; a rather noisy position due to the presence of a row of machines behind her being cranked by readers to show microfilm. Still L for Love had good connotations; she speculated whether Valentine's dogging her footsteps on the fatal Saturday had not been responsible for the strange aberration of her mental alphabet on that occasion.

On her way Jemima passed Dr Harman who shot her a look of malevolent triumph. The doctor's heavy figure, ill suited by her brightly flowered skirt and green blouse, stockingless white legs in flat sandals, together with her mouse-coloured hair scraped back into a tight bun, made her the prototypical figure of the earnest female scholar of the old style, just as the fresh and soignee Professor Leinsdorf (who could have been photographed for
Taffeta
in one of its serious moods, just as she stood) epitomized the new. Yet it was possible that the two women were in fact about the same age.