Bloodhounds (27 page)
Authors: Peter Lovesey
"Was the dog at the party?"
"No, I'm speaking of seeing him in the street. You want to know about the party. He and I didn't exchange more than a few passing words as he came in. He isn't the sort who waits to be introduced to people. He was in there straightaway. I wouldn't have thought he was the suicidal type."
Diamond gave a shrug. His thoughts were no longer on Rupert's personality. At this minute AJ. interested him more. He might have stepped out of a holiday brochure with his welcome-to-paradise smile and designer shirt and jeans. Barnaby had spoken of a private income, and some of it must have gone on the teeth, which were as even as computer keys. Was this young buck likely to be content with "intellectual flirting"?
"I understand you have a large stake in the gallery, Mr. er . . . ?"
"AJ. will do."
Diamond was shaking his head. "Not any longer, sir. I'm gathering evidence, you see. I have to insist on full names."
AJ. frowned. "Does it really matter? The
A
is for Ambrose. I cringe each time I have to own up to it."
"And the
J
?"
"Jason. Hardly much better."
"That isn't your surname, is it?"
"No. That's"—he cast his eyes upward—"Smith. Ambrose Jason Smith. Now can we talk about something more important, for pity's sake?"
This business over the name had quite upset AJ. All the more incentive for Diamond.
"Are you a local man . . . Mr. Smith?"
A glare. "No. Born in Devon, but the next twenty years I spent in and around Winchester. I went to school there."
"The public school?"
"Yes. If you want the whole sordid truth, I was not a credit to them. Got expelled eventually. Went to art college and then had a few poverty-stricken years in Paris."
"And now you're stricken no longer?"
"That is correct."
Diamond waited.
AJ. explained, "The family forgave me."
"To come back to my question, you have a large stake in the gallery. Is that so?"
"I help out with the overheads. I'm also a regular exhibitor. I wish you would tell me what this has to do with the police."
"You're a close friend of Mrs. Shaw's."
"That's a sinister-sounding phrase. She's a married woman, Superintendent. If you're inferring what I think you are, you'd better have a care what you say."
"Some words were sprayed on the gallery window on the night of the preview party."
A.J.'s reaction was less dramatic than Barnaby's. He was still well in control. His brown eyes looked into Diamond's and then toward the window. "How did you hear about that?"
"The words, I was informed, were 'She did for Sid.' "
"So?"
"You were one of the people who decided to remove them without reporting the matter."
"To put it in context," said A J., adopting a lofty tone, "it was obviously a piece of misplaced fun. We were having a party. People have a few drinks and do daft things. We thought it was in bad taste and wiped the window clean. If that's a crime, you'd better arrest us all."
From above came the sound of footsteps. Jessica was about to descend with her dealer.
"Another question," said Diamond. "Where were you last night from seven onward?"
"God, you really are taking this seriously. In the bar at the Royal Crescent Hotel and afterward at the Clos du Roy Restaurant, where I dined alone. But if you wish to make inquiries, a dozen bar staff and waiters can vouch for me."
"And after you'd eaten?"
"I went home and watched television. Would you like me to tell you what the program was?"
Jessica's black-stockinged legs and blue strappy shoes appeared at the top of the spiral stairs. She led down a small silver-haired man in a black overcoat and a bow tie. Quick to sense that the deal she'd been doing upstairs might be undermined if she introduced a policeman, she said smoothly, "My dear Mr. Diamond, how good of you to call again. This is quite a morning. If you'll forgive me for a moment, Mr. Peake has come specially from London, and he has another gallery to see. I'll just point him in the right direction, and then we'll do business, I promise."
Diamond nodded, allowing the subterfuge to pass, before starting up with AJ. again. "You live in Bath?"
"Queen Square."
"Nice and central."
"Yes."
"Is there anyone . . . ?"
"I am a bachelor."
"Did you go out at all last night?"
"I went home to sleep, Superintendent, and sleep is what I did."
Back came Jessica. "Wonderful. He wants seven, including that big one of yours, AJ. We've got to celebrate. Is there any bubbly left over from the party?"
"Before you do—" Diamond began.
"You're to join us," said Jessica. "It isn't every day we do three grands' worth of business."
"Sorry, but you're joining me," said Diamond, "and there's no bubbly on offer. We might run to coffee in a plastic cup, but that's the best I can promise."
"I don't think I understand."
"I'm taking you in, Mrs. Shaw. For questioning."
Out of consideration for his passenger, he drove to the back of the central police station, and they entered through a side door. Even so, several heads swiveled when he escorted Jessica, teetering high-heeled along the corridor in the pale blue Armani suit she'd put on for the London art dealer.
In Diamond's office the phone was flashing like a burglar alarm. He pulled out a chair for Jessica and asked if she wanted that coffee tasting of plastic. She requested water.
He read the written messages left on his desk. Julie Hargreaves had spoken to Shirley-Ann Miller and confirmed that she had a good alibi for the previous night. Halliwell had traced Miss Chilmark to Lucknam Park, the country house turned hotel at Colerne, and was on his way there; lucky bastard, he wouldn't be drinking out of plastic cups. And Jack Merlin, the pathologist, couldn't, after all, get to Bath next day; the postmortem on Rupert Darby would have to be postponed unless someone else took over.
After collecting tea for himself, Diamond sat opposite Jessica, observing her, deciding on his strategy. She was drumming her fingers on the desk. There didn't seem much advantage in gentle sparring.
"Mrs. Shaw, why did you write those lists of words on the paper bag?"
The finely shadowed eyes narrowed, but there was nothing else to register the body blow this was meant to be. This lady wasn't simply going to roll over and tell all.
"The bag you used to treat Miss Chilmark's hyperventilation. I have it here." He opened his desk and took it out, enclosed in a transparent cover. "They happen to rhyme, these words. 'Jack, flak, knack, mac' . . . It looks like working notes for a poet—or at least a writer of verse. In this case, they rhyme with 'black.' There's a second column rhyming with 'motion' and a third with 'room.' I could be wrong, but those are words that feature in the case under investigation: Penny Black, Milo Motion, and Locked Room. Working notes?"
Jessica's only response was the merest movement of the padded shoulders.
"You did write them yourself, didn't you?" he pressed her. "Sid Towers had nothing to do with it."
Not even a flicker this time.
"It can't have been Sid because of the fresh riddle in verse that was published yesterday. Sid is dead. He couldn't have been our poet." He watched her minutely. This wasn't achieving anything. "I'll be frank," he said. "Until this morning I still wasn't certain. You know what happened this morning?"
No answer.
"Mrs. Shaw?"
A sigh. "Yes, I heard what happened."
"Another death," he said. "Rupert Darby's death."
She said calmly, "You're not telling me anything I don't know."
Encouraged that there was two-way traffic now, he said, "Let's go back to the riddle for a moment:
'To end the suspense, as yours truly did,
Discover the way to Sydney from Sid.'
"In style, it was not dissimilar from the other two. It was on similar paper, in an identical typeface, and distributed in the same way to the local media. That wasn't some publicity seeker messing about, Mrs. Shaw. 'To end the suspense' . . . It was written in the knowledge that a man would shortly be found hanging from a bridge in Sydney Gardens. Isn't that plain?"
"If you say so."
"You must have read the riddle in the paper."
"Yes."
"Did you write it?—that's the question."
"I did not."
"Did you write the others?"
"No."
He paused, letting the gravity of her situation take root. He studied the paper bag as if he hadn't seen it before. Then he looked up and started again, but less abrasively. "Until yesterday afternoon, I was taken in by these lists. Thought they were written by Sid. Had to be."
She held his gaze with her dark brown eyes.
He said, "If Sid wrote them, it was natural to assume that he was our poet, the composer of the riddles, the joker who stole the Penny Black and magicked his way into a locked boat. They looked like working notes, the first notes for a riddle that never appeared, because Sid was killed before he completed it." He spread his hands. "I boobed. We all make mistakes. But what am I left with?"
He took his time. Passed his hand around the back of his neck and massaged it. "What I'm left with, Mrs. Shaw, is the alternative. You wrote the lists." Another pause. "Do you follow my thinking? The bag was Sid's. He handed it to you. You handed it to me. True?"
She sighed—a reluctant admission. Yet the logic of what he had said was inescapable.
"We call that continuity of evidence, Mrs. Shaw. That's why it's clear that if Sid didn't write the lists, you did." He leaned forward, hunched over his desk, watching her. "Makes you my prime suspect." An exaggeration, but he had to find some way of getting through. "I'm trying to give you every chance. This isn't a formal interview. If there's an explanation, now's your opportunity."
She looked down at her fingernails, not persuaded, it seemed.
He said, "The postmortem hasn't been done on Rupert yet, so this may be premature,, but I expect it to confirm that he met his death by foul play."
She caught her breath—the first unguarded response. "He hanged himself."
"He was found hanging."
"I don't follow you."
"I think you do. We took a blood sample. The man was well tanked up, some way over the limit, probably incapable of rigging up a noose."
She said, "This is in the realm of speculation." Fair comment, too.
He found himself analyzing his performance so far. This isn't the approved interviewing technique, he told himself. It isn't an interview at all yet. I'm laying out all my cards while she sits there denying everything.
He picked up his cup and did damage to the inside of his mouth. Tea from the machine was always too hot or tepid. "Could I have a sip of that water? I'll get you some fresh."
She pushed the beaker across the desk.
He said, "It may be speculation now, but we'll know soon enough. The postmortem will show if there was a struggle. You can't string a man from a bridge without handling him roughly."
Jessica drew herself up in the chair and said scornfully, "You're not seriously suggesting that I did this to Rupert?"
"You probably couldn't have done it alone," he conceded.
"Why should I do it at all?"
"That's no mystery," he said. "We recovered his beret, and it has traces of sprayed paint."
Another sharp intake of breath. The wall of indifference was crumbling.
He told her, "I know all about the graffiti sprayed on the gallery window. Mean."
She started to say, "How—"
"I've discussed it with your husband and your friend AJ."
"They told you?"
He moved relentlessly on. "Rupert was at the party with paint on his beret."
She said, "Are you sure of this?"
"I can show you the beret if you like. The real point is that it gave you, and possibly someone else, a clear motive for silencing Rupert. He would have exposed you."
"I didn't know it was Rupert."
He got up, walked to the window and looked out.
She repeated, with more fervor, "I didn't know it was Rupert."
He let a few seconds pass. Then, without turning from the window: "Do you still deny writing the riddles?"
"Of course I deny it," she said passionately. "I didn't write them. I didn't kill anyone."
"But you wrote those lists of words on the paper bag."
"It doesn't mean I'm a killer."
He said, "But you wrote the lists. You will admit that much?" By now, he reckoned, she ought to be ready to admit to the lesser crime.
She showed she had spirit. "Is this going to take much longer?—because I have things to do. I assume I can walk out whenever I wish. I'm not under arrest, or anything?"
He said in sincerity, "Mrs. Shaw, I brought you here so that we could talk in private, away from the gallery. I'm giving you the opportunity to explain your actions."
Coolly, she asked, "What actions? I've done nothing illegal."
"At the very least, fabricating evidence."
"How can you say that?"
"Look, if you didn't write the lists as notes for a riddle, you wrote them for another purpose. You were taking a considerable risk, of course, but it was—what's the term bridge players use?—a finesse. The winning of a trick by subtle means, playing a low card. And you played it with a skill anyone would admire. You didn't volunteer the bag. You waited for me to ask if it was still in your possessioh. And when you handed it across, you didn't draw my attention to the lists. You let me find them myself and conclude that Sid wrote them. You conned me and my team. Why? Why mislead the police? You must have had something to hide."
She shook her head.
"Someone to shield, then?"
The color rose to her face.
He said mildly, "A.J.?"
A jerk went through her like an electric shock.
Lucknam Park, an eighteenth-century mansion at Colerne, northeast of Bath, and latterly converted into a four-star conference hotel, might not have been the obvious choice for a bolthole, but it was Miss Chilmark's. No backstreet hideout for milady, thought Diamond with amusement, as it became obvious that the drive through the grounds would add another half-mile to the six he had just completed.
On arrival, he was welcomed like a paying guest and given a phone message. It was from Julie. Would he call her urgently? He didn't recognize the number.
He found himself talking to a switchboard operator at the Sports and Leisure Center who told him Inspector Hargreaves was waiting for his call.
"Mr. Diamond?" The note of relief in Julie's voice was gratifying and disturbing at the same time. "I'm so glad I've caught you."
"Trouble?"
"It's about Marlowe."
"Who?"
"Marlowe. The dog. Rupert Darby's dog. I took him on. Remember?"
He said in amazement, "You're calling me about the dog? What's it been up to now?"
"Nothing. He's done nothing wrong."
"Well?"
"I'm here at the Sports Center to interview Bert Jones, Shirley-Ann Miller's partner."
"I know that, Julie."
"Yes, but before going in, I thought I'd better give the dog a chance of a walk, if you know what I mean. I walked him around the edge or the car park at Manvers Street, but he didn't seem to get the idea, so I thought I'd give him another opportunity here."
"Of lifting his leg, you mean? Do we have to go into all this, Julie?"
"Yes, Mr. Diamond, we do," she said earnestly, "because as we were walking about, I happened to look closely at his coat. Marlowe has this dark brown hair, as you know, but I noticed that one area of it seems to be going white."
"He's an old dog, you mean? You'd rather not take him on at this time of life?"
"Please listen, Mr. Diamond. The white bit is only on his left side. It isn't natural. When I looked at it closely, I saw it was lots of little points of white. It's paint from an aerosol spray."
He was stunned into a brief silence. He'd been reluctant to give his full attention to Julie's fussing over the dog, and now this was hard to take in. "Are you sure?"
"Certain. I scraped some of the specks off with my fingernail."
"Julie, Rupert didn't have the dog with him at the gallery party."
"That's the whole point. Do you see what it means? If the dog was sprayed with the aerosol, it must have been done at some other time."
He was ahead of her now. "Right. It means we can't be certain when the paint got on the beret."
"Exactly. We've been assuming it was done when the gallery window was sprayed. We can't anymore."
He was silent for a moment, pondering the significance. The evidence of the beret, linking Rupert to the graffiti, was undermined. The spray had been used elsewhere, and Rupert's dog had got a burst of paint. Rupert could have been trying out the aerosol, practicing.
Diamond was humble enough to say, "You've had time to think about this, Julie. What do you make of it?"
She started to say, "I'm as confused as . . ." Stopping in midsentence, she began again. "There may be a way of finding out whether there was spray on the beret before Rupert got to the gallery that evening. If you remember, he was supposed to have arrived with some people he met at the Saracen's Head."
"Right, and if they happened to have noticed . . . What the devil was their name? Shirley-Ann gave it to us."
"Volk. They're from Bradford on Avon."
"I'll get someone onto it. Have you finished with Bert Jones yet?"
"I haven't even started. I wanted to catch you first."
"You did the right thing, Julie." Before putting down the phone, he added, "Sorry I was short with you. Thought you wanted advice about the bloody dog. How is Marlowe, by the way?"
"He's not a bloody dog, Mr. Diamond. He's great. I'm just keeping my fingers crossed that Roger accepts him."
"Your husband?"
"No, Roger is one of my other dogs. He's rather unpredictable."
"So is Marlowe, by all accounts."
He made a call to Manvers Street and dispatched a car to Bradford on Avon. After replacing the phone, he stared blankly around the elegant entrance hall with its enormous fireplace and portraits; after the brain-stretching session on the paint spray, a conscious effort was required to remind himself why he was here.
Keith Halliwell was with Miss Chilmark in a spacious guest room overlooking the croquet lawn. Clearly in a state of some embarrassment, if not distress, the lady didn't even look up from the chintz armchair where she was seated. Her appearance had undergone a change that Diamond couldn't immediately define, until he realized he was meeting her without makeup. The green eye shadow and orange lipstick and foundation had created a different woman from the one he was presently seeing. Of the two images, he thought he preferred this paler, more vulnerable version.
He took note of a plate of canapes and a half-empty glass of what looked like whiskey on the occasional table in front of her. He also noted the glint of a second whiskey glass on the floor and partially obscured by a fringe around the base of the armchair Halliwell must have been using, and was informed, "I sent for something to calm her down, sir. A drop of Scotch is supposed to be good for the nerves."
"And was it good for yours?"
Halliwell gave a twitchy grin.
Diamond turned to the matter at hand. "You gave us a fright, Miss Chilmark, disappearing like that."
She said nothing.
"How long have you been here?"
Halliwell said, "Since yesterday, sir."
"Control yourself, Keith. I'd rather hear it from Miss Chilmark. You remember who I am, Miss Chilmark? I visited you in the Paragon. Nice place. Nice address. I'm surprised you left it." He lowered himself into another armchair opposite her. The furniture here was built for people of his size. He usually had to back into chairs like a carthorse easing between the shafts. "I was getting worried about you. Two of the Bloodhounds are dead. Did you hear about Rupert Darby?"
She nodded, still without looking up.
"Caught it on TV West, did you?" Diamond pressed on, with a jerk of the head toward the appropriate section in the wall unit. "They filmed me standing on the bridge over the canal where it happened. Sydney Gardens. Do you know the place? You must do."
Another nod.
"Can't expect you to waste much sympathy on Rupert Darby," he said. "He was no friend of yours, was he?"
She looked up, which was some encouragement, even if her broad, colorless face was registering nothing.
"I said he was no friend of yours. You don't have to stand on ceremony with me, ma'am. It's good riddance as far as you're concerned, isn't it? He made your life a misery."
She found her voice. "You've no right to put words into my mouth, Superintendent."
"In the absence of any words from you, ma'am, I was having to speak for both of us. I said Darby made your life a misery. Isn't that so?"
She gave him a distrustful look. "What are you suggesting?"
He said on a quieter note, "Simply helping you to get started, ma'am. There are things to be explained, aren't there?"
She shifted in the chair, nervously rubbing her hands. She sighed.
Generally, Diamond preserved a formal neutrality when interviewing. It seemed unlikely that this old dowager with her tendency to hysteria would evoke any sympathy at all from him, yet curiously she did. Her life was narrow, her values based on little else but status and snobbery. Everything she espoused had been undermined. Here she was, ashamed, discredited, being questioned by the police. To restore any self-respect was probably beyond her.
She closed her eyes at first, as if it made speaking less painful. "I'm not at my best. I don't know what to say about him—Rupert Darby. Since I heard about his death, I've been trying to understand him, if not forgive him. At the time of the various incidents at the meetings, I was incensed by his behavior. I felt sure he really set out to persecute me. Now that, em—"
"Now that he's dead?"
"Yes. I'm less certain. I can't be sure. Possibly what happened with the dog was due mainly to negligence on his part."
"Failing to control the dog, you mean."
"Yes. He couldn't really have known that it would run straight to me and leap on me. So I'm trying, I'm beginning, I'm
wanting . . .
to take a more charitable view of what happened. Do you understand?"
By Miss Chilmark's lights, this was a turnaround on a par with Count Dracula turning out to be the tooth fairy. Was it Rupert's passing that had prompted it? Diamond wondered. Or had a much larger crisis put the incidents into a new perspective?
She said, "I had no idea he was suicidal."
Diamond told her, "I wouldn't worry about Rupert if I were you." He changed his posture. Instead of leaning forward, demonstrating concern, he rested his back against the chair. "It wasn't anything to do with Rupert that brought you here, was it, ma'am?"
A little shudder went through her. "No, it was another matter." Then, silence.
"You may not feel you want to speak about it," Diamond spoke the obvious, "but if you do, I think it may become easier to live with. Locking it in is not the best way."
She said with a penetrating stare, "You know, don't you?"
"A certain amount, ma'am, enough to understand how difficult this is for you. But it can't go on, can it? The cost—"
"How did you find out?"
Swiftly he changed tack. He didn't want her knowing he'd tricked her bank. "I was going to say the cost in stress is more than you can bear."
The evasion was transparent. Miss Chilmark closed up again. "Anyway, I don't see that my private affairs have anything to do with the police."
The story had to be coaxed from her. He wished he had Julie with him instead of Halliwell standing there like the recording angel. "Keith, I may be getting a call downstairs. Do you mind?"
Halliwell had the sense to leave.
Diamond smiled faintly, wanting to convey encouragement. "See it from my point of view, Miss Chilmark. Darby died last night. You went missing. I'm bound to be concerned. I accept that the two events weren't connected, but I have to ask your reasons. I believe someone has been taking advantage of you. Threatening you, perhaps. Am I right?"
She gave a convulsive movement, a sob like a hiccup. From her sleeve she produced a paper tissue and put it to her face, and sobbed several times more.
Diamond waited uneasily.
Finally Miss Chilmark looked at him intently through a film of tears. "If I tell you, will you promise not to pursue it?"
Without knowing what she was about to say, how could he give such an undertaking? He answered, "If it doesn't bear on the matters I'm investigating, I wouldn't wish to get involved." A "promise" worthy of Machiavelli, but she scarcely seemed to be listening, she was so distressed.
In a voice threatening any second to dissolve into weeping, she began to tell her story. "It goes back to when my parents were killed in an accident, a car crash in France, in 1961. A head-on smash with a lorry near Rouen. It was dreadful. They were in their early fifties, both of them. I was twenty-six, their only child, very naive. I'd been given an extremely sheltered upbringing. You may imagine the shock, and the problems, the responsibilities, I had thrust upon me. I was at a loss, quite unable to cope."
"Anyone in your shoes ..." Diamond murmured.
She went on, "There was all the complexity of the inquest and of getting them home. I knew Mummy and Daddy would have wished to be brought home and buried here. As often happens in a crisis, someone came to my rescue, a solicitor who worked with Daddy. Did I say Daddy was the senior partner in Chilmark, Portland, and Smales? This young man—I'd rather not give his name—shouldered the whole thing. I was nominally the executrix, but he arranged everything for me. Went to France and brought them back. Saw to the funerals, the wills, the shares. Advised me on how to invest my legacy, which was considerable. I couldn't have got through without him. And he was only a name to me before. I don't believe Daddy had ever mentioned him—but then he never spoke much about his work. And I have to say that his behavior to me in all this time—vulnerable as I was—was impeccable. He was the perfect gentleman."
She reached for the whiskey. "Do you mind? I must. My voice."
"Take your time." He suspected it was not so much the voice as the gentleman under discussion who made the long sip of whiskey a necessity.
Miss Chilmark continued in a low, confidential tone, "The next thing that happened was a mystery to me at the time, and not at all unpleasant. I received a Valentine, the only proper one I've ever received. Oh, people sent silly, jokey things at school, but this was beautiful, like a Victorian card, with lace edging and a silk ribbon. There was a lovely verse inside, but no clue to the sender. Nothing. I was deeply curious, of course. I would lie awake wondering who sent it, hardly daring to hope it might have been the young man who had done so much to solve my legal problems. Then about six weeks after, he phoned me with the good news that the probate had come through. At last I could invest the money, write checks, and so on. Not that I had any great plans, but it was a kind of landmark. I suppose I looked on it as the end of my parents' tragedy. I could look forward now, and think of my own life."
"Were you working at this time?" Diamond asked.
"In employment? No. Daddy didn't want me working. He belonged to that generation that thought women of good class should not go into employment. I worked hard in the house and garden, but not for a wage.
"I was telling you about the probate. My kind solicitor said we ought to celebrate with a meal out the same evening. I didn't know what to say. I knew enough about the profession to be sure that my father would never have suggested such a thing to a client, but he was another generation. Part of me wanted to accept. He'd been so kind throughout, and now that the legal part was over . . . Well, to cut the story short, I went out to dinner with him the same evening at the Hole in the Wall, which at that time had a reputation unrivaled in Bath. He was a charming companion. He wasn't terribly good-looking, or anything, but he had an unusually attractive voice, like an actor's. He bought champagne, and toward the end of the meal he told me the Valentine had come from him. Of course I was overwhelmed by the whole thing. I had no experience of men. I think the champagne affected me, too.
