Carnage on the Committee (9 page)

Rawlinson smiled. 'There were. Plenty, in fact. A lot of people didn't like Hermione; there were snide comments in the press and quite a few expressions of outrage that she won the Warburton. There was an awful lot of money involved, after all. It wasn't just the prestige. Indeed, I remember several really disagreeable articles. But murder's a different matter.'

'No one comes to mind in her personal life who might actually have wanted to kill her?'

'Absolutely not. No likely murderers in the family, or as far as I know, among friends.'

'I was just going to ask you about her family. Sir William. I know her parents are dead, that she was divorced and that she has two children.'

'Ralph Babcock is still about, but Hermione hardly ever saw him. Joshua lives in Hong Kong and Alex in New York. They'll both be back here for the funeral, whenever that'll be. Then there's her sister, Flora, but they were not close.'

'That'll be Dame Flora Massingham, will it?' asked Pooley.

'Yes.'

'We'll need to talk to all of them,' said Milton.

'Speak to my secretary and she'll give you the phone numbers and anything else you want.' He looked at his watch. 'I have to leave shortly. I have an urgent meeting.'

'Her close friends. Sir William?'

'Hermione didn't go in for intimate friends in the way that women do - you know, old school and university friends, that kind of thing. She specialised in occupational friendship. Currently, she was particularly thick with Wysteria Wilcox and Rosa Karp, but as much for professional reasons as anything else. I'll think about it in the car and if any names come to mind I'll tell my secretary to give you the details.'

'There has been some speculation about rows on the Warburton committee, sir.'

'Which will intensify, no doubt, when people realise that their last meeting happened within the ricin incubation period. But I'm damned if I can believe that one of her colleagues bumped her off because she didn't agree with them about some novel or other. They'd have to be raving mad. I know they had rows and I suppose a fist fight might be imaginable at the stage when the winner is chosen, but the notion that someone would be murdered before even the long-list stage is too preposterous for even a thriller-writer.'

'There could be other motives, sir, since some of the judges knew each other quite well.'

'Let me think.' Rawlinson licked the names off on his fingers as he spoke. 'I've mentioned Wysteria and Rosa. And Hermione knew that ghastly Den Smith well and wrote for his awful magazine sometimes. So those are three she got on well with. Who else was there?'

'Professor Felix Ferriter,' said Pooley.

'Oh, lord. Yes, she talked a bit about him, but I couldn't understand what she was driving at. Literary criticism is a closed book to me. And they seemed to get on too. Who didn't she like? Oh, yes. She complained often about that peculiar Welsh journalist who shouts a lot. And about some little Irish girl with a funny name whom she thought stupid and ignorant. And someone called Amiss she thought obstructive and flippant. But she wasn't afraid off any off them.' He frowned. 'That's seven including Hermione, but I'm sure there were eight.'

'Sir Hugo Hurlingham,' proffered Pooley.

'Oh, yes, of course. But he was another of her allies. She's reviewed for him for years and they were both great enthusiasts for the Barbarossa Prize.'

'Barbarossa?' asked Milton.

'Some European prize that Hermione was hoping the Warburton winner might win.' He spread his hands helplessly. it was all very complicated and I'm afraid I only half-listened.'

'Tell me about Den Smith,' said Milton. 'He is, I understand, rather volatile.'

'Den's proffessionally angry. He was an Angry Youngish Man when I met him first, raged a lot in middle-age and is now an Angry Elderly Man - which always seems ridiculous to me. Not my sort, but he and Hermione seemed to get on fine. She agrees - agreed - with him about America, which she always found impossibly crude except for certain literary enclaves in New York.'

Milton looked curiously at Rawlinson. 'Did you like your wife's friends, Sir William?'

'No, I can't say I did.'

'Because?'

'Because they weren't my kind. But it didn't matter. She wasn't keen on mine either. We had fulfilling separate lives and were happy to escort each other to professional functions where it was necessary. I have old-fashioned notions about sticking by the person you marry. So, in practice, had Hermione.'

He looked at his watch. 'I don't want to be unhelpful, Mr Milton, but 1 really need to get to the office. Is there anything else you desperately need to discuss today?'

'No, I don't think so, sir. May we stay on for a while and look around and talk to Alina?'

'Certainly. I'll send her up to you.' He shook hands with both of them, smiled and left.

7

'Even allowing for shock, reserve and all that kind of thing, I don't think William Rawlinson is very upset about his wife's death.' Pooley sat forward and gazed at Amiss intently. 'In fact, the more Jim and I looked at that house, the more I suspected he'll enjoy being without her.'

Milton stretched and then leaned back further into his armchair. 'My guess is that he probably long ago realised he didn't like her. You tell Robert all about it, Ellis. I might just go to sleep.'

'Top-up, Jim?' asked Amiss, pointing at the whisky that Plutarch's recumbent body prevented him from reaching.

'No, thanks. I'm fine. Get on with it, Ellis. We need to go soon. Sammy will be getting restive.'

'Sammy? Sammy Pike? 1 thought he'd retired. Why didn't you bring him up with you?'

'He has retired, but helps me out sometimes. It would offend his sense of propriety to listen to Ellis contradicting me.'

Pooley was aching to continue. 'So you've got the picture so far?'

'Hermione was as chilly, minimalist and anally-retentive at home as she was abroad.' 'Fantastically so.'

'Knowing how tidy Ellis is compared to us,' said Milton, 'it was a pleasure to see him so horrified. Her study was pristine and characterless and the dining room was worse: imagine eating off a glass and metal table while sitting on wooden seats with mirrored backs?'

'Come again?'

'The front of the back of the dining chairs - i.e. what you lean against - was mirrored.'

'Clumsy guests would make for an interesting evening.'

'And the pictures . . . !' Pooley shook his head. The minimalist paintings were depressing enough, but as for the art photos of bathroom fittings!'

'Do you mean photos offbaths?'

'And washbasins. And loos. And bidets.'

'What an absolutely foul idea.'

'Don't forget the boarded garden,' said Milton sleepily.

'Oh, yes. There were boards over half of the garden.'

'You mean decking?'

'No, decking is suburban. These were boards. And you couldn't walk on them even if you wanted to.'

'Ah, you mean they were art.'

indeed they were. We asked Alina to show us outside and there, sure enough, was a plaque:
"CARL ANDRE.
'Everything is an environment'".'

'The pile-off-bricks chap,' added Milton. 'Remember the row years ago when the Tate bought them.'

i was in short pants, then, Jim. But I know what you're talking about. Isn't he a bit passe?'

'So is minimalism,' said Pooley. 'But maybe Hermione was a traditionalist in her own way.'

The phone rang. Amiss reached across the cat and picked up the receiver. 'Ah, Jack. How are you getting on? ... Yes, I sympathise . . . Yes, I thought you'd like that . . . No, of course I didn't. I only selected it to cheer you up . . .

No, everything's been quiet, but Jim and Ellis are here reporting on their first day on the job . . . OK.' He held the receiver towards Milton. 'Jack wants a word, Jim.'

Milton reached over. 'Good to talk to you again ... No idea ... Yes ... Yes ... Yes... No idea ... Give my love to ...' He put down the receiver. 'I haven't talked to her for ages. I'd forgotten how abrupt she is.'

'What did she want?'

'Having learned that I'd no idea who'd done it, she told me to hurry up, sort everything out, give none of them any quarter and that she'd buy us all a wonderful dinner when it was all over.'

'Don't be too enthusiastic. She's just read a novel that's got her worked up about the gastronomic possibilities of tripe.'

'What's a novel got to do with tripe?' asked Milton.

'Tripe and the modern novel are closely related,' said Amiss, 'but one of the entries is actually called
Tripe!.
With an exclamation mark. If I remember correctly it's about an Algerian terrorist who plans appalling atrocities while working in a French
triperie.
Jack likes it because it includes dozens of recipes.'

'I hope she'll have moved to something called
Great Cuisine
with or without an exclamation mark by the time she buys this dinner,' said Milton. 'Where were we?'

Pooley leaned forward and gazed at Amiss intently. 'At the Rawlinson/Babcock house, which was very interesting. It was clear from Rawlinson's room that in all the rest of the house she had imposed her tastes on him. His room was full of leather and red plush and the smell of cigars and sporting memorabilia and guns and classical music and thrillers and adventure books piled higgledy-piggledy.
Who's Who
gives his recreations as music, shooting and reading about explorers.'

'And hers?'

'She didn't give any.'

'Too grand to share this information with
hoi polloi,
no doubt. What was their bedroom like?'

'Separate bedrooms actually: hers spartan; his untidy. Same with their bathrooms. The spare bedrooms, bathrooms and so on were furnished to her taste. And Alina had a room at the top chock-a-block with family photos, religious statues and pictures of Imelda Marcos.'

'Kitchen?'

'Functional, but nothing elaborate. Alina told us that Madam wasn't interested in cooking. Sounds as if they ate out a lot and when at home lived on a diet of grilled fish and chicken.'

'Did Alina say anything interesting?'

'She's been with them for ten years,' said Pooley, 'and while she said appropriately polite things about how terrible Madam's death was, she didn't give much impression of grief, did she, Jim?'

'Well she certainly didn't manage any tears, though she crossed herself a few times. But she didn't manage too many words either, for that matter. All we got out of her was that they were nice to her, there were not many visitors to stay, that Madam often had people to coffee or tea, that they sometimes had drinks parties and sometimes dinners with outside caterers. She had met the children once or twice but had nothing of interest to say about them. She could not recall Flora Massingham.'

'So who else did you see today?'

Milton yawned. 'No one. We went straight back to the Yard where Ellis set things up for the next few days and I worked on all the other cases I'm in charge of. I'm going to be hard put to spend more than a quarter of my time on this, so in practice Ellis will be running things most of the time.'

His phone rang. 'Yes, Sammy . .. Oh, God ... All right.

we'll be straight down.' He jumped up. 'Sorry, Robert, but there's a problem on another job and I'll have to look in at the Yard after all before I go home. Do you want to stay or come, Ellis?'

'I'll come with you, Jim. I want to do a bit of browsing.'

'The internet was made for Ellis, Robert. It's an adventure playground for the inquisitive.'

Pooley looked slightly hurt. 'It's very useful. I've already found out that those pictures and that Carl Andre must have cost a packet.'

'Well, there's a surprise. Don't get up, Robert, it'd be a shame to disturb Plutarch. How middle-aged she's becoming. Hasn't done anything uncivilised all evening.'

'You weren't here when she jumped onto my keyboard and succeeded in wiping half a chapter,' said Amiss grimly. 'I can tell you I nearly did something uncivilised.' He shoved the cat to one side and got up. She waved a faintly threatening paw in a half-hearted way, spread herself over the cushion and went back to sleep.

'Ellis told me you were writing a book. How's it working out?'

'Mostly hell. Just occasionally heaven. Always too slow.'

'What's it about?'

'You don't really want to know, Jim,' said Amiss, as he opened the front door. 'Too close to home. You go off and hunt a real murderer and I'll go back to my imaginary one. We can have a race to see who gets his man first.'

'Fifty quid we win,' said Milton, perking up.

'It's a deal.' They shook hands solemnly. 'Consider yourself the bookie, Ellis,' said Milton. "Night, Robert.'

Amiss closed the door, picked up his glass and took it over and set it beside the computer.

* * *

Pooley was on his way to interview Hermione's sister when Milton called. They've examined Babcock's corpse in minute detail and can find no sign of any puncturing of the skin, so it's virtually certain that she ingested the ricin. Now as we know from Rawlinson and Alina, she didn't go out on Monday, as she was reading a book and reviewing it for a Sunday paper, so there are no other Monday suspects. See me when you've finished with Flora Massingham and we'll talk about Tuesday.' He rang off just as Pooley's cab drew up outside an attractive cottage in West Hampstead.

'She was a bitch,' said Flora Massingham. 'A complete and utter bitch. Resented me from the moment I was born and was generally horrible to me all the time I was growing up.'

Pooley tried not to look taken aback. 'So this was more than typical sibling rivalry, Dame Flora?'

She looked at him and snorted. 'Sibling rivalry my ass. Inspector. Hermione took one look at me in the cradle and decided she hated me. Made a couple of attempts to kill me. And, yes, I know that's normal jealousy and she was only two and later she confined herself to pinching and hair-pulling, but even though she tried to hide it from our parents, she could never bear me. When she wasn't being snooty and refusing to play with me, she was telling me I was stupid.'