Original Sin (53 page)

In other senior officers this look of stern withdrawal could have been anger at Daniel’s incompetence. If Daniel had extracted from the child the truth about what had happened on that Thursday night Esmé Carling might be alive now. But could it really be called incompetence? Both Carling and the child had told the same story and it was a convincing one. Children were good witnesses and they very seldom lied. If she had been sent to interview Daisy, would she have done any better? Would she have done any better this morning if Dalgliesh hadn’t been there to intervene? She doubted whether Dalgliesh would say a word of blame, but that wouldn’t prevent Daniel from blaming himself. She was heartily glad that she wasn’t in his shoes.

They had driven over Hammersmith Bridge before he spoke.

“I think Daisy told us everything she knew, but the omissions are frustrating, aren’t they? That one missing word would have made all the difference. The snake was outside the door. Which door? She heard a voice. Male or female? Someone was carrying a vacuum cleaner. Man or woman? But at least we don’t have to rely on the implausibility of that suicide note to be sure now that this was murder.”

In the Wapping incident room Daniel was working alone. Kate, embarrassed for him, wanted to leave him with Dalgliesh but it was difficult without the ruse appearing too obvious. Dalgliesh briefly reported the result of their morning visits. Daniel stood up. The action, reminding Kate of a prisoner under sentence, seemed instinctive. His strong face was very pale.

“I’m sorry, sir. I should have broken that alibi. It was a bad mistake.”

“An unfortunate one, certainly.”

“I ought to say, sir, that Sergeant Robbins wasn’t convinced. He thought from the first that Daisy was lying and wanted to press her.”

Dalgliesh said: “That’s never easy with a child, is it? If it came to a battle of wills between Daisy and Sergeant Robbins I’m not sure I wouldn’t back Daisy.”

It was interesting, thought Kate, that Robbins hadn’t trusted the child. He seemed to be able to combine a belief in the essential nobility of man with a reluctance to believe anything any witness said. Perhaps, being religious, he was more ready than Daniel to believe in original sin. But it was generous of Daniel to say what he had. Generous, but perhaps, if she was being cynical, and, knowing AD, it had also been judicious.

He said, as if doggedly determined to make the worst of it: “But if I hadn’t been satisfied, Esmé Carling would be alive today.”

“Possibly. Don’t overindulge in guilt, Daniel. The person responsible for Esmé Carling’s death is the person who killed her. What about the post-mortem? Anything unexpected?”

“Death by vagal inhibition, sir. She died as soon as the strap tightened round her neck. She was dead when she was put in the water.”

“Well at least it was swift. What about the launch? Any news from Ferris?”

“Yes sir, good news.” Daniel’s face lightened. “He’s found some minute fibres of cloth caught on a small splinter of wood on the cabin floor. They’re pink, sir. She was wearing a pink and fawn tweed jacket. With luck the lab will be able to get a match.”

They glanced at each other. Kate knew that each was feeling the same contained exultation. A physical clue at last,
something that could be tagged, measured, scientifically examined, produced in court as evidence. They had already checked with Fred Bowling that Esmé Carling hadn’t been in the launch since the previous summer. If the fibres matched, then they had proof that she had been killed in the launch. And if she had, who had subsequently moved it to the other side of the steps? Who else but her killer?

Dalgliesh said: “If the fibres match we can prove that she was in the cabin of the launch yesterday night. The obvious inference is that she died there. It would be a sensible plan on the part of the murderer to choose. He could wait with the body concealed until the river was quiet and choose his moment to string her up unobserved. But even if the fibres connect her to the launch, that doesn’t mean they will connect her to the killer. We need to collect the coats and jackets of all the suspects who were on the scene and get them to the lab. Will you see to that Daniel?”

“Including Mandy Price and Bartrum?”

“All of them.”

Kate said: “All we need now is the minutest thread of pink fibre on one of the coats.”

Dalgliesh said: “Not all we need. There’s one depressing fact, Kate. Most of them will be able to claim that they knelt close to Esmé Carling’s body, even touched her. There is more than one way in which a fibre could have got on their clothes.”

Daniel added: “And what’s the betting that this murderer knew damn well what he was about? He’ll have taken off his coat before he got close to her, and made damn sure afterwards that he was clean.”

Mandy had meant to get to work early next morning but to her astonishment on waking found that she had overslept and that it was already 8.45. She would probably have slept on if Maureen and Mike hadn’t indulged in one of their arguments about the availability and the state of the bathroom, carried on as usual by Maureen shouting from the top of the stairs and Mike yelling back from the kitchen. A minute later there was a bang on her bedroom door followed immediately by Maureen bursting in. It was obvious that she was in one of her moods.

“Mandy, that bloody bike of yours takes up all the hall. Why can’t you leave it in the front garden like anyone else?”

This was a perennial complaint. Mandy awoke to instant indignation.

“Because some arsehole would steal it, that’s why. That bike’s staying in the hall.” She added sulkily: “I suppose it’s too much to hope that the bathroom’s free.”

“It’s free if you can put up with the state it’s in. Mike’s left the bath filthy as usual. If you want a bath you’ll have to clean it yourself. And he’s forgotten that this is his week to buy the
toilet paper. I don’t see why I should do all the thinking and all the work in this house.”

It was obviously going to be one of those days. Neither Maureen nor Mike had been in when she had arrived home the previous evening. She had gone to bed but had tried to stay awake, listening for the door, longing to pour out her story. But it hadn’t happened that way. She had fallen asleep despite herself. And now she heard them leave, two loud bangs of the door in quick succession. Maureen hadn’t even bothered to enquire why she hadn’t returned to the gig.

Things didn’t improve when she got to Innocent House. She had looked forward to being first with the news, but there was no chance of that now. The partners had all come in early. George, busy taking a call, threw her a look of desperate appeal as she came in, as if any help would be welcome. It was apparent that the news had spread further than Innocent House.

“Yes, I’m afraid it is true … Yes, it does look like suicide … No, I’m afraid I haven’t any details … We don’t yet know how she died … I’m sorry … Yes, the police have been here … I’m sorry … No, Miss Etienne isn’t available at the moment … No, Mr. de Witt isn’t free either. Perhaps one of them could ring you back … No, I’m sorry. I don’t know when they’ll be available.”

He replaced the receiver and said: “One of Mr. de Witt’s authors. I don’t know how he learned the news. Perhaps he rang publicity and Maggie or Amy told him. Miss Etienne has instructed me to say as little as possible but it isn’t easy. People aren’t satisfied with speaking to me. They want to talk to one of the partners.”

Mandy said: “I shouldn’t bother with them. Just say ‘Wrong number’ and hang up. If you keep on doing it they’ll soon get fed up.”

The hall was empty. The house felt strangely different, unnaturally quiet, a house in mourning. Mandy had expected that the police would be there but there was no sign of their presence. In the office Miss Blackett was sitting at her word processor, staring at the screen as if mesmerized. Mandy had never seen her look so ill. She was very pale and her face seemed suddenly to have become the face of an old woman.

Mandy said: “Are you all right? You look awful.”

Miss Blackett made an effort at dignified control. “Of course I’m not all right, Mandy. How can any of us be all right? This is the third death we’ve had in two months. It’s dreadful. I don’t know what’s happening to the firm. Nothing’s gone right with the Peverell Press since Mr. Peverell died. And I’m surprised you manage to look so cheerful. After all, you found her.”

She looked close to tears. And there was something else. Miss Blackett was afraid. Mandy could almost smell her terror. She said uneasily: “Yes, well, I’m sorry she’s dead. But it’s not as if I knew her, is it? And she was old. And she did do it herself. It was her choice. She must have wanted to die. I mean, it’s not like Mr. Gerard’s death.”

Miss Blackett, face flushed, cried out: “She wasn’t old! How can you say that? And what if she was? The old have as much right to life as you.”

“I never said they hadn’t.”

“That’s what you implied. You should think before you speak, Mandy. You said that she was old and her death didn’t matter.”

“I didn’t say that it didn’t matter.”

Mandy felt that she was becoming embroiled in a vortex of irrational emotion which she had no hope of understanding or controlling. And now she saw that Miss Blackett was almost crying. She was relieved when the door opened and Miss Etienne came in.

“Oh here you are, Mandy. We wondered if you were going to appear. Are you all right?”

“Yes thank you, Miss Etienne.”

“It seems that next week we shall be rather thin on the ground. I suppose you’ll want to leave too, once the initial excitement is over.”

“No, Miss Etienne, I’d like to stay.” She added with a flash of financial acumen: “If some of the staff are leaving and there’s more work I think I ought to have a rise.”

Miss Etienne gave her a look which Mandy interpreted as more cynically amused than disapproving. After a few seconds’ pause she said: “All right. I’ll speak to Mrs. Crealey. An extra ten pounds a week. But the rise won’t be a reward for staying. We don’t bribe staff to work at Peverell Press, nor do we submit to blackmail. You’ll get it because your work warrants it.” She turned to Miss Blackett. “The police will probably be here this afternoon. They may want to use Mr. Gerard’s—I mean, my—office again. If so, I’ll move upstairs with Miss Frances.”

After she had left Mandy said: “Why don’t you ask for a rise too? We’re going to have to take on an extra load unless they recruit some replacements and that may not be too easy. It’s like you said. Three deaths in two months. People may think twice about working here.”

Miss Blackett had begun typing, eyes fixed on her shorthand notebook. “No thank you, Mandy. I don’t take advantage of my employers in their hour of need. I have some principles.”

“Oh well, you can afford them I dare say. Seems to me that they’ve been taking advantage of you for the last twenty-odd years. Still, please yourself. I’ll just have a word with Mrs. Crealey then I’ll make the coffee.”

Mandy had tried to phone Mrs. Crealey’s office before leaving home but there had been no reply. Now there was, and she
gave the news succinctly, keeping to the bare facts and omitting any reference to her own emotions. With Miss Blackett listening with repressive disapproval, it was wise to be as brief and matter-of-fact as possible. The details could wait for their evening session together in the cosy.

She said: “I’ve asked for a rise. They’re giving me another ten pounds a week. Yeah, that’s what I thought. No, I said I’d stay on. I’ll come into the office straight from work and we can have a talk.”

She replaced the receiver. It was, she thought, a measure of Miss Blackett’s odd mood that she omitted to remind her that she was not supposed to use the office telephone for her private calls.

There were more people in the kitchen than was normal before ten o’clock. Those of the staff who preferred to brew their own morning coffee rather than pay their weekly sub for Mrs. Demery’s version of the drink seldom appeared before eleven. Pausing at the door Mandy could hear the low buzz of gossiping voices. It stopped when she opened the door and they looked up guiltily, then greeted her with relief and flattering attention. Mrs. Demery was there, of course, and so was Emma Wainwright, Miss Etienne’s anorexic former PA who was now working for Miss Peverell, together with Maggie FitzGerald and Amy Holden from publicity, Mr. Elton from contracts and rights, and Dave from the warehouse who had apparently come over from number 10 with the unconvincing excuse that the warehouse was out of milk. There was a strong smell of coffee and someone had been making toast. The kitchen was cosily conspiratorial but, even here, Mandy could sense fear.

Amy said: “We thought you might not come in. Poor Mandy! It must have been absolutely ghastly. I should have died. If there’s a body on the premises trust you to find it. Go on,
tell. Was she drowned, or hanged or what? None of the partners will tell us anything.”

Mandy could have pointed out that it hadn’t been she who had found Gerard Etienne’s body. Instead she gave her account of the previous night but, even as she spoke, was aware that she was disappointing them. She had looked forward to this moment but now that she was the centre of their curiosity, she felt a curious reluctance to pander to it, almost as if there was something indecent in making Mrs. Carling’s death the subject of gossip. The picture of that dead sodden face, the make-up washed away so that it looked stripped and defenceless in its ugliness, floated between her and their avid eyes. She couldn’t understand what was happening to her, why her emotions should be so confused, so disturbing in their perplexity. What she had said to Miss Blackett had been the truth; she hadn’t even known Mrs. Carling. She couldn’t be feeling grief. She had no reason to feel guilty. What then was she feeling?

Mrs. Demery was unaccountably silent. She was quietly setting out cups and saucers on her trolley, but her sharp little eyes darted from face to face as if each held a secret which a moment’s inattention might miss.

Maggie said: “Did you read the suicide note, Mandy?”

“No, but Mr. de Witt did. It was all about how badly the partners had behaved to her, how she was going to get her own back. ‘Make their names stink,’ I think that’s what she wrote. I can’t really remember.”