by Vicki Delany
Once they’d passed, I dashed across the street. The First Bank of New York occupies a stately old building, a West London original. Painted a fresh, gleaming white, with four Greek-style pillars and a wide staircase, it looks every inch a place of business. The bank sits between Beach Fine Arts and Fun and Frolic, a woman’s casual clothing shop. I stood at the store window studying the display. A sleeveless, calf-length summer dress in various shades of blue would suit me, I thought. Or maybe the red-and-white-striped T-shirt and capris with red stitching on the pockets.
I had examined every inch of the clothes, studied the jewelry, and was onto an analysis of the cleaning streaks on the windows when Louise Estrada emerged from the bank. A portly man wearing a midrange suit about ten years out of fashion opened the door for her. She paused on the top of the steps to send a quick text and put her sunglasses on, giving me time to head her way. I timed it so I arrived at the bottom of the steps at exactly the moment she stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Good afternoon, Detective,” I said.
“What are you doing here?” she said in her usual friendly manner.
“I work here.” I pointed. “Across the street. I thought Fun and Frolic might have some things on sale so came to have a look. They have nice clothes, don’t they? Do you ever shop there?”
“No.”
She was wearing her habitual black jeans, black shirt, and black leather jacket. She studied me through opaque sunglasses.
“Do you bank here?” I asked. “Are they any good? I’ve had a few problems with my business accounts, and I’m thinking of changing banks.”
“This wasn’t a personal call. I’m working.”
“Is that so? Any developments on the Van Markoff case?”
She glanced to one side. “Nothing you need to know, Gemma.”
“It occurred to me,” I said, “that Ruth Smith’s bank accounts might need looking into. I’m a bookseller, remember, and I know the kind of numbers her books sell. In the hundreds of thousands of copies. That means they earned a lot of money. It would be worth knowing what financial arrangements she had with her daughter and who stands to inherit.”
As I spoke, Estrada’s eyes twitched. She rested her left hand on her hip, over her jacket pocket. She was right handed. If she’d gone for her right side, I might have suspected she was considering pulling out her handcuffs and arresting me. I smiled at her.
“As pleasant as this chat is, Gemma, I have to go.”
A car pulled up to the curb beside us, Ryan Ashburton driving. Estrada jumped into the passenger seat. Ryan gave me a long look before he pulled away.
I waved after them.
As I waited for another convoy of motorbikes to pass, my phone rang: Donald.
“Good afternoon, Donald.”
He didn’t bother exchanging greetings. “Estrada has been here,” he said. “To my home! Again!”
“As you are phoning me, I assume you weren’t rearrested. What did she want?”
“I’ve been betrayed.”
“What does that even mean? Calm down and just tell me what she had to say.”
Deep, calming breaths came over the phone line. “Okay, I’m calm,” he squeaked. “One of my colleagues in the Baker Street Irregulars—Estrada wouldn’t give me a name—contacted the WLPD to say that I had made a threat against Renalta Van Markoff.”
“What sort of threat? And did you make it?”
“I . . . uh . . . might have. On Friday evening, I participated in a conference call with various members of the Irregulars. The conversation was about A Scandal in Bohemia. Specifically, if Conan Doyle, through Holmes, was making a comment about the corrupting power of—”
“Never mind the plot of the story, Donald. What did you say about Renalta?”
“That I had . . . uh . . . skimmed through her latest tome and found it a disgrace to the memory of Sir Arthur and that . . . uh . . . someone might have to . . . uh . . .”
“Someone might have to what, Donald?”
“Assume the role of Professor Moriarty.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Donald. I find that almost impossible to believe!”
“I’m glad you agree with me, Gemma. That one of my colleagues would repeat a private conversation to the police is . . .”
I meant, of course, that he’d care so much about Renalta and her books. But he did, so there was no point now in berating him about it. “Keep me posted if there are any new developments.”
“Good-bye,” he said.
I hung up and studied my phone. A vague threat such as that one on its own wouldn’t have much value as evidence. But combined with the case the police were building against Donald, this didn’t sound good.
Before going into the shop, I made a quick call.
“Come to my house at ten tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I need you to.”
“Are you going to give me a hint?”
“No. Wear black.”
Jayne groaned. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“And come alone,” I said.
* * *
Back in the shop, I found Nancy Brownmiller waiting for me. She was dressed, I was pleased to see, like a normal person today, not a cheap imitation of her favorite author.
She dropped the book she was flipping through onto the table. “You never came to my hotel, Gemma, so I thought I’d pop in and pick it up myself. I’d like to stay in town longer to be close to the police investigation into the murder, but the prices at that hotel are going up, and I just can’t afford it anymore. I’ll take it with me.”
“Take what with you?”
“You can give it to me now.”
Confused, I looked at Ashleigh. She shrugged. “Give what to you?” I said.
“The coloring book, of course. You were going to bring it around to my hotel on Monday evening. The police called me while I was waiting. I was so excited about being interviewed about Renalta’s death that I forgot all about meeting you. I wrote it up on the Facebook page. I see you joined our group. That’s great. You can let us know as soon as you have word about Renalta’s next book. Everyone says there’s another one out there.”
“Oh, right. The coloring book.”
“Five hundred dollars seems a bit steep, don’t you think? I can pay you one hundred.”
“I’m sorry, Nancy, but . . .”
“Okay, a hundred and fifty. That’s all I can afford.”
“I don’t have it.”
“Two hundred then.”
I sighed. “You aren’t listening to me, Nancy. I don’t have it anymore. Sorry. My . . . uh . . . my assistant didn’t realize it had been signed by Renalta and gave it away as damaged goods.”
“What!” Nancy whirled around. Ashleigh’s eyes opened wide.
“Not her,” I added quickly. “My other assistant. The not-any-good one. I’ve been thinking of firing her . . . uh . . . him.”
“What’s the name of the buyer? I can get it back.”
“He didn’t get it. They paid cash.”
Nancy’s face crumpled. “I so much wanted to own it.”
“Sorry,” I said again, but I didn’t mean it. I was doing poor Nancy a favor. If she couldn’t afford another night at the West London Hotel, she shouldn’t be offering two hundred dollars for a scribbled-on coloring book. Even if such a thing existed. I wondered how high she’d have gone with the bidding if I’d encouraged her.
“If you find it or anything else Renalta might have touched, you’ll let me know, right?”
“Sure,” I said. I didn’t bother to ask for her contact details.
* * *
Jayne arrived at my house promptly at ten. She knocked on the mudroom door, and I let her in. As instructed, she was dressed all in black. Short black skirt, black leggings, black T-shirt. The black stilettos, however, were not exactly what I had in mind.
I had on trainers, dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black cardigan far too heavy for the we
ather but full of pockets.
I went into the kitchen and began filling those pockets.
“I don’t like the look of this,” Jayne said. “What are those?”
“Lockpicks.” Into my pockets they went, along with a miner’s light and a tiny digital camera. My larger camera was still with the police, but I needed the small one tonight anyway.
“I don’t want to know why you own a set of lockpicks.”
“They belong to Uncle Arthur.”
“That I want to know even less. Why the camera?”
“In case of the need to take pictures of the documents I’m after. I don’t want traces of them to be found if my phone is confiscated and searched.”
Jayne sat down. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on here.”
“I need to know who gets the checks for the Van Markoff books, Ruth or Linda.”
“Why?”
“It can be motive for the murder, but only if Ruth had the money. If it went directly to Linda, then there would be no point in killing Ruth.”
“Suppose the killer didn’t know Linda’s the author of the books and thus assumed Ruth is the one who gets paid for them?”
“Then we have an entirely different set of circumstances. I don’t know how all this ties together, Jayne. But I’m missing a vital piece of information, and I can’t act without it.”
“Gemma, I will not help you break into a bank.”
“You’ll be relieved to know we’re not going anywhere near a bank.”
“Thank heavens.”
“The information we need is in the police station.”
“What?” Jayne’s screech so startled Violet, the dog lifted her head and howled.
“Estrada visited First Bank this afternoon. I spoke to her when she left, and she admitted she was there on police business. Clearly they were discussing Van Markoff’s financial affairs. Mr. Jefferson, the bank manager, walked her to the door.”
“The police deal with more than one case at a time, Gemma. It might have been something entirely different.”
“It might, except for the tell when I asked her about Van Markoff. She has this way of shifting her eyes to one side when I’m getting close. I’ve been in the police station before, and I know the layout of the detectives’ office. I’m acting on the assumption that Estrada put the statements in her desk drawer. If it’s locked, I should be able to pick it.”
“She might have put it into the evidence locker.”
“I’d be reluctant to break into that, I have to admit. I wouldn’t want to compromise any other ongoing investigations. No, I’m pretty sure she’ll have put it in her drawer. It isn’t original evidence so doesn’t have to be protected.”
“Gemma, at long last you’ve gone completely nuts. So she went into the bank and spoke to the bank manager. He would have shown her a page on his computer and e-mailed her a copy.”
“As we talked, she instinctively touched her jacket pocket as if checking that the information I’m interested in was still there, safe and secure. Another distinctive tell.”
“Have you forgotten that police officers have been known to hang around the police station, even at night? We’ll be caught.”
“Don’t you remember what’s happening tonight?”
“What’s happening tonight?”
“That classic rock concert at the park. They’re expecting thousands of people to attend. This isn’t the symphony or a visit by the Metropolitan Opera. Some classic rock fans can be, shall we say, boisterous. I saw a pack of motorbikes heading into town this afternoon. The concert ends at eleven, I checked, and I’m confident West London’s finest will be out in full force to ensure the audience disperses calmly and peacefully.”
“Gemma, I am not breaking into the police station.”
“You don’t have to. I need you to stand watch while I do.”
Jayne threw up her hands.
It wasn’t as farfetched a plan as Jayne seemed to think. I’d spent some time in the police station and knew the layout. The detectives’ office is at the back of the building, on the ground floor. The rear of the police station backs up against a tiny park and is not visible from the street. A window, conveniently located next to a nicely trimmed hedge, opens onto the corridor next to the office. The window is small, only wide enough to admit a nine-and-a-half-stone woman with good dexterity. Admittedly, I’d last noticed the window a couple of years ago, and it might have been alarmed since. But the cops rarely considered that someone might want to break into the police station. I’d checked the weather report earlier, and it was expected to be cloudy all night. That plus police attention on the concert should ensure I could get in and, more importantly, out undetected.
If I was found creeping about the police station in the dead of night with a flashlight, a camera, and a set of lockpicks, I’d have some fast explaining to do.
“You’re certifiable,” Jayne said.
“Are you coming with me?”
“Someone has to watch your back. Might as well be me.”
“Put your phone on vibrate and let’s go.” I gave her a smile of encouragement, and we headed out. Violet wanted to come, but I didn’t think her watchdog skills were up to tonight’s task. “Guard the house,” I told her.
I’d asked Jayne to drive to my house tonight. In case I needed to make a quick getaway, we’d take her car. The Miata is far too conspicuous.
I got into the passenger seat. Jayne turned the engine on, switched on the headlights, and threw the car into gear. She glanced over her shoulder to check behind her and shouted, “Whoa!” The brakes slammed with such force I almost hit the windscreen.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“A car’s parked behind us.”
At that moment, headlights from another vehicle lit up the interior of our car. I threw open the door and jumped out. I couldn’t see anything. I lifted my hand to my eyes in an attempt to block the strong lights.
A large black shape got out of the car blocking us. “Bit late to be heading out for a night on the town, isn’t it?” Ryan Ashburton said.
* * *
I plunked the teapot in the center of the table. I didn’t need tea, but preparing it gave me something to do with my hands. As well as time to organize my thoughts.
Ryan had moved his car out of my driveway, and Jayne fled into the night without giving us so much as a good-bye.
We’d watched the red glow of Jayne’s rear lights disappear down the hill, and once they’d gone, Ryan walked to the back door of my house. He stood there, not saying a word, while I unlocked it. He was greeted by Violet, overjoyed to have a late-night visitor. After giving the dog a few moments of attention, Ryan sat at the kitchen table while I fussed with the tea things.
“Empty your pockets,” he said.
“No.”
“Gemma, I’m not playing games here. Empty your pockets.”
I placed my mobile phone on the table, followed by the tiny camera, the flashlight, and lastly the lockpicks. He put the picks into his own pocket. “I won’t ask where you got these.”
“Tea?” I asked.
“Gemma, I can’t imagine what you thought you were going to accomplish. I can only assume you had some half-baked idea of searching Louise’s desk.”
“My ideas are never half-baked. I won’t say you’re right, but what makes you come to that conclusion?”
“Louise went to the bank this afternoon with a warrant for Ruth Smith’s and Linda Marke’s accounts. Coming out, she just happened to run into you. She told me you were asking questions about what she’d learned. Most of the account information was sent to us electronically, but she was given a summary on paper. I assumed you knew that and wanted to see the paper. I couldn’t imagine that even you would consider breaking into the police station, but I thought it might be wise to keep an eye on you. I was parked around the corner when Jayne drove up, dressed like an adult-movie interpretation of a second-story woman. You’re no
t a whole lot better, I might add. Aren’t you hot in that sweater?”
I sat down and poured the tea. After taking off my cardigan. “Linda Marke is Ruth Smith’s daughter.”
“I know that. You told me yourself, and she confirmed it.”
“She is the author of the books. Ruth didn’t write a word, she just played the part in public.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Okay, I’ll grant you one point. That’s news to me.”
“I consider it relevant to our investigation . . .”
“Our investigation?”
“As to who was aware of the situation, the state of the women’s finances might tell us who knew and who did not.”
He studied my face for a very long time. Violet rested her chin on his leg, and he idly scratched the top of her head. Then he let out a long breath. “Okay, Gemma. You’d be a valuable asset to the police, but neither my chief nor my partner agrees with me. It doesn’t endear you to Louise that you openly mock her.”
“Then she shouldn’t be mockable.”
“My point exactly. Try to be nice, please.”
I gave him my sweetest smile.
“Louise is a good, competent detective. She’s new, and she rushes into things sometimes. She takes stuff on face value more than I would like. She jumps to conclusions and then has trouble backing down. All that will change with time and experience. It doesn’t help when you goad her. The case against Donald is so flimsy, he should never have been arrested.”
“Proven by how quickly he got bail.”
“Exactly. I wasn’t going to contradict Louise’s decision to arrest him in front of you and Donald. That’s not to say he’s in the clear. Even in my mind. We found no trace of any chemicals or any sort of lab in his house. Which doesn’t mean he didn’t get, or make, the cyanide elsewhere. He has it all, Gemma. Means, motive, and opportunity.”
“In that case, why do you think there isn’t much of a case to be made against him?”
Ryan held out his hand and pressed the index finger down. “Means. He has the knowledge to make the poison, but we have no evidence of him having done so.” Next finger. “Motive. I admit I’m no Sherlockian, and I’ve thought Donald and his cronies take it too far sometimes, but even so, I can’t see an argument over the plotline of a book being a motive for murder for anyone in their right mind. And Donald is, except for the Sherlock stuff, in his right mind.” Ring finger. “Opportunity. Plenty of people were near that bottle. Including you.”