Quick on the Draw

by Susan Moody

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘He was worried that someone might have walked off by mistake with something belonging to his uncle and asked me to look into it.’

  ‘Why couldn’t he ask me direct?’

  Good question, Bianca. ‘I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘Well, for your – and his – information, I know nothing about anything being removed, whether by mistake or not.’

  ‘You didn’t see anyone who might have picked something up to admire it, and then slipped it into a pocket? It’s easily done.’

  She drew in an indignant breath. ‘You – or Sandro – sound perilously close to accusing me of theft. Or if not me, then one of his other guests.’

  ‘I’m certain that wasn’t his intention. It’s just that a couple of small items did go missing on that occasion, and he didn’t want his uncle offended. It might easily have been one of the catering staff, or the cleaners. Who knows.’

  She adopted a supercilious expression. ‘That’s who I’d look at first, if it was me.’

  I’ll bet you would, I thought. I could easily see just how she’d treat any domestic staff if the opportunity occurred. Accusing hotel chambermaids of stealing her jewellery. Sacking underlings if something important went missing then not bothering to apologize when she later found whatever the item was in one of her drawers or bags.

  ‘Sandro said they were all trusted people who’d catered for his uncle and aunt many times in the past.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ She turned to go. ‘Good luck, anyway.’

  My ex-police officer’s antennae had detected no hint from Bianca that she was having me on. But Katy? Leaving Bianca’s building, I decided I wasn’t so sure about her, despite the fact that like her friend she’d sounded perfectly genuine in her denial of any involvement in the theft. There was that tear in her eye at Sandro’s gathering. There was her obvious terror, and her cool reaction to me over lunch. I reminded myself that as Sandro’s cousin, she might quite legitimately have gone back to the Marchese’s apartment and seen someone nicking the missing objects, or even nicked them herself. I further reflected that neither lightning rods nor antennae are perfect instruments, and it’s entirely possible that they’re sometimes faulty.

  I walked away. And that’s when I realized that for once the gods were smiling on me, making my life easier. For, parked in a loading bay in one of the streets leading down to the river, was a white van. Its back doors were open, and guess what: on the side of the van was a picture of a rustic basket full of vegetables, set on a red-checked tablecloth, alongside a bowl full of wholesome brown eggs, with a view of fields in the distance. Eating Naturally. The Jago boys. Right where I wanted them. I moved faster.

  One of them emerged from a door further down the street and came walking back towards me, swinging an empty box in one hand, not registering my presence. He shoved the box into the back of the van and then stood leaning against the side of the rear door, pulling out a waterproof bag of tobacco and a packet of Rizlas. He rolled himself a fag, and put his paraphernalia away.

  ‘Tut, tut,’ I said, as I came abreast of him. ‘I thought you were into healthy living.’

  ‘And so I am. This tobacco is more vegetable than tobacco. You could practically fry it with butter and have it for supper.’ He smiled at me. ‘And how are you, Alex?’

  ‘This is quite a coincidence, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Seeing you here and all.’

  ‘I guess it is. Or is this your usual stamping ground?’

  ‘I don’t even live in London. But I wanted to speak to Bianca—’

  ‘She works somewhere round here, doesn’t she?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What did you want to see her about, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  ‘It’s to do with that dinner party Sandro had in Venice, in his uncle’s appartamento.’

  ‘Great fun,’ he said. ‘A great evening.’ Did I imagine it or had his eyes suddenly become wary?

  ‘It sounds it.’

  ‘And what did you want to know about it?’ He dragged on his roll-up. Trying for nonchalant and not quite making it.

  ‘Well, Sandro was very embarrassed to discover that some small valuables had gone missing after the party, and asked if I could look into it for him.’

  ‘And he thinks one of us might have taken them?’ His voice was a mixture of incredulity and contempt. ‘One of his friends?’

  ‘He didn’t go that far. But me being an ex-copper and all, he thought it might be a good idea if I put on my detective’s hat and had a word with all of you. Find out if any of you noticed anything amiss, that sort of thing.’

  He snorted derisively. ‘Like seeing one of us pocketing a diamond ring or some other precious bauble when they thought the others weren’t looking?’

  ‘Exactly like that, yes.’

  ‘In other words, if we had, you – or Sandro – want us to sneak on them? That’s quite an ask, isn’t it?’ He was beginning to lose his temper. His freckles seemed to pulse indignantly.

  ‘Not really.’ I hardened my voice. ‘After all, theft is theft.’ Sneak … I loved it. So prep-school, little boys in cherry-red blazers or bigger boys in tweed jackets with leather patches on the elbows.

  I wasn’t sure whether it was Harry or Jack, but whichever, he ostentatiously raised scornful eyebrows. ‘Can’t think where my brother’s got to,’ he said. ‘But I mustn’t keep you.’

  ‘You aren’t,’ I assured him. ‘Not in the least.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got some paperwork to do in the van,’ he said. He tossed the end of his roll-up into the gutter, pulled open the van door and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’ His eyes weren’t friendly. ‘Really good to see you again.’

  Sure it was. ‘And you.’

  He did a little finger-wave at me from the front seat and bent his head over a file of papers in such an ostentatious way that I had no choice but to leave. And to wonder what to make of the conversation. It seemed reasonable to suspect that he knew something about the objects stolen from Venice. Whether he or his brother was guilty of taking them was something else. I was inclined to think that though they might be aware of the theft, they weren’t actually responsible … I presumed he spoke for his brother. Or at the very least, would back up or be backed up by him. So here I was. Four or five down and four to go. Suzy. Her brother Tony. Sulky Laura, the model. And Fabio, even though he apparently spent most of his time in Milan. Not that that made much difference. Sandro had made it clear that he and his friends divided their time between Italy and England. If Fabio was the thief, he could just as easily dispose of any stolen booty in London as in Milan.

  So who next?

  SEVEN

  It was three days later that I returned from running some of the boring errands that plague our lives when we have to travel to find six messages on the answering machine. All were from Sandro, each one increasing in urgency and desperation. I pressed in the buttons for his mobile. He picked up after the first beep.

  ‘Alessandra!’ He was breathing heavily, as though he was climbing a mountain.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Katy.’ He groaned. ‘Oh, this is terrible.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I spoke harshly. In a crisis, people often react better to an abrasive voice than to a sympathetic one.

  It certainly seemed to work with Sandro. He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘Her boyfriend telephoned me this morning. James Renfrew. They don’t live together, but they spend most evenings at one or the other’s place. And apparently last night Katy went back to her own place alone, since James had to stay late at work. He phoned her, just to say good night … you know how it is, and when she didn’t answer he assumed that she’d already fallen asleep, so he didn’t keep on trying. And today he went round, and she didn’t answer the door. He managed to get someone to open up, someone from the management team, a–and th–they found her.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I sai
d. It sounded terminally serious. ‘What? Tell me.’

  Sandro began sobbing. Harsh sounds came at me down the line. ‘She was … she was … in the bath. Dead. Oh, Alex, I can’t believe it. I just can’t take it in. Not Katy. She was so nice. So sweet. So—’

  ‘When you say she was in the bath …’

  ‘She had been … she was drowned.’

  ‘Oh, God. I’m really sorry. She was a nice kid. Do they know when this happened?’

  ‘Sometime last night, the police are saying.’

  It was hard to take in. I’d only seen and talked to her the previous lunchtime. ‘Do they think it was an accident, that she had a heart attack or something?’

  ‘No. That’s what’s so horrible. They’re saying someone came into her bathroom and pushed her under. There’s water splashed all over the floor and distinct marks on her face where she was held down until she …’ He gulped and coughed. ‘Until she died. And she’d obviously … obviously struggled. Oh, my poor cousin. Oh, God. E terribile … It’s terrible.’

  ‘Sandro, I know how upset you must be feeling, but try to think. Could this have any connection to the thefts from your uncle’s place in Venice?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know. Why should it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t it almost have to?’

  ‘It–it does seem like it. And it’s my fault.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? Whoever is responsible for taking the doge’s ring must have been afraid that Katy could identify him or her. If I’d never had that party, she might still be alive.’

  ‘Huh?’ If the two events were connected … the girl’s death and the thefts … he might be right, though I couldn’t as yet follow the trail. Not until I’d done some research. Meanwhile, poor Sandro would probably live with the unfounded guilt for the rest of his life.

  On the other end of the phone, he sobbed bitterly.

  ‘Were Katy and James a together couple?’ I asked. ‘Got on well?’

  ‘Absolutely. They’ve been a couple for ages. I’ve never seen either of them be anything but happy to be in each other’s company.’ He sniffed. ‘They were planning to get married in October.’

  ‘Oh, dear. That must make it that much worse.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Look, keep in touch. And I’m so sorry you’ve lost your cousin, Sandro. I know the two of you were close.’

  Snuffles. Gulps. His first brush with the seamy side, I guessed. ‘Thank you,’ he said in a tiny voice. ‘By the way, I’m going back to Venice this evening with my uncle. So I shan’t be around.’

  ‘We can still keep in touch.’

  Call ended, I couldn’t help wondering. Had someone been waiting for poor Katy when she returned to her flat? Had she invited someone back? Someone who’d been at Sandro’s party? She hadn’t seemed the type, especially given Sandro’s assessment of the relationship between her and James Renfrew. In any case, she would never have undressed or got into the bath unless the person in the flat was someone she knew pretty well. Unless the assailant was already there, waiting for her to return home. But if the boyfriend was responsible, would he have been the one to call in the police? I gave an inward shrug. After all, why not? There’d be no better way to try to divert suspicion from himself. I tried to remember him from Sandro’s party, but I couldn’t put a face to the name.

  With so little information to go on, I tried to push it out of my head. Instead, I got out my reference books to start the preliminary work on Venice and Venetian paintings, but found my mind kept returning to the thought of pretty Katy in her floaty summer dress. Dead. Drowned in her own bath. Why? Did she have information which someone didn’t want revealed? Did she know who’d stolen the doge’s ring? Or the small school-of-Botticelli? Had she stolen them herself?

  I thought back to my conversation with the pawnbroker. I’d returned to the place after five thirty, as I’d been instructed, and been ushered in by a tiny person who suffered from such acute osteoporosis that their body was almost the shape of an inverted U. I still couldn’t have said either way whether it was male or female but I opted for female, given the rather beautiful gold and amethyst chain she was wearing. She shut the shop door behind me and swung a sign around which informed the pawning public that the place was closed.

  ‘Now,’ she said, ‘why do the police want to know about the ring which was pawned a week or so ago?’

  I recognized someone hungry for drama. I looked from side to side and bent towards her. ‘It could be a matter of life or death,’ I said. ‘That ring was stolen property and the man who owned it is a pretty fierce Italian nobleman who doesn’t like having his stuff nicked.’

  ‘The ring is no longer in my possession,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because a relative of the guy who owns it luckily happened to see it in your window. He was able to buy it back, and return it before its rightful owner found out. But we need to find out who took it in the first place so they can’t do it again. Or,’ I said significantly, ‘murder might be committed.’

  ‘Heavens above!’

  ‘So can you help me?’

  ‘Like I said earlier, no, I can’t.’

  ‘So why the fu— Why did you tell me to come back?’

  ‘I wanted to know what was going on.’

  ‘And you still can’t give me a clue as to who brought it in? Male? Female? Young? Old? Anything?’

  She shook her head. The amethyst sparkled in its gold setting. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You can’t give me even a hint?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said again.

  I stood up. Feigned anger. Asked again why the hell she’d told me to come back later. ‘Sorry,’ she said once more.

  ‘You’ve seriously wasted my time,’ I said, implying a number of postponed meetings. ‘And don’t tell me you’re sorry, because it’s obvious you’re not.’

  ‘Not English,’ she said. She held open the door for me. ‘That’s all I’m saying.’

  I wagged a finger at her as I stepped out on to the pavement. ‘If someone dies, you’ll be responsible.’

  All the way home I had pondered her last words. Not English … so Italian? It almost went without saying. But since all the people I knew to be involved undoubtedly spoke perfect Italian, certainly fluently enough to convince the pawnshop woman, that wasn’t much help.

  Now, I reached for my phone and called my friend and former colleague, DCI Felicity Fairlight. I ran over the details of what Sandro had originally told me about his dinner party in Venice, about his discovery in London first of the ring, and then of the little pseudo-Botticelli sketch, and asked what she knew about Katy’s death.

  ‘I can make a call,’ she said. ‘London’s not my bailiwick.’

  ‘But it is Joy’s.’ Joy was Fliss’s partner, a long-serving officer with the Met.

  ‘What do you want her to do?’

  ‘She’s obviously not running the case. So nothing much. Except find Katy’s killer. And whoever it was who had pawned the two items belonging to Cesare, because logically, that person must be the thief. And therefore possibly linked to Katy’s murder, since she was the only one of his friends that Sandro told about the thefts.’

  ‘I think I got that,’ Fliss said. ‘So not a big ask.’

  ‘I’m banging on about it because this inside sort of information is sometimes hard for the investigating officers to obtain, so they might find it helpful when they’re questioning the victim’s known associates.’

  ‘Thanks, Quick, I’m sure Joy will be happy to pass it on.’

  Moving on to more general things, I told her I’d be in Venice for a few days for work purposes, just as soon as I could get my act together. Which was taking rather longer than I wanted it to. ‘At least I’ve got two good contacts right there in Venice, panting to have me round to theirs,’ I added.

  ‘Oooh. What for?’

  ‘Not what your nasty little mind is thinking. It’s art for art’s
sake, nothing more.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before. When’s the lovely Sam coming back?’

  ‘I can’t see the connection, but in the next couple of weeks. Or so I believe.’ I strove to keep my tone neutral.

  ‘A distinct sound of pique in there, Quick. Hasn’t he been keeping in regular touch, the bad boy? Joy and I had such a nice card from him last week. Seemed to be having a whale of a time. Dating all these gorgeous Antipodean blondes. I’m so glad he’s enjoying himself so much. I expect he’ll be quite sorry to get home.’

  ‘Scumbag. Stirrer,’ I said, hoping she couldn’t tell how put out I felt.

  What I was thinking, when I eventually ended the call, was that next time either Felicity Fairlight or Samuel Willoughby came round to my place for a drink – if ever – I would be going pretty heavy on the arsenic. Sam had been away now for seven weeks and three days and hadn’t contacted me in all that time. Not once. Pique was the right word. Still, when I thought about it, why should he? I’ve never given him the slightest encouragement. But I was also damn sure neither Fliss nor Joy had, either, yet he’d sent them postcards. And emailed Edward Vine, as I’d discovered last time I’d dropped in to pick up a bottle or two of Shiraz.

  The hell with him.

  The phone danced on my desk. It was Fliss again. ‘I just had a word with Joy. She says they seem fairly confident it was the boyfriend,’ she said. ‘And for your information, some female DCI by the name of Carole Leavis is on the case. Ring any bells?’

  ‘Ever so slightly.’ Had my love-rat husband had an affair with her? She’d be one of the few if he hadn’t. ‘Can’t remember how or why.’

  ‘She sounds pretty much on the ball. So let’s await developments.’

  I ended the call. The phone immediately rang again. The Major, a hint of distress in his voice, asked me to come and see him when I had a moment.

  ‘Good news?’ I asked.

  ‘Depends what you consider good,’ he said gloomily. ‘They say those drawings – the old boy and that clown – are probably worth a lot of money. Said they’d be glad to handle the sale of them, if I was so minded. There’d be a lot of publicity, once they had the definitive authentication. Doesn’t bear thinking about. I ask you, what am I going to do with all that cash? And I feel a bit of a fraud, d’you see? I mean, they’re not really mine, when it comes right down to it. They rightfully belonged to Nell.’ Behind him I heard Marlowe start to bark.