'I thought everyone knew.'
'I don't think any of us did. Cats} Amazing. She must have been a top-class dancer and she never mentioned it. Isn't that strange? Come to think of it, she said very little about herself at meetings. She'd talk about the famous Snows she was writing about, and that was it. I just took it she was so careful what she said because of her accountancy work-client confidentiality. She did the books for some people in business.'
'She was quiet by nature, wasn't she?'
'But in a different way from Jessie, who was a bit of a snob, if that isn't speaking unkindly of the dead. Amelia -Miss Snow - was guarded about what she said, but I don't think she had delusions of grandeur. Anyway, you were telling me how Lord Chalybeate's name came up.'
Bob nodded. 'The police asked me to try and remember anything at all about the inside of Miss Snow's house in Tower Street. All they'd seen of it was after the fire. One rather surprising thing I noticed at the time was a magazine called The Bodybuilder.'
'Get away!'
'Straight up. Some clone of Arnie Schwarzenegger flexing his pecs on the cover. Not the sort of reading you expect a single lady to have on her table, but there you are - it's all about what turns you on. As soon as I mentioned this, Inspector Mallin said there could be a link with Lord Chalybeate, and it was obvious that was a name that had come up before.'
'Not in the circle, it hasn't,' Thomasine said. 'I'm intrigued.'
'He doesn't live round here, does he?'
'We can look him up.'
'In the library tomorrow?'
'Can't wait for that. Let's check him out on the internet. Tonight.' She smiled. 'Okay, it sounds like I'm trying to get you round to my place again. It wasn't meant that way'
'But I'll come,' Bob said.
* * *
Hen, also, was talking about Lord Chalybeate. 'Well, the motive isn't hard to find. He's got an interest in seeing off Blacker and Miss Snow.'
'To save his reputation, you mean?' Stella said.
'He's been polishing up his image for years, putting all the murky stuff behind him. He was plain Mark Kiddlewick at one time. Changed his name by deed poll to Marcus Chalybeate, and now he's a life peer in line for a government job.'
'Definitely wouldn't want it known that he published porn.'
'He was giving money to Blacker just to keep him quiet. That much we know for sure. Then I believe Miss Snow recognised Blacker and it began to look as if the whole sleazy story would come out.'
'If it's true,' Stella said.
'What?'
'About Miss Snow posing for pictures.'
'Fair enough. It's just a theory at this stage. And there are two big problems with it.'
'What are they?'
'Chalybeate claims to have an alibi,' Hen said. 'He was in America at the time of the murders.'
'Can he prove it?'
'Simple to check.'
'Want me to do it?'
'No, Stell. I've got another job for you.'
'You said there are two problems, guv. What's the other one?'
The edges of Hen's mouth twitched into a smile. 'As you know, I listen to my Agatha Christie tapes when I get the chance. There are rules to a good whodunnit. Dame Agatha would never introduce the killer this late in the story. So I'm hoping it doesn't turn out to be Chalybeate. I want it to be one of the other buggers we've been tracking all the time.'
'Is that what this is to you - a whodunnit?'
'I do enjoy a good mystery, Stell. And a whopping surprise at the end.'
'But we shouldn't be surprised. We've got to work it out.'
Hen gave her smoker's laugh. 'You're so right.'
'You mentioned a job you want me to do.'
'It could take some time.'
'What is it?'
'You've got a good idea what Miss Snow looked like, haven't you?'
'I've watched the video.'
'An earlier picture would help. I'll see if we can get some stills from the original production of Cats.'
'Aren't you going to tell me?'
Hen said with deliberate obtuseness, 'Let's go there first.'
'Eleven thousand results,' Thomasine was saying in the room she used as a study. 'This could be a long night.'
Bob watched over her shoulder in awe. Young Sue had her computer, but he'd never taken much interest in the thing. Sue had used it mainly for games until texting on the mobile phone became the big thing in her life.
Thomasine explained that she was using a search engine called Google to access every reference to Lord Chalybeate on websites across the world.
'This will be his official website,' she said as a stylised logo of two figures came up on the screen, a woman on a treadmill and a weightlifter. 'Don't suppose it will tell us what we want to know. That would be too simple. Wow, he's a major player, though. Look at this list of gyms.'
From the speed with which she moved through websites, dismissing the 'duds', as she called them, she was well used to surfing the net. Even so, the process was taking time.
Ten minutes later she gave a squeak of excitement. 'This is more like it, from some political agitator's site: "Marcus Chalybeate's friends in the House of Lords might be surprised to learn that he was once plain Mark Kiddlewick. He changed his name officially in 1987." Kiddlewick. I think I'd change that if I was stuck with it. Now we'll make a search and see if anything comes up.'
She went back to Google and keyed in Kiddlewick.
'Not so impressive. A mere twenty-seven.'
Most of the twenty-seven were horseracing sites. There had once been a steeplechaser called Kiddlewick. 'No pun intended,' she said, 'but you get all kinds of horseshit you don't want. You have to be patient, and I'm not.'
She'd almost exhausted the list when a Mark Kiddlewick came up in a directory of publishers. '"Magazines, various, adult. Lanarkshire Press, Tilbury, Essex." I wonder how adult magazines come into this.'
Bob looked at his watch. This search had been going on for some time. Sue would be alone at home. She didn't like going to bed until he was in.
Thomasine was intent on her surfing. 'Tallyho. Now we see if Lanarkshire Press yields anything.'
She could keep working that search engine for hours.
'I'd better be off,' Bob said.
She turned to look at him. 'So soon?'
'It's after eleven. Early start tomorrow. Can't fall asleep at the wheel.'
She came downstairs to see him out. Thanked him for the meal.
'Just a couple of lettuce leaves?' he said.
'Next time, the twelve-ounce porterhouse steak.' At the door, she reached for his hand. 'That's not the real reason, is it, about falling asleep at the wheel? You don't have to go, Bob.'
'But I do.'
She mouthed the word why and didn't speak it.
This was a defining moment and he had to be honest. It was high time he told her he had a teenage daughter.
So he did. And when he'd finished, he did his best to ease the tension by adding, 'It's funny when you think about it. I'm the one who has to be in by eleven.'
'And are you divorced?'
'Maggie died three years ago. Leukaemia.'
She closed her eyes. 'Sorry - shouldn't have asked.'
'Should have told.'
'What's your daughter's name?'
'Sue.'
'And she's fourteen, you said? The kids I teach are that age.'
'Different school, though.'
'Right. I'd know her if she was in one of my classes. If she takes after you she gives her teachers a hard time.'
'She's sharper than me.'
'Sounds awesome. I'd love to meet her some time. Oh God, why am I making all the running?'
He made some of the running himself. He put his arm round her and kissed her, a real kiss, and it felt good.
After Bob had left, Thomasine made herself a coffee and then went back to the computer. A pulse was beating in her head. She wasn't ready for sleep and didn't want to
spend the next few hours in an emotional state like one of her teenage students. So she gave her full attention to the computer, surfing the net for references to Lanarkshire Press, clicking on anything that came up. It took her into some sites she wouldn't normally have gone near. She was used to 'spam', the unwanted e-mail, much of it obscene, that she had to delete each time she opened her inbox, but visiting dubious websites was unavoidable if she was to find out more about Kiddlewick, Chalybeate, or whoever he was. If it had to be so-called erotica, she was going there. Good thing her classes didn't know she was accessing stuff like this, she thought.
She found the all-important link at about one fifteen in the morning. A site was offering secondhand magazines for sale and you could click for more information - obsessively copious information that listed the entire contents of every issue, together with the names of publishers, editors, writers and photographers. No pictures, mercifully. Here, in a monthly called Innocents, published by Lanarkshire Press, was the name Edgar Blacker, editor.
This, she was certain, was why the police had been so interested in Chalybeate, the one-time publisher of porn trying to shake off his past and pursue a political career. They'd found the link with Blacker, and when Bob had mentioned the fitness magazine at Miss Snow's, they'd seized on the possibility of a second link, to the arsonist's next victim. Was Miss Snow into physical culture? Unlikely. Thomasine thought it more likely that she'd bought the magazine because of its Chalybeate connection. Maybe she'd done some digging herself when Blacker was first invited to the circle. She was secretary, so she'd have discussed it with Maurice at an early stage.
Satisfied, she turned off the computer and went to bed.
In the morning Hen drove out with Stella Gregson to the Sussex police evidence depository. Every police force has to provide storage for the millions of items and tons of paper used in investigations. Even after a case has gone to court and a conviction is secured, all the main materials, including items not produced in the trial, are retained, kept in plastic boxes in case of an appeal or a reinvestigation.
These buildings were the size of warehouses, strictly functional, boxlike and secure. The one unlocked for them was the second largest on the site and contained thousands of magazines and books seized in raids authorised by the obscene publications legislation.
'Welcome to wankers' world,' Hen said.
'You've made my day, guv.'
'There's a lot of hardcore stuff here, but luckily we're not looking for that. When a raid takes place they don't have time to sift through everything, so they clear the shelves and bring it all back here, the mild as well as the really gross.' She turned to the custodian, a veteran with a face like a blocked sink. The porn had long ago lost all appeal for him. 'Where can we find nineteen eighty-two?'
'They'll be dusty.' He escorted them around the metal stacking system and pointed to a row of boxes reaching up to the roof beams. 'The ladder's over there, in eighty-six.'
'Fine.' To Stella, she said, 'Lanarkshire Press publications, remember. From memory, that would include Innocents, Headlights and Hot Buns.'
Stella groaned. 'Couldn't you have asked one of the men, guv?'
'They'd be useless at spotting a face. Think about it.'
'Yes, but—'
'You don't have to look at the squidgy bits.' From her bag she produced a photo of a young woman in a top hat, tailed jacket and tights. 'This should help. I did some phoning late yesterday. Amelia Snow, circa nineteen-eighty, courtesy of the Megastar Theatrical Agency'
Stella gave it a look. 'She's very young. I'm not sure I'd have picked her out.'
'But you will now - if she's here.'
'So am I on my own?'
Hen pointed to the No Smoking sign. 'I wouldn't last ten minutes. That's the way it is, sweetie.'
'How will I get back?'
'Don't worry. I won't forget you.' She opened her bag again and took out some polythene gloves that the SOCOs used. 'You see, I'm looking after you.'
* * *
It was a pity Bob was at work. Thomasine woke up too late to call him with her news about Lord Chalybeate. Thanks to school holidays she didn't have to go in. Instead she cooked some breakfast and then strolled into town and looked along the magazine shelves in Smith's. But not for the Times Educational Supplement.
The Bodybuilder was a monthly so there was a good chance that the issue Miss Snow had owned was still on sale. No difficulty finding it in the sports section. The bronzed hunk on the front stood out from the cricketers and footballers. She shelled out her two pounds fifty, and went next door to Starbucks for a quiet read. She had a good look round first to make sure one of her little bubble-gummers wasn't sitting across the way.
This was the right issue. Inside was a three-page illustrated article about Marcus Chalybeate under the heading LUCKY GYMS. No reference, of course, to his less exalted career as plain Mark Kiddlewick. The piece was all about his brilliance in foreseeing the boom in fitness. 'It is fair, to claim Marcus Chalybeate has done more to improve the health of the nation in the last ten years than the combined efforts of seven Secretaries of State for Health.' It continued in the same vein. Rather boring, really. Except it left no doubt in Thomasine's mind that this was a man who could be terribly damaged if his days as a purveyor of porn were revealed. What had Hot Buns and Headlights done for the health of the nation?
But she almost knocked over her coffee when she saw the picture of his Sussex home, 'a barn conversion at Bosham, near Chichester'. Just down the road. Wasn't opportunity one of the key elements in a crime, along with motive and means? This, surely, raised Chalybeate to favourite in the suspect stakes. She couldn't wait to see the place. Couldn't wait, and wouldn't.
* * *
Stella had been given some tacky jobs in her years in the police, but this was the tackiest by a long way. Even the feel of the old magazines between her polythene-covered fingers was unpleasant. They smelt musty, they were stained, the paperclips had rusted and the pages dropped out when handled. All that, she tried telling herself, would have been true of a batch of old knitting magazines. You couldn't blame the subject matter for the state they were in.
Certain copies, luckily, could be put to one side straight away. Headlights catered for breast fanciers, men who'd never matured past infancy. Without exception the models had enormous boobs. Did they have implants in 1982? In abundance, it seemed. She pitied the poor models. How could you get comfy in bed with all that to tuck away? Mercifully, the picture of Amelia Snow in Cats showed a normally proportioned woman, so the entire stack of Headlights could be returned to the shelves, along with TNT (Two Nifty Tits) and BSH (British Standard Handful).
'Grow up, guys,' she said aloud.
She started turning the pages of Innocents, which at least featured models she recognised as her own species. Innocent most of them were not, she thought. Their attempts to look inexperienced were about as convincing as chocolate pennies. Some, she guessed, must have had a few drinks before going in front of the camera because the lipstick was badly applied or the hair needed fixing. If nothing else, it supported the story that Blacker used alcohol as the persuader.
Three or four magazines in, and she knew which pages to ignore. The joke section, the letters and the car feature, and the news of the latest X-rated films. There were whole sections of adverts for phone sex. Like any job, it got easier as you persevered.
Things were making more sense at last, but Hen was still unsure why Jessie Warmington-Smith had been murdered. She needed more on Jessie's past. Was it too much to hope that Jessie, too, had once been a chorus girl?
The widow of an archdeacon?
Heaven forbid!
She would take another look at the video of Jessie, and ask Andy Humphreys, whose interview it was, to sit with her. He looked ten years older since their last encounter.
'Do I really have to, guv?' he said. 'It makes me squirm each time I look at it.'
'Why?'
'She gave me the runaro
und, didn't she? I've taken no end of flak from the others. That stuff about my wedding, and my christening. "We're all God's children." I took a right pasting.'
'It wasn't a stand-up fight, Andy. It was about getting information, and you managed that.'
'At a cost, guv.'
'If you keep whingeing, I'll invite everyone to sit in.'
They ran the video, and it was hard to ignore Andy's unease, on screen and off. Some of his questions begged for a sharp response: 'That's a bit whacky, isn't it, a club for writers?'
Hen put Andy to the back of her mind. What had Jessie said about herself? She was one of the first members of the circle, 'at the personal invitation of the chair'. A staunch supporter of Maurice McDade then. This was followed by some flimflam about the benefits of being in a writers' circle. Then the outrage at having her grace and favour living arrangements discussed: 'My late husband spent a lifetime in the service of the church and he couldn't have done it without my support.' She moved on to the offensive after that, questioning Andy's church-going.
Then came that weird claim that she was in touch with the supernatural. 'You have to open your heart. Then you'll be given signs. I get them quite often because I'm receptive, like Joan of Arc, except that she heard them as voices.'
Joan of Arc, no less. Jessie didn't suffer from low self-esteem.
'Only last night I had a sign. Some people would find it disturbing and I suppose it might be to a disbeliever, but I took it as affirmation of all I believe in, the afterlife, the journey of the soul.'
Did she think she was psychic?
'Stop the tape and spin it back. I want to see that section again.'
Andy sank deeper into his chair.
Hen watched and listened a second time and then let the tape run on. Jessie insisted she'd been at home on the night of the fire at Blacker's house, 'or most of it'. Then she spoke about her habit of walking at night before going to bed, when the streets were quiet, 'but always within sight of the cathedral spire'. Andy had asked if she ever took the car out at night. She spotted straight away what was behind the question and pointed out that she had no reason to kill Blacker, who had said something favourable about her book of tips. But she'd admitted she owned an old Mini Metro that ran on leaded and she kept it in her garage somewhere out of sight of visitors to the cathedral.
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