He strode past reception and Joan’s home-made sign — a piece of A4 paper declaring in bold red letters that he had entered the Operation Danube Office — and down to the end of the long, narrow chamber where an attempt at separate offices had been achieved with partitions.
Joan had left various notes on his desk: the Daily Express wanted to interview him; the BBC was enquiring as to the possibility of doing a fly-on-the-wall documentary; a magazine was keen to learn just how much an operation such as Danube cost taxpayers and could it have a photograph of the Danube team, please? He screwed that one up and lofted it so he could kick it into a bin. ‘Goal!’ he said and glanced at the final message. It was from DCI Deegan of the Ghost Squad, and was simply a number, nothing else.
‘Ghost Squad?’ he murmured, frowning. ‘What the hell does he want?’
The arrival of someone at the entry to his office startled him and he tossed the note onto his desk. ‘Sarah, what are you doing here?’
She frowned. ‘I hope you don’t mind that I’ve started in our new offices a little earlier than you planned, sir. I had some research to do and everything was shut down at Welly House. I’ve still got my coat on from three hours ago, sir, I did mean to leave.’
He softened his expression. ‘No, of course I don’t mind. Do you like it?’ he asked, turning to look out of the window.
‘I lost the first fifteen minutes just ogling, sir. It’s so beautiful — I’ve never seen Westminster from this angle, or at night.’
He smiled. ‘Go home, get some sleep.’
‘What’s your excuse, sir?’
He saw the twitch of a smile at the corners of her mouth and wondered how much more open her face might look if she let rip with a laugh and ditched the heavy-rimmed glasses.
‘I hit the gym in an effort to blow the cobwebs from my mind.’
‘Did it work?’
‘No, but I’m exhausted.’
‘Well, I might have something to send you off with a smile on your face . . . er, no pun intended.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘You’ve got me . . . go on.’
‘It’s about the blue paint, sir.’
Now she had his attention. ‘Oh yes?’
Sarah glanced at the notes in her hand. ‘Blue paint is a superstitious colour, particularly in the theatre.’
‘Sit down, Sarah, please.’ He gestured to a chair and reached for his half-drunk bottle of water and gulped some down. ‘How on earth did you get to that point?’
She shrugged, her expression one of slight embarrassment. ‘I got onto the net, sir, and started typing in all sorts of things, hoping to stumble across something that might give us a connection with the paint.’
‘And you have, obviously. Explain it to me and how the theatre links in.’
‘Not the theatre precisely, but it’s what led to me to what came next. As I said, blue is a highly superstitious colour. They say if you paint it on your doors it can keep bad things away from the house, and if you wear a blue bead no witches will approach you. Theatre actors don’t like to wear blue on stage, particularly on opening night —’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Something to do with blue being a difficult colour to achieve in medieval times and thus expensive. If theatre companies were extravagant enough to spend their money on blue costumes, people believed the show would close fairly soon due to lack of funding. Unless, of course, they wore it with silver.’
‘With silver?’
‘Meant the company must have had a very wealthy patron and so the show was less likely to close. The silver negated the blue.’
‘Ah, interesting, go on.’
‘Well, I thought so too, and to tell you the truth I got a bit lost in my fascination and kept clicking on all the various sites about blue and its uses and superstitions. I ended up at one site that talked about clowns. Apparently it’s considered intensely bad luck for a clown to use any blue face paint. None of the famous ones ever have or do.’
Jack had been rocking back on his chair legs, but now he slammed forward. ‘They avoid it on their face?’ He felt the thrum of excitement hit his belly.
‘Always. Goes back a long way in history and is now part of the clown mythology. Something bad happens if you wear blue on your face.’
He was staring past her shoulder, thinking as he spoke. ‘How does this work with our victims? Any ideas?’
‘I have a theory, sir.’
His gaze snapped back to her bespectacled eyes. ‘I can’t wait.’
She pushed back strands of hair that had come loose from her ponytail. ‘Well, the blue paint on Sheriff's and Farrow’s faces was put there deliberately, and because it occurred at both scenes we have to assume that the killer is making an important statement. My gut agrees with John Tandy — that thisxs isn’t a message to the police or public but something far more intimate between these three people.’
She paused to let him say something, but he was staring at her intently, silently. She cleared her throat.
‘I couldn’t make any major links to the woad you asked me to look into, and my gut tells me that if the killer was thinking woad, he or she would have scarred the victim’s flesh somehow, maybe applied makeshift tattoos. Or they might have used indigo ink — it would have looked far more like woad, if that was the intention.’
Jack nodded. He was sure Sarah was right.
She continued. ‘Regarding blue paint, the only genuine link that came out of all the sites I surfed today is that clowns don’t want blue on their faces. Otherwise there’s no other mention of blue on the face.’
‘The killer’s laughing at them?’
Sarah shook her head. ‘More than that. I think he could be accusing them of being clowns. Clowns to whom bad things would happen.’
‘Well, how does that hurt them?’
‘I don’t know, sir, although I’d suggest the killer’s mocking them. Clowns don’t want blue on their faces, so he’s forcing them to paint that colour on their cheeks.’
Jack looked up to the ceiling. ‘It’s a clever connection, but I can’t see how it ties in with the victims. They’re bound, drugged, frightened. How do they make the link between themselves and clowns — why is our killer making them put blue paint on their own faces?’
Sarah took a deep breath and explained what had been on her mind ever since linking the blue paint with clown lore. ‘Sir, I might be way off here, but I think that by cutting off the lips of the victims, our guy is leaving them with a permanent smile. It could have been painted on, but this is where I’m sure the killer is taking full revenge. That and the emasculation.’
Jack’s gaze came back to rest on hers. The room felt suddenly warm and there was a curious frisson that both felt between them. They knew she was more right than wrong in her notion.
‘The killer’s making them permanent clowns in death,’ Jack murmured, settling it in his mind.
‘That’s what I think, although the actual why of it is something between him and the victims.’
Jack’s face creased into a grin of wonderment. ‘We’ve got to talk to Tandy. Damn good work, DS Jones!’
Sarah couldn’t successfully stifle a yawn and he frowned. ‘Time to get you home.’
She glanced up at the clock. ‘If I leave right now I can probably catch the last train.’
‘Where’s home?’
‘Strawberry Hill on the embankment in Twickenham.’
‘Well, tonight, DS Jones, the Yard pays for a cab. Come on, let me walk you down to Victoria. There’ll be plenty of taxis there.’
Jack parked his car out the front of his building. As he was getting out, he noticed Sophie Fenton wheeling herself inside. He couldn’t believe his luck. Considering they hadn’t crossed each others’ paths in weeks, it was a pleasant surprise to have this sudden social opportunity. Jack was glad of it, keen to get to know his neighbour better.
‘Hey, Sophie,’ he called and then dropped his voice, remembering the hour. ‘Wai
t for me!’
She turned and waved, waiting at the entrance for him.
He was still wearing his tracksuit, his work clothes in his gym bag. ‘You’re up late.’
‘Wheelies have a social life too, you know.’
Jack’s expression turned to one of mortification. ‘I’m sorry, I —’
‘You’re too easy to tease. Relax. My problem is that I can’t resist the theatre.’
‘And that would explain the fancy clothes. You look very lovely.’
‘Thank you, and you don’t look fancy at all,’ she said, her smile bright beneath the streetlights.
He looked down at his dishevelled tracksuit. ‘It’s a sham. I just wear these to feel fit! How were you going to get up those steps on your own?’
She stared at him, bemused. ‘There you go again. I’m not helpless, Jack Hawksworth.’
It was only his pleasure that she’d recalled his name that overcame the cringing realisation that he was inadvertently patronising her.
‘It’s only two shallow steps, and after this long in a chair I’ve learned how to negotiate all manner of obstacles. This new-fangled model makes it all easy. Watch.’
And he did, impressed with the way she hauled herself with great dexterity onto the top stair.
‘Bravo!’ he said.
‘Oh, I can do plenty. You should come and watch me steeplechase.’
She was delicious. ‘Do you do any sports?’
‘Yes, now and then — I’m no Olympian, I might add. I used to do a lot more, but I’m so busy at the moment that just going out tonight felt like a rare treat.’
‘It’s sad that you go alone.’ That came out wrong. He wished he could take it back and realised he must be tired.
She gave him a look of puzzlement. ‘I don’t think so. Are you a chauvinist, Jack?’
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘How did you mean it?’
He felt himself treading water. ‘Just that I’ve always believed the theatre — like travel, sightseeing, other sorts of escapes — is best shared.’
‘Reading is an escape. Do you read aloud to your friends?’
‘Sophie, I —’
She rescued him. ‘It’s alright, I’m having fun goading you. I do get what you mean. The thing is, I don’t have anyone to share it with, and before you rush in to tell me it shouldn’t be that way, I’m not complaining — it’s just how it is.’
‘Let’s right that. I’ll come and share the theatre with you, if it suits, next time you get the urge.’
She smiled. ‘Alright. I can tell you now that the urge never leaves.’ Then she glanced at her wristwatch and added, ‘Although I fail to see how your working hours would ever suit something so normal as a seven-thirty curtain call.’
‘I would make a huge effort. You can choose.’
‘Les Miserables. Definitely one to see more than once or twice.’ She smiled; his face must have told her he’d already seen it. ‘Still want to go?’
‘You can’t see it too many times. Yes, I’d love to go. Towards the end of the week is easier.’
‘I’ll organise the tickets. My treat.’
‘Then let me take you to dinner. My treat.’
‘I don’t eat seafood.’
‘Pity. But that’s fine. I know a great place in Chinatown, and just a stroll — or wheel in your case — to the Prince of Wales.’ He paused, realising they’d just made an offer to each other to go on a date. ‘Shall we go in? It’s freezing out here; you must be shivering because I am.’
She nodded and permitted him to push her inside and also squeeze himself into the cosy but elegant lift of their mansion apartments.
‘Don’t you have to carry a briefcase home?’ she asked.
‘Not tonight. I’m going to force myself to go to sleep.’
‘Force?’
‘Oh, my mind’s whirring. I’ll probably struggle to close my eyes.’
The door opened on his floor and he began sidling around her to exit.
‘I have just the thing for that complaint,’ Sophie said conspiratorially.
‘Oh?’
‘Milo.’
‘The Australian drink?’ He pressed his finger on the button to keep the door open.
‘You know it?’
‘I do. My sister lives over there. She sent me a tin once. I don’t know where it is. Never tried it.’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything. Come on — I’m going to have one. And remember, Jack, this is my third invitation.’
He grinned. ‘Okay.’ He let the door close and the lift jerked upwards to the top level. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I won’t have any trouble sleeping, to be honest,’ she said, yawning, ‘but I do like my Milo before I go to bed. For some reason, unlike Ovaltine or Horlicks, it stops me dreaming.’
He smiled, stepping out first to keep the lift door from closing as she wheeled herself out and dug in her bag for her key. ‘Don’t you like dreaming?’
‘No, I often have scary ones. Always have. That’s why I keep myself up late, and always ensure I go to bed tired.’
‘You’d make a fine police officer.’
She pushed open the door. ‘Come on in.’
The entrance lobby, he remembered, with its gallery of watercolours of cottages, opened up into a cavernous room.
‘Wow! It’s big.’
‘Top floors always are. It was perfect for me and my chair to get around.’
‘What a great view!’ He moved to stand before her huge windows — similar to his but more of them — with a fabulously comprehensive view across Waterlow Park to Hampstead Heath, which was currently a dark blotch in the distance. He turned back. ‘And I really like this cream colour you’ve chosen. I can smell how fresh it is.’
He liked a great deal about this room but felt it would sound too gushing to praise her taste in furniture or decor.
‘Thank you. I prefer it all light and neutral. It’s the perfect background for artwork.’ Sophie began to clatter around in the kitchen behind him. ‘I think the previous owner must have knocked through a couple of rooms to achieve this.’
‘Yes, I have a sitting room and study as separate rooms that would make up this space. The study is a third bedroom, actually. But I see your working area is all in one. I definitely prefer it this way.’
He looked at the smart white, huge-screened computer that sat atop a beautiful old desk he would kill for. ‘Do you use it much?’
‘What?’ She looked up from the stove. ‘Oh, the G5? Yes, it’s everything to me. My link to the outside world. I’m an email junkie and a tragic surfer of the net.’
‘You know, I never do. Computers just aren’t my thing.’
‘So, what, you handwrite everything?’ she said, pouring milk into a saucepan.
He snorted. ‘No. But I do think we’ve lost the gentle art of handwriting and letter-writing, and the even more diplomatic art of face-to-face communication. If we can send an email, we do. We even have hideously tedious abbreviated conversations by text to mobiles, even if the other person is just down the corridor. People are losing touch with each other. I fight that every day. I like our people to work as a team and the only way to do that is to ensure everyone’s communicating, meeting regularly, even socialising now and then. Ah, remind me before I go about dinner.’
‘We just made those plans. You won’t forget, surely?’
‘No, sorry, I definitely won’t forget our date. I meant work. A staff dinner. Good chance for everyone to get to know each other.’
‘What do you do for a living, Jack?’ She was heaping teaspoons of chocolate-coloured granules from a green tin into two white china mugs.
‘Oh, I thought I’d told you when we met last. I’m with the police.’ That was how he always described himself. ‘It’s why I said you’d be good in the Force.’
Her face wore a look of incredulity. ‘I’d never have picked it.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said, suddenly reticent. ‘Don’t policemen smoke, drink, use bad language, have egg yolk or gravy spilt on their ties, dress badly?’
‘Only on TV. But my sister would argue I do dress badly.’
She cocked her head to one side and observed him. ‘I don’t agree. Judging by the two occasions we’ve met, I think I would ask the fashion industry to set up a new pigeonhole for you — conservatively trendy. I thought the ice cream-striped shirt very daring.’
He groaned. ‘Don’t start, that was my sister’s gift.’
She laughed and changed the subject. ‘Put some music on, Jack. You can choose.’
He did as he was asked, enjoying browsing her CD collection and learning a little bit more about her.
‘So, you moved in towards the end of November, was it?’ he asked.
‘Er, let’s see — it was about the twenty-third.’
‘Well, it looks like you’ve been here forever.’ He pressed the button, watched the disc spin on the expensive Bang & Olufsen system and instantly Marvin Gaye began singing about the ecology.
She raised an eyebrow at his choice of music. ‘Ah, the picture becomes clearer. Conservatively groovy and just a hint of soul.’
‘Yes,’ he shrugged. ‘Very boring.’ His mobile rang. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Not at all,’ Sophie assured as he answered the call. ‘I adore Marvin.’
‘Hawksworth,’ Jack said into the phone. He took the mug that Sophie handed him and watched her wheel herself back to the kitchen counter to fetch her own. ‘That’s okay, you’ve got me in the flesh instead,’ he said. ‘Good. Look, I’ve got to go, I’ll speak to you in the morning.’ He rang off, shrugged. ‘Sorry.’
She gave him a soft look of sympathy. ‘Don’t be. I can’t imagine yours is the kind of work you can leave on the desk at five each evening.’
Jack blew on the steaming drink and sipped. ‘This is good. So, how about you, Sophie, what do you do?’
‘I’m in property. Buying, selling, renovating, renting.’
‘How did you get into that?’
Bye Bye Baby Page 9