But the fact was, she'd been on the scene, trapped by the power failure like the rest of them. For that matter, any of the day staff could have stayed behind, hidden somewhere in the castle, despite claims of having gotten out before they lost the electricity. An exception was the bartender: The police had learned that, because he generally kept such late hours, he had been given his own room at the bottom of the castle, where he routinely slept, like a sailor in the belly of a luxury cruise ship.
What on earth the motive for any of the staff could be, St. Just couldn't imagine. Even Kimberlee, self-centered as she was, couldn't inspire the kind of instantaneous hatred that would lead an apparent stranger to kill her.
St. Just had always maintained that gossip was the policeman's friend, and gossip about all these writers was what was needed now. Stopping at the reception desk, he asked the red-nosed girl, whose nametag identified her as Mary, to ring the room of B. A. King. It was time to round out his interviews with the Fab Four who had been in the sitting room. Fab Four plus One, he reminded himself, as Quentin had remained with them at least part of the time.
"You're looking for that oily bloke?" she asked, then, seeming to realize she was talking about a hotel guest, tried valiantly for a recovery. She couldn't have been more than a day over eighteen. "I mean-"
"It's a perfect description. Why, you've seen him?"
"He's in the library, drunk as a laird. We asked the bartender to keep him in there so's we'd all see a bit less of him."
"Flirting with you, has he been?"
She wrinkled up her nose. "A bit more and less than that, really. Just general goatishness. Given to ambushing the maids in the hallways, that sort of thing. I don't like the way he looks at me, is all. Staring, and winking. Telling me how his Gran was Scottish, as if I cared. The girls are that sick of him."
"I can well imagine. I'll have a word with him." Off her look, he added, "Don't worry. He won't know I heard it from you."
He found B. A. King as promised, parked, or rather deposited in a heap, on one of the room's leather sofas. Perhaps interviewing him now wasn't such a good idea, after all, St. Just thought. But in vino veritas. Or in this case, in Laphroaig. The man smelt as if he'd poured it over himself and then jumped in a peat bog.
King was a big man with the pink complexion of the committed, lifelong drinker. Much the same height and weight as the detective, he was somehow, well, fleshier, his weight oddly distributed like a tyre around his middle. As Mary had said, he was oily, like undercooked salmon. He was attached to a dark hairpiece that sat at a jaunty angle, slicked back from his forehead. The cloth of his gray suit put St. Just in mind of sharkskin. The unfocused eyes were sharklike, as well: dark and flat, seeming not to reflect light.
St. Just smiled, realizing where his train of thought had led him. There was no doubt about it: The man was fishy.
"I need a few words with you, Mr. King."
King nodded in hazy recognition.
"I gather you knew Kimberlee Kalder quite well," said St. Just.
"I did not. Who says so?"
No one, in fact, thought St. Just. But angry denials were often a good starting point. The police could teach the press a thing or two about interrogation techniques. At least he'd gotten the man's attention.
"Why talk to me?" King demanded. He looked at St. Just with a fierce, drunken concentration. "I never represented Kimberlee Kalder. Hardly knew the freakin' bimbo."
King drained his glass and reached for a refill from the half-empty bottle on the table. St. Just was half tempted to join him. Since breakfast he'd had only a crumpet and half a sandwich he'd found in the incident room. The sandwich had been watercress and a thin smear of butter. As good as a drink sounded to him, a steak to go with it sounded better.
"You were pointed out to me as someone who knew the business, who knew a lot of crime writers."
"By who? Whom?" said B. A. King belligerently, peering at him over his glass. His voice was a deep, tuba-like rumble. In other circumstances, St. Just thought he might find it oddly soothing.
He sat down opposite the man, leaned back, and folded his arms.
"Here's the way this works, Mr. King," he said. "I ask the questions. You answer the questions. You answer them completely and honestly. Then I leave you to go back to your whiskey."
B. A. King started to interrupt and St. Just held up a hand to ward him off. He had come to recognize two basic types of American visitor to Great Britain: the type that would do whatever you asked because they liked your accent, and the type that viewed British reticence and politeness as weaknesses ripe for exploitation. He suspected King fell into the latter category. St. Just pierced him with a look that his sergeant would have read as an unambiguous storm warning. King, however, being less attuned than Sergeant Fear, looked back with the same devil-may-care swagger as before.
"If you don't, you'll not see your passport again for a long time. A very long time. Not until the photo resembles you even less than the usual passport photo, because so much time has passed. Not until we say we're through with you, in fact. Push it too far, and you may not see the outside of the local nick for awhile, either, while we discuss your problem with the people at your embassy. Am I making myself clear?"
"Look here, you. I know my rights."
"Good. Then you know I'm within mine to detain you if you obstruct this investigation."
Just then, the bartender-whose name, St. Just recalled, was Randolph-returned from some errand or another. St. Just signaled him for two coffees.
"I don't want coffee." King adjusted his improbable hair, making matters somewhat worse.
"Make that extra dark, please," St. Just said to the back of the retreating young man.
"All right, then," grumbled King. "What is it you want to know?"
"How well did you know Kimberlee?"
"I didn't. I only knew the Americans, really. She was British. Well, part British. London was where she mostly lived."
"How do you know that?"
King exploded. "I talked with her-briefly-during the conference. That's how. Idle chitchat. Nothing more."
"I overheard that idle chitchat. She 'idly' accused you of stealing from her."
"Nah, she… You see, I had borrowed her pen at the conference and lost it somewhere. She wanted me to replace it and I promised to. No big deal. Once I lost the pen Magretta used to pen the immortal Death Be Not Cowed. Or was it Dead Ducky? Anyway, now, there was a fuss. But Kimberlee? Not a big deal, I tell you."
St. Just doubted this story in the extreme, but to keep the conversation from devolving into a Did Too/Did Not contest, he decided to let it go for the moment.
"All right. What about the writers from your own side of the pond? What can you tell me about them? Start with the Bracketts."
"Tom Brackett? He's a jerk. Used to sell at a good clip. Still sells, just not like before. Then everyone started to notice the Berlin wall had come down, we were all in the Middle East now, but Tom Brackett was still writing the same Cold War spy novel that had made him famous decades ago. It won't do. You have to be flexible in this business, keep up with things."
"Yes, wars do have a way of switching locations, don't they? Shifting around? One has to pay close attention." St. Just thought it interesting how often he'd heard all the writers defined less in terms of personality than in the volume of books they sold. He was almost getting used to it.
King nodded. "You betcha. Fewer people are reading Tom's particular brand of spy crap, anyway. It's all psychic paranormal stuff at the moment. Who knew that shit would catch on?"
"The psychics knew, presumably," St. Just said mildly. "I meant, what about Brackett's background?"
King shrugged. "Only know what I read on his book jackets, really. Or, used to read."
"But you do know both of them. Him and his wife."
"Known them both for years, in that way you know people you see at some conference or other. She was always there, pretty much as bag carrier
."
"How often would that be?"
B. A. King stopped to scratch his armpit. "Once, twice a year. Maybe more."
So Tom had perhaps been less than truthful about how often he went to conferences, thought St. Just-which would increase the chances Brackett knew more about the others than he claimed. Because he was guilty? Or because he was naturally contrary whenever the occasion arose?
"Anyway," B. A. King was saying, "that wife of his took us all by surprise with those children's books."
"Was Tom happy about that?"
"What do you think? There is only room for one genius in that household. I don't think Edith enjoys much of a life. She should leave him now she's got the money. He's probably threatened to stick her with huge alimony payments if she does."
"Perhaps she will. Leave him, I mean."
King shook his head. "Nah. That type-it's like the Stockholm syndrome. They never leave." A harsh laugh. "Even if you beg them."
"You don't represent Tom? Or Edith?"
"Nah. My only client here is that cow, Annabelle."
"Since she's a client you know her well, I would imagine."
"You could say I knew her." Here a wolfish waggle of the eyebrows, apparently a key component of his trademark leer. The coffee arrived. St. Just resisted the urge to grab the pot and force some of the liquid down King's throat. Instead, he poured out two cups, as demure as a vicar's wife. As expected, King ignored his. St. Just let it go-an ocean of coffee wouldn't begin to penetrate.
"What exactly do you know about Annabelle?"
"Not a lot. It wasn't the bitch's pedigree that interested me."
"Try."
A sigh, another scratch of the armpit.
"She's from Birmingham. I think. Nottingham? One of the 'hams, anyway. Married an American and divorced him toot doo sweet. Took up writing as a lark, or so she likes to pretend. I think she needed the money just like the rest of us mortals. More."
"How so?"
King paused for a little sip, his dark eyes impenetrable. He put down his glass, nearly missing the table. "Needing the money, you mean? Well… I did have the idea her husband ran through what little she had. Or tried to. She odd-jobbed awhile. Worked as a typist, a photographer's assistant, a waitress-stuff like that. She got rid of the husband in short order, anyway-they were married maybe two years, I think she said. You ask me, just long enough to get citizenship papers. But I didn't pay particular attention, I tell you."
"What's your take on her personality?" Not that he held any great store by King's powers of observation, let alone his opinion, but the least likely people could prove perceptive.
Not this time.
"Oh, I don't know," said King. "I wasn't interested in her personality either, was I?"
It was hard to imagine what a man like King did find interesting about a woman like Annabelle, but St. Just realized such odd biological imperatives were likely irrelevant to Kimberlee's death. His mind instead ran down the list of writers staying at the castle. Something made him think of Mrs. Elksworthy, whom he hadn't seen for awhile. He asked about her.
"Mrs. E? Joan Elksworthy? Nice enough woman. Not my type, of course. Old. She's not on my client list, so I don't think I've ever read her, but I've heard she's a competent writer for the tea-and-crumpets crowd. Sells at a small, steady clip."
"Who else staying here at the castle do you know, or know of?"
"Well, I know of all of them, of course. It's my job. I think the only other one I've met before is Magretta Sincock."
"You think?"
"You're right, you'd hardly forget her, would you? But as to the rest-I meet a ton of people in my line of work. You can't expect me to remember them all."
Not when you're half in the bag all the time. No, one couldn't hope for that.
"So, what do you remember about Magretta?"
"Really, Inspector. Why don't you just read all their bios? It'll give you the basics."
"Thanks for the tip. I know the basics. What I need is what's not in the standard-issue PR information."
"Well, with Magretta it really is a case of what you see is what you get. No use looking for depth there. High maintenance and getting higher. Of course, we had a little fling some years back… I see you didn't know that? Well, notice how I'm cooperating by telling all, even though it has nothing to do with anything. She never married, oddly enough, don't you think? That rather aggressive brand of femininity usually attracts a certain spineless type of man. I have heard she was on the stage at some point-rep theater stuff as far from the West End as can be imagined. That career failed, or perhaps it would be truer to say parts requiring over-acting and scenery-chewing dried up."
"Anything else you can tell me?"
Again the indifferent shrug. "She seems to be over-flooding the market lately with her books. She needs to take a year off but instead she's upped production. People will start to notice: It's pretty much the same book she wrote the last time out. Womjep shit."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Womjep. You know-woman in jeopardy. Lately she just cranks them out. They say you can't die of boredom, but reading one of her books, I came close. I don't know if Jay is to blame for the decision to publish more of her books, faster-more likely she's been telling him what to do. Whatever. I hear the bloom is off that relationship, and the rumor is the Americans no longer want her, either. As for Jay, he only wanted-or needed-Kimberlee in his stable."
"She-Magretta-must have found that difficult to take."
"Yeah. But Magretta, she was always wrapped in dreams. Reality could hit her hard."
"And now Kimberlee's gone."
"Uh huh…" The implication seemed to be seeping in. "You don't think Magretta would do away with Kimberlee just so she'd get to keep Jay as an agent? Hey, Jay is good but he's not that good. Pretty far-fetched idea. Even for a crime writer, don't you think?"
St. Just wasn't sure what he thought, but he wasn't going to sit here swapping theories with B. A. King. He shot his cuffs and adjusted his suit jacket, thinking.
"Nice threads," said King. "Who's your tailor?"
"The night you sat around with the Bracketts and Winston-what did you find to talk about?"
"When Kimberlee was killed?"
"That would be the night in question. Yes."
"You know. Deals. Online bookstore rankings. Royalties. Rights. Which publisher was on the skids this year. Which agent."
"That's all? No undercurrents of some kind?"
"You mean, did any of them get a crazed look in their eyes and rush out of the room, shouting 'Fuck Chick Lit'? No. Strangely enough, we spent a lot of time talking about Winston's plans for a young adult book. I guess it came up in connection with Edith's success."
St. Just was a bit taken aback. He realized that, quite unfairly, he pictured those who could write for children as being… well, not scary looking. King surprised him by reading his reaction perfectly. St. Just was reminded of the old joke: I'm not as think as you drunk I am.
"I know," King was saying. "It's like Boris Karloff wanting to play Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol or something. But if you read Winston's books, you will see there is a wild and wooly imagination at work there. I can see him writing the next Harry Potter for the younger set, absolutely. And you can bet he'll be needing a publicist, so-"
Just then there was the sound of the heavy library doors being opened. A man's voice, quavering and thick with emotion, said, "Could I have a word, Inspector?"
DON'T BE A STRANGER
St. Just turned. A dark, sleekly attractive head, presumably attached to a young and attractive male body, peered around the library door, which was held open in a white-knuckled clutch. He looked as if he might be a few shades paler than normal; his eyes were as red as Mary's in reception.
Like St. Just, he wore an expensive suit from a bespoke tailor's, but it looked new and of an up-to-date cut. St. Just felt he might have seen the man before, but then decided it was only his resemblance to any
actor appearing in any recent movie having to do with high livers in London's Square Mile.
B. A. King, having looked up at the intrusion, had resumed his contemplation of the bottom of his glass. Suddenly he said, "I heard a splash."
St. Just signaled the other man to wait for him outside.
"You what, Sir?"
"When I went up to my room to get some whiskey. I heard a splash."
What now? Pink elephants frolicking in the moat?
"Time?" St. Just asked.
"What? No. How should I know what time it was?"
How indeed. "Yes, Sir. Thank you."
"And another thing…"
"Yes?" St. Just asked politely.
"Just out of curiosity, you might ask Winston what kind of hold he has over Easterbrook. Nobody reads serious 'lit-ra-ture' like Winston's any more, even when it's crammed with serial killers. So why does Easterbrook keep him on? I've heard rumors. Yes, rumors… an affair… Easterbrook's wife controls the purse strings-don't let him tell you otherwise. Oh, and what was Magretta doing skulking about the hallway up there? I saw her."
"Time?" he asked again.
"Late. When I went up for the whiskey. I think. Must have been."
"Late," St. Just repeated. Great. "One other thing, Mr. King. Stay away from the female staff of this hotel, and keep your hands to yourself. Or else."
St. Just left him. B. A. King, he thought, could stew awhile. Literally.
St. Just first looked for the dark-haired young man in the lobby, then saw that he had taken St. Just literally at his word and was waiting outside for him. He was leaning against an ancient tree nearest the falconry, apparently staring at the birds but with a distracted, unfocused gaze. St. Just began walking across the castle grounds. Just then, Sergeant Kittle emerged from the castle.
"Sir, you should see this."
St. Just took two pieces of paper from him. Across the top was the time-and-date stamp of a fax machine. He read the contents, then raised his eyes to meet Sergeant Kittle's. St. Just nodded curtly, then continued walking toward the outdoor cages.
He reached the solemn young man, and held out his hand.
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