Bloodhounds

by Peter Lovesey

  "And what did she do with the proceeds?"

  "That's what I was trying to discover."

  "Who from?"

  "A bank cashier. I thought she was sure to be good for some inside info. I used to babysit for her. It was worth trying. Doesn't matter. Plan B should get us there, even if it's a more roundabout route."

  He shook his head. He hadn't the patience for Plan B, whatever that was. He'd been a front-row forward in his time. "Get the number again, and ask for the manager."

  Julie gave him a do-you-think-this-is-wise look and pressed the redial button.

  "Ringing?"

  She nodded.

  "Tell the switchboard you have a personal call for the manager from, er, Douglas, Isle of Man. Give my name but not the rank." Front-row forwards weren't picked for their subtlety, but occasionally they used the dummy pass.

  Julie's eyes widened. She knew her boss well enough not to hesitate. After getting through and repeating his instruction precisely, she handed the phone across.

  Diamond's face underwent a change. Suddenly he was a "picture of affability, pink and smiling as if his day so far had been spent feeding pigeons in Abbey Green. "Who am I speaking to?. . . Right. This is Peter Diamond, Douglas, Isle of Man branch. How are you, old boy? Must be all of ten years since we last spoke. At staff college, wasn't it? Look, this is probably nothing, but one can't be too careful. We've got a young fellow here wanting to open an account with a single check drawn on a personal account at your branch. There's more than a slight question mark about the check. Do you happen to have a Miss Hilda Chilmark as a customer? . . . Good. That's the name of the account holder. I daresay you have a terminal in front of you. It might be worth pressing a couple of keys. . . .Already? You're quicker than I am with the damned thing. First it's a question of whether the balance covers the amount. Even if it does, I have my doubts whether your customer filled this in as it now appears. . . . Actually, three thousand two hundred pounds, but it looks to my cashier as if the words 'Three thousand' might be an addition, squeezed in front, you know, and so, to my beady eye, is the number three where the digits go. . . . The name of the drawer? John Brown, if you can believe that. . . . Ah! I'm glad you agree. . . . Well, I'd be grateful if you would. . . ." He smiled at Julie.

  She murmured, "I didn't think you were capable of this."

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece. "You didn't hear any of this, Julie." In a moment, the manager was back in contact. Diamond now put on a caring expression, listened and then said, "Well, this does sound like a try-on. Most of her current balance, you say? . . . It looks as if we may be onto something rather unpleasant. You won't mind me asking. Have there been any other four-figure debits on the account recently? . . . Indeed! . . . But by the lady herself at your branch? One can't argue with that. Between you and me, I wish I lived in such style. This does look like a one-off. Look, I'd better get back to this chappie right away. Rest assured that we'll stop it at this end and get a proper investigation under way directly. Doubtless you'll be hearing from Head Office shortly. . . . Not at all. It's our job to keep a lookout. Thanks." He put down the phone and told Julie, "She's been drawing a thousand a week in cash for at least a year. What are the odds on blackmail?"

  Julie's thinking hadn't got past the thousand a week. "That's a stack of money to get through."

  "Every week. You couldn't do it."

  "Couldn't I?" she said. "Give me the chance."

  "Let's keep our minds on the job, shall we?"

  She smiled. "What next, then? Back to Miss Chilmark?"

  "Not tonight. I want to interview Shirley-Ann Miller."

  She didn't often query a decision, but this one seemed hard to justify. "Do we need to bother? I mean, if Miss Chilmark was being blackmailed . . ."

  "We don't know if she was."

  "You brought it up, Mr. Diamond," she reminded him. "It may not be true, but it's worth putting to her, surely?"

  "This morning you were prodding me into visiting all the suspects."

  "Yes, but nothing was happening then. Now we're inundated. You must have heard about this new riddle sent to the press this afternoon."

  "I was informed by the Assistant Chief Constable," he said with an air of martyrdom. "When did you hear about this?"

  "Only a short while ago. It's all over the front page of the Chronicle. The desk sergeant had a copy."

  "Into print already? And what do you make of it?" he asked.

  Julie shook her head. "Sounds very like the other riddles to me, except that they were about the Penny Black. Could be some publicity seeker, I suppose. I mean, I thought we'd agreed that Sid wrote the others. We have the writing on the paper bag as evidence. True, it was just a list of rhyming words and not lines of verse, but I thought that was pretty conclusive."

  "So did I until an hour ago," said Diamond. "All we've got is conflicting evidence, Julie. An impossible murder in a locked room, a dead man who continues to taunt us with riddles and a woman who lives in a basement and gets through a grand a week. You were right about the other suspects. We want the whole picture. Get your coat."

  They'd done enough walking for one day, Diamond decided; this time, they inched toward Russell Street in the evening line of traffic. He used the time constructively, justifying the decision to visit Shirley-Ann Miller. At this stage of the investigation she was the least likely suspect, he cheerfully conceded, but she was potentially the most valuable witness. As a newcomer to the Bloodhounds, she must have observed each of the members acutely, getting those first impressions, alert to the dynamics of the group, the antagonisms and suspicions, linkups and alliances that undoubtedly existed. In the two meetings she had attended, she may well have seen the crucial events that led to the murder. By all accounts she was not reticent. Her recollections ought to be worth having.

  It was after five when they rang the bell at the Russell Street flat. An appetizing smell wafted from the interior the moment Shirley-Ann Miller opened the door. Her PVC apron was quite a knockout, the lifesize image of a torso and thighs clad in a black basque and suspenders and worn in the appropriate position. Unfortunately Shirley-Ann's large round spectacles and pale features under the helmet of dark hair didn't square too well with the rest of the effect.

  "Obviously not a convenient time to call," Diamond mentioned apologetically after introducing himself and Julie.

  "Oh my God!" Shirley-Ann looked down at the apron and tried to cover it with her hands. "I forgot I had this on. What on earth must you be thinking? It isn't mine, actually." She reached for the bow at the back, tugged off the apron, and bundled it onto a chair before escorting her guests to the back of the house.

  "I meant your cooking," Diamond explained. "Don't let it burn."

  "It's all right. It's only a beef casserole I took from the freezer. I can give it as long as I like." She showed them into an open-plan area where the aroma was well-nigh irresistible. This was a once-gracious, high-ceilinged Georgian reception room now ruined by a divider, a central shelf unit that failed to mask a kitchen sink, refrigerator, and dishwasher. On the near side of the unit was a carpeted living area with armchairs, television, and low tables cluttered with newspapers, books, junk mail, and crockery.

  "Do sit down. Just park everything on the floor. You'll have to take me as you find me. With both of us working, Bert and me, it's difficult to keep up with the housework."

  "Bert being ..."

  "My partner. That's the whole point, really, that we're partners. When two of you share a place, it's two homes squeezed into one. Neither of you wants to throw anything away in case the relationship comes to an end, so you end up with two of everything. It's only been six months. Tea?"

  Julie had tuned in to the quick tempo of Shirley-Ann's speech, and she spoke for them both. "Please."

  The rate of words actually increased, at no cost to the beautiful articulation. "Bert does his best to keep the place in order. He's much more orderly than I am, but he isn't here as much, so m
y untidy habits win the day. You don't need to tell me what this is about," she said, crossing to the kitchen area to fill the kettle. "I expected you before this. Well, I've talked to one of your sergeants already, and he told me to expect another interview. Not that I can help very much. I don't believe I spoke a single word to the poor man who was killed, and that's pretty unusual for me."

  "You joined this group, the Bloodhounds, quite recently."

  "I've only been twice. Quite an experience, both times. Had no idea what I was letting myself in for."

  "What prompted you to go along?"

  "Force of circumstance, really. Bert is out most evenings at the Sports and Leisure Center, where he works. That's when it's used most, so he has to be there. It's all very well having a gorgeous hunk for a lover, but you pay a price. I do a lot of reading in the evenings, only there are limits. When I heard about the Bloodhounds, it sounded right up my street."

  "How did you hear?"

  "From one of those little booklets listing what's on in Bath. Bert brought one home from the Center, knowing how I wallow in detective stories and thrillers. He's never moved on from James Bond, which he knows like some people know their Bible, I may say. They're not for women, those books. Bert doesn't like anything else, so our conversations about reading are rather limited. Anyway, I went along to the meeting, and they were glad I joined, I think. They could do with some new members. I was told quite a number have left since it was set up. You have to be a real enthusiast." She picked some mugs off the floor and took them to the kitchen sink to wash.

  "Did you know any of the others before you joined?" Diamond asked. He had found a rocking chair and cleared it of golfing magazines. Julie, too, had made herself a space and was seated in a deep armchair.

  "No. They were all new faces to me. But they went out of their way to be friendly. Some of them did, anyway. Jessica— that's Jessica Shaw, who owns that art gallery in Northumberland Place—took me for a drink at the end of the first meeting, and I also had an invitation to the preview at her gallery this week. Then Polly Wycherley—she's the chair, and one of the founder-members—invited me for a coffee at Le Parisien a day or two later. I've had coffee twice with Polly. I think she takes her duties seriously."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The second time was the morning after poor Sid Towers was killed. Polly came up to me when I was at work. I was only handing out leaflets about the bus tour, so it was easy to take a few minutes off. It was the first I'd heard about what happened. Polly had been interviewed by some of your people that very morning, and she was worried because she'd made some ghastly, insensitive remark about Sid before they told her the bad news."

  "What remark was that?"

  "I don't remember. No, wait, I do. She told them he was dead wood, meaning he didn't contribute very much to the Bloodhounds."

  "Unfortunate."

  "Yes. She was mortified."

  "Did she have anything else to say?"

  "Let me think. She was very shaken. Well, it was obvious to both of us that one of the Bloodhounds must have murdered Sid."

  "How did you come to that conclusion?"

  Shirley-Ann switched off the kettle and warmed a fancy teapot shaped like the face of Sherlock Holmes, with a deer-stalker lid. "We knew Sid drove to Limpley Stoke after our meeting and into that boatyard where Mild had his houseboat. The policeman who gave Polly the news told her Sid's car was found down there. Didn't know what he was up to. Whatever it was, he must have thought there wasn't much chance of being disturbed, with Milo having gone to the police station and sure to be there some time, to explain about the stamp. Obviously he was wrong. Someone else went to the boat as well. And it had to be one of the Bloodhounds, because we were the only people who knew Milo wouldn't be home."

  "Polly had worked this out?"

  "She didn't actually put it into words. I did."

  "You're a bit of a sleuth yourself, then," said Diamond, watching her pop two teabags into Holmes's head.

  "I'm sure Polly was of the same opinion," said Shirley-Ann. "She's very astute, and she was in a fine old state about the murder."

  "Why do you think she confided in you?"

  She blushed. "I don't know. Perhaps she thought I was so new in the club that I was the only one who couldn't possibly have a motive for murdering Sid—which is true when you think about it. Everyone else had known him some time."

  "Fair enough. They'd been coming for years, some of them. Mr. Motion, Mrs. Wycherley." Casually, Diamond tossed in Miss Chilmark's name, as one of the long-standing members. "Quite a formidable lady, from all I've heard."

  "I thought so at first," said Shirley-Ann. "She presents a strong front—seven hundred years of Chilmarks, and that sort of patronizing nonsense that people of her sort sometimes use to justify their pretensions. I think she's brittle, though. She panics easily."

  "The episode with the dog?"

  "Rupert's dog, yes."

  "You're sure that was genuine?"

  She frowned. "Do you mean, Was she acting? I didn't think so. She worked herself up in anticipation, but that's different. We had a bit of a scene the previous week, when Marlowe— that's the dog—shook himself dry and made some of us wet in the process. She'd obviously fretted all week over that. At the beginning of the next meeting, before Rupert arrived, she was asking the rest of us to support her in excluding the dog. When the crisis came, it was real, I'm sure."

  "The hyperventilation?"

  "Yes."

  "Rupert was the thorn in her flesh?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Did you happen to notice how she behaved toward the other men?"

  Shirley-Ann's eyebrows lifted a fraction at the question.

  Diamond couched it another way. "A maiden lady, rather brittle, to use your expression. Is she nervous of men?"

  "If she is, it doesn't show. She gets on well wittf Milo, helps him to put out the chairs when they arrive early."

  "And Sid Towers? She wasn't in awe of him?"

  "I don't think so. Like the rest of them, she behaved as if he wasn't there most of the time—which is probably the kindest way to treat a painfully shy man."

  Diamond moved the questioning on. "I'd value your opinion, Miss Miller. You know that Sid was murdered later that evening, and you observed everything that happened at the meeting. Did you form any theories?"

  "About who did it? No."

  "No suspicions, even?"

  "Well. . ." She poured the boiling water into the teapot, busying herself with the task. "Not at the time."

  "You've got your suspicions now?" Diamond pressed her.

  She was trying to hold back, which clearly went against nature for Shirley-Ann. "Oh, nothing I'd call a suspicion."

  "What would you call it, then—an inspired guess? Woman's intuition?"

  This dart hit its target, but failed to achieve the desired result. It brought out the militant in Shirley-Ann. "Would you like the tea in a mug, or all over your head?"

  At this point Julie had an intuition of her own: to wade in, but on Shirley-Ann's side. "I wouldn't even ask," she told her. "He's like this all the time. You wouldn't believe the things I've heard him say to women. God knows you wouldn't hint at something you know unless it was properly thought through and based on common sense. Intuition, be blowed!"

  From the expression on Diamond's face, he might as well have had the teapot upended over his bald patch. Luckily he was lost for words, and it was the effusive Shirley-Ann who supplied them.

  "You're spot on. I do know something. I wasn't going to mention it."

  "But you will, to make a stand for women," said Julie, dangerously close to overdoing this.

  Shirley-Ann, fired up, proceeded to tell them about the words she'd seen sprayed on the window of the Walsingham Gallery and cleaned off by Jessica's husband, Barnaby. "And those are facts," she said finally. "To hell with intuition."

  Julie's onslaught had wrongfooted Diamond, but he was grateful for the result
. " 'She did for Sid'—those were the words?"

  "Yes."

  "You saw them yourself?"

  Now that she had an ally, Shirley-Ann was becoming assertive. "Didn't I just say so? Jessica practically dragged me into the street to look."

  "Who else was there?"

  "Her husband, Barnaby, and A.J., the artist."

  "We've met A.J.," said Julie. "He seems to be around a lot of the time."

  "You can say that again," said Shirley-Ann, all discretion abandoned. Her sisterly bond with Julie was bringing spectacular results. "I'm surprised the husband puts up with it."

  "With what?" said Diamond.

  "Oh, I've met them out, walking along the towpath at Bathwick like a married couple."

  "Arm in arm?"

  "I didn't say a courting couple."

  "Side by side, then?"

  She nodded. "That suggests a much more permanent relationship, to my jaundiced eye."

  "I see. But you say the husband was present when the writing on the gallery window was discovered?"

  "That's what's so amazing. He and AJ. were together all evening, looking after the picture sales. They don't act like rivals. In fact, they seemed to be getting on rather well."

  "And whose decision was it to rub out the writing?"

  "Barnaby's. Jessica was all for calling the police, but he advised her that if she did, it was quite likely the words would be taken seriously."

  "It was entirely Barnaby's decision?"

  "Well, not entirely. Jessica turned to me and asked what I thought, and I had to say it would ruin the party if they called the police. Sugar?" She handed a mug of tea to Diamond.

  "So it didn't get reported."

  "Not until now. They're going to be furious with me for speaking out."

  Withholding information was apparently of trifling importance. Diamond let that pass for the present.

  She continued, "I've been agonizing over this ever since it happened. At the time I thought it didn't matter if it wasn't reported. It seemed so obviously dotty, the suggestion that Jessica would have harmed Sid. She really liked the poor man; felt sorry for him, anyway. She's told me that herself."