Bloodhounds

by Peter Lovesey

  "And have you changed your opinion?"

  "Actually, I have." She gave them the theory she'd worked out in bed the previous night, the conspiracy between Jessica and Sid that had gone wrong and resulted in Jessica murdering Sid. "What do you think? Is it feasible?"

  Diamond was too wily to say. "What interests me right now is who shares your suspicion, who put the message on the window."

  "I can tell you," Shirley-Ann said, and then clapped her hand over her mouth.

  "You saw it happen?"

  "No." The flow of words stopped abruptly.

  "But you know who was responsible, do you?"

  She didn't answer.

  Instead of a rebuke, she received the unexpected warmth of Diamond at his most charming. "You've been very candid with us, Miss Miller, and I appreciate that. We'd never make progress at all without the help of honest people like you. If you know the identity of this person—" He stopped at the sound of someone entering the flat.

  Shirley-Ann said, "This has got to be Bert. He nips home before the evening session."

  Diamond got up from the rocking chair as the door opened.

  Shirley-Ann said, "Hi, darling, you're early. Don't be alarmed. This lady and gentleman are from the police."

  Diamond supplied their names.

  For one worrying moment it appeared as if Bert was stripping for a fight. Without a word he unzipped the top half of his black tracksuit. He wasn't particularly tall, yet the muscle formation around his neck and shoulders—he was wearing a pale blue singlet—spoke for many sessions with weights. In fact he didn't become aggressive. Shedding the tracksuit top was his way of asserting that this was his territory, his home. He tossed it over a chair back and asked mildly if the kettle was still hot.

  Julie happened to be nearest the teapot and offered to pour him some, only to be told by Shirley-Ann, "Thanks, but Bert has his own herb tea."

  "From an 007 pot, I daresay," Diamond commented.

  Bert shot him a surprised look.

  Shirley-Ann said, "I was telling them what a wiz you are on James Bond."

  "Don't exaggerate," said Bert. He had a high-pitched voice for such a hunk of manhood.

  Shirley-Ann went close to him and gripped his solid upper arm. "Oh, come on. If I had to have someone answering questions on Mastermind to save my life, I'd pick you." Turning to Julie, she remarked, "There's a wise head on these chunky shoulders."

  Bert basked briefly in the compliment. Then he reminded her, "That isn't what they came to talk about."

  She said to him, "We've had our talk." Turning back to Diamond, she explained, "Bert's very law-abiding. He told me I should have reported what happened, and I've told you everything."

  Diamond wasn't interested in Bert's probity or Shirley-Ann's lack of it. Bert's arrival had put a stop to a promising conversation. "Not everything, ma'am. You didn't finish. You were on the point of telling us who wrote those words on the Walsingham Gallery window."

  Hearing it put so bluntly caused Shirley-Ann to bite her lip and say, "Was I?"

  Julie gave a confirming nod.

  Shirley-Ann deferred to Bert, spreading her hands as if uncertain whether she should go on.

  He said, "You can only describe what you saw. They can put two and two together, the same as we did."

  She nodded, cleared her throat and said to Diamond, "I hate to get anyone into trouble, but I did happen to notice someone that evening with tiny spots of white on him, like snow or something."

  "Who?"

  "Rupert. Rupert Darby. It was on that beret he wears all the time. The spots showed up against the dark material. At the time I thought it must be dandruff. It was lightly speckled, mainly toward the front. I remembered much later."

  "We were in bed," Bert confirmed.

  She added, "That was when it dawned on me that it could be something other than dandruff."

  "Paint from a spray, you mean?"

  "Well, yes." She nervously fingered some strands of her dark hair. "I could be mistaken. Probably there's some innocent explanation."

  "Did it look like paint from an aerosol?"

  "I think so."

  "You must be reasonably sure. Were the spots even in size?"

  "Yes, and very small. Look, even if Rupert did write the words, it must have been meant in fun. He'd had a few drinks already with some people he met in the Saracen's Head. He was probably tipsy."

  "Was he sprayed on his clothes, or hands, at all?"

  "I didn't notice." She thought a moment. "There may have been some on his shoulders, I think, which put the idea of dandruff into my mind."

  "Who else have you told about this?"

  "Only Bert."

  "You haven't spoken to Rupert?"

  The idea horrified her. "He's the last person I'd speak to. I scarcely know him, anyway. He gets my name wrong. Look, if you speak to him about it, you won't bring me into it, will you?"

  "Was Rupert at the party in the gallery?"

  "Yes, he was already there when I arrived, with the people I mentioned."

  "Did you catch their name, by any chance?"

  "Yes, it was unusual. Faulk, or Volk, or something like that. She was a sculptor and had some work in the exhibition. He was a television writer."

  "He'd met them in the Saracen's?"

  "So he said."

  "And when do you think the words were sprayed onto the window?"

  "I've no idea. I didn't notice them as I came in, but I didn't look specially. I just went to the door, as you do. With all the spotlights on inside, and the people, you tended to look straight through the window, not at it."

  "Since the party, have you spoken to anyone at all, any of the Bloodhounds, that is?"

  "Only Jessica and AJ. this morning on the towpath. I told you about that." She was becoming twitchy, making little nervous movements, probably regretting what she had told.

  "You met them this morning?" Bert said. "Was that wise?"

  "They just happened to be there, love. It wasn't planned. I couldn't avoid saying something."

  Diamond took over again. "You didn't tell us what was said. Was the incident discussed?"

  "I'm not sure." Swiftly, Shirley-Ann corrected herself. "I mean, yes, it was. Oh, I do feel dreadful about this now. AJ. said we were going to erase it from our minds, and I sort of agreed. He said it must have been done by someone with a warped sense of humor. Jessica was still furious about it and said she wouldn't have harmed Sid in a million years. She said if the bastard—I'm using her words now—if the bastard pointed the finger at her again, she was going straight to the police."

  "You've done her a good turn, then," Diamond summed up. "Saved her the trouble." He smiled.

  Shirley-Ann didn't smile back.

  "You didn't tell her about the spots on Rupert's beret?"

  "Good Lord, no!"

  "And you won't be mentioning what you saw to anyone else? Not Polly, not Milo, not Rupert, not anyone?" Having secured a nod from Shirley-Ann, he turned to Bert. "Nor you, sir. I'd like us all to be clear about that."

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Outside the Assembly Rooms, where they had parked, Diamond asked Julie, "What did you make of that?"

  "The story about the beret?"

  "Yes."

  "It's got to be true, hasn't it? And we can check. Even if Rupert has noticed by now, and been busy with the white spirit, some microscopic paint spots are going to remain. Forensic will find them. Simple."

  "Simple?"

  "Well?"

  "First, catch your beret." He stood by the car, jingling the keys, coming to a decision. "Look, Hay Hill can't be more than three minutes away. We can cut through by the toyshop, and it's just at the end of Alfred Street. We'll leave the car here."

  Halfway down the passage called Saville Row, he paused to study the menu in the window of La Lanterna, in the amber glow of the streetlamp that gives the place its name. His gastric juices were threatening mutiny since being exposed to the aroma of
Shirley-Ann's casserole. For a man of his appetite, it had been too long since lunch. "I don't want to spend the rest of the evening over this damned beret. It may be just a distraction."

  "Would you rather leave it to me?" Julie offered.

  "No, I want to see the man, as well as his beret." He suppressed the thought of food and started walking again. "To tell you the truth, Julie, I'm mightily intrigued. This kind of schoolboy stuff, writing slogans on windows, doesn't fit my impression of Rupert at all."

  "Too sneaky, you mean?"

  "You've got it. He gives it straight from the shoulder, whatever his other failings may be. If he had his suspicions about Jessica, he'd tell her, wouldn't he?"

  Julie agreed with a murmur. "Unless he's the killer himself."

  He didn't respond to that. He walked on in silence past antique shops that had iron shutters over their windows.

  "Deflecting suspicion," Julie explained.

  "I get the point."

  "If he felt we were closing in, he might do something like this in desperation."

  After another long and awkward pause, he said, "You know, it's a curious thing: Although Rupert is the one disreputable character in the Bloodhounds, the jailbird, the barfly, the cause of all the upsets, I haven't seriously cast him as the killer up to now. Maybe it's time I did."

  In the evening gloom, Hay Hill looked and felt even less enchanting than it had on their previous visit. A strong breeze was gusting between the houses, disturbing dead leaves, paper scraps, and a discarded beer can that rattled against the railings before dropping into someone's basement. No lights were at Rupert's windows. The only response was from Marlowe the dog, barking at them through the space where the letter flap had been.

  They decided to ask at the local. The landlord at the Lansdown Arms thought they might find Rupert in the Paragon Bar at this stage of the day. The waitress in the Paragon said he'd had a skinful at lunchtime, and he was probably out to the world until later. He usually came in sometime after seven. Sabotaged by appetizing whiffs of seafood cooking, Diamond was willing to wait there for Rupert. He persuaded Julie into discovering if the Paragon's "Meal in Itself"—of French fish soup with crbutons, cheese, and grain bread—was a fair description. In Julie's case, it was.

  Julie asked him how the kitten was settling in.

  "Too well," said Diamond. "He really likes the football on TV. I'm trying to watch, and he's up against the screen patting it with his paw. He can't understand why the little men won't let him have the ball."

  She smiled. "Has he got a name yet?"

  "Most of the names I've called him aren't complimentary. He nicks things and stashs them away: keys, combs, pens, watches, a toothbrush. I found a stack of little objects in one of my shoes. You go to put them on in the morning, and your toes hit an obstruction."

  "A genuine cat burglar?" said Julie. "You ought to call him Raffles."

  "Raffles!" His eyes lit up. "He might approve of that."

  Customers crowded in. Most of Bath seemed to know the tiny bar. Rupert had not appeared yet. To justify keeping the table (there were only three in this tiny room), Diamond ordered himself an extra dish of crepes with trout, broccoli, and cheese filling. But eventually, about seven forty-five, they paid their bill and left.

  More knocking at the house in Hay Hill succeeded only in goading Marlowe into hurling himself against the door.

  They returned to the car and drove up Bathwick Hill to Claverton, a mile east of the city, to interview the only suspect they had not met.

  * * *

  Polly Wycherley lived alone in a semi named Styles in a quiet road behind the university. A few pink rose blooms were enduring October staunchly in the small front garden.

  A halogen floodlight came on as they walked up the path. "Better defended than I am," commented Julie.

  "She may not have two large dogs."

  Diamond glanced up and noted the burglar alarm high on the front of the house.

  But no dogs. They heard slippered footsteps respond to the doorbell, then bolts being drawn. The door opened as far as the safety chain permitted, and a suspicious-sounding voice asked who it was. Diamond gave their names and presented his ID at the narrow opening.

  From inside came the sound of the chain being unfastened. "Before you open up," Diamond said, "are you Mrs. Wycherley, ma'am?"

  She confirmed that she was.

  "That's all right, then," he said, and added, with a wink at Julie, "we can't be too careful."

  Polly Wycherley didn't take it as the waggish remark it was meant to be. Opening the door fully, she said, "That's a fact. You hear of such horrific things these days. You can't even feel safe in your own home."

  And no wonder, Diamond thought when he stepped into the hall. The walls were hung with objects that suggested anything but safety: a Zulu shield and crossed assegais; a leopard-skin; a war drum; and what looked like a witch doctor's mask. It was quite a relief to pass into the living room, filled mainly with bookshelves, each volume protected by a transparent wrapper that Polly must have fitted herself. The relief was short-lived when he caught sight of some of the titles: Kiss Me Deadly, The Beast Must Die, Blood Money, and The Body in the Billiard Room. On one of the shelves was a box opened to display a set of dueling pistols. Here was your sweet silver-haired lady, bolting her door against the horrific world outside before settling down with a grisly murder, surrounded by her collection of weapons. Mind, a sense of order prevailed. But on the whole he preferred the clutter at Shirley-Ann's.

  "I know practically nothing about books," he said, to get things started, speaking from an uncomfortable Hepplewhite-style sofa with wooden arms and back, "but this looks to be a fine collection, Mrs. Wycherley. You obviously take care of it, too."

  "You mean my plastic covers? They protect the dust jackets," she explained as if that were self-evident.

  "But isn't that unfair to dust jackets?"

  "Why?"

  "They don't want protecting. They want to get on with their proper job."

  She saw the logic in that and laughed. "They lose their value if the jackets are damaged."

  "So this is an investment?"

  "It's more than that," she said. "I couldn't put into words the excitement to be had from finding a good first edition."

  "In its jacket?"

  "The jackets are indispensable."

  "But the book you read is the same whether it's a clean copy like these or some dog-eared old paperback from a charity shop."

  "I have hundreds of those," she said. "I keep my reading copies in a spare room upstairs."

  "You don't read these?"

  "No."

  "What have you got upstairs? Just crime?"

  She smiled. "My dear superintendent, there's nothing unusual in that. People have always enjoyed a good mystery, from prime ministers to ordinary folk like me. I didn't have so much time for reading when my husband was alive. We traveled a lot. But in the last twelve years I've become quite addicted."

  Diamond had no need to steer the conversation. Polly moved smoothly on to the prescribed route.

  "That was how I came to found the Bloodhounds. You go to a function and meet other enthusiasts and find you have a lot in common. We've had six very enjoyable years. This dreadful tragedy is going to put an end to it, I fear. I've already canceled the next meeting. Just imagine! We'd all be staring at each other wondering who was capable of a real murder. You couldn't possibly talk about books. Let me get you a nice cup of tea."

  "No, thanks—"

  "Then perhaps Inspector Hargreaves . . . ?"

  "Nor me," said Julie. "We just had something."

  "But a cup of tea always goes down well. Or coffee? I'm due for one about now."

  Diamond said firmly, "You don't mind if we talk about the evening Mr. Towers was killed?"

  "I do have decaffeinated, if you prefer," Polly offered, unwilling to be denied. It was almost a point of principle to provide hospitality. Perhaps she wanted time in the k
itchen to marshal her thoughts.

  "You were one of the first at the meeting, I understand."

  She gave a nod. "To make up for the previous week, when I was late. Stupidly, I dropped my car keys down a drain in New Bond Street. I got them back, but I hate being late for anything, so I made a special effort this time. I do wish I could get you something. A drink?"

  "No, thanks. You drove down to the meeting?"

  "I always do. I could take the minibus, I suppose, but it does involve some walking, quite late in the evening, and you can't . . ."

  ". . . be too careful."

  She smiled. "I was the first to arrive. Sid came soon after."

  "Did you notice his behavior? Did he seem nervous?"

  "No more than usual. In fact, rather less. He actually said things a couple of times during the meeting."

  "Do you remember what?"

  She fingered a button of her cardigan. "I can try." After a pause, she said, "Yes, at the beginning, someone wondered who was missing, and Sid mentioned Rupert, and added that Rupert was always late—which is true."

  "Anything else?"

  Polly dredged her memory. "We were talking about the missing stamp. Miss Chilmark had suggested we might be able to throw some light on the mystery. Someone—Jessica, I'm sure—came up with the theory that some fanatical collector may have taken it. She suggested he might be a middle-aged man with a personality defect, and Sid interrupted to say that it might equally have been a woman."

  "Sid said as much as that?"

  "No, he just interrupted with the words 'Or woman,' but that was essentially the point, and quite fair. I don't think he spoke again until nearly the end of the meeting. However, he did produce a paper bag at an opportune moment. I expect you've heard about Miss Chilmark's attack?"

  Diamond nodded. "But let's stay with Sid. You said he spoke at the end?"

  "I mean after the discovery of the stamp. There was a difference of opinion as to whether Milo should go directly to the police. He was in two minds, you see. He felt he might come under suspicion and—please don't take offense at this—several of them clearly believed he might be treated roughly. In fact, only two of us, Miss Chilmark and I, were for Milo going to the police. Sid was asked, and what he said was that he could stay quiet—which nobody doubted."