‘How would you describe Miss Selwyn’s state of mind on that occasion?’
‘Her state of mind? Perfectly normal. Joan was normality personified.’
‘That wasn’t always the case,’ Payne said slowly. ‘I understand she acted in a very strange manner when her former boyfriend broke up with her.’
‘Did she? You do surprise me. I had no idea.’ Billy shook his head. ‘I must say I am astonished.’
‘Can you think of anything – anything – that she said or did the last time you saw her that was perhaps a little out of the ordinary?’
‘No, not really. She complained that one of her flatmates, can’t remember which one, tended to use up all the hot water.’ Billy frowned. ‘She was also a bit annoyed with Lord Collingwood. He had wanted her to help him with something. As Lord Collingwood’s friend, you probably know all about it.’
‘As a matter of fact I don’t.’
‘It was something to do with Eresby’s girlfriend, I think, that’s the chap Joan used to go out with – and some other person.’
Payne pricked up his ears. ‘It was to do with Olga?’
‘Is that her name?’
‘Yes … Miss Selwyn didn’t give you any idea as to what it might have been about?’
‘Um. No. Oh yes, it’s coming back. Some rigmarole about an acquaintance of Lord Collingwood’s – a highly respectable gentleman of advancing years, I think – who’d got into a spot of trouble with this girl – Olga? I am afraid I wasn’t listening … What’s this Olga – an escort or something?’
‘Didn’t Joan specify the nature of the trouble?’
‘She did say something. Um. The elderly gentleman had been to Olga’s house expecting favours, but she wasn’t forthcoming? Something like that. Oh, and he seemed to have left something behind, which he wanted back, badly. Apparently, he phoned Olga and asked for it but she said she would only give it back on certain conditions. I got the idea it was something compromising.’
‘What conditions?’
‘No idea. It all sounded incredibly tedious. Joan had agreed to assist Lord Collingwood in getting the thing from the house. But she was annoyed about it. She found the whole business rather distasteful, actually.’
‘How very curious. By “the house” you of course mean Philomel Cottage? That’s where Miss Selwyn was killed …’
There was a pause. Payne wondered whether he should believe this story or not. Lord Collingwood hadn’t said anything about it. But then why should Joan Selwyn make up a story like that? It didn’t quite fit in at all with the anonymous phone call she had received at Richoux’s either – or did it? She had told Lord Collingwood someone had asked her to go to Philomel Cottage. But she was already going to Philomel Cottage! There was something wrong. He believed someone was lying. He glanced across at Billy.
‘I got the idea this girl – Olga – was blackmailing the old fellow,’ Billy said.
‘I wouldn’t have said Olga was the blackmailing type.’
‘Do you know Olga?’ Billy’s eyes opened wide.
‘I have met her. The impression she made on me was almost entirely positive,’ Payne said firmly. He pointed to a mobile phone that lay on the coffee table. ‘That’s not your Blackberry, is it?’
‘No – how – how did you know?’
‘It’s got the initials “JS” on it.’
‘Has it? Where?’ Billy blinked. He looked down at the mobile phone. ‘Oh, are those letters? I thought that was part of the design – had no idea they were letters!’
‘What did you think they were?’
‘Two snakes, one standing on its head, the other preparing to strike! That’s what it looks like, doesn’t it? Can’t you see the snakes? Yes, it’s Joan’s Blackberry. I had no idea she’d had it personalised. I have had it ready to give to the police – or to Joan’s father.’
‘Has Joan’s father been in touch with you?’
‘No. I doubt whether Joan’s father is aware of my existence. I don’t think he and Joan were ever close.’
‘I see.’ Payne wondered as to the reason for the estrangement – could old Selwyn have been made aware of the fact that Joan was not his real daughter? Something stirred at the back of his mind. ‘How long have you had Joan’s phone?’
‘Um. I think she left it behind the day before she died. I meant to give it to her but, as it happened, I never had the chance.’
‘You said you were going to have dinner together. Weren’t you at all worried when she failed to turn up?’
‘I was. Of course I was.’ The chap sounds defensive, Payne decided. He saw Billy cast a glance at the door, as though expecting it to open at any moment. Billy didn’t appear to be particularly grief-stricken. ‘I sat and waited and then I rang her but there was no answer – it was about ten o’clock, I think.’
‘She couldn’t have answered as her mobile was here,’ Payne said.
‘Yes, quite. But I’d completely forgotten that she’d left it here!’
‘Unless she had a second phone?’
‘I don’t think so – not that she’d have been able to answer even if she’d had a second phone – I assume she was dead by then – I mean, by ten?’ Billy swallowed. ‘When was she killed exactly?’
‘At about five-thirty,’ said Payne.
The door opened. It was the young man called Sieg Mortimer, to whom the elegant flat belonged. ‘Sorry to intrude but I was wondering whether Major Payne would like a cup of coffee? Or perhaps a drink? How about some whisky? As you are not a policeman, you can have a drink with impunity, can’t you?’
He must have been standing outside the sitting-room door, listening to their conversation.
‘Indeed I can. A whisky and soda would be very acceptable,’ Payne said amiably.
‘You can relax, Selkirk. Major Payne is not a real policeman. This proves it. The police don’t drink while performing their duties. Major Payne is what is known as an “independent agent”, isn’t that so, Major Payne?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Unless this is a ploy to put us at our ease, so that he can have his evil way with us. The thing to remember, Selkirk, is not to make any statements that would be considered unwelcome by learned counsel on either side … What will you have, Selkirk?’
‘Nothing, thanks, Mortimer. Nothing for me.’
It was Mortimer who had opened the front door to Major Payne, though he had then made himself scarce. Payne didn’t care for Mortimer’s sneering mouth and facetious manner. Mortimer was blonde too – like Billy, like Charlie, like Olga! How funny. Was that another coincidence – or could it be a conspiracy? Payne smiled at the thought and for a moment or two he gave full rein to his imagination.
Joan Selwyn was killed because she was not a real blonde. She had dyed her hair blonde in order to infiltrate a sinister secret society that consisted exclusively of blondes. Some bizarre ring of fanatical neo-Aryans? Yes. The solution to the affair would turn out to be one of those rather outlandish sub-Dan-Brown ones … The luminous league … The band of blondes … The fair hair affair …
All very silly, yes, but people did cause harm to others for the oddest of reasons imaginable sometimes. Like the old chap in the news who had laced his wife’s tea with mercury – he wanted to make her ill, so that he could nurse her back to health – he hadn’t meant her to die – he had seen it as a way of winning back her love and affection – or so he claimed – they’d been at loggerheads over something – he described her death as a ‘tragic accident’ – he swore that he never meant to kill her –
Payne’s eyes remained fixed on Joan Selwyn’s mobile. Once more he was aware of something stirring at the back of his mind. What was it? The mobile shouldn’t be here, he suddenly thought, though he didn’t quite know what he meant by that. And then another thought floated into his mind. It was a thought he’d had earlier on: lies. Rather, one particular lie …
He asked, ‘Were there any messages on Joan’s mobile?’
‘Yes, several, but I am afraid they were deleted.’ Billy seemed to regret the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. If there had been such an invention as a ‘word-eraser’, he would have applied it at once, of that Major Payne was certain. Billy went very red. ‘It was an accident.’
‘You deleted Joan’s messages by accident?’
‘Well, actually –’
‘There is a disapproving glint in your eye, Major Payne, and I don’t blame you. You clearly think that one or more of the deleted messages contained some kind of clue to Joan’s murder, am I right?’ The young man called Mortimer had re-entered the sitting room. He was holding a small tray with two glasses, one of which he handed to Payne, the other he kept for himself. ‘In fact, it wasn’t Selkirk who deleted the messages. I did. Mea culpa. No sinister reason for it, I assure you. I was fooling around.’
‘Fooling around?’
‘Yes. Fooling around. I was fooling around. I always do when I try to relieve my taedium vitae. Stop looking so bloody sheepish, Selkirk. One might be excused for thinking you’d been caught cartwheeling on the grounds of Buckingham Palace or some such inexcusable transgression. Fooling, yes. Fooling with other people’s mobiles is to me what cocaine and the violin were to Sherlock Holmes. Incidentally, I am a great aficionado of the Sherlock Holmes stories – are you?’
‘Didn’t you think Joan would mind?’ Payne asked.
‘It was unprincipled of me, I admit. I partly did it to annoy her, I think. I didn’t really like her.’
‘So it wasn’t an accident. You deleted the messages on purpose. To annoy her.’
‘She deserved it, you know. She never laughed at my jokes. Besides, I didn’t really approve of her association with Selkirk. She reciprocated by disapproving of my association with Selkirk. That’s often the way, isn’t it? She actually had the gall to tell Selkirk that I was a phase. How would you feel if someone described you as a phase? What a life, ye screeching cockatoos, what a life!’ Mortimer threw up his hands. ‘No point saying sorry to you, is there, Major Payne? I would have most certainly apologised to her but I can’t as she is dead.’
‘Did you by any chance listen to her messages before you deleted them?’
Sieg Mortimer assumed an expression of thoughtful concentration. ‘You don’t think Conan Doyle ever meant to kill Sherlock Holmes off at the Reichenbach Falls, do you? The fact that no body is ever recovered at the end of The Final Problem is extremely suggestive, I always thought. No dead body, as every self-respecting aficionado of the genre knows, means one thing only – no murder.’
‘You are probably right,’ Payne conceded. ‘But I asked you a question –’
‘Honestly and truly, I don’t believe Holmes’ miraculous escape idea was the afterthought it was taken to be later on. It was a ruse. I am sure that all along old Doyle intended to resurrect his lucrative creation, which he eventually did do, to the delight of millions. Oh how I wish I could have been able to see all those gentlemen sporting black armbands, marching in the Strand, swinging their brollies and clamouring for Sherlock Holmes’ return!’
‘Did you by any chance listen to the messages on Joan’s phone before deleting them?’ Payne asked patiently. It wouldn’t do for him to show irritation. Neither of the two young men, he reminded himself, was under any obligation to answer his questions.
‘Did I listen to the messages? As a matter of fact I did. Yes. I was fooling around, I told you. It was part of the fooling.’
‘Weren’t you afraid she might mind your deleting her messages?’
‘No, not really. I am never afraid. I told you I wanted to annoy her. I was rather hoping she would blame Selkirk for it. I was hoping it might cause a rift between them … Sorry, Selkirk. I thought I was acting for the best.’
‘You couldn’t have known she was dead when you deleted her messages, could you?’ Payne said.
‘No, of course not. I have the feeling you are trying to catch me out. You do pride yourself on solving puzzles, don’t you, Major Payne? No, no use denying it. I have heard stories about you.’
‘What were the messages about? Do you remember?’
‘How good are you, really? I mean, at solving puzzles? I hope you don’t mind being put to the test? Please listen carefully – I’ve got a puzzle for you … A man goes into a restaurant and orders an albatross. He cuts it with his knife and fork, takes a mouthful, then another, then another. A couple of moments later he produces a gun and shoots himself. Why?’
‘They don’t serve albatross at restaurants,’ Billy pointed out.
‘In Fiji and such-like barbaric places they do, Selkirk. Kindly do not interrupt. Well, Major Payne? Why did the man shoot himself?’
Losing his temper with these annoying young men would be fatal, Major Payne reminded himself. If he wanted to learn more about the messages on Joan Selwyn’s Blackberry, he might as well accept Mortimer’s terms and play along. For some reason he was convinced now that Joan Selwyn’s mobile phone was central to the solution of her murder.
‘Why did the man shoot himself? Well, that’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?’ Payne gave a little smile. ‘He loved his wife too much and couldn’t imagine life without her. You see, he had found his wife’s wedding ring among the bird’s dejecta membra. He realised that his wife – who had been mountaineering in the Himalayas – had been killed in an accident and that nobody was aware of it yet. He had worked out that an albatross had pecked at his wife’s flesh and swallowed her ring – before being caught, killed, sent to the restaurant, grilled and served?’
‘Not at all bad, Major Payne. Not at all bad.’ Mortimer nodded. ‘Your answer is gruesome enough for my taste, though perhaps not as gruesome as the official solution.’
‘I have a solution,’ Billy Selkirk said. ‘The man suddenly realises that this is his pet albatross, which he reared from a chick and that he released into the wild only a couple of days before. He has recognised the ring on the albatross’s leg, which he himself put there. He loved his pet albatross more than anything in the world, he can’t imagine life without his beloved bird, so he shoots himself.’
‘Too damned feeble, Selkirk! Too damned feeble! Beloved bird indeed. We need to do work on your lateral thinking. Now don’t interrupt and listen to the official solution.’ Mortimer paused. ‘The man, his wife and a second man were shipwrecked on a desert island. The man’s wife died in the wreck. The two men went looking for food but couldn’t find anything edible, but then the second man went searching on his own and he brought what he said was an albatross but was in actual fact – can you guess?’
‘A part of the dead wife,’ Payne murmured.
‘Yes! So they made a fire by rubbing together two dry sticks, grilled the piece of meat and ate it. Later they were rescued; life returns to normal and, at some point, the bereaved husband decides to order albatross at a restaurant. Of course it tastes nothing like what he was told was albatross on the island, which makes him realise that what he had eaten was his dead wife. The shock is too great for him, consequently he suffers a form of derangement and shoots himself!’
‘Ingenious,’ Payne nodded. ‘Though a bit on the elaborate side. You see, my wife maintains – and I tend to agree with her – that the less explanation a denouement involves, the more effective it is. My wife writes detective stories,’ Payne explained.
‘I read a French detective novel once where all the clues were given in italics,’ Billy Selkirk said.
‘Your wife writes detective stories? How terribly interesting,’ Mortimer said. ‘She is not beaten or done, I hope?’
‘Beaten or done? What on earth do you mean? Oh. No, no, no, no – she is not Beaton or Dunn, no! I am married to Antonia Darcy.’
‘I am very glad to hear it. I’m no fan of those two. I’ve heard of Antonia Darcy but so far I haven’t read any of her books. Does Antonia Darcy produce textes de désir or textes de plaisir?’ Mortimer raised the glass of whisky to his lips.
‘Let me
see. If I remember correctly,’ said Payne, ‘in textes de désir what matters is the reader’s desire to reach the denouement and discover whodunit, correct? In textes de plaisir, on the other hand, it is wit, style and interesting characters that matter?’
‘That is correct, Major Payne. So which one is it? Désir or plaisir?’
‘Wouldn’t it be wrong to separate désir from plaisir?’ Billy said. ‘They always go together, don’t they?’
‘In our experience, Selkirk, they do, invariably, you are quite right, but it is detective stories we are talking about,’ Mortimer said. ‘Well, Major Payne?’
‘I would describe Antonia’s books as a blend of both … I am biased of course … But I believe you were about to tell me about Joan Selwyn’s phone messages, weren’t you?’
‘I was about to do no such thing. Why do you keep harping on those messages? They weren’t of the slightest interest or importance, I assure you. They were extremely boring. The first one was from one of Joan’s flatmates, a girl called Minerva – Selkirk admires her immensely – something about an unpaid electricity bill, to which Joan was expected to contribute. Another message was from Joan’s MP boss – something about completing a research task he’d set her, I think. He sounds a severe taskmaster. I told you they were boring. I did warn you, didn’t I?’
‘Were those the only messages?’
‘Yes. There were only two. Sorry to disappoint you.’
Major Payne took his leave soon after.
As he drove away from Shepherds Market, Payne found himself wondering about Lord Collingwood’s mysterious friend and his connection with Olga Klimt. Lord Collingwood did say Joan had been helping him with something but why didn’t he ever mention the fact that it was to do with Olga and Philomel Cottage? How very odd … Who was the mysterious friend?
On an impulse he took out his mobile and rang Lord Collingwood’s home number.
‘Ah, good to hear from you, Payne. Any progress with the untangling? As a matter of fact I got a call from Mortimer only a minute ago. He asked me whether you’d been acting on my behalf. I said no. That was naughty of you, you know, quizzing those boys under false colours! What’s that? What friend? My friend? But I have no friends, Payne. Not a single one. All Deirdre’s fault, I fear … Oh you mean that old fool and Olga? Oh yes, yes. But I wouldn’t call him a friend. I’ll explain everything, though not now, if you don’t mind frightfully.’ Lord Collingwood lowered his voice. ‘Deirdre has come back home, I can hear her and I suspect she is up to something. I’ll have to ring off now. Au revoir.’
The Killing of Olga Klimt Page 18