Yet the human tissue and bones that he’s working on, Harriet could not help saying to herself, were, until early yesterday morning, a lively, forward-looking, dazzlingly enchanting young tennis star. Blotted out now, erased.
Escorting Professor Polk to his car when the examination was over, she put to him the one question she most wanted answered.
‘That wound in her throat, Professor, what did you make of it? Any indication what the weapon might have been?’
Professor Polk gave a sharp little laugh.
‘No, Superintendent, I am not going to provide you with the one clue pointing directly to your murderer. But I will admit that puncture puzzles me, too. I mean, I can tell you how deep it was, how wide at the entrance, where it penetrated to, why it caused instant death, all the details you’ve heard me dictate and will see in more detail in my report. But, to be honest, I can’t tell you anything at all about what sort of object was used, beyond the negative fact that it left no obviously visible traces in the wound.’
‘So, something smooth? No great force needed to plunge it in that far?’
‘Yes, no great force. But some, perhaps.’
He got into the car, thumped the door closed, tugged down his seatbelt.
‘And I suppose the only other out-of-the-way thing I found,’ he said, abruptly activating the window-lowering button, ‘is that the girl had every appearance of being a virgin. Hymen broken, of course, as it would be with any sports-playing young woman. But certainly no signs of recent intercourse, and all the indications that it did not habitually take place.’
So, Harriet found herself thinking, yes, it seemed there was at least one young female who had escaped the power of that feeling of amorousness which John’s Tolstoy had slavered over.
*
By the time she got back to her office two things had happened. First, there was a long fax from Inspector Franklin, more or less confirming from his phone call to the Marseilles police what the Daily Dirt stringer had told Sam Porter. Pierre le Fou, according to press reports, had been the victim of a fierce rejection when he had openly suggested taking Bubbles to his bed.
The story had been the talk of Marseilles for weeks. Les Bulles qui ont smashé le gangster (The bubbles or Bubbles that smashed [tennis term] the gangster, Franklin’s fax had over-obligingly explained). The joke had been repeated and repeated, he said, and had soon actually driven Pierre le Fou into hiding. It had been weeks since he had been seen in any of his regular bars in the city.
So, Harriet wondered, can he have crossed the Channel somehow? Any enterprising criminal with money to spare could do that without showing a passport. Could he then have found out from whatever London contacts he might have that Bubbles lived at Adam and Eve House? And could he have made his way through the unfamiliar English countryside, first to spy on the dawn runner, then to cross the ineffectual obstacle of the Leven — he would scarcely have needed to get the bottoms of his trousers wet — and finally to plunge that clean spike into Bubbles’ throat?
Franklin’s fax had said nothing about whether Pierre le Fou was capable of making the trip, and little about whether he was called le Fou because he was in fact a certifiable psychopath. So, yes, a visit to Marseilles still necessary. Especially if, in a day or two now, Pierre is seen in his usual haunts there once more.
The second thing she had been greeted with was the elegant summer-suited figure of Detective Inspector Anderson, Handy Andy. When she had seen the long, curling strip of Franklin’s fax on her desk, she had asked him to wait while she dealt with it.
Now she called him in.
Tall, dark and doesn’t-he-know-it handsome was the thought that came straight into her mind as she took a better look at him. Lean tanned face, lean figure — just, in fact, she thought wryly, the type I go for — mid-thirties, holding himself well and looking down at her as she sat at her desk with a confident white-toothed smile. Easy enough to understand why all the women officers in B Division in Birchester were succumbing to his charm, if in fact they were. But will he, she asked herself, prove to be a good detective?
By way of testing that out she told him about Sam Porter’s middle-of-the-night call and how now Inspector Franklin, talking to the Marseilles police, had confirmed most of what she had been told.
‘We’re lucky to have Inspector Franklin at headquarters in Birchester,’ she said. ‘It’s amazing how often someone speaking good French is needed. You speak it at all?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact. Like to take the odd holiday in la belle France!
Oh, do you? Smart London detective, all right. But you don’t take care to address a senior officer you’re meeting for the first time as ma’am. I wonder whether you’d call a male senior officer sir. I rather expect you would.
Say something? No, let it pass this once, if there’s a chance that he’ll be on my team for weeks and months to come, no point in antagonizing him at the outset. He’d better earn that reprieve, though.
But — the sudden thought — Anselm had been punctilious in using the ma’am right from the start, and he still is. But, no, mustn’t think along those lines. Must not.
All right, you seem to know your France, DI. So what’s your take on Pierre le Fou?’
He took a moment before replying, serious thought stamped on his leanly handsome face.
‘Well, looks good to me, I must say. You know what that sort of gang boss is like. Always ready to pounce on lack of respect, especially if it comes from a woman. And even more especially if that woman’s a mistress.’
‘You’re suggesting that Bubbles Xingara was that? That what she and this gangster had was some sort of public disagreement between lovers?’
‘Well, you never know. I’ve never even seen a picture of Pierre le Fou, but that type, if he’s not positively a goon, always has got a certain power over women. Attraction of the very male, you know.’
And are you by any chance contriving to plant such a situation between very male yourself and me? Damn it, I think you are. Already. Sgt Grant was right about you, John’s Tolstoyan theory borne out a hundred per cent.
But I don’t think you’re correct about little Bubbles. No, not for a minute. Not about the girl who produced that quick, crushing retort to the fan at Eastbourne.
‘So, ma’am,’ — at last a ma’am — ‘you thinking of sending someone to Marseilles, check up on all this?’
‘Yes, of course someone will have to go.’
She saw his eyes light up. Not very good at concealing his thoughts, DI Anderson.
But then he said something that jolted her with surprise, as if she had had a slap in the face.
‘But, look here, if we’re going to be working together, couldn’t you call me Andy or Handy Andy, if you like? It’s what everyone does. And if you are sending someone to Marseilles, well, my French is actually pretty good.’
‘Thank you for your offer, DI,’ Harriet said, almost without having to think. ‘But I’m sending DI Brent, from the Leven Vale force. He’s been on the case from the very beginning, well up on all the details.’
Handy Andy managed to conceal his chagrin. But only just.
And I, Harriet thought, have I managed to conceal my feelings about Anselm? I dare say I have. But Anselm away for days, maybe weeks? What I want? Or what I by no means want?
*
Harriet got on to the Leven Vale Chief Constable straight away, and succeeded in convincing him that Pierre le Fou was a much more likely murderer than trembly Old Rowley had ever been, and that the expense of a trip to France for DI Brent would be justified. With that under her belt, she decided to go back again to Adam and Eve House, where Anselm had gone to check those early-morning timings.
After driving through a small ambush of media cameras outside the gates, she found Anselm round at the back of the old house, where the Scenes-of-Crime officers were busy packing away the glaring blue tent and its surrounding police tape.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘did you find out
anything more about the timings of what happened in the house here just before six yesterday morning?’
‘Think I have, ma’am. Always provided Renshaw and Fiona aren’t in it together somehow and lying their heads off. Which I don’t think they can be, really. And, if they’re not, what I think occurred was this: Renshaw was sleeping in one of the spare rooms, as I gathered he always does nowadays, saw the unmade bed. Get away from that rampaging wife of his, I dare say. He has an alarm clock, and it went off as usual at 5.45.
He got up, went to the lavvy, washed but didn’t shave, put on some clothes and set off to go down to that boathouse gym. But he found the body then, and rang us at Levenham PS. Time fits in all right with that, I’d checked yesterday that his clock was still set to ring at 5.45.’
‘Good. Go on. What about Fiona Diplock?’
‘Not as clear with her, ma’am. Did her best to avoid saying where it was she was sleeping. And I thought I shouldn’t try to make her be definite. Not till it looks as if she’s on the cards as a suspect, anyhow.’
‘Yes, you did right. So what did she tell you?’
‘That she woke, as she usually does in the summer, just after six. She made out she doesn’t set the alarm on her radio. But I very much doubt if she was in her own room. She said she’d barely got dressed when Renshaw told her about the murder just after he’d rung us. Seems a reasonable account, apart from that confusion over the rooms.’
‘Yes. I think we can pretty safely say Peter Renshaw’s interests, if they lie anywhere, are with big Fiona rather than they were with little Bubbles. Sex rearing its head in that spare room.’
And can I ask, Does it often rear up with you, Anselm? Of course, I can’t. I mustn’t. I won’t.
‘As it so often does, in all sorts of places. As you must know yourself.’
The slow blush. God, he’s so fucking desirable. Push for it. Yes, push. I can’t help myself.
‘I mean, you must put yourself around from time to time, yes?’
The blush conquered, or half-conquered. Eyes looking elsewhere. Anywhere. At the brick of the house, mellower now with no strong sunlight directly on it.
‘I suppose I do.’
‘String of girlfriends, is it?’
How much longer can I go on like this? What a fool I’m being. This isn’t me. But I’m going on. Going on. John’s Eros thundering down through me. Unstoppable.
‘Wouldn’t say a string. No. Just two or three really.’
He’s wriggling, actually shifting his feet about in those terrible brown brogues he wears. I must not do this to him.
‘So it’s hookers, is it?’ she said, making herself lightly laugh. ‘So far as Levenham has any?’
But he seemed unable to respond to the easy jokiness she had tried to hit on. His mouth tightened. She could see, all too plainly, that he was going to come out with a confession, as if a tooth was being wrenched from the gum.
‘Well, Levenham doesn’t have any prossies, or not proper professionals as you might say. But, yeah, matter of fact, I went over to Birchester, once or twice, when I was younger.’
Oh, God, he’s delightful. Delicious. I’m sunk. Sunk.
No. No, I’m not. I won’t be. I mustn’t be. I’m — I’m, yes, the Hard Detective.
She swallowed fiercely.
‘Well, enough of all that,’ she said.
She explained then about Pierre le Fou.
‘We’ve got to find out all we can about a madman like that,’ she ended. ‘He really could be the one we’re looking for. And that means someone’s got to go out to Marseilles. And I’m sending you.’
She stopped herself abruptly.
‘I — I’m assuming you speak some French; she said, suddenly realizing that this was indeed an assumption.
‘Well, ma’am, I’ve hardly thought about French since I left school. But I suppose I remember it a bit, though I can’t exactly say I parlez-vous like a native. Still, we had a horrible French master at the Grammar, Mr Lehane, so I did learn it pretty well. That was in the old days, when the school was pretty academic. It’s more interested in sport nowadays.’ Then came that smile again, brilliant from blue eyes, and at once gone. ‘As a matter of fact I won the French prize in my last term.’
‘Right. Then I’m not sorry I preferred you for the task to DI Anderson, who’s just arrived from Birchester. So it’s off to France for you ... Anselm.’
Yes, off with him to France. Out of sight. But will it be out of mind? And hasn’t he, just in the last few minutes, lodged himself yet more rootedly in my head? That blushing admission that he’s been with, if not Brazilian whores, Birchester ones.
So, would he, if it came to it, be as shocked as he was by Aimée Renshaw’s advances if it was me making them? As, if he’s got eyes in his head, he may have guessed I’ve already done, if more discreetly than that terrible woman.
Oh, why am I sending him away? Why did I tell him I was going to when he had only just let me know he’s available? If he did. If he’s there, ready. There, to be assailed. Yes, assailed.
Chapter Seven
Detective Inspector Anselm Brent left for Marseilles immediately after the inquest into the death of Bubbles Xingara. Occupied though Harriet was in checking over her notes of the proceedings — verdict: murder by a person or persons unknown — she could not restrain herself from going over to the window of her office and looking down at the street below as he got into the car to take him to Birchester Airport.
The same damn clothes. That dreadful orangey jacket — God, how hot he’ll be in sun-scalding Marseilles — those heavy grey trousers, those clomping brown shoes.
Oh, but why, why, why, did I send him off? He could be here, here in this room at this moment, near enough to touch. He might be sitting on that chair opposite, and his hand might be resting on the edge of my desk. Palm up.
And he’s so damn likeable, too. Look at the way, when I signed that authorization for him, he flashed me his blue-eyed, somehow direct yet bashful smile and said, I promise I won’t be the one to throw this signature of yours into the gutter.
No. No, come on. The inquest. The inquest. Anything I ought to have spotted there, however minimal?
She marched back to her desk. But, even at the end of a hard half-hour she had seen nothing in her notes of any help. The police surgeon who had certified death had given a straightforward account of what he had observed. Professor Polk had told, at complicated medical length, what his findings had been at the post-mortem. Peter Renshaw had said no more and no less than he had after finding Bubbles there by the Leven with that wound in her throat and blood all over her singlet. He had stated that she went for a long run first thing every morning, every day of the week, and had added, in answer to the Coroner’s question, that this was public knowledge in that it had been reported in at least the Levenham paper. No, he knew of no one who could have any reason for killing his stepdaughter. Anselm, equally, had given, simply and clearly, his evidence about the situation of the body when he had reached Adam and Eve House. She herself had had to do no more than say, falling back on the familiar pledge, that police inquiries were being ‘vigorously pursued’.
So they were. The forty-odd officers in her team were all hard at work. Completed Action Sheets from the hundreds of inquiries being made at every house or shop in a ten-mile radius from the murder scene were being checked, analysed, computer-logged. Reports, all so far negative, had come in from airports and ports all round the country about the possible arrival of Pierre le Fou. Every name had been noted of every fan Fiona Diplock had put into her computer or Bubbles had had in her Filofax — more than 370 cards — and one by one, male and female, they were being questioned, either by team members or in answer to requests to local forces. All their alibis were being checked. Another extra-intensive search for the weapon had been carried out, without result. And over at Greater Birchester Police headquarters the force’s computer expert, not to say licensed hacker, one Sgt Downey, was investigati
ng, at the end of his keyboard, any website reputed to hold photos of Bubbles.
Thank God, Harriet added to herself, I’ll be able to get home tonight. A long hot shower. A long cool drink. And, if I’m not so tired that I’ll snap at poor John, a little easy talk.
But, whatever happens, there’s going to be no mention of any personal relations I may or may not have with new members of my team, especially those I have most to do with, DI Brent and DI Anderson. Oh, yes, there’s as much danger in saying anything about Handy Andy as there is in mentioning Anselm. Begin to talk about the way ever since he first stepped into my office he’s been blatantly giving me the look that, presumably, he was giving with such success all those WPCs at B Division in Birchester, and in no time I could find myself launching into a comparison with modest Anselm. And then ...
And I haven’t the time or the energy now to decide what, if anything, I want to tell John. Yes, in theory I could tell him about Anselm. We have our agreement, occasional sex for the sake of sex not affecting our real relationship. And there isn’t in actual fact all that much to tell. Yet.
But, on the other hand, if there is nothing to tell, or almost nothing, and if there’s never going to be anything to tell, as I trust after Anselm comes back from France there won’t be, then there’s nothing to be gained from blabbing out those thoughts that Tolstoy’s famous amorousness has sent whirling in my head.
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