Bloodhounds pd-4

by Peter Lovesey

  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 my 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."

  "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 s
peckled, 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."