by Marni Graff
“No!” The woman’s frustration flowed from her. “Can’t you believe two women can love each other? Or are you too prejudiced to understand that?”
Declan sat back. “It has nothing to do with bias of any kind. Surely you’re aware that even in a hetero relationship we scrutinize the boyfriend or husband in a murder investigation.”
Nora grimaced at this truth.
“I’m asking you about Miss Rogan to learn more about Bryn Wallace,” Declan explained. He was getting little joy from her answers and had the distinct impression she was playing with him. He found the challenge Nora Tierney represented stimulating and grudgingly gave her points for being so assured of her friend’s innocence.
“Of course you can ask if you really think it will help,” she replied.
Behind him McAfee slurped his water. “It must have occurred to you it would appear she was the last person to see the victim alive. I’m trying to find out as much as I can about her to, well, to eliminate her from our inquiries, as it were.” That was true enough on one level, he thought.
“Eliminate her? That’s why she had to bring in the clothing she wore that night? Inspector Barnes, even the general public has read too many Agatha Christies not to know that very action means you consider Val a suspect worth investigating.” Nora shook her head in annoyance and pushed her glasses up her nose. “There is just one thing you need to remember.”
This wasn’t going at all the way he had thought it would although he was enjoying the verbal sparring. He decided to play along with her. “I’ll bite, Miss Tierney. Just what is it I need to remember?”
Nora stood and leaned toward him, her small hands lying flat on the tabletop. “The last person to see Bryn Wallace alive wasn’t Val Rogan. It was her murderer.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I must compose my face and push the fear and doubt beneath the skin.”
— John Hersey, White Lotus
11 AM
Enjoying brunch in the backyard, Ted Wheeler looked with pleasure upon the rows of delicate pink, yellow, and mauve zinnias clustered with white daisies. His wife was really a wonderful gardener. He sipped a second cup of green tea. According to the porter, a detective named Watkins had called for him at Exeter and said he would try again. Ted’s stomach had calmed down, and he was almost able to pretend everything was as it had been. He had written to the woman. He hadn’t decided what to say or how to act, but that would come to him in time, no doubt. He just needed to stay calm.
Ted smiled across the wicker table at Jess, deciding the streak of grey hair coming in at one corner of her forehead gave her an exotic look. She was still a striking woman. Middle age had softened her features, giving her a benevolent air that added to her character. He thought back to their early married years, the tiny flat, and the three flights they’d climbed up every day. Jess had never complained about going out to work and had done so cheerfully, as he took classes and wrote papers to get his doctoral degree. She had always been confident of his eventual success, always encouraged him, even at times when his poor beginnings threatened to trip him up. He owed her his allegiance.
Kath and Derrick were coming to dinner later. Certainly he was mellowing if he was looking forward to seeing them together, he decided, pleased he had managed to jump that hurdle of the new husband. There were grandchildren to look forward to now, little Kaths running around, and the cycle of their lives would continue. He leaned back in his chair with great complacency, feeling the sun warm his face.
Beside him, Jess opened the paper, and with her exclamation, he felt his tranquility rapidly dissipate. “Ted! That lovely girl from the Belcher Studio has been murdered!”
*
Inside the penthouse flat of a large contemporary building that overlooked Botley Stream, Cameron Wilson waited for the detective who had called earlier in the day; he’d said he would be dropping by with a few questions. After a quick hit, his imagination was in overdrive. He pictured the man driving out of Oxford centre and west along the Botley Road, maybe planning where he would stop for lunch, turning onto Prestwich Place, the new lane leading to his building.
“Posh,” the detective would think as he parked.
Cam checked one last time to be certain his stash was properly hidden. The morning newspapers had the conspicuous headline “Former Model Murdered in Magdalen Road,” adding an extra jolt of heartburn to his hungover morning.
He had read the article with growing fear gripping his stomach and immediately anticipated this visit; his story was prepared. All he had to do was stick to it, and they would never find out he had been on Magdalen Road that night.
Chapter Twenty
“No one could really like Jimmy Jamison, but that should come as no surprise.”
— Jack Galloway, The Toothache Tree
11:15 AM
Declan decided to let Val Rogan stew while he and McAfee left to do two quick interviews, knowing her anticipation and anxiety would be heightened by several hours spent waiting in a stuffy police station, just soaking up the atmosphere, as it were. As they parked outside Tommy Clay’s building, he pictured the woman back at the station getting more and more annoyed. He knew she was aware of her position in this case, and he hoped the long wait with too much time to think would persuade her to tell him the truth. And while she was thinking, he could be tying up a few loose ends. One of those loose ends was the bloody blighter who stood defiantly in front of him.
The two officers followed Clay into his flat, where Declan questioned him carefully. He had gone over the notes from the PC who’d done the house-to-house and looked now for discrepancies in Clay’s answers. While the man’s usual behavior did not include a background of murder, he was still a suspect to be examined.
Declan’s belief that pedophiles were the lowest of the low had made this visit disagreeable from the start. The man before him represented a cancer upon society as far as Declan was concerned, preying on youth’s innocence and destroying it in the process.
Although he had been surprised by the barren feel of the small flat, just down the road from Bryn Wallace’s more imposing building, Declan was totally unimpressed with the pugnacious man who chain-smoked as they questioned him. So far his answers had been consistent.
“So you’re on the dole, Mr. Clay?” Declan asked.
“Not even. I’m a lucky budgie, my auntie left me something in her will.”
Declan made certain McAfee was taking notes. They would have to investigate his claim of an inheritance that let him stay idle since leaving prison. “And your plans are?”
“Don’t have none yet, do I? Just trying to get my pins under me, like. I’ll sort out something soon enough.”
I bet you will, Declan thought, grimacing inside. “I think that’s all, Mr. Clay. Please call the station if you remember anything that might be of help. Don’t leave the area without notifying St. Aldate’s. And we’ll be checking your alibi.”
“I still don’t see why you big guns had to come and talk to me. I told that other bloke yesterday I only knew that girl by sight.” The cloak of indignation Clay wore was obnoxious. “You’re just bothering me ‘cause I was in gaol.”
“Strictly procedure, Mr. Clay,” McAfee answered as they stood to leave, but the man would not be placated, stopping them at the door.
“I know what you’re about then,” he sneered. He pointed his finger at Declan’s chest, stopping just short of jabbing him. “I’ll never lose the label. Hundreds of thousands of people involved, millions of dollars spent every year on the porn industry, yet you righteous plods will only condemn me—remember me—because I was caught.”
Declan drew himself to his full height and looked down at the man, this time not bothering to mask his loathing.
“You were caught exposing yoursel
f to children. What stays between adults in the privacy of their homes is just that—private. You violated that right of privacy when you took your sexual perversions and inflicted them on innocent children.”
And turning on his heel, he pushed McAfee out of the flat, slamming the door behind them.
*
On the other side of the closed door, a wide smile spread over Tommy Clay’s face. He had greatly enjoyed rankling the big detective who dressed too well for a copper, in his opinion. They would have to leave him alone now; to do otherwise would smack of harassment. He would love to slap a suit on them. His alibi for Friday evening was solid: he had been having his future told by Miss Odessa across the street, waiting outside for his turn, smoking as usual. She would confirm that at 11:45 he was sitting across from her in the patchouli-scented room where she did her readings. She had given him his full fifteen minutes’ worth until midnight.
When she told him during her reading that she saw him coming into unexpected money in the near future, he had known it was fate that he had been waiting on line outside Miss Odessa’s that night. He’d seen the woman leaving Bryn Wallace’s flat at 11:25, a fact he neglected to mention to the plod. Why should he help a queer bitch out? It was the bloke who had entered the building four or five minutes later, and whom he’d recognized, who would be his gold mine, and he threw himself across his bed to ruminate on the best way to approach his quarry.
Chapter Twenty-One
“The meal had the ill-subdued restlessness of a headquarters’ mess on the eve of the battle.”
— Richard Gordon, A Question of Guilt: The Curious Case of Dr. Crippen
11:45 AM
Nora and Simon stood with Janet on the steps of St. Aldate’s police station. Janet hadn’t spoken much since her interview ended, and it was clear to Nora that Janet hated leaving Val behind as much as she did.
They walked up St. Aldate’s, pausing for Janet to examine the raised perennial beds of the War Memorial Garden, lost in thought. When she finally spoke, it was to say: “When Bryn was a baby, I thought of all kinds of excuses I would tell her for why she didn’t have a father. One of my favorites was that her father had died in the war, any war.” Janet sighed.
“What did you eventually tell her?” Nora asked.
Janet shrugged as they moved on. “I told her the truth—somewhere she had a father, but I had no idea where he was or what he was doing. My father did a fine job of being a stand-in when she was little. I was very fortunate to have both my parents’ support, but my dad spent a lot of time with her when she was young.”
Nora glanced at Simon, who met her eyes with a sympathetic look. She would miss her own father’s support for her child, something she hadn’t dwelled on before.
They continued to Christ Church, where they watched the bowler-hatted college custodian checking IDs. They looked down the long drive to its pepper-pot tower and the majestic cloisters of Christ Church Cathedral. “Would you like to go in?” Simon asked Janet.
Janet considered this. “No, I think what I would really like is a good cup of coffee.”
“I know just the place,” Nora said, escorting them across the street to the corner of Pembroke Street, where St. Aldate’s Coffee House stood open.
It was a cool, peaceful oasis after the bustle of the outside street, and with encouragement from Simon, Janet ordered her coffee and a bowl of home-cooked soup. After they’d ordered, Nora checked her watch.
“Val said she would call us as soon as she’s through,” she said.
“I expect it will be lunchtime at the station, too, so they might not get to her until later,” Simon predicted.
Beside him, Nora snorted. “Oh, please. Barnes will make her sweat until he’s good and ready to talk to her. He’s probably out somewhere having a three-course meal on the taxpayer’s dole.” She sipped a glass of ice water.
“You’re right, Simon, it will be a while,” Janet said. “Perhaps after we finish here I should go back to Val’s flat. I need to call some cousins, and I suppose I should call the vicar. I can at least make some preliminary funeral preparations.”
“And take a nap,” Nora said. “You need to keep your strength up.”
“I could say that about two people at this table,” Simon said. He was promptly rewarded with an elbow in his side.
*
After dropping Janet home and using the bathroom, Nora paced her small sitting room. “I feel like those books are looking at me with guilty spines,” she told Simon. “I should be packing, but I just don’t feel like it.”
“That’s natural,” he said. “You’re worried about Val. I could make a start, if you like, and you could nap.”
Nora considered this, then shook her head. “No, let’s get out of here.” She slung her quilted bag over her shoulder. “I need to walk and think.”
Simon drove them into the town centre and scored a parking spot on Broad Street, right across from the curved end of the Sheldonian Theatre, built for Oxford University ceremonials. Nora guided him past the railing containing the stone busts of the Emperors’ Heads to the stone-paved Old Schools Quadrangle. The traffic noise dissipated; there was an atmosphere of calmness. Discreet signs requested silence. Nora walked the quad with Simon at her side, letting the peacefulness of the area flow through her.
She was thankful Simon didn’t interrupt her. He walked beside her, silently reading the names of the original schools of the University that were painted in gold above shadowy doorways. What was Val going through? Was Janet on the phone right now, crying out her news to her relatives? When would the inquest be? Who had killed Bryn Wallace and why? Nora’s thoughts went round and round until she found they’d stopped in front of the Radcliffe Camera, its spherical gracious form mirroring her circular thoughts.
“You have to take an oath to be a reader at the Bodleian Library, did you know that?” she asked Simon. “They have all of these original books and manuscripts that go back to medieval times, and you merely swear you won’t deface them or take them away or light them on fire, and that’s pretty much their security code.”
“Sounds pretty amazing in modern times,” Simon admitted.
“It’s because they have faith the majority of people will value the history contained here,” Nora explained, aware that the heat of the afternoon had made the back of her neck perspire. She searched through her bag for a coated rubber band. “When I was a student here I read the original newspaper reviews of Wilkie Collins’ The Woman in White—it gave me goose bumps.” She tied her hair up in a ponytail. “We should have the same faith in those we love.”
He nodded. “But not be blind to their faults,” he said. “You glow when you talk about old books, you know.”
“Just as you must glow when you visit a museum and see old masterpieces,” she countered. Was he telling her to keep her mind open that Val might not be as innocent as she thought?
They walked on in silence while Nora contemplated this awful thought, exiting on Catte Street and approaching Hertford College. Connecting two buildings on opposite sides of the street was the ornate corridor known as the Bridge of Sighs for its resemblance to the original Ponte dei Sospiri in Venice. They lingered in the alleyway, admiring the architecture. Nora wondered if Simon was aware this was traditionally a favorite place to become engaged. Why would he? Why was she even thinking about these kinds of things? She felt a wave of misgiving pass over her. One minute she was worried Val might be capable of murder and the next she was thinking of engagements? What was wrong with her?
“Simon, why do people revere historical things like paintings and books but have so little regard for the humans who produced them?” Nora knew her tone was disturbed. She suddenly felt out of energy. There was just too much to take in all at once.
“I don’t know why huma
ns act like that, Nora,” Simon said, taking her elbow. “But I do know that you need air conditioning and a lie down.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Now, what I want is, Facts.”
— Charles Dickens, Hard Times: For These Times
2 PM
Davey Haskitt was not at home; Declan left his card tucked in the door saying he had stopped by. He had McAfee check in with the team conducting interviews on Magdalen Road: nothing of interest had surfaced. Watkins said he felt Cam Wilson had been nervous but hadn’t established Wilson had been stalking Bryn Wallace.
It was nearly 2 when Declan arrived at the station after a hasty ploughman’s lunch with McAfee at a pub in Cowley. McAfee had ordered the same thing as Declan had, and the inspector had felt his actions were being shadowed. The young man was eager for a promotion; whether he had the intellect and skill to pull it off remained to be proven.
Checking with his team in the incident room cost Declan another forty-five minutes while he sorted incoming information. Just as he was wrapping up, Debs delivered copies of the transcription of the song playing in Bryn Wallace’s flat when she was found dead. Debs’ research indicated the song, “No Matter What,” was written by Andrew Lloyd Webber with lyrics by Jim Steinman for their musical Whistle Down the Wind. Declan recalled the show had not been a success. But when Boyzone recorded the song, it had become a huge hit. “Record of the Year in the U.K. in 1998,” he read out loud as McAfee followed along on his copy.