by Marni Graff
It was the weekend duty sergeant, letting him know Val Rogan’s solicitor was asking to have her released. He was surprised this call hadn’t come during the night. He had spent part of the evening wondering why he’d detained Val Rogan in the first place, feeling off his pace in that interview, distinctly annoyed with himself.
“Who’s she got? … Jeff Nichols, huh? Okay, let her go, just make sure she knows not to leave Oxford proper without letting us know where she’s going specifically and why. And tell him she has to appear at the inquest Thursday.”
“Got it, Dec. Anything else?”
“Watkins or McAfee in yet?”
“Watkins left to give her a lift home. But McAfee just came in.”
“Ask Watkins to call me when he gets back, and put McAfee on.” Declan got out of bed, holding the portable phone to his ear while he turned on the shower. He was brushing his teeth when McAfee came on the line.
“Mornin’ sir.”
Declan spat noisily into the sink. “I’ve decided to do a few interviews before coming in, probably the boy again, the don, and Wallace’s employer, but maybe not in that order. Please get the morning briefing done. The duty sergeant will help. Tell Watkins I want him to cover that art co-operative Rogan runs. They have Sunday hours for the tourists. He’s to see what everyone there has to say about Val Rogan and her relationship with the victim. He’s just gathering background information on the victim if anyone asks, nothing to get anyone’s back up. I’ll meet you both back in the incident room this afternoon. Keep in touch if anything surfaces. I’ll be at Belcher’s.”
“Absolutely, sir. No problem.”
Declan did not miss the thrill in McAfee’s voice at being assigned the morning briefing, even though it would be a formality at this point. As Declan stepped under the hot water, planning his day, he realized he often did his best thinking in the shower and wondered what the department’s shrink would make of that.
*
After calling to set up his first interview, which he decided would be with Miles Belcher, Declan ran a cloth over his black leather wing tips. Today his housekeeper, Mrs. Tinker, would clean his flat, and he must remember to leave her weekly cheque on the console table. Tink had been “doing for him,” as she called it, for four years. He would arrive home tonight to clean sheets, the lemony smell of the furniture polish she used with a heavy hand, and his shirts ironed and hanging in the closet. Declan rarely saw her unless he happened to return to his flat during the day. They communicated mainly by notes. Hers were brief and motherly: “Your blue button-down needs replacing, collar too frayed.” They were always written in a large loopy hand and signed, “Regards, Mrs. Tink.” On occasion he left her little treats he found during the course of his week along with her cheque, as he knew the value of keeping her happy and appreciated her efforts. Then she would be extravagant with her thanks: “Thank you very much for thinking of me in your busy day. Those chocolates were too good for Mr. Tink. I’ve hidden the box in the broom closet, where he would never look, and will enjoy one a night with my evening cuppa. Regards, Mrs. Tink.”
Leaving the flat, taking the stairs down two at a time, Declan left by the back entrance that led to the mews where he garaged the MG. It was a good omen he only had to slam the door once. While he buckled his seat belt, he hoped this smooth start to his day would continue.
Ten minutes after negotiating the morning traffic, he pulled up in front of the The Miles Belcher Studio of Photographic Portraiture. Driving in Oxford was a challenge even for the initiated, one reason so many people rode bicycles or took buses. Parking on the yellow line in front of the shop, he placed his “Police” card on the dash. Then he extricated himself from the low car and checked the road. It had become part of his detective’s instinct to be acutely aware of his surroundings, a way to enhance his security and control.
This was an elegant part of Oxford, the trendy shops and boutiques along Little Clarendon Street beckoning locals and tourists with enticing windows. At the far end of the street he could see a cluster of antiques shops. His ex-wife, Anne, had liked to browse there on the rare days they spent together during their brief marriage. Now she was remarried to a headmaster and living happily in Harbury. Declan knew he had not been the best companion and was genuinely happy for her.
This was part of a detective’s lot, he mused, as he opened the glass door and started up the lushly carpeted stairway to the first-floor studio. The long hours and uneven routine had always left Anne, and every other woman since then, feeling neglected. When he finally was physically present, they accused him of being someplace else mentally. It was true, he’d come to see—spot on if he were being honest. Every time he was wrapped up in a violent-crime investigation, he felt he was in a race with Evil, what Nietzsche termed “good tortured by its own hunger and thirst.” Even when he wasn’t out working the case, he was mulling it over in his mind, sorting evidence and supposition. Declan wondered what kind of woman would see his work as something he was bound to do, driven to do, and would accept it as part of him.
Reaching the door with its elaborate gold lettering, Declan decided Miles Belcher must be living up to his successful reputation. A bell tingled as he entered a reception area lined with attractively worn, brown leather love seats. There were a few discreet side tables piled with glossy international fashion magazines. Decorated in the style of a posh Edwardian gentleman’s club, the room contained a bubbling fountain nymph in one corner, and in another, a stuffed pheasant under glass on a round, walnut table. Brass eyeballs, dimmed, softly lit the thick burgundy carpeting and ficus trees with shiny leaves. All that was missing was a brandy snifter.
The only bright lights were reserved for mini-spots focused directly on framed blowups of Miles Belcher’s favorite clients, scattered across the walls in lieu of hunting prints. University dons in sub fusc mingled with hearty town councilmen and tweeded church vestrymen; groups and wedding parties represented old Oxford families, Anglican prelates, and successful business owners. Declan knew these were deliberate choices to assure the viewer that Miles Belcher took no side in the centuries-old rivalry between town and gown, a stance that netted Belcher the largest possible audience.
By maintaining his connections with the university, Belcher could add graduated students to his province, possibly even a lucrative college contract, while remaining part of the town circle. Declan wondered how long Miles Belcher would feel it was necessary to keep him waiting after he’d called him into the office on a Sunday. He turned at the sound of firm footsteps coming down the hall.
The man who appeared looked Declan up and down as he came into the room, paying particular attention to his shoes. He must have passed inspection, for the man smiled toothily and stuck out his hand in greeting. “Miles Belcher. How can I help you?”
In return, Declan took in the man’s gangly limbs and straw-colored hair draped in an artful Warhol imitation over his forehead. He was dressed in black jeans and a white tuxedo shirt, cuffs hanging loosely over his large hands. The front studs rakishly opened to reveal a large piece of amber hanging from a leather thong, resting in the middle of a sparse patch of pale chest hair. It was not a pretty sight.
“DI Declan Barnes, we spoke earlier,” he said, flashing his warrant card.
“I thought you might be a walk-in; those good shoes threw me off. The plod is usually not as well shod.” Belcher grinned at his pun, then rearranged his features. “You’ve come about dear Bryn, I know. Oh, the poor girl, one simply cannot believe it!” Belcher used his long arms extravagantly, large flourishes punctuating his speech. “It’s so difficult for one to believe she is really gone … ” His voice fell to a respectful hush.
Declan took in the man’s sorrowful face and low voice and wondered irreverently if Belcher’s father had been an undertaker. The photographer ushered him down the hall, past st
udios on either side, into his private office at the end of the corridor. One wall was all windows, providing an expansive view of the grand neoclassical buildings of the Oxford University Press directly across the road. Declan took a chair opposite the photographer, who dropped dramatically into his black leather swivel chair, twisting himself from side to side as he continued to rant.
“She was so alive, so real. A beautiful girl, or … was she disfigured?” One hand leapt to cover his open mouth, his eyes wide open in horror, reminding Declan of a bad audition for drama school. Yes, Belcher was exactly that—stereotypical and a raving drama queen.
“I’d prefer not to go into details, Mr. Belcher. I’m sure you understand the necessity for restraint.” Declan smiled politely. Restraint was probably not a word Miles Belcher used often. The inspector opened his notebook, getting down to business. “How long did Miss Wallace work for you?”
“I pulled her file when your constable came by with the tragic news.” Belcher consulted a purple folder that sat on his desk. “We celebrated her first anniversary with me in April. I brought in pink iced cupcakes from Maison Blanc for tea time.” He looked genuinely distressed, his animated face turning down at the corners, eyes reddening in preparation for tears.
“Right then,” Declan said briskly. “And what exactly were her duties?”
“She was indispensable, Inspector, a true right-hand man, or should I say, woman?” He grinned again at his own levity, then cleared his throat and continued gravely. “Specifically, she assisted me with photographic layouts and studio lighting and, of course, the more mundane parts of the business: ordering supplies, making appointments, delivering proofs.” He paused, then added, “She was always very good about bringing me a café au lait in the morning, nothing chichi for me that early.”
Declan decided the man was incapable of not centering the conversation on himself. “You were close friends then?” He thought he added no particular emphasis to “friends,” but Belcher didn’t see it that way.
“We certainly weren’t intimate, if that’s what you mean,” he answered testily.
“But you were privy to some details of her personal life?” Declan persisted. “As a confidante, I would think, working closely together.”
“Well, yes, to a certain extent.” Belcher let the statement stay until Declan raised one eyebrow in question, and he elaborated. “I knew her when she modeled, actually shot her twice when she was with Cam Wilson. They looked so good together. Of course, she broke up with him when she came to work with me, and there was no one special I’m aware of until Valentine Rogan.”
Now they were getting somewhere. Declan asked, “How would you characterize that relationship?” He waited with pen poised over his notebook.
Belcher took his time, stroking his chin in thought. “I would say they were committed. Bryn certainly seemed smitten. I believe they were talking about moving in together.”
“You’ve met Miss Rogan ?”
“Oh, yes, many times over the past months. I’ve seen her at The Artists’ Co-operative and now and again at art shows. She’s very talented in textile work.” He leaned across the desk as though they were not alone, as if to impart wisdom he didn’t want overheard. “Oxford is really a small town, Inspector, once one gets to know it well.”
“Yes, I live in town myself, Mr. Belcher. Can you tell me anything about a bonus Miss Wallace was supposed to get?”
Belcher’s face darkened. It was the first time Declan had seen him lost for words.
Finally Belcher’s expression cleared. “That would be her Christmas bonus?”
“I don’t know, was she up for anything else?” Declan waited to see if Belcher would look him in the eye.
He did. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“Was there any change in Miss Wallace’s moods or behavior that you noticed over the last few months?”
“Let me see … ” Belcher hesitated.
Declan had the distinct impression the photographer was deliberating how to answer. There could be an opportunity here if he played it right. What was Belcher hiding?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Della Wetherby tripped up the somewhat imposing steps of her sister’s Commonwealth Avenue home and pressed an energetic finger against the electric-bell button.”
— Eleanor H. Porter, Pollyanna Grows Up
9 AM
Louisa Evelyn Rogan stacked clothing onto her carved four-poster bed, adding her journal to the large pile of books she was taking to Oxford.
She enjoyed spending time with Val, who was super-cool, and looked forward to comforting her. Even though her mother hated it, Louisa loved it when Val called her “Lou,” and she’d been trying to convince her friends at school to use the nickname.
Louisa thought she understood how much her sister had cared for Bryn Wallace. Poor Bryn, to die in such an awful way. Murdered, her mother had said, not providing any additional information, but she’d heard her mother tell a friend while talking on the phone that Val’s paramour had been stabbed. An online search of the Oxford papers had given few details, other than that the killing had taken place in Bryn’s apartment. That didn’t stop Louisa from filling them in with her vivid imagination. She wondered if Bryn had felt pain or fear as she faced her killer, picturing different scenarios of her death. Bryn had been one of the most beautiful women Louisa had ever seen in real life, just walking around normal-like and not a bit stuck-up. If she’d been stabbed in her heart, would it have hurt worse or just caused her to die faster? What was her last thought as she lay dying, or did she faint, not knowing she wasn’t going to wake up?
The girl shivered and started sorting the clothes into piles, switching her thoughts to the trip to Oxford. This trip would definitely be a chance to get closer to Val. Although Val had been away at school for much of Louisa’s early childhood, she remembered shared holidays with long walks in Kensington Gardens with their father. They would search out Peter Pan’s statue, where Lloyd Rogan would pretend to swipe one of the bronze rabbits for her. She missed her father, who had called Louisa his Little Princess and Val his Big Princess. It was something she and Val had in common, this sadness over missing their father. Now she would be sad for Val, too, and would share her hurt over Bryn’s death. Shared pain lost some of its sting, Louisa decided in a moment of adult clarity. She desperately wanted to show her sister she could be more to her than just a kid.
There was a soft knock on the door, and her mother came in, smiling at the sight of Louisa’s industriousness. May Rogan nodded, approving of the neat stacks of clothes, then hesitated, taking in the high pile of books.
“Do you need to take so many books, dear? I don’t think we’ll be in Oxford for more than a few days.”
Louisa’s face fell. “But Mum, Val needs us now. We should be there for her—it’s the only chance I’ll get to be with her before term starts. I can leave half of them home if that helps.” She started to sort through the books, rationalizing she could always buy more in Oxford if she ran out. Anything to keep her mother in good spirits about going to see Val.
“Take them, darling, we’ll manage them somehow if they’re important to you.” Louisa recognized her mother’s martyr-like smile as she patted Louisa on the shoulder before leaving the room. The girl sighed and turned back to her packing, diminishing the number of books slightly in a compromise, for she was fond of her mum. But she wondered if her mother knew just how foolish she seemed to others at times. Or maybe everyone else didn’t see her mother the way she did.
She sat heavily on the bed. Sometimes she felt as if she had some kind of special vision, an intuition about people and their inner feelings. “Hidden agendas” one of the psychology books she’d read had called it, when a person said one thing but really meant something entirely different. Maybe she could u
se this talent to seek out Bryn Wallace’s killer. Then her mother would have to stop treating her like a child, and Val—well, Val would be so grateful, Louisa would have her eternal respect and loving thanks. Louisa wanted more than anything to be accepted for something she had done to help someone else, something unselfish and totally daring.
She reached for her cell phone, hitting the speed dial for her best friend.
“Diana, guess what? I’m going to Oxford to find a murderer.”
Chapter Thirty
“‘I’m afraid there’s been a change of plan,’ Mr. Eliot said.”
— Susan Minot, Folly
9:30 AM
Nora hung up her phone in relief.
“That was Janet,” she told Simon. “Val’s home. She took a shower, gobbled down some tea and toast, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow. She has to see the solicitor this afternoon. Janet’s insisting on going with her. I guess that’s a good idea.”
“I agree,” Simon said, drying his hands on a towel after washing their breakfast mugs. “Val could do with a little mothering right now.”
“And Janet will love doing it,” Nora added. She’d been sitting at the table after breakfast, jotting notes and trying to recall what Val had mentioned of the other tenants in Bryn’s building.
Simon looked around her sitting room. “I guess we could start packing up some of this.” He walked down the hallway to the large closet. “You said there’s packing material in here?”