She was right.
Mrs Hirsch tutted at the sight of the wig then turned to her filing cabinets. ‘Special orders are all in here.’ She tapped the top of one cabinet. ‘Last thirty days all in the top drawer, filed by date of purchase, newest at the front.’ Mrs Hirsch slid her glasses down her nose and regarded Peregrine over the frames. ‘Do you know when the order was placed?’
Peregrine dropped the wig onto the desk, where it fell in the pool of light cast by the lamp. ‘I think it was recent, but I’m not entirely sure.’ She brushed past a large rubber tree in a brass planter, its thick leaves casting wild shadows up the wall, and joined Mrs Hirsch in front of the array of steel drawers.
The older woman sighed again. ‘If it’s older than thirty days it will be in here.’ She tapped the next drawer down with a knuckle. ‘Filed under the wholesaler’s name.’ She looked up at the clock and inhaled sharply. ‘Is that the time already? Perhaps we could look tomorrow? Ever since Miss Astor … well, I really don’t like being in the store at night anymore.’
Mrs Hirsch edged towards Peregrine, clearly used to having junior staff get out of her way, but Peregrine stood firm.
‘Would you mind if I took a look, please, Mrs Hirsch?’ Peregrine asked. ‘I promise I won’t mess up your files. It’s just that I hate going home and leaving work undone.’
Joyce Hirsch glanced at the clock again then back at Peregrine’s face. She nodded briskly. ‘I wouldn’t usually allow it, but you seem sensible and I’ve always tried to adhere to the principle of never putting off until tomorrow what you can do today. Besides, we working girls have to look out for one another.’ She gave Peregrine a conspiratorial wink.
‘Thank you!’ Peregrine immediately backed up, allowing Mrs Hirsch to squeeze past.
‘Turn off the lamp when you leave, dear,’ said Mrs Hirsch, buttoning her coat.
‘Yes, Mrs Hirsch.’
‘And don’t stay too long.’
‘I won’t.’ Peregrine put a hand on the top drawer, eager for the secretary to leave. ‘Don’t let me keep you—I’d hate for you to miss your connection!’
‘Heavens!’ Mrs Hirsch bustled over to the elevators and jabbed the button. When the doors opened she stepped into the car. ‘Good night, dear,’ she said as the doors slid shut.
Peregrine tugged open the top drawer, pulled out the first manila folder she encountered and put it on the desk next to the discarded wig. She flipped the folder open and squinted at the top sheet for a moment, then remembered she was still wearing Penny Foster’s glasses. Impatiently she yanked them off and dropped them in her pocket, then sat down in Mrs Hirsch’s chair.
She scanned page after page, astounded that so many special orders had been placed in just the last thirty days. Many of the items were for window displays, with an abundance of decorations for Christmas, still months away. She got to the end of the file with no luck.
‘Rats,’ Peregrine muttered. She slapped the file closed and straightened up, suddenly aware the building had grown quiet and dark around her. Security lighting must have been switched on, but either the fixtures were very sparsely placed or a number of bulbs were broken, because the executive floor of Blair’s Emporium was now full of shadows. Far away at the end of the hall, Peregrine could see a feeble yellow light, but between the desk where she sat and the door to the stairwell was only a blackness so thick it seemed almost solid. She shivered, then reminded herself there was nothing to worry about; at that very moment, Lewis Knox was sitting in Central Police Station getting the third degree from Detective Steed.
She swivelled the chair around to face the filing cabinets, replaced the recent orders folder, then opened the next drawer and rifled through the alphabet to H. She moved the new folder into the light, opened the cover and there it was, right on top: Hair by Harrison’s, with a style number and description. Peregrine picked up the wig, now warm from sitting under the light, and turned it inside out to check the number. As she did so a faint smell wafted through the air. She brought the wig up to her nose and inhaled deeply.
‘Strange.’ Peregrine frowned and sniffed the wig again. ‘I know that scent from somewhere. Lemony.’ Still frowning, she checked the number. It matched the order—which specified a shoulder-length copper-orange wig in modacrylic—so Peregrine turned her attention to the client.
‘This makes no sense.’ Peregrine shook her head and read the details again.
The wig had been ordered for Maggie Blair.
‘Why would Mrs Blair … ?’
Then she caught sight of the scrawled signature executed by the person who’d approved the purchase. Not Maggie Blair. And now that Peregrine thought about it, it was unlikely Mrs Blair had the authority to make wholesale purchases from suppliers. She looked at the signature again, tilting the page back and forth in the lamplight. It definitely said Blair, but the first initial was so florid and looping it was impossible to decipher. Peregrine dropped the purchase order onto the desk and leaned back in Mrs Hirsch’s chair, staring at the wig, as she tried to work out the truth behind the murders of Barbie Jones and Florence Astor.
Minutes passed.
Suddenly she sat forward, snatching up the telephone. The switchboard was closed for the night and she had to hit various buttons before she finally heard the echoing burr that signified an outside line. Peregrine punched in a number she’d been careful to memorise several days ago. She needed to talk to Detective Steed. Now.
Ordinarily, a ringing phone in the detectives’ room at Central Police Station at that time of evening would have been pounced on within seconds, but at that moment the place was in an uproar. It took James Steed a few beats even to realise his phone was ringing, and by the time he’d managed to cross the room, grab the receiver, fumble with it and drop it, then finally get it to his ear, there was no one on the line. Cursing, he hung up and turned back to the cause of the disturbance.
Terence Blair was not a happy man.
‘Mr Blair.’ Steed tried for calm but Terence Blair was too busy ranting to notice.
‘Blair!’ Steed barked in his steeliest police voice.
The other man shut up, but only to draw in a breath. From his red cheeks to his blazing eyes, it was clear he had plenty more to say. Before he could start shouting again, Detective Steed opened the door to his boss’s office.
‘Shall we talk in here?’ he asked, though it wasn’t really a question. Hopefully Terence Blair would calm down a bit in the private and somewhat more comfortable surrounds of Chief Inspector Sparrow’s personal domain. Blair stared at him for a moment, mouth curled into a snarl and chest heaving with fury, before stalking across the room and into the office. Steed closed the door quietly behind them. Neither man sat down.
‘As I said, I’m sorry I had to ask you to come in, but this is a murder investigation and one that impacts directly on your store. The sooner we can clear things up, the better it will be all round.’ Blair pointed an angry finger at him. ‘I will be reporting you to your boss. Then we’ll see if things are better for you!’
‘That’s your prerogative, but Chief Inspector Sparrow isn’t here at the moment. So, for now, how about you tell me all about your affair with Barbie Jones?’
Terence Blair gaped at him. ‘That’s not … How … ?’ Then he collected himself. ‘I specifically—’
‘Yes, specifically,’ Steed interrupted. ‘Why don’t you tell me about your little arrangement with the Blair’s van and why you changed that on the night Barbie Jones was murdered?’
‘Van? What van? Blair’s has several vans but I have managers and drivers who are responsible for—’
‘Perhaps I should mention that I’ve already had a lengthy conversation with one of your storemen. Lewis Knox?’ Steed leaned his shoulders against the closed office door, folding his arms across his chest.
Terence Blair’s hands curled into fists. ‘Knox!’ He almost spat the name. ‘That money-grubbing little …’
‘In all fairness, he was doing
a good job of keeping your secret until I told him that if he continued to insist he was the one driving the van that night, then he was the one I was going to charge with murder.’ Steed crossed one ankle over the other.
‘Well, I wasn’t driving the van that night! And I told that mouth breather I wouldn’t be needing it, so not to bother.’
‘Where were you, then, Mr Blair?’ Steed asked quietly.
Terence Blair’s chest puffed and he smirked at the detective. ‘As it happens, I was dining with the mayor. He’s a good friend of mine. Perhaps you’ll catch a glimpse of him when you’re back in uniform and standing on the steps of Town Hall for ten hours at a stretch.’
Steed regarded him coolly. ‘Naturally I’ll have to confirm your whereabouts. Since you’re such good friends, you wouldn’t happen to have the mayor’s phone number, would you?’
Blair’s face began to redden again.
‘No? Never mind, I’m sure we can track it down. If you wouldn’t mind waiting here a few minutes longer.’ Steed straightened up and opened the door. ‘Oh, and Mr Blair’—he stepped into the outer office—‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Blair looked momentarily blank, but as Steed slammed the door he was gratified to see the man’s face transformed once again by a look of incredulous fury. After a second’s hesitation, the detective twisted the key in the lock. It wasn’t likely to make Blair more cooperative, but it made Steed feel a bit better. Besides, Inspector Sparrow was probably going to crucify him anyway; he might as well make it worthwhile.
When Steed turned around, Constable Connor was standing several feet away, looking at a stack of files on one of the desks, but with the distinct air of someone who, moments earlier, had been glued to the other side of the door. Despite the late hour, her uniform looked immaculate and not a single blonde hair had escaped the confines of her regulation bun.
‘Constable,’ said Steed.
‘Sir?’ She looked up, her expression one of polite enquiry.
‘See if you can find an after-hours phone number for the mayor.’ ‘Yes, Detective.’ Constable Connor pivoted smartly and headed for reception.
Behind him, Terence Blair began to pound on the locked door. Steed closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet.
On his desk, the telephone began to ring again. This time, he deftly plucked the receiver from its cradle.
‘Central Police. Detective Steed.’
‘Detective, it’s Peregrine Fisher. I tried earlier but I guess you were busy.’
‘Things were a bit hectic,’ said Steed dryly. ‘I’m glad you’re home safely. Did you manage to find out anything about the wig?’
Peregrine hesitated. ‘Actually, I’m still at Blair’s.’
‘You’re what? Miss Fisher—’
‘It’s fine. Mrs Hirsch had to go but she showed me where to look in the files.’
Steed was silent.
‘Anyway,’ Peregrine resumed, ‘do you want to know what I’ve found? Because it doesn’t make sense.’
‘What I want is for you to be at home.’
‘That’s very domestic of you,’ said Peregrine tartly.
‘Fine. What have you got?’
‘The wig—which, by the way, was originally a full-length piece—was ordered over a month ago for Mrs Blair. But I’ve never seen her wearing a wig.’
‘She wanted to revive her modelling career,’ Steed reminded her. ‘Maybe she thought looking like Barbie Jones would do the trick.’
‘That is not how modelling works, Detective,’ Peregrine responded. ‘Believe me, looking like Barbie Jones would be the absolute last thing Mrs Blair would want to do.’
‘What if she knew about the affair and thought it might make her more attractive to her husband?’
‘If she made herself up as a much older version of her incredibly attractive and vivacious rival?’ Peregrine snorted.
‘Point taken.’
‘Anyway, Maggie Blair didn’t sign the purchase order, one of the Blair men did. The problem is, I can’t make out whether the initial is a C or a T.’
Steed glanced over his shoulder, reassured to see the door to Sparrow’s office was still firmly closed.
‘Take the paperwork home with you; I can stop by and collect it from your house later. But please, leave now. You shouldn’t be alone in that store.’
Fleur Connor returned to the detectives’ room and caught his eye. She waved a piece of paper at him then came over, placing it in the centre of his desk blotter. ‘Mayor’s phone number,’ she mouthed silently. Steed nodded his thanks.
‘Miss Fisher? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m here. Did I mention that the wig has a smell? Sort of a lemony cologne smell. I can’t quite put my finger on it.’
‘Probably hairspray or hair oil or something,’ Steed said impatiently. ‘Would you please—’
‘Hang on! I just had an idea! When I first came in for my job interview, Terence Blair was at his desk on the other side of the office signing things. I bet if I check the out-tray on his desk there’ll be something I can use to compare his signature with!’
‘Miss Fisher! I don’t want you snooping around!’
‘It will take me five minutes, tops. I’ll be in and out!’
‘Miss Fisher!’
But all Steed got in response was a clunk as Peregrine hung up, followed by the steady beep of the disconnect tone.
Slowly, Steed replaced the receiver of his own phone. He picked up the slip of paper Constable Connor had left him and put it down again. He didn’t like it. Peregrine Fisher was one of the most capable women he’d ever met, but … Steed looked up to see the constable watching him from the other side of the room. She raised her eyebrows at him.
‘Constable Connor, I’ve got to step out for a moment.’
Her eyes seemed to get wider and she gave a minute shake of her head.
‘You’re not going anywhere, sonny Jim. You’ve got some explaining to do!’
Steed’s shoulders stiffened and he turned slowly. Standing behind him, with a face like thunder, stood Chief Inspector Sparrow.
Peregrine picked up the purchase order and tucked it into her pocket, then returned the folder to its rightful place among Mrs Hirsch’s files. She started around the desk, grabbing the wig as she moved. The acrylic mop had sat close to the lamp for some time now and the lemony smell rose up again, stronger than ever. This time, as Peregrine breathed it in, the memory came back with a rush: she knew what the scent was, and she knew where she had last encountered it. It was the French cologne Colin Blair had been wearing when she’d had her job interview.
Peregrine stood in the darkened office, her shadow made long by the desk lamp, piecing together the elements of the case. She could see it now, understand the how and why of everything that had happened. A faint noise jolted her back to the present and she froze, straining her ears and trying to work out what the sound was and where it had come from, but silence had descended once again.
It was time to go. She could call Detective Steed from a phone booth or wait until she got home; either way, Peregrine was suddenly very keen to get out of Blair’s Emporium. But first, she decided to do what she had planned and compare the signature on the wig order against Terence Blair’s. With the scent of Colin’s cologne still lingering in the air, she was sure the two would be different, that it was Colin who’d placed the order for the wig, but Peregrine knew she needed stronger evidence than just her memory of a fragrance.
At that moment there was a faint click and the door to the inner office swung wide. A shadowy figure loomed on the threshold then moved forward slightly. The light from the desk lamp wasn’t designed to reach so far across a room, but illuminated by its outermost traces was a face.
‘Colin!’ Peregrine gasped.
‘Miss Foster?’ Colin Blair remained in the doorway. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Sorry, Mr Blair! I didn’t know you
were working late. I was just—that is, Mrs Hirsch asked me to …’ Peregrine’s voice trailed away. Colin Blair was staring at the orange pixie-cut wig in her hand.
‘Oh dear, Miss Foster, oh dear. In the reference she gave you, Miss Astor did say you showed a lot of initiative. But this’—he nodded in the direction of the wig—‘this is a problem.’
Colin Blair advanced slowly into the room and Peregrine felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise.
‘Mr Blair, I—’
‘That’s quite enough, Miss Foster.’ Colin’s voice was quiet, full of menace. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to terminate your position.’
Peregrine slammed her hand on the base of the desk lamp. As the light blinked out shadows leaped forward, shielding her as she bolted for the stairs.
Steed stood manfully, trying not to flinch as Chief Inspector Sparrow raged. Constable Connor had melted into the woodwork on the other side of the room and remained standing, trying not to draw attention to herself. She needn’t have worried; the inspector was completely focused on James Steed.
‘I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, Steed!’ Sparrow yelled, his face inches from Steed’s own.
‘There was—’
‘I’m not finished! I gave you an order! I told you to arrest that Astor woman and wrap up the case, but the second I turn my back you go off half-cocked and now look what’s happened!’
‘Sir, if you’d just listen—’
‘All you had to do was clean up the mess you’d made and keep your bloody head down, but what did you go and do?’
‘I—’ Steed tried again.
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