Casanova (2 page)

An unmarked police car arrived and a woman and a man wearing plain clothes got out, pushed through the onlookers and then disappeared inside.

I crossed the road and walked over casually. I joined the edge of the crowd at the back and watched silently for a few seconds. I asked the man standing just in front of me, ‘what’s happened?’ He turned to look at me and then answered, ‘the girl in 5b has been found dead.’

5b was the prostitute’s flat.

‘Who found her?’

‘...a neighbour. She said the door was open and she went in and found her on the bedroom floor. She said it looked like she’d been strangled.’

I turned away and crossed the road. There wasn’t any point in hanging about. It would be a while before they brought her out, and anyway I didn’t know what she looked like so I couldn’t make a positive identification. In any case, she would be inside a body bag.

I left the rotating blue lights reflecting off the faces of the ghoulish crowd and walked until I found a Soho cafe. I ordered a strong coffee and sat in the corner away from the door. Then I made a phone call.

‘So, maybe, that’s what takes fourteen minutes and can’t be done at home.’ Meriwether gave me his first reaction to the news.

‘We don’t know for sure it’s the same girl or who did it.’

‘I’ll take odds-on it’s the same girl, but you’re right, it may not have been Casanova.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t. I watched him come out and then followed him back to his office. He wasn’t behaving like a man who’d just killed someone.’

‘No, you’re probably right. Umm, well, who did kill her and why? Intriguing isn’t it?’ Meriwether sounded more as if he was discussing a difficult clue in a crossword puzzle rather than the murder of a young woman.

‘Yes, very intriguing,’ I said.

‘I’ll make some enquiries and call you back.’

‘...enquiries?’

‘Yes, we’ll need to know the name of the investigating officer.’

‘Why?’

‘The police in this country do a first rate job. They are excellent at collecting useful intelligence. The officer from Interpol will have to make friends with the investigating detective in charge of the case.’

Oh, good, just what I wanted—the opportunity to test my fake Interpol disguise on a real police officer.

‘Was he wearing gloves?’

‘...Casanova?’

‘Yes.’

‘No, he wasn’t.’

‘Then his prints will be all over the flat.’

I didn’t respond.

‘Did anybody else see him enter or leave?’

‘I didn’t see anyone, but it’s possible.’

‘I wonder if his DNA has ever been put on the database for any reason. We may not have long before the police arrive at his door. I think it might be better to find out what’s going on before they do.’

Meriwether was right but I didn’t say so.

‘How would you like to go to a Christmas ball?’ he asked.

Charlotte didn’t seem to want to take me as her guest. I held the phone to my ear and listened without interrupting.

‘I always go with my grandfather, and Bartholomew knows that.’

I realised it was sensible to remain silent.

‘Why can’t you go with someone else? Why do I have to take you?’

Again, I chose the side of caution.

‘Why do you even have to come?’ Charlotte paused and I could almost hear the cogs of her brain engage and race the needle deep into the red. ‘What’s going on? This is work, isn’t it?’

I still held my tongue.

‘Tell me!’

Her voice had risen beyond the safety level. I knew silence was no longer an option.

‘Is it a black tie do?’ I asked.

‘What’s happened; what’s Meriwether got you working on? He wants you at that ball for a reason. Tell me.’

‘I’ll wear my dinner jacket then.’

‘You don’t own a dinner jacket.’

‘I’ll buy one.’

‘Use the credit card; it is work after all.’

For a moment, I returned to plan A.

‘I understand that you don’t want to tell me. It’s hard being in your position. I’m sure Bartholomew has asked you not to tell me; but unfortunately, that’s the reason why I have to know and why you will have to tell me. Think of it as a test of your loyalty.’

Loyalty—I wasn’t sure what part that played in my new job.

I finished the telephone conversation with Charlotte and then I called Meriwether. He was at his club. I could tell by the sounds in the background. The clink of crystal cut glass at the bar and the low murmur of other members talking secretively in small groups.

‘She’s guessed something’s going on.’

‘Ah, I was afraid of that. She’s very clever you know; I can never pull the wool...’

On the phone, I found it difficult to tell whether Meriwether was kidding or being serious. His expansive voice contained a theatrical pitch that was never easy to read.

‘...oh, well, never mind.’ His voice deepened and he asked, ‘Did you tell her?’

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘No, of course not, forgive me for asking.’

I couldn’t tell if he believed me.

‘We will have to tell her, of course, but not just yet. I want you to attend the ball first and find out what you can before she knows.’

‘What exactly am I trying to find out?’

‘Just look and listen, dear boy. It would be nice to know if C’s grandfather has any knowledge of Casanova’s predicament. Perhaps observing them together and meeting them both will give you some insight. I have every faith in your skills as a detective.’ Meriwether’s voice lightened. ‘After all you are a member of Interpol.’

I dressed in a new dinner suit purchased from an expensively priced gentleman’s outfitters on Bond Street. I paid for it using the credit card just as Charlotte had suggested; she was right, it was work. Although it wasn’t a tailored suit, it fitted me well and I wouldn’t look out of place among the other expensively dressed guests. However, my hair and movement might lead some of them to suppose it was more likely that I was a bodyguard, but with luck, none of them would ask me to take their coats.

I took a cab to Mayfair through the busy West End traffic. At Charlotte’s apartment building, the doorman let me in and I went up in the lift. She opened the door dressed in an evening gown and expensive perfume. She complimented me on my new dinner suit while sipping elegantly from a champagne flute.

‘Can I get you anything?’

I shook my head. ‘No thanks.’

‘Did you pay for it using the credit card?’

I smiled but didn’t answer.

Charlotte didn’t smile back.

‘My grandfather’s car will be here shortly,’ she said.

Charlotte’s grandfather was a knight of the realm. His name was Sir Sebastian Farthinghoe and he went everywhere in a chauffeur driven Rolls Royce. Meriwether had sent me a brief profile on him which contained, as he’d put it, nothing of any great significance. I read it and the only thing to catch my eye was that Sir Sebastian had been an intelligence officer with the British army before he joined the bank at the age of twenty-five. We had one thing in common; we’d both been in the military.

I held the door open for Charlotte and then followed her in. The backseat of Farthinghoe’s chauffeur driven Rolls Royce was easily big enough for all three of us. The quiet, warm interior was dark except for the light reflecting in from the London streets. He was an old man but even in the gloom, I could see his pale eyes were sharp. He spoke in a slow, considered voice as though always formulating the answer to a difficult question. He sat low in his overcoat with his gloved hands resting in his lap.

His eyes caught me observing him and he asked, ‘Have you known my granddaughter long?’

‘This isn’t a date.’

The old man chortled. ‘Pity,’ he said. He didn’t elaborate.

‘Grandfather,’ Charlotte said, ‘you both have something in common.’ The old boy raised his eyebrows. ‘You were both in the army.’

‘Oh, really,’ he said, ‘what regiment were you in?’

‘Twenty-two,’ I said.

‘Oh.’

He didn’t ask anymore. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

Bright, outside lighting illuminated the exclusive Park Lane hotel and contrasted starkly with the dark, unwelcoming park opposite.

Charlotte took her grandfather’s arm and the doorman did the rest. I followed in behind trying not to look too much like a bodyguard.

The banqueting room was ornate and lavish with heavy furniture and thick drapes like a Henry VIII scene for the modern day.

The guests stood talking in small circles, sipping cocktails and eating canapés while in the corner a string quartet played
Joy to the World
.

I’d noticed William Chester straight away—he was easy to spot—his big frame stood out beside that of his small wife. She was a pretty woman with fair, wavy hair, and she wore a tasteful diamond necklace that caught the light from the chandelier. Her smiles and animated face were in contrast to her husband’s demeanour, whose enthusiasm for the social event seemed less than eager. Although his big, round head did occasionally nod with agreement at the conversation around him, the red cheeks of his rustic face never managed to puff into a smile.

People were circulating quickly and soon Mr. and Mrs. Chester joined our circle. It seemed Charlotte was pleased to see them as her mood lightened considerably; for a moment, I thought I might get a smile but I didn’t.

Farthinghoe introduced me as a friend of Charlotte’s. I shook hands with William Chester and felt his big, strong grip. I wondered if the same grip had recently been around the neck of a young woman in Soho.

There followed the usual polite exchanges containing two compliments for the women, a witticism between the two bankers regarding bonuses and an enquiry by Mrs. Chester, whose first name was Alice, as to whether Christmas was going to be taken in the usual place. It seemed for the past two years the Chester family had spent Christmas in the same Swiss ski resort as Charlotte and her grandfather. Interesting—I wondered if Meriwether knew that.

We dined opulently. The courses just kept coming; brought by seemingly tireless waiters with the balancing skills of a long practiced circus troop. I had to admire their stamina and coordinated patterns.

Unfortunately, our seats weren’t close enough to William and Alice Chester to make conversation possible. I kept an eye on them instead, and other than their moods remaining consistent, I didn’t notice anything of any interest.

It wasn’t until the waiters were serving the coffee that something happened. Alice Chester left her seat to go and chat with another woman of a similar age and hair colour. Within a minute or two Sir Sebastian Farthinghoe was sitting in it. His old frame lent forward with his arms on the table and his eyes never left Casanova’s face. Sir Sebastian was doing all the talking and William didn’t look at him once. I checked to see if Charlotte had noticed this event but she was in conversation with the man sitting next to her who smiled too much and constantly ran his hand through his wavy hair to push it off his forehead.