Dead Gorgeous (A Mystery for D.I. Costello) (24 page)

Ian ran a tongue around his lips as Angela continued. “Kirsty was very, very proactive on your behalf. Of course it would have been better if she’d just deleted the ones on her computer, but I expect she regarded them as her little treasure – maybe a future bargaining point, who knows? However, I’ve no doubt whatsoever that if we look at the designs you’re working from, we’ll find absolutely no trace of the original ‘A’ and ‘K’. They will have been expertly obliterated.”

Ian shrugged, completely in control of himself. “I have a few different signatures. As part of the case against me, this will never stand up in court.”

“It will if the owner of the original ‘AK’ turns up to give evidence.”

His eyes opened wide and immediately narrowed again.
Ah! That’s got you,
she thought. “It’s an interesting thing about Polish names,” she continued, as if going off on a tangent. “Obviously the Poles have their own way of turning names into pet names and diminutives, just as we have.”

Ian relaxed back in his seat, playing along with Angela. His smile was an attempt at insouciance but there was a tension about him. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

“Take the name Johanna, for instance, the feminine version of John, of course.” Angela pronounced it
Yo-hanna
as instructed by Leanne. “In England a Johanna or Joanna would probably get called ‘Jo’, but it’s not the same in Poland. In Poland it gets familiarized first to ‘Yo-asia’ and that in turn
gets shortened to ‘Asia’. And, interestingly enough, both the English and the Polish for ‘king’ begins with a ‘K’. ‘Krol’ in Poland, but I expect you know that already.”

“Fascinating,” said Ian. He hadn’t moved and there was still a smile on his face. Angela could sense the tension in him, though. She thought back over the conversation she’d had with Eleanor.

“Anyway,” she said, as one wanting to get back to the subject, “about this alibi of yours.”

Ian picked up the cue. He leaned his head back and let out a slow breath. “OK, Inspector, I’ll admit, albeit grudgingly, that you’ve done a good bit of legwork there. But you’ve hardly got enough to charge me. Anybody can make a mistake about time. And if I decide any of this warrants calling in a solicitor, that’s exactly the argument we’ll be putting forward.” He looked completely relaxed now. “Even if I arrived later at Eleanor’s than I originally said, that doesn’t mean I was at Kirsty’s place, killing her.”

“We can place you at the scene of crime, sir.”

Ian leaned forward as one intrigued and keen on learning more. “And how on earth can you do that? Bearing in mind I’m supposed to have killed her and got to Eleanor’s by – er – what is it now, three o’clock?”

“It is quite tight for time, sir, but you’re a cool customer. Though I bet you felt undignified on that bike.”

“Bike? What bike?”

“Darren’s. I think you took it from the lean-to beside the Tone-Up Gym, cycled round to Kirsty’s, killed her, cycled to the gym again and put it back. Darren’s bike was seen outside Kirsty’s at the relevant time. The whole trip wouldn’t have taken more than ten minutes. Then it would have been straight back into your own car, parked nearby, and off to Eleanor’s for a little after three. It’s completely do-able. And on a Sunday when there’s not much traffic about… well…” Angela spread her hands.

Ian threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Oh, very good, Inspector; that’s priceless! This is better than the cinema.” He calmed down and looked at her. “And how on earth am I supposed to know where I could get hold of Darren’s bike?”

Angela gave a gentle smile. “When we met before you claimed that you tuned out of a lot of what Kirsty said to you, didn’t you? But I don’t think that’s the case at all. I think you took on board, in minute detail, exactly what you wanted to know. You knew all about Darren’s standing at the gym and the routine with the bike in the lean-to. You even knew you could take the bike through the lean-to door and avoid being seen in the reception. And you knew all this because Kirsty had told you.”

“Fascinating, Inspector, but it’s only circumstantial.”

“Are you saying you’re not familiar with Darren’s bike?”

“No – well, that is to say, I’ve seen him cycling to and from work now and again, but I haven’t taken any notice.”

“So you’re claiming never to have had anything to do with his bike?”

“Of course I haven’t. Don’t be absurd.”

Pause.

“Then how do you explain the presence of your thumb and fingerprints on it?”

Ian went deathly white again. He stared at Angela. He opened his mouth once or twice but was unable to utter any words. Finally he managed to speak.

“That… that can’t be.”

“Ah, but it can.”

He thought for a moment and suddenly his objections gained a new lease of life. “You’re trying to trick me, Inspector. My record is as clean as a whistle. I’ve never even had a parking ticket. There’s no way you have my fingerprints on file.”

“Mmm,” said Angela with an almost regretful little smile. “I think, Ian, you’re going to look back on this time
and realize it was a mistake to take a bottle of champagne to Eleanor’s that day.”

The build-up in the media was enormous, and once they’d arrived Angela could see why. She and Leanne quickly recognized the more famous designers with whom they found themselves rubbing shoulders, and they accustomed themselves easily to the atmosphere, the lights and the celebrities mingling with the crowds. They were special guests at the show of a brand-new talent on the fashion scene. They’d taken full advantage of the free champagne on offer and clutched a goody bag left for them on their seats. Father Martin looked into his bag as they stood about, stretching their legs during a brief interval. “I think my sister will be very glad of this,” he said.

Angela and Leanne exchanged looks and smiled at him. They’d already “ooh-ed” and “aah-ed” over the expensive cosmetics, the perfume, the silk scarves and the chocolates. “Be careful how you proceed,” Angela warned him. “You might find your mum fighting her for it.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Martin looked a little alarmed. “Perhaps I’d better just filter everything through to the Christmas bazaar.”

“Come on, we’d better get back to our seats,” said Patrick. “Our one’s up soon.”

Obediently they followed him and took their places along one side of the catwalk. Patrick leaned over to Angela. “What with everything else going on, you never did get around to telling me how you got from that raid on the house in Richmond to front row seats at London Fashion Week,” he said.

“Ah, well, it was all quite simple really,” she replied. “Ian King might have been arrested but his company hasn’t.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“OK. One of the directors has been charged with murder but that doesn’t have to affect the rest of the company – not until the Financial Services Unit has built its case anyway. So…”

“Business as usual.”

“For the moment. Nigel Summers is a very pragmatic man. He trusts Ian’s artistic sense, and has come to the conclusion that if this is the collection Ivano King are putting out this year, then so be it.”

“I see, just a name addition.”

“Yes, Asia Krol at Ivano King. People are beginning to talk about her already and she really has produced some stunning looks.”

“Looks?”

“Trade jargon, darling.”

“Oh, OK. So, then what?”

“Well, I should think Asia will build on whatever success she achieves here to go straight to another fashion house and try for a deal, which will be very wise because, from what Stanway was saying the other day, it won’t be long before Fraud move in and pull the plug on Ivano King.”

“Oh, fantastic. Uh-oh – shh, the lights are going down. Here we go.”

Angela leaned forward and looked towards the curtained end of the catwalk. Having been involved in Asia’s rescue, she felt a little as though she was her protégée.

She didn’t want to miss a thing.

Although London Fashion Week is a real event that takes place in London every year, the House of Ivano King is a complete fiction. Equally, there is no Catholic parish of the Immaculate Conception in or around the Richmond area in Surrey.

Writing might be a solitary occupation but getting published is a group effort and I can’t let this opportunity slip of acknowledging the debt I owe to various people who’ve helped in the process.

First of all, thanks to Tess for some great one-liners and, as ever, your huge encouragement. And thanks to Lynn who read the manuscript through for me.

I’m very grateful to Tony Collins, Jessica Tinker, and the team at Lion Hudson for all their help and advice, and to my copy-editor Sheila Jacobs for her timely advice.

Gordon Berry, Ann Murphy, and Dave Howard of the Brent and Harrow coroner’s office were always ready with information and patiently answered my questions about police procedures, even when they were up to their necks in cases – thanks, guys.

ISBN 978 1 78264 072 1 | UK £7.99, US $14.99

It’s the first day of Wimbledon. And a dead
body is lying on Court 19.

Newly-promoted detective inspector Angela Costello recognizes the dead man as Croatian champion-turned-coach, Petar Belic. A double grand-slam winner, Petar was famous, and much loved.

However, Petar had an ex-wife who wanted him back; a girlfriend who wouldn’t let him go; a business partner with secrets. Then there was the temperamental leading Brit, Stewart Bickerstaff, whom Petar had been coaching.

“The aces keep coming chapter by chapter.”

–
Tony Jasper
, author

“A witty and intriguing whodunnit.”

–
Cindy Kent
, broadcaster