Authors: Marni Graff
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 humans 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.
“Blimey! Why do you suppose this was on?” McAfee asked.
Declan put his copy in the folder he planned to take to the interview room. It was after 3; he was finally ready to call Val Rogan to the interview room.
McAfee trailed behind him, starting to hum. “Sir, I think I know this one—” McAfee took a deep breath.
Declan turned and silenced him with a dark look before the constable could break out into full song. “I heard the melody in the flat, McAfee. I don’t think the entire station need be subjected to your recital.” He raised one eyebrow and continued on to the interview room.
McAfee caught up, refusing to be downhearted. “That’s all right then, sir. Mum always said I was tone deaf anyway. But it must have some significance to someone, right?”
Declan paused with his hand on the door to the custody block, where prisoners on remand awaited disposition. He would pick up tea from the kitchen there; they would undoubtedly need something to drink during the lengthy interview he planned to conduct with Val Rogan. “I quite agree, McAfee, and presumably that person would be our murderer.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Except for the occasional dry question, he left the talking to her, waiting while she fought out the difficult words.”
—
Wallace Stegner,
A Shooting Star
2:50 PM
Val looked at her watch with the oversized William Morris face for at least the thirtieth time, plucking at the ribbon running through the edge of her shirt, a Val Rogan Original. It was silk-screened with a waterfall design in a multitude of colors: aqua, blue, green, purple, all competing for attention, with strips of vintage ecru lace set into the design and a band of old shell buttons running around each cuff. The soft confection stood in direct contrast to Val’s short, spiked hair and slim, boyish figure.
The wait after lunch was unbearable in this stark room, with its table and chairs nicked and scratched from years of use and abuse. The walls were a dull color she would have described as putty, and the lino tiles on the floor were swirled with mocha and tan, crisscrossed with scars from chairs hastily scraped back.
She had picked at the chicken from a lunch salad they’d brought her, and the smell of the Caesar dressing emanating from the bin was turning her stomach. This was bloody ridiculous. Barnes was deliberately leaving her to get agitated, hoping to trip her up. She remembered Nora’s words to her as she’d left: “I know you didn’t do this. Just stick to the facts and you’ll be fine.”
But she wasn’t fine, Val thought ruefully. She was anything
but
fine. She was tired and keyed up and in pain knowing that Bryn Wallace would never be a part of her life again.
Val kept replaying their last evening together, trying to think what she might have missed that would point to someone, anything to indicate who might have killed Bryn. The only ripple in the night had been the way it had ended, their silly argument that was just a disagreement, really. And that had been sorted out when she left, hadn’t it? Or was she kidding herself? Were there layers to Bryn Wallace she’d known nothing about?
Val sat up straighter as she heard footsteps and muffled voices coming in her direction; she ran her fingers through her cropped hair as the door opened. A smiling Inspector Barnes entered, followed by Constable McAfee carrying a paper tray he set down on the table between them. While McAfee busied himself at the recorder, Barnes picked up a covered cup of tea from the tray, loosening his tie as he settled in. This did not bode well for a brief interview, Val decided, and she sighed audibly.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Rogan, but it was unavoidable,” he said smoothly, handing her a cup of tea. “Not like home,” Declan nodded toward the cup of tea, “but always good this time of afternoon, even in this warm weather, although we’re lacking biscuits to go with it. What are your favorites? Personally, I’m keen on HobNobs.”
The personal approach, then, Val thought, designed to put me at ease. “Shortbread,” she answered briskly, immediately picturing Simon enjoying Lottie’s buttery confection yesterday. Dear Lottie, who was taking care of everything at the co-op in her capable manner. Val eased the lid off the milky brew, deciding it wouldn’t be in her best interests to demand her tea with lemon. She blew on the hot liquid while the detective dictated the date, time, and names of those present for the benefit of the recording.
“Now then, Miss Rogan. First things first. I’ll need verbal answers to my questions. The recorder can’t see a nod or a shrug, just to remind you. Let’s start at the beginning.” He shuffled papers in the folder in front of him.
Val nodded anyway, adding, “Fine” for the tape, her clear voice without a trace of the tenseness she felt. She darted a glance at the young constable, sipping tea and labeling a clean sheet in his notebook, who was sitting next to Barnes. Val flashed on a memory of watching a
Mystery
series from which she had learned that any missing pages from a detective’s notebook had to be accounted for; she wondered how they managed that feat. It meant they couldn’t ever scribble or write a grocery list, at least not on company paper. Her thoughts were wandering away from her when she realized Barnes had asked her a question.
She looked up. “Sorry?”
Declan repeated his question carefully. “For the record, please state your name, current address, and occupation.”
She did so, feeling foolish for losing her concentration before they’d even started, feeling the need to explain. “Sorry—I haven’t had much sleep since, well, since we got the news about Bryn.”
Declan was pleasant but capitalized on this extraneous statement. “You must have been very upset.”
A warning bell went off in Val’s mind. Was that a leading statement? A fishing expedition? She met his look squarely. “I’m devastated,” she said.
“How long had you known Miss Wallace?”
Val spent the next few minutes describing how she and Bryn had met. She spoke carefully, afraid to say anything that could be interpreted as a motive for murder. The tea in front of her was already developing a filmy coating on its surface.
She saw the constable watching his superior intently as the inspector smoothly guided Val back and forth between topics, interjecting questions about her work and family. Val explained the details of her art co-operative and discussed her partner, Lottie Weber, who worked in mosaics and pottery. She described textile art she created as silk-screened wall hangings and clothing, with additions of vintage laces, ribbons, and embroidery. McAfee scribbled a note at her grimace when she told him what was left of her family.
“I only have a stepmother I’m not close to and a half-sister I would like to be closer to,” she said, immediately regretting the flippant remark.
“Your stepmother,” Declan consulted his notes. “May Rogan? She keeps your half-sister away from you? Why would that be?”
He said it mildly, but to Val it had the sound of unearthing an unsavory character flaw of hers.
“She denies it, but I’m sure she thinks Louisa will become a lesbian if she hangs about me too much.” Val smiled regretfully. “But I fail to see what my stepmother’s opinion of me has to do with Bryn’s death.” She wasn’t about to let him get off track too easily. He could misinterpret extra information there was no reason for him to know. It had happened in too many movies for her to fall for that. A bead of sweat rolled between her small breasts; she fancied Declan knew she had a tiny gold bar piercing her left nipple. And that young constable hanging on his boss’s every word annoyed her. A hot spot of temper flared behind her eyes.
“Just background information,” he assured her, adding, “It would be good to get some on Miss Wallace, too. Your friend Nora Tierney had only met her once. You, on the other hand, had an intimate relationship with the victim, and you may have information that could help me find her murderer.” He looked her in the eye disarmingly. “You do want to assist in finding her killer, Miss Rogan?”
Very smooth, Val thought, feeling trapped and then irritated at herself for letting him get to her. She hated him poking voyeuristically into her private life, and Bryn’s too, but if she didn’t answer his questions, he would interpret that as her having something to hide. She returned his look, wondering what
he was really thinking behind those grey eyes as she answered him. “Of course I want to help you find Bryn’s killer.”
“Then help me get to know Bryn Wallace so I can find him—or her.”
Val flinched slightly at the feminine pronoun, her throat tight with rising anger. Declan had backed her into a corner where she had no choice but to help him, and becoming belligerent wouldn’t help the situation. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything you can tell me about Bronwyn Wallace.”
*
Half an hour later, a knock on the door interrupted Val’s description of Bryn’s typical day. She had already communicated what she knew of Bryn’s past life and had described their life together since becoming partners.
McAfee opened the door and took the proffered paper, glanced at it, and handed it to Barnes, who skimmed it rapidly.
Val was bone tired and shifted on her chair, rolling her shoulders and twisting her neck to loosen up the tight muscles, thinking the interview really hadn’t been that bad after all. It had to be over soon. Once she had started describing Bryn’s passion for photography, Val had gotten caught up in making certain the detective understood what a creative and talented person Bryn Wallace had been. Her face lit up when describing Bryn’s skill at capturing reality in a snapped moment. But she was exhausted. If she could go home right now, she might actually be able to sleep for a while.
“It seems the inquest is scheduled for Thursday. As the last known person to see Miss Wallace alive, you’ll be called as a witness.” Declan stated these facts impersonally, then suddenly changed the subject. “What can you tell me about the argument you two had that night?”
Val momentarily speculated on what he was holding back from his report. As she digested what he had asked, her positive mood evaporated. She felt the color drain from her face. She kept her gaze directed into the cold teacup she held. Stalling for time to think, she raised the cup to her lips, letting a few drops of the stale liquid wet them. It was fruitless to deny it when she’d been the one to tell him they’d argued. Val felt an unpleasant tremor course through her. How could she convince him the argument had been meaningless in the context of their entire relationship? But then, that context, when they’d argued, had not included murder.
“It was a simple disagreement,” she answered.
“Miss Wallace’s neighbor heard raised voices,” Declan insisted.
Val sighed, wondering how to describe their conflict. “We were discussing the time frame for moving in together. When any two people disagree, there are likely to be raised voices. It was all settled when I left.”
Declan made a note. “Which one of you was hesitating?”
Nicely done, inspector. “Neither of us. We were committed to each other and to living together. It was merely a timing situation.”
“But that still meant one of you wanted to do it sooner than the other,” he persisted.
Val thought of changing their points of view to take the onus off her, but that seemed foolish when she didn’t have anything to hide. No, better to stick to the truth. Her father had always taught her that, hadn’t he? “Bryn was very independent. She insisted on paying her half and just needed a bit more time to save money.”
Declan nodded as though he understood completely, but she knew he didn’t really understand anything. “All right, you had a simple disagreement. Then what?”
“I don’t know, we both calmed down, and she finally explained that she thought she’d be getting a bonus at work but it wasn’t coming through. She had definite opinions about keeping things on an even keel as far as money was concerned. I saw her point of view, agreed to a postponement, and left.”
“Then why did you return and argue again a few minutes later?”
Val let her puzzlement show. “I’m not sure I know what you mean. I didn’t come back until the next morning.”
Declan changed tactics again. “Why did you put the stereo on so loudly before you left?”
“I put it on when we were first talking.”
The detective seemed about to challenge this but instead reached into his folder and thrust a printed page in front of her. “What is the significance of this song?”
Val looked surprised but read the page. “It’s on the same disc I put on the stereo. Is that what you mean?” She looked up in confusion. The detective’s grey eyes were steely; the young sergeant avoided her glance.
“This song was playing on repeat for almost five hours after the murder.” The detective kept his voice firm and emotionless. “I repeat the question, Miss Rogan. What is the significance of this song to you and the victim?”
Hot tears traveled down her cheeks. “She had a name. Her name was Bryn Wallace. And a song that had significance for us is on this disc, but it’s a different song. This disc is the soundtrack from
Notting Hill
about two unlikely people getting together.” Val brushed the tears away impatiently with the back of her hand and struggled to compose herself. She would not let him get to her. She must remain in control. The weight of being under suspicion settled heavily around her shoulders.
*
Sandwiches were brought in as dinnertime approached. Val forced herself to swallow part of hers to fill the noisy void in her stomach before Declan started in again. An hour after that, even he was looking tired. She hoped he was about to let her go, but a knock at the interview room door changed everything.
Again it was McAfee who opened the door and glanced at the paper. He shrugged and handed the missive to his superior, who read it and raised one eyebrow. It must be important to garner such a response, Val thought, but Declan ignored the paper and instead asked her yet again about the last dinner she had shared with Bryn.
“Tell me once more about this dinner. You did the shopping for Bryn, who worked until 5 that day, correct?”
Val nodded, then remembered the tape. “Yes.”
“And you arrived at her flat when?”
This was absurd. The detective knew by now the precise times she’d gone to the loo that day. Val felt the demon Temper fighting to be released, contained for the moment in the headache gathering just behind her eyes and spreading to her temples. “We arrived together around 6:30 after meeting at The Blue Virgin.” It was a litany she recited well.
Declan nodded as though she were performing for him and knew her lines. “And then?”
“I did as she directed, chopping and slicing and generally helping her to prepare the dinner.” Val pictured their shared glass of wine during the preparations, their easy laughter. Her head throbbed.
“Which knives did you use?”
“The ones on a magnetic strip attached to the side of the end cupboard. Look, I can’t believe this is helpful to you to go over and over the same ground. I’m trying to cooperate. I even brought you my clothing, as asked.” Val’s voice rose in frustration and tiredness, her temper rearing its ugly head even as she tried vainly to stomp it down.