Authors: Marni Graff
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“To have a reason to get up in the morning, it is necessary to possess a guiding principle.”
—
Judith Guest,
Ordinary People
8:15 AM
Nora waited for Simon to finish showering. Last night she’d fallen into an exhausted sleep on the couch, one ear waiting for the ringing phone. Janet had promised to call her the moment Val arrived at the flat, regardless of the hour, but no call had come. As much as May Rogan had promised to help, Nora questioned the woman’s dependability.
And then there was Val’s temper, which, Nora knew, surfaced when Val was tired or frustrated, and she was certain Val had been both by last night. Even though she had no alternative, Nora felt she had run out on Val yesterday at the station, and the thought disturbed her. She sighed and looked out her back window onto the peaceful garden. It was too early for tenants to disturb the slick grass or inhabit the scattered chairs, but a few butterflies were enjoying the cosmos. A lone grey squirrel ran across the expanse of shimmering lawn, sprinkling the dew. It was clear and sunny, without the intense heat and humidity of the past few days.
Nora had missed the spring bulbs this year due to her stay in the Lake District. They were her contribution to the garden, but she knew she wouldn’t see them again if she stayed in Bowness. The next tenant wouldn’t know Nora Tierney was the one responsible for the fragrant purple hyacinths, yellow and white daffodils, and blue scilla that poked up in early spring. This, she knew, was silly thinking. She didn’t own this house or garden; she was definitely on the verge of becoming mawkish.
Simon whistled in the shower, his unquenchable spirit amazing Nora. She considered herself an optimist, but Simon had a bottomless well of good cheer and patience. That quality had served her well when she was embracing the idea of her pregnancy. There had been times this summer in Bowness when his encouragement and support had let her see herself and her child living happily in that naturally majestic place. This trip was supposed to be a bridge to that future, but instead it had been filled with death and confusion. The garden blurred in her vision as she returned to thoughts of the hellish night Val must have spent in an uncomfortable cell. Nora knew Val must barely be able to believe the events that had crowded in on them in the past three days, for she could hardly believe them herself.
Who could have wanted to murder Bryn Wallace? Despite her moment of doubt, she did not believe it could be Val. Bryn’s murder had not been a random act of violence, a car-jacking or purse-snatching gone awry. This was an act of anger and deliberate malevolence, perpetrated by someone Bryn Wallace had let into her apartment late at night without a thought to her own safety.
She thought DI Barnes had been sympathetic when he’d interviewed Janet, but he seemed blind to Val’s innocence. Nora’s love for Val, coupled with her anger at the person who deliberately took Bryn’s life, gave her plenty of motivation to find out who was really to blame for Bryn’s death. Simon would just have to stuff it if he didn’t approve. She looked for her pad, tucking her hair behind one ear. Nosey parker she might be, but she was damned if she was going to let a murderer go free.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“The relevant questions, as it happened, came by chance.”
—
Sybille Bedford,
A Compass Error
8:40 AM
Declan Barnes woke suddenly in his Headington flat, the dream dissipating quickly but leaving its imprint of a carnival scene, bells and whistles clanging noisily, while knives hurled toward a green-eyed girl with red hair who rotated on a huge striped wheel. He heard her saying, “You know she didn’t do this,” as the man throwing the knives turned to him, but his face became the clock Declan saw as his eyes popped open, and the telephone continued to trill. He snatched up the receiver, clearing his throat and sitting up in the big bed, thinking maybe it was time for him to get a dog. All as he said, “Barnes here.”
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 studios 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?