Authors: Marni Graff
Chapter Fourteen
“This is a true story but I can’t believe it’s really happening.”
—
Martin Amis,
London Fields
10:10 PM
Heading down the hall toward Bryn Wallace’s neighbor, Declan consulted the note Watkins had left: “Althea Isaacs, bl/bl Jamaican, 50’s, lect/Trinity; hrd arguing near 12M.” He decided Miss Isaacs was black, but the second “bl?” Of course, blonde. Declan rang the bell, expecting it to be opened by a statuesque black Juno with blonde cornrows, perhaps adorned with noisy stacks of bracelets covering one arm and a brightly colored silk wrap thrown over a shoulder.
The woman who opened the door was of medium height with short, curly black hair streaked with grey, wearing dark glasses even at this time of night and dressed in a sleeveless black linen dress and comfortable black flats. Althea Isaacs had a tasteful gold chain hanging down the front of her dress. The only other spot of color in her attire was her matching gold earrings. She smiled politely, looking cool but troubled, as he introduced himself and produced his warrant card, which she ignored. So much for preconceived notions, he thought.
“Please come in, Inspector Barnes.”
Her educated voice had no hint of the lilt he’d expected. The door opened directly into her sitting room. She turned and led the way to two chairs set near the fireplace and slid in front of one chair, feeling it with the back of her leg, sitting as she pointed to the one opposite her. Declan sat, taking in the calm room decorated in soothing beige, cream, and gold without a jarring note. A ceiling fan kept the flat comfortable, and as he withdrew his notebook he took the opportunity to look around, realizing that except for stacks of DVDs piled on a back table, the only ornament was a jasmine plant that wound its way over the low table set between them, its sweet perfume reaching him as he wrote her name, the time, and the date on a new page.
“I appreciate your seeing me this late, but I’m sure you’re aware time is so important in cases like this,” he said.
“Of course. Time has little meaning for me anyway, and I want to help in any way I can—Bryn was a lovely girl and I am greatly grieved by her death.” Isaacs’ voice was composed but she cleared her throat after this speech and slid back deeper into her chair.
“How long have you been Miss Wallace’s neighbor?”
“Since she moved in almost two years ago. I’ve been in this flat for nine years.”
Declan looked around him. “It’s very peaceful in here.” Isaacs nodded in acknowledgement with a slight smile. “Did you know her well? Can you describe what kind of person she was for me?”
She flinched at his use of the past tense. “I knew her only as a caring neighbor. If the weather was poor and I didn’t go out, she always made certain I had provisions. Davey from downstairs would bring her pastries from his bakery, and she shared them with me on many occasions. She didn’t have loud parties, and her stereo was not usually kept on too late. I had no complaints.”
Declan nodded in understanding. “And where do you work?”
“I lecture on Thomas Hardy at Trinity two days a week but work largely from here—I’m finishing a biography on Fanny Burney, an influence on Jane Austen and others.”
He heard the pride in her voice and remembered the name from an enthusiastic literature teacher in school. “Satire was her specialty, right?” he ventured.
Miss Isaacs nodded and smiled. “I’m impressed, Inspector.”
He smiled back. “I understand you heard arguing last night from Miss Wallace’s flat. Can you tell me what you heard, from the beginning?”
“I’ve been going over and over it in my mind all day—I know it’s important. The stereo was on low, later than usual for Bryn, but I decided she must have had company. I was working in here at that time. I heard raised voices just before the 11:15 chime—my mantel clock chimes every fifteen minutes. I have acute hearing, and it was the first time I’ve heard arguing from her flat.”
Declan leaned forward. This must be the argument Val Rogan admitted to. Could you hear anything that was said or identify the voices?”
“Not really. I mean, there were two voices and both were female registers, so I assume it was Bryn and another woman. But I couldn’t hear distinct words and I wasn’t trying to.”
“Of course not,” he reassured her. “How long did the argument last?” The timing here would be important.
“Not long, less than ten minutes, I’d say, and then it was quiet. I thought I heard the flat door open and close, but the arguing started again before a quarter to 12, only lower this time. It was distracting to me, so I went into my bedroom—I couldn’t hear it in there—and put in my earplugs and went to sleep. I always sleep with earplugs due to the traffic noise,” she confided, then added wistfully, “I’m sorry I did that now. Maybe if I’d heard something extreme I could have helped Bryn, at least called the police, and she might have been revived.” Her voice was stricken with regret.
“Don’t feel that way, Miss Isaacs. From the injuries she sustained, it would appear her death occurred quite rapidly.” Declan hoped she wouldn’t press him for details.
“I see. I guess that might be considered a blessing,” she said
sadly.
“Can you tell me anything else?” Declan’s mind was racing ahead. He had enough evidence in his mind now to ask Val Rogan to bring in the clothing she had worn the previous night.
“Not that I recall. I sleep soundly with the earplugs, but of course that poor boy screaming got through them and woke me. The stereo was still on when I went to my door. When I opened it, he was there, crying hysterically, telling me to call the police. I did that immediately and tried to calm him until they arrived. I didn’t go into the flat.”
“What exactly did Mr. Haskitt say to you?”
“He was crying, and he kept saying, ‘She’s gone, she’s really gone’ over and over. I made him tea, and he eventually calmed down enough to tell me he’d gone up to her flat because her stereo stayed on all night, the same song repeating, and he was concerned she had fainted or was ill. The police arrived then and took him from here. I do hope he’s all right?” she inquired. “It must have been terribly upsetting for him.”
“Yes, I think he’s quite recovered by now,” Declan answered, remembering the eagerness Davey had exhibited when being questioned. “Did you by any chance see any visitors when they left? Perhaps you were putting your garbage out?” he asked hopefully.
Her quick smile broadened as Althea Isaacs took off her dark glasses. Opaque lenses stared blankly at him, and Declan knew he was truly exhausted not to have figured out Watkins’ second “bl” referred to her blindness.
Chapter Fifteen
“Even in our sleep, pain that cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart
…
”
—
Aeschylus, 5 B.C.
11:15 PM
Val Rogan closed her bedroom door after checking on Janet, who finally slept after taking the sedative Val pressed on her. Janet had wanted Val to take one, too, but Val had her own way to unwind.
She took a carved wooden box from a desk drawer to the sitting room window, cracked it open, and in a minute was blowing smoke from her hastily rolled spliff into the still night. Val became maudlin at first, a crying jag seizing her as she squeezed out all the tears she thought her body could possibly produce, softly sobbing into a pillow so she wouldn’t wake Janet.
After a few minutes she blew her nose and wiped her swollen eyes, relighting her joint and inhaling deeply, hoping for enough distance from her pain to sleep for a few hours. Janet would need her over the next few weeks; it was a responsibility she felt keenly. Every time she closed her eyes she felt Bryn urging her to take care of Janet. Val shuddered, stowed her box, and threw herself onto her couch.
She was fortunate to have Nora and Simon around her just now. Simon had a quiet strength she found calming. And dear Nora was like a sister.
Val thought with fondness of her fourteen-year-old half-sister, Louisa. The girl was too young to be a companion, but perhaps in the future they would grow closer. This immediately led to thoughts of Louisa’s mother, May Rogan, her father’s second wife. Lloyd Rogan’s sudden death two years ago had only widened the breach they had been unable to cross in more than fourteen years.
She supposed she and May had reached an impasse. At one time they both had tried, for her father’s sake, to learn to be friends. Val’s mother had died when she was so young that Val’s memories of her were shadowy at best, so she knew she didn’t feel May was taking her mother’s place. It was just that May was so involved in—May, and how others saw her.
Val remembered confiding to her father that she was homosexual and her stepmother’s reaction at dinner that night when he’d explained the situation to May. “Oh?” May had said at first, as though she didn’t understand the meaning of the word. Then “OH” again as she did, unable to stop the look of disgust that crossed her face. An argument escalated from there, with Lloyd unable to calm the women.
Val clearly remembered taking her glass of ice water and throwing it at May’s pretty face, wishing she could squeeze her hands around that slender neck instead. Her temper had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion, and this would not be the last time.
May was shocked and ran into the kitchen; Lloyd Rogan ran after her instead of berating Val, and she’d heard him pleading with his wife in low tones. Shortly after that they had returned to the table, May sitting in a dry chair.
“I’m sorry, May.” Val had stiffly apologized before her father had had to ask.
May had accepted her apology. “I have some news of my own, Val. Perhaps my hormones are out of whack. You see, I’m pregnant!”
Val was stunned. She saw her father’s radiant smile and was glad she was leaving soon for art school.
The arrival of Louisa had kept May involved and busy and out of Val’s affairs. The two women arrived at a cool truce that let them function when Val came home for holidays. Val could even admit she had enjoyed watching her little sister grow. Right now Louisa was the only part of Lloyd Rogan still available to her.
Now she wondered if she should call May to let her know about Bryn’s death. After heavy rationalization, she decided she would only become angry if May acted less than sympathetic, which was a distinct possibility. It was news that could wait.
Turning on her side, trying to doze, Val caught sight of a gaily striped hat box that stood on a chair in the corner of her sitting room. It contained a straw schoolgirl’s hat with a black velvet ribbon and a bunch of lilacs sewn at the bow. Val had bought it as a gift for Bryn and planned to give it to her when they took their favorite stroll following the steps of Alice Liddell at Christ Church’s Poplar Walk. “My own Alice in Wonderland,” Val had called Bryn. The hat seemed to mock her happy mood of only days before, representing the promise of a future rescinded in a heartbeat. She closed her eyes against the sight and waited for exhaustion to overtake her.
Chapter Sixteen
“It might be an old and old-fashioned city, with inconvenient buildings and narrow streets where the passersby squabbled foolishly about the right of way; but her foundations were set upon the holy hills and her spires touched heaven.”
—
Dorothy L. Sayers,
Gaudy Night
Saturday
9:15 AM
Declan felt his entire team’s eyes on him as he discussed the direction of the investigation into the murder of Bryn Wallace. The morning sun was bright, streaming through the windows in the promise of a lovely day. The accumulation of heat and sweat would build up as the day ran on. Watkins, McAfee, and the other members of his squad looked fresh and unwrinkled as they drank their coffee or tea, some munching bacon butties from the canteen, the scent starting juices going in Declan’s stomach.
The case was fresh enough that no one had yet complained about working through the weekend, and he had their full attention as he brought them up to speed, pointing out relevant items listed on the white board and detailing the information they had gathered on Bryn Wallace and on the manner in which she had been killed.
“Today I’ll want Val Rogan’s fingerprints taken and compared to those found around the knife rack. I have her bringing in the clothing she wore that night.”
“Sir?” asked a tentative voice. It was McAfee, in a tone that suggested he was hoping he was not going to make a fool of himself. “How will we know the clothing she brings us is what she actually wore?”
“We have a witness from The Blue Virgin who gave a full description of what should be in the bag before we ever open it,” Watkins said.
Declan handed out murder books, compiled with known information to date, then discussed his own movements and impressions. He made eye contact with the newest member of his team, a female detective who had just made constable grade and was still green. He smiled briefly in encouragement, but not too much. It was a fine line he walked each and every day. “I’ll be taking formal statements in the morning from Rogan and Janet Wallace with the assistance of DS McAfee once the fingerprinting is concluded. DS Watkins will be family liaison and will try to get more background from the mother.”
Heads nodded as he consulted the notes he had written at 8 that morning when he’d arrived, fresh and anxious to get this day underway. He had fallen soundly asleep once he’d gotten home from his interview with Althea Isaacs. During his morning shower he’d planned his strategy, plotting an avenue for his team to explore.
“We have to cover all our bases, but in my mind our prime suspect is the Rogan woman. In the afternoon I’ll see the boy again, the one who found the body, as well as the pedophile living on Wallace’s street. Watkins, when you finish with the mother, head out to interview the two men Bryn Wallace received personal notes from yesterday. The forensic reports will start coming in, and I’ll want to be notified of anything deemed important.” He glanced over at the duty officer. “The rest of you see the duty officer. I’ll want you to go back to the people you missed yesterday in the neighborhood. More should be home on Saturday. We’re looking for any sightings of someone entering or exiting Wallace’s building between 11 and midnight Thursday night. And don’t forget the cafe across the street; they stay open late. I think the inquest will be scheduled by tomorrow. It would be nice to have something concrete to report before the chief gets anxious we’re bollixing this show. Any questions?” Declan concluded. The team dispersed, and Declan turned his attention to getting breakfast. He needed fuel to stoke his furnace. This was going to be another long, hot day.