Stella gave it a look. 'She's very young. I'm not sure I'd have picked her out.'
'But you will now - if she's here.'
'So am I on my own?'
Hen pointed to the No Smoking sign. 'I wouldn't last ten minutes. That's the way it is, sweetie.'
'How will I get back?'
'Don't worry. I won't forget you.' She opened her bag again and took out some polythene gloves that the SOCOs used. 'You see, I'm looking after you.'
* * *
It was a pity Bob was at work. Thomasine woke up too late to call him with her news about Lord Chalybeate. Thanks to school holidays she didn't have to go in. Instead she cooked some breakfast and then strolled into town and looked along the magazine shelves in Smith's. But not for the
Times
Educational Supplement.
The Bodybuilder
was a monthly so there was a good chance that the issue Miss Snow had owned was still on sale. No difficulty finding it in the sports section. The bronzed hunk on the front stood out from the cricketers and footballers. She shelled out her two pounds fifty, and went next door to Starbucks for a quiet read. She had a good look round first to make sure one of her little bubble-gummers wasn't sitting across the way.
This was the right issue. Inside was a three-page illustrated article about Marcus Chalybeate under the heading LUCKY GYMS. No reference, of course, to his less exalted career as plain Mark Kiddlewick. The piece was all about his brilliance in foreseeing the boom in fitness. 'It is fair, to claim Marcus Chalybeate has done more to improve the health of the nation in the last ten years than the combined efforts of seven Secretaries of State for Health.' It continued in the same vein. Rather boring, really. Except it left no doubt in Thomasine's mind that this was a man who could be terribly damaged if his days as a purveyor of porn were revealed. What had
Hot Buns
and
Headlights
done for the health of the nation?
But she almost knocked over her coffee when she saw the picture of his Sussex home, 'a barn conversion at Bosham, near Chichester'. Just down the road. Wasn't opportunity one of the key elements in a crime, along with motive and means? This, surely, raised Chalybeate to favourite in the suspect stakes. She couldn't wait to see the place. Couldn't wait, and wouldn't.
* * *
Stella had been given some tacky jobs in her years in the police, but this was the tackiest by a long way. Even the feel of the old magazines between her polythene-covered fingers was unpleasant. They smelt musty, they were stained, the paperclips had rusted and the pages dropped out when handled. All that, she tried telling herself, would have been true of a batch of old knitting magazines. You couldn't blame the subject matter for the state they were in.
Certain copies, luckily, could be put to one side straight away.
Headlights
catered for breast fanciers, men who'd never matured past infancy. Without exception the models had enormous boobs. Did they have implants in 1982? In abundance, it seemed. She pitied the poor models. How could you get comfy in bed with all that to tuck away? Mercifully, the picture of Amelia Snow in
Cats
showed a normally proportioned woman, so the entire stack of
Headlights
could be returned to the shelves, along with
TNT
(Two Nifty Tits) and
BSH
(British Standard Handful).
'Grow up, guys,' she said aloud.
She started turning the pages of
Innocents,
which at least featured models she recognised as her own species. Innocent most of them were not, she thought. Their attempts to look inexperienced were about as convincing as chocolate pennies. Some, she guessed, must have had a few drinks before going in front of the camera because the lipstick was badly applied or the hair needed fixing. If nothing else, it supported the story that Blacker used alcohol as the persuader.
Three or four magazines in, and she knew which pages to ignore. The joke section, the letters and the car feature, and the news of the latest X-rated films. There were whole sections of adverts for phone sex. Like any job, it got easier as you persevered.
Things were making more sense at last, but Hen was still unsure why Jessie Warmington-Smith had been murdered. She needed more on Jessie's past. Was it too much to hope that Jessie, too, had once been a chorus girl?
The widow of an archdeacon?
Heaven forbid!
She would take another look at the video of Jessie, and ask Andy Humphreys, whose interview it was, to sit with her. He looked ten years older since their last encounter.
'Do I really have to, guv?' he said. 'It makes me squirm each time I look at it.'
'Why?'
'She gave me the runaround, didn't she? I've taken no end of flak from the others. That stuff about my wedding, and my christening. "We're all God's children." I took a right pasting.'
'It wasn't a stand-up fight, Andy. It was about getting information, and you managed that.'
'At a cost, guv.'
'If you keep whingeing, I'll invite everyone to sit in.'
They ran the video, and it was hard to ignore Andy's unease, on screen and off. Some of his questions begged for a sharp response: 'That's a bit whacky, isn't it, a club for writers?'
Hen put Andy to the back of her mind. What had Jessie said about herself? She was one of the first members of the circle, 'at the personal invitation of the chair'. A staunch supporter of Maurice McDade then. This was followed by some flimflam about the benefits of being in a writers' circle. Then the outrage at having her grace and favour living arrangements discussed: 'My late husband spent a lifetime in the service of the church and he couldn't have done it without my support.' She moved on to the offensive after that, questioning Andy's church-going.
Then came that weird claim that she was in touch with the supernatural. 'You have to open your heart. Then you'll be given signs. I get them quite often because I'm receptive, like Joan of Arc, except that she heard them as voices.'
Joan of Arc, no less. Jessie didn't suffer from low self-esteem.
'Only last night I had a sign. Some people would find it disturbing and I suppose it might be to a disbeliever, but I took it as affirmation of all I believe in, the afterlife, the journey of the soul.'
Did she think she was psychic?
'Stop the tape and spin it back. I want to see that section again.'
Andy sank deeper into his chair.
Hen watched and listened a second time and then let the tape run on. Jessie insisted she'd been at home on the night of the fire at Blacker's house, 'or most of it'. Then she spoke about her habit of walking at night before going to bed, when the streets were quiet, 'but always within sight of the cathedral spire'. Andy had asked if she ever took the car out at night. She spotted straight away what was behind the question and pointed out that she had no reason to kill Blacker, who had said something favourable about her book of tips. But she'd admitted she owned an old Mini Metro that ran on leaded and she kept it in her garage somewhere out of sight of visitors to the cathedral.
The interview ended soon after.
'Are you thinking she had some kind of premonition, guv?' Andy asked.
'Of what?'
'Her own death.'
'Why do you say that?'
'The bit you wanted to hear again, about the journey of the soul.'
'I get you. The answer is no.' She got up and took out one of her cigars. 'Did we check Jessie's lock-up?'
'Lock-up?'
'The place where she kept her car. Did someone look inside?'
He said, 'I'm sure of it, guv,' in a way that said he wasn't.
'Do it now.
Now.'
She would have gone herself, but she'd just seen something she hadn't expected. Stella, back from the evidence depository already. She was with Johnny Cherry and a couple of others, leafing through a magazine.
Hen went over. It was a copy of
Innocents,
now open at the centrefold of a naked blonde face down on a bed and turning to look at the camera, which must have been positioned between her knees. The foreshortened view left nothing to the imagination. The girl's face, of negligible importance in a shot like this, and small as a thumb-print, was just visible looking over her raised shoulder. The features weren't in the sharpest focus, but were clear enough to recognise. She had a look of genuine surprise, as if she'd just been woken up.
'Is that her?'
'I'd put money on it, guv. It says "Mandy, 19, Our Innocent of the Month", but it's Amelia Snow, looking drunk as a skunk. Your hunch was right.'
'Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the
sign?'
Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, 'Land and sea, my Lord, are
thine.'
Canute turned towards the ocean. 'Back!' he said, 'thou
foaming brine.'
W. M. Thackeray,
King Canute
(1910)
T
homasine had driven out to see where Lord Chalybeate lived. Bosham, pronounced 'Bozzum', is a sailing village of great antiquity, built on an inlet four miles west of Chichester. It is a much visited place, with a Saxon church depicted in the Bayeux Tapestry, a watermill (now occupied by the sailing club), and fine, changing views from the shore road. Here King Canute is said to have commanded the tide to turn, and many a visitor to Bosham has wished for the same result. The water looks benign, but regularly washes over parked cars below Lane End. The local sport is watching the drivers return too late.
She soon discovered what escapes most visitors, that however attractive are the large properties along the shoreline, there are even more splendid residences inland and to the east. Here, with the help of a postman, she found the Chalybeate house. To describe it as a 'barn conversion', as
The Bodybuilder
had, was to do it an injustice. Maybe it had started as a barn, but it had been transformed into something on a grander scale, with a drive and outbuildings, all set back from the road in wooded grounds.
She saw this through tall wrought-iron gates incongruously set into a low wall that could easily be stepped over. Not that she planned to explore the house this afternoon. The purpose of the trip was to locate the place.
As she turned away, a small red Fiat drove up to the gate. The woman inside put down her window.
'Were you looking for someone?'
'Lord Chalybeate, actually,' Thomasine said. 'It doesn't look as if he's home.'
She was friendly enough. She looked about Thomasine's age, with black, frizzy hair. 'He isn't, and he won't be, I'm afraid. I'm Kate, the housekeeper.'
'He doesn't know me,' Thomasine said, giving her name. Then she thought up a pretext for being there. 'I'm a local teacher. Not Bosham. Chichester. I'm trying to set up new projects for the girls, interviewing local celebrities.'
'You'd better make an appointment. He's in London through the week. Only comes down weekends. But I'd better warn you he doesn't like people coming here. This is his getaway place.'
Thomasine's eyebrows pricked up. 'Ooh. Like that, is he?'
'No, not like that. He's always alone.'
'I'm with you. Just likes to chill out?'
Kate the housekeeper laughed. 'The opposite. He's straight into the sauna when he gets here. Well, he would be> wouldn't he? Got to test the products.'
Thomasine had to think a moment before guessing that saunas were supplied by Chalybeate Fitness, or whatever his company was called. 'So if I came back Saturday . . . '
'After phoning for an appointment.'
Thomasine thanked her and drove back to Chichester.
* * *
Hen Mallin had called the murder investigation team to an eight a.m. meeting, so they assumed she had something important to announce. She'd not been seen in the police station before nine up to now.
The meeting was brief.
She arrived precisely on time and started without even a 'good morning'.
'I shouldn't need to say this. These meetings are in confidence. Everything that goes on in this nick is in confidence. Anyone in breach of that confidence isn't fit to be in the police, let alone CID. So listen up and then button up.'
Looks were exchanged. Tensions were running high in the team. Hen's efforts to identify the leaker had upset almost everyone.
'I'm confident of arresting the arsonist before the end of this week. I'm ninety per cent sure who it is. The next stage is to bring them out of the woodwork.'
'Them?'
Johnny Cherry said. 'My theory was right? Two people working together?'
'I used the word "them" to avoid saying "him" or "her".'
'Do you have to be so mysterious?'
She said with measured emphasis, 'In the circumstances, yes.'
Nobody chose to take her up on this.
'As I was about to say, the next stage is to bait a trap. You'll all be involved and it's going to mean at least one late night, so keep yourselves free.'
'Do we have a breakthrough?' DC Shilling asked.
'Were you listening, Duncan?'
'Sorry, guv.'
'That's all.'
Not much of a meeting. Insubordination was in the air.
She called across the room, 'Johnny. A word in my office.'
DI Cherry shrugged and grinned at his colleagues, quite willing to fan the flames. He was one of the lads these days.
But with the door closed behind him and only Hen for company he took a different line. 'Good idea, keeping that lot in suspense.'
'You think so?'
'Who are we talking about?'
She wasn't drawn. 'I notice, Johnny, that your hair is damp.'
'Always is, this time of day'
'Your morning swim?'
'Right.' He attempted a mild dig. 'Normally it's dry by the time you come in.'
'Which is why I'm here this early today. I wanted to be certain. Where do you do this swimming?'
He paused before answering. 'The Westgate Centre.'
'Each morning?'
'Yes.'
'You know what's coming, don't you?'
He shook his head, but his eyes gave a different answer.
'It took me a while to work out,' Hen said. 'Time I should have been spending on the trail of the arsonist. Instead I was doing something I deeply resent, forced to question the loyalty of my own team, probing their statements, accounting for every action, looking for Naomi Green's source. Finally I listened again to one of the witness interviews and made the connection.'
Johnny assumed an air of executive solidarity, one SIO in sympathy with another.
'He mentioned it in passing,' Hen went on, 'how he sets his alarm for an early start. He's there at the Westgate Centre, doing his lengths just like you, every day before eight. Basil Green.'
A muscle flexed in Johnny's right cheek, but he made no comment.
Hen wasn't expecting him to put up his hand. She said,'I wouldn't know how long this has been so, but I've no doubt you two exchange a few words in the changing room. He's friendly and there's a topic you both have an interest in: this investigation.'
All the colour had drained from Johnny's face.
'All this time,' Hen said, 'I was thinking one of my team was passing information to Naomi. I forgot Basil. He's easy to forget. Even Naomi ignores him most of the time, but I bet she listens when he tells her what he learned from you at the pool.'
Now his shoulders sagged, and he made a visible effort to brace them.
Hen continued in the same measured tone, holding down her fury. 'When I realised it was you, I asked myself if it was carelessness, stupidity really, thinking your friendly chats with Basil weren't doing any harm. I wish it were so. But this is the real world and you're an experienced detective. You knew it would get back to Naomi and you knew she was writing these case notes, or whatever she calls them, on the internet. Johnny, you were acting out of spite, deliberately undermining my investigation.'
He held his hands open in appeal. He had to deny it. 'No.'
'Shut up. I haven't finished. You made it clear from the day I stepped into this nick that you were stropped off. Fair enough, being replaced as SIO was hard to take. You were entitled to feel let down, humiliated even, and the fact that I'm a woman made it harder. I knew better than to expect a hundred per cent from you. What I didn't expect was betrayal. I didn't think anyone on the team would breach security as you did.'
'It wasn't deliberate.'
'It was. There was stuff appearing on that website that you'd passed on to Basil. I was troubled about it. You knew I laid into Andy Humphreys, assuming he was the rat. One of your mates was getting it in the neck because of something you'd done, and what did you say? Sweet fuck all. To call you a rat is to insult rats. I can't think of any vermin as contemptible as you.'
Such was the force of Hen's words that Johnny didn't even shake his head. He stood like a guardsman, staring ahead. Finally he moistened his lips and said, 'I suppose it's no use saying I'm truly sorry.'
'Save that for Andy and the others. It won't impress me.'
'Are you going to report me?'
'As of now, I'm not even thinking what I'll do about you. There's a killer out there and I'm trying to find the best way through this mess.'
'Do you want me to stand down?'
'What did you say to Basil this morning?'
'This morning?' He took a moment to cast back his thoughts. 'Nothing much. I knew you were closing in, so I didn't want to give too much away. I was telling him how you were looking at the videos again.'
'Did you tell him why?'
'I don't know why. I just heard from Andy that he sat in with you when you watched the Warmington-Smith interview.'
'So have you told Basil about the link with Lord Chalybeate?'
'No.'
You swear it? Can I believe you, Johnny?'
He said with a stricken sigh, 'I don't expect you will.'
Hen studied him for what seemed a long interval. Then she said, 'I'm going to take a huge risk with you. I wish I didn't have to. I'd rather rely on anyone else, but I have no choice. Tomorrow morning, you go for your swim as usual.'
His mouth fell open like a trapdoor.
'And you talk to Basil and I'll tell you what to say.'
Long trips for Parcel Force had meant early starts and late finishes for two days. Late on Thursday evening Bob was catching up with messages left on his answerphone.
Thomasine speaking. Expect you're working. I've had quite a day already. Got something amazing to tell you. I'll try later.'
'Hello, Bob. This is Maurice. Maurice McDade. Just to let you know that the funeral for Amelia - Miss Snow - will be next Monday, at noon, at the crematorium in Westhampnett Road, and, sadly, Jessie's follows on Tuesday at three in the cathedral. Neither of them had much family, so I'm hoping we can get a good turnout of circle members.'
Just me, Thomasine. Time's running out. I was hoping to bring you in on this. I'll try again if there's a chance.'
'Anton Gulliver speaking. I don't know if you have internet access. If you do, you might care to look at this website Naomi Green has created. I've no idea where she gets her information from, but she's regularly broadcasting libellous statements about most of us under the cloak of pseudonyms that are themselves distasteful. Thought you should know, as press officer for the circle.'
'Bob? This is Dagmar. I just wondered if Thomasine is with you. I can't seem to get through to her.'
'Sorry to trouble you, old man. This is Tudor. Anton got through to me earlier about some website Naomi Green is publishing on the internet. Apparently she's been touting me as the fire-raiser and I'm hopping mad. Is she doing this as a private individual, or is it the circle website? Get back to me soon, won't you?'
'Hi. Sharon here. Got another success to report. Catch you later.'