Quinn marshalled a still stunned Yeovil inside. He could not prevent Blackley from tagging along.
Despite what Spiggott had said, the great businessman’s smile had vanished utterly from his face. Quinn had seen it slip briefly once or twice, but this was the longest Blackley had been without his trademark expression in place. His face was like thunder, in fact. ‘This is an outrage,’ he declared. ‘That they could do this . . .’
Quinn regarded him quizzically.
‘To bring something like this inside the House of Blackley . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .’
‘Sacrilege?’ prompted Quinn.
Blackley’s cursory nod suggested that Quinn’s assessment went without saying. ‘This is a blow against me, Inspector. An insult to me. This is my enemies at work. They’re trying to destroy me. First the fire, then that girl at the mannequin house. Now this. Someone is trying to ruin me, Inspector. That’s what this is all about. That man Spiggott, for instance. Why did you let him go?’
‘He rather thinks I should have arrested you.’
‘But that’s preposterous. Why should I attack my own interests?’
It was immediately apparent that the Costumes Salon was the scene of a tragedy. Shrieking mannequins prowled aimlessly about; sometimes, animated by brief bursts of energy, they broke into a run. But what they were running from, or to, was unclear. Monsieur Hugo tried to restore calm but the tears were streaming down his face. Arbuthnot was nowhere to be seen, though several other sales assistants stood in a sombre head-shaking cluster.
Yeovil led them towards an ancient commissionaire who was standing by a closed blank door. The store’s green livery and top hat gave him the glamour of authority, which he took every bit as seriously as if he were a serving policeman.
‘She’s through there,’ said Yeovil.
Quinn approached the door but the commissionaire raised his hand to prevent him. ‘Shtop right there, shonny.’ The man’s dentures whistled alarmingly.
‘It’s all right, Dresden,’ said Blackley. ‘He’s with the police.’
The door led into the display window, a raised platform facing outwards and screened from the interior of the store by a partition wall. A space hardly bigger than a cabinet in a museum, it was crowded with clothing dummies in summer fashions. They lurked gracelessly around an open picnic basket which was brimming with wax food.
She was lying awkwardly on the ground, as stiffly as the dummies were standing. It didn’t look like she was there for any picnic. Her body position was all wrong – arms by her side, legs straight out, head back. Besides, she was still wearing the dressing gown that she had had on the day before, when Quinn had spoken to her.
‘Edna,’ murmured Quinn.
An audience was gathering on the other side of the glass. Those looking in behaved entirely without inhibition, seeming to have no sense that they themselves could be seen by the man in the window. Either that or they believed his gaze was unimportant, as irrelevant to them as that of an animal from another species.
The onlookers pointed out the dead girl to one another and shared grim
aperçus
. They shook their heads, affronted. He could almost hear them declaring it was a
disgrace
that such a thing could happen on their doorstep, in the store they frequented daily. If they looked at Quinn at all, it was to flash him a look of angry recrimination, as if they held him to blame for the outrage.
Quinn called out: ‘Mr Yeovil, can I ask you to go out there and disperse those people?’
Yeovil answered with something vaguely affirmative. As Quinn waited for him to appear outside, he heard the thud of clambering feet as he was joined in the window. ‘Oh, God. No. Not this.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have done this, Mr Blackley?’ It was clear that the identity of the dead girl came as a considerable shock to Blackley. A blow, even.
‘My enemies. My enemies have done this.’
Outside, Yeovil was shooing away the inquisitive. He glanced in anxiously. Quinn nodded his approval and signalled for Yeovil to stay where he was to deter any further interest. It also suited him to have Blackley separated from his ‘legal adviser’. ‘And who are your enemies, would you say? Leaving aside Mr Spiggott. We know all about him.’
‘You could start with that papist priest . . .’
‘Do you mean Father Thomas?’
‘He’s the ringleader.’
‘You have a
ring
of enemies?’
‘I am under no illusions. There are many men who would like to ruin me. When there’s a winner – like me – there are always losers. I have forced more than one business to the wall, I admit it. It’s the law of the jungle in commerce. Survival of the fittest. I can’t help it. It was their fault they couldn’t compete, not mine.’
‘Where does Father Thomas fit into it? Surely you don’t see the Catholic Church as a business competitor?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘And isn’t this . . .’ Quinn gestured down towards the dead girl. ‘Isn’t it a somewhat extreme tactic for a disgruntled competitor?’
‘I wouldn’t put it past them. They’d stoop to anything if they thought it would hurt me. Well, I’ve survived worse than this. This won’t hurt me.’ Blackley was quick to correct himself. ‘I mean, it won’t hurt my business. Obviously I’m deeply pained at the girl’s death.’
‘Have you ever had sexual relations with Edna Corbett?’
‘Who the bloody ’ell’s Edna Corbett?’
‘She is.’
‘I thought her name were Albertine.’ Blackley’s voice was suddenly almost tender. His soft Yorkshire vowels had a plangent rhythm.
‘Yes, she’s known as Albertine here. But her real name is Edna.’
‘I never knew.’
‘So . . . Have you?’
Blackley stared at the body on the floor, his eyes bulging from his head. ‘No. I can honestly say that I haven’t.
Hand
. . .
on
. . .
heart
, Inspector.’ He enunciated the words deliberately, slamming his palm against his breast. ‘Hand on heart.’
Blackley seemed at pains to impress Quinn with his fidelity on this particular issue. Naturally this led Quinn to suspect that the same could not be said for any of the other mannequins. ‘Was she the only one you hadn’t slept with?’
Blackley turned sharply towards Quinn. ‘I believe that’s what’s known in legal circles as a leading question, Inspector.’
‘What had stopped you? Was she not your type? Or was it simply because you hadn’t got round to her yet?’
‘This is outrageous!’
‘Two girls have been killed. If as you assert, these crimes have been committed to injure you, it is essential that I understand, as well as I can, the relationship between you and each of the dead girls. Therefore, I implore you to be honest with me.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. The only relationship I had with either girl was that they worked for me. I was their employer. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Where were you last night?’
‘I was at home. With my wife and family.’
‘Was your son with you? Ben.’
‘Ben?’
Quinn noted the suppressed alarm in Blackley’s voice. It was enough to tell him that Ben Blackley had not been at home the previous night.
‘He’s a young man. He has friends. And interests of his own. It doesn’t signify if we don’t bump into each other of an evening. I believe he may have gone out to the picture palace. I recollect that’s what the wife said.’
‘Of course, I shall talk to him about that myself. We have him in custody, as you know.’
‘I may have that wrong,’ said Blackley nervously. ‘It may not have been the picture palace.’
‘You don’t know where your son was last night, do you, Mr Blackley?’
‘Why should I? He’s old enough and daft enough to do what he wants.’
‘Even if it includes murder.’
‘He didn’t do this, Inspector. He’s not a murderer. You know that.’
‘I’m afraid that, apart from you, he’s the only plausible suspect we have.’
‘And that’s enough? You don’t need evidence, for example? Or witnesses?’
‘In some cases, a confession is enough.’
‘Has Ben confessed?’
‘Not yet. But one of my men, Sergeant Inchball, is very skilled at extracting confessions.’
‘You don’t really believe this?’
‘I don’t know what to believe, Mr Blackley.’ Behind this guarded statement was Quinn’s uneasy realization that he and Macadam had kept watch on the entrance of the mannequin house all night; they had seen neither Blackley nor his son enter.
There was no easy solution to that particular conundrum. But Quinn was distracted from contemplating it further by the siren bell of an approaching police vehicle.
M
acadam returned with detectives and uniforms from the local station. Remembering the panic that had ensued from the false fire alarm two days ago, Quinn was reluctant to order a sudden evacuation of the premises. However, the whole building had to be considered a crime scene. Who could say what evidence might be contaminated by the through traffic of customers?
He decided to proceed discreetly but determinedly. The urgent priority was to seal off the Costumes Salon. He also sent Blackley off to find a sheet that could serve as an improvised screen for the window. Blackley had undertaken the commission with enthusiasm, apparently relieved to be distancing himself from the dead girl.
At the same time, he positioned policemen at all the entrances, turning new customers away. Those that were already inside Blackley’s would be allowed to leave in their own time, without panic.
Of course, the possibility had to be considered that the murderer was still inside the store. But it was unlikely. The body must have been put in position before the store opened; otherwise whoever put it there would have been seen carrying it.
Macadam had in tow a short, corpulent man introduced to Quinn as Dr Prendergast. There was something rather seamy, if not unhealthy, about Prendergast’s appearance: a sheen of perspiration over his olive-tinged complexion; a rash of angry red spots around his nose and above his collar. He breathed heavily through an open mouth, wheezing asthmatically. Quinn felt he was one of those men who could only be improved by bathing. A pungent masculine odour emanated from him.
The good doctor looked down at the body and sighed. ‘Another skinny one.’ He glowered out at the street, where Yeovil was negotiating with a fresh group of sensation-seekers.
‘I have asked Mr Blackley to fetch a sheet to rig up over the window,’ said Quinn.
This prompted an approving grunt from Prendergast as he lowered himself to peer into the dead girl’s face. ‘Petechial haemorrhaging once again, Inspector. And this time I see we have ligature marks around the neck. Accompanied by deep, but very narrow abrasions. This one was strangled too, but with more force than the other girl, I would venture. Something sharper and more aggressive than a silk scarf caused these marks. If I had to hazard a guess, I would say . . . a wire of some kind, the way it has cut into her skin. I suppose you’ll be wanting a time of death. It always seems so important to you policemen. Impossible to be absolutely accurate, of course. Cadaveric rigidity is such an unreliable indicator.’
‘We know she died sometime last night, or in the early hours of this morning. I spoke to her myself yesterday afternoon.’ Quinn winced his eyes shut at the memory of the discussion that had taken place between them. He sniffed noisily and continued, ‘And her body must have been placed here before the store opened. Do you think you will be able to give us a more accurate time than that?’
‘Probably not.’
‘In which case, I am more interested to know whether there is any evidence of recent sexual activity and whether it was consensual.’
‘How typical of you policemen. Always thinking the worst of people.’
‘I am only influenced by your report into Amélie Dupin’s death.’
‘
Touché
, as the French say. Though I hope you won’t mind if I wait for the modesty drapes before I go peering up her dressing gown?’
‘Yes, of course. Please do.’
Prendergast continued his examination of the disposition of the body. ‘At least we know with this one that it wasn’t the monkey. That is to say, it’s hard to imagine how a macaque monkey could have conveyed her body here. Unless it had an accomplice.’
Quinn said nothing. He found the doctor’s jaundiced flippancy uncongenial. It jarred with his dismay at Albertine’s death. He had to admit that he had not seen it coming. He was struggling to understand it as an event, let alone as a mystery to be solved. An uncomfortable question suggested itself to him: had his attempt to recruit her assistance somehow caused her death?
Quinn had no doubt that it would be held against him by his enemies. But in truth he cared little about that. He was haunted more by the sense that he had failed Edna. He should have done more to protect her. It seemed obvious now, in retrospect, that her closeness to Amélie would have placed her at risk. But from whom? He was no nearer to answering that question than he had been when he first set foot in the mannequin house two days ago.
He found Macadam taking a statement from the mannequin known as Marie-Claude. She had a guarded expression, as if she was trying to remain aloof from what had happened. From death, in other words. She watched Quinn closely as he approached. Her posture tensed as she realized he was about to speak to her.
‘Did you see or hear anything unusual in the mannequin house last night?’
‘Your pal’s already asked me that.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Nothing. Not a dicky bird. I slept like a log.’
‘You didn’t see anyone in the house who shouldn’t have been there?’
‘No.’
‘It’s the same with all the others, sir.’ Macadam shook his head glumly. ‘No one saw anything.’
‘All right, Sergeant. Let the local boys finish off here. I need your help with something.’
Quinn led Macadam out of the Costumes Salon and through the door that led to the warehouse. A motor lorry was backing into the loading bay, its engine over-revving, exhaust fumes filling the brown gloom.
Quinn felt moisture brimming in his eyes. He put it down to exhaustion, after a night spent on surveillance. Or perhaps it was the pungency of the fumes, in which was mixed a tang of raw petrol vapour.