Quinn realized that he would have to play it by the book this time. He couldn’t afford a single slip-up. Besides, he no longer believed that the insights he gained through his fingertips were more valuable than any information the forensic boys could provide. The last case had cured him of that particular delusion. He knew that if he was going to survive as the Head of Special Crimes he would have to change his methods. But if he changed his methods, would he still be able to do the job?
The art of detection was a strange combination of evidential analysis, ratiocination and instinct. A delicate balance. For it to work, all three elements were required in equal measure. But the problem with instinct was that it did not come when bidden. To summon it, he relied on superstitious rituals such as handling vital evidence with his bare hands. Putting on the cotton gloves was to create a barrier between Quinn and the part of himself that solved crimes, or so he believed.
Quinn began to examine the outside of the door, lightly running his gloved hands over its surface. He got nothing back, of course. The cotton layer sealed him off from the world he was investigating. He stood back and considered the door as a whole. ‘Did the monkey open the door itself?’
‘I don’t know. Is it important?’
‘If it had the strength to open the door . . . What kind of monkey is it, do we know?’
‘A small monkey, the witnesses said. The kind people keep as pets. Silver grey in colour. A macaque, we believe.’
‘Did it belong to Amélie?’
‘No. Not that anyone knew. The girls are not allowed to keep pets. Mr Blackley is very strict about that, apparently. However, we found a cage in her room. Hidden in her wardrobe.’
‘So the monkey first escaped from the cage and then the wardrobe, before unlocking the door to the room?’
‘I suppose he must have,’ said Coddington.
‘Clever monkey,’ said Inchball.
Quinn gestured for Coddington to open the door, with the forlorn air of someone relinquishing a long-coveted privilege.
The first thing that he noticed was the smell, a mixture of disinfectant and faeces.
‘Apparently, there was quite a lot of monkey shit about the place when they opened it up,’ explained Coddington. ‘According to the housekeeper, there was even some on the walls. Presumably, the animal threw it about when it became agitated. Naturally – though perhaps regrettably – the maid cleaned it all up before the police arrived.’
‘I thought you said the room had been left untouched?’
‘Well, apart from that, yes. I made sure of it myself.’
‘So, apart from it being completely cleaned with chemical disinfectant, it was untouched?’
‘Yes.’
‘And so the chances of us finding any significant clues are wiped away at the stroke of a cloth?’
‘I understand your frustration, Quinn.’ Coddington’s omission of Quinn’s rank in addressing him was a pointed reminder of his own superiority, his pretended deference for the other detective’s superior powers momentarily forgotten. He sounded tetchy. ‘But there was nothing we could do about it. We gave strict instructions that nothing was to be touched. . . .’ Coddington appeared to remember himself; his tone became more conciliatory. ‘But you know women. It was done before we got here.’
The room was larger than its neighbour, and contained more in the way of furnishings. It was full of a vaguely feminine clutter: knick-knacks on shelves, clothes spread across a chair, framed artistic prints on the walls. They were of a similar style to the prints in the hallway, though of rural scenes, rather than Parisian.
The key was still in the door. Quinn took it out to examine more closely. It was a basic design, a cylindrical shaft with teeth at one end and a bow for gripping it at the other. The bow was a rounded trapezium, with the narrower end towards the shaft, and a hole in the middle for attaching it to a key ring. But there was, in fact, no ring linked to it. This in itself struck Quinn as unusual. ‘This is the key that was found in the door?’ He wanted to be sure.
‘Yes, that’s correct.’
Quinn handed the key to Coddington. ‘I would like it sent to the forensics boys at New Scotland Yard. Could you arrange that, please?’
‘Of course.’
‘Have it marked for the attention of Charlie Cale.’
Quinn picked up a small fabric-covered box with a key sticking out of one side. He wound the key and sprang the lid. A tiny porcelain ballerina pirouetted to a twinkling melody.
Quinn sensed Coddington watching him closely as he waited for the music box to wind down. He couldn’t be sure whether the other man’s scrutiny was critical or merely interested. Quinn did not quite trust the eagerly expectant gaze that met him when he turned back to Coddington. ‘The theme from
Swan Lake
,’ said Quinn as he replaced the object on the shelf.
‘Is it important?’
‘It could be. At this stage, anything and everything could turn out to have a vital significance. Or none at all.’
‘You don’t know what a wonderful opportunity – indeed, what an honour – it is for me to be able to work alongside you, Inspector.’
Quinn frowned. He couldn’t work out what Coddington’s game was. Quinn had never encountered a DCI so completely devoid of egotism as Coddington would have to be to mean what he said. Perhaps he was simply trying to recover ground after his slip-up over the crime scene. He wanted to ingratiate himself back into Quinn’s good opinion. If it wasn’t that, it was something more sinister. One thing was certain: the soft-soap act was designed to hoodwink him in some way.
Quinn turned to the bed, single like the one in the next room, though in fact it appeared smaller, lost in the larger space surrounding it. The mattress dipped in the middle, as if it bore the imprint of the dead girl’s presence.
‘That was where she was found,’ said Coddington.
The room’s monumental wardrobe drew Quinn’s attention, a looming mausoleum of dark wood tucked against one wall. ‘Was this where the monkey was confined?’ asked Quinn. He opened the wardrobe door and saw the gilded cage in the bottom, the flimsy door hanging open.
‘Yes. Presumably Amélie was worried about the pet being discovered.’
‘It’s not much of a life for the poor fellow.’
‘Motive, sir?’ asked Inchball mischievously. ‘Monkey becomes dissatisfied with its life in the gilded cage, hidden away in the dark of the wardrobe. Escapes and murders his gaoler?’
Quinn indulged his sergeant with a half-smile. He began rifling through the hanging garments. Quite an array. Not that he knew much about ladies’ fashions. Well, nothing – it had to be owned. But he could sense the fineness of the fabrics even through the cotton gloves. His hands delved into a black well of evening glamour, yieldingly inviting. The sparkle of sequins flashed here and there, glistening like dark promises. He had to suppress a desire to bury his head in the sheaths of enticement he uncovered between the garments. He settled instead for inhaling the frail, fleeting scent that clung to them. It was overpowered by other smells – mothballs and the aftermath of monkey faeces.
In amongst it all he found one full-length fur coat and a silver fox stole.
‘How much do mannequins get paid?’ he asked, lifting out the fur coat and turning it to show Coddington and Inchball.
‘Knowing Benjamin Blackley, I shouldn’t imagine they get much in the way of a salary,’ said Coddington. ‘He operates on the principle of paying his staff just enough that they can survive, but not enough that they can escape. It is a form of bonded servitude.’
‘How could she afford these then?’ asked Quinn, returning the coat to the rail.
‘Having spoken to the other mannequins, I very much doubt she could,’ said Coddington. ‘They do not seem particularly happy with their lot. Unless she was paid significantly more than her peers she would not have been able to run to such expenditure.’
‘Maybe she nicked ’em,’ suggested Inchball, with a certain amount of relish.
‘Or they were gifts,’ said Quinn. He crossed back to the shelf where he had found the music box and picked it up again.
‘You think that was a gift too?’ asked Coddington.
Quinn shrugged.
‘From who?’ said Inchball abruptly.
Quinn nodded his approval of the question. ‘This room is bigger than the other girls’,’ he observed.
‘Yes,’ said Coddington. ‘It’s the largest in the house, apart from Monsieur Hugo’s.’
‘Monsieur who?’
‘Monsieur Hugo. He is the head of the Costumes Salon. And he lives in the house with the mannequins.’
‘Frenchy, is he?’ said Inchball suspiciously.
‘He pretends to be a Frenchman.’
‘
Pretends to be a Frenchman!
’ It seemed that as far as Inchball was concerned, this was an even greater offence than actually being one. He gave Quinn a look that suggested the case was surely closed. ‘Why in the name of Jesus would anybody do that?’
‘For professional reasons. All the mannequins do it too. Apart from Amélie. She was the only real French native among them.’
‘Who else lives in the house besides Monsieur Hugo and the mannequins?’
‘Just the housekeeper, Miss Mortimer, whom you have met. And the maid, an Irish girl called Kathleen. She’s as dumpy and plain as the other girls are pretty and slim.’
‘Was she the one who cleaned the monkey shit?’ Inchball’s tone was disapproving.
‘She can’t be entirely blamed. She’s not the brightest of creatures. A little bit simple, if you ask me.’
‘So Monsieur Hugo is the only man?’ asked Quinn.
‘That’s correct.’
Quinn and Inchball exchanged a glance. ‘Lucky bleeder,’ was Inchball’s comment.
‘Having interviewed him, I rather think the prerogative is wasted on him,’ said Coddington.
Inchball rolled his eyes. ‘Not another one of them blasted queers, is ’e? We ’ad enough of them with the last case.’
‘It’s true to say that he appears more interested in ladies’ costumes than in the ladies who wear them,’ said Coddington. ‘That said, he was very fond of Amélie. And is the only one who appears genuinely cut up over her death – apart from Albertine, that is.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘At work, of course. Blackley would not permit him to remain absent for long, no matter how upset he was. I dare say it was only because Albertine’s distress would repel customers that he has allowed her to stay here.’
‘What else do we know about the dead girl?’ said Quinn.
‘The housekeeper describes her as a good, quiet girl. She said she never had any trouble from her. I got the impression that this was another thing that set her apart from the others. Most of them, that is. I don’t think anything bad can be said against the poor wretch next door, either.’
‘Any enemies?’
‘No one would admit it, but my sense is that most of the other girls hated her guts. Albertine excepted, once again. Miss Mortimer dropped hints to that effect. She said she liked to keep herself to herself. Which perhaps led the other girls to believe she was something of a snob. Saw herself as a cut above them.’
‘What about admirers?’
‘I dare say everyone who saw her admired her. She was a looker, all right.’
‘But no one in particular? No beau?’
‘According to the housekeeper, Blackley wouldn’t stand for it. He was very strict with them. The front door was locked at nine o’clock every evening and only opened in the morning when it was time for them to go to work. They were only allowed out with Miss Mortimer, or another of the older female employees, as chaperone. They lived like nuns. It might have suited Amélie, but it didn’t suit the others.’
‘Nuns? Or prisoners?’ said Quinn.
‘It ain’ natural,’ said Inchball.
‘Sergeant Inchball is right,’ said Quinn. ‘When you impose conditions like this on healthy young people, you are asking for trouble. Mr Blackley may think he can control the lives of his employees, but they will find a way to evade that control. The monkey in the wardrobe is one example. We may be sure that there are other secrets that this young girl kept locked away somewhere.’
Quinn dropped down on to one knee and peered under the bed. He retrieved an object that looked like a short wooden knitting needle.
‘We saw that,’ said Coddington quickly. ‘It’s a hairpin. Girls like this are very untidy. They drop things on the floor.’
‘There was nothing else under there,’ said Quinn.
‘It’s hard to see how it could have anything to do with her death. She was strangled, not stabbed. And there doesn’t appear to be any blood on it.’
‘Although it could have been cleaned up by the girl who cleaned the monkey faeces.’ Quinn handed the hairpin to Coddington. ‘Something else for Charlie Cale.’
‘I shall see to it now,’ said Coddington. ‘Unless there is anything else you wish to have sent?’
‘That will do for now.’
Coddington walked out of the room and called for one of his subordinates.
The bed had a polished brass frame. Quinn knuckle-tapped each of its legs in turn. The fourth had a more muffled, deader resonance than the other three. ‘Inchball.’
That was all the command he needed to issue. Inchball tilted the bed back so that Quinn could examine the end of the leg in question. It was an open tube, stuffed with a roll of papers.
DCI Coddington returned just in time to see Quinn tease the papers out: letters, still in their envelopes.
‘Lucky break,’ said Inchball begrudgingly.
Coddington grinned as if he had just seen a stage magician pull off a particularly baffling trick. ‘We looked under the bed, of course,’ he said delightedly. ‘We didn’t think of looking in it!’
Quinn barely acknowledged his effusion with a non-committal grunt.
T
he letters unfurled slowly, flexing themselves out of the tight rolls they had been bent into. There seemed to be something almost animal to their uncoiling, as if they were awakening after a long hibernation.
There were six of them. On each envelope was written
Amélie
in a large, looping, slightly childish script.
‘Cheap stationery,’ remarked Quinn. ‘Which means the letters are unlikely to be from the same person who gave her the furs.’