A Splash of Red (11 page)

'Mrs Shaw,' he began. 'You dialled nine-nine-nine? We answered your radio call.' The
n he recognized her. 'Ah, Miss J
emima Shore. It was your call—'

'The body's in there. I found her. I can identify her. This is her flat.' Suddenly Jemima felt she could not re-enter the bedroom until she had fought down both her pity and her nausea. 'I don't think there's much to be done for her.' He went swiftly through. Jemima picked up Tiger. She could not endure the idea of the cat picking its delicate curious way into that sullied chamber. She put him, scrabbling in her arms, onto the balcony and regardless of the heat, shut the window. As Kevin John had reminded her, she had left it unlocked. He had entered the flat by that route. And who else?

Who, Who?... was beginning to beat in her head with more force as the cat mewed angrily against the glass.

She heard the policeman talking into the black radio link on his shoulder, the thick black plastic wiring curling out of the machine like a snake. He was talking to Bloomsbury Police Station. In between crackles and other little squeaking sounds, she heard him calling for the CID. And a police surgeon. At that moment, he returned to the sitting room.

'I'm afraid I closed her eyes,' Jemima said rather woodenly. 'I shouldn't have touched anything.' The policeman was kind.

'The shock. I presume you and the deceased were acquainted. Detective Chief Inspector Portsmouth will be here in a few minutes. In the meantime, Miss Shore, it is Miss Jemima Shore, Investigator, isn't it?' He gave a faint rather embarrassed smile. 'No question of
your
identity - I'll leave the questions to him.' He was writing in his notebook.

He looked round the flat.

'Excuse me, Miss Shore, is this all there is?'

'And the kitchen.' She waved her hand, and he trod in his quick authoritative way towards it, his heavy black shoes making no noise on the carpet. His manner, and his confidence, belied the extreme youth of his appearance. Through the open kitchen door, Jemima saw that the glass kitchen door leading to the fire escape was still shut and bolted.

The police and their work, including that of a murder squad, were familiar to Jemima Shore. In particular she enjoyed good relations with Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth (Pompey as he was familiarly dubbed) of the Bloomsbury Police. It was a friendship which had begun several years back when it had suited Pompey's purpose to issue an appeal on television for information concerning a missing child. Later he discussed the case in a brief interview. Jemima had handled both appearances.

Still later, in view of the unusual nature of the case, there had been a discussion group on television in which Pompey had featured. Even the
Guardian,
in rather a dazed way, had described Jemima's organization of this as 'fascinatingly
fair-minded
'. Pompey had evidently agreed with the
Guardian,
since with his help, Jemima had been able to make a programme about women detectives, and another about detectives' wives. A friendship had been struck, based on the odd drink, the odd chat, the odd consultation from both sides about each other's work. On at least one occasion these conversations had resulted in the solution of a mystery temporarily baffling to Pompey. No, the arrival of Pompey held no fears, only a kind of reassurance for Jemima.

Nor was death itself a stranger to her. She had seen it in many guises, and helped to track down its begetter in her private investigative capacity. But this time it was her friend who was dead, murdered in that very room where only twenty-four hours before the living, graceful Chloe had moved lightly about in her high-heeled shoes, packing her bag. After so many years of friendship, it was as though something of Jemima's own past had been slain.

Who, Who? - the question was still going through her head when the police surgeon in the shape of a local CP arrived, followed by a police photographer; another policeman, identity and role unknown; a young man in plain clothes, probably a detective; someone she recognized as the fingerprint expert from Bloomsbury Police Station; and presiding over it all, Detective Chief Inspector John Portsmouth - Pompey - who with great urbanity took over the whole case and, as it seemed, the whole flat.

He shook his head when he saw Jemima, that gently placatory gesture which their various forays on television had made famous. Nothing ever surprised Pompey; his manner suggested that he had all along predicted that one Saturday night Jemima would find her best friend with her throat cut.

The police surgeon, a nice rather weary man, duly pronounced life extinct - to Jemima's view slightly unnecessarily, but she knew the careful ways of the police. However the doctor did summon up some enthusiasm when discussing the cause of death. He also proved to be a connoisseur of modern painting. 'Cause of death cut throat. That's clear enough. The first blow killed her, very well done, severed the windpipe immediately, that accounts for all the blood, main arteries you know, must have spouted like an oil well. By the body temperature, about six hours ago.
Rigor mortis
only just beginning to set in - the hot weather. Nothing to do with that razor by the bed of course; clumsy, aren't they? I much prefer the electric sort myself.' He smoothed his own chin appreciatively.

'They'll have to look for something else. Good picture over the bed by the way. It's an Athlone, isn't it? I thought so. There's one in the Tate rather similar. I'm very glad to have had an opportunity to see
that.'
He might have been visiting an art gallery in a provincial town.

He added in a much brisker voice: 'Most unsuitable for a lady's bedroom, I would have thought.'

'How about this, sir?' It was the young detective, addressing Pompey. He was holding in a gloved hand one of Chloe's long sharp kitchen knives. It was part of the
batterie de cuisine
which Jemima had admired the night before. According to Chloe - could one believe her? - it had been a housewarming present from Isabelle Mancini. Chloe, the domestic cat, had once been an excellent cook; now her gleaming
batterie
had been literally the death of her. The blade of the large knife looked as if it had been dipped in rust.

Jemima was familiar with the slow grinding of the police methods. She recognized the need for the endless questions and the establishment of apparently obvious facts. Nevertheless she was relieved when Pompey suggested that she should think about taking herself elsewhere - a police car would be provided - where they could continue their essential conversation in some greater comfort.

Powder was now everywhere. Everything in the flat had been dusted and tested for fingerprints. Jemima's own - fingerprints 'friendly to the environment' as Pompey put it - had been taken for elimination. It proved quite a jovial procedure, accompanied by some grave shakes of the head from Pompey.

Jemima repeated her basic story. How she had left for the Reading Room at about
12.30,
going to the Pizza Perfecta
en route.
How the flat had certainly been empty when she left, since it was very small. She had visited the kitchen just before leaving to see if she could find anything interesting to eat. She was sure the
batterie
was then complete because she had used one of the smaller knives to cut a piece of cheese, before suddenly deciding in favour of the Pizza. She had returned at approximately
5.30.

Finally Chloe's little body, wrapped in hygienic black plastic, was carried away down the stairs, off to the local mortuary, at the orders of the Coroner's office. There, like the rest of London, it would spend a quiet weekend - no noise, no disturbance - awaiting its post-mortem from a pathologist on Monday morning. The efforts of the police photographer, first taking shots of the body, and then general shots of the flat, punctuated the proceedings. He might be an ardent
paparazze
trying to nose out a juicy scandal with his flashing camera, thought Jemima: but then, of course, that's exactly what he
is
trying to do.

It was illogical, but she still minded the desecration of her friend's pale paradise. It was better to concentrate on the notion of scandal, and
that
was a thought which led directly to the subject of Sir Richard Lionnel, a topic temporarily eliminated from her mind by shock. Who, Who?
...
As though on cue, yet another policeman appeared in the doorway and whispered in Pompey's ear.

Pompey left the flat abruptly. His expression was enigmatic, with only the unexpected severity of the shake of his head to give some clue that for once perhaps he was very slightly surprised. Jemima was deciding to organize herself into an hotel - there must be some quiet private room in Bloomsbury of a Saturday night - when the telephone rang. Cocking an eyebrow at the remaining policeman, she answered it. She was greeted by the sound of pip-pips and then a loud voice bellowed in her ear.

'Dollie, is that you? Dollie, this is Dad.' But Jemima had already recognized the arbitrary tones of Mr Stover. Oh God, she thought, have I got to tell him? 'I'm at the station,' he went on.

'Which station?' said Jemima in a shaky voice.

'Tottenham Court Road tube station,' Mr Stover sounded extremely testy. 'That's where. Not Folkestone station I can assure you, which I left some hours ago at your personal request. Awful journey by the way. British Railways ought to be ashamed.' Pause for emphasis. 'Tottenham Court Road tube station that's where. Where you said you'd meet me at six o'clock. And it's now six-fifteen precisely.'

Jemima covered the mouthpiece. 'Officer, I think you'd better deal with this. It's the dead woman's father . . . stepfather, I mean. I mentioned earlier that her mother was probably her next of kin. He appears to be here in London.'

The police officer began to address Mr Stover in that same voice of neutral courtesy which had characterized all the proceedings.

'I am a police officer, sir, at your daughter's flat; dealing with a certain matter. No, I am afraid I cannot discuss it with you on the telephone. No, sir, I cannot at the moment give you any information. If you would just stay where you are, sir, a young lady police officer will arrive to look after you.'

'He's an old man,'
Jemima thought dully. 'A confused and angry old man. This shouldn't be happening to him.'

The man Pompey brought back with him was one to whom she felt confusion was quite unknown. Sir Richard Lionnel immediately dominated the scene by his mere presence. It was partly his physique -the Lion of Bloomsbury was well named.

Lionnel was urbanely dressed in a light tweed suit, so well cut that it did not even look out of place on this summer evening; the colour complemented his tanned skin. He was not in fact particularly tall, a little taller than Jemima herself perhaps, but his shoulders in the tweed suit were broad, giving an air of authority, and he himself, if not exactly heavy, was certainly a substantial man. Beyond that, everything about Lionnel exuded extraordinary life and force, from his black curly hair, tonsured by baldness like a monk, but still black and growing very vigorously, so that the curls seemed to be springing from his head, like a devil's horns, to his bright black eyes, definitely the eyes of some attendant devil at Lucifer's court. As they snapped from side to side, taking in Jemima, the flat, the policeman, the mess, they created their own energy. Even Lionnel's tan - or perhaps it was merely the native olive of his complexion - added to the air of natural force by making him look vigorously healthy.

The Lion of Bloomsbury, yes, indeed, a powerful animal. Instantly, Jemima understood what had attracted Chloe - not novelty, not sex, not security, although doubtless all these elements had been present, but command. Sir Richard Lionnel, the powerful pirate vessel, would cany along Chloe's frail little craft in his wake, and supply that command which somehow, Chloe, through two marriages and innumerable love affairs, had failed to find. For a moment Jemima, the cool, the collected, the independent, found herself irrationally jealous of her dead friend.

What was further remarkable about Sir Richard Lionnel under the circumstances, was that he was absolutely and totally at his ease. Yet, thought Jemima, taking refuge from her instinctive moment of jealousy in a meaner mood of sardonic satisfaction, when all is said and done, he has a great deal of explaining to do. A mi
stress in his office flat of an
August weekend. How will that be kept from the papers? Or for that matter Lady Lionnel? No question of gossip columnists now or the satiric snipings of
Jolly Joke -
headlines would be the order of the day for the beautiful slain Chloe Fontaine, romantic lady novelist. Sir Richard Lionnel's desire to go respectable had met an untimely end - as had his mistress. The pirate ship would not find a safe port at CARI after this. Of course - she looked down at his strong hands - he may have even more explaining to do. Who, Who? . . . She shuddered.

Lionnel introduced himself to Jemima with perfect gravity. 'Richard Lionnel. I own the building. I came back to my office flat downstairs to find the police. You were her tenant, I believe. I understand you found her. This must be terrible for you. Where will you go?' He did not even pause on the second word 'her'; nor could Jemima decide whether his avoidance of the name Chloe Fontaine indicated stress or total self-command. Lionnel certainly seemed indifferent to the fact - he could hardly be unaware of it - that it must also be terrible for him. The only conceivable sign of strain he exhibited was the fact that he was smoking as he entered the flat - although he stubbed the cigarette out immediately.