Death of a God (24 page)

‘Suspects,' Sergeant Ellers repeated, reporting to his senior officer in the driving seat. ‘Scarlett says he and Queenie were in her Dormobile playing – I kid you not – Happy Families. Lijah Starling was in bed, according to him. Says he never gets up before noon, not even to commit a murder. Johnny Flowerdew was in Havenlea.'

‘What's that?' cried Jurnet. Sid Hale sat up and took notice.

Pleased with the dramatic effect, the little Welshman proceeded to detail.

‘The story is that he did a gig there on the edge of town – a private party to please an old school chum, and they persuaded him to stay over. He gave me a number to call and a woman answered, who, unless she was having me on, said she was Viscountess something or other, and yes, dear Johnny had indeed come down for Orion's engagement party and stayed the night, leaving at about 11.30 after a late breakfast. I checked with Havenlea who said it was all in the local rag, Johnny's name included.'

‘I don't suppose they also put in the paper whether he did or did not get up early, whilst everyone else was still out cold after a night of champers and knees-up, tiptoe out of the house to knock off Punchy, and then tiptoe back to his bacon and eggs without a soul knowing, Punchy included? Hm!' concluded Jurnet. ‘Interesting!'

‘Not as interesting as Lenny Bale who says that at the fateful hour he was in Angleby, down by the river, thinking sad thoughts.'

‘Oh ah.'

‘No ‘‘oh ah'' about it. As it happens, he wasn't the only one down there by the Water Gate. There was a youngster too, a good-looking lad, according to PC Nye who, at 9.10 a.m., had occasion to arrest our Lenny for indecent exposure.'

‘Christ! What a lot!'

At least, thought Jurnet, Annie Falcone had a respectable alibi, if indeed it was any alibi at all. Certainly, remembering her getting out of her car, the long legs swivelling round from the driver's seat, it seemed unthinkable that she could have just come from a murder. Could she anyway have walked on the beach in those high heels? Unless, of course, all her wits about her, she had taken along flatties to change into, as well as something blood-proof to slip on over her clothes. The detective remembered that she hadn't wanted to sit talking in her car. Was she afraid he might notice sand on the floor, a knife on the shelf under the dash?

She had said that she had gone to church to give thanks. For one death, or two, Jurnet wondered, his face reddening at the memory of his own visit to St Joseph's.

He had inquired first at the presbytery, only to be told by a skimpy-haired housekeeper that Father Mullen was over at the church, a flamboyant brick structure which made the detective feel uneasy before he had even got inside, where the sight of the many painted statues, their poses of exaggerated piety, brought him out in a sweat.

By the time a black-clad figure entered from somewhere at the side of the altar, he had changed his mind about the whole business; was ready to leave with his questions unasked, unanswered.

The priest, however, had seen the stranger and come forward faster than the latter could retreat with decorum.

‘Welcome,' the priest said, a greeting which did nothing to make Jurnet feel any more at home. He fumbled for his card whilst Father Mullen, an elderly man who looked satified with his faith, waited patiently, hands folded in front of him, a smile on his face.

When Jurnet stated his business, the smile did not waver, only became quizzical: the kind of smile reserved for children who have done something silly. ‘I'm afraid I cannot answer your inquiry about Mrs Falcone.'

‘But I understand she spoke to you about some gifts she was proposing to make to St Joseph's.'

‘Is that so?' the priest said pleasantly.

Conscious of blundering on, Jurnet nevertheless persisted, ‘So it stands to reason you must know, one way or the other.'

‘Only God takes note who enters His house, Mr – Mr Jurnet, was it? Fortunately, I am not required to stand at the door taking the tickets.'

At least, Jurnet congratulated himself, he'd been spared one chore. The Havenlea men had broken the news to Queenie. Done it pretty well, by all accounts. There had been no hysteria, and not all that much crying either. It was almost as if – since everything Dad did was OK – getting himself killed was OK too: something which he had arranged to have done to himself for reasons she wouldn't dream of questioning. She had shown no surprise upon learning that a kilo and a half of heroin had been found inside the little wooden windmill whirling merrily away in the dead man's front garden, as well as enough domes of acid to have half the population of Havenlea jumping from their bedroom windows in preference to taking the stairs.

Sure, she knew about the drug-trafficking – that is, in her own words, ‘kind of knew'; having finally caught on as to why he kept changing over the Punches, taking back the empties, as it were: but as to the scale of his enterprise, she hadn't a clue. He was a Punch and Judy man, wasn't he, the best in the business? Fixing up a fix for a friend was just the kind of thing you did, if you were the kind of man her Dad was, always ready to do anybody a good turn.

By the time Jurnet had arrived to have his own little word with Queenie, she was back from Havenlea where she had been taken for the formal identification of her father's remains. They seemed to think she would mind it, she told the detective, and Guido had nearly done his nut, but it had been nice to get a last look at him before they started cutting him up proper. She was glad that he hadn't looked as if it had hurt too bad.

Jurnet said, ‘You mustn't be afraid to have a good cry. Do you no end of good.'

‘Make me look like an old hag, you mean, with me eyes sticking out like gooseberries!' The girl tossed her head. ‘Know what's the matter with you coppers? You don't know what being straight is. All that counts is what looks right, never mind what‘s the truth of it.'

Turning on the detective a look of contempt: ‘If I say I'm even relieved he's gone for good and all, you'll either say to yourself
oy, oy, what's she been up to
? or,
the little slag, going on like that, and her dad not even cold in his coffin
. But it's true.' For a moment the childish underlip quivered. ‘Ever since I was a kid I've spent my life afraid it would happen that one day I'd run back home and he wouldn't be there, ever.' Daring the other to contradict her: ‘Well, tha's one worry off me mind, in't it?'

Shaken, Jurnet inquired, with some diffidence, ‘So what do you intend to do?'

‘Marry Mr Guido Scarlett, what else, and live happy ever after.'

‘You could do a lot worse.'

‘You mean, assuming it wasn't him did for Loy?'

‘Assuming that,' the other assented gravely.

‘You reckon? No sex, of course,' the girl said, as if it went without saying. ‘I told him, and he's willing. He knows I'd never go against me certificate.' Queenie King touched her green quiff, preened herself. ‘Loy would've laughed himself silly,' she asserted cheerfully. ‘‘‘Imagine,'' he used to say to me sometimes, ‘‘you coming down the aisle arm in arm with that gargoyle. The wedding guests'd fall out of the pews laughing!'''

‘You could always go to the Registry Office.'

‘There you go again!' the girl cried. ‘Let me tell you, Mr bloody copper, I'm going to have a long white dress and a veil with orange blossom, an' a bunch of roses and lilies done up with satin ribbon. And if you feel like coming along to the church for a good giggle, you're welcome, I'm sure!'

When Jurnet came out of the caravan, Guido Scarlett was there, as the detective had known he would be: dark and threatening, rocking to and fro on his foolish little legs like one of those German clockwork toys, ingenious but unlikeable.

Jurnet greeted the roadie with, ‘Congratulations!'

‘What you buggering round here again for?' was the gracious response. ‘There's already been enough bloody bluebottles buzzin' around to fill the Albert Hall, standing room only.'

‘You don't know how lucky you are. One murder in the family, you can always assume it's a one-off, which it usually is. But two, that's an entirely different kettle of fish. It means somebody's found out that murder's a useful tool to have around the house. You'd be surprised how easily two murders can blossom into three, or four, or even more. The more you do it, the more you can think of somebody else who'd be improved out of all recognition by being dead. If I was in your shoes I'd jump for joy every time a copper came within hailing distance.'

Guido Scarlett scowled. ‘Still don't give you no reason to drive Queenie round the bend.'

‘What's the matter? Wax in your ears? Don't tell me you weren't listening to every word I said. Drive her round the bend! She even asked me to the wedding! Look –' Jurnet said, making a last attempt to get on terms with the prickly customer – ‘you probably think she's taking her dad's death very well – no screams, no carry-on. So she is, up to a point. Only it's part of my job to have experience in such matters, and you can take it from me, it's too early to tell.

It hasn't hit her yet, but when it does, there's no knowing how it'll take her. All I'm doing is warning you to look out for the signs.'

‘Don't you bleeding well tell me how to look after Queenie!'

The detective sighed. ‘In that case, I'll change the subject –' changing his tone to match – ‘to one I've raised with you before. Let's see if we can do better second time round, shall we? Namely, what Loy and Punchy King were chewing the rag over, after the concert.'

‘Go an' bounce your balls!'

‘In that case, I'll have to go back and have another word with Queenie.' Jurnet took a step or two, back towards the Dormobile.

‘Leave her be!' The man waited for the detective to stop and turn. Then he muttered, ‘What the hell! Can't make no difference now.'

His voice, when he spoke again, was, for Guido Scarlett, conciliatory. ‘I didn't want her involved, tha's all. I knew, when those two used to get talking, and it was something she'd rather not know about because it could get them all into trouble she'd shut off – not hear a bleeding word they spoke, innocent as a lamb. But I knew you'd never buy it.'

‘So – what were they saying?'

‘Something about a boat. Whatever you say, I couldn't hear more than snatches here and there. Punchy said something about the old one being past it, and they'd have to get themselves another, with a better engine. An' then Loy asking how much Punchy reckoned a new boat would cost; and after that, a lot of argy-bargy about money. I couldn't hear the details.'

‘What was your impression? That Punchy was trying to touch him for a loan, or that the two of them were in it together?'

The roadie was silent, his brows knit, eyes brooding. Then he sighed. He seemed to be saying goodbye to something, or somebody. ‘Anyone knew Loy, 'd know it couldn't be either of them things. Loy, he'd never have lent you the dirt under his fingernails. And as for going partners –' The dark face lit up momentarily at the absurdity of the suggestion.

‘What gave Loy his kicks was to start things going, stir the pot, an' then stand back in the wings splitting his sides watching the others falling flat on their faces –'

‘And yet you say you loved him –'

The dark face twisted painfully.

‘We all did. That was the best bloody joke of all.'

In the lab recreation room, the cross, set up on the centre line of the badminton court, had lost all its magic: merely two planks of wood, placed so, and so. In that setting, held upright by an arrangement of blocks and wires, it looked no more than another piece of PE equipment, on a par with the vaulting horse and the wall bars.

The room, on the Superintendent's instructions, had been left unheated. Not so cold as the Market Place on the night of the murder, but cold enough. Concerned to reproduce as faithfully as possible the conditions under which the killer or killers of Loy Tanner had gone about the macabre disposition of his body, he had commanded his men to report for duty in such coats, scarves, caps or anoraks as they deemed sensible wear for a hard frost. Gloves, too, it went without saying. Whatever else the murder/murderers had worn that night, he/she/they had worn gloves.

Jurnet, sorrier than ever to have begotten such a crackpot enterprise, made one last try.

‘I still can't help thinking, sir, we shouldn't bother Dr Colton. A dummy would serve the purpose just as well –'

‘Absolutely not!' It was the police surgeon himself who took up the challenge, seeming to take the detective's suggestion as a personal reflection upon his ability to play the role for which he had been cast. ‘The articulation would be bound to be unsatisfactory, and the distribution of weight all wrong. The outer integument, whatever else it was like, would be nothing like skin.'

‘A serious reconstruction for a serious purpose.' The Superintendent was in high spirits. ‘Check that the door's locked, Jack, will you, and then bring over that ladder. Now then –' in tones well suited to a games room, the coach rehearsing the rookies in the ground rules – ‘since there's nothing to show us the exact placement of the ladder, each of us is to feel free to position it any way he thinks best. And if, in the course of the experiment, you want to move it from one spot to another, that's OK too, the one reservation being that, in doing so, you never let yourselves forget that Dr Colton, however well he may act the part, is not in fact a cadaver. So whatever you do, don't drop him on the floor from a great height or we may end up with a different kind of case on our hands.'

The police surgeon was busy undressing himself. He took off his clothes, bracing himself against the cold, and put them, neatly folded, on top of the vaulting horse. His body, whilst looking older and less flexible than Loy Tanner's, did indeed bear a remarkable resemblance to that of the murdered pop singer. Neither Jurnet nor the Superintendent had the cheek to point out that, strictly speaking, in the interests of verisimilitude, the doctor ought also to remove the modest trunks which concealed his private parts.