Destroying Angel (19 page)

As it happened, the operation had been a perfect success, if a little unorthodox. Seven of those involved were already in custody for abduction; Dave Symmes alone having had the sense to make himself scarce. Now they could lean on Cooper’s two employees, and perhaps do a bargain for information about the fire – assuming there was any information of course, which Susan still insisted there wasn’t; at least not from Cooper or his cronies.

Ted Gage had no such doubts. Unlike Berner, Gage felt guilty and sorry for what had happened to Susan, but he also made no effort to hide his delight at the outcome of the operation. Not, of course, that anybody except Gage, Berner and Reynolds knew what had really happened. As far as other people, and in particular Julia Keeson, were concerned, Susan had gone in entirely on her own and come badly unstuck while trying to gather evidence on Cooper’s mob.

Susan was going along with it, something that had surprised Gage but not Berner. He knew Susan’s strength of personality and that she’d take what had happened in her stride. He also hoped she might at some time like to re-enact it as a fantasy with him in the role of Billy Ryan.

Susan appeared at the end of the corridor, still clutching the bathrobe protectively round her, but this time sticking her tongue out at him. He smiled; she was clearly in a better mood already.

Susan wearily pushed open the front door of her flat. She was exhausted.

The police had been as helpful as they could be, providing a de-oiling agent intended for seabirds as well as soap and clothes. She had given a statement to Berner, Gage, and their boss, Julia Keeson. Berner had been considerate but obviously amused by what had happened, Gage had shown genuine sympathy, and Julia Keeson had spouted a patronising lecture on not interfering in police matters. Susan had let the words flow over her as she sipped hot tea and nibbled a biscuit. An important reason for leaving the force had been to avoid having to do things the way other people wanted them done, and Susan felt quite capable of living with her own mistakes. Keeson had finished by offering her counselling, which she declined.

Susan also told her story only as far as being dumped in the woods, leaving out the finale with Ryan and Symmes. To mention it would simply have stirred up a whole hornet’s nest of interviews and internal inquiries, none of which she wanted to get involved with.

Now her spirits lifted as she saw Paulette was home. The living room floor was scattered with her friend’s clothes and she could smell the distinctive scent Paulette favoured. There was also a case and a half of wine on the floor, the box bearing the legend ‘Cave Co-Operative de Choray’ on its side. Susan smiled, glad that Paulette’s trip had apparently not been wasted.

As she closed the door behind her, she was overcome with a sudden desperate need for a cuddle. Peeling off the ill-fitting clothes she had borrowed from the police, she walked naked into Paulette’s room, finding her friend curled into a ball on one side of the bed, her arm around an enormous pink teddy bear. Susan climbed in beside her, finding Paulette warm and naked beneath the covers. Snuggling into her friend’s body, she closed her eyes and let her mind relax. Paulette sighed and flopped a hand on the arm Susan had slipped around her waist. Moments later, Susan too was asleep.

She awoke to the gentle pressure of Paulette’s hand on her shoulder, and accepted a mug of coffee after propping herself up on the pillows. Paulette climbed in beside her, sitting up and not bothering to cover her naked breasts.

‘So what happened?’ Susan asked after she’d rubbed her eyes and blinked against the light. ‘I’ve had a hell of a time, but you go first.’

‘I think I know who killed Alan Sowerby,’ Paulette blurted excitedly, and then launched into her description of events in France.

‘So we really need to consult a wine expert,’ Susan remarked half-an-hour later, when they had exchanged stories. ‘Do you know anyone who would help?’

‘A few,’ Paulette answered, ‘but most of them would be annoyed at my having pinched Sowerby’s briefcase, and I’d rather not get into that. There’s one guy who might be cool about it: Oswald MacNaughton. He knows his stuff, too; he’s written lots of books.’

‘Great. Give him a call and we’ll take the samples round to him.’

‘Okay.’

They sat in silence for a while, both sipping coffee. Susan found herself thinking over Paulette’s discoveries in France. The co-op manager, Christian Charrier, certainly sounded suspicious, although his behaviour sounded a little too casual. Surely a man who had used Destroying Angel to poison somebody would avoid demonstrating a knowledge of the fungus, even to someone entirely unconnected?

The quality of his sadism didn’t convince her, either. Having long sought punishment and humiliation in her sexual encounters, she felt that those who liked to dish it out could be divided roughly into three types. The best were those who were aware of their sexuality and in control of it, like Anderson Croom, who had introduced her to most of the more subtle and refined practices of dominance and submission. Annabella de Vergy fell into that same category.

At the other end of the spectrum were those who just enjoyed it and never questioned whether it was right or not. George and Maria Lyle fell into that category. Both had thought the idea of spanking a white girl’s naked bottom both sexy and amusing, George the more so because Susan had been his immediate superior. Once they’d known she liked it, they had just done it when they wanted, even slipping Susan’s bikini pants down on the beach on one occasion.

The third sort were those who liked it but got in a stew over it. One boyfriend had given her a fine over-the-knee spanking, fucked her from behind over his sofa, and then spent the rest of the evening in a fit of agonised soul-searching because he’d enjoyed it so much. They were the least satisfying playmates, and she felt Charrier best fitted among their ranks. People who spent a lot of time worrying over their morals seldom became murderers. Nothing, however, could be proved until the wines were analysed, and Paulette’s other observations at least looked likely to provide some promising leads.

Jilly Ross sat on her bed feeling thoroughly morose. She held a piece of paper. It bore the number of the police hot line for information about the Fire Ghost attacks. For an hour she had sat wondering whether to ring it or not. Other than Fire Ghost himself and Robin, she was the only person who knew where the next attack was going to be. Unlike Robin, the idea of arson did not excite her – it repelled her. Robin was nice, but he had always resented anybody better off than himself, and she knew it was this resentment that led to his love of destruction.

She was different. Her parents were shopkeepers and had enough trouble keeping their heads above water as it was, without lunatics like Fire Ghost running around. Robin, she knew, would never actually set a fire, but he would certainly go to the warehouse to leave his tag, and that was almost as bad. Leastwise, if the police caught him he’d get much the same treatment as Fire Ghost himself.

Her affection for Robin was genuine. She found a vulnerability in him that was missing in Taz. Currently, she was going out with both of them, neither suspecting the true depth of her feelings for the other. The situation was awkward and added to her depression, although the actual sex was fun. The day she’d screwed with Robin in the shop, she’d also let Taz screw her in the evening. The thrill of knowing that the cock inside her belonged to the closest friend of someone who’d done the same, just hours before, had been lovely. The knowledge that she was doing something naughty definitely added to the thrill. Besides, Taz was always talking about making her have sex with other blokes, and it was half-tempting to tell him about Robin.

But that was just sex. Sex didn’t really hurt anyone.

Fire-raising did.

As far as she was concerned, the faster Fire Ghost was locked up the better. But if she split on him and Robin found out, he would never forgive her. There was also the problem of making sure that if she told the police where Fire Ghost was going to strike, they didn’t catch Robin at the same time. Still, she reflected with a sigh, the bottom line was that eventually Fire Ghost was going to kill someone, and in the most horrible way imaginable. No, there was nothing for it but to call the police. She’d worry about keeping Robin clear of Merton when the time came.

Jilly went to the telephone, thought better of it, and decided to use the call-box at the end of the road. As she walked she evolved a plan to keep Robin safe. The first step would be to pretend it was she who Fire Ghost had boasted to and that he intended to make the attack alone.

Detective Superintendent Keeson sat behind her desk, eyes sharp and narrow as she appraised her subordinate.

‘DI Gage,’ she began coldly, ‘if I had the slightest evidence that you were in any way involved with last night’s fiasco, you would not merely be on suspension, you’d be charged. However, I don’t, and Miss MacQuillan claims to have acted entirely independently. Frankly, I have no wish to delve further into the mess. Just be warned.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Gage replied, thanking heaven for Susan’s personal strength and discretion.

‘Leaving that aside,’ Keeson moved on, ‘I presume that one or other of those detained might have supplied some information about the fires?’

Her voice had a distinct edge of sarcasm to it, and Gage realised that she knew full well what had been going on. Practicality, he knew, was the virtue upon which Julia Keeson prided herself most of all. As long as she herself was not obliged to take any risks, she would turn a blind eye to his techniques for the sake of results. Unfortunately, there had as yet been no results.

‘Not yet, ma’am,’ he admitted, ‘but we’re hoping for something soon.’

‘Save that for the press,’ she replied. ‘In any case, the best we can expect is a result for the last three fires, and we still have nothing on the previous four.’

‘No, ma’am,’ he answered, conscious of the number of times they’d been over the same ground. ‘You know the way it is ma’am, random targets, no rational motive—’

‘Yes, I know,’ she said, for once with a touch of sympathy in her voice. ‘That will be all.’

Gage left with a feeling of intense relief. All it would have taken was for Susan MacQuillan to have lost her head and he would have been out of a job, as would Paul Berner. The thought of Berner put a new spring in his step. After all, it was Berner who’d had the damn fool idea in the first place, and if Keeson could tear a strip off him, then he had much more reason to tear one off Paul Berner. Hoping he was still in the building, he made for the canteen, looking forward to coffee and a sharp word with the Detective Sergeant.

As he passed his own office Sergeant Yates appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘There you are, sir,’ Yates said, sounding flustered. ‘We just had a call on the Fire Ghost line, sir. A tip-off.’

Susan stood looking up at the façade of Oswald MacNaughton’s house. A tall narrow structure of brick and stone, it carried an air of reserve and gentility that went with its location towards the top of Hampstead Hill. She found herself facing the coming interview with a degree of trepidation. MacNaughton had readily agreed to see her and Paulette, but his very age and seniority within the wine establishment made her feel uneasy. Presumably he knew Annabella de Vergy, and presumably he had a lot of respect for her. He might well regard Paulette and herself as merely insolent for suggesting any impropriety within the de Vergy Fine Wines operation and close ranks against them
.

Still, the attempt had to be made.

Paulette rang the bell. Susan waited a step below her with the case of samples.

‘He’s a bit gruff,’ Paulette whispered, ‘but really quite sweet.’

Susan nodded, as the door opened.

She blushed furiously, and then couldn’t suppress a giggle as Oswald MacNaughton, respected writer and patriarch of the wine trade, appeared in the doorway.

Oswald MacNaughton was the owlish voyeur from the car park!

‘Hi,’ she said cheerfully, ‘spied on any cute girls recently?’

‘Susan!’ Paulette exclaimed.

‘Don’t worry,’ Susan said, ignoring the astonishment on the writer’s face. ‘Oswald and I have met, in a public car park out along the A40!’

‘I, er—’ MacNaughton blustered.

‘Nice to see you,’ she continued, giving him a peck on the cheek and pushing past him into the house. ‘I’m glad it’s you. It always helps to have met someone socially before consulting them on a professional matter, don’t you think?’

‘I, er – yes,’ MacNaughton blustered again, still looking totally nonplussed. ‘Yes, er – come in. The drawing room is perhaps most comfortable.’

He looked up and down the street as though checking to see if anyone had seen the girls enter his house, closed the large front door, and ushered Susan and Paulette into the room. Susan smiled at her friend as she put the case of samples down on the floor.

‘I – I understand you have some samples you’d like me to taste?’ MacNaughton said, at last gathering his wits and overcoming the shock of meeting Susan again.

‘We have,’ Susan confirmed. ‘In fact, it would really be best if you assessed the wines before we explained what’s going on.’

‘Ah ha, a blind tasting,’ MacNaughton smiled. ‘I do enjoy blind tasting. Make yourselves comfortable and I shall obtain a corkscrew and glasses.’

Susan looked around admiringly as she settled into a large brown leather armchair. The room was cluttered with furniture, all of it antique. Rows of books stood in one tall glass-fronted case. Other cases displayed curios: hand-blown wine bottles, a collection of old corkscrews, cut glass decanters. A globe stood in one corner, next to another display case containing stuffed birds. Pulling her attention from the opulence of the room, she exchanged a meaningful look with Paulette. The black girl still had an expression of disbelief on her face.