Murder on Page One (22 page)

‘Yes, gov,’ Peters confirmed. ‘She was very upset. Very,’ he added.

‘What is she like?’ Cumberland asked.

Osborne opened his mouth then thought better of it. He shouldn’t use the word ‘bimbo’ in this company, but couldn’t think of any other way to describe her. ‘What would you say?’ he asked Peters.

Danny Peters would have used the same word. ‘Er, well-dressed, careful with her appearance …’

‘That could be my Aunt Agatha,’ Palfrey snapped. ‘Is she attractive?’

A red tide crept up from Peters’ neck. ‘Well, ma’am, you could say so, if you liked that type.’

‘Is “bimbo” the word you’re skating round, by any chance, Detective Constable?’

Cumberland let out a squeak.

‘Sorry, ma’am, sir, but yes.’

‘How long had they been married?’ Palfrey continued.

‘Two years, she said. She’d worked in his office, but I don’t know what she did.’

‘Did he have any enemies you know of?’

‘No, ma’am.’

Cumberland coughed. ‘What inquiries have you made, Inspector?’

Osborne had been leaning against the wall. He wanted a smoke, a drink and something to eat, but could have none of them. Knowing he needed to sound organised and in control, he stepped forward once more.

‘I reached the crime scene rapidly. It was already sealed off and I instructed the search which uncovered the murder weapon. This was the first time I had known about one of these crimes soon after it was committed and I instructed Fortune and Chandavarkar to check the whereabouts of the suspects we had previously identified. The results are less helpful than I had hoped, but it appears that one of the suspects, Candice Dalton, was at a bookbinder’s in Highgate at the time of the killing.’ Using the whiteboard as a prompt, he talked about each suspect. He thought he was doing quite well when Cumberland interrupted him.

‘You say each of these people is a would-be crime writer, rejected by all the victims. They show imagination in how they kill people in their books and their motive is revenge. They either live in London or visit regularly. But how do they learn so much about their victims’ routines? Particularly that man killed when he was out running?’

‘Our killer is very meticulous, sir.’

‘I know that, but how did they find out Noble’s route?’

Baggo cleared his throat. ‘May I say something, sir? Richard Noble was a twitterer.’

‘A what?’ Cumberland scratched his dome.

‘He was on Twitter, sir. It’s a social networking site …’

‘I know that.’

‘Sorry, sir. Anyway, he moaned like hell about the training he had to do for the marathon, describing his runs, step by painful step. Anyone could follow his tweets, not necessarily revealing their true identity when logging in.’

‘Can you link anyone who followed Noble’s twitters with our suspects?’

Baggo shook his head. ‘I have tried and failed, sir.’

‘Chandavarkar’s our IT man, sir,’ Osborne explained.

Cumberland sucked in his breath. ‘Well I trust you’ve impressed on him the necessity of keeping within the privacy laws. We don’t want evidence that’s been tainted by being “fruit of the poisoned tree” as lawyers call it. I was at a conference just last week at which the Justice Secretary impressed on us the importance of respect for privacy. We are not a police state.’ He made the last sentence sound like an article of faith. ‘So.’ He looked round the room, mentally descending from the moral high ground. He frowned at Osborne. ‘How do you propose to catch this killer before they strike again?’

‘Old-fashioned police methods are still the best, sir. But until we come up with a result, it might be better if these agents took more care of themselves, went round accompanied, varied their routines, didn’t advertise their movements in advance, that sort of thing.’

Cumberland’s mouth fell open. ‘Aaargh,’ he said, sounding like someone having their throat examined. ‘We have to be careful not to cause panic. And we can’t afford to give round the clock protection, or anything like that. There’s sure to be someone who’ll demand that, and threaten to sue if they don’t get it. Best leave it to their own common sense, I think.’

Flick had been listening thoughtfully and knew she had to get her tactics right. ‘But sir, none of these murders would have taken place if the victims had done what Inspector Osborne has just suggested. Some people simply don’t have common sense,’ she added, hoping it didn’t sound cheeky.

Palfrey nodded. ‘I think Fortune has a point, sir.’

Cumberland took from his pocket a well-ironed linen handkerchief and wiped the film of perspiration that had appeared on his brow. ‘Very well, Superintendent. But please don’t scare people unnecessarily. That’s what crime books are for.’ His mouth creased into a supercilious smile which died when he realised no one else appreciated his attempt at humour. ‘The long and the short of it is, you have no strategy for catching this killer apart from what you call old-fashioned methods?’

There was an embarrassed silence. Then, as Osborne muttered ‘We’ll get him’, Flick coughed. Tentatively, she said, ‘Yesterday, Chandavarkar and I visited Lavinia Lenehan, the crime writer, who organises the Debut Dagger competition for the Crime Writers’ Association. The crime writing community has become very worried by these killings, and they want to help us if they can. Our list of suspects actually came from material Ms Lenehan provided. She has a plan, and is prepared to help execute it.’ She looked round. Everyone was attentive; only Osborne scowled.

‘She believes that our killer has personality traits that would be bound to surface at a writer’s retreat, where their work would be criticised and they would have to interact with other writers. She is convinced the murderer would make some crucial mistake.

‘Now, the shortlist for the Debut Dagger is due to be announced at the end of March or beginning of April, and those concerned are not told till then. But before the real shortlist comes out, Ms Lenehan is prepared to contact our six suspects and tell them they have been shortlisted and that the judges want an extra opportunity to assess them. She and some others in the publishing trade would hold a retreat within the next couple of weeks. It would be residential and last for a few days. I think it might work.’

‘I’ve never heard of anything like that in my life,’ Cumberland squeaked.

‘This is no ordinary inquiry, sir.’ Palfrey said firmly.

‘We would have to pay for it,’ Flick added. ‘But it can probably be done for less than ten thousand.’

‘Ten thousand!’ Cumberland looked appalled.

‘Ms Lenehan, Jane Smith in real life, has sounded out Cameron McCrone, the author, and Tara Fisher, an editor with a big publishing house, and they’re willing to attend the retreat full-time with her. She’s tried to get an agent as well, but hasn’t had any luck so far.’

‘And where would this retreat take place?’ Cumberland asked.

‘Ms Lenehan knows an hotel in Pitlochry. In Scotland.’

‘Scotland! But would we not have to involve the Scottish police?’

‘It might set a good example of cross-border cooperation, sir,’ Palfrey said.

Flick added, ‘And the suspects would be more likely to take things at face value. If we held it in Kent, let’s say, they would be more likely to suspect that we were behind it.’

‘But, but, wouldn’t this be one of these, these entrapment, agent provocateur situations?’ Everyone could see Cumberland was clutching at straws.

‘No, sir. We wouldn’t be encouraging the criminal to do anything illegal,’ Flick said.

‘The defence will see this as a sort of trickery, won’t they? “Fruit of the poisoned tree” and all that.’

Palfrey snorted. ‘Even if some head-in-the-clouds lawyer were to say we couldn’t use something the killer said on the retreat, at least we’d know who we were after.’

‘And we’d get them with old-fashioned methods,’ Flick interjected, nodding towards Osborne, whose eyes widened with surprise.

‘I’d like to think about it,’ Cumberland said.

Flick grimaced. ‘Time is very tight, sir. Ms Lenehan is ready to push the button as soon as she hears from me.’

Palfrey said thoughtfully: ‘I think we have to move quickly, sir. We’ve had four murders in the last month. If this works, I can see it being hailed as a huge success for innovative policing, involving partnership with members of a threatened community and close working with Scottish colleagues. And it won’t be that expensive, compared with conferences, for example.’

Eyes closed, Cumberland rested his chins on his chest. ‘Very well, but I don’t want this to cost a penny more than necessary,’ he said at length, then turned angrily to Osborne. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this, Inspector? You’re supposed to be in charge of this inquiry.’

As Osborne opened his mouth, Flick cut in: ‘The Inspector generously allowed me to put the idea forward as I had liased with Ms Lenehan, sir.’

‘Oh. Good, good. And Inspector, report to Superintendent Palfrey in connection with this retreat. She will give me a full account once it’s over.’ Cumberland looked at his watch, rose slowly to his feet and sailed majestically out of the room. Flick rolled her eyes at his back.

After Palfrey had also left, Osborne and Flick faced each other.

‘Thanks for that, Sergeant,’ Osborne muttered.

Flick shook her head. ‘How did that man get where he is? He’s a penny-pinching, petrified behemoth of correctness,’ she spluttered.

Osborne grinned. ‘Did you have a dictionary for breakfast this morning? To me he’s just a fat wanker.’

18

Baggo made himself comfortable as the train rattled north out of London. He had slept for only a couple of hours, having spent the night reading Buried Alive. The previous afternoon he had phoned the bookbinder who had confirmed that Mrs Dalton had indeed collected the book for her husband’s birthday at the time shown on the credit card slip. The man sounded elderly, and he would have talked happily about books all afternoon, but Baggo had stopped him. He had Laurence Robertson’s computer and phone to deal with. These contained no more surprises. Unobtrusively, he had put the file marked ‘Buried’ on to a memory stick and taken it home. Now, on his first day off for weeks, he was heading to Newcastle to learn more about the girl who had kept him from sleeping.

The train was hot, and he nodded off, but woke with a start as the train pulled away from a busy platform. The man beside him reassured him that it had been York, and he was fully alert by the time he descended from the train at Newcastle.

The taxi ride to Jesmond was quick. On the Pargiters’ doorstep, Baggo asked himself what on earth he was doing. His previous off-piste adventure had nearly ended in disaster, for him if not for Patrycja. If he mishandled the conversation he was about to have, the whole inquiry might be compromised. As for his career …

Margaret Pargiter raised her eyebrows when she opened the door, but let him in and showed him into the sitting room. She did not offer tea, but sat opposite him on the edge of an armchair. Her hands were smeared with different colours of paint, and a streak of light blue above her left eye continued into the unruly hair above it.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, but is Cilla in?’ he asked.

‘No. She’s at work and Penny’s at nursery.’

‘Is Cilla short for Priscilla?’

Margaret frowned. ‘Why, yes. Have you come all this way to ask that?’

‘Are you sometimes known as Peg or Peggy?’

‘As are most Margarets, yes.’ Her eyes half-closed, she looked at him carefully.

‘You knew Laurence Robertson, didn’t you?’

‘No.’ Sitting up straight, she stared at him, defying him to contradict her.

‘Does Cilla know him?’

‘No,’ she said vehemently. ‘Where is all this leading?’

‘I found her book,’ he said quietly.

‘What book? Where?’ Her voice, full of indignation, rose in both tone and volume.

‘The book that someone e-mailed him. It was still attached to the e-mail. Who is [email protected]?’

Her head drooped and she twisted a lock of hair round a paint-stained finger. ‘Mostly me. Cilla occasionally uses it. I heard about Laurence’s death on the radio this morning. There was a policeman with a high voice talking.’ She looked at Baggo. ‘Laurence had a deep voice, you know. Would you like tea?’ She asked, her voice weary, resigned.

‘I’d like the truth.’

She pushed herself up. Standing over Baggo, she said, ‘Well I need a cup of tea before I tell you that.’

During the five minutes she was out of the room, Baggo stood in front of the painting of the twins. Framing Cilla’s face with his hands, he could see, in the mouth particularly, a younger version of Robertson. Margaret was a skilful artist; she had captured the essence of a particular, opaque look that defined her daughter’s face as it had made the dead man distinctive. Was he Cilla’s father, or some other relation? He wondered how much of the truth he was about to be told.

‘I made some fairy cakes yesterday,’ Margaret said as she returned. She set the tray on the table, sat down and carefully poured tea into hand-painted china cups. ‘This is a bit of an occasion,’ she explained.

Baggo sensed that it would be a mistake to hurry her. He ate two cakes and drank his tea in silence, waiting. At last, Margaret set down her cup and spoke.