The Mannequin House (11 page)

‘The upshot is, Inspector, that Mr Blackley is unable to tell you anything about the happenings at the mannequin house on the night of the girl’s death. I think you will have to agree that there is nothing to be gained from the further questioning of Mr Blackley.’

Quinn could not have continued the interview even if he’d wanted to. At that moment the garden was invaded by shrieks and giggles. A small riot of young women swept towards them, eyes gleaming with an almost predatory excitement. The mannequins, Quinn presumed.

Quinn acknowledged a complex mixture of emotions at the arrival of the mannequins. As a man he experienced a frisson of sexual interest, which in his case was both pathetic and absurd. None of these girls would have looked twice at him, except perhaps as an object of authority and therefore fear. And yet, given his own unhappy history with the fairer sex, it was he who was afraid of them, he had to admit.

A wild unpredictability animated the group. At first sight their mood seemed to be one of nervous hilarity. But Quinn realized there was more to it than that. They bubbled like a pot of boiling water with a dangerous energy. They were in a state of suppressed panic, he realized. Whatever their feelings towards the dead girl, they must have been afraid. A murderer had entered their abode and struck down one of their number. They took refuge in the heedless giddiness that was expected of them. But its tenor today was fierce and fey and empty. They seemed curiously heartless beings.

The unruly explosion of female youth was more wilful and uncontrollable than the monkey.

To the staid middle-aged men in the garden, it felt as though they were outnumbered. But once Quinn’s emotional responses settled down, he was able to see that there were only four girls, though their excitability and restless mobility made it hard to count them. The men, in fact, outnumbered the girls. But were less vital presences.

Quinn instinctively glanced at Blackley to compare his own reactions to those of the great man. Far from being made uncomfortable by the arrival of the mannequins, Blackley was clearly in his element. He basked in their energy, as harsh and feral as it was. For the first time the smile on his face seemed genuinely one of pleasure. He positively beamed. Quinn was reminded of the expression on Mrs Ibbott’s cat Mr Percy when he was being petted by Miss Ibbott. At the same time, Blackley almost seemed to increase in physical size. There was a sense that he was squaring up to the other men there, as if he was ready to face down any challenge to his dominance over the group of females. Of course, there was no one there who would have made such a challenge.

For their part, the mannequins were naturally drawn to Blackley. Their coquettish looks and giggles were, first and foremost, offerings for him. And he accepted them, expected them, as his right.

The sight struck Quinn as distasteful – grotesque almost, coming so soon after Amélie’s death.

Quinn realized that he hated and envied the man in equal measure: the same emotions he felt towards his landlady’s cat.

What the mannequins’ eyes were hunting for, it soon became apparent, was a glimpse of the monkey.

‘Where is he?’

‘Where’s that monkey?’

‘Monkey, monkey, monkey!’

‘The monkey murderer!’

‘Ooh-ooh-ah-ah-ah-ah!’

One girl in her exuberance even turned a perfect cartwheel.

They are little more than children
, thought Quinn.

Did it require so little to distract them from the terror of death? Or had their dislike of Amélie been so great that they exulted in her demise?

A further possibility occurred to Quinn: that one or more of them had had something to do with her death.

He began to look more closely at the interactions between the girls. He noticed one whom all the others seemed to look up to; literally, because she was the tallest, but he also detected a subtle deference in their manner towards her. She was not a particularly attractive girl. Her face was too broad, her features almost coarse. And yet Quinn was fascinated by that face.

She was the only one who seemed in control of her emotions.

There was something going on between her and Blackley too, Quinn realized. Her glances in his direction were not the simple soliciting of approval that the other mannequins went in for. Her look transmitted first a question, then a warning. And something steelier than pleasure entered Blackley’s smile in response. He admired her, that was clear; perhaps he feared her too.

Possibly, he wanted her.

‘The monkey has gone.’ Blackley was staring at the tall, broad-faced girl intently as he spoke. His words seemed to be charged with a meaning that only she would understand.

‘Is it a big ape?’ asked one of the other girls. ‘It must be a big ape if it’s the one what killed Amélie.’

‘’Course it’s the one what killed Amélie,’ said another girl. ‘There wouldn’t be another monkey on the loose, would there?’

‘Oh, no, it’s not big at all,’ said Blackley. ‘A tiny little fellow. I hardly think he could have been responsible for poor Amélie’s death.’

‘But that’s what the papers are saying.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers, should ya?’ said the broad-faced girl, who kept her eyes on Blackley as she answered the other girl. It was the first time she had spoken. Her voice sounded remarkably mature – her tone, knowing – compared to the others.

‘Marie-Claude is right,’ said Blackley. ‘Newspapers are not to be trusted.’

So
, thought Quinn.
This is Marie-Claude. The other girl with a fur in her wardrobe.

She must have detected his interest in her, flashing a sly look in his direction. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends, Mr Blackley,
sir
?’ Her emphasis of the last word was almost sarcastic.

‘Oh, these gentlemen aren’t my friends!’ laughed Blackley. ‘They are policemen. Detectives.’

‘I am Detective Inspector Quinn of the Special Crimes Department, and this is Detective Sergeant Inchball. We will wish to talk to all you girls individually, of course.’

‘We’ve already spoken to the other feller,’ said Marie-Claude, with a nod towards Coddington.

‘Yes, but some new evidence has come to light. Besides, we are a separate department with specialist skills. We prefer to ask our own questions, in our own way.’

‘New evidence?’ The question came from Yeovil. ‘You didn’t mention anything about new evidence before.’

‘I was not under the impression that I was obliged to.’

‘What is this new evidence?’

‘Naturally I cannot divulge that information.’

Yeovil stared fixedly into Quinn’s eyes, angling his head down slightly. At the same time he held his right hand out to Quinn, as if inviting a handshake. But when Quinn reached out to grasp the hand, it was snatched away to execute a bewilderingly complicated movement in front of Quinn’s face. At the same time, Yeovil leant forward to murmur something into Quinn’s ear. The strange thing was that Quinn was aware of hearing what Yeovil said, but almost at the same moment had forgotten the words.

‘Sergeant Inchball, take the young ladies inside and start going over their statements one by one.’

‘I’ll go over them, all right,’ said Inchball with a leer.

The comment provoked a round of giggles from the mannequins.

Quinn drew his sergeant to one side. ‘And you, a married man . . . a father!’

‘What’s that got to do with the price of fish?’

Quinn glanced nervously at Coddington. ‘You heard what Macadam said. The department is under scrutiny. We must comport ourselves with the utmost propriety at all times.’

‘Well, yes. But with respect and all that, guv, that might be more to do with you always killing our suspects – more than with me having a cheeky larf with a bunch of pretty girls.’ Inchball winked. ‘You should try it yourself now and then, guv. You might bag yourself a lady friend. ’Course, not with this lot.’

‘What do you mean, not with this lot?’

‘Well, no offence, guv’nor, but you’re old enough to be their father. You’ll only make a fool of yourself.’

‘And you won’t?’

‘I’m just trying to set them at their ease. A little bit of friendly banter never did no harm. They seem to like it so far.’

‘Keep your mind on the job, Inchball. Is this how you used to behave when you were in Vice?’

Inchball’s tone became suddenly stern. ‘That was different. These are good girls.’

‘Do we know that, Inchball?’

Inchball narrowed his eyes as he assessed the mannequins.

Quinn attempted to bring the discussion back to the investigation. ‘Did you discover anything useful from DCI Coddington’s notes?’

‘Shoddy work, sir.’

Quinn glanced in Coddington’s direction. The DCI smiled back blandly. If he was curious as to what Quinn and Inchball were saying, he was too polite to show it.

‘Even so, look out for inconsistencies with the accounts they’ve already given. And I am particularly interested in this mystery benefactor. I have a feeling Marie-Claude may know something about that, though I am not sure you will be able to get it out of her.’

‘Leave it to me, guv.’ Inchball nodded and immediately set about his commission with gusto. ‘All right, you lovely ladies, who’s going to be the first to bare all to Sergeant Inchball?’ He rubbed his hands and winked at Blackley, whether to goad him or to acknowledge some kind of bond, Quinn did not know. If there was a kinship between men who were at their ease with women, he was excluded.

T
he garden was quiet again; the men in it suddenly bereft.

Quinn felt himself the centre of a circle of hostile attention, as if the others blamed him for sending the mannequins away.

‘Well, if that will be all . . .’ began Blackley with a disappointed air.

‘Wait a moment, Mr Blackley, sir, if I may,’ cut in Yeovil. He turned to Coddington. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Coddington.’ Yeovil spoke slowly, his voice a deliberate monotone. ‘You need to go and help your men track down the monkey.’ He nodded repeatedly as he spoke: small, obsessive movements that seemed intended to wear away all opposition in an onslaught of positivity.

‘That’s right,’ agreed Coddington. ‘The monkey. We must catch the monkey. Everything depends on that.’ He stumbled off, half in a trance.

With Coddington out of the way, Yeovil repeated the strange hand gesture that he had executed in front of Quinn’s face. ‘Now then, Inspector Quinn, you were about to tell us about this new evidence you have found.’

Nearly, very nearly – his mouth was open, and he had already drawn the breath to propel the words. But at the last moment Quinn realized that something was not quite right. ‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘I’m sorry. A simple misunderstanding.’

‘I don’t know what you think you’re up to with all this . . .’ Quinn mimed Yeovil’s peculiar hand movements. ‘Nonsense. But it won’t work with me, I can tell you that.’

‘Yes, of course. I can see that. I apologize. It’s true, I do have certain skills. A talent. But it only works on susceptible individuals.’

‘You were attempting to hypnotize me? You have already hypnotized DCI Coddington – it’s obvious. I suppose you put the idea of the monkey as the murderer into his head? For what reason? To divert suspicion away from your employer, Mr Blackley?’

‘No, no. I assure you, DCI Coddington came up with that theory, all on his own. I may have reinforced the idea in his mind.’

‘Why?’

‘I was trying to help him clarify his thinking. But I did not seek to influence it. Inspector, there is no law against what I do. Indeed, you may find it a very valuable tool in your investigation. As Mr Blackley has already stated, I am at your service. I am willing to help you in any way possible.’

‘Don’t push your luck. Do you not realize how incriminating this is? You were seeking to exercise undue influence over a police officer. It is almost certainly an offence. No different from if you had attempted to bribe me.’

‘No, no, no . . . I’m sure that’s not the case. I do have some legal background, you know. I was merely attempting to assist you. I have sensed that there is some resistance in your mind to the idea of my helping you. I clumsily endeavoured to bypass that resistance. I acted in your own best interests. In the interests of the case. If you withhold details of the case from me, how can I be expected to help you?’

‘But you seem to overlook the fact that I have no desire for your help. I do not consider it help. I consider it the opposite of help. I consider it obstruction. Obstructing the police in the conduct of their duties most certainly is an offence. And it is one of which I take a very dim view indeed.’ Quinn turned to Blackley. ‘I advise you, Mr Blackley, to sever all connections with this man. He can only damage you.’

He turned and trudged back to the house. The long grass whipped around his ankles, spraying droplets of moisture as he kicked his feet through it. He had to dismiss the idea that it was Yeovil exerting some power over him. It was simply the garden holding him back.

There were two ways back into the house from the garden: a side door to the scullery, and French windows that led to a rear drawing room. Quinn chose the scullery. Truth be told, he hoped to find Miss Mortimer in the kitchen. He was keen to get a look at her after her roasting from Blackley.

Expecting Miss Mortimer, he was mildly surprised to see the maid, stooped over the scullery sink, washing dishes. The girl had her back to the door, so wasn’t aware of his entrance. Even from behind he could sense her unhappiness. She had the slumped, defeated posture of one who had so often been made to feel worthless that she had come to believe it. He stood for a moment watching her as she absent-mindedly splashed the pots with lather and swung them clumsily on to the draining board. She sang tunelessly to herself all the while. It was a mournful, vaguely Celtic sound, all the sadder for having an undertone of resignation to it.

He remembered that Coddington had described her as ‘simple’.

‘Kathleen, is it?’

The girl jumped and dropped a pan into the sink, splashing soapy water all over herself. ‘Sweet Mary, mother of God!’