The Murder Room (16 page)

“Of course I'll come. I was the last one at the museum. I ought to be there. I'll be as quick as I can. And don't tell Miss Caroline that it's Dr. Neville until we know for certain. It could be anyone. Who else have you told?”

“I rang Mr. Marcus but he isn't home yet. His wife will tell him. Ought I to ring Mr. Calder-Hale?”

Muriel's voice was impatient. “No. Leave that to Miss Caroline when she arrives. I don't see what help he can be anyway. Just stay where you are. Oh, and Tally . . .”

“Yes, Muriel?”

“I'm sorry I was sharp with you. After the Fire Brigade arrives, stay in your cottage. I'll be as quick as I can.”

Tally replaced the handset and went to the door of the cottage. Above the crackling of the fire and the hissing of the wind she could hear the sound of approaching wheels. She ran to the front of the house and gave a cry of relief. The great engine, its headlights bright as searchlights, advanced like some gigantic fabled monster, illuminating house and lawn, shattering the fragile calm with its clamour. She ran frantically towards it, waving unnecessarily toward the leaping flames of the fire. A great weight of anxiety fell from Tally's shoulders. Help had at last arrived.

2

Assistant Commissioner Geoffrey Harkness liked to have the wide windows of his sixth-floor office uncurtained. So too did Adam Dalgliesh, a floor below. A year earlier had seen a reorganization of accommodation at New Scotland Yard and now Dalgliesh's windows faced the gentler, more rural scene of St. James's Park, at this distance more a promise than a view. For him the seasons were marked by changes in the park; the spring budding of the trees, their luxuriant summer heaviness, the crisping yellow and gold of autumn, brisk walkers high-collared against the winter cold. In early summer the municipal deck-chairs would suddenly appear in an outbreak of coloured canvas, and half-clad Londoners would sit on the tailored grass like a scene from Seurat. On summer evenings, walking home through the park, he would occasionally hear the brass crescendo of an Army band, and see the guests for the Queen's garden parties, self-conscious in their unaccustomed finery.

Harkness's view provided none of this seasonal variety. After dark, whatever the season, the whole wall was a panorama of London, outlined and celebrated in light. Towers, bridges, houses and streets were hung with jewels, clusters and necklaces of diamonds and rubies, which made more mysterious the dark thread of the river. The view was so spectacular that it diminished Harkness's office, making the official furniture, appropriate to his rank, look like a shabby compromise and his personal mementoes, the commendations and the ranked shields from foreign police forces, as naÏvely pretentious as the trophies of childhood.

The summons, in the form of a request, had come from the Assistant Commissioner but Dalgliesh knew within a second of entering that this wasn't routine Met business. Maynard Scobie from Special Branch was there with a colleague unknown to Dalgliesh but whom no one troubled to introduce. More significantly, Bruno Denholm from MI5 was standing looking out the window. And now he turned and took his place beside Harkness. The faces of the two men were explicit. The Assistant Commissioner looked irritated, Denholm had the wary but determined look of a man who was about to be outnumbered but who holds the heavier weapon.

Without preliminaries, Harkness said, “The Dupayne Museum, a private museum of the inter-war years. In Hampstead on the borders of the Heath. Do you know it, by any chance?”

“I've been there once, a week ago.”

“That's helpful, I suppose. I've never heard of the place.”

“Not many people have. They don't advertise themselves, although that may change. They're under new management. Marcus Dupayne has taken over.”

Harkness moved to his conference table. “We'd better sit. This may take some time. There's been a murder—more accurately a suspicious death—which the Fire Investigation Officer thinks is murder. Neville Dupayne has been burnt to death in his Jag in a lock-up garage at the museum. It's his habit, apparently, to collect the car at six p.m. on Fridays and drive off for the weekend. This Friday someone may have lain in wait for him, thrown petrol over his head and set him alight. That seems to be the possibility. We'd like you to take on the case.”

Dalgliesh looked at Denholm. “As you're here, I take it you have an interest.”

“Only marginally, but we would like the case cleared up as soon as possible. We only know the barest facts but it looks fairly straightforward.”

“Then why me?”

Denholm said, “It's a question of getting it cleared up with the minimum of fuss. Murder always attracts publicity but we don't want the press getting too inquisitive. We have a contact there, James Calder-Hale, who acts as a kind of curator. He's ex-FCO and an expert on the Middle East. Speaks Arabic and one or two dialects. He retired on health grounds four years ago but he keeps in touch with friends. More importantly, they keep in touch with him. We get useful pieces of jigsaw from time to time and we would like this to continue.”

Dalgliesh said, “Is he on the payroll?”

“Not exactly. Certain payments have occasionally to be made. Essentially he's a freelance, but a useful one.”

Harkness said, “MI5 isn't happy about passing on this information but we insisted, on a need-to-know basis. It stays with you, of course.”

Dalgliesh said, “If I'm to conduct a murder investigation, my two DIs have to be told. I take it you have no objection to my arresting Calder-Hale if he killed Neville Dupayne?”

Denholm smiled. “I think you'll find he's in the clear. He's got an alibi.”

Has he indeed, thought Dalgliesh. MI5 had been quick on the job. Their first reaction to hearing of the murder had been to contact Calder-Hale. If the alibi stood up, then he could be eliminated and everyone would be happy. But the MI5 involvement remained a complication. Officially they might think it expedient to keep clear; unofficially they would be watching his every move.

He said, “And how do you propose to sell this to the local Division? On the face of it, it's just another case. A suspicious death hardly justifies calling in the Special Investigation Squad. They might want to know why.”

Harkness dismissed the problem. “That can be dealt with. We'll probably suggest that one of Dupayne's patients somewhere in the past was an important personage and we want his murderer found without embarrassment. No one is going to be explicit. The important thing is to get the case solved. The Fire Investigation Officer is still at the scene and so are Marcus Dupayne and his sister. There's nothing to stop you from starting now, I suppose?”

And now he had to telephone Emma. Back in his own office, he was swept by a desolation as keen as the half-remembered disappointments of childhood and bringing with it the same superstitious conviction that a malignant fate had turned against him, judging him unworthy of happiness. He had booked a corner table at the Ivy for nine o'clock. They would have a late dinner and plan the weekend together. He had judged the timing meticulously. His meeting at the Yard might well last until seven o'clock; to book an earlier meal would have been to invite disaster. The arrangement was that he would call for Emma at her friend Clara's flat in Putney by eight-fifteen. By now he should be on his way.

His PA could cancel the restaurant booking but he had never used her to convey even the most routine message to Emma and wouldn't now; it was too close to betraying that part of his very private life which he was keeping inviolate. As he punched out the numbers on his mobile, he wondered if this call would be the last time he would hear her voice. The thought appalled him. If she decided that this latest frustration was the end, he was determined on one thing; their last meeting would be face-to-face.

It was Clara who answered his call. As soon as he asked for Emma, she said, “I suppose this is a chuck.”

“I'd like to speak to Emma. Is she there?”

“She's having her hair done. She'll be back any minute. But don't bother to ring again. I'll tell her.”

“I'd rather tell her myself. Tell her I'll ring later.”

She said, “I shouldn't bother. No doubt there's an insalubrious corpse somewhere awaiting your attention.” She paused, then said conversationally, “You're a bastard, Adam Dalgliesh.”

He tried to keep the surge of anger out of his voice, but knew that it must have come across to her, sharp as a whiplash. “Possibly, but I'd rather hear it from Emma herself. She's her own person. She doesn't need a keeper.”

She said, “Goodbye, Commander. I'll let Emma know,” and put down the receiver.

And now anger at himself and not Clara was added to his disappointment. He had mishandled the call, had been unreasonably offensive to a woman, and that woman Emma's friend. He decided to wait a little before ringing back. It would give them and himself time to consider what best to say.

But when he did ring it was again Clara who answered. She said, “Emma decided to go back to Cambridge. She left five minutes ago. I gave her your message.”

The call was over. Moving over to his cupboard to take out his murder bag, he seemed to hear Clara's voice.
I suppose there's an insalubrious corpse somewhere awaiting your attention.

But first he must write to Emma. They phoned each other as seldom as possible and he knew that it was he who had tacitly established this reluctance to speak when apart. He found it both too frustrating and anxiety-inducing to hear her voice without seeing her face. There was always the worry that the timing of his call might be inconvenient, that he might fall into banalities. Written words had a greater permanence and, therefore, a greater chance of remembered infelicities, but at least he could control the written word. Now he wrote briefly, expressed his regret and disappointment simply, and left it to her to say if and when she would like to see him. He could go to Cambridge, if that would be more convenient. He signed it simply,
Adam.
Until now they had always met in London. It was she who had had the inconvenience of a journey and he had decided that she felt less committed in London, that there was an emotional safety in seeing him on what for her was mutual ground. He wrote the address with care, affixed a first-class stamp and put the envelope in his pocket. He would slip it in the box at the post office opposite New Scotland Yard. Already he was calculating how long it would be before he could hope for a reply.

3

It was seven fifty-five and Detective Inspector Kate Miskin and Detective Inspector Piers Tarrant were drinking together in a riverside pub between Southwark Bridge and London Bridge. This part of the riverside close to Southwark Cathedral was, as always, busy at the end of a working day. The full-size model of Drake's
Golden Hinde
moored between the cathedral and the public house had long closed to visitors for the night but there was still a small group slowly circling its black oak sides and gazing up at the fo'c'sle as if wondering, as Kate herself often did, how so small a craft could have weathered that sixteenth-century journey round the world across tumultuous seas.

Both Kate and Piers had had a hectic and frustrating day. When the Special Investigation Squad was temporarily not in operation they were assigned to other divisions. There neither felt at home and both were aware of the unspoken resentment of colleagues who saw Commander Dalgliesh's special murder squad as uniquely privileged and who found subtle and occasionally more aggressive ways of making them feel excluded. By seven-thirty the noise of the pub had become raucous; they had quickly finished their fish and chips and, with no more than a nod at each other, had moved with their glasses out on to the almost deserted decking. They had stood here together often before but tonight Kate felt that there was something valedictory about this evening's silent moving out of the frenetic bar into the quiet autumn night. The jangle of voices behind them was muted. The strong river smell drove out the fumes of the beer and they stood together gazing out over the Thames, its dark pulsating skin slashed and shivered with myriad lights. It was low water and a turgid and muddy tide spent itself in a thin edging of dirty foam over the gritty shingle. To the north-west and over the towers of Cannon Street railway bridge the dome of St. Paul's hung above the city like a mirage. Gulls were strutting about the shingle and suddenly three of them rose in a tumult of wings and swooped shrieking over Kate's head before settling on the wooden rail of the decking, white-chested against the darkness of the river.

Would this be the last time they drank together? Kate wondered. Piers had only three more weeks to serve before knowing whether his transfer to Special Branch had been approved. It was what he wanted and had schemed for, but she knew that she would miss him. When he had first arrived five years earlier to join the squad she had thought him one of the most sexually attractive officers with whom she had served. The realization was surprising and unwelcome. It certainly wasn't that she thought him handsome; he was half an inch shorter than she with simian-like arms and a streetwise toughness about the broad shoulders and strong face. His well-shaped mouth was sensitive and seemed always about to curl into a private joke, and there was, too, a faint suggestion of the comedian in the slightly podgy face with its slanting eyebrows. But she had come to respect him as a colleague and a man and the prospect of adjusting to someone else wasn't welcome. His sexuality no longer disturbed her. She valued her job and her place in the squad too highly to jeopardize it for the temporary satisfaction of a covert affair. Nothing remained secret in the Met for long, and she had seen too many careers and lives messed up to be tempted down that seductively easy path. No affairs were more foredoomed than those founded on lust, boredom or a craving for excitement. It hadn't been difficult to keep her distance in all but professional matters.