Читать книгу Summer Night, Winter Moon - Jane Huxley - Страница 9

When I arranged to meet with Honey Dew Saturday evening at 8, I didn’t know that the police had recovered a body they had not yet identified.

I came home from the gallery at 6, in the pounding rain, and found two officers huddled under the maples on the sidewalk, an improbable shelter because of the youth of their leaves and the ferocity of the wind.

“Are you Trevor Snow.”

Hardly a question, more of an accusation. Nevertheless, I nodded, with just a pause for breath, which was as near as I came to betraying the horrific discomfort their presence had inspired.

“Come in, come in,” I urged them, fumbling with the key and opening up.

“Inspector Fielding and Sergeant Dale,” one of them said, without specifying who was who. “We’ve been sent by our Serious Crime Directorate.”

“I assumed as much.”

“A few enquiries, sir.”

Hatless and soaked myself, I led them into the library and offered them a sherry or something stronger.

“Don’t drink while on duty,” the taller of the two men said. He had a small narrow head and a long neck, much like that of a cobra.

“I’ll take a beer,” the other one said, no doubt accustomed to the flawed abstinence that I could smell on his breath as I poured a Beck’s into a beer mug.

“Is it about my wife?” I asked, addressing the back of the tall officer as he ambled past me to position himself in front of the dead ashes in the fireplace.

But it was the plump one who answered. “Afraid so, sir.”

Wait, I said to myself. Don’t say anything yet. Think before you talk.

“Is she –?” I mumbled, in the voice of a man who knows nothing but fears everything.

“The body of a Caucasian female has been found in Regent’s Park Canal,” the tall officer said. “Sergeant Dale will give you the details.”

I had not expected to cringe as I did, but the stab of pain had caught me off guard. I looked away, tried to remain calm, as the sergeant coughed, cleared his throat and prepared to embark on the unsavoury task assigned to him by his superior.

“No positive identification has been made yet. However, we felt obliged to let you know,” he said, mellowed by the drink and, perhaps, his own humanity.

“We tried to reach you several times,” Inspector Fielding said. “But we were unable to find you.”

“Sorry. I’ve been running around in circles.”

At that precise moment I remembered my assignation with Honey Dew, outside the bar where she worked in Hampstead and, instinctively, I looked at my watch.

“Expecting anyone?” Inspector Fielding snapped, as he lowered himself into an armchair.

“My wife’s father,” I lied. “He’s here from Italy and I thought that perhaps –”

“He has already been to see us,” Sergeant Dale took out a small red notebook and began flipping through the pages. “Ah, here it is. Piero Giordano, father of the missing woman. Arrived day before yesterday from Naples, Italy, on Alitalia flight 163. Came down to the station this morning but failed to identify the body.”

“Failed?” I echoed.

“Couldn’t do it. Too upset. Collapsed on a chair, shaking his head, begging God for a miracle.”

“So we left him alone,” Inspector Fielding blurted. “Not up to us to question God’s mercy.” He paused before adding with a hideous smirk. “Or the devil’s tricks for that matter.”

I knew perfectly well he was waiting for my reaction. But I was too threatened, too anxious to be forthcoming. I stood in silence, until the inspector made the next move.

“You own an art gallery, don’t you, Mr. Snow,” he said.

“I’m one of two partners.”

“But you make your own hours. You’re not chained to a desk, are you?”

“I handle certain sales… in my own good time, yes.”

“Which means your presence, or absence, needn’t be conspicuous.”

“Not sure what you mean.”

“Your whereabouts might be difficult to trace.”

“On the contrary, I have a straightforward routine, as I’m sure you know.”

I said this, but I was thinking just the opposite. Shrewd hound, the inspector; he takes the measure of his suspects and waits for them to trip.

Sergeant Dale had gone back to his notes. “Hmm, where was I?”

“The body,” Fielding prompted him.

“Ah, yes. The state of decomposition is rather advanced, I’m afraid, but… hmm… we need to attempt –”

From across the room Fielding interrupted his underling again. “Have you ever been in a morgue, Mr. Snow?” he asked, as if the question might mean something to me.

“No,” I said.

“Cold place. The dead are cold. And so are some of the living.” He paused and gave another of his stringent smiles before returning to his subject. “Tough thing to ask, but we need to identify the body on the mortuary slab.”

Silence, as if none of us could dispel the marmoreal horror which awaited us.

“Mind if we go over the details?” This from Fielding, who no longer bothered to conceal the suspicion smouldering in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” I said, meekly.

“It is assumed your wife was walking the dog in Regent’s Park four days ago when she fell off York Bridge into the water,” Sergeant Dale said, reading from his notes.

“Or was pushed,” Fielding interjected.

“Yes,” Dale confirmed, and went on. “The current must have dragged her a couple hundred yards away from York Bridge. The body was found early this morning, tangled in the weeds, by an amateur photographer shooting a pair of swans and their cygnets. He was quite shaken. Ran all the way up to Albany Street to fetch a constable.”

“Do you think –”

“Drowning,” Fielding blurted. “That’s what we think. Death by drowning. We haven’t had the pathology report yet, but it appears that she went into the water alive.”

My mouth felt chalk-dry. Like all men under intense scrutiny, I tried not to squirm under his watchful stare. “Are you telling me there is a suspicion of foul play?” I asked.

“It’s only a hypothesis,” Fielding replied, his eyes slipping away toward the handsome portrait above the mantelpiece. “Is this your wife?” he asked, still gazing at the stunning face that smiled, perhaps a trifle flirtatiously, from the wall.

“Yes,” I said and I, too, stared at the enormous grass-green eyes, the elegant nose, the sensuous lips, the cascade of dark hair, glowing with gingery streaks.

“Beautiful woman,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. “She is very beautiful.”

“A woman like that can push a man beyond rage.”

Well, aren’t you clever, I thought. But I said, “This is very difficult for me.”

“For us, too, Mr. Snow. The snuffing of life is not one of the attractions of the profession,” Fielding said, turning away from the portrait and addressing me with affected nonchalance, “You know how it is.”

“I don’t know much of anything any more… I know that my wife went out to walk the dog and…” A long agonized pause, then the question took shape in my mind and spilled, “What about the dog? Does anyone know what happened to him? He never came back, though he must have known his way home.”

Sergeant Dale considered the query and seemed to wonder whether to address it or ignore it.

Fielding’s voice cut through the pause. “The dog,” he urged him, his patience dwindling fast.

Dale thumbed through his notes. “Ah, yes. Here it is on page 18,” he said, picking his way through his notebook. “A fourteen-pound, brown and white, long-haired Jack Russell named, hmmm –”

“Cappuccino,” I said.

“Like the coffee,” the inspector translated for the convenience of his subordinate.

The sergeant nodded, appeared to make a mental note to engage an interpreter. “Right,” he said. “Seems the little bugger has a limp.”

“Yes,” I said. “One of his legs is shorter than the others.”

“Well, sir,” Sergeant Dale concluded, tossing the last of his drink into his mouth. “They haven’t found the dog yet.”

Long silence. But Fielding’s patience was not benign. He stood up, walked to the mantle, turned and stared at me across the room. “We’ve got a suspect,” he announced.

That questioning look again, leaving me with an awkward dilemma. Should I pounce on the disclosure? Wait? Appear shocked? Marooned? Fielding obviously wanted some sort of drama.

“A suspect?” I echoed grimly.

“Yes.”

“I suppose it’s no good asking who.”

“On the contrary,” Fielding said, almost complacently. “It’s someone you know.”

“I know many people.”

“Danilo Terranova.”

“Dante!” I exclaimed. “That’s impossible. He wouldn’t –”

“At this time he’s only a suspect.”

“Why? In what way? What the hell could make you suspect him?”

“We received an anonymous phone call that points a finger in his direction.”

I frowned and looked away, uneasily. “I didn’t know the police took into account anonymous phone calls,” I said.

“Oh, we do. Our experts on voice identification decide whether or not to reject them.”

“I’ll tell you one thing, Inspector. You are on the wrong track. Dante isn’t the sort. He would never do this. He’s a trusted friend, not a criminal.”

“I didn’t say criminal, Mr. Snow. I said suspect.”

Suddenly I knew what was expected of me. I did not require any more prodding. I did not look at my watch again. I buried my face in my hands and ignored the flutter in my voice, each word struggling to make itself heard.

“Will you take me to the… the… Good Lord, I can’t quite say it.”

“The body,” Inspector Fielding said, in the tone of a man for whom the word holds few surprises.

I did not reply, just nodded with enough emotion to suggest the viewing would be a prelude to a new onslaught of misery.

“Well then, let’s go,” the inspector said, and switched to a more focused bloodhound mode.

Sniff, growl, pursue. What next? Apprehend? Not likely. Seems all they have is circumstantial evidence. At this juncture anyway.