Читать книгу Blood Guilt - Lindy Cameron - Страница 9

As Kit made a dash through the pelting rain towards the front door, a ruddy-faced man in overalls came barrelling out as if shot from a canon. He excused himself, while still on the run, and headed straight for the van on the lawn. Kit heard a familiar yet unexpected voice in the hall so she just walked in through the open doorway to find her friend and ex-partner Detective Sergeant Jon Marek giving his undivided attention to a large, uncooperative black umbrella. His mane of tousled grey hair belied the fact that he was only 35 years old and was quite at odds with his Adonis-like face and athlete's body. He had always maintained, throughout their three-year partnership, that it had been the strain of working with Kit that had turned him prematurely grey.

'Don't you know it's bad luck to open an umbrella inside,' she said.

'Eh? Oh, it's you O'Malley,' he said as if he'd been expecting her. 'I've been expecting you,' he added.

The ruddy-faced man brushed past Kit again, this time lugging an armful of metal poles and a tarpaulin. He was having a great deal of trouble with the latter so rather than lose the lot he dropped the tarp then grabbed one corner and dragged it up the hallway. The metal rivets screeched across the marble tiles sending a fingernails-on-a-blackboard shiver up Kit's spine.

'What the hell is going on?'

'A local citizen has met with an untimely demise, ' Marek said, thrusting the umbrella at Kit and indicating she should follow him.

'Who killed him?' Kit asked, expecting to see Celia handcuffed to a standard lamp in the lounge room.

'I said demise. What makes you think someone's been murdered,' Marek said, turning to face Kit so suddenly that she ran into him.

'I said killed. And I have no idea what I should be thinking. But your presence suggests something other than death by misadventure Jonno,' Kit said, fighting with the umbrella which had sprung open during the collision.

'Yeah, well you know that when a ratepayer as rich as this one kicks the golden bucket our lords and masters like to have all the bases covered. But seeing as the only weapon, as such, that we've found is a fish pond, I'd say it's a case of accidental death by drowning. And it's a her not a him by the way. Leave that up, you'll probably need it out here,' Marek said, opening the door to the patio.

Kit suddenly felt sick to her stomach, and stepped with great trepidation onto the patio overlooking the floodlit Forum. The rain, which slid so silently down the marble torso of the motionless Perseus, thumped with an irritating urgency on the caps of the three officers trying to raise a canvas canopy over the bald-headed body of Celia Robinson.

'Oh shit, what happened?' Kit asked, collapsing into one of the patio chairs. She was unable to take her eyes from the dismal scene before her, but couldn't help thinking that it looked like a carefully designed set for a Miss Marple movie. A now sodden blanket covered most of her body, as if someone had put it there to keep her warm, and Celia lay on her back on the lawn with her arms neatly by her side, looking for all the world as if she was taking a nap. The only things that looked out of place were Celia's extremely hairless pate and the extraordinary amount of water in which she was lying. In fact there was far too much water lying around for it to have come from the rain which was only now getting really serious about drowning them all.

'That umbrella would be far more useful over our heads O'Malley,' Marek said dragging a chair up beside Kit.

'Where did all the water come from?' Kit asked, handing the umbrella to Marek because she didn't care in the least that she was getting soaked to the skin.

'The fish pond. The fountain was gushing like a bloody geyser when we got here and there appears to be something blocking the outlet pipe. That's what that plumber is trying to fix,' Marek said, trying to remove a cigarette from his packet with one hand, while holding the umbrella over them both with the other.

The man in the overalls had just stepped into the pond and was searching around under the water for the cause of the problem. Every time he moved, a small tidal wave surged over the edge and lapped ever so gently at the senseless body on the lawn.

'Can't you move her?' Kit said.

'We haven't got all the photographs yet,' Marek replied. 'Pete had to get more film from his car. Oh, here he is. It's about bloody time Pete. Get a move on before we all get washed away.'

'Yes sire,' said the surly Pete Fowler who always looked like he had a bad smell up his nose. Considering his job he probably did. He winked at Kit then turned his attention and camera to the task of recording Celia's penultimate resting place.

'How did you know I was going to be here?' Kit asked.

'We found this in her pocket,' Marek said, handing Kit an envelope with her name on it. It had already been opened so she removed the contents. There was a cheque, made out to O'Malley Investigations for $2000, and a small piece of paper neatly printed in red with the words: January 19, North 4; 5 p.m.; January 20 FISC, 11 p.m.

'I don't get this. Tonight was our last appointment. This is far too much money and this, whatever it is, is for next week.'

'So, fill me in O'Malley. What's the deal here?'

'She hired me to tail her husband. Where is he by the way?'

'We've sent a car to pick him up. It took us a while to find him.'

'I bet it did. Who found her then?'

'Her solicitor, Douglas Scott. He's having a stiff drink while he gives his statement to Nick, ' Marek said, finally getting his cigarette lit, while Kit looked expectantly at him.

'OK. Briefly, he had a 9 o'clock appointment with the late Mrs Robinson, but when no-one answered the bell he let himself in. The patio door was open and he found his client lying face down on the grass with her head and arms in the water. Naturally he dragged her out but says it was obvious that she'd been there for some time. He rang an ambulance and called us. End of story. Except that, judging by the empty bottle under that statue over there, it looks like she probably had a bit too much and fell down; maybe she hit her head or maybe she was too pissed to realise it was water she was trying to breathe and not air.'

'You're so crass, Marek. People like Celia Robinson don't get 'pissed', not on Moet anyway and certainly not when they're expecting company,' Kit snapped. 'Something is definitely sus here.'

'You think so?' Marek said in his best patronising voice, which Kit chose to ignore. 'It looks pretty straightforward to me. Her solicitor said she was a drinker.'

'A drinker, yes; but not a rolling drunk.'

'You knew her well enough to make that judgement?'

'I think so. Though not well enough, I must admit, to know that she was as bald as a bandicoot. Where's her hair?'

'Good question. And I have another. Why did you assume that a he had been killed?'

'Because it's quicker and cheaper than divorcing a priapic husband.'

Marek stared at his eyebrows for a few seconds before saying 'I give up. That one hasn't come up in the cryptic crossword yet.'

A shout from the fish pond saved Kit from having to detail the licentiousness that accompanied Geoffrey's permanent hard on, though she knew she may eventually have to. Meanwhile the plumber, who was triumphantly holding aloft what was left of Celia's yellow wig as if it was the scalp of a conquered foe, was shouting that he'd found the source of the problem.

'I think I'm going to puke,' Kit said making for the patio door before she witnessed any more of the circus that was going on around the sodden body of her ex-client. She found a bathroom, locked herself in and took off her cotton shirt to wring it out over the hand basin. She shook her head vigorously and ran her hands through her wet hair before putting the shirt back on. Then she went looking for Douglas Scott.

She found him in the lounge, a plushly furnished room full of couches, cushions, potted palms and begonias, heavy curtains drawn against the proceedings in the Forum outside, and the best-stocked bar Kit had ever seen.

Nick was diligently recording everything that Scott was saying. He looked up when she entered, quickly suppressing an inappropriate grin, and got to his feet.

'Don't let me interrupt, Detective Jenkins,' she said. 'I just want a word with Mr Scott when you're finished.'

I think we're done,' Nick said. 'Unless you have anything else to add Mr Scott.'

A lock of snowy hair fell forward across a pair of unbelievably tangled eyebrows as Douglas Scott shook his head and turned to face Kit. He was visibly distressed and obviously agitated at the thought of having to go through the details yet again. Nick excused himself and left the room, picking up Kit's cue that he should make himself scarce.

'I'm sorry to bother you right now Mr Scott. My name is Katherine O'Malley and...'

'I know who you are Miss O'Malley,' he said, reaching for his glass only to find it empty.

'Call me Kit. Can I get you another?' Kit offered, holding out her hand.

'Yes. Please. A whisky thanks.'

He watched Kit, with the concentration of someone determinedly trying to ignore everything else that was going on around him, as she refilled his glass with the Glenlivet which stood open on the bar, and filled another with Wild Turkey.

'This is a damn tragedy. She was such a fine woman,' he said, accepting the drink as he blinked back the tears pricking his pale blue eyes. Kit liked this man already, and not simply because he looked remarkably like a Old English sheepdog. She guessed he was about sixty though his gentle face had scarcely a line, except around the eyes where the telltale creases hinted at a disposition more accustomed to deriving great amusement from life. It was easy to understand why Celia had trusted him so, though seeing him sitting there barely able to control his grief, Kit suspected his loyalty had a bit to do with the fact that he'd been more than a little in love with their mutual client.

Kit sat down opposite and knocked back her bourbon in one swallow, wondering how, or even whether, she should proceed. She had expected to close the case tonight but not by default. The fact that her client was dead meant, effectively, that she had no client, despite Celia's cryptic note and generous cheque which suggested she had changed her mind.

'You and I probably have a few things to go over Miss O'Malley. Kit. But not tonight, if you don't mind. And I don't think the police need to know all the details, especially when Geoffrey is likely to turn up at any minute.'

'Off course Mr Scott,' Kit said relieved. 'Do you know where he was expected to be this evening?'

'Douglas, please,' he said. 'Luckily, he was in acceptable company - for a change. I suggested to that detective in charge that they contact Geoffrey's secretary Adele. She was apparently out shopping, which is why it's taken so long, but she told them that Geoffrey was dining with Miles and two visiting reps from OHP's printers in Hong Kong.'

'What about Byron? He seems to know everything that goes on around here.'

'He wasn't home.' Douglas looked pathetically at his empty glass so Kit went to the bar, refilled her own and brought the bottle of Glenlivet back for him.

'God, I'll have to ring Elizabeth and tell her,' he was saying. 'I don't imagine she would want to hear of her mother's accident from Geoffrey.'

'Um, don't you think this whole 'accident' thing is a little suspicious?' Kit said hesitantly.

Douglas looked pained but not surprised by the suggestion. 'A little,' he said quietly. Further discussion was put on hold as a commotion in the hall heralded the arrival of Geoffrey Robinson, his breathless voice demanding the whereabouts of his wife.

Kit got to the lounge door in time to see a uniformed officer escorting Geoffrey into the Forum. They had passed Donald Grenville, the coroner, in the hall.

'Well, well, well, if it isn't Katherine O'Malley,' he said with a warm smile.

'Hi Donald, how goes it?' Kit said, moving away from the lounge and out of Douglas's earshot.

'Couldn't be better, my dear. I wouldn't be dead for quids. And I see you have managed to survive and flourish without Flash Marek to hold your hand. I like the wet look; you look positively ravishing, but then that's nothing new.'

'And you haven't changed one bit, you old bastard.'

'Flattery will get you nothing but my undying passion Katherine,' Donald said, twirling the thicket of whiskers under his nose.

'How about the lowdown on the task at hand?'

'Well, it's so damn wet out there I could do little more than rudimentary examination. My guess is the woman drowned somewhere between 6 and 9 p.m. The rest will have to wait till we've both dried out a bit.'

'Was it an accident?'

'It seems so. The evidence, as it stands, fits the theory that she stumbled, probably in a state of intoxication, headfirst into the water. There is bruising on the forehead and another on the chin consistent with a fall. Either injury may have rendered her unconscious or in no fit state to extricate herself from the pond. But that is just the theory; I shall know more on the morrow.'

'Jesus Christ, what a bloody mess,' bellowed Geoffrey, as he and Marek, followed by the stretcher carrying Celia's shrouded body, crowded in through the patio door.

Kit took her leave of Donald and headed back to the lounge. She wanted to be there when Geoffrey entered. Douglas was in the process of topping up his glass again.

'You'd better have another yourself Kit,' he said. 'I think we're in for one hell of a performance.'

'God, Douglas. I just don't know what to do next. And what a thing for you to have to go through. She was just so, so...' Geoffrey turned aside dramatically to compose himself or, rather, to decide which of the emotions that were running uncontrolled across his face best suited the present company. He settled on a mournful look complete with an exaggerated and regular blinking-back of an imaginary wellspring of tears. Douglas extracted his hand from Geoffrey's and, ushering him to the couch, poured him a whisky.

The elegant walking cane that Geoffrey had traded his crutches for sometime on Wednesday provided more than adequate support for his grief and gave him something to do with the hand that wasn't holding the whisky glass.

Kit watched Marek shuffling from one foot to the other, waiting. He hated these scenes. Having to question a grieving individual was an odious task, but Marek had his own emotions so securely locked up in a cupboard somewhere that he had a harder time than most dealing with what he scathingly called the 'raw, seething quagmire of self pity'.

'I'm sorry to put you through this right now, Mr Robinson, but I will have to ask you some questions,' he said.

'Of course. I understand,' Geoffrey said with a sigh that was audibly cut short when he noticed Kit standing there. He looked questioningly at Douglas, while Kit looked earnestly at Marek with a slight shake of her head.

'This is...ah, detective, O'Malley,' Marek said falteringly.

Geoffrey acknowledged her with a nod while his eyes never left her legs. Douglas swallowed rather too loudly so Kit decided the best place to sit was next to him, putting Marek between herself and Geoffrey. She was sorely tempted to tell Geoffrey just where it was that she'd last seen him.

Geoffrey spent the next fifteen minutes raving about the sheer injustice of human destiny that ends the life of one so gracious, loving and giving in such an undignified and lonely way. If only he had stayed home this evening. If only he'd been able to help her give up the drinking. If only... It was a distraught and eloquent performance, greatly deserving of an Oscar, and one that had Marek so convinced that the man was emotionally devastated that he kept his questions to a minimum.

With each declaration of concern for Celia's drinking habits, of his constant fear of leaving her on her own at any time, he built up a picture of himself as a caring, loving man in the habit of sacrificing much of his own lifestyle for that of his adoring but dipsomaniac wife. The fact that he had to be aware that Douglas would know that most of what he claimed was unmitigated garbage did not hinder his performance one bit. Geoffrey obviously felt secure in his assumption that family business was just that; that appearances must be maintained; and one certainly does not let the hoi polloi, let alone the local constabulary, think one is anything less than perfect. Except, of course, in the descriptions of Celia's drinking problem, which he could and did labour to death, because the police already knew about that. And, thought Kit, it reinforces the theory of death by misadventure.

'At what time did you leave the house?' Marek asked.

'I think it was a little after 6 p.m. Miles Denning, our publisher, called for me. We had a drink in this room with...with poor Celia...before going out for dinner with clients at the Shangri La. That was where your officers found me and broke the news.' Geoffrey was overdoing the fidgeting to the point where Kit desperately wanted to scold him into sitting still. 'Um, if you'll excuse me for a minute,' he finally said, hauling himself to his feet. 'I think I ate something that disagreed with me at lunch. I've been up and down all evening.'

'Was there anyone else in the house when you left? Your wife has a secretary I believe,' Marek asked when Geoffrey returned ten minutes later.

'Daniels. No, he wasn't here!' Geoffrey stated sharply. 'He is no longer in our employ.'

'I didn't know this had happened,' Douglas said, unable to hide his surprise.

Whoa! Throw the plot another twist, thought Kit.

'No doubt she would have told you this evening Douglas, had she...' Geoffrey broke down again.

'When did this Daniels leave your service, Mr Robinson?' Marek asked.

'He didn't leave. I asked him to go,' Geoffrey said. 'In fact it was his betrayal of my wife's trust that probably pushed her to drink as much as she seems to have tonight. You see I sacked Mr Daniels yesterday. He had been stealing, and not just money but valuables from the house. Celia of course was dreadfully upset; she had entrusted him with a great deal of responsibility.'

Kit glanced at Douglas who looked totally flabbergasted.

'God, I knew she was upset. She was such a trusting soul. I should have stayed home,' Geoffrey was saying.

Trusting soul, indeed! Kit thought. Celia had been a clever, intuitive and sensible woman; one not easily deceived. Sure she'd made the mistake of marrying Geoffrey, but then everyone's entitled to one gross error of judgement in their life, and she had admitted to Kit that though she'd been attracted to him and enjoyed his company, she had never trusted him.

She had trusted Byron, however. If there was any truth in what Geoffrey was saying it would indeed have been a shattering revelation to Celia, but Kit had so little faith in Geoffrey's veracity that she doubted his whole story. It was all so unnecessary, as if he was setting a scene to cover the possibility that Celia's death would prove to be something other than an accident. With Celia conveniently unable to verify or deny Geoffrey's statement, Kit wondered whether her client had actually known anything at all about the alleged reasons for Byron's alleged dismissal. Surely if he'd been stealing, it would have been Celia who sacked him and in that case Douglas would probably have known about it.

'We'll need the address of this Daniels,' Marek said, 'just in case we need a word with him.'

'Of course, I'm sure you may need to do that,' Geoffrey said, a little too suggestively. 'The only problem is I have no idea where he lives. On Wednesday I went to his flat, well to the address he had given us, to confront him. I wanted to see him on his own turf so as not to create a scene in front of Celia. The woman who answered the door said she didn't know anyone called Byron Daniels, and claimed she'd had been living in the place for six months. So I had to wait until he arrived for work yesterday, whereupon I discharged him.'

The thick plottens, Kit thought. She was trying very hard to stop herself from thinking the worst about this whole situation but Geoffrey was making it very difficult. Why was he doing his best to cast Byron in a less than favourable light? If Celia's death was an accident then this stuff about Byron was pretty irrelevant. Sow the seeds now, just in case. But why? The good-old standby of the ex-employee with a grudge, doing-in the mistress of the manor was about as obvious as the butler doing it. It also implied that something had been done.

Geoffrey seemed to be working on two levels here: agonising over Celia's alcoholism and the tragic nature of the accident while hammering in the notion of misplaced trust and betrayal. Every second thing Geoffrey said made Celia's death seem even more suspicious. Well it did to Kit. She had no idea what Marek was getting from all of this.

It suddenly dawned on Kit that she was so anxious to disbelieve everything Geoffrey said that she was rather overlooking the obvious. As much as she didn't like to acknowledge it, there had to be some truth in what he was saying; he couldn't just make it up because Byron himself would be able to dispute it. Unless of course Geoffrey had something else on Byron that had convinced him that here was not a good place to work any more. But if he hadn't been sacked for stealing then what would make him leave Celia's employ? And why didn't Douglas know? It was all too weird; too coincidental.

'If he'd been stealing, Mr Robinson, why didn't you go to the police?' Kit asked.

'That was Celia's decision,' Geoffrey replied, before returning his attention to Marek. 'I was all in favour of it, of course, but Celia was anxious to avoid any scandal.'

'Excuse me, sir,' Nick said from the doorway. 'There's a woman out the front to see Mr Scott.'

'That will be my niece. I rang and asked her to collect me. I didn't think it would be a good idea for me to drive myself home,' Douglas said. 'Do you need me for anything else?'

'No, Mr Scott. We have your statement,' Marek said.

'Geoffrey, will you be all right if I leave now?' Douglas asked.

'Yes, thanks. I asked the officer who brought me home to inform Jane and Colin and ask them to come over. That's my sister and brother-in-law,' Geoffrey added, looking at Marek. 'I'll be fine Douglas. You go on home.'

'OK, if you're sure. Oh, I've already put in a call to London, to inform Elizabeth, but she was out. I'll keep trying. That's if you'd like me to, Geoffrey,' Douglas said.

Geoffrey nodded gratefully, saying he didn't think he'd be able to cope with breaking the news himself. Kit followed Douglas out into the hall and walked with him to the front door.

'You didn't know about this business with Byron?' she queried.

'Of course not. It's very strange indeed. I do, however, know where to find him. Kit, I trust your professionalism and your discretion - mostly because Celia seemed to have so much faith in it.'

'Likewise, Douglas.' Kit said with a smile.

'For the same reason I am a little concerned about the welfare of Byron Daniels. But I would rather not discuss that here and now. As we have other unfinished business, on Celia's behalf, perhaps we could meet in my office on Monday, say at noon.'

They shook hands and Geoffrey made a dash out into the storm. Kit caught a glimpse of athletic legs, clad in tight black tracksuit pants, as the woman lounging against the Mercedes beneath a huge red umbrella rushed forward to give him shelter. They embraced tightly and Douglas, suddenly looking decidedly the worse for wear, allowed his niece to help him down the drive to the car parked behind Kit's.