Funeral Music (27 page)

‘Or could it be because his bike’s just outside, chained to the railings?’

‘Ah, but he’s only put his bike there to
make
that look the reason. Don’t you see? So he cycled off, but then, you see, he went back round to Stall Street and slipped back in and hid in the office. And it’s a
folding
bike, Andrew, so he could bring it in with him. We established that, didn’t I?’

She looked so cheeky and pleased with herself that he thought he was going to kiss her. Instead he said, ‘And he hid there until everyone had gone, is that it?’

‘Everyone except Matthew Sawyer. From the Stall Street lobby you can go down the back stairs and out to the Great Bath, can’t you? So Paul went down, probably when the last of the kitchen staff left and it went quiet. Now, he must have realised that it would be dangerous to kill Sawyer out by the Great Bath. It’s too exposed. And if there was a struggle there would be noise, and anyone outside the building on the other side of the wall would be able to hear. They could even end up fighting in the water. Just in front of the spring overflow was a better place because it was inside and also it was dark. And there’s the noise of the water.’

Andrew nodded. His hair was drying now, Sara noticed, and going a little fluffy. She wanted to touch it. She stared at the place between the base of his throat and the top of his chest, where dark hairs lay just under the top shirt button. She wanted to reach under his damp sweater and pull it over his head, hauling his shirt off with it.

Andrew said, ‘I think you’re overlooking how messy these things are. You said they hadn’t planned it before that evening. How would he deal with the problem of heavily bloodstained clothes? He could hardly walk through the streets or cycle off, even late at night, drenched in blood.’

‘He couldn’t have dealt with bloodstained clothes. He was in his chef’s clothes: checked trousers, apron and T-shirt. He wouldn’t have a change of clothes with him. He would just have a carrier bag or something for the apron and his knives.’

‘Well, doesn’t your hypothesis fall apart then? You
agree
he couldn’t deal with bloodstained clothes?’

‘Oh yes,’ Sara said, ‘and he must have realised it too, so he took his clothes
off
. He took them off and put them somewhere well out of the way. He was naked.’ She dwelt just slightly on the mental picture, and then substituted Andrew for Paul for a brief, private moment.

‘Bet he kept his socks on,’ said Andrew jealously. ‘A bloodstained footprint could have identified him almost as conclusively as a fingerprint. We didn’t find any.’

‘There’s more than one possibility there, I think. He might have kept socks on, or’ – she could not help smiling as she spoke – ‘he might have halved his carrier bag and sellotaped his feet up in the two halves. There would be sellotape in the booking office. Or he could have washed the flagstones down afterwards – plenty of water.

‘After everyone had left, he must have shouted or called for help, anything to bring Sawyer down to investigate. Sawyer would be thinking that somebody from the dinner had got drunk and passed out or something. If it occurred to him at all, he would know that there were enough people there unpartnered for someone to disappear and be assumed to have gone home. And when he investigates, maybe even leans over the railing, suddenly there’s a naked, terrifying savage behind him with a knife. A Celtic ghost, a soldier of Sulis, carrying out the wishes of the goddess. “May my enemy become as liquid as water” or something like it.’

She shuddered. ‘In fact, I hope the poor man never knew what hit him.’

‘Then what?’ Andrew was concentrating hard now.

‘When he was sure Sawyer was dead, he just left him there, hanging over the railing, dripping blood into the water that runs into the Roman drain and away. But of course he must have been covered in blood himself.’

She leaned forward under the umbrella. ‘So he went out to the Great Bath and just walked into the water and washed himself clean.’

There was silence except for the rain. Andrew said, ‘That’s outrageous.’

Sara nodded. ‘He threw the knife in too, of course. Then he dried himself off with his T-shirt, got dressed, and took the keys from the body. After that he just went back upstairs, retrieved his bike and his apron and the rest of his knives. I should think he locked the Abbey Churchyard door from the inside and left from the Stall Street door. It’s quieter. Then he just rides off.’

‘Back to Fortune Park? And what about the alarm?’

‘No,
no
,’ Sara said almost crossly. ‘Remember, it was just after midnight by then. Sawyer was killed around midnight at the earliest. Say it was around twenty past, he couldn’t have got back to Fortune Park, on the bike, before two o’clock in the morning. No, he went to Olivia’s. He went in by the garden gate and she would be waiting for him in the study. They left the same way, with the night nurse assuming that Olivia was in bed. Olivia drove him back to Fortune Park. That was what puzzled me, you see: she drives a Citroen AX – far too small to take a bike. I didn’t think of a folding one. It would take less than half an hour, and she would drop him off before the entrance so he could unfold the bike and cycle up to his door and arrive suitably puffed.’

‘And he arrived back there before one o’clock, which is when he would have arrived if he’d left the Pump Room at quarter past eleven to cycle home.’

‘Exactly. So his movements at the time of the murder appear to be accounted for, since he couldn’t actually have an alibi.’

Andrew pondered this for a time. They had reached the end of the rose walk, and were standing by a pretty wooden bench under an arbour of yellow climbing roses. The bench was sodden, too wet to sit down. By silent consent they moved away, back down between the dripping rose beds.

‘There is, of course, not a shred of evidence to support this.’

‘Well, no, but there are things that are difficult to explain if it didn’t happen that way.’

‘Such as?’

Sara sighed, as if Andrew were being just a tiny bit dim. Again he found himself wanting, at the very least, to kiss her. ‘Sue confirmed that he arrived at about quarter to one. She waited up for him. When he came in, she said his hair was damp.’

‘So what? It had been raining.’

‘Yes. It was raining at about ten thirty. I remember because that was when I left and I had to get across to Manvers Street with the cello and all my stuff in the rain. But it stopped about ten to twelve, didn’t it? If Paul had left to cycle home at quarter past eleven his hair would have got wet, but it would have been bone dry long before he arrived near one o’clock, even long hair like his would have dried completely as he cycled. And it was damp. And I think the reason it was damp was because he had been immersed in the Roman Bath less than an hour before, washing off Matthew Sawyer’s blood.’

‘Oh, Sara. I wonder. I wonder. And the alarm?’ Andrew murmured.

She went on, ‘I think they realised in the car that there were loose ends.’ She took a deep breath and stopped. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that Matthew Sawyer had the memo on him. When I saw Olivia and Sawyer at the Assembly Rooms they were arguing. There was a piece of paper and she was objecting to something in it. When she stalked off she practically shoved the paper at him. I thought it was all to do with his speech, that he’d ignored all her briefing notes or something.’

Andrew turned to face her. ‘And you think it was the memo.’

‘Yes. You see, I don’t think she’d briefed him at all. He hadn’t a clue; she couldn’t have. I think she spent the entire time before the opening, when she was meant to be briefing him, arguing about the Terry Trust’s decision. And maybe Sawyer wanted to discuss the Hackett memo as well, and I guess she wouldn’t let him get a word in. A pity, because then she would have realised that she had nothing to fear and he’d still be alive. At any rate, after the murder Olivia had to get back into the Pump Room, and I think it was to retrieve the memo from Sawyer’s pocket. Of course at that stage she didn’t realise that there was a copy. But she couldn’t just saunter into the Pump Room at half past one in the morning, even with the keys, could she?’

‘So what do you think she did instead?’

‘She’s your jogger,’ Sara said, walking on. ‘She went back home, went in by the study, and put on Sue’s tracksuit and trainers, because she didn’t have any of that kind of thing herself. Plenty of people jog at night, and with the hood up she wouldn’t be recognised. But there were people around, the ones the shop security videos showed. Drunks on the benches, and those teenagers. She had no option but to go round and round the town until the coast was clear. It was about twenty to three before the area was completely deserted.’

‘And then?’

‘She let herself in and went down to the body, where Paul had told her she’d find it. She got the memo. But she found another piece of paper too, the one that Matthew Sawyer took from the attendants’ room, with all the security codes on it. Then she must have wondered about another thing. Fingerprints on the body. So she heaved him over the side into the water, certain that he’d lie there for hours and prints would be washed away. Then I think she must have realised that she’d got all the security codes in her hand. Now, remember what we said ages ago about the building being locked and alarmed? Why had the murderer bothered to do it at all?’

Andrew nodded.

‘There wasn’t any good reason. Except the reason the building is locked every night: to safeguard the objects.’

Andrew frowned.

‘You see? Of
all
people, Olivia is the only one who would be incapable of leaving the building unsecured. You’ve seen what a professional she is. She’s a senior curator, she really cares about the objects. Even’ – Sara preempted Andrew’s objection – ‘yes, even the ones she was flogging for personal gain. It mattered to her, you know. Anyway, suppose for now she’d got the codes in her hand.’

Andrew nodded.

‘She would see that she could safeguard the museum and possibly at the same time throw the investigation if she set the alarm using Matthew’s code. She might even have thought that she could create a bit of confusion about the time of death. She wouldn’t have had long to think about it. I reckon she just did it, threw the keys over the wall into the Great Bath and jogged home. Next day she got rid of the tracksuit and shoes and bought a replacement knife for Paul.’

‘What makes you so sure it was Olivia? It could have been Sue, protecting Paul. Perhaps they were all in it together,’ Andrew said. There was a dispiriting lack of evidence.

‘Remember what you said when you’d seen her on the Sunday? What was wrong with her, because she could hardly walk? That was the result of about three hours’ jogging when she wasn’t in training. You would be in agony for days. When I went running on Monday after two weeks off because of the hot weather, I felt a bit of stiffness the next day, but nothing like Olivia. She would really have suffered. And Sue lost a pair of trainers and a tracksuit recently. Olivia would know that Sue was vague enough about things like that just to moan about it for a bit and then replace them.’

They stopped again. Andrew placed a hand on Sara’s shoulder and caressed it gently as he spoke. ‘Sara, it’s an amazing, intelligent, fabulous construction, and it’s all plausible. But no jury would entertain it for a minute. I’m sorry. You could even be right down to every detail, but on the basis of the evidence, we couldn’t convict anyone.’

Over Andrew’s shoulder Sara could see the rain plop-ping in deep splashes into the rectangular pond at the far end of the garden.

‘I know,’ she said, sighing, dipping her head to one side so that her cheek gently stroked, just once, against his hand. He caressed the warm skin of her neck. As he slid his fingers into her hair and pulled her head gently towards his, she said, looking at him, ‘Let’s go back.’

He knew what she was asking, and his face tightened as he sighed and let his hand drop.

‘I want to. You know I want to, but I can’t. I still have to look into all this,’ he said roughly. ‘It can’t wait. I’ll have to bring Olivia Passmore in for questioning. Look, you’d better go home. You do understand, don’t you? It can’t just be left.’

Sara almost gasped at the rejection. ‘On the contrary, it can. Leaving it is precisely what we should do,’ she said, taking the umbrella from him. ‘Just leave it. The whole thing,’ she added bitterly over her shoulder, walking back towards the car park and leaving Andrew in the rain.

CHAPTER 33

ON THE JOURNEY back, mesmerised by the squeak and swing of the windscreen wipers, Sara felt overwhelmed by weariness. Over the long high stretch of road across Bannerdown, rain lashed the car. More thunder followed her and lightning not far away tore out of the sky and zapped the fields on the edge of the horizon. This was too much: too much weather, too much murder, too much for one day and much too much Andrew. She was too much in the open. She drove on, longing to be home. She would organise the usual spinsterish armoury against rejection: a hot bath, the fire, some wine, an early night. She found herself wondering what was on telly.

Olivia was in the kitchen. As Sara walked numbly in the back door she saw her, standing in exactly the same spot where James had stood not long ago to chop onions, while she had watched from a chair on the other side of the table. From the stillness around her, Sara was sure that the other woman had not just arrived. She had been standing there, in a drenched raincoat, waiting.

‘It was open.’

Olivia seemed to have sobered up. Her face had been washed pink and white by the storm and looked attractively feverish. It was easy to see how such a face, suggesting a tragic and beautiful soul, would entrap a passionate and much younger man.

‘I’m always forgetting to lock up.’ Sara could not think of much else to say. ‘I’ve just been back to Fortune Park.’

Olivia gave a short, disgusted sigh. ‘Waste of time. Paul didn’t kill Bernard. But you’ll never find him. He’s gone.’

‘Where to?’ Sara asked mildly.

Olivia ignored the question. ‘He had to get away. He didn’t do it, but he’d never be able to explain who did without opening up the whole thing. Not just me, not just the Hackett pieces. The police will investigate Bernard and it won’t take them long to find out about some of his other little dealings.’

Sara had no idea what she meant.

‘Immigrants. He was bringing in illegal immigrants from Paris. Not many, only one at a time, and not every trip. Paul didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do. They were going to be sent back to West Africa. The ones who spoke English wanted to come here. Bernard usually dumped them before he arrived in Bath, but this one was ill. He was from Senegal. So Bernard had to bring him and hide him in Paul’s room. When Paul was away there was a fight about money or something, the man killed Bernard and disappeared. Paul got back on Sunday night and found Bernard’s body. He had to get away. He rang me late on Monday night. He was desperate, he was sleeping rough. He rang me to say good-bye.’

‘Where is he now?’

Olivia snorted. ‘I don’t know. A long way away, I hope. What makes you think I’d tell you, anyway? That’s not what I came for.’

‘Shall I take your coat?’

Olivia shook her head.

‘Want to sit down?’ Sara asked.

Olivia did not respond.

‘Well? May I ask why you are here?’ Whatever it was, Sara hoped it would not take long.

‘They haven’t seen her at work since Friday. Where is she?’

Sara shook her head. ‘You mean Sue, I guess? I really don’t know. I was expecting to see her on Monday myself, remember? I rang you.’

‘You know where she is,’ Olivia said tightly. ‘She’s told you not to tell me, I suppose.’

‘Why should she do that?’ Sara asked.

Again she was ignored. ‘I’ve been trying to ring her all day, to tell her about Edwin, and there’s been no reply. I’ve just been round to Larkhall and the house is empty. I rang the next-door bell, and they said nobody had been there since the weekend. I thought she’d be here. I’ve no idea where she is.’ She looked angrily at Sara. ‘
I’m
her aunt, not you.’ She began to hiss. ‘I’m sick of the way you’ve been quietly muscling in. It’s
my
family, not yours.’

‘Of course it’s your family,’ Sara began. ‘I haven’t tried to—’

‘Shut up! Don’t think I don’t see! First taking over Sue, then all that muscling in on Edwin.
My
father,’ she said savagely.

‘I know,’ Sara protested. ‘Look,
you
invited me to meet Edwin. I don’t know what you mean. We had a wonderful time that day.’

‘Don’t! As if I hadn’t heard enough! Don’t you realise, I’ve heard nothing else from Edwin, for days, his
last
days, except how wonderful you are? That wonderful talent? “Oh, Livy, isn’t it strange that my own daughter never had any?” When I’ve spent
years
caring for him and worrying and doing anything to keep him at home? It’s so unfair!’ She dissolved into tears and brought a sodden handkerchief from her pocket.

Sara wanted to reach out and touch her, but instead she said, ‘Oh, that
is
unfair. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have wanted that. He did understand that you did everything for him, you know. He told me.’ She moved over to the wine rack. ‘Let’s have a drink. Always helps, I find. Don’t you?’

‘Don’t patronise me! You know nothing about it! Nothing! You’ve got the lot, haven’t you? Everything! And you’re so bloody smug and patronising – you make me sick!’

‘Olivia, you’re very upset just now—’

‘You even had to have a go with Paul, didn’t you? That night at my house, you would have had his clothes off, wouldn’t you? He
loved
it, of course – he was flattered. And that stunt, cutting your finger, just to get his attention.’

Perhaps she wasn’t quite sober. A glass of wine would make her worse. The sooner she could get her to leave, the better. Sara’s indignation rose.

‘Look, come
on
. That’s so silly. Cut my finger on purpose? I’m a cellist, for God’s sake. Look, Olivia, sit down for a minute. Did you drive here? Shall I get a taxi for you?’

She walked round the table and gently placed her left hand on Olivia’s right arm, to guide her to a chair.

Olivia’s arm flew up, recoiling as if she had been burned. She grabbed Sara’s wrist. ‘Don’t touch me!’ she yelled, digging her fingers in.

Sara gasped. ‘Olivia! Let me go!’

Olivia’s only response was to bang the back of Sara’s hand down on the table, with horrible, unexpected strength.

She was breathing ferociously, but sounded calm. ‘A cellist, are you? That’s not what I’ve heard. A cellist who can’t play?’ Sara was trying uselessly with her right hand to loosen the grip of Olivia’s fingers. ‘I’m not letting go. You may as well stop that. You’ll only do yourself more damage.’

Sara saw that Olivia, with her left hand, was drawing the largest knife from the wooden block on the table. With her free hand she reached for Olivia’s hair and at the same time tried to find the breath to scream. The prick of the knife in the fleshy base of her thumb reduced her scream to a terrified whimper.

‘Oh, don’t, don’t, don’t—’

‘Did you know I was left-handed?’ Olivia asked conversationally. ‘Very strongly left-handed. So I never could, you see, master any musical instrument. Never got anywhere. But I wasn’t unmusical – I longed to be able to play.’

Sara had started to shake. ‘Please, please, Olivia...’

‘Still,’ Olivia said smoothly, ‘it’s quite handy. I can do
lots
of things with my left hand.’ On the word ‘lots’ she gave another stab with the knife into the base of Sara’s thumb. Sara howled as the skin was punctured.

‘Oh, yes.
Lots
of things.
Lots
and
lots
and
lots
and
lots
.’ Blood was now running from her hand onto the table. At the sight of it Sara screwed her eyes tight and her head swam. She thought she might be sick. As she fought against hysteria, her moans came in great gulps.

‘Olivia, stop, stop – let go, please...’

‘Shut up,’ Olivia said through her teeth. ‘I haven’t even hurt you yet.’ She lifted the knife and laid it across Sara’s small bare wrist, where every vein and tendon that fed the hand stood out, exposed. The knife blade sat on her skin.

‘Where is she?’

‘Olivia, I don’t know. I don’t know. I really don’t.’ Her legs were not going to hold her up much longer. ‘Oh, please,
please
let me go, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me. I don’t know where Sue is.’ Great snivelling gulps broke from her.

‘Oh, stop fussing. You’re not going to die. It’s nearly impossible to die from a severed wrist, did you know that? It’s quite difficult to cut through veins. It’s the tendons that come off worst. Here. And here.’ She tapped instructively on the wrist with the flat of the knife as she spoke. Sara had to squeeze her legs tight to stop herself from peeing with terror. She knew how sharp the knife was. The merest slicing motion against her wrist and she would never be able to play again.

‘All that talent, and all that fuss to Edwin about not being able to play. You deserve to be shown what it’s
really
like not to be able to play. Now’ – the knife blade was tickling her wrist now – ‘where is my niece?’

Sara’s grasp of the present swam away, and her mind slowly filled with the huge, ugly certainty that after this day her life would go on, but without purpose.

‘She doesn’t know.’ The sound came from the doorway. In the fraction of the second during which both women were transfixed by Andrew’s voice, he walked into the kitchen.

‘She doesn’t know.’ He paused. ‘But you do seem rather anxious to find out, I must say.’

Although Olivia was silent with shock, her hold on Sara’s wrist, and on the knife, did not slacken.

‘Andrew, Andrew, make her stop. Make her stop, please, please—’ Sara’s voice gave out in frightened sobs.

‘I want to know where my niece is. I’m worried about her. Don’t come a step closer, or I’ll do it. I
will
,’ Olivia said.

‘She will, she will, Andrew. Oh, please, please help me.’ Sara was leaning across the table.

Andrew paused, considering. He said gravely, ‘I think perhaps you should be worried, Miss Passmore, but not for the reasons you think.’ Olivia looked at him with alarm and lowered her eyes to the table. She made sure of the grip of the knife in her hand.

‘We are conducting a search for Paul Rose. We have reason to believe that Mr Rose is involved in the murder of Bernard Rameau, whose body was found in his room yesterday. He had been killed sometime on Sunday. We also suspect that Paul is connected with the murder of Matthew Sawyer.’

Sara whined.

‘Sara, be quiet.’ Andrew’s voice was harsh. He went on, ‘I’m very much afraid, Miss Passmore, that Mr Rose was not acting alone. He had an accomplice.’

Olivia considered this, tapping distrustfully on Sara’s wrist with the flat of the blade.

‘Miss Passmore, I’m sorry to say that it looks very much as if your niece is involved. She was clearly working with him and they are certainly together now. I am hopeful that it will not be too long before they are apprehended. Mr Rose is an unpredictable man.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Olivia said, raising the knife. ‘Sue is not with him. I’m sure she’s not.
She
knows where she is.’ She tightened her hold on Sara’s wrist. ‘I want her reported as missing. I want some help to find her. Her grandfather’s dead, and I haven’t even been able to tell her.’

Andrew smiled sympathetically, ignoring Sara’s low moans. ‘You’re upset. It’s very difficult to take in, I know. It’s the last thing you want to think. But she is quite clearly implicated, I’m afraid. We can prove that Paul Rose is a murderer. Your niece may actually have been involved in the...violence as well, but she is certainly an accessory. Very unpleasant, I agree.’

Olivia, wild-eyed, raised her voice. ‘Look, my niece is not involved. I
know
she isn’t. Wherever Paul is, that’s not the issue. Don’t you understand what I’m telling you? She is not involved!’ Her breathing was coming in angry gasps.

Andrew gave a complacent tut and shook his head. ‘Well, I have to say, I hope you’re right. If she genuinely isn’t involved, then I hope for her own sake she
isn’t
with him.’

‘What do you mean?’

Andrew said gravely, ‘Miss Passmore, I have been trying to tell you. Paul Rose is a dangerous man. Both he and your niece disappeared sometime over the weekend. I am quite sure they are together and that they are in this whole thing together. Paul Rose certainly was not acting alone when he killed Matthew Sawyer. However, if the person who helped Mr Rose was someone
other
than your niece, then the only reason that Mr Rose could have her with him is because he suspects she knows things that might implicate him. He may even have abducted her. If she really is innocent then I would say she is in serious danger.’

Olivia said faintly, ‘But her landlady’s gone as well. Her car hasn’t been seen for days. Only Sue’s old banger is still there.’

‘I’m afraid that worries me even more,’ Andrew said. ‘Mr Rose would find a car very useful, especially if its owner had been taken along. No car reported missing, you see? And there’s no shortage of remote places that he could drive to, possibly with them in the boot.’

His voice softened. ‘He’s young, isn’t he? If he thought he could possibly start all over again, perhaps back in France, he’d do anything he had to to get away with it. I suppose you know he’s been dealing in stolen property? His associates are known housebreakers. Paul’s been selling stuff hand over fist to this Rameau fellow. You see, he’ll do anything he thinks he can get away with’ – he looked gravely at Olivia – ‘including disposing of your niece and her landlady.’

Andrew allowed Olivia to ponder this for a few seconds and then said, falsely cheerful, ‘On the other hand, perhaps the landlady’s just away on her own somewhere for a few days. Did she have a job? Oh, she did? I see. That is a bit more unusual. Oh, look, I’m sorry. It is upsetting, especially on top of your sad loss. My condolences, by the way. I’m so sorry, but there’s very little that I can do about your niece until we have proper grounds for believing her innocent. If we had those, we would of course step up the search considerably. If we thought we had an abduction on our hands, you see, rather than two murder suspects. All comes down to resources, you see?’