The Blue Virgin (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

“Pardon me for interrupting whatever it is that you might better be doing just now.  Having got this far, I hope to grow on you.”

—
Paul West,
Tenement of Clay

4 PM

Nora waited patiently downstairs to be summoned up to Declan Barnes’ office. She’d implored Simon to drop her off and then run to pick up more packing supplies. Nora felt she would make more headway with DI Barnes without Simon’s presence.

  She knew she hadn’t fooled Simon, but he was gentleman enough to play along with her charade after she announced her intention of visiting the inspector. She’d pointed out she was safe enough inside a police station. Simon must be mellowing, she thought, because he’d finally caved and hadn’t nagged her about coming here.

  Nora had her notebook out and was perusing her jottings when a shadow fell across it, and she looked up to see Declan Barnes standing over her. She stood quickly, thrusting her hand out in greeting.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Inspector Barnes,” she said.

  He led her upstairs. When they reached his office, he pointed out a chair and settled behind his desk. “Have you some information for me?”

  She smiled. “I don’t have information as such. Actually, I was hoping to get information from you.” She pushed her glasses up her nose.

  Declan leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head. “That seems highly irregular, Miss … Nora. Usually I’m on the receiving end in an investigation. It’s best to leave the policing to us, and I’m not really allowed to discuss the case with an outsider.”

  Nora thought he sounded almost apologetic and pressed her point. “Oh, but I’m hardly an outsider. Val Rogan is my friend. I know her better than you, after all, and let’s be honest here; we both know she’s in your sights for killing Bryn Wallace. I’m out to prove she didn’t, and that will leave you to find the real murderer.” She thought she’d explained this very well and sat back in satisfaction.

  “So you’re not prepared to find the murderer for me?”

  It took Nora a moment to realize he was teasing her. “If you insist, I’d be delighted. Hire me on,” she parried, looking him straight in the eye.

  There was a moment of silence as they appraised each other. “What are you interested in knowing, Nora?” Declan finally asked.

  She flipped a few pages over in her notebook. “I’ve made a list of people I can interview, starting with Bryn’s employer, her neighbor, and the boy who found Bryn’s body.”

  Declan sat up in consternation. “Perhaps you missed me telling you to leave the detective work to the professionals.”

  Nora’s chin rose a few inches. “Perhaps you missed me telling
you
I’m going to prove my friend didn’t commit this awful murder.”

  “If you meddle in my case,” Declan said through clenched teeth, “I can have you arrested for interfering with an investigation.”

  Nora had the feeling Declan Barnes was poised to ask her to leave, but before he could, she flashed him her broad smile and, raising one eyebrow in mock imitation of his habit, held both wrists out for future handcuffing.

  A swift knock at the door was followed by Debs entering. “Sorry, sir, but DS Watkins has a suspect in those computer thefts and needs a word.”

  Nora hastily dropped her arms.

  Declan stood. “Tell him I’m on my way. Miss Tierney, I’m sorry but we’ve been having a rash of laptop thefts in town, and I must be involved in this.” He escorted her to the door and down the stairs without further commentary.

  Nora noted he had lapsed back to “Miss Tierney” and wondered what he would have said or done after her flippancy if they hadn’t been interrupted. She turned at the doorway before stepping outside.

  “Thank you for your time. I promise to try very hard not to get in your way, Inspector Barnes.”

  He looked at her, and his annoyance seemed to waver. “I’m merely concerned for your safety, Miss Tierney,” he said. He turned on his heel and left, but not before she saw the concern written on his face.

Chapter Thirty-Six

“Wilson sat up very straight. This was the first letter she had ever written in her life and she wished it to be correct in every particular.”

—
Margaret Forster,
Lady’s Maid

4:45 PM

At home at last after a long day, Cameron Wilson scrubbed his makeup off and stepped into the shower. He’d been shooting on location outdoors, in the gardens of Kelmscott Manor. Normally it was closed on Sundays, but most of the staff had showed up anyway, ostensibly to clean. They and everyone else who had heard about the shoot had turned up in droves to watch him and two female models drape themselves dramatically over William Morris’ simple grave in the churchyard.

  While the light and weather had been perfect for photography, the shoot had required long and tedious staging sessions, dressing changes in a cramped caravan, and poor-quality food from the caterer. The other models were new to him. Cam chatted them both up, but with little result. In the end, the hours dragged on in truly tiresome fashion. The only redeeming note, he decided, was that the clothes hung well on him, as usual.

  As Cam, hungry and tired, toweled dry in his own comfortable bathroom he thought again about some other way of earning income before his looks faded. He’d toyed with the idea of managing other models, but the prospect of scheduling and executing contracts for others held little appeal. Those headaches he was happy to leave to his own manager.

  He threw his towel in the hamper and slipped into comfortable sweats, padding barefoot into the sleek kitchen, modeled after Jamie Oliver’s television set right down to the aqua Smeg fridge. Pouring himself a cold glass of mineral water, he added a squeeze of lime and dropped the wedge in, turning to admire his contemporary flat and its glossy furnishings.

  This was the fruit of his labors, a visible reminder of his long days sweating under layers of out-of-season clothing and heavy makeup. Each item in his home had been chosen with care. Even the Picasso print, “The Maids of Honor,” had been meticulously framed and hung as a focal point over the fireplace, not because Cam was fascinated by the many paintings within a painting or because it was based on a Velazquez of the same title, but because the bright scarlet and butter-yellow colors in the work exactly matched the throw pillows scattered on his sofa and chairs.

  Mixed textures of leather and suede, glass, and chrome gave him a perpetually cool feeling, providing the right background against which to display himself. Flopping down on his leather sofa with today’s mail, he sorted out the junk and circulars. That left three bills, a postcard from a friend hiking in Kendall, and a small plain white envelope without a return address.

  Cam took a long swallow from his glass and put it down on the floor beside him, debating the merits of going out for dinner or having a takeaway at home in front of the telly. Curious, he tore open the anonymous white envelope. Inside was a stiff, white card, an invitation to yet another party, he assumed. But as he pulled the note out and read it, his stomach plummeted, taking his hunger with it.

  He sat up quickly, knocking over his water glass, sweat breaking out on his freshly scrubbed brow. The water ran unheeded under the sofa, the lime wedge stranded on the pile of his hand-woven Kirman.

A square of poster board had been crudely cut to fit the envelope. It was printed in pencil, all capitals, and simply read:

 
I SAW YOU THERE.
MEET INNER BOOKSHOP MONDAY 11 AM.

Cam stared at the missive for a few long seconds, his mind rac
ing over the implications of the message. With a shudder, he dropped the card as though it burned his hand.

*

Declan lounged on his worn leather sofa, a well-thumbed address book open on the walnut coffee table alongside a Styrofoam container from his Indian takeaway. He brushed naan crumbs off his chest and dialed a London colleague, muting the television.

  “Willis—Barnes here—how goes it at the Met? … Not interrupting anything important, am I? … Listen, I’m coming up blank on a background check in a murder case, and I wondered if you could suss it out on your end. Might be too old to be on computer, but worth a shot … Excellent, my shout next time I’m down there … A punter who lived for a while in Chipping Norton, disappeared about twenty-eight years ago. Name of Allen Wesley.”

  He hung up, settling full-length on the couch, his feet propped up on one arm, his head on the other. Taking the remote off mute, he scanned the evening’s offerings, settling on a Monty Python rerun for background noise. Pulling his briefcase up on his lap, Declan took out the files on Bryn Wallace, re-reading the interviews from the residents of Magdalen Road. He had the tantalizing feeling an important sliver of information was just out of his grasp.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Mary sometimes heard people say: ‘I can’t bear to be alone.’ She could never understand this.”

—
Monica Dickens,
Mariana

5:15 PM

Nora hit Althea Isaacs’ buzzer in the lobby, waiting for a response on the intercom. Nora had gone down to Davey Haskitt’s flat first but had come upstairs when there’d been no answer to her knock.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Isaacs, I’m Nora Tierney, a friend of Bryn Wallace and Val Rogan’s. Would it be possible to speak with you for a minute?” There was a long pause. “I’m not a reporter, just a friend.”

  Finally the woman said, “For a minute, then,” and hit the release. When Nora reached her flat, Althea was waiting at her door, the chain on.

  Through the gap, Nora glimpsed Althea’s dark, smooth skin, complemented by her pale yellow pantsuit. “Thank you very much for agreeing to speak with me.” Without her dark glasses, Althea’s blindness was immediately apparent.

  “What did you want to see me about?”

  Nora decided to be direct. “Val Rogan is my best friend, and she’s under suspicion of murdering Bryn. I’m trying to prove she didn’t.” She didn’t mention she would also like to find the killer. “Could I ask you a few questions about what you heard that night?”

  Another moment of hesitation, and then the woman seemed to make up her mind. “You’d better come inside.”

  Althea took off the chain and led Nora to the same sofa Declan Barnes had occupied, sitting down herself after feeling the rim of her chair with the back of her leg. “You’re American, Miss Tierney, from somewhere in New England?”

  “Please, call me Nora. And you’re right, I grew up in Connecticut.”

  Althea Isaacs smiled. “Brilliant! It’s a hobby of mine, puzzling out people’s accents. I’m Althea. Now that’s all sorted, what can I do to help you? I met Valentine a few times and thought her quite pleasant. Oh! I do hope I’m not the reason she’s under suspicion.”

  “Why would you think that?” Nora asked.

  “Because I told Inspector Barnes I heard arguing from Bryn’s flat the night she died. And it sounded like two women.”

  Nora chewed her lip. No wonder Declan Barnes had rushed to judgment on Val. He had a witness to the argument between Val and Bryn.

  “Can you tell me exactly what you heard?”

  “Of course. There was a brief period of music, and then two voices, both female, rose in argument.”

  “How long did they argue?” Nora asked, jotting in her notebook.

  “About ten minutes. Then it was quiet. I thought all was well until about a quarter to 12 when it started again, only this time the voices were much quieter. I’m afraid I went into my bedroom at that point, where I couldn’t hear it, and went to sleep. I told the inspector I wear earplugs to sleep due to the traffic noise because my hearing is so sensitive.”

  Nora considered what Althea said. “Val admits she and Bryn had a mild dispute but insists it was patched up when she left.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know quite what to say, except I distinctly heard two arguments.”

  Nora thought hard. “The first argument, which we presume to be the one Val took part in, began around what time?”

  “11:15.” Althea was firm. “I’m certain about the time because my mantel clock chimes every fifteen minutes.”

  “All right,” Nora said. “Bryn and Val argue from that point, for about ten minutes you said?”

  Althea nodded. “If even that long.”

  “Which brings us to 11:25. Then there was a second argument about quarter to 12?” Nora leaned forward in her chair. “Althea, that’s twenty minutes later. Could it have been someone different the second time?”

  Althea nodded quickly. “I did tell the inspector I thought I’d heard the flat door open and close after the first argument ended. Maybe it was your friend leaving?”

  “Did you hear it open to admit someone else?” Nora asked. Had she found a major clue Declan Barnes had missed?

  “No, I didn’t,” the blind woman admitted reluctantly. “Let me think a moment.”

  Nora held her pen poised in midair as Althea concentrated. She couldn’t wait to tell Simon what she’d unearthed.

  “Wait!” Althea said. “I forgot I went to the loo just before the second argument—I might have missed a second visitor to the door.”

  “Not a visitor, Althea,” Nora said grimly. “A murderer.”