The Blue Virgin (19 page)

Chapter Forty-Three

“It wasn’t the kind of homicide they’re used to seeing around here.”

—
James
Howard Kunstler,
Blood Solstice

3:45 PM

Declan sat in his office doing paperwork, the mountain of memos and reports slowly decreasing as the afternoon wore on.

  “How’s it going?” Watkins stuck his head in the door.

  “Bits and pieces, still. How’s Janet Wallace?”

  “Back in Chippy until the inquest, courtesy of Val Rogan. She’ll call if she needs me before then.” Watkins eased himself into the room. “Still shopping the Rogan woman for it?”

  Declan pointed to the chair, glad for the interruption. “I keep running things around in my head. It stands to reason she’s the killer—she was there at the right time, she argued with the victim, the weapon was close at hand—”

  “Motive, means and opportunity,” Watkins ticked off. “Not be the first time a lover’s quarrel got out of hand. What about Wheeler? See him for a lover?”

  Declan sighed. “I looked at that scenario, too. But the man was old enough to be her father, as he succinctly pointed out himself. And there’s that hint of blackmail.” His desk phone rang, and as he answered it, Declan had the irrational hope it was the duty sergeant telling him Nora Tierney had come to report on her findings.

  “Barnes … Hallo, McNish, thanks for getting back to me … nothing, huh? He was a teenaged father who abruptly left his new baby and girlfriend twenty-eight years ago and hasn’t been seen since … The Sally Army? I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks, I’ll give it a shot.”

  Declan replaced the phone. “That was a London contact. There’s no trace of an Allen Wesley ever being in London. No work record, no addresses, and no government papers filed, not even a parking ticket.”

  “Guess Wesley didn’t take off for the bright lights of the big city,” Watkins said.

  The seed of a hunch took germination in Declan’s mind but he had to think carefully about how to follow it up. He was putting on his jacket to talk to Ted Wheeler with Watkins along for weight, when DS McAfee whirled into the room at a run.

  “Sir! There’s been another murder on Magdalen Road!”

*

As he pulled up to Magdalen Road once again, Declan was disturbed there was a second murder to worry about before he’d even solved the first. He hoped the two weren’t connected, and the site was incidental. Then he saw Davey Haskitt sitting in a squad car at the edge of a small gathering and gave up such hopes. Surely this was no coincidence.

  A cordon of constables kept the general public well away from the basement entrance to Bryn Wallace’s building, while several patrol cars formed a ring at each end of the street awaiting the crime van’s arrival. Declan hurried with Watkins and McAfee over to the uniform waiting for them.

  “Looked at first like it could be an accident, a fall, but there’s two witnesses say it was deliberate. A teen got hysterical, and the lad from the other day called us.” The policeman gestured to the car where Davey Haskitt waited, then led them along a walkway between the building and the neighboring one, avoiding the
area in front of the building that still needed to be searched for forensic evidence.

  By leaning over the side railing they could make out a crumpled body lying at grotesque angles at the bottom of the stairs, right on Davey Haskitt’s faded “Welcome” mat. A puddle of dark blood had spread out from beneath the skull; the open eyes stared blankly up at them in shocked surprise.

  The officer consulted his notes. “A young teen, name of Louisa Rogan, London address, saw him being pushed over the railing.”

  Declan groaned at the name “Rogan” as he looked down at the twisted body. It was McAfee who breathed out the conclusion he’d reached.

  “Lor, it’s the pedo, Tommy Clay!”

*

Declan sent McAfee to tighten the perimeter of the scene, then approached the patrol car where Davey Haskitt sat, sprawled against the back of the seat, watching events unfold before him. Although his face was sallow, he displayed an air of indifference tinged with annoyance. “Involved in yet another murder, Davey?” Declan asked, leaning on the door.

  “Bloody wanker fell right past my window, fer Christ’s sake, then that girl wouldn’t stop screamin’. Given me one hell of a headache, I tell ya.”

  Declan nodded briskly. “The sergeant told me you phoned it in.”

  “Had to, didn’ I? Needed help with the bloody child, thought she was gonna vomit all over me.” He pointed to the other squad car, where Declan had sent Watkins to see to Louisa, who was seated inside.

  “What exactly did you see? It could be very important, so take your time.”

  “No time ta take. I was lyin’ on my divan, come in from work a second afore, and these two blighters decide to stop on the pavement right in front o’ my window.” He looked properly put out at being disturbed.

  “I’m sure it was annoying, Davey. So their arguing got your attention?”

  “Didn’ hear no arguin’. Just the opposite. Voices too low to hear anythin’. All I could see looking out were their legs. Then sudden-like the short one turned to leave and that’s when he came sailin’ over the railin’ to my stairs and landed, plop! In front o’ my basement door like a bleedin’ sack o’ pitaters. Right ugly mess, too.”

  Declan was making notes. “Go on.”

  Davey puffed up with bravado undermined by the lack of color in his face. “By then the kid’s meowing like a kitty with its tail caught in a door. I got up and took a look.”

  “Where was she exactly when you went out?” Declan asked.

  “Ya mean after I stepped over the stiff? On the top step, bawlin’ and retchin’. I’m tellin’ ya, I thought it was goin’ ta be all over my shoes. I had to use her bloody cell to call you plods.”

  Declan nodded encouragingly. “You’re doing fine, Davey. Did you get a look at the other person?”

  “Naw, alls I saw’s legs in jeans and then the punter took off. Well he would, wouldn’ he?”

  Declan straightened up. This was not as helpful as he’d hoped. One other thought occurred to him. He stuck his head back down to Davey’s level. “Did you recognize the man who fell?”

  “’Course. I seen him walkin’ round here all the time with his bulgin’ muscles, like someone should care. Bumped inta him last week on accident and thought he’s gonna tear me head off, bloody sod. Musta had some temper—was that pervert down the block, they say liked to show his willie to little tots.”

  “Thank you, Davey. The sergeant will be along shortly to take a formal statement. Just stay here and relax.”

  Davey snorted. “Relax in the back of a bloody plod car? Even
I’m
not that stupid.”

Chapter Forty-Four

“The Whistler’s fourth victim was his youngest, Valerie Mitchell, aged fifteen years, eight months and four days, and she died because she missed the 9:40 bus from Easthaven to Cobb’s Marsh.”

—
P. D. James,
Device and Desires

4:05 PM

As she hurried toward the Banbury Road and The Old Parsonage, it seemed to May Rogan that the afternoon had flown by as she foraged delightfully in new and interesting shops. She could not resist a few small purchases, such as a simply lovely scarf in muted tones of royal blue, lilac and gold. She would drape it dramatically over one shoulder of her navy suit, anchoring it enticingly with her good sapphire pin. She assured herself it was not too loud for a funeral. She could hardly be expected to care about the dead woman, after all, and was only attending for Val’s benefit.

  Navy court shoes had been a challenge to find in August. She had finally triumphed in a tiny shop just outside the Covered Market, where the thrill of her victorious pursuit had relieved her headache and thrust her into her current cheerful mood.

  Perhaps she would call Val and see if she wanted to eat dinner with them when she returned from Chipping Norton. Louisa would certainly be in favor of the idea. May pictured the rest of her day: a short rest after tea, followed by a nice sherry. A late meal would be in order for all three of them, a grand gesture on her part. They might try that modern Indian place, described as “classy,” on Turl Street that she had seen advertised in the booklet in her room. It would definitely be at a place of her choosing if she were picking up the tab.

  May rummaged in her leather purse for her cell phone and dialed Val’s flat. She was annoyed when Val’s machine picked up, but she was careful to leave a gracious message. Lately she had noticed Louisa examining her from an appraising distance, causing her to mull over her own behavior.  It was disconcerting, to say the least.  Perhaps this dinner would help to eliminate that type of scrutiny. Louisa and Val would enjoy being together, and May’d be there to ensure Val would not negatively influence her stepsister. May decided she was being very modern to foster this kind of meeting.

  She reached The Old Parsonage and its walled garden. Admiring the draping wisteria, she chose an empty, round table outside. Settling into a white wrought-iron chair, she stacked her parcels on the next seat. Her eyes roved over the patrons as she scanned the other tables, looking for any sight of Louisa. The garden was filled predominantly with groups of women. May dismissed the Laura Ashley skirts and blue-jeaned tourists. One group of three women who laughed too loudly wore blue visors printed across the brow with “Wycked Wyves of Oxford” in gold. Cheeky Americans on a pub crawl, May decided. She checked her watch again. Just after 4. She slipped her shoes off while she waited for her usually prompt daughter, knowing Louisa would happily live inside a bookshop if she could.

  May wiggled her toes and considered the attraction of books for some people. She couldn’t see it herself. Reading was much too boring and cerebral a pursuit. There was so much more to be gained from the healthy constitutional walks she preferred—window-shopping, Louisa called it. Of course May knew it was important to have read the latest books to remain
au courant
, but she skimmed the reviews for critical information to hold up her end of the conversation at social gatherings. A waiter appeared at her elbow, interrupting her train of thought with a discreet clearing of his throat.

  “Tea for one, Madam?” he asked solicitously.

  May looked around the garden area again. “No, I’m meeting my daughter here. But bring me a menu and pot of Darjeeling while I wait, please.”

*

May was starting to fret. 4:40 and still no sign of Louisa. Worse, she wasn’t answering her cell. This was not like her at all, even given the stop at Blackwell; Louisa had taxi money if she had gotten too tired or laden down with books to walk the short distance. May wished Val were at home to go looking for Louisa, but she had no idea if Val was back to Oxford by now. The only other people she vaguely knew in town were that couple from breakfast, Val’s friends, and she had no way of contacting them, either.

  The remnants of her tea were cold, reflecting the chill that passed over her despite the warm, sunny day along with a sense of foreboding that dissipated slightly when the waiter appeared at her elbow. “Would you be May Rogan, by any chance, Ma’am?”

  May nodded. A message from Louisa at last; she had been worrying for nothing.

  “There’s a call inside for you,” the waiter continued. “A detective from St. Aldate’s wishes a word.”

Chapter Forty-Five

“‘Who told Thad she was dead?’ Rena asked. ‘Thad killed her,’ Eva said. ‘He already knew.’”

—
Reynolds Price,
The Surface of Earth

4:45 PM

Val went down the stairs into the co-operative to find Lottie bent over the register, closing up the till. The other artists had gone. Quiet reigned, but Val knew that when it was busy, the place hummed with voices and activity. It gave Val a feeling of accomplishment, remembering this was her brainchild, now fully grown. With Lottie’s help, she had sorted through the maze of applications and grants to set up the co-operative almost three years ago, and now they were looking to expand.

  The music was turned down low, but Bette Midler belting out “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” had Lottie’s foot in motion. Some part of Lottie was always in motion, Val mused.

  “And how does our garden grow, Mother Hen?” she asked Lottie, who looked up and rushed around the counter as quickly as her bulk would allow to hug Val ferociously.

  “I heard footsteps and was just about to tell you to come back tomorrow,” Lottie said, finally releasing her tight hold. She stepped back and cast a critical eye on Val. “You’re the best business partner and friend. How are you, really? You’re much too pale and have lost weight. Damn you for that.”

  Val shrugged. “I’m coping. I took Janet home today, and we spent time talking about Bryn, walking about the village where she grew up. It felt good to do that even if it was upsetting at times. I heard lovely stories from her childhood, little anecdotes about funny things she said or did. Janet was a wonderful mother.”

  Lottie nodded sympathetically. “You poor thing, you’ve been to hell and back. You don’t deserve this one bit, not one moment.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Val answered, filling Lottie in on the long hours of interrogation at the police station, and the longer night spent in custody. “It isn’t a nice feeling being a murder suspect.”

  “I can only imagine. It gave me the creeps when they stopped by here.” Lottie’s concern was written in her deep frown. “This had to be a random act of violence, no?”

  “I keep telling them it must be something like that, but I was with her just before—you know, just before, and we were overheard arguing. A silly spat, but it looks suspicious to the powers that be.” Val raked her hand through her short hair.

  “That’s absurd. Come and have a piece of shortbread, and I’ll tell you about the commission’s report on the expansion. You need to focus on your future right now.” She guided Val behind the counter.

  Val took a deep breath and let it out. She could always count on Lottie to make her feel better.

*

When she let herself into her flat, Val was immediately assailed by the silence. She had enjoyed Janet’s stay these last tumultuous days. Her presence had kept this quiet at bay, this unnatural absence of movement, noise, and life that pointed to the next hours, days, and months that Val would be alone.

  She looked around the familiar flat through new eyes. The cluster of wooden and porcelain boxes scattered on a low table next to the couch did not look charming today and held only the sting of loss. Bryn used to leave Val notes in those boxes after they’d spent the night at her flat, always choosing a different one so Val had to hunt for it. The notes were delightful scribbles or lines of poetry she would keep in her pocket for the rest of the day, reaching in at times to caress the paper fondly, a reminder that she was half of a couple, part of a whole. There were times she’d looked at a wall hanging she was working on without inspiration, but after re-reading that day’s note, an idea would occur to her, and her creative juices would restart.

  Val avoided the table now and flung herself on her couch, slipping off her shoes, feeling a keen sense of disconnection she assumed would be her constant companion from now on. Her eyes roamed the room, observing the stamp Bryn had left on it. Books from Bryn sat on the shelves. A glass bowl filled with stones gathered on their walks occupied the center of the table. Framed photographs that Bryn had taken, some of the two of them, were hung in prominent positions on the walls. She wondered if she would be expected to pack these things away in an attempt to forget her partner or leave them on display as badges of her pain. Neither option sounded appealing.

  Val slid off the sofa to stand in front of one of the pictures. She was reluctant to touch it or hold it and instead stood gazing into it, searching for a hidden message from Bryn as to how she was to continue her life without her.

  It was one of the few color shots Bryn had done, of a young girl about three years old dressed in the kind of party dress with smocking that mothers of little girls adore. The child’s shiny black shoes and white tights contrasted with the pale pinks and purples of the dress. She stood at the very edge of Balliol’s quad, one foot delicately resting on the banned lush green grass that only dons were allowed to walk on, ready to launch her body onto that perfectly trimmed carpet. Her head was cocked to one side, looking about for witnesses or informants to her planned indiscretion, the delight of the act immediately to follow already apparent on her open face. This anticipation brought a glow to her whole countenance, leaving no doubt that one second after the shutter had clicked, the girl had thrown herself onto the grass and run around in frenetic circles, dancing and leaping in forbidden freedom.

  The photograph spoke of optimism and innocence but even more to the unbridled joy at being alive at just this moment in just this place. Bryn had titled it
Carpe diem
. For Val, this act of grasping and snatching life required an effort of amassing strength and emotion she felt she no longer possessed.

  Val shifted her eyes from the photograph, turning her back on it with a shudder. She noticed the message light on her answering machine blinking insistently, the number three lit up in red, demanding her attention. She sighed deeply and shuffled over to the gadget. From now on, responsibilities and work would be her only motivation for getting out of bed in the mornings.

  She hit the play button and the tape rewound. First was May’s voice: “Valentine, it would be so nice if you joined me and Louisa at dinner tonight. Call me at the Randolph when you return from the countryside.” Val was not surprised May didn’t mention Janet Wallace and caught the casual way May dropped “the Randolph” into the message with a certain air of propriety, as though she owned the place.

  Next was Simon’s clear voice, asking if she had plans for the evening. “We saw Belcher. Give us a call when you get back from taking Janet home. Cheers.” Val now had two offers for her evening, but she wasn’t certain she felt up to anyone’s company. She hoped the third message was not another invitation, but instead it was May’s voice again, agitated and shrill, almost breathless:

  “Val! Are you there? Louisa’s in trouble, the police are taking me to her, right at Bryn’s apartment. There’s been another murder—please come!”