The Blue Virgin (9 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“For some time now they had been suspicious of him.”

—
J
ames A. Michener,
Chesapeake

10 AM

Immediately after arriving at St. Aldate’s Station, Bryn Wallace’s mother and partner were fingerprinted. They both had visited the flat at times, and their fingerprints, they were told, would be used for exclusion. Nora knew only Janet’s would be excluded. When she explained that she had been in Bryn’s flat, too, she was added to the list. She did not miss the stony look Simon shot her before she was led away to be fingerprinted and to give a statement. When she had insisted on accompanying Janet and Val to the station, he had insisted on accompanying her.

  The constable in charge described the procedure to them before their fingertips were rolled in ink and pressed firmly onto a card. They were given a creamy goop to tissue off what they could of the ink before washing up. Afterward they were ushered into a corridor off the interview room where Simon was allowed to join them. Nora noticed he was reading a magazine he’d taken from the lobby.

  “Sudden interest in
Police Gazette
?” she asked. “Handcuffs and billy clubs?”

  He turned another page, ignoring her. So he could get in a snit. This human side of Simon was reassuring to Nora.

  The hall was lined with wooden benches, and a watchful sergeant manned a long desk at the end closest to the lobby. A dank odor of wet mops and cleaning fluid lingered, unsuccessfully masking stale smoke and pungent perspiration. Nora saw their seats were adorned with a multitude of graffiti in a mixed media of pen and knife scratches. They displayed the usual initials, catchy phrases, and profanity, with one reference to the consequences of sin.

  “I do hope they won’t be taking mug shots today—no makeup,” Val joked unsuccessfully as they waited.

  Watkins called Janet in to take her formal identification statement. Val waited with Nora and Simon outside the interview rooms, pacing the small corridor restlessly, arms crossed over her chest. “Why am I trying to discard the feeling that what happens in the next few hours could determine my entire future?” she asked, stiffening as Declan appeared at the head of the hall.

  “I’ll do the quickest interview first,” he explained. “Miss Tierney, please come with me.”

  “It’s Nora,” she insisted, standing up, not missing Simon’s brief snort.

Chapter Eighteen

“The girl was a real pest. ‘I think it’s terrible,’ she said.’”

—
Donald E. Westlake,
High Adventure

10:20 AM

Inside the interview room, Declan had Nora settle in and introduced her politely to McAfee, who explained the recording process. He asked how she knew Bryn Wallace and about the last time Nora had been in her flat.

  “It would have been last spring, when I came back to Oxford to resign from my job and close up my flat.” She succinctly explained about moving to the Lake District to work on her children’s books, leaving out personal information.

  Declan was interested in getting information on Valentine Rogan and hoped Nora Tierney would answer his questions without holding back. He remembered her actions at the hospital last night. She had been angry he suspected her friend, and had clearly supported Val Rogan. When Nora asked for water, McAfee stopped the taping and left to fetch it. Declan cast an eye over the woman opposite him.

  Her high spirits and wide arm movements in speech gave the impression, at times, of someone bigger. She had the fair, freckled skin of a true redhead, and for her small frame, she was carrying her pregnancy well. She also had a habit of pushing her glasses up her nose, and when she wasn’t waving her hands, she rested them gently across the small protrusion of her belly.

  Declan wondered if Simon Ramsey were the baby’s father, and if not, where the real father stood with Nora. Or maybe she had been impregnated from a lab; she might be a lesbian herself. She looked up just at this moment and caught Declan looking at her, returning his inspection calmly. He took in her earnest expression, deciding which approach would go down best, all the while acutely aware his questions would be recorded for posterity if Val Rogan were arrested.

  He took this opportunity to ask her a few questions he did not want recorded. “When is your baby due?” 

  Nora Tierney’s face lit up. “Christmas.”

  “Quite the present for you and Mr. Ramsey.”

  “Simon’s not the fath—” She caught herself and sat up straighter. “My baby’s father is really none of your business, Inspector.”

  “Fair enough.”

  At that moment McAfee returned with water bottles for all of them, but Declan knew the atmosphere in the room had changed. “Right then. Moving on from Miss Wallace, how long have you known Valentine Rogan, Miss Tierney?”

  “We met when I moved into the same building, over six years now.”

  “And how would you characterize your relationship?” Declan felt McAfee stir behind him.

  “We’re very close friends,” she said, not giving him the clarity he sought.

  “Would you have any idea what might have caused the argument between Val Rogan and Bryn Wallace on the night of the murder?” He could see by her puzzled look that this was news to Nora Tierney.

  “No, but surely all couples argue from time to time.” She shrugged. “Lesbian or otherwise.”

  “I didn’t realize you had firsthand knowledge of lesbian activities, Miss Tierney.” He sat back, waiting for her reaction.

  “I don’t. I’m not a lesbian, if that’s what you’re implying,” she snapped. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  A knock on the door admitted a constable, who whispered to the sergeant. McAfee nodded and bent down to Declan’s ear, relaying the message.

  “Are you aware there are brown stains on the sleeve of the blouse your friend was wearing the night Bryn Wallace was murdered?” He had the satisfaction of seeing the color drain from the woman’s face.

  “Blood?” she asked.

  “We’re having it tested. But you seem awfully certain your friend didn’t murder her lover.”

  The woman leaned forward. “Val would never hurt Bryn. She loved her.”

  “You know the saying, Miss Tierney? ‘Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned?’”

  “‘Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned,’” she finished. “Congreve. But Val was not scorned.”

  “Ah, but she does have a temper, does she not? I saw a flash of it myself last night at the mortuary. Who knows what might happen in a moment of unguarded rage. Do you really know?”

  He watched Nora bite her lip and knew he’d hit a truth. “What were you afraid of last night when you tried to calm her down? That she might implicate herself?”

  “No!” The woman’s frustration flowed from her. “Can’t you believe two women can love each other? Or are you too prejudiced to understand that?”

  Declan sat back. “It has nothing to do with bias of any kind. Surely you’re aware that even in a hetero relationship we scrutinize the boyfriend or husband in a murder investigation.”

  Nora grimaced at this truth.

  “I’m asking you about Miss Rogan to learn more about Bryn Wallace,” Declan explained. He was getting little joy from her answers and had the distinct impression she was playing with him. He found the challenge Nora Tierney represented stimulating and grudgingly gave her points for being so assured of her friend’s innocence.

  “Of course you can ask if you really think it will help,” she replied.

  Behind him McAfee slurped his water. “It must have occurred to you it would appear she was the last person to see the victim alive. I’m trying to find out as much as I can about her to, well, to eliminate her from our inquiries, as it were.” That was true enough on one level, he thought.

  “Eliminate her? That’s why she had to bring in the clothing she wore that night? Inspector Barnes, even the general public has read too many Agatha Christies not to know that very action means you consider Val a suspect worth investigating.” Nora shook her head in annoyance and pushed her glasses up her nose. “There is just one thing you need to remember.”

  This wasn’t going at all the way he had thought it would although he was enjoying the verbal sparring. He decided to play along with her. “I’ll bite, Miss Tierney. Just what is it I need to remember?”

  Nora stood and leaned toward him, her small hands lying flat on the tabletop. “The last person to see Bryn Wallace alive wasn’t Val Rogan. It was her murderer.”

Chapter Nineteen

“I must compose my face and push the fear and doubt beneath the skin.”

—
John Hersey,
White Lotus

11 AM

Enjoying brunch in the backyard, Ted Wheeler looked with pleasure upon the rows of delicate pink, yellow, and mauve zinnias clustered with white daisies. His wife was really a wonderful gardener. He sipped a second cup of green tea. According to the porter, a detective named Watkins had called for him at Exeter and said he would try again. Ted’s stomach had calmed down, and he was almost able to pretend everything was as it had been. He had written to the woman. He hadn’t decided what to say or how to act, but that would come to him in time, no doubt. He just needed to stay calm.

  Ted smiled across the wicker table at Jess, deciding the streak of grey hair coming in at one corner of her forehead gave her an exotic look. She was still a striking woman. Middle age had softened her features, giving her a benevolent air that added to her character. He thought back to their early married years, the tiny flat, and the three flights they’d climbed up every day. Jess had never complained about going out to work and had done so cheerfully, as he took classes and wrote papers to get his doctoral degree. She had always been confident of his eventual success, always encouraged him, even at times when his poor beginnings threatened to trip him up. He owed her his allegiance.

  Kath and Derrick were coming to dinner later. Certainly he was mellowing if he was looking forward to seeing them together, he decided, pleased he had managed to jump that hurdle of the new husband. There were grandchildren to look forward to now, little Kaths running around, and the cycle of their lives would continue. He leaned back in his chair with great complacency, feeling the sun warm his face.

  Beside him, Jess opened the paper, and with her exclamation, he felt his tranquility rapidly dissipate. “Ted! That lovely girl from the Belcher Studio has been
murdered
!”

*

Inside the penthouse flat of a large contemporary building that overlooked Botley Stream, Cameron Wilson waited for the detective who had called earlier in the day; he’d said he would be dropping by with a few questions. After a quick hit, his imagination was in overdrive. He pictured the man driving out of Oxford centre and west along the Botley Road, maybe planning where he would stop for lunch, turning onto Prestwich Place, the new lane leading to his building.

  “Posh,” the detective would think as he parked.

  Cam checked one last time to be certain his stash was properly hidden. The morning newspapers had the conspicuous headline “Former Model Murdered in Magdalen Road,” adding an extra jolt of heartburn to his hungover morning.

  He had read the article with growing fear gripping his stomach and immediately anticipated this visit; his story was prepared. All he had to do was stick to it, and they would never find out he had been on Magdalen Road that night.

Chapter Twenty

“No one could really like Jimmy Jamison, but that should come as no surprise.”

—
Jack Galloway,
The Toothache Tree

11:15 AM

Declan decided to let Val Rogan stew while he and McAfee left to do two quick interviews, knowing her anticipation and anxiety would be heightened by several hours spent waiting in a stuffy police station, just soaking up the atmosphere, as it were. As they parked outside Tommy Clay’s building, he pictured the woman back at the station getting more and more annoyed. He knew she was aware of her position in this case, and he hoped the long wait with too much time to think would persuade her to tell him the truth. And while she was thinking, he could be tying up a few loose ends. One of those loose ends was the bloody blighter who stood defiantly in front of him.

  The two officers followed Clay into his flat, where Declan questioned him carefully. He had gone over the notes from the PC who’d done the house-to-house and looked now for discrepancies in Clay’s answers. While the man’s usual behavior did not include a background of murder, he was still a suspect to be examined.

  Declan’s belief that pedophiles were the lowest of the low had made this visit disagreeable from the start. The man before him represented a cancer upon society as far as Declan was concerned, preying on youth’s innocence and destroying it in the process.

  Although he had been surprised by the barren feel of the small flat, just down the road from Bryn Wallace’s more imposing building, Declan was totally unimpressed with the pugnacious man who chain-smoked as they questioned him. So far his answers had been consistent.

  “So you’re on the dole, Mr. Clay?” Declan asked.

  “Not even. I’m a lucky budgie, my auntie left me something in her will.”

  Declan made certain McAfee was taking notes. They would have to investigate his claim of an inheritance that let him stay idle since leaving prison. “And your plans are?”

  “Don’t have none yet, do I? Just trying to get my pins under me, like. I’ll sort out something soon enough.”

  I bet you will, Declan thought, grimacing inside. “I think that’s all, Mr. Clay. Please call the station if you remember anything that might be of help. Don’t leave the area without notifying St. Aldate’s. And we’ll be checking your alibi.”

  “I still don’t see why you big guns had to come and talk to me. I told that other bloke yesterday I only knew that girl by sight.” The cloak of indignation Clay wore was obnoxious. “You’re just bothering me ‘cause I was in gaol.”

  “Strictly procedure, Mr. Clay,” McAfee answered as they stood to leave, but the man would not be placated, stopping them at the door.

  “I know what you’re about then,” he sneered. He pointed his finger at Declan’s chest, stopping just short of jabbing him. “I’ll never lose the label. Hundreds of thousands of people involved, millions of dollars spent every year on the porn industry, yet you righteous plods will only condemn me—remember me—because I was caught.”

  Declan drew himself to his full height and looked down at the man, this time not bothering to mask his loathing.

  “You were caught exposing yourself to
children
. What stays between adults in the privacy of their homes is just that—private. You violated that right of privacy when you took your sexual perversions and inflicted them on innocent children.”

  And turning on his heel, he pushed McAfee out of the flat, slamming the door behind them.

*

On the other side of the closed door, a wide smile spread over Tommy Clay’s face. He had greatly enjoyed rankling the big detective who dressed too well for a copper, in his opinion. They would have to leave him alone now; to do otherwise would smack of harassment. He would love to slap a suit on them. His alibi for Friday evening was solid: he had been having his future told by Miss Odessa across the street, waiting outside for his turn, smoking as usual. She would confirm that at 11:45 he was sitting across from her in the patchouli-scented room where she did her readings. She had given him his full fifteen minutes’ worth until midnight.

  When she told him during her reading that she saw him coming into unexpected money in the near future, he had known it was fate that he had been waiting on line outside Miss Odessa’s that night. He’d seen the woman leaving Bryn Wallace’s flat at 11:25, a fact he neglected to mention to the plod. Why should he help a queer bitch out? It was the bloke who had entered the building four or five minutes later, and whom he’d recognized, who would be his gold mine, and he threw himself across his bed to ruminate on the best way to approach his quarry.