8
Lady Swathling received Kate and Piers in what was obviously her office. Motioning them to a sofa with a gesture as contrived as a royal wave, she said, “Please sit down. Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? I know you’re not supposed to drink on duty.”
To Kate’s ears her tone managed to convey subtly that off duty they were commonly sunk in an alcoholic stupor. She said, before Piers could answer, “No thank you. We won’t need to interrupt you for long.”
The office had the discordant look of a dual-purpose room unsure of its primary function. The double desk before the south window, the computer, the fax machine, and the row of steel filing cabinets lining the wall to the left of the door constituted the office. The right side of the room had the comfortable domesticity of a sitting-room. In the elegant period fireplace, the simulated blue flames of a gas fire gave out a gentle heat supplementing the radiators. Above the mantelpiece with its row of small porcelain figurines was an oil painting. An eighteenth-century woman with pursed lips and protuberant eyes, in a low-necked dress of rich blue satin, was holding an orange in tapering fingers as delicately as if she expected it to explode. There was a cabinet against the farther wall containing a variety of porcelain cups and saucers in pink and green. To the right of the fire was a sofa and to the left a single armchair, their immaculate covers and cushions echoing the pale pinks and greens in the cabinet. The right-hand side of the room had been carefully contrived to produce a certain effect, of which Lady Swathling was part.
It was Lady Swathling who took the initiative. Before either Kate or Piers could speak, she said, “You’re here, of course, because of the tragedy at the Dupayne Museum, the death of Celia Mellock. Naturally I wish to help with your inquiries if I can, but it’s difficult to see how you imagine that I can. Miss Dupayne surely told you that Celia left the school in the spring of last year after only two terms. I’ve absolutely no information about her subsequent life or activities.”
Kate said, “In any case of homicide we need to know as much as possible about the victim. We’re hoping you might be able to tell us something about Miss Mellock—her friends, perhaps, what she was like as a student, whether she was interested in visiting museums?”
“I’m afraid I can’t. Surely these questions should be addressed to her family or to people who knew her. These two tragic deaths have nothing to do with Swathling’s.”
Piers kept his eyes on Lady Swathling with a gaze that was half admiring, half contemptuous. Kate recognized the look; he had taken against Lady Swathling. Now he said smoothly, “But there is a connection, isn’t there? Celia Mellock was a pupil here, Miss Dupayne is joint Principal, Muriel Godby worked here and Celia died in the museum. I’m afraid in a case of homicide, Lady Swathling, questions have to be asked that are as inconvenient to the innocent as they are unwelcome to the guilty.”
Kate said to herself, He thought that one out in advance. It’s neat and he’ll use it again.
It had its effect on Lady Swathling. She said, “Celia wasn’t a satisfactory student, largely because she was an unhappy child and had absolutely no interest in what we have to offer. Miss Dupayne was reluctant to accept her but Lady Holstead, with whom I am acquainted, was very persuasive. The girl had been expelled from two of her previous schools and her mother and stepfather were anxious that she should get some education. Unfortunately Celia came under protest, which is never a helpful beginning. As I have told you, I know nothing about her recent life. I saw very little of her while she was at Swathling’s and we never met after she had left.”
Kate asked, “How well did you know Dr. Neville Dupayne, Lady Swathling?”
The question was met with a mixture of distaste and incredulity. “I’ve never met him. As far as I know, he’s never visited the school. Mr. Marcus Dupayne came to one of our students’ concerts about two years ago, but not his brother. We’ve never even spoken by telephone and we’ve certainly never met.”
Kate asked, “He was never called in to treat any of your students? Celia Mellock, for example?”
“Certainly not. Has anyone suggested such a thing?”
“No one, Lady Swathling. I just wondered.”
Piers intervened, “What relationship was there between Celia and Muriel Godby?”
“Absolutely none. Why should there be? Miss Godby was merely the receptionist. She wasn’t popular with some of the girls, but as far as I can remember Celia Mellock made no complaint.” She paused, then said, “And in case you were thinking of asking—which I must say I would greatly have resented—I was in college the whole of last Friday from three o’clock, when I returned from a luncheon date, for the rest of the day and evening. My afternoon engagements are listed in my desk diary and my visitors, including my lawyer who arrived at half-past four, will be able to confirm my movements. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful. If anything relevant should come to mind I shall, of course, get in touch.”
Kate said, “And you are sure that you never saw Celia after she left Swathling’s?”
“I have already said so, Inspector. And now, if there are no more questions, I have matters I need to attend to. I shall, of course, write a letter of sympathy to Lady Holstead.”
She rose from her chair in one swift movement and went to the door. Outside the uniformed porter who had let them in was already waiting. No doubt, thought Kate, he had been stationed there throughout the interview.
As they reached the car, Piers said, “Artificial setup, wasn’t it? No prizes for guessing her priorities, self first and the school second. Did you see the difference in those two desks? One practically empty, the in- and out-trays on the other full of papers. No prizes, either, for guessing who sits where. Lady Swathling impresses the parents with her aristocratic elegance and Caroline Dupayne does all the work.”
“Why should she? What’s she getting out of it?”
“Perhaps she hopes to take over. She wouldn’t get the house, though, unless it’s willed to her. Perhaps that’s what she’s hoping for. I can’t see her affording it.”
Kate said, “I imagine she’s well paid for what she does. What I find interesting is not why Dupayne stays here, but why she’s so keen on keeping the museum open.”
Piers said, “Family pride. The flat is her home. She must want to get away from the school occasionally. You didn’t take to Lady S, did you?”
“Or to the school. Nor did you. Kind of privileged place the bloody rich send their kids to in the hope of getting them out of their hair. Both parties know what the bargain is, what the parents are paying through the nose for. See she doesn’t get pregnant, keep her off the drugs and booze and make sure she meets the right kind of men.”
“That’s a bit harsh. I once dated a girl who’d been there. It didn’t seem to have done her much harm. Not exactly Oxbridge entrance, but she knew how to cook. That wasn’t her only talent.”
“And you, of course, were the right kind of man.”
“Her mama didn’t think so. Do you want to drive?”
“You’d better, until I simmer down. So we report to AD that Lady S probably knows something but isn’t talking?”
“You’re suggesting she’s a suspect?”
“No. She wouldn’t have given us that alibi if she didn’t know it would stand up. We’ll check if we need to. At present it would be a waste of time. She’s in the clear for both murders, but she could be an accomplice.”
Piers was dismissive. “That’s going a bit far. Look at the facts. At present we’re assuming that the two deaths are connected. That means that if Lady S is mixed up with Celia’s death, she’s mixed up also with Neville Dupayne’s. And if one thing she said struck me as true, it was her claim that she’s never even met him. And why should she care if the museum closes? It might even suit her, keep Caroline Dupayne more closely tied to the school. No, she’s in the clear. OK, there’s something she either lied about or isn’t telling, but what’s new about that?”
9
 
; It was three-fifteen on Thursday 7 November and in the incident room the team were discussing progress. Benton-Smith had earlier brought in sandwiches and Dalgliesh’s PA had provided a large cafetière of strong coffee. Now all evidence of the meal had been cleared away and they settled down to their papers and notebooks.
The discovery of the handbag had been interesting but had got them no further. Any of the suspects could have shoved it into the black bag whether the ploy had been planned or decided on impulse. It was an idea which might occur more readily to a woman than a man, but that was hardly firm evidence. They were still awaiting information from the mobile telecommunications service about the location of Muriel Godby’s mobile when she answered Tally Clutton’s call. The demands on the service were heavy and there were other priority requests. Inquiries put in hand about Neville Dupayne’s professional life before he moved to London from the Midlands in 1987 had resulted only in silence from the local police force. None of this was particularly disappointing; the case was still less than a week old.
Now Kate and Piers were to report on their visit to Celia’s flat. A little to Dalgliesh’s surprise Kate was silent and it was Piers who spoke. Within seconds it was apparent that he was enjoying himself. In short staccato sentences the picture came alive.
“It’s a ground-floor flat looking out on a central garden. Trees, flower beds, well-kept lawn, on the expensive side of the block. Grilles in the windows and two security locks on the door. Large sitting-room at the front, and three double bedrooms with bathrooms en suite. Probably bought as an investment on the advice of Daddy’s lawyer and at present prices worth over a million, I’d say. Aggressively modern kitchen. No sign that anyone bothers to cook. The refrigerator’s stinking with sour milk and out-of-date cartons of eggs and supermarket meals. She left the place in a mess. Clothes strewn all over her own bed and those in the other two rooms, cupboards stuffed, wardrobes crammed. About fifty pairs of shoes, twenty handbags, some hooker-chic dresses designed to show as much thigh and crotch as possible without risking arrest. Most of the rest of the stuff expensive designer gear. Not much luck from examining her desk. She didn’t go in for paying the bills on demand or for answering official letters, even those from her lawyers. A City firm looks after her portfolio, the usual mixture of equities and government stock. She was getting through the money pretty quickly though.”
Dalgliesh asked, “Any sign of a lover?”
Now it was Kate who took over. “There are stains on a fitted bottom sheet stuffed into the clothes basket. They look like semen but they’re not fresh. Nothing else. She was on the pill. We found the packet in the bathroom cupboard. No drugs but plenty to drink. She seems to have tried modelling, there’s a portfolio of photographs. She’d also set her heart on being a pop star. We know that she was on the books of that agency and she was paying through the nose for singing lessons. I think she was being exploited. What’s odd, sir, is that we found no invitations, no evidence she had friends. You’d think that with a three-bedroom flat she’d want to share, if only for company and to help with expenses. There’s no evidence of anyone being there except herself, apart from that stained sheet. We had our murder bags with us so we put it in an exhibit pouch and brought it away. I’ve sent it to the lab.”
Dalgliesh asked, “Books? Pictures?”
Kate said, “Every women’s magazine on the market including fashion magazines. Paperbacks, mostly popular fiction. There are photographs of pop stars. Nothing else.” She added, “We didn’t find either a diary or an address book. She may’ve had them in her handbag, in which case her murderer has them if they haven’t been destroyed. There was a message on her answerphone; the local garage rang to say that her car was ready for collection. If she didn’t come with her killer it was probably by taxi—I can’t see a girl like that taking a bus. We’ve been on to the public carriage office in the hope they can trace the driver. There were no other answerphone messages and no private letters. It was odd: all that clutter and no evidence of a social or personal life. I felt sorry for her. I think she was lonely.”
Piers was dismissive. “I can’t think why the hell she should be. We know the modern holy trinity is money, sex and celebrity. She had the first two and had hope of the third.”
Kate said, “No realistic hope.”
“But she had money. We saw the bank statements and the investment portfolio. Daddy left her two and a half million. Not a vast fortune by modern standards but you could live on it. A girl with that kind of money and her own flat in London doesn’t have to be lonely for long.”
Kate said, “Not unless she’s needy, the sort that falls in love, clings and won’t let go. Money or no money, men may’ve seen her as bad luck.”
Piers said, “One of them obviously did and took pretty effective action.” There was a silence, then he went on, “Chaps would have to be pretty unfastidious to put up with that mess. There was a note pushed through the door from her cleaning woman, saying that she wouldn’t be able to come on the Thursday because she had to take her kid to hospital. I hope she got well paid.”
Dalgliesh’s quiet voice broke in. “If you get yourself murdered, Piers, which is not entirely beyond the bounds of possibility, we must hope that the investigating officer who rummages among your intimate possessions won’t be too censorious.”
Piers said gravely, “It’s a possibility I keep in mind, sir. At least he’ll find them in good order.”
I deserved that, thought Dalgliesh. It had always been a part of his job which he found difficult, the total lack of privacy for the victim. Murder stripped away more than life itself. The body was parcelled, labelled, dissected; address books, diaries, confidential letters, every part of the victim’s life was sought out and scrutinized. Alien hands moved among the clothes, picked up and examined the small possessions, recorded and labelled for public view the sad detritus of sometimes pathetic lives. This life too, outwardly privileged, had been pathetic. The picture they now had was of a rich but vulnerable and friendless girl, seeking entry into a world which even her money couldn’t buy.
He said, “Have you sealed the flat?”
“Yes sir. And we’ve interviewed the caretaker. He lives in a flat on the north side. He’s only been in the post for six months and knows nothing about her.”
Dalgliesh said, “That note through the door, it looks as if the cleaning woman isn’t trusted with a key unless, of course, someone delivered the letter for her. We may need to trace her. What about Nobby Clark and his team?”
“They’ll be there first thing tomorrow, sir. The sheet’s obviously important. We’ve got that. I doubt they’ll find much else. She wasn’t killed there, it isn’t a murder scene.”
Dalgliesh said, “But the SOCOs had better take a look. You and Benton-Smith could meet them there. Some of the near neighbours might have information about possible visitors.”
They turned to Dr. Kynaston’s post-mortem report which had been received an hour previously. Taking his copy, Piers said, “Attending one of Doc Kynaston’s PMs may be instructive, but it’s hardly therapeutic. It isn’t so much the remarkable thoroughness and precision of his butchery, it’s his choice of music. I don’t expect a chorus from The Yeoman of the Guard, but Agnus Dei from Fauré’s Requiem is hard to take given the circumstances. I thought you were going to keel over, Sergeant.”
Glancing at Benton-Smith, Kate saw his face darken and the black eyes harden into polished coal. But he took the gibe without flinching and said calmly, “So for a moment did I.” He paused, then looked at Dalgliesh. “It was my first with a young woman victim, sir.”
Dalgliesh had his eyes on the PM report. He said, “Yes, they’re always the worst, young women and children. Anyone who can watch a PM on either without distress should ask himself whether he’s in the right job. Let’s see what Dr. Kynaston has to tell us.”
The pathologist’s report confirmed what he had found on his first examination. The main pressure had been from the right hand
squeezing the voice box and fracturing the superior cornu of the thyroid at its base. There was a small bruise at the back of the head suggesting that the girl had been forced back against the wall during strangulation, but no evidence of other physical contact between the assailant and the victim, and no evidence under the nails to suggest that the girl had fought off the attack with her hands. An interesting finding was that Celia Mellock had been two months pregnant.
Piers said, “So here we have a possible additional motive. She could have arranged to meet her lover either to discuss what they should do, or to pressurize him into marriage. But why choose the Dupayne? She had a flat of her own.”
Kate said, “And with this girl, rich and sexually experienced, pregnancy is an unlikely motive for murder; no more than a little difficulty which could be got rid of by an overnight stay in an expensive clinic. And how come she was pregnant, when she was apparently on the pill? Either it was deliberate or she had stopped bothering with contraception. The packet we found was unopened.”
Dalgliesh said, “I don’t think she was murdered because she was pregnant; she was murdered because of where she was. We have a single killer and the original and intended victim was Neville Dupayne.”
The picture, although as yet no more than supposition, came into his mind with astonishing clarity; that androgynous figure, its sex as yet unknown, turning on the tap at the corner of the garden shed. A strong spurt of water washing away all traces of petrol from the rubber-gloved hands. The furnace roar of the fire. And then, half-heard, the sound of breaking glass and the first crackle of wood as the flames leapt to catch the nearest tree. And what had made Vulcan look up at the house, a premonition or a fear that the fire might be getting out of control? It would have been in that upward glance that he saw, staring down at him from the Murder Room window, a wide-eyed girl with her yellow hair framed with fire. Was it in that one moment and with that single glimpse that Celia Mellock was doomed to die?