Illegal Action

45

This was the third time Detective Constable Denniston had tried the flat without finding anyone in. Only three months into his posting to the Art Squad, he did things strictly by the book, but he was starting to think that continuing to ring the bell of Mr. Marco Tutti was a major waste of time. On this occasion, however, he tried the neighbours as well and was surprised to find himself rewarded right away.

“Who is it?” demanded a woman’s voice over the intercom, and when he explained she buzzed him in.

Getting out of the lift on the third floor, he found himself face-to-face with an exotic figure. The thin, pale young woman wore a purple minidress over black leggings. Her bright red hair was tied back in a ponytail and in her arms she held a meowing Siamese cat with a rhinestone-studded collar.

“You looking for Marco?”

“Yes, madam. Have you seen him?”

She shook her head and scratched the cat’s ears. “Not for a couple of days.”

“Do you know anything about his movements? Could he be away?”

“No, I don’t think so. He does travel a bit, but I always know about it because then I look after Gobbolino.”

“Who’s that?”

“His cat, of course.”

As if I should know, thought DC Denniston. Just what I need—a dodgy neighbour. He sighed. This Marco bloke was going to stay on his list until he’d either found him or discovered where he’d gone. He was about to go back down the stairs when the woman said, “Come to think of it, Officer, now that you mention it, it’s a bit odd.”

He looked at her enquiringly and she explained. “When Marco goes away he always tells me so I can feed his cat. But I haven’t heard him around since the day before yesterday. And I’ve been at home a lot because I’m between jobs. I’m a dancer with Cupid’s Children but we haven’t got any bookings till June. Do you think something’s wrong with Marco?”

“I don’t know, madam,” said Denniston, though for the first time he wondered if something was. This could be a real nuisance, he thought, wondering how much trouble this enquiry was going to cause him. I’ll have to get into the flat first, he supposed, just to confirm the man had done a runner. The guvnor isn’t going to like that one bit; they’d need a warrant, which meant paperwork and time and no guarantee of getting one at the end of it all.

“Couldn’t you just check on him?” she asked.

“I’ve rung his bell. He didn’t answer.” He shrugged. “There’s nothing else I can do right now.”

“Why don’t we go and have a look?”

“Pardon?” he said, startled. “Do you have a key to his flat?”

“Of course. How else do you think I feed Gobbolino?”

DC Denniston took out his notebook. He knew the rules. This had to be done properly. “May I have your name and address, madam?” he asked.

“I’m Amanda Millbrook. My stage name’s Mandy Mills. I live here. Number 8.”

Upstairs, she opened the door and led the way into Marco Tutti’s flat. A small black-and-white cat immediately shot out from somewhere and ran for cover under the sofa, skidding slightly on the polished floor. “Here puss, puss, here Gobbolino,” said Mandy, bending down with her hand out. The cat didn’t budge until, as Mandy moved towards it, cooing, it suddenly broke cover and streaked for the back of the flat.

Mandy followed it while DC Denniston looked around. The flat was spic and span and he supposed that if you liked modern furnishings, it was very nice. Tasteful—a bit too tasteful for the policeman’s liking. Wasn’t there something a bit prissy about keeping your home like a trendy restaurant? Mandy stuck her head out of the rear hall. “He’s not in the bedroom,” she said, then disappeared again.

Did she mean the cat or Tutti? Denniston shook his head wearily when, like a squad car’s siren, a scream filled the air. He ran through the doorway to the back and found Mandy leaning against the wall in the bathroom, the light on, an expression of horror on her face.

Reaching her he saw why. A man, obviously dead, lay naked in a bath of what had once been water, but was now a murky, sable-coloured soup. The body was fully extended, its feet splayed out like gruesome chicken wings, its arms draped over the sides, each wrist with deep gashes that were partly obscured by congealed gumdrops of blood. At the end of the bath, the man’s face lay half-submerged under the sepia slime of blood and water, a trim goatee just visible below the surface. His eyes were wide open and staring—staring horribly at his pale white toes.

Mandy stifled a sob and said, “It’s Marco.”

You mean it was Marco, thought DC Denniston, reaching for his radio.