The Circle

18

In the dark-blue minibus carrying members of the circle from the New Park Centre to the police station, Anton was saying, 'I'm so grateful my old colleagues in the civil service can't see me now.'

'You want to try riding in a prison van,' Zach said.

'No thank you.' After a moment's further thought Anton spoke again. 'When were you in prison?'

'I wasn't. I was conditionally discharged.'

'What was the offence?'

'Disorderly behaviour.'

'Where?'

'In Storrington.'

'Storrington? That's no place to misbehave.'

'I didn't. I was protesting. The hunt came through there.'

'Ha — a saboteur. I should have guessed.'

Jessie Warmington-Smith said, 'Well, I'm dying of shame. I've never broken the law.'

Zach said, 'It's only a people-carrier, for fuck's sake.'

Jessie made a sharp sound, sucking in air through her teeth.

Anton said in a low voice to Dagmar, who was sitting beside him, 'You might think Zach is the only calm one among us, but take a look at his hands. He's got the shakes, poor fellow. I wonder what causes that.'

Tudor said, 'Keep your head down, Jessie. Isn't that the bishop looking over that wall?'

'Tudor. Enough!' Thomasine said in the voice she used to subdue the third years.

They were driven around Basin Road and into the forecourt of the police station where the CID officers were waiting, among them Hen Mallin, who had gone ahead in her own car. She'd met everyone at the New Park Centre and explained how the interviews would be organised. She'd made a powerful impact, courteous, but firm. No one had complained until she'd gone and they were all in the minibus.

Good shepherd that he was to his fellow writers, Maurice McDade had turned up and was there to help the older ones step down from the minibus. This thoughtfulness was typical of the man. The police hadn't asked him to come. There was no intention to interview him again.

In Interview Room One, Anton seemed to have decided to treat this as a civil service interview, presenting a confident posture, back straight, chin up and legs crossed at the ankles, hands (after checking his bow tie) clasped lightly one over the other, resting on his left thigh.

He needed to be alert. He was facing Hen Mallin, the senior investigating officer.

'Mr Gulliver, you joined the writers' circle soon after its formation, I understand,' she said with the gentle opener he expected.

'That's correct.'

'Yet by all accounts you don't contribute much in the way of writing. What do you get out of it?'

'The cut and thrust of the meetings. I'm well to the fore in the discussions.'

'Wouldn't a debating society be a better club for you?'

'Excellent suggestion,' he said, flattering his interviewer, a classic technique. 'Unfortunately I don't know of one this side of Portsmouth.'

'So you're content to be an observer rather than an active member.'

'In which sense?'

'If you don't write anything. .'

'Oh, that doesn't matter a jot. Most of what is written isn't fit to be read out. I contribute by offering suggestions and praise where it's due, which it seldom is.' He gave a knowing smile to the silent constable seated next to Hen.

'But you had nothing to submit to Mr Blacker when he visited the circle.'

'That is correct.' Anton smiled.'Ican see where you're coming from now. Unlike most of the others, I wasn't held up to the light and judged. I had no reason to set Mr Blacker's house on fire.'

'Let's not race ahead here,' Hen said. 'It doesn't follow that you had no reason, just that you didn't have the same reason as some of the others. You could have set light to his place because you owed him money or he once insulted your mother.'

'Neither of which is true.'

'Or you have a pathological hatred of thatched cottages.'

'What makes you say that?'

'It's just an example. You care about architecture. You worked in the Department of Ancient Monuments, I gather.'

'That is about the first true thing you've said.'

'We're on course, then. I can look forward to some straight answers. Do cutesy old cottages upset you?'

'Not in the least, as it happens.'

'Did you know Mr Blacker prior to his visit?'

'Certainly not.'

'Your paths had never crossed?'

'To save you time, chief inspector, I am absolutely neutral about the late Mr Blacker. I neither liked the man, nor disliked him.'

'Where were you on the night he was killed?'

'That's some time back.'

'But you must have thought about where you were in case someone like me asked you to account for your movements.'

'True. I was at home.'

'All night?'

'Yes, and I can prove it. My sleeping pattern is somewhat erratic, so I was working on my computer until daylight. Then I went to bed for a couple of hours. I have a dedicated phone line and I can show you my statement.'

'I'm afraid all it shows is when your computer was online,' Hen said. 'It can't tell us if you were sitting in front of it. What do you do on the computer?'

'Sometimes I'm surfing the internet. Sometimes I'm making virtual models.'

'Models of what?'

'Buildings mainly.'

'Ancient monuments?'

'And modern.'

'Real buildings?'

'Yes.' He leaned towards her and took a less defensive pose with his elbows on the table and hands linked, the two forefingers touching his chin. 'It's a project with huge potential. I should think you would find it a godsend. I'm building up a street by street reference to central Chichester. If, for example, you had a report of a shoplifting incident in Woolworths, you could pinpoint North Street and get a picture of the shop on the screen and then actually go inside.'

'We'd want a picture of the shoplifter.'

'You're asking the impossible.'

'No. CCTV does it nicely,' Hen said. 'But I'm sure you get hours of pleasure. Let's turn to the matter of Miss Snow's death. You knew her quite well.'

'She was our secretary and treasurer.'

'Were you on good terms with her? I got the impression there was some tension between you.'

'Nothing serious,' he said. 'She didn't like her mistakes in the minutes being discussed.'

'It's a thankless task, writing up minutes,' Hen said. 'I've done it in my time. The chairman asks if there are any corrections and it's open house for everyone who wants to hear the sound of his own voice. No disrespect, Mr Gulliver, but that's how it seems from the secretary's end.'

'And it's the secretary's end that you're investigating.'

Hen gave him the smile he seemed to expect for this piece of wit.

He said, 'But we were talking about the minutes and I say mistakes shouldn't be ignored.'

'Certain mistakes can. I'd say a lot can, and meetings would be shorter as a result. I can understand why Miss Snow would feel the criticism was directed at her.'

'We were always on civil terms.'

'I believe you. I'd have heard if you weren't. People are quick to point the finger, and they haven't. From all I hear, she was an inoffensive lady.'

'I agree with that.'

'Did you ever visit her house in Tower Street?'

'No.'

'I expect it's on your computer.'

'The exterior is. I don't put the interiors of private houses into my system.'

'That would be taking a liberty,' Hen said.

'That's why.'

'And did you have any professional dealings with her in her work as an accountant?'

'No. I told you, I was a civil servant.'

'Now retired?'

'Yes.'

'Presumably you still do a tax return. I was wondering if you got help with that.'

'I do my own. There's a simple computer programme.' He altered his posture again, sitting back with his arms folded, but he was well defended. He was enjoying the exchanges.

'Do you have any view who might have killed this inoffensive lady?' Hen asked.

He smiled and shook his head. 'You said people are quick to point the finger. Not in my case.'

Andy Humphreys, the detective constable who'd got off to such a bad start with Hen Mallin, was in Interview Room Two, stuck with an old bird called Warmington-Smith who had once been married to an archdeacon. She seemed convinced she was about to get the third degree, even though a female officer was present and doing her best to calm things down. It had taken a cup of hot, sweet tea and a biscuit and all of the Humphreys charm to induce the old dear to talk at all.

'Ever since it was formed,' she was saying in a stiff voice. 'I was one of the first members to join, at the personal invitation of the chair.'

'The chairman. Maurice McDade, right — the guy we had in custody?'

'The chair. We refer to him as the chair.'

'No problem. So you joined this writers' club in Chichester. That's a bit whacky, isn't it, a club for writers?'

She shifted her head to one side like a cockatoo. 'Whacky?'

'Weird, then.'

'Not at all. Writing is a solitary occupation.'

You took the words out of my mouth,' DC Humphreys said.

'So it's all the more helpful to get together and compare experiences. There are circles all over the country. One learns so much about the way others work. Quite practical things, like how to set out the manuscript. A publisher won't accept anything handwritten these days. It all has to be typed, double-spaced and on one side of the paper only. Then one hears important things about literary agents.'

DC Humphreys didn't want to hear about literary agents. 'You live in the middle of town, then?'

She blinked behind her bifocals. 'Is that significant?'

'You tell me, ma'am. It's a line of enquiry.'

'I can't think why.'

'You're in Vicars Close, right?'

'This is getting personal.'

'It's only your address I'm trying to confirm. Vicars Close, right behind the cathedral. All the tenants are church pensioners, right?'

She shifted in her seat. 'I can't think why my domestic situation should interest the police. My late husband spent a lifetime in the service of the church and he wouldn't have done it without my support.'

Humphreys held up a calming hand. 'All right, all right. Lighten up, dear. I'm not questioning your right to be there.'

'I should hope not, and I don't care for strangers calling me "dear".'

'No problem.'

'But it is a problem. Either it's patronising or it assumes an intimacy that doesn't exist.' Jessie put in a question of her own. 'Are you a church-goer?'

'Can't say I am, ma'am.'

'But I see you have a wedding ring. I expect you were married in church.'

'Well, yes,' he said, aware that this was getting away from him.

'Baptised, too, I dare say. People use the church when it suits them and then ignore it the rest of the time.'

'It's got nothing to do with this.'

'It's got everything to do with it, young man. We're all God's children, you know. He's here in this police station, in this interview room. Never neglect your spiritual side. I'm a very practical person. I've written a book on practical tips for everyday life. But I still allow the spiritual side to play a part in my life, and so should you.'

'If you say so,' Humphreys said, wanting to reclaim the initiative. 'Now can we move on?'

'Are you listening?' Jessie said. 'You have to open your heart. Then you'll be given signs. I get them quite often because I'm receptive, like Joan of Arc, except that she heard them as voices.'

Humphreys groaned inwardly. All of this was going on tape to be listened to later by Hen Mallin and the whole of the murder investigation team.

She wouldn't stop now. 'Only last night I had a sign. Some people would find it disturbing and I suppose it might be to a disbeliever, but I took it as affirmation of all I believe in, the afterlife, the journey of the soul.'

Humphreys had been accused already of being homophobic. He didn't want to come across as a persecutor of Christians as well. 'Ma'am,' he said with all the respect he could put into the word, 'I follow what you're saying, but this is supposed to be a witness interview. Where were you on the night of the fire in Edgar Blacker's cottage?'

'At home, I imagine.'

'That won't do, ma'am. It's no good imagining.'

'I don't. Too much imagination can addle the brain. I was using an expression of speech. I meant to say that I was certainly at home most of that evening.'

'Not all of it?'

'I'm trying to be helpful. I like to go for a walk before retiring, so I wouldn't have been at home the whole time.'

'A walk — just for exercise?'

'I don't visit public houses, if that's what you're implying. Exercise isn't the main purpose. I'm taking stock of the day. The streets are pleasantly quiet.'

'How late is this?'

'Oh, it can vary. At my age you don't always feel ready for sleep before midnight.'

'Don't you feel unsafe on the streets at night?'

'In Chichester? No. I don't go far. I'm always within sight of the cathedral spire.'

Humphreys thought of Miss Snow's house in Tower Street, only a stone's throw from the cathedral. But what about Blacker's place, out in the country?

'I was wondering if you went for a drive some evenings. You have a car, do you?'

'Yes, but I don't use it much, and certainly not at nights. If you're thinking I drove out to Mr Blacker's cottage and set it alight, you're mistaken. Why should I wish to kill him? He called my book of tips rather clever. He said he liked it very much. A fine idea.' She had the quotes right, but was silent about Blacker's other comments.

'But you do have a car? An old car?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'You said you don't use it much. I got the impression it was old.'

'It's perfectly legal to have an old car if it has a certificate.'

This was like handling a hedgehog. 'I'm not bothered what state it's in.'

'It's about twenty years old, a Mini Metro.'

'So it still uses leaded fuel, I expect.'

'Yes, and I'm aware that it causes pollution, but I do very little driving these days, so I'm not adding much to that hole in the ozone layer.'

'Where do you keep it?'

'In my garage. We all have garages out of sight of visitors to the cathedral. Why are you so interested in my old car? I told you I wasn't using it that night. I just went for my usual walk about half past ten.'

In another interview room, Stella Gregson was trying to get straight answers from Tudor Thomas. She'd been warned that he would keep wanting to tell her about his friends in high places. Already he'd spoken of 'my old chum Paul', meaning Sir Paul Condon, the former commissioner of the Met, a not too subtle way of reminding Stella how low she was in the chain of command. But the follow-up was clever. He'd done enough homework to know that Sir Paul had served as Chief Constable of Kent and set up the arrangements for policing the Channel Tunnel. Details like that left open the possibility that he was speaking the truth.

'You work in insurance,' Stella said, 'and I believe Edgar Blacker was a client of yours.'

'Briefly,' Tudor said, for once downplaying a contact. 'And unmemorably. I barely recognised him when he came to speak to the circle.'

'I heard you insured him for quite a large amount.'

'Not him. An item of his property. And I wouldn't say large. I could tell you about policies far bigger than that one.'

'But there was a claim.'

'The item was stolen and we paid. That's what insurance is all about, officer.'

'Twenty grand, for an unpublished Wodehouse book, is that right?'

His eyebrows shot up. 'You know, then?'

'It's our job to make enquiries. This claim Came under a lot of scrutiny at the time. Some of your superiors weren't happy.'

He made a dismissive gesture. 'It's always the way when we have to pay out.'

'Is it fair to say it blighted your career? There you are, the up-and-coming agent bringing in any amount of new business. A promotion to branch manager looked certain, but it didn't happen.'

'I'm still in the job. If there was any evidence of wrongdoing I'd be out'

'No evidence. Suspicion.'

His face had turned a shade more pink. 'Who have you been talking to?'

'Blacker seems to have launched his own publishing business with the money he got from that claim. It all happened within a year.'

'We had two expert valuations for the manuscript. There's no question that it was genuine.'

'But was the theft genuine? I've seen the case notes. There were questions about the timing of the break-in and the absence of any traces of the thief.'

'A professional. He knew when to strike and how to get clean away.'

'Our people weren't so sure.'

'They'd say that, wouldn't they, if they found nothing?'

Stella smiled. 'They found something all right, a large chunk of rock from the garden, used to smash a panel of the window. A professional wouldn't rely on picking up a handy rock. He'd have his tools with him.'

'A clever opportunist, then.'

'You've been over this before, haven't you?'

'Yes, and I don't see what it has to do with the killing of Blacker or Miss Snow.'

'If you and Blacker had some arrangement and he reneged on it, or even if you felt he owed you something, you'd be pretty incensed when he showed no interest in your book.'

He turned a shade more pink. 'You know about that as well?'

'There was a video of his visit to the circle. I've looked at it. He refused even to discuss your script in front of the others. This — from a man who'd netted a small fortune thanks to you.'

'I expected no favours.'

'You got none. There was just a "see me afterwards" as if he was dealing with a schoolkid who hadn't done the homework. Humiliating for a man like you who's rubbed shoulders with the great and the good.'

'That's true, anyway. But it doesn't make me a murderer.'

'Big blow to your self-esteem.'

'It wouldn't be the first time. As my old friend Roger Moore once remarked to me, I have more bounce than any Bond girl he ever met.'

'Anything of note?' Hen said, finding Stella and Humphreys making tea.

'Warmington-Smith runs a Mini Metro on leaded,' Humphreys said.

'Does she, indeed?'

'And likes a walk late at night.'

'She wouldn't need to walk far to Miss Snow's.'

'And she's doolally as well. Sees things.'

'What things?'

'Like Joan of Arc, she says.'

'We'll take a look at that car, and the fuel. How's it going with Tudor, Stella?'

'Slow progress, guv. I'm pressing him on the insurance angle. He's as good as admitted his career went pear-shaped when Blacker made his claim on the missing Wodehouse script. I've yet to tackle him about Miss Snow.'

'Keep with it, then. Anton's going to be a long haul, too, as I expected. Teflon-coated, that man.'

'Try the blowtorch, guv.'

'I intend to.' First, she went to look at the circle members still waiting to be interviewed. No one was complaining at the delay. Maurice McDade's calming presence was a definite help. Even the volcanic Naomi was in a dormant phase, deep in some magazine article about the internet.

DI Johnny Cherry had drawn Sharon, the blonde, in this game and she wasn't the picture card she seemed. He'd already run through his limited knowledge of hairdressing and failed to spark a response. Writing seemed to interest her even less. She chewed steadily and watched him with her big, dark-lined eyes.

'Why did you join the circle, then?'

'Dunno.'

'You must have thought it would help your career.'

'Yeah?'

'Is it helpful, what they do at the meetings?'

A shrug.

'But I expect you get something out of it.'

'Dunno.'

'I mean, through talks and things. You went to the talk Edgar Blacker gave.'

'Did I?'

'The man who was murdered.'

'Oh, got you.'

'You didn't know him already, then?'

The eyes slid upwards in denial. How could she, young, blonde and gorgeous, possibly have entered the same orbit as an old fart like Blacker?

But Johnny didn't give up. 'I've seen the video, and you're on it. You seemed to be drawing — doodling really — while he was discussing the stuff that people had handed in. You didn't hand anything in yourself, I noticed.'

She gave another shrug and said nothing.

'Do you do any writing, Sharon?'

'Not really.'

'Apart from the speech bubbles in your strip?'

'Them, yes.'

'Based on things you hear in the salon?'

'Mm.'

'Well, it's all writing, isn't it? You have to know how to spell. It's going to be a nice little earner, this, from all I hear.' Pleased with himself for the smooth link to come, he said, "You'll be able to buy a new car. What do you drive at the moment?'

'Nothing.'

'You don't have a car? How do you get around?'

'Friends.'

'You get lifts?'

'Sometimes.'

'Perhaps you borrow their cars. Can you drive?'

She nodded. 'If I need to.'

Johnny didn't have a link for his next question. It had to come out of nowhere. 'How well did you know Miss Snow, the woman who died in the fire?'

A slight frown. 'What do you mean?'

'Did you have any dealings with her outside the writers' circle?'

'Like work and stuff?'

'Anything. Any reason to meet her.'

'Well. . '

He jerked forward. 'Is that a yes?'

'Mm.'

'Where? Where did you see her?'

'The salon.'

Progress at last. 'She came to you to have her hair done?'

'Sometimes.'

'And did she like to talk to you when she was in the chair?'

'A bit.'

A bit. And a bit one-sided, going by this experience. It was dawning on Johnny why he'd been paired with that rare being, a silent hairdresser — Hen's way of paying him back for his earlier gaffes. 'Did she have anything to say about the other members of the circle?'

'Might have.'

'What does that mean — might have? Either she talked about them or she didn't.'

'So?'

'So what did you learn?'

'Don't bother with their names, most of them.'

This was a pain. 'Okay, let's go at it another way. Did you do her hair before the Blacker meeting?'

'Mm.'

'That was a yes, was it?'

'She wanted it nice.'

'For the meeting?'

A nod.

'And did she pass any comment?'

'Asked if I was going.'

'Any comment on the speaker?'

'Said he was some publisher.'

'That's all? Had she met him before?'

'Didn't say so.'

Johnny sighed. He was near the limit of his patience. 'Talking to you, Sharon, I find it difficult to understand how you landed this job of writing the strip. Surely you need a good ear for dialogue.'

'What's that?' she said.

'Conversation. The things people say to you. You haven't told me anything Miss Snow said to you. How on earth are you going to fill in all the speech bubbles if you don't remember what people say?'

'Simple.'

'Yes?'

'It's a knack, innit?' Sharon said.

'Explain.'

'Keeping it short'

And on thinking about strip cartoon dialogue, he was forced to admit that Sharon had the knack. She was second to none at keeping it short.

Zach Beale was in such a state of trembling and twitching that DC Shilling thought he would get nowhere if he plunged straight in, so he tried to calm him down by talking music. Working in the MVC shop, Zach needed knowledge of everything from hip-hop to the classics. Shilling volunteered he was a Dido fan, trying to get some reaction, but the only response came from the officer at his side, who rolled his eyes. After more prompting Zach said he was into something he called NAM that Shilling had to have explained. It was an acronym for New Acoustic Movement. NAM was cool, pure and non-electric. Zach listed some performers. He'd loosened up enough for Shilling to throw in the first question.

'So was it a surprise to you when Edgar Blacker compared you to Tolkien?'

'What — when he gave that talk?'

'Yes. I've watched the video you made. It was you behind the camera, wasn't it?'

'If you saw it, you know what he said. He wasn't comparing me to Tolkien. He said I might pick up some of Tolkien's readers.'

'"Millions of readers" was what he said. He went overboard for your work. He was ready to sign you up straight away.'

'It's academic now, isn't it?' Zach said. 'The guy's dead.'

'Did he follow it up in any way?'

'What, after the talk was over? Said he'd be getting in touch. Not much use to me now, is it?'

'A lucky escape, then. You can show the book to another publisher. By all accounts, Blacker didn't treat his writers too well.'

'I didn't know that at the time.'

'So you must have been gutted when you heard what happened to him.'

'That about sums it up.'

'Of all the people in the circle, you're the one with least motive.' That went down well. Shilling watched the face relax a little. 'Do you have any theories who'd want to kill him?'

Zach ran both hands over his head and clutched the ponytail. 'Not my thing, naming and shaming.'

'That isn't what I heard.' Shilling said in a sharp accusing tone, 'My information is that you and Naomi Green have been doing some detective work.'

Now he flexed his legs so hard that his chair slid back. 'Who told you that?'

'You're not going to deny it, are you?'

He was silent for some time, deciding what to say. 'It's not what it seems. It's a writing project.'

'Oh, yeah?'

'Yeah. Research for writing. Writers do research all the time. It's not just imagination. You have to find stuff out.'

'I thought your thing was fantasy'

'It is mostly.' He looked away, wanting to be anywhere but here. 'Igot talked into this. She wants us to do a book together.'

'About the circle?'

'The murders.'

'And have you found out anything of interest?'

No response.

Shilling repeated the question.

'I haven't. She did. Well, she may have.'

'What's that, Zach?'

A pause. 'You'd better ask her.'

Shilling leaned forward, and being so tall he could lean a long way, his forehead almost touching Zach's. 'We're not playing hunt the slipper here. There's a killer at large. If you know something, sunshine, spill it out, or I can do you for obstructing us.'

He exhaled sharply and cried out, 'She scares me rigid.'

Shilling waited.

With an effort at control Zach said, 'She got into Blacker's cottage — after it was burned, I mean — and found a picture, a photo.'

'Of Blacker?'

'Right, and another guy.'

'It was Naomi who nicked the photo?' Any pleasure in the discovery was undermined. Shilling was furious with himself for failing to make the connection.

'Yes, but she hasn't got it now. She unloaded it on me. I've got it at home.'

Shilling stood up. 'You and I are going to your place right now to collect this picture. It's evidence.'

'She'll go ballistic'

'You won't say a word to her or anyone else. Understood? Sit here while I tell my boss where we're going.'

Johnny Cherry was almost through the list of questions Hen had supplied.

'Something else, Sharon. We're trying to track everyone's movements on the night Miss Snow died in the fire. What were you up to?'

'The Friday?'

'Right'

'I was out of it.'

'Meaning what?'

'Took the weekend off, didn't I?'

'Right out of it, you mean? Some other place?'

'You can ask my boss.'

'Where were you?'

'Harrogate.'

Getting on for three hundred miles away.

'What were you doing in Harrogate?'

'Conference.'

Now it was Johnny who went silent, dumbfounded at the idea that Sharon would enrol for a conference, let alone travel there. 'Can you prove it?'

'S'pose.'

'What sort of conference?'

'Books and stuff.'

Johnny rubbed his eyes and said, 'Let me get this straight. You went to a literary conference?'

'Fantasy'

There was an awkward interval as Johnny grappled with the answer. 'What are you saying now, Sharon? You made it up?'

'British Fantasy Convention.'

Another pause.

'You're not having me on? Fantasy isn't your thing at all.'

'Who says?'

He was forced to accept that she was speaking the truth. 'All on your own?'

'Got a lift, didn't I?'

'Who from?'

'Who d'you think?'

Johnny was all attention now. What he'd just learned would throw Hen Mallin's theories into confusion. If this was true about the trip to Harrogate, Sharon was out of it, and so was Zach.