The Circle

26

The printout of Naomi's website material on what she called 'The Chichester Arson Killings' amounted to thirty-three pages. Each now bore Hen's imprint, the whiff of cigar.

She'd asked Stella to look through it.

'Done?'

Stella nodded.

'Close the door.'

Stella knew what was coming. The anger had brought a kind of paralysis to Hen's normally mobile face.

'It's obvious, isn't it, that someone's been talking out of school? This stuff about two people working together. It comes straight from our last meeting.'

'I thought so, guv.'

'Scumbags. I knew as soon as you and I walked into this nick we were in for a hard time, but I didn't reckon on this.'

'They're not all bad.'

'One is, at the very least. One of the team is bending Naomi's ear. Who is it? Who did the interview with her?'

'The first one? You did, guv.'

'No — the latest. After Jessie was killed.'

'Andy Humphreys.'

'Him?'

'Don't rush in, guv. I know he got off to a bad start with you, that crack about gays, but he's keen.'

'Too damn keen if he's playing his own game, feeding titbits to one of the suspects.'

'Want me to talk to him?'

'No, I will.'

Stella feared for Andy. She'd seen Hen in warlike moods, but this was Armageddon. 'It could be one of the others.'

'I don't think so. Who else in the team has spent time with Naomi? Duncan Shilling hasn't been near her. I made a point of clobbering Johnny Cherry with the dumb blonde. It's Humphreys, bang to rights.'

Stella decided to let her simmer for a while. Finally, she said, 'What about this website? Shall we close it down?'

'No need, if I plug the leak. Most of it's self-serving rubbish. Let the woman rant on as much as she likes.' Realising that she was ranting herself, she gave a half-smile and made an effort to lighten up. 'I must say I enjoyed some of these names. Nitpicker.'

'Passionella.'

'I wonder what she calls you and me.'

'Better not ask,' Stella said. 'Anyway, I've read it, like you asked. Seems to me she wants to be a part of the action even at the cost of drawing suspicion on herself. Basically the diary shows she's in the clear, if it's true. And this latest entry supports Tudor's statement that he was at home all night.' She reached for another stack of printed sheets.

'Tudor.' Hen pulled a face. 'His stuff is even more of a pain to read. Remind me what he says about yesterday. Don't give me earache by reading the whole thing.'

Stella picked up the printout of Tudor's book and turned to the last sheet. '"And so to bed about three in the morning, dog-tired, pooped and tuckered, but with another two thousand words of purple prose in my trusty computer.'"

'Can you beat it? These bloody writers think they're God's gift. But you're right, Stell. Three a.m. was when his light went out according to Naomi.'

'So they're both in the clear.'

'Apparently.'

'Which means Naomi is right. We're down to the last three. Or four, if we include Fran.'

'Five,' Hen said. 'Naomi doesn't know if Basil went out that night, and neither do we.'

'Basil?' Stella had some difficulty grasping Basil as a serious suspect. 'He's easy to overlook, I'll grant you. Inoffensive, modest, devoted to his garden. Is he the worm that turned? But if he is, wouldn't he turn against Naomi? He had nothing against Blacker, or Miss Snow or Mrs Warmington-Smith.'

'Nothing we know about,' Hen said, and then added, 'He stays on my list.'

'He's on the fringe,' Stella said, giving serious consideration to Basil for the first time. 'Doesn't regard himself as a serious writer. Only joined to make up the numbers. I wonder if he hates the lot of them.'

'Might do.'

'But he's an ex-fireman. They don't start fires, do they?'

'Coppers can go wrong, so why not firemen?'

'He'd have to be a nutcase.'

'Whoever is doing it has to be a nutcase,' Hen said. 'But if you think about it, we're left with the level-headed ones. Dagmar never says anything outrageous. Thomasine is more animated, but has her feet on the ground. Fran has a kind of worldly wisdom learned from those years as the wife of a gangster. And Bob is the guy on the Clapham omnibus.'

'The Parcel Force van.'

'Right. Your all-round good egg. Not a nutter among them that I can see.'

The mention of Bob reminded Stella of something. She opened the drawer of her desk and took out the diary he had loaned her. 'While we're looking at their literary efforts — I didn't tell you about this, guv.'

'What is it?'

'Bob's poems. His doggerel, he calls it.'

'He lent them to you? He's very trusting. I wouldn't lend you an umbrella on a wet day.'

'Thanks!'

'Anything of interest?'

'I haven't had time to read them.'

'Let's hear one, then. They can't be worse than these other literary efforts.'

Stella thumbed through the pages and smiled. 'Here's a sample:

Is Basil green

When his wife is seen

With the new Tolkien?'

'Likes his puns, doesn't he?' Hen said, not much impressed.

'Okay,' Stella said, turning to another page. 'Here's one about a cat:

Amelia was a dancing cat, I'm able to disclose

Before she started writing the lives of all the Snows.'

'We're into T. S. Eliot territory now,' Hen said. 'One of the few things I remember from school, his poems on cats. Is there any more?'

'At the local writers' circle she sits beside the Chair

Keeping minutes of the meeting with single-minded care.

If the members criticise her she might give a little shrug

And privately remember how she used to cut the rug.

At home, she does her writing and if it doesn't flow

She'll choose another chapter, start another Snow.

But as the night approaches and the work gets really tough

She allows herself a memory of how she'd strut her stuff.

For Amelia was a dancing cat, I'm able to disclose

Before she started writing the lives of all the Snows.'

'What's he on about here?' Hen said, frowning. 'This is Miss Snow, right?'

'Must be.'

'Does he know something we don't? You're the one who interviewed him. Did you ever hear about Miss Snow being a dancer?'

'Sounds unlikely, guv.'

'Is it his quirky sense of humour?'

'He's got that for sure.'

'How would he know what she got up to? He was new to the circle.'

'He did visit her house on two occasions, once to borrow the video of Blacker at the circle and once to return it.'

Hen raised both thumbs. 'You're right, Stell. I was forgetting. I'm sure you questioned him about the visits?'

'Of course. I thought we covered everything. He doesn't hold back.'

'But the dancing didn't come up?'

Stella shook her head. 'Does it matter?'

'Don't know yet.'

'What time are you expecting your dad?'

'Depends,' Sue Naylor said on the phone.

'On what, love?'

'On the job. Like sometimes he's here when I get in from school and sometimes he gets in really late.'

'It's not regular hours, you mean?'

'Yeah.'

'Does he have a mobile?'

'For emergencies only, he says. He don't like me calling when he's on the road.'

'What's the number?'

Hen got through to Bob directly. The signal wasn't good, but she heard him say, 'Thanks a bunch. Is this how you nick people, then, calling them up on the motorway?'

She said, 'I want to ask about one of your poems.'

'Come again?'

'The things you write.'

'For crying out loud — I'm doing seventy on the M27 and you want to talk about writing?'

'The one about the dancing cat. "Amelia was a dancing cat".'

'I don't believe this.'

'Amelia was Miss Snow, right? Is there any truth in it — in the dancing, I mean?'

'Yeah.'

'She told you this herself?'

'Yeah.'

'Right. Where are you now?'

'Just passing Rownham services.'

'You'll be home shortly, then?'

'If I don't hit the bloody barrier, I will.'

'I'll be waiting at your house.'

These intervals of inactivity were a trial for Hen. She found herself thinking about the traitor in her team. Betrayal may not cause physical injury, but it hurts. By God, it hurts. The question of who had leaked Naomi the inside information troubled her almost as much as the identity of the arsonist. She'd been over it in her mind many times, recalling things that were said, meetings, interviews with suspects. She felt it ought to be possible to work it out. She could have asked Naomi — who would be evasive, but might cough it up eventually — but she preferred not to. Pride in her leadership demanded that she cleared this up herself. After all, the possibilities were limited. Stella wasn't the source. If she couldn't trust Stella she might as well jack in the job now. That left three names: Humphreys, Shilling and Cherry.

All logic said it was Humphreys. He knew Naomi. He was the one who'd interviewed her. But his denials had been solid and convincing.

Shilling was a more likeable lad than Andy. Brighter, too. He'd solved the mystery of the writing on the back of Blacker's picture. To Hen's certain knowledge he hadn't interviewed Naomi. Yet he did have this unfortunate knack of speaking up at inappropriate times. Immaturity, probably. She couldn't have absolute confidence in him.

And that left Johnny Cherry. If anyone had a vested interest in undermining her, it was Johnny. He couldn't handle the fact that the case had been taken out of his lap and handed to her. He was jealous, cynical and probably knew in his heart that he couldn't hack it as head of a murder investigation team. But there was a problem. Johnny, like Shilling, had had little to do with Naomi. Johnny had interviewed Sharon and Thomasine, but he'd scarely even spoken to Naomi. Satisfying as it might be to pin the blame on him, logic suggested otherwise.

Bob and his daughter lived in a council semi in Parklands, a large estate to the west of the city. Inside, it had the clutter you would expect of a place occupied by a shift-worker and his teenage daughter. Sue Naylor kicked aside some Tesco bags to clear a path to the living room. She was pretty without make-up, dressed in baggy jeans and a sleeveless top that displayed her tattoos. She went back to watching a soap on TV while Hen and Stella cleared some space on the sofa and sat down.

Bob arrived soon after, shaking his head at the idea of two detectives interested in his rhymes. But his temper had improved now he was off the road. He filled a ketde.

'Sure,' he said when Hen asked about Miss Snow, 'I didn't make it up. She was a dancer and a cat.'

'How do you mean?'

'She was in the musical, Cats — the original West End version. The chorus, I think. She had a photo on her wall of herself in tights and a cat costume. Nice figure, too. Surprising, isn't it, what some quiet little ladies have got up to in the past? She didn't seem the chorus girl type. I asked if it was really her and she said it was.'

'She must have been proud of it.'

'To have the picture on the wall? She didn't make much of it. I'm trying to remember what she said. Some stuff about dancing being a short career. Is it important, then?'

'Is that all?'

'There was some more, but not about the dancing. She was a bookkeeper, wasn't she? Retired, but still did a few audits for old times' sake, her dentist and what are those people who cut the corns off your feet?'

'Chiropodists.'

'No.'

'Excuse me,' Hen said. 'I know about chiropodists. I get my feet done by one in Bognor.'

He snapped his fingers. 'Podiatrists.'

'Same thing, buster.'

'Okay, don't get heavy with me. As I pointed out to her, she was working the old barter system. She did their books and they did her feet and her teeth.'

'It sounds as if she opened up with you.'

'A load of stuff about Maurice, the chairman. She was all steamed up on account of him being nicked for the fire at Blacker's house.'

'What sort of stuff — his past?'

He hesitated, and it was clear that he was stalling. 'A bit of this and that.'

'His time in prison?'

A look of relief. 'Right, so you know all about that. And how he was sure to be stitched up unless we did something about it. She meant well.'

'I'm sure. And she wanted your help?'

'Anyone's. She wasn't the only one trying to help Maurice. Thomasine and Dagmar were worried, too. He's popular with the ladies.'

'Getting back to Miss Snow, how did she first approach you?'

'Phone. She asked me to come to the shop.'

'The charity shop where she helped out?'

'I met her there before we went round to Tower Street. She was running it single-handed. The place stank of old clothes. I wouldn't have stuck that job for ten minutes.'

'If she was alone in the shop, what happened when she took you home? Did she have to close?'

He said with a flash of annoyance, 'Don't you believe me? I'm telling it straight. She phoned the women's refuge and asked for someone to take over. We waited for her, a foreigner called Nadia or some such. Refugee, I reckon.' He winked without letting his face soften. 'That's what a refuge is for, refugees, isn't it?'

Provocation. Remembering her visit to the refuge with DC Shilling, Hen let the question remain unanswered. She was investigating serial arson, not illegal immigrants. 'Moving on, you made a second visit to Tower Street. Is that right?'

He nodded. 'The night before I was caught in the boat house fire.'

'What happened?'

'She said she needed the video back. It was late in the evening. After eleven.'

'What did you think?'

He looked straight into her eyes. 'I could have thought I'd got lucky.'

'Be serious.'

'She was in a state.'

'DI Cherry had asked her for the video, guv,' Stella said.

'So you went to the house,' Hen prompted Bob.

'And I could tell it wasn't just the video she was worried about. She told me about this call she'd had setting up the meeting in the boat house.'

'What was the pretext?'

'He was claiming — this was a man's voice, she said — to have the proof that Maurice McDade was innocent and he was willing to hand it over the next morning at eight.'

'She didn't know the voice?'

'It was indistinct, she told me.'

'But definitely male?'

'That was what she said.'

'You understand the importance of this?' Hen said. 'We believe this was the arsonist. He tried to set up the meeting in the boat house with Miss Snow and he meant to kill her there.'

'He nearly did for me instead.'

Yes, and we don't know whether he knew it was you in there when he torched the place. You were lucky to escape.'

'Tell me about it!'

'But Miss Snow was still the real target, and he set light to her house at the next opportunity. The key to all this is the reason why these women — Miss Snow and Mrs Warmington-Smith — were targeted. Their homes went up in flames, so any personal documents, pictures, other evidence that could be of interest, were destroyed. That's why your memory of the interior of the Tower Street house is important to us. We didn't know about her theatrical experience.'

'Does that link up, then?'

'Now you're asking. It may tie in with the other victims in some way.'

Bob smiled. He was more relaxed now. 'I can't picture Jessie Warmington-Smith as a show girl.'

'Like you say, you find out surprising things when you dig a bit. Have you any theatrical experience, Bob?'

He pulled a face. 'Christ, no. I couldn't go on a stage to save my life.'

'Amateur theatricals?'

It was obvious he didn't like being pressed. The petulance returned. 'I said no.'

'Why not?' Stella said. 'You're an outgoing guy. You seem to get on with people. Women obviously feel comfortable with you.'

'Where's this leading?' he asked, tight-lipped.

'Let's get back to Miss Snow,' Hen said quickly. 'Did you notice anything else that might tell us more about her?'

'No.'

'More pictures?'

'Some family photos.'

'Books?'

He sighed, making it clear that all this was an imposition.

'A dictionary. Some books of quotations. Set of Who Was who:

'Nothing out of the ordinary?'

'I did see a fitness mag with some muscleman on the cover.' He couldn't resist a gag. 'I guess his name was Snow.'

'What was it called?'

'Now you're asking.'

'Try.'

'The Bodybuilder, I think.'

'I can't picture Miss Snow pumping iron,' Hen said. 'Why did she have a magazine like that?'

'For the pictures?'

She gave a chesty laugh. 'Maybe. Maybe.' She turned to Stella. 'There could be a link with Lord Chalybeate here. Does he still publish magazines? We'd better get hold of one.'

'Lord who?' Bob asked.

'Doesn't matter,' Hen said, sensing as she spoke that she'd closed him down too quickly. She didn't want him digging any more than he had. 'Anyway, thanks to you we've learned a thing or two about Miss Snow. What about Mrs Warmington-Smith?'

'What about her?'

'Did you visit her at home?'

'Do you mind? She was old enough to be my gran.'

She repeated the question.

He said, 'I don't think anyone was invited there. She put up the shutters if you tried to get near. A very private person.'

'She can't have been all that private if she came to the circle and read out her work.'

'None of it was personal. It was how to make pickled onions.'

'Didn't any of them know her well?'

'I doubt it.'

'She wasn't timid,' Hen said, trying to get a better response. 'She didn't mind going for late-night walks.'

'I wouldn't know about that.'

'She seems to have fancied herself as a psychic as well.'

'Sidekick?'

'Psychic. Like Joan of Arc'

He shook his head. 'That's news to me.'

'She didn't hear voices. She saw things, apparently'

'And ended up as toast, just like Joan of Arc'

In the car, Hen said to Stella, 'What was that line of his about Miss Snow doing her secretary bit? "… she sits beside the Chair. ."'

'. . taking minutes of the meeting with single-minded care.

Hen pondered this for a while. 'He's a bloody good observer. Remember the video of Blacker's visit? She had her head down right through the meeting. Even when he discussed her book she didn't speak. As I recall it, other people spoke on her behalf as if she wasn't there. Maurice McDade. Anton Gulliver. And when Blacker delivered his verdict on the script she still didn't say anything.'

'Is that important, guv?'

'Might be.' She went silent, alone with her thoughts again. The car travelled to the next traffic lights before she started up again. 'There could be something in this, Stell. Why was she so quiet? A secretary taking minutes isn't like a shorthand typist. They're not trying to catch every word. They're summarising. They have a chance to chip in with a comment here and there. You'd think she'd want to speak when her book was being discussed. Not a word.'

'I expect she saw him after the meeting.'

'No. She avoided him. Dagmar picked up the script for her. Miss Snow was supposedly too busy handing round competition forms. She asked Dagmar to collect her script.'

'Why?'

Hen's thoughts were slotting into place. She sensed she was on the brink of something significant. 'The moment Blacker walked into that room, Amelia Snow wanted the floor to swallow her up. She recognised him from way back.'

'An ex-boyfriend?'

'Worse than that.'

'Someone she'd dumped?'

'Much worse.'

'A rapist? He raped her when she was a young girl?'

'If he did, he got away with it. He's got a clean record. No, Stell, I'm wondering if it has to do with his time as editor of those men's magazines. Amelia Snow was a chorus girl. What year did Cats open?'

'Must have been in the early eighties.'

'You sure of that?'

'I was taken to see the original show as a birthday treat, round about my seventh birthday. That would have been January, eighty-two. It had been running some months already.'

'Let's say eighty-one, then. The timing is spot on. Eighty-two was the date of the "Innocents" photo. We're dealing in coincidences here, but when you get enough of them it adds up to something bigger. Do you see what I'm getting at?'

'Not really.'

'She had a nice figure. Did you hear that?'

Stella's mouth shaped as if to whistle as she grasped what Hen was saying. 'Blacker got her to pose for one of his porn magazines?'

'Chatted her up, got her drunk, talked her into stripping off for the camera. That's the way they got their dirty pictures according to Lord Chalybeate. After it, she'd feel used, abused, mortified. She'd do her best to forget it. Then, twenty years later, the guy who seduced her walks into the New Park Centre to lecture the circle on publishing. No wonder she kept her head down. Does that sound possible?'

Stella weighed it before answering. 'Up to a point.'

'What's wrong with it?'

Hen waited for Stell's answer. They'd worked together long enough to be frank.

'They're both dead, Blacker and Miss Snow. Who would have wanted to kill them both, and why? The theory is all right, guv, but it doesn't seem to fit what happened.'

'It does,' Hen said, feeling and sounding more confident than she had at any stage. 'Someone else had a reputation to protect, a big reputation.'