Murder by the Book (4 page)

‘Then why do you ignore me?' he asked intently, his moody gaze fixed on a point far beyond the confines of the room. ‘Why do you refuse to answer my letters? I wrote to you just last week.'

‘I'm extremely busy. Your letter must have gone astray among all the others—'

‘As if my letters matter less to you than those of the hacks you represent.'

She gritted her teeth. She should turn and walk away, or tell the conceited little man just what she really thought about him.

He went on: ‘Maria, can't you see how much you mean to me? Our time together last year … Our meetings meant the world to me. They live in my memory as times of fulfilment and joy.'

She stared at him. ‘Please. I told you, some things are just not meant to happen.'

‘How can you say that if you do not give me another chance? What did I do wrong?'

He stared at her, and the sudden intensity of his attention was intimidating. ‘You did nothing
wrong
…' she floundered.

‘Then why do you treat me so cruelly?' he implored. ‘What is wrong with me? I have looks, erudition and, I think I am correct in saying, not a little literary talent.'

She almost laughed at his inability to see himself as the insufferable, arrogant prig – and failed writer – that he was. She said, ‘There is nothing wrong with you. It's just that … there needs to be a certain … chemistry between people, no? A spark?'

‘And you are saying that I fail to ignite that spark?'

She deplored the weakness in herself that would not allow her to tell him the truth: that he was an insufferable egotist whom she hated a little more every time they met.

‘I don't know …' she said, and took refuge in a long drink of champagne.

His livid gaze fixed on the far door, he said, ‘You are seeing someone else, aren't you?'

She spluttered on the bubbly. ‘No, I am
not
! Why should you think …?'

‘Then if you are seeing no one, why cannot you at least consent to accompany me occasionally?'

The arrogance of the man! ‘My God …' she muttered under her breath.

A silence simmered between them. She was about to walk away when he said, ‘I recall the last time we met. We had drinks at that West End bar, and then I took you to Bertrand's Gallery. You admired a rather nice watercolour by
Myles Birkett Foster.'

She shrugged as if to say,
what of it
?

He went on: ‘You made me appreciate the qualities of the painting, Maria. I went back and bought it last week. It looks rather good in my hall …'

She stared at him, simmering with rage. Fortunately his gaze was elsewhere and he did not see the fury in her eyes. She had told him – she was sure she had told him – that she intended to buy the watercolour as a present for her father's sixtieth birthday.

She was determined not to show her anger. ‘Well, I'm delighted for you.'

He glanced at her. ‘And on Thursday I hope to make another small purchase. At Sotheby's,' he finished.

She looked at him, suspicious. ‘Sotheby's?'

‘There is a very nice Italian silver statuette coming up for sale. I've heard on the grapevine that M Savagne is interested in the piece, and I've also heard that he is down on his uppers. I intend to purchase the piece before he can accumulate the requisite funds.'

She stared at him, open-mouthed, and he went on: ‘I have, with considerable effort, raised three thousand, and I have always admired the statuette.'

Poor Monsieur Savagne, she thought; he would never persuade Gideon Martin to part with it.

He said, ‘But enough of that. Did I tell you, Maria, that I think you the most beautiful girl in London?' He reached out and grasped her hand.

Salvation, in the looming form of Dame Amelia Hampstead, hove into view. ‘Martin, unhand the girl this minute, or I shall report your febrile molestations to Monsieur Dupré forthwith!'

Martin started and looked up at the glowering dowager. ‘
You!
' he almost spat.

Maria pulled her hand from his grip and Martin, muttering to himself, turned on his heel and hurried from the room.

Maria touched Dame Amelia's plump hand. ‘You don't know how grateful I am!' she laughed.

‘Is that awful little man still chasing you, my dear?' Amelia asked.

Maria sighed. ‘He never leaves me in peace! Had I known he would be here tonight, I would not have accepted my father's invitation. He really is
intolerable
.'

Amelia patted her hand. ‘Well, your fairy godmother has saved your day. Waiter!' she called. ‘I think we shall have another two glasses of this rather excellent champagne.'

Dame Amelia was one of her favourite people on the London literary scene, which had nothing to do with the fact that she was also one of Charles Elder's leading authors. Amelia penned light-hearted but technically accomplished whodunits in the Christie and Sayers mould, did not take herself at all seriously, and treated Maria like a favourite niece.

‘Did I ever tell you that I penned a rather trenchant review of Gideon's first novel, back in 'forty-seven? He's never forgiven me for it.' She leaned closer to Maria and whispered. ‘But it deserved every word I wrote, and I must admit I was savage. It
was
terrible!'

‘I can imagine,' Maria said. ‘I made the mistake of reading one of his efforts after our first meeting. It was almost as conceited as the man himself.'

Dame Amelia laughed. ‘We really should have lunch very soon and catch up,' she said. ‘I will call you at the agency and arrange something at Martinelli's next week.' She peered across the room. ‘My word, am I mistaken or is that
really
Maurice? You haven't met? Then I shall introduce you!' And, taking Maria firmly by the hand, she escorted her across the room.

The evening wore on and, in comparison to Gideon Martin, the other guests were the acme of sophistication and courteousness. Maria had a third glass of champagne and at one point scanned the crowd for any sign of the obnoxious man, but he had taken the hint and left the party.

It was only later, on her fourth glass of champagne while she was thinking of Monsieur Savagne being outmanoeuvred by Martin, that an exquisite notion occurred to her. She cornered her father and regaled him with her idea, and to her delight he said that he would think it over.

She enjoyed the rest of the evening and it was after one o'clock by the time she arrived back at her Kensington apartment.

L
angham sat in his Austin Healey and glanced at his wristwatch.

It was five twenty-six and he told himself he'd enter the swimming baths on the dot of five thirty. Now that it was almost time to confront the youth, he was having second thoughts. It was all very well to promise Charles an expedient outcome in the comfort of his office after a stiff drink, but the reality of the situation was another thing entirely. It was nine years since he'd worked at the investigative agency, and since then had cosseted himself in a safe fictional world that existed entirely within the bounds of his imagination. He was about to confront someone who was obviously not averse to criminal acts, and he was more than a little apprehensive.

He was parked in a quiet side street off Lower Clapton Road. The public swimming baths, a solid Victorian pile in grey Portland stone, dominated the street like a duchess down on her luck. Parents with children exited through the peeling blue doors, along with individual men and women carrying rolled towels. The baths closed at six and were emptying fast.

He watched a couple pass along the pavement. Hand in hand, they gazed at each other as they walked, welded together by the force of obvious mutual attraction. He felt a sudden pang when he mistook the woman for Maria – they shared the same slight stature and gamine good looks – but then the woman laughed and he realized he was mistaken. Maria was far lovelier.

He looked at his watch and smiled. So much for punctuality. It was five thirty-three. He left the car and hurried across the road and up the steps.

The overwhelming chemical stench of chlorine hit him as he pushed open the heavy double doors. He was confronted by low turnstiles, and memories of his schooldays came flooding back. Once a week his class had walked through the streets of Nottingham to the public bathhouse, similar in every respect to this one. He'd loathed these trips, hated the shock of immersion in what seemed like ice-cold water, hated the dead cockroaches bobbing in the water along with the wadded sticking plasters. But most of all he'd hated the swimming instructor, a vindictive old man dressed all in white who mocked poor swimmers, like Langham, and was not averse to using a thick bamboo pole as a painful, prodding weapon.

‘Are you going to stand there all day or do you want to go in?' A sour-faced woman stared at him through an arched grille beside the turnstile. ‘It's thruppence, but you'd better be sharpish. Baths close at six.'

Langham paid the entrance fee and pushed through the stiff turnstile.

The pool itself was situated in a cavernous, eerily echoing chamber where the reek of chlorine was even stronger. The rectangle of blue water was a shimmering lens magnifying the dirty white tiles. Changing cubicles with swing doors, like the entrances of saloons in cowboy films, flanked the pool. During the war the pool itself had been boarded over and the chamber utilized as a recruitment station, and even now, ten years after VE Day, faded posters exhorted the wartime populace to Keep Calm and Carry On, Buy War Bonds, and Dig for Victory.

The last of the swimmers hauled themselves from the pool and hurried, dripping, across the tiles to the changing cubicles. Within seconds Langham was all alone in the chamber and he felt his gorge rise with nausea as the smell brought back unpleasant memories.

At the far end of the pool a figure in white, like a younger version of his one-time persecutor, leaned against the tubular chrome frame of the diving boards and fixed him with a level gaze.

Langham walked around the pool, his footsteps ringing on the tiles. ‘Kenneth?' he asked.

The boy nodded, suspicious. Langham was surprised at how young he appeared, and amazed that Charles had allowed his head to be turned by such an unprepossessing specimen. Kenneth was skinny, unhealthily pale, and his thin face was made even more unattractive by a sullen scowl.

‘Don't like the stink?'

‘Is it that obvious?' Langham replied.

‘Either that or you don't like the company.' The youth continued to lean casually against the bars. He nodded to the cubicles. ‘Young boys, they piss on the boiling hot water pipes. Charmin', they are.' Without a change of tone, he said, ‘You a copper?'

‘Do I look like one?'

The youth perked up. ‘A guardsman, then? You look the military type.'

‘I was sent by Charles Elder.'

No flicker of recognition passed across the youth's face. ‘He a customer?'

‘That's right.'

The boy nodded, pushed himself languorously from the diving frame and said over his shoulder, ‘This way.'

Glancing around self-consciously to ensure he was not being observed, he followed the youth from the pool and along an ill-lit corridor. Kenneth's shoulder blades were prominent beneath the white shirt, the material of his trousers tight across his buttocks.

He considered Charles's lack of inhibition, his readiness to assuage his libido. Langham had been celibate for over six years now, sublim-ating his desires in work and more work, and the occasional binge drink, and lacking … what? The gall or bravery to confront his loneliness and do something about it.

Not that one-night stands with women would help him, he knew, just as Charles's assignation with the youth had done nothing to ease
his
loneliness; it merely provided a release of his needs.

Langham felt a quick surge of revulsion, soon quashed.

They came to a small room equipped with massage tables and leather-upholstered benches. He looked around, searching for the vantage point from which the youth's accomplice would have taken the photographs. There were a couple of doors leading to other rooms, and an interior window looking into a room equipped with gym apparatus and punch bags.

The youth locked the door behind him, then leaned against it and smiled at Langham.

‘I don't come cheap,' he said. ‘S'cuse the pun.'

‘I know that,' Langham replied. ‘A hundred pounds?'

Kenneth looked startled, then elated. ‘A hundred knicker? Christ, what you want me to do for that?'

Langham smiled. ‘You misunderstand me, Kenneth. A hundred pounds is what you're demanding from my friend, Charles.'

Kenneth's face was a picture of mystification. ‘You're talking in riddles, mate.'

Langham studied the boy's expression, watching his eyes for tell-tale signs of duplicity. ‘Last week you and Charles were photographed in here. Now someone wants a hundred pounds from Charles in order that your little assignation is kept quiet. Would you happen to know anything about that?'

The youth swallowed. He shook his head. ‘Don't know nothing about any blackmail, honest.'

Langham kept his expression neutral. ‘Who was your accomplice? Who took the photographs from …' he nodded towards the interior window, ‘from in there, while you and Charles …?'

Kenneth turned a shade paler. This time, no words came.

Langham found himself relishing the sudden sensation of power. He stepped forward. The youth flinched, a sudden galvanic reaction to Langham's proximity. He lifted his hands quickly before his face and scuttled sideways along the wall until he collided with a massage table and had another start of shock.

Langham found himself pitying the boy. ‘There's an easy way to go about this, Kenneth, and there's a hard way.'

Petrified, the boy nodded.