Murder Offstage (12 page)

‘She is!’ barked Inspector Oats. ‘She’s Lucky Lucy Gibson!
We’ve been after her for years.’

‘Well, Inspector. It seems you have been after a shadow, or
a ghost, or something that doesn’t exist. There is no birth certificate, no
passport, no identity papers;
nothing
for a Lucy Gibson. I’ve checked
and my Court Officials have been frantically calling everyone they can – the
Registry Office, the Passport Agency. No stone has been left unturned. No-one
has
ever
been registered with the name Lucy Gibson who matches the
corpse in our Mortuary here. It seems we have been doing your work for you,
Inspectors, and I’m not best pleased.’

Next to Posie the priest was scrunching up his bag of sweets
and gathering up his umbrella, ready to leave. The Commissioner looked ready to
explode, and Inspectors Oats and Lovelace were looking at the Coroner,
incredulous.

‘So, I will leave the name blank on my report,’ he
concluded, patting his papers. ‘When you find out her real name, let me know.
Now, this Inquest is adjourned and I am off for my lunch. I sincerely hope for
you, Inspectors, that you have some other leads in this case?’

And both Inspectors looked at Posie, and Posie looked at
Rufus and he rolled his eyes to heaven.

‘I
told
you that Lucy Gibson wasn’t her real name,’
he muttered crossly. ‘I
told
you.’

****

Outside on the pavement, they stood together in an
awkward little group: the two Inspectors, plus Posie and Len and Rufus.
Overhead, storm clouds scudded across the sky. There was already the tang of
brine in the air. The heavens opened suddenly and they huddled under umbrellas.

‘Ah, rain!’ said Inspector Oats, taking a drag on his pipe.
He felt uncomfortable standing next to a freed Rufus; unsure of what the next
steps would be. The Commissioner had just spent the last ten minutes bellowing
loudly and for all to hear at Inspectors Oats and Lovelace: they were now
instructed to work together on the investigation, with Inspector Lovelace taking
the lead. They were instructed to take whatever advice and leads were
forthcoming, including to ‘use that girl who calls herself a private detective
if you have to.
’ Which meant co-operating with this annoying girl and her
pals, for now.

Inspector Lovelace was downhearted too.

‘All I can say is thank goodness the press weren’t allowed
in. We got a mauling enough without it being front-page news. We need to get
this case back on track, Oats. Pronto.’

Posie coloured a little at his mention of the press; if her
plan was going as it should, the story of the
La Luna
bust would be all
over news-stands just about now, on the cover of the
Associated Press
.
And then there would be a mauling, she thought uncomfortably, and
she
would be the one getting mauled.

‘You should have told me she stole your gun,’ she hissed at
Rufus. ‘It would have been good to know.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered at the pavement. ‘I wanted to tell
you, then I just clammed up. I knew it didn’t make it any better for me.’

‘Cyanide poisoning, eh?’ said Len, cocking his head
inquisitively and lighting a cigarette against the wind.

‘Mnnn,’ nodded Inspector Lovelace. ‘Took me down a peg or
two, that. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t spot it. The blue was a very light
shade, just a fraction darker than normal rigor mortis…’

‘It doesn’t help much anyway,’ growled Inspector Oats. ‘The
world and his wife can get their hands on cyanide at a moment’s notice in any
chemist! Why, I even put it down in our shed in Isleworth to deal with rats…and
gardeners use it all the time for snails.’

‘Mnn, I wonder…’ said Len, half under his breath. He stubbed
the cigarette out on the kerb. Posie saw a gleam of interest in his eye.

‘What?’

‘It’s maybe nothing. But cyanide is used by photographers.
On a daily basis. We have to use it in the darkroom.’

Posie nodded, interested.

‘And we know one of the gang following you is a
photographer…even the paper these people use is impregnated with the smell of
zirconium, so…’

‘Go on.’

‘I can’t. It takes us no closer to finding the killer, or
your stalker for that matter…and no closer to the Maharajah diamond, either.’

‘Come on, folks. I think we should all go back to the Yard,
have a hot lunch and then work out a plan of action,’ said Inspector Lovelace,
gesturing forwards, trying to take charge. Posie nodded, but Len and Rufus
shook their heads in unison.

‘I have a lunch date,’ Rufus muttered, and turned on his
heel. He made a pitiful figure dashing through the rain in his creased clothes,
without a coat or hat, a mere sketch of a man. But Posie understood: he had
spent more than enough of his time lately at Scotland Yard.

Len shrugged and waved over his shoulder:

‘Maybe later? I’ve got to follow up on something else just
now.’

So it was only Posie who walked the ten minutes to Scotland
Yard with both Inspectors. They walked in silence and rather awkwardly,
negotiating their umbrellas carefully among the crowds on the pavement, where
the sudden rain was washing away the ice and snow into soggy grey rivers of
unattractive slush. Victoria was busy. It was lunchtime, but even so, and even
with the sound of the rain slapping down on the wet pavements, she thought she
heard footsteps trailing behind her, just on her tail. Again.

Turning abruptly, she saw a black mass of umbrellas and dark
rain-jackets, and close by she saw the top of a priest’s black Biretta hat,
sailing hurriedly off to the left somewhere in the crowd. Her heart jumped into
her mouth. Was it just a coincidence?

‘I say,’ she hissed to the Inspectors, ‘why was that
Catholic priest at the Inquest? Did you invite him specially? I thought he
might be a character witness, but he was never called.’

‘What priest?’ asked Inspector Lovelace, surprised. Oats
shook his head.

Posie laughed. ‘You couldn’t have missed him! He was
crunching sweets so loudly I thought the Coroner was going to order him to be
quiet.’

‘Nope, no idea,’ said Inspector Lovelace, ushering her in
through the big iron gates, and signalling left towards the staff canteen.

Posie felt a stab of fear.
What exactly was going on?

Who were all these people who, quite simply, didn’t really
exist?

****

Thirteen

‘The thing I don’t like about this whole case is that
nothing and no-one is quite what it seems,’ said Inspector Lovelace anxiously,
frowning and crossing his arms behind his desk.

Posie nodded: it was exactly what she thought. She sat more
primly than she might have done otherwise, aware of Inspector Oats, equally
uncomfortable beside her, holding onto his weighty black file.

‘The victim is not who we thought she was, and we have no
real suspects for her murder. Apart from your pal, Rufus. And the entire of the
London underworld, that is…’

Rain slashed in angry fingers against the window pane, and
although it was only early afternoon the sky was dark purple outside. The
office seemed grimmer than usual, and less welcoming. No biscuits were offered
today.

‘So, then. Any thoughts, either of you? And we’d better come
up with something pretty special. I’ve been informed our jobs are on the line.’

Posie’s mind was a blank. She wanted desperately to help
Inspector Lovelace but the puzzle wasn’t coming together how it was supposed to
just yet.

Oats was very quiet, stroking his moustache. Posie glanced
at him for a second – she noticed now how his pinstriped suit looked like it needed
a good pressing, and there was a spot of what looked like egg yolk on his tie.
He looked a mess, and tired too. And now his job was under threat.
Surprisingly, Posie felt a stab of pity for him, but then she remembered the
way he had treated Rufus so abominably over the last few days, and the way he
had loomed up in front of her after Rufus’ bail hearing yesterday, when he had
told her to keep away from the case, although all she had done was try and
help. He really was a useless oaf!

‘Could I take a look at your file, please. Inspector?’

Oats darted Posie an incredulous look, before glancing at
Inspector Lovelace, who simply nodded. Oats surrendered the file with an ill
grace. She ran through it briskly, head bent in the light thrown up by the
reading lamp.

It was mainly a well-assembled series of press cuttings and
police reports involving the antics of Lucky Lucy Gibson, covering a criminal
career reaching back over the last ten years, mainly involving stolen jewels.
Inspector Oats had been thorough, Posie had to admit. Every few pages Posie
turned, she came face to face with a different photo of the girl; the same
coltish eyes staring out at her from a number of different hairstyles, various
different disguises. Posie scanned reports of various Mayfair hotel jewel
robberies, a spectacular theft of some magnificent yellow diamonds from a royal
princess, and lastly, over a year ago now, a stint as a sales girl in a
well-known jewellery shop on Bond Street which had culminated in a theft of
gemstones on an enormous scale. In each of these crimes the girl had been
working under the name the police had come to know her by – Lucy Gibson – and
there were even inky copies of official payslips from the Bond Street shop
addressed to her in that name. These must have been the payslips the Coroner
had been supplied with.

It was evident that Lucy had never been caught, never
brought to trial. Pages of initial witness statements were bunched together in
one fat envelope from various crimes, but each was ruled through with thick red
pen with the words INADMISSIBLE.

‘When it came to the crunch, no-one would ever stand up in
Court and testify against her,’ explained Inspector Oats, reading over Posie’s
shoulder. ‘We think Lucy or the gangsters she worked with intimidated or bribed
these witnesses. So we could never get her. We never had an address for her
either, to track her down; she just seemed to disappear into thin air.’

‘She was a clever girl,’ Posie whistled. ‘What went wrong
this time, I wonder?’

Posie flicked back through the file. ‘It looks like she
started her life of crime in 1911. She was busy for five years, then she went
quiet through the Great War, and she started up again two years ago. Then a
year ago it all went quiet again, which is when we now know she started to work
at the theatre. Interesting, about her going missing during the war…’

‘Why?’

‘It’s nothing really. I wonder where she went to then,
that’s all... I would have thought London in the war years was rich pickings
for gangsters. Fewer policemen. Less security. Countless aristocrats hiding out
here, waiting for peace, carrying their treasures with them. Easy pickings,
surely, for a girl like Lucy?’

There was a very short report made on the search at Lionel
Le Merle’s lodgings the previous day. He had lived in a room in a run-down
house in Soho, which he had apparently shared with almost the whole orchestra
from the Athenaeum Theatre. The search had yielded no real results: no papers,
nothing of value or interest.

‘There’s no background information on Mr Le Merle?’ Posie
asked, surprised. ‘No history of previous employment? Reports of previous
crimes?’

‘No,’ snapped Inspector Oats, clicking his tongue angrily
against the roof of his mouth. ‘We haven’t found any official records for him.
None whatsoever. It’s as if he didn’t exist either. That’s why there was no
formal Inquest into his death before now.’

‘Perhaps he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time?’
ventured Inspector Lovelace.

‘Absolutely not,’ Posie shook her head insistently. ‘They
were in on something together. Mr Blake said they joined the theatre at the
same time. And why is there no mention in this file of Caspian della Rosa,
owner of the theatre?’ said Posie in exasperation.

‘He’s key to this whole case, I’m sure of it. You heard the
Forensics Officer at the Inquest. The murderer of Lucky Lucy was in the club
last night, shooting around carelessly with the same gun! And we as good as saw
Caspian della Rosa; we
heard
him anyway, coming down a corridor
following a series of gunshots.’

‘That’s not evidence!’ scoffed Inspector Oats. ‘Besides,
Count della Rosa was a name I had never heard of until today. He’s not known to
us here at the Yard; never has been.’

Inspector Oats glowered at Posie, thinking what an annoying
little troublemaker she was, and how he would have liked to have given her and
her toffee-nosed pals a good hiding.

‘Tell me just what kind of unknown criminal can come out of
the blue and cause this level of mayhem?’

Posie slammed the file shut, ignoring the pages and pages of
carefully typed up evidence against Rufus which made up the last part of the
folder.

‘I take it that Rufus Cardigeon is no longer a suspect in
these investigations?’ she asked sweetly.

‘Rufus Cardigeon is a suspect for as long as
I
say he
is. He’s still out on bail, remember? I still have no proof he wasn’t up to his
neck in the Le Merle murder. Damned unreliable fool. All that twaddle about his
stolen gun. What kind of idiot doesn’t realise his gun has been nicked?’

Posie stared back at Inspector Oats. He looked cross, and
smug too, just like he had after the bail hearing on Tuesday. But what was it
he had said to her then, which hadn’t made sense at the time but which she had
stored up for future reference?

It suddenly became clear to her. Thoughts jumbled together
in her mind, a few pieces of the puzzle making sense at last. Blindingly
obvious.

‘YES!’ Posie exclaimed, excitedly. ‘I think I may be able to
help.’ Both Inspectors stared at her, a mixture of hope and wary expectation on
their faces.

‘It was something
you
told me, Inspector Oats, on
Tuesday.’

‘What did I tell you?’ Oats said gruffly, flustered. He
couldn’t remember imparting any pearls of wisdom to this stuck-up little madam,
especially not about the case.

‘You said that “
the beauty of a diamond is in its
transportability, like drugs
”
.
Do you remember?’

‘Um, I may have said that. I don’t recall. But, yes, the
statement itself is true enough.’

‘What’s your point, Posie?’ insisted Inspector Lovelace
gently. ‘The
whole
case is important: we can’t just focus on that one
wretched missing Maharajah diamond, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m not talking about one diamond, although it would be
lovely to find that particular one, of course,’ she shook her head. ‘No, I’m
talking about
diamonds
. In the plural. Hundreds of the things; thousands
of pounds’ worth of them. I’m talking about smuggling diamonds! Lucy was an
out-and-out jewel thief; she knew her stuff, that much is clear from the file.
I think that what we may have blundered into is a wholescale operation of
smuggling diamonds in and out of the country! Which is why the
La Luna
club, despite being a hotspot for celebrities, was a useful venue for the gang,
as it burrows right under…’

‘HATTON GARDEN! Diamond centre of the City of London!’
exclaimed Inspector Lovelace, banging his fist down on his desk in glee. ‘I
wondered if there was some possible link-up.’

He frowned. ‘But let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ he said,
more reservedly now. ‘We scoured the main club itself within an inch of its
life and we found nothing. And there are hundreds of tunnels and passageways
which will take our boys weeks to investigate properly. But so far not so much
as a diamond chipping! We’ve found nothing!’

‘No,’ said Posie firmly. ‘That’s not quite true, Inspector;
you recovered musical instrument cases. I’ll bet you sure as bread is bread
that if you give them to Mr Maguire in your forensics team he’ll be able to
find some miniscule carbon particles which will turn out to be tiny diamond
fragments. That’s how they’re doing this! They smuggle diamonds inside music
cases.’

‘Who?’ said Inspector Oats, sluggishly.

‘Members of the Athenaeum Theatre’s orchestra, of course!’
said Inspector Lovelace, nodding. ‘And Posie’s right: if this mysterious Count
is the owner of the theatre, what’s the betting he’s ringleader of the gang
too? We need to speak to this man. Ask him questions.’

‘But the theatre’s nothing to do with any of this,’ insisted
Inspector Oats stubbornly.

‘I disagree,’ said Posie, shaking her head, ‘I think this
case has everything to do with the theatre. But it’s what happens
offstage
which counts. It’s a slick operation. Both of the dead victims were part of
it.’

Inspector Lovelace had a fiery glint in his eye, and he
nodded excitedly. ‘I think you might be right, Posie. We need to move.’

‘But
why
were they killed? And by
who
?’ asked
Inspector Oats, flabbergasted.

‘I’m not sure yet. But we’ll do our best to find out,’ said
Inspector Lovelace reassuringly, taking charge.

‘Oats, you go and make enquiries among the diamond
merchants; find out if anyone will talk about their dealings with Lucky Lucy,
or Lionel Le Merle, or even this Caspian della Rosa fellow – perhaps we’ll get
a lead that way? And also try the theatre, as we should have done already.
Search the place. Try and find some incriminating evidence. Search Le Merle’s
house in Soho again too. I’ll interview that fool of a Theatre Manager, Blake,
and his right-hand man, the programme-seller, Reggie. They’re sitting in the
cells downstairs.’

‘What shall
I
do?’ asked Posie eagerly. ‘We need
information on Count Caspian and you don’t seem to have anything here at
Scotland Yard. Can I call the club in St James where I ran into him first? I
simply assumed he was living there, but thinking about it now I expect it was a
clever mirage to simply give me that impression. But he
must
leave
traces somewhere – he’s not a ghost.’

Inspector Lovelace shook his head feebly. ‘Only authorised
police personnel can investigate, I’m afraid, Posie. Sorry. I’ll get a couple
of my lads on it now though. You can watch my interview with Mr Blake if you
like? Through the mirrored-glass screen?’

It was annoying, certainly, and belittling somehow, to be
excluded like this, but Posie secretly doubted that the police would be able to
find anything on Count Caspian anyway. She suspected he was too clever by half
for that. She nodded in resignation:

‘Fine. But also make sure your men check the title deeds to
the Athenaeum Theatre carefully at the Land Registry, too. Is the Count’s name
actually on them? Perhaps the deeds will give us some more useful information
about him: an address, a bank account, a business partner...something concrete
you can follow up on?’

Posie was just about to open her mouth and mention the
breaking story in the lunchtime newspaper, her hopes of flushing the Count out
in that way when Inspector Lovelace got in first, clapping his hands together
and effectively dismissing them both:

‘Let’s meet again this evening. Reconvene here at six-thirty
sharp with our reports.’

Posie picked up her coat from the hatstand, behind which she
now saw a faded green-and-brown wall-map of the world. Inspector Oats opened
the office door for her, as politely as he could manage, his black file safely
stashed under his arm again. He was like a terrier straining at the leash,
anxious to be out of the confined space, happy to have some new purpose. But
something made Posie stop still.

She reached up to the old map, wiping the dust away from
central Europe. She stared at it until it went blurry before her eyes, and then
a light went on in her head.

‘OF COURSE!’ she exclaimed certainly. ‘THE KEY IS BELGIUM!’

‘What now?’ snapped Oats.

‘
Belgium
! Isn’t Antwerp the diamond capital of the
world?’

Both Inspectors nodded, surprised.

‘The bullet which was meant to look like it had killed Lucky
Lucy came from a Belgian pistol, didn’t it? So what if we’ve been looking at
this the wrong way around?’

‘What
are
you on about now?’ Inspector Oats said,
fists clenched in frustration.