A Taste for Death (52 page)

'Why did Berowne go back to that church, incidentally? Do you know?'

'Possibly because of a new complication to do with his marriage. I think his wife told him that morning that she was pregnant.'

'There you are then. He was already having doubts. He goes back, faces the reality of what he's given up. There's nothing ahead but failure, humiliation, ridicule. He decides to end it then and there. He has the means to hand. While he's making his preparations, burning his diary, Harry comes in and tries to stop him. Result? Two bodies instead of one.'

'That assumes he didn't know Harry Mack was there. I think he did, he let him in. That's hardly the action ora man contemplating suicide.'

'You've no proof that he let him in. None that would satisfy a jury.'

'Berowne gave Harry part of his supper, wholem'al bread, Roquefort cheese, an apple. It's on the file. Y u aren't suggesting that Harry Mack bought his o n Roquefort? He couldn't have surprised Berowne. He'd been in the church for some time before Berowne died. He was bedded down in the larger vestry. There's physical evidence, hair, fibres from his coat, apart from the crumbs

384

of food. And he wasn't in the vestry or in the church when

Father Barnes locked up after Evensong.'

Nichols said:

'He thinks he locked up. Would he swear in the witness box that he turned the key in the south door, that he'd searched every pew? And why should he search? He wasn't expecting a murder. There are plenty of places where Harry, or a murderer for that matter, could have con-cealed himself. The church was dark presumably; a dim religious light.'

The AC had this habit of spattering his conversation with the odd half-quotation. Dalgliesh could never decide whether he knew that he was doing it or whether the words swam into his consciousness from some half-forgotten pool of schoolroom lore. Now he heard him say:

'How well did you know Berowne personally?'

'I saw him a couple of times across a committee room table. We travelled together to the conference on sen-tencing. He asked to see me once in his office. We walked through St James's Park to the House together. I liked him but I'm not obsessed with him. I don't identify with him more than anyone does with any victim. This isn't a personal crusade. But I admit to a perfectly reasonable objection to seeing him branded as the brutal murderer of

a man who died after he did.'

Nichols said:

'On the evidence of one small smudge of blood?' 'What evidence do we need?'

'To the fact of murder, none. As I said you don't have to convince me. But I don't see how you're going to get any further unless you find one irrefutable piece of evi-dence linking one of your suspects to the scene of the crime.' Nichols added, 'Sooner rather than later.'

'The Commissioner is getting complaints, I suppose.' 'The usual thing, two dead bodies, two throats severed, a murderer at large. Why aren't we arresting this dan-gerous lunatic instead of examining the cars, clothes and houses of respectable citizens? Did you find any trace on the suspects' clothes by the way?'

385

It was ironic, thought Dalgliesh, but not surprising; the new division set up to investigate serious crimes with sensi-tive undertones already accused of crass insensitivity. And he knew where the criticisms would have come from. He said:

'No, but I didn't expect any. This killer was naked or nearly naked. He had the means of washing himself to hand. Three passers-by heard the water gushing away shortly after eight.'

'Berowne washing his own hands before supper?'

'If so he was doing it very thoroughly.'

'But his hands were clean when you found him?' 'The left hand was. The right was heavily bloodied.' 'There you are then.' Dalgliesh said:

'Berowne's towel was hanging over a chair in the vestry, I think his murderer dried himself with the tea towel in the kitchen. It was still slightly damp, not in places but all over, when I touched it. And he was killed with one of his own razors. Berowne had two, Bellinghams, in a case by the washbasin. A casual intruder, or Harry Mack for that matter, wouldn't have known they were there, probably wouldn't even have recognized the case for what it was.'

'And what's a Bellingham for God's sake? Why couldn't the man use a Gillette or an electric razor like the rest of us? OK, so it was someone who knew he shaved with a cut-throat, knew he'd be at the church that night, had access to the Campden Hill Square house to collect the matches and the diary. You know who best fits that lis requirements? Berowne himself. And all you've got agai :t the suicide theory is one smudge of blood.'

Dalgliesh was beginning to think that those monosyllables would haunt him to the end of the case. said:

'You're not suggesting, I suppose, that Berowne half tt his throat, staggered over to Harry to murder dripping blood in the act, then staggered back agail to the other end of the room to make the third and final cat in his own throat?'

386

'No, but defence counsel might. And Doc Kynaston hasn't entirely ruled it out. You and I have known more

ingenious defences succeed.'

Dalgliesh said:

'He wrote something while he was in that vestry. The lab can't identify the words although they think it possible that he signed his name. The ink on the blotter is the same as the ink in his pen.'

'So he wrote a suicide note?' 'Possibly, but where is it now?' The AC said:

'He burnt it with the diary. All right, I know what you're going to say, Adam. Is it likely a suicide would burn a note once written? Well it's not impossible. He could have been dissatisfied with what he'd said. In-adequate words, too trite, let it go. After all, the action speaks for itself. Not every suicide goes documented into that good night.'

A flicker of Pleased surprise passed over his face as if he were gratified at the aptness of the allusion but would rather like to be able to remember where it came from. Dalgliesh said:

'There's one thing he could have written which it's unlikely he would have blotted immediately, and that is something that another person might well wish to de-stroy.'

Nichols was sometimes a little slow in grasping the point, but he was never afraid to take his time. He took it now. Then he said:

'That would need three signatures, of course. It's an interesting theory and it would certainly strengthen the motive for at least two of your suspects. But, again, there's no proof. We get back to that all the time. It's an ingenious edifice you've built up, Adam, I'm half-convinced by it. But what we need is solid, physical evidence.' He added: 'You could say it's like the church, an ingenious edifice erected on an unproved supposition, logical withi. its

terms, but only valid if one can accept the basic premise, :j'e existence of God.'

387

!ii

He seemed pleased with the analogy. Dalgliesh doubted if it were his own. He watched while the AC skimmed over the remaining pages of the file almost dismissively. Closing the file, he said:

'Pity that you haven't been able to trace Berowne's movements after he left 62 Campden Hill Square. He seems to have walked into thin air.'

'Not altogether. We know that he went to Westertons, the estate agents, in Kensington High Street and saw one of their negotiators, Simon Follett-Biggs. He asked someone from the firm to visit the next day to inspect and value the house. Again, hardly the action of a man contemplating suicide. Follett-Biggs says that he was as unconcerned as if he were giving them instructions to sell a forty-thousand one-bedroom basement flat. He did tactfully express his regrets that the family should be selling a house they'd lived in since it was first built. Berowne replied that they'd had it for a hundred and fifty years; it was time someone else had a turn. He didn't want to discuss it, only to ensure that someone came next morning to carry out the valuation. It was a short interview. He was away by eleven thirty. After that, we haven't been able to trace him. But he could have walked in one of the parks or by the river. His shoes were

muddied and subsequently washed and scraped clean.' 'Cleaned where?'

'Exactly. It suggests that he could have returned home, but no one admits to having seen him. He might escape notice if he slipped quickly in and out but hardly if he stopped long enough to clean his shoes. And Father Barn{:s is certain that he arrived at the church by six. We've seven hours to account for.'

'You saw this Follett-Briggs? Extraordinary names fellows have. He must be feeling pretty sick. That wc have been quite a commission. He might get it yet, I

pose, if the widow decides to sell.'

Dalgliesh didn't reply.

'Did Follett-Briggs say what he expected it to fetchi

He could, thought Dalgliesh, have been speaking f a second-hand car.

388

'He wouldn't commit himself, of course. He hasn't in-spected the house and he took the view that Berowne's instructions no longer held. But under a little tactful pres-sure he did murmur that he would expect to get in excess

of a million. That's excluding the contents, of course.' 'And it all goes to the widow.' 'It goes to the widow.'

'But the widow has an alibi. So has the widow's lover. So, as far as I can see, has every other suspect in the case.'

As he picked up his file and moved to the door, the AC's voice pursued him like a plea.

'Just one piece of physical evidence, Adam. That's what we need. And for God's sake try to get it before we have to call the next press conference.'

7

Sarah Berowne found the postcard on the hall table on Monday morning. It was a card from the British Museum of a bronze cat wearing earrings with Ivor's message written in his cramped upright hand. 'Have tried to ring you but no luck. Hope you're feeling better. Any chance of dinner next Tuesday?'

So he was still using their code. He kept ready a small collection of postcards from the main London museums and galleries. Any mention of telephoning meant a pro-posal to meet, and this message deciphered, asked her to be near the postcard gallery of the British Museum on Tuesday next. The time varied with the day. On Tuesdays the assignation was always for three o'clock. Like similar messages, this assumed that she could make it. If not she was expected to ring back to say that dinner was im-possible. But he had always taken it for granted that she would cancel all other engagements when the cards arrived. A message sent in this way was always urgent.

It was, she thought, hardly a code that would defeat the

i

ingenuity of the police let alone the security forces if they became interested, but perhaps its very openness and sim-plicity was a safeguard. There was, after ali, no law against friends spending an hour looking round museums together, and the rendezvous was a sensible one. They could pore over the same guidebook, talk in the almost obligatory whispers, move about at will to find the deserted galleries.

In those first heady months after he had recruited her to the Cell of Thirteen, when she was beginning to fall in love with him, she had looked for these cards as she might for a love letter, lurking in the hall for the post to fall through the letter box, seizing on the card and pori: over its message as if these cramped letters could everything that she needed so desperately to be told btt which she knew he would never write still less speak. Bt now, for the first time, she read the summons with a mixture of depression and irritation. The notice was ridic-lously short; it wouldn't be easy to get to Bloomsbury three. And why on earth couldn't he telephone? Tearbg up the card she felt as she never had before, that the was a childish and unnecessary device born of his obses-sional need to manipulate and conspire. It made thc both ridiculous.

He was, as usual, there on time, selecting cards from t-stand. She waited while he paid and, without speakil they moved out of the gallery together. He was fascina/d by the Egyptian antiquities and, almost instinctively, tl made their way first to the ground-floor galleries and sro. ,d together while he contemplated the huge granite torso Rameses the Second. It had seemed to her once that th'e dead eyes, this finely chiselled half-smiling mouth abe the jutting beard, had been a powerfully erotic symbol their love. So much had been whispered between th' in sly elliptical phrases while they had stood regarding t a if seeing the Pharaoh for the first time, shoulders touch-ing, and she had fought the need to stretch out her hand, to feel his fingers in hers. But now all its power had dined away. It was an interesting artefact, a huge slab ofc ked granite, no more. He said:

390

'Shelley is supposed to have used these features as a

model when he wrote y ndas..

"Oz ma ' "'

'I know.'

A couple of Japanese tourists, their scrutiny completed, drifted away. With no change in the level or tone of his voice, he said:

'The police seem more certain now that your father was murdered. I imagine they've got the PM and forensic reports. They've been to see me.'

A sliver of fear slid down her spine like iced water. 'Why?'

'In the hope of breaking our alibi. They didn't, and of course they can't. Not unless they break you. Have they been back?'

'Once. Not Commander Dalgliesh, the woman detective and a younger man, a Chief Inspector Massingham. They

asked about Theresa Nolan and Diana Travers.'

'What did you tell them?'

'That I'd seen Theresa Nolan twice, once when I'd called to see Grandmama when she was ill, and once at that dinner party and that I'd never seen Diana. Wasn't

that what you expected me to say?'

He answered:

'Let's go and visit Ginger.'

Ginger, named from the colour of the remnants of his hair, was the body of a pre-dynastic man, mummified by the hot desert sands three thousand years before Christ. Ivor had always been intrigued by him and they never left the museum without this almost ritual visit. Now she gazed down at the emaciated body curled on its left side, the pathetic collection of pots to hold the food and drink which would nourish his spirit on its long journey through the underworld, the spear with which he would defend himself against its ghostly terrors until he reached his Egyptian heaven. Perhaps, she thought, if that spirit could awake now and see the bright lights, the huge room, the moving forms of twentieth-century man, he would think that he had attained it. But she had never been able to share Ivor's pleasure in this memento mori; the body's emaciation, even