Bartholomew 02 - How to Marry a Ghost (40 page)

“She didn’t know Bettina so what would be her motive? She knew Sean and he was wearing one of her wedding dresses when they fished him out of the ocean. But she had an alibi for both nights.”

“You know,” he took a slug from his beer and looked at me sideways, “there is one person I have a few concerns about—

among the people you’ve mentioned.”

“Who’s that?”

“Franny Cook.”

I didn’t say anything. Hadn’t I had my own moments of unease about Franny? But she was Eliza’s
mother
. And soon she would be Rufus’s
wife
.

“You don’t look too happy about that,” said Max. “I sense that you really like her. She’s become a friend, yes?”

I nodded.

“A friend like, say, Cath in this country? If you stayed out there on Long Island—I mean you’re not going to, are you?” He looked worried at what he had suggested. “But if you did, hypo-thetically, would Franny Cook become your best girlfriend? Were you becoming that close to her?”

Was Franny my American Cath? It was a very odd notion but there was some basis to it. They were both blunt, outspoken women with troublesome pasts. In their different ways they both made me feel a little inadequate but that was probably my fault as much as theirs. But this wasn’t really what Max had been asking.

He’d wanted to know if I felt really close to Franny, as close as I felt to Cath. It was a tricky question. I’d known Cath virtually all my life. She knew me better than I cared to admit and even though I didn’t always relish what she told me about myself, I trusted her and felt her to be an integral part of my life. Did I feel the same about Franny? No, I did not.

But thinking about this made me realize there
was
someone to

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whom I had become enormously attached in a short space of time. Rufus. He was in a way all I had left of the Phillionaire and I really did think of him like a brother. Rufus had introduced me to Franny. Rufus loved Franny. And because of
that
I felt close to Franny.

“It’s not quite the same thing,” I said, picking my words carefully. “I’ve known Cath since we were kids. But the thought of Franny murdering anyone—”

“Okay, you like her. But
I
don’t know her,” said Max, “and I can look at her overall picture objectively. She’s tall, she’s Ama-zonian, she’s strong. She grew up there, she knows the territory, she could have gone hunting with the guys.”

“Rufus told me she taught him to shoot,” I said.

“There you are,” said Max, “and although it doesn’t necessarily follow, if she knew how to handle a shotgun, she could have been familiar with a crossbow. And she’s got a past Bettina knew about and it’s really in Franny’s interest that people don’t get to hear too much about it. She’s trying to set up a business, raise a kid respectably, and marry a local millionaire. And she admitted to you that she was out on her own both nights driving around looking for her son. She doesn’t have an alibi—for either night.”

“I can’t argue with you,” I said, “but I can’t help feeling that Dumpster knows more than he’s telling anyone. Bettina’s notes:

‘M saw something.’ ”

“And Dumpster’s her son.You think ‘M’ is definitely Martin, as in Dumpster?”

“Well, who else would it be? He was going to meet Bettina the night she died.”

“So of course he’d run a mile rather than tell anyone he saw his mother commit murder,” said Max.

“I have so much trouble with Franny as the killer,” I said, “just as I can’t see Shotgun murdering anyone. Especially,” I added,

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thinking about it and realizing I felt quite sure about this, “a woman. He’s not the kind of raucous, hell-raising type you asso-ciate with rock stars, at least not anymore. He’s quiet and thoughtful and cultured, he’s a
gentle
man. I just can’t imagine him exerting any kind of violence on a woman. Of course he may have been different back then but he claims he let the groupie sleep in his bed beside him rather than turn her out into the night. He felt it was the easiest option.Were you there that morning? Did you go to the apartment after they found her?”

He shook his head.

“So you never saw her. For some reason I’ve always been curious about what she looked like.” I had been carrying around a picture in my mind of Shotgun waking up beside a tiny waif of a creature but I realized I couldn’t put a face to her.

“You want me to describe a corpse in the morgue? Because that’s the first glimpse I got of her.” He shook his head. “But I tell you what I can do,” he went on. “Believe it or not, I’ve brought along some photos from the time.” He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Look, here’s one of Shotgun. I wanted to ask you what
he
looked like now. I don’t have any pictures of the groupie—her name was Anna di Santi, pretty name, I never forgot it—but here are some of her family. They came over from New York, the Bronx I think it was, to claim her body and I had to look after them. I didn’t know what to do with them.They had never been to London and so I showed them a few sights while we were waiting for the forensics to be dealt with and the body to be released. It was harrowing beyond belief.They had thought it would be better than sitting weeping in their hotel room but of course it was worse. I’ll never forget, they asked me to take a picture of them at the Tower of London and then weeks later, long after they’d gone back to New York, I got this in the mail.”

I stared at the photograph of a group of dark-haired Italian-

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looking people huddled together with the Tower of London rising above them. Not surprisingly, not one of them was smiling, a fact that was emphasized by the grinning face of a Japanese tourist standing to their right.

But it was the figure on their left that caught my attention. I held the photo in front of Max and pointed to the man. He seemed to be with Anna di Santi’s family and yet he was standing slightly apart from them.

“What in the world is he doing there?”

The picture had been taken fourteen years ago and since then he had filled out considerably, but I had no difficulty recognizing the young man with the groupie’s family as Evan Morrison.

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OH, HE WASN’T PART OF THE FAMILY,” SAID MAX.

“I know that,” I said. “I know who he is. But what was he doing
there
?”

“He was Anna di Santi’s boyfriend. He came over with her family and he was even more distraught than they were, if that was possible. I talked to him a bit because he was at the police academy in New York. It was clear he didn’t like her going to concerts the way she did. Not that I can blame him given what she got up to. But he was devastated by what happened and he arrived in the country out for blood.”

“How do you mean?”

“He wasn’t exactly pointing the finger at Shotgun but he wanted us to find someone he could blame, someone he could take his misery out on.”

“Max,” I said, “listen to me. That’s Evan Morrison.”

“That’s right,” he said, looking at me in amazement, “that was his name. I remember now. How do you know him?”

“Because he’s the detective investigating the murders of Sean Marriott and Bettina. He’s the one who is totally obsessed with pinning the murders on Shotgun. I told you, it’s like he won’t even consider anyone else.”

“It’s hard to credit it, isn’t it?” Max glared at me as if it were my fault. “But I suppose it’s a form of vengeance. He’s had four-

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teen years to fester. It’s the reason he’s been so blinkered about this case but by God, he needs a wake-up call.”

The revelation about Evan Morrison seemed to galvanize him into action. He called for the bill, paid it, and was marching off down the street, waving good-bye before I’d even realized what was happening. Feeling suddenly totally deflated I wandered off in search of a cab. I searched for a taxi rank although why I expected to find one outside one of London’s major prisons was beyond me. I was just about to give up and call my father to come and pick me up when Max appeared at my side and grasped me by the elbow. He stood right in front of me looking straight into my eyes and my heart began to pound. He was going to do it. He was about to kiss me.Was this the point of no return?

“What are you staring at?” he said testily. “Can you save me some time and give me a contact number for Evan Morrison? Angela Marriott too, if you’ve got it.”

“I don’t have it with me,” I said, aware that my face was going red, “but if you want to give me a call later—”

“Suppose I’ll have to,” he said. He sounded so ungracious that I barely recognized him as the person with whom I had just had a very enjoyable lunch. But as we set off once again in opposite directions, it didn’t stop me turning back once, twice, and then a third time for one last look at him. How could it have happened? A year ago I had spent a lot of time with this man in close proximity—on a professional basis, true—and more than one person had explained to me that he was mine for the taking.Yet I had not for one moment been attracted to him.

Or had I? Had the longing I felt for him now been lying dor-mant in my subconscious? Had there just been too much else going on in my life at that time for me to recognize that Max Austin was exactly the kind of edgy challenge I’d told myself I needed? Well, whatever comatose state I had been in then, I

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was wide awake now and I had to do something to regain his attention.

And by the time I’d got home I knew the perfect way to do it.

I’d get Angie Marriott to spill the beans to me about Shotgun and then I’d invite Max around for a drink to tell him what I’d discovered.

To my amazement I had found that Angie Marriott lived just around the corner from Blenheim Crescent and she had suggested getting together for a preliminary drink to discuss her plans for a book. I had about a half hour to kill before walking over to her house so I tipped the contents of Bettina’s file onto the kitchen table. Immediately I understood why Genevieve had not done anything with it. There were pages and pages of un-marked transcripts, endless interviews with no indication as to who was talking to whom. I recognized them as such only because I used a similar format for the initial rough transcriptions of my own interviews. Get it all down on paper and then see what you’ve got. I would say one thing in Bettina’s favor: She had meticulously labeled each folder of transcripts by subject and date and I flipped through a pretty impressive list of bold-faced names before I came to the one I was looking for. Shaking slightly with anticipation I opened Shotgun’s folder.

And swore out loud.

There were just a few sheets of paper in it headed by a name,

“Mike Molloy,” an address, “3 Queens Gate Mansions,” a time but no date.

I was aware that my heart had started beating quite fast. Shotgun had told me his apartment all those years ago had been in Queens Gate.

I began to read.

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MM: Oh, I didn’t live there long. A month maybe. I’d come over from Sydney for a conference and when that was over, my wife and I drove around the West Country a bit visiting her family. She’s English, you know, not Australian and—

BP:You saw Shotgun Marriott in the lobby?

Bettina really was meticulous. She had transcribed what she said as well as her interviewee’s content. Not something I ever bothered to do.

MM: Oh, yes, sorry. We rented the flat so as to have a base in London. And as I said, I left Shirley down in Somerset with her rellies one week and came back up for some meetings.

Can’t recall it too clearly but I think the traffic was bad so I didn’t get there till around one in the morning and there he was coming out of the building, none other than Shotgun Marriott. I mean it’s not what you expect, is it? I was a huge fan and suddenly he’s right in front of me. I was tossing it up in my mind, could I ask him for his autograph or should I—

Anyway in the end I just nodded at him and he went out and I rang the bell for the lift and that was that.

BP: But then?

MM: The lift was slow. It took forever. You know how they are when they’re old? And then when I got upstairs—we were on the third floor—I remembered I’d forgotten to pick up the mail. We were given a little box in the lobby and I was expecting a document that I knew I ought to look over before my meeting the next day so I had to go back down again, didn’t I? At least the lift was right there. But once I was back down in the lobby and standing in front of the bank of mailboxes with my key all ready, I couldn’t remember which

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number to open. It was the number of our flat. So guess what?

BP: You had to go all the way up again to look.

MM: That’s right. It was number three. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? It was on the third floor. What? Oh, yes, sorry.

You want me to get to the bit where I saw his wife. Well, of course I didn’t know it was his wife. I’m not sure I even knew he was married. I’d just picked up my package when this woman comes running in through the front door and she’s in the lift before I can even close the mailbox and I shout out to her, “Stop, wait! Hold the door.” Because I don’t want to wait for that lift again, do I? So we ride up together but she stops at the second floor and out she gets. She was good looking, dark. I smiled at her but she wasn’t very friendly. She didn’t smile back.

BP: And it was Angela Marriott?

MM: Well, as I say, I didn’t know who it was and I didn’t think anything more about it until I saw her on the television news a couple of days later. I recognized her.

BP: And you didn’t do anything about it?

MM: Like what?

BP: Tell the police you’d seen her.