In Pursuit Of The Proper Sinner (68 page)

“That makes sense,” Barbara agreed. “Mrs. Baden, I've just seen Cilia.” She went on to explain what she'd learned from the artist.

As she spoke, Mrs. Baden went to the old upright piano at one side of the room, where a metronome was tick-tocking rhythmically and a timer whirred. She ceased the metronome's movement and turned off the timer. She put the piano's bench back into place, tapped several sheets of music neatly together, replaced them on their holder, and sat with her hands folded, looking attentive. Across from the piano, the finches twittered in their enormous cage as they flew from one perch to another. Mrs. Baden glanced at them fondly as Barbara went on.

“Oh yes, he was here, that gentlemen, Mr. King-Ryder,” Mrs. Baden said when Barbara had concluded. “I recognised his name when he introduced himself, of course. I offered him a piece of chocolate cake, but he didn't accept, didn't even step over my threshold. He was quite intent on seeing those pictures.”

“Did you let him into the flat? Terry and Cilia's, I mean.”

“Cilia phoned me and said that a gentleman was coming round to look at her pictures and would I unlock the door for him and let him see them? She didn't give me his name—the silly child hadn't even asked him, can you imagine?—but as there's not generally a queue of art collectors ringing my bell and asking to see her work, when he showed up, I assumed he was the one. And anyway, I didn't let him stay in the flat alone. At least not until I'd checked with Cilia.”

“So he was alone upstairs? Once you'd checked with her?” Barbara rubbed her hands together mentally. Now, at last, they were getting somewhere. “Did he ask to be alone?”

“Once I took him up to the flat and he saw how very many paintings are in it, he said that he'd need some time to really study them before he made his selection. As a collector, he wanted—”

“Did he say he was a collector, Mrs. Baden?”

“Art is his abiding passion, he told me. But as he isn't a wealthy man, he collects the unknowns. I remember that especially, because he talked about the people who'd bought Picasso's work before Picasso was … well, before Picasso was Picasso. ‘They just went on faith and left the rest to art history,’ he said. He told me that he was doing the same.”

So Mrs. Baden had left him alone in the flat upstairs. And for more than an hour he'd contemplated Cilia Thompson's work until he'd made his choice.

“He showed it to me after he'd locked up and returned the key,” she told Havers. “I can't say I understood his choice. But then … well, I'm not a collector, am I? Aside from my little birds, I don't collect anything at all.”

“Are you sure he was up there as long as an hour?”

“More than an hour. You see, I practise my piano in the afternoons. Ninety minutes every day. Not very much use at this point, of course, with my hands getting so bad. But I believe in trying no matter what. I'd just wound up the metronome and set the timer when Cilia rang to say he'd be coming. I decided not to start my practise till he'd come and gone. I deplore interruptions … but, of course, please don't take that personally, dear. This conversation is an exception to the rule.”

“Thanks. And … ?”

“And when he said he wanted to take his time having a good long look at the paintings, I decided to go ahead with my practise. I'd been at it—not very successfully, I'm afraid—for an hour and ten minutes when he knocked at my door a second time. He had a painting under his arm, and he asked would I tell Cilia that he'd be sending her a cheque in the post. Oh my goodness.” Mrs. Baden suddenly straightened, one hand at her throat, where a quadruple-strand choker of knobby beads circled her crepey neck. “Did he not send Cilia that cheque, my dear?”

“He sent the cheque.”

The hand dropped. “Thank heavens. I'm so relieved to know it. Granted, I was terribly preoccupied with my music that day because I wanted to play at least one piece for dear Terry by the end of the week. After all, it was a sweet present. Not my birthday or Mothering Sunday or anything and there he was … Not that I'd expect something on Mothering Sunday from a boy not my son, mind you, but he was a dear and always so generous, and I felt I ought to show him how much I appreciated his generosity by being able to play it. But it hadn't been going well at all—my practise, that is—because my eyes aren't what they used to be and reading music that's been handwritten is rather a problem. So I was quite preoccupied, you see. But the young man—Mr. King-Ryder, this is—seemed honest and truthful, so when it came to taking his word about a cheque, why, I didn't once think that he might be untruthful. And I'm glad to know that he wasn't.”

Barbara only half heard her final comments. She was transfixed, instead, by the woman's earlier words. She said, “Mrs. Baden,” quite slowly, drawing in a breath carefully, as if to do it with too much energy might frighten away the facts which she believed she was about to coax from the older woman. “Are you telling me that Terry Cole gave you some piano music?”

“Certainly, my dear. But I believe I mentioned that the other day when you were here. Such a lovely boy, Terry. Such a good boy, really. He was always willing to do the odd job or two round the house if I needed him. He fed my little birds if I was out as well. And he loved to wash windows and hoover the rugs. At least that's what he always said.” She smiled gently.

Barbara dragged the old woman away from her carpets and back to the topic. “Mrs. Baden, do you still have that music?” she asked.

“Well, certainly, I do. I have it right here.”

Lynley had Martin Reeve delivered to one of the Yard's interview rooms. He'd refused to talk to him on the phone when DC Steve Budde from the search warrant team had placed a call to the Yard from the pimp's Notting Hill home, relaying Reeve's offer to strike a deal. Reeve, Budde said, wished to produce information that might be valuable to the police in exchange for the opportunity to emigrate to Melbourne, a city that Reeve appeared newly eager to embrace. What did DI Lynley want done about the matter? Scotland Yard, Lynley said, didn't make deals with killers. He told DC Budde to relay that message and to bring the pimp in.

As Lynley had hoped, Reeve arrived without his solicitor in tow. He was haggard, unshaven, and wearing jeans and a boxy Hawaiian shirt. This gaped open on a pallid chest, the sanguinolent path of someone's fingernails still fresh upon it.

“Call off your goons,” Reeve said without preamble when Lynley joined him. “This dickhead's pals”—with a jerk of his head at DC Budde—“are still trashing my house. I want them out of there pronto or I'm not cooperating.”

Lynley nodded Constable Budde into a seat against the wall, where he assumed a watchful position. The DC was the size of Bigfoot, and the metal chair creaked beneath him.

Lynley and Reeve took places at the table, where Lynley said, “You're not in a position to make demands, Mr. Reeve.”

“The fuck I'm not. I am if you want information. Get those assholes out of my house, Lynley.”

In response, Lynley put a fresh cassette into the tape player, pushed the record button, and gave the date, the time, and the names of everyone present. He recited the formal caution for Reeve's benefit, saying, “Are you waiving your right to a solicitor?”

“Jesus. What is this? D'you guys want the truth or a tap dance?”

“Just answer me, please.”

“I don't need a solicitor for what I'm here for.”

“The suspect waives his right to legal representation,” Lynley said for the record. “Mr. Reeve, were you acquainted with Nicola Maiden?”

“Let's cut to the chase, all right? You know I knew her. You know she worked for me. She and Vi Nevin quit last spring, and I haven't seen either one of them since. End of story. But that's not what I'm here to talk—”

“How long was it after their departure before Shelly Platt informed you that the Maiden girl and Vi Nevin had set themselves up privately in prostitution?”

Reeve's eyes became hooded. “Who? Shelly what?”

“Shelly Platt. You can't be denying that you know her. According to my man at the hospital, she recognised you the moment she saw you this morning.”

“Lots of people recognise me. I get around. So does Tricia. Our faces must be in the papers once a week.”

“Shelly Platt states that she told you about the two girls' going into business for themselves. You can't have liked that. It can't have done much to enhance your reputation as a man with his stable under control.”

“Look. If a flatbacker wants to go it alone, I could give a shit, all right? They find out soon enough how much work and money's involved in attracting the calibre of clients they're used to. Then they come back, and if they're lucky and I'm in the mood, I take them back. It's happened before. It'll happen again. I knew it would happen to Maiden and Nevin if I waited them out long enough.”

“And if they didn't want back in? If they were more of a success than you anticipated? What then? And what can you do to prevent the rest of your girls from trying their luck as independents?”

Reeve leaned back in his chair. “Are we here to talk about the pussy game in general or do you want some straight answers to last night's questions? Your choice, Inspector. But make it quick. I don't have the time to sit here and chew the fat with you.”

“Mr. Reeve, you're not in a bargaining position. One of your girls is dead. The other—her partner—has been beaten and left for dead. Either this is a remarkable coincidence or the events are related. The link appears to be you and their decision to leave you.”

“Which makes them not my girls any longer,” Reeve said. “I'm not involved.”

“So you'd like us to believe that a call girl can leave you, set herself up in business in competition with you, and not expect any reprisal. Free market economy, with the spoils going to him or her with the superlative product. Is that it?”

“I couldn't have put it better.”

“The best man wins? Or the best woman, for that matter?”

“The first precept of business, Inspector.”

“I understand. So you'll have no objection to telling me where you were yesterday while Vi Nevin was being assaulted.”

“As my half of the deal, I'm happy to tell you. Once I learn what your half's going to be.”

Lynley felt weary with the pimp's manoeuvring. “Put him on the charge sheet,” he said to DC Budde. “Assault and murder.” The constable rose.

“Hey! Wait a minute! I came here to talk. You offered a deal to Tricia yesterday. I'm claiming it today. All you need to do is put it on the table so we both know what we're agreeing to.”

“That's not how things work.” Lynley got to his feet.

DC Budde took the pimp's arm. “Let's go.”

Reeve shook him off. “Fuck that shit. You want to know where I was? All right. I'll tell you.”

Lynley sat again. He hadn't switched the recorder off, and the pimp in his agitation hadn't noticed. “Go on.”

Reeve waited until Budde had returned to his seat. He said, “Keep a collar on Rufus. I don't like being manhandled.”

“We'll take note of that.”

Reeve rubbed his arm as if contemplating a future suit charging policy brutality. He said, “All right. I wasn't at home yesterday. I went out in the afternoon. I didn't get back till night. Nine or ten o'clock.”

“Where were you, then?”

Reeve looked as if he was calculating the damage he was about to inflict upon himself. He said, “I went there. I admit it. But I wasn't there when—”

For the record, Lynley said, “You went to Fulham? To Rostrevor Road?”

“She wasn't there. I'd been trying to track them down all summer, Vi and Nikki. When those two cops—the black and the dumpy broad with chipped front teeth—came round for a chat with me on Friday, I had a feeling they could lead me to Vi if I played it right. So I had them followed. I went back the next day.” He grinned. “Something of a turn-around, huh? Tailing the cops instead of the reverse.”

“For the tape, Mr. Reeve: You went to Rostrevor Road yesterday.”

“And she wasn't there. No one was there.”

“Why did you go to see her?”

Reeve examined his nails. They looked freshly buffed. His knuckles, however, were swollen and bruised. “Let's say I went to make a point.”

“In other words, you beat Vi Nevin.”

“No way. I said I didn't get the chance. And you sure as hell can't arrest me for what I wanted to do. If I even wanted to beat her in the first place, which I'm not admitting to, by the way.” He adjusted his position in his chair, more comfortable now, more sure of himself. “Like I said, she wasn't there. I went back three times during the afternoon, but my luck didn't change and I started getting antsy. When I get like that …” Reeve used his fist against his palm. “I do. I act. I don't go home like a limp dick pantywaist and wait for somebody else to screw me over.”

“Did you try to find her? You must have had a list of her clients, at least those she serviced when she worked for you. If she wasn't at home, it stands to reason that you'd begin a search for her. Especially if you were—how did you put it?—getting antsy.”

“I said I do, Lynley. I act when I'm getting riled, okay? I wanted to make a point with the whore and I couldn't do it and that pissed me off. So I decided to make a point with someone else.”

“I don't see how that served your needs.”

“It served my needs of the moment just fine because I started thinking it was time to put a tighter rein on the rest of them. I don't want them even beginning to think about taking a page from the Nikki-Vi book. Whores think men are cocksuckers. So if you want to run them, you'd better be willing to do what it takes to keep their respect.”

“It takes violence, I'd assume.” Lynley marveled at Reeve's hubris. How could the pimp not know he was digging his own grave with every sentence he spoke? Did he actually think he was ameliorating his position with his declarations?

Reeve went on. He'd begun paying visits to his employees during the afternoon, he said, surprise visits that were designed to reinforce his authority over them. He appropriated their bank books, diaries, and bills with the intention of comparing them to his own records. He listened to messages on their answer machines to learn if they'd encouraged their clients to bypass Global Escorts when booking a session. He went through their wardrobes checking for clothing that revealed a higher income than he was shelling out to them. He examined their supplies of condoms, lubricating jellies, and sex toys to see if everything matched what he knew of each girl's clientele.