The Mannequin House (13 page)

An infinitesimally small movement reassured him – the regular expansion and contraction of her chest, the dead petal stirred by the lightest of breezes.

Quinn prompted Inchball with a nod.

‘Edna, love. It’s me. Remember? Sergeant Inchball. Inchie, my pals call me.’ Inchball flashed an abashed glance towards Quinn. But Quinn nodded encouragement. ‘You can call me Inchie, if you like. I mean, we’re pals, ain’ we? You and me. Inchie and Edna. Pals. That’s right, ain’ it?’

The only sign of acknowledgement from the bed was the absolute cessation of movement. She was holding her breath, waiting for him to go on.

‘I’ve brought another pal with me. My guv’nor. Why don’t you say hello? He won’t bite.’

The curve of her body tightened as she pulled herself further away from the world.

Inchball winced in disappointment.

‘Hello, Edna. I’m Silas. I’d like to be your friend too. Can we be friends?’

A convulsion passed through the body on the bed. The convulsion decayed into an exhausted quaking.

The manifestation of raw unhappiness repelled Quinn. But Inchball went towards it, perching himself on the edge of her bed, laying a hand on her shoulder. His touch was a lightning rod to her grief, which seemed to pass out of her. She sat up and held on to him, hugging him tightly.

Quinn watched, his fascination tinged with envy.

The touch of another human being unleashed a further bout of sobs. Her grief, it seemed, was greater than her exhaustion.

At last she fell still, surrendering to the fold of Inchball’s massive arms. Quinn discovered that the tenderness of a brutal man is especially touching. His patience miraculous.

Inchball eased her back on to the bed. She shook the damp hair out of her face and stared up with enormous, terrified eyes.

Inchball nodded consolingly. ‘It’s all right, Edna, dear. It’s all right.’

For a moment, her face was almost blank. But then the memory of her loss contorted it into a mask of anguish. ‘She’s gone.’ Her voice was barely more than a gasp.

‘I know . . . I know, love.’

‘She’s gone!’

‘You liked her, din’ya?’

‘I loved her.’

‘I know.’

‘I’ve . . . got . . . no one now! No one! I am all alone.’

‘No, no, no . . . No, no, Edna. That’s not true. You got me, ain’ ya? You got me and Silas.’

‘She was the only friend I ever had.’

‘Wha’? No. No, I don’ believe you.’

Edna nodded insistently. ‘The only true friend.’

‘What about the other girls? You must have some friends there?’

‘They hate me!’

‘Nah! Nah, I’m sure they don’t.’

‘They do. They hate me, just like they hated Amélie.’

‘Edna?’ cut in Quinn. ‘Do you have any idea who might have killed Amélie? Was there anyone who might have wanted her dead?’

‘They all hated her.’

‘You think one of the other girls might have done it?’

Edna’s features crumpled as the tears came again. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I’m sorry to have to ask you all these questions, Edna, at such a difficult time. But if we are to have any chance of catching the person who did this to Amélie we must act quickly. You want us to catch her killer, don’t you?’

Edna nodded jerkily, her movements barely under control.

‘You and Amélie were very good friends, weren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘I expect you told each other everything. If she needed to confide in anyone, it would be you. Is that not so?’

More nods.

‘She kept your letters, you know. She kept them hidden. That shows she treasured them.’

Edna looked up, an eager hope enlivening her eyes. ‘My letters? You found my letters?’

‘We have.’

‘May I have them?’

‘Not just yet, Edna. We need to keep them for the time being, to help us with the investigation. You do understand, don’t you?’ But it was hard to be sure that Edna understood anything at the moment. ‘Edna, dear, did Amélie ever write letters to you?’

She shook her head with an earnest, overdetermined motion. ‘She didn’t need to. She . . . she . . . it was enough just to hear her voice. She was everything to me.’ Her eyes widened with awe. ‘She was a goddess.’

‘Did she ever tell you about a gentleman friend? A gentleman friend who might have given her gifts?’

Edna shook her head.

‘Are you saying there was no one? She had no . . . male admirers?’

There was neither a nod nor headshake at this. She averted her eyes, as if she was shying away from having to consider the question.

‘Edna, love,’ encouraged Inchball. ‘Answer Silas’s question, dearie.’

Edna closed her eyes. Her breath came in sharp snatches as she swallowed back tears. ‘There was one.’

‘Go on,’ said Quinn. His voice had none of the gentleness or patience of Inchball’s.

‘He came here.’

‘To the house?’

‘Yes. He called on her. Miss Mortimer wasn’t going to let him in, but Amélie said it was all right.’

‘Who was he?’

‘I’ve seen him at the store.’

‘He works at the House of Blackley?’

‘Yes.’

‘In what capacity, do you know?’

‘Sales . . .’

‘A salesman?’

She nodded.

‘In what department?’

‘Near the Costumes Salon. Locks and clocks and things.’

‘Locks and clocks? How very interesting. I thought Mr Blackley kept the location of the mannequin house a secret from the men at the store. How did he know where she lived?’

‘He must have followed her,’ said Edna.

‘Or she told him,’ suggested Inchball.

‘What happened when he came round?’ asked Quinn.

‘Sh-sh-she agreed . . . to take tea with him. In the drawing room.’

‘Miss Mortimer allowed that?’

‘She didn’t like it. Was all for telling Mr Blackley, but Amélie pleaded with her.’

‘I see. And what happened?’

Edna gave a great sigh, which seemed to rally her strength. She was able to sit up and speak with some fluency, although her words had a slightly detached quality. ‘It did not end well. He made a scene and stormed off. I believe she rejected his advances. Amélie told Miss Mortimer never to admit him again.’

‘Do you know his name?’

Edna sank back on to the bed, her head quivering in a spasm of negation.

‘Can you describe him?’

‘Lean, angry, selfish face.’

She closed her eyes. Her breathing settled into a regular pattern. Sleep was her escape; sleep, or something more profound: the oblivion of complete physical collapse.

I
nchball hurtled down the stairs, the soles of his boots hammering out an eager tattoo. Quinn followed more tentatively, but he too sensed the promise of a breakthrough. If he resisted going towards it, it was only because his instincts drew him in a different direction. He was not convinced that a young salesman would be able to afford furs any more than a mannequin could.

Inchball ran into a crestfallen Macadam at the foot of the stairs. ‘What’s the matter with you? You’ve got a face like a smacked arse.’

‘It got away.’

‘What did?’

‘The monkey.’

‘Your pal’s little technique din’ work then?’

‘It was all DCI Coddington’s fault. I would have had it if he hadn’t turned up and scared away the little fellow.’

Quinn joined them in the hallway. ‘Where is it now, do you know?’

‘It got into the warehouse and disappeared behind the packing cases. I nearly had it too.’

‘Never mind,’ said Quinn. ‘I’m not sure we will get any more out of the monkey than we have already.’

His two sergeants exchanged frowns of deep bemusement.

‘We have a lead,’ Quinn informed Macadam. ‘Not much of one, but still: a lead, all the same. The first.’

‘Missy had an admirer at Blackley’s,’ said Inchball. ‘They had a barney an’ all. I reckon she broke it off with him.’

‘We don’t know that,’ said Quinn. ‘But we’re going round to the store to talk to him.’

‘I’d better come with you,’ said Macadam.

It was Quinn’s turn to frown. Macadam’s tone suggested a lack of trust. ‘Are you afraid that I will do something unfortunate?’

Macadam’s answer didn’t come quickly enough to convince. ‘Not at all, sir. He may try to make a run for it. The more of us there are, the less chance he has of getting away.’

The three policemen entered the store through the goods entrance on Abingdon Road. A horse-drawn delivery van, immaculately painted in bottle green and black, pulled in at the same time. They were obliged to dash out of the way as it thundered past. A heedless, unstoppable force, the symbol perhaps of Blackley’s commercial rise. For indeed THE HOUSE OF BLACKLEY was spelled out in a grandiose arch of letters on the side of the vehicle, with the legend
A World of Provision
beneath.

A sullen-looking warehouseman wielding a broom came out, drawn by the clatter of hooves and the rattle of the wagon over cobbles. He greeted Macadam with a terse nod of recognition. A small curl of sarcasm twitched on his lips, around the tail end of a cigarette. He was no doubt remembering Macadam’s earlier efforts at monkey-catching.

‘Any sightings of the beast?’ asked Macadam.

The warehouseman shook his head as he blew out smoke. He took a moment to contemplate the burning tip of his cigarette.

The driver jumped down from his wagon, whistling cheerily.

‘Look lively there, Kaminski. I ain’ got all day.’

The warehouseman threw the still-glowing stub of his cigarette casually over his shoulder and dropped the brush. It bounced with a lithe and resonant twang, lying haphazardly where it fell.

The man’s carelessness drew Quinn’s attention; he slowed his step to eavesdrop on the exchange between the two workmen. Inchball and Macadam hung back to wait for him.

‘Mr Blackley’ll fine you if ’e sees that,’ warned the driver, a sudden wariness stifling his chipper demeanour.

‘Blackley ain’ ’ere,’ growled the warehouseman. His accent was heavy: Eastern European corrupted by Cockney.

The driver smiled uneasily, aware of the lurking presence of three strangers.

‘Don’ vurry ’bou’ dem. Dey go’ bigger feesh to fry. Or should I say, monkeys.’

‘I ain’ got the faintest idea what you’re on about. As usual. All I know is we’d better get the ol’ van loaded PDQ so I can be on my way again. Wha’cha got for me?’

Losing interest, Quinn led his men on through the loading bay into the cavernous interior of the warehouse. He sniffed the itchy scent of sawdust and cardboard. A dim light from high, grimy windows gave the place a semi-mysterious air. Stacks of boxes loomed, mountains of promise and potential. Who knew what treasures their bland exteriors concealed?

Macadam directed them to a swing door at the far end of the warehouse. They stepped through into a realm where those mountains of promise and potential were fulfilled.

It was evident that the news of Amélie’s murder had done nothing to dent the public’s enthusiasm for Blackley’s great emporium. The shop floor was bustling. ‘Is it normally like this?’ Quinn asked incredulously.

‘Well, I’ve never been here on a Thursday morning before,’ said Macadam. ‘But it’s easily as busy as any Saturday afternoon I’ve seen, on the times I’ve been here with Mrs Macadam.’

Quinn detected the same fierce, almost hysterical excitement in the eyes of the jostling shoppers as he had seen in the mannequins when they had burst on to the garden. They were thrilled to be there. They seemed to be on the lookout not for bargains, but for dead bodies. ‘Strange,’ he observed. ‘The effect that murder has on people. They seem . . . enlivened by it.’

Inchball grunted noncommittally. Macadam’s expression was anxious.

Quinn continued to observe the streaming crowds. He felt he understood the primitive urge that had brought them there, the need to place one’s self close to catastrophe, in order to face up to it. And was there an element, too, of warding off its return? A superstitious belief in the principle that lightning never strikes twice? ‘They’re after souvenirs,’ he realized.

‘They ain’ gonna make our job any easier,’ grumbled Inchball.

‘Do you know your way around this place, Macadam?’ demanded Quinn.

‘The Costumes Salon is through there. Mrs Macadam always will insist on visiting that place.’

‘We’re looking for locks and clocks.’

‘You mean Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances? Straight ahead. Next to the Menagerie.’

‘The Menagerie? That’s interesting,’ said Quinn.

‘It was there that Mr Blackley came to pick up Mr Yeovil, sir.’

‘Yeovil was in the Menagerie?’

‘That’s right, sir. Right there, next to the parakeet cage.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘He appeared to be watching the neighbouring counter.’

‘Locks, Clocks and whatever?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Watching it? What do you mean?’

‘It was almost like he had it under surveillance. I would not say he was hiding, exactly. A big man like that would find it hard to hide anywhere. But he was standing in such a way that he could not be easily seen by the gentleman on Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances. And when we approached him, he fair jumped out of his skin, sir.’

‘I bet he did,’ said Inchball. ‘The sight of you is enough to give anyone a fright.’

‘I got the distinct impression that he was engaged in some kind of clandestine activity.’

‘And that was the gentleman he was watching?’ Quinn pointed to the man behind the Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances counter.

The man appeared to be about sixty years old, his bald head framed by stiff, unruly tufts of white hair. A once rangy figure, now starting to stoop with age, he peered out myopically through a bent and battered pince-nez. In truth, he looked an unlikely candidate for Amélie’s suitor. At present, as far as Quinn could see, there was no one else behind the Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances counter.

The elderly salesman’s expression was somewhat harassed, his nerves evidently in a precarious state. He was clearly struggling to keep up with the unwonted demands for service from the impatient customers crowding his counter. Some even resorted to pilfering goods, and under his very nose too; a practice that quickly spread when it was seen that these endeavours were met with impunity. It was ironic that a department devoted, at least in part, to security was the object of widespread casual larceny.