The Bee's Kiss(102)

‘It’s the subjects I’m really interested in, Cyril.’

‘Right. Tell you what – hand them to me one at a time and you can write their names on the back – if I know them. Oh, by the way – the bloke with the starring role in this little peep show I’d swear is Donovan. I expect you know that? Can’t claim to have an intimate knowledge of the chap’s rear elevation but there are clues that might help. Have you noticed the Elastoplast where a tattoo would be and the mole on his right shoulder blade?’

Joe handed him the first of the card-mounted photographs.

‘Well! Who’d have thought it? Joan Dennison! I am surprised!’

‘Just the names, thank you, Cyril.’

‘Right. That one’s Portia something . . . you know . . . daughter of that judge . . . hanging judge . . . “Blackcap” Blackman! That’s it!

‘This one? Sorry, no idea. Never encountered her before. Perhaps one of the others would be able to fill you in?

‘This one looks familiar . . . Ah yes, well, she would, wouldn’t she? This was the jumper. Leapt off Beachy Head. Lettice Benson.’

Joe passed him the one he’d reserved for last.

‘And this is the other suicide girl. Took an overdose of her dead mother’s painkillers that’d never been cleared out of the bathroom cabinet. This is the one I told you about. The one who spilled the beans to her father. Brave lass! Lovely girl,’ said Cyril thoughtfully. ‘Marianne Westhorpe. She lived up in Mayfair somewhere.’

‘I know where she lived,’ said Joe.

‘Can’t help wondering why only five out of the eight were subjected to this,’ said Cyril.

‘Clever scheming,’ said Joe. ‘The psychology of the group. I expect each victim was given to understand that she was the only one involved. Some of the eight would be behaving naturally because for them there was no problem. Each of these poor girls would have been living in her own private hell, unable to confide in or question the others. She would be unsupported, totally alone, hugely vulnerable.’

‘You’ll tread carefully, Commander?’

‘Of course. Kid gloves. Reassuring avuncular manner. But don’t forget I haven’t yet established the whereabouts of those negatives. Shan’t rest easy until I have.’

‘And Donovan? What have you got planned for him?’

‘I’d like to say “police boot in the groin, swiftly followed by the clink of cuffs” but he’s on someone else’s shopping list. There are others more elevated than I am who will be taking a close interest in Donovan and his future career. Though if we were to meet head on in a dark alley, I’m not sure he’d ever come out at the other end. Another pint, Cyril?’

Returning to the Yard to write up his notes on the Zanuti-Lendi silver theft enquiry, Joe was not surprised to find on his desk a series of orders hastily handwritten, cancelling all but essential activities and directing him to strike-emergency duties. His roster apparently resumed the next day and was to send him to the Palace to oversee security arrangements against an insurrection by the mob.

He finished his notes, wrote up his diary, sighed and came to a decision. He took up the telephone and was surprised to find that his hand was shaking. He asked the operator to connect him with a number in Mayfair.

At least the Westhorpe butler no longer affected not to know him. ‘Miss Mathilda is indeed at home, sir, today being her day of leisure,’ he intoned, unable to refrain from putting gentlemen callers on the wrong foot. ‘If you will wait a moment, I will ascertain whether she is available to come to the telephone.’

A moment later a drumming of feet, a clatter as the earpiece was picked up and Tilly’s eager voice: ‘Joe! Sorry – Commander! How good to hear you again! Can I do anything? That Clubbing at Claridge’s we spoke of – has it come about already?’

‘Sorry, Tilly. No. Ordinary crime fizzles out when there’s a war on or even a strike. Nothing more exciting to offer you, I’m afraid, but dinner. How about it? I’d like to see you again. On Friday. Would Friday be a good day? Will you be free?’

‘Friday?’ There was a pause then, regretfully, ‘No, sorry, Joe, I’ve already got an engagement that day.’

‘Then,’ said Joe firmly, ‘it will have to be tonight. And I’m making that an order, Constable! I’ll pick you up at seven. Better warn your father.’





Chapter Twenty-Eight


‘Where are we going?’ Tilly asked excitedly, settling into the Oxford.

She was looking extraordinarily attractive, he noticed, and felt flattered that she had taken the trouble. Her outfit was of the very best, discreet but costly, he would have thought. A short, oyster-coloured silk dress, a row of pearls, a black cashmere wrap and an immaculately made-up face – did he deserve this?