The Memory of Blood(94)

‘I hear she’s taking her husband’s death surprisingly well.’

‘That’s not much of a shock, is it? He was having affairs and she was in love with someone else. In a way, his death has solved everything for her.’

‘You don’t suppose—?’

‘She killed her own child? I don’t know. Janice doesn’t think so. We know Judith was at home in bed when Gregory Baine and Mona Williams died, and that her child’s nanny was sitting with her, so unless she was working with an accomplice, like Marcus Sigler …’

‘This is all guesswork, Arthur. It won’t get us anywhere. Without Kramer and his producer the show will shut down and the players will all disperse. We have no powers to keep them close by.’

‘I know. That’s why with your help I can take action before it’s too late.’

‘What do you propose to do?’

‘We’re going to throw a little end-of-show party. The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king. Killers often lack social skills, but theatre folk are social animals. Therefore we have to put them in a social situation where they feel comfortable. If we handle it correctly, no-one will dare to stay away for fear of drawing attention to themselves. If we can’t force our murderer out into the open and goad him into admission, we’ll have lost him forever.’

May shook his head. ‘Oh, I can’t wait for Raymond to hear about this,’ he said.





On Monday morning, Janice Longbright took time off from the investigation to visit the Marquands’ house in Bermondsey once more. She had not been able to concentrate on the Kramer case for days, knowing that someone was prepared to kill in order to keep Arthur’s memoirs hidden.

Whoever was behind the plot knew the players well. They had followed Anna Marquand’s routine, and knew enough about Bryant to understand that even he would not be able to remember what was in his notes. All he possessed was a finished book with the most contentious details missing. Everything hinged on finding the disc that contained the missing sections of the manuscript. Rose Marquand had interrupted the helper before she finished searching the house—now it was up to Longbright.

She arrived to find Mrs Marquand in a state of extreme nervousness. ‘I just called,’ she told Longbright, ‘but the police said they were too busy to deal with it right now.’

‘What happened?’ asked Longbright, coming in, but she could already see. The kitchen window had been smashed and opened.

‘I can’t move about quickly. I heard the glass break and tried to get back here. It was that Hagan boy. I scared him off.’

‘How do you know it was one of the Hagans?’ Longbright asked.

‘Who else could it be?’

‘When was this? Did you see where he went?’

‘It was about ten minutes ago—that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I don’t know where he went. He didn’t go off down the garden. I think he might still be in the house. I’ve been too frightened to move from here.’

Janice searched the ground floor, then went to the foot of the stairs and listened. There was no sound from upstairs. The house was less than a decade old, and nothing creaked. She peered up and watched the light in the hall above, searching for shifting shadows. She rarely felt nervous when she understood the kind of person she was dealing with, but the anonymity of the intruders invading Rose Marquand’s house made her uneasy.

‘I don’t think there’s anyone here now.’ She looked through the rear hall window and saw the magpies hopping into the garden. Rose had been complaining about them. Suddenly Longbright realised what she was looking at; Mrs Marquand had strung CDs on her clothesline. It was a tried and tested deterrent. The glittering discs were meant to scare off the birds.

Instead of venturing upstairs she went to the back door and out into the garden. She recognised the spidery handwriting at once. Bryant’s disc was there, strung on the line along with Barry Manilow and Neil Diamond. As she was trying to free the clothesline she looked up and saw the face in the window, watching her. A man whose outline was familiar, late twenties, heavy, well over six feet tall, cropped hair and scrub beard, hard army build. She knew in an instant that the tables were about to turn.

Unable to free the line from the tangle of knots Mrs Marquand had made, she pulled out her penknife and sawed through the nylon, catching the CD in her hand as the back door opened and he came running for her.

She saw his boots leave the grass, and the distance he covered was astonishing. He barrelled into her with such force that she was knocked off her feet. Before she could begin to rise, she sensed she was in serious trouble. His grip felt mechanical, his bulk unbelievably solid. He closed his hands around her wrists and forced her back. She brought her knee up between his legs but he closed his thighs, blocking her.