Peter Lovesey - The Circle

'Hi. Sharon here. Got another success to report. Catch you later.'

www.ChichesterMurderDetectives.com

Latest developments from Naomi Green

An extraordinary twist in the case, thanks mainly to me. Do you remember my visit to the burnt-out ruin of Edgar Blacker's house? I removed a photo from the bedroom wall. The police had left it hanging there, thinking it was unimportant. It showed Blacker with a second man, apparently at a party. On the reverse someone had written 'Innocents, 1982'. This picture is now in the hands of the police and they have identified the second man.

I have to be careful here. The man has an interest in keeping his past a secret. He has changed his name since the 'Innocents' picture. He once owned some men's magazines — the sort that have to be kept on the top shelf — that were edited by Blacker, and Innocents was one of the titles. Yes, Blacker, the puffed-up publisher who came to our writers' circle and delivered judgement on our literary efforts, used to edit sex magazines.

But let's put the spotlight on the second man, although I have to say he gets plenty of attention already. Yes, he's rich and famous. These days he is a highly successful businessman who has made a fortune from the fitness craze, persuading the public to use gyms and equipment he supplies. But that isn't enough for him. He has ambitions for a career in government and is being tipped for a job in the next reshuffle. He wouldn't want his association with Blacker and those smutty magazines being leaked to the press just as he is waiting for a call from Number Ten.

Lord Gym (as I'll call him, because he has a title) was interviewed this week in a London hotel by the Sussex police investigating Blacker's murder. They are looking for a connection with the murders of Amelia Snow and Jessie Warmington-Smith. That old phrase 'helping the police with their enquiries' doesn't entirely fit what happened. He wasn't a lot of help. They want to speak to him again and they are looking for a fuller and more frank account of his association with Blacker. The opportunity will come at the weekend at his country house. Can it be just a coincidence, I ask, that he lives only four miles from Chichester? He'll be there late Friday evening. Expect the police to knock on his door on Saturday morning.

The members of the writers' circle will be relieved to know someone else is taking some of the heat. Not many of them realise who they have to thank.

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The stake-out was in place. Sixteen officers, uniformed as well as CID, were hidden in and around the grounds of Lord Chalybeate's house in Bosham. All were in radio contact with Hen Mallin, who was in the house directing from an upstairs room. The transport was parked away from the house in the grounds of a school.

The overcast sky was an advantage for those in hiding. Even six-foot-five Duncan Shilling was well concealed in a rhododendron plantation near the main gate. But the conditions would also provide cover for the suspect. It was difficult spotting anyone without the help of moonlight.

In the house, Hen went downstairs to have more words with the housekeeper. Keeping Kate on side was vital. She'd cooperated well considering her future employment was at stake, allowing all these officers to have the run of the house and grounds. Now that the operation was under way it was essential she didn't lose her nerve and try and contact Lord Chalybeate, who hadn't been informed. Poor dear, she was like the teenager who'd thrown a party on the night her parents were coming home.

'Does he call ahead to let you know when he's arriving?'

'Only if he's going to be late.'

'And he likes to take a sauna when he gets here around ten thirty?'

'Yes, I've switched it on as usual.'

'Then what?'

'He has a late supper. I've made a filled baguette for him.'

'Should have asked you to make seventeen.' She added, 'Joke.' Panic had spread over Kate's face.

'You do think he'll be okay with all this?'

'I'm sure of it,' Hen said with the certainty of a doorstep evangelist. 'We're here to protect him and his property, aren't we? Why don't you make some more coffee for us both?'

She returned upstairs and checked that everyone was still in radio contact. 'As soon as you see the car at the gate, let me know, Duncan. It's a red Porsche.'

'I won't be able to tell the colour, guv. I can hardly see the back of my hand, it's so dark.'

'You'll see the headlights. No other car's going to come visiting this late, apart from the suspect's, and they're not going to use the front gate.'

'Suspect could be here already, laid up somewhere in the grounds.'

'Let's hope so,' Hen said. 'We don't want a no-show after all this trouble.'

She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes — if Chalybeate hadn't been held up. After that, it was a matter of seeing if and when the arsonist chose to act. The m.o. suggested around four a.m. However, this was a markedly different location from the others. A house of this size wouldn't catch fire as quickly or as completely as the other buildings had. If the real purpose of the arsonist was the murder of Chalybeate, the ideal place to torch was the sauna, a separate building constructed mainly of wood. He wouldn't survive ten minutes in there.

The coffee arrived.

'I just want to get this clear,' she said to Kate. 'When he drives in, he leaves his car down there by the front door and then goes for his sauna. He says nothing to you?'

'Not usually. I hope not,' she said. 'I'm not much of an actor. He'd see something was wrong as soon as he looked at me.' She was cracking up.

'Correction,' Hen said. 'Something isn't wrong, sweetie. It's right. We're making sure he's safe. You've done nothing he could object to.'

Her radio buzzed. 'Excuse me.' She moved a few steps away and turned her back. 'Mallin.'

It was Andy Humphreys, from out in the road. 'Found a car up the lane, guv, a bit far from any houses. Engine still faintly warm. No sign of the driver.'

'Do an index check.'

She lit a cigar and waited. Could it really be as simple as this to nick the arsonist? If so, Andy Humphreys was Detective of the Month.

'Guv, the vehicle check gives the owner as Thomasine O'Loughlin. Twenty Blake Avenue.'

Thomasine1 ? Not the name she expected or wanted.

'Does it, by God? Can you disable it?'

'Will do.'

'Are you alone?'

'There's assistance not far away if I need it.'

'Have someone keep it under obbo.'

She put out a general message that Thomasine's car had been found and she was presumed to be in the grounds. 'Tell me the moment you spot her, but don't approach her. Repeat, don't approach her.'

Kate, saucer-eyed, still lingered with the tray. 'So is it a woman?'

Hen told her to wait downstairs. These were dangerous moments.

'Snap it up, Chalybeate,' she said aloud.

She leaned out of the open window and willed his headlights to penetrate the darkness. The only light was the tip of her own cigar.

Another five minutes went by. He was overdue now.

Over the radio came Johnny Cherry's voice. 'Someone passed me on foot, heading straight towards the house. Shall I follow?'

'Man? Woman?'

'Can't tell'

'Stay put.'

She crushed out the cigar and ran downstairs. Kate came out of the kitchen and said, 'Is he here?'

'Where's the switch for the security light? Oh bugger!'

Too late. Two halogen lamps triggered by the approaching figure flooded the entire housefront and drive in brilliant light.

There was no doubt now that the figure was Thomasine O'Loughlin, dressed for action in a tracksuit and trainers, and caught in the dazzle like a rabbit. But she wasn't carrying petrol or a bundle of oily rags. This wasn't what Hen wanted. She flung open the front door.