Peter Lovesey - Bloodhounds

"You heard about it?"

"From Shirley-Ann Miller a short time ago. Of course, we know nothing firsthand."

"She was quickly onto it," said Diamond, slightly deflated.

"The jungle telegraph works well in Bath. I think she works in public relations, doesn't she?"

"Tourism."

"Well, she's pretty hot at public relations as well. Did you say you'd like a coffee?"

"No, thanks."

He was shown to the tall-backed Rennie Mackintosh chair. After making up his mind that it really was a chair, though unsuited to his physique, he tried his weight on it, perched awkwardly, and then got up saying, "I'm happy to stand. You knew Rupert Darby, sir?"

"A slight acquaintance only," said AJ. "Jessica invited him to the preview we had here. Rather a carrying voice, which can be an asset at a party, because everyone else then raises the volume, and it all sounds wildly successful."

"You hadn't met him before that?"

"No. I'd seen him around in Bath. Easy to recognize from Jessica's description. The beret, the voice, the dog."

"Was the dog at the party?"

"No, I'm speaking of seeing him in the street. You want to know about the party. He and I didn't exchange more than a few passing words as he came in. He isn't the sort who waits to be introduced to people. He was in there straightaway. I wouldn't have thought he was the suicidal type."

Diamond gave a shrug. His thoughts were no longer on Rupert's personality. At this minute AJ. interested him more. He might have stepped out of a holiday brochure with his welcome-to-paradise smile and designer shirt and jeans. Barnaby had spoken of a private income, and some of it must have gone on the teeth, which were as even as computer keys. Was this young buck likely to be content with "intellectual flirting"?

"I understand you have a large stake in the gallery, Mr. er…?"

"AJ. will do."

Diamond was shaking his head. "Not any longer, sir. I'm gathering evidence, you see. I have to insist on full names."

AJ. frowned. "Does it really matter? The A is for Ambrose. I cringe each time I have to own up to it."

"And the J?"

"Jason. Hardly much better."

"That isn't your surname, is it?"

"No. That's"-he cast his eyes upward-"Smith. Ambrose Jason Smith. Now can we talk about something more important, for pity's sake?"

This business over the name had quite upset AJ. All the more incentive for Diamond.

"Are you a local man… Mr. Smith?"

A glare. "No. Born in Devon, but the next twenty years I spent in and around Winchester. I went to school there."

"The public school?"

"Yes. If you want the whole sordid truth, I was not a credit to them. Got expelled eventually. Went to art college and then had a few poverty-stricken years in Paris."

"And now you're stricken no longer?"

"That is correct."

Diamond waited.

AJ. explained, "The family forgave me."

"To come back to my question, you have a large stake in the gallery. Is that so?"

"I help out with the overheads. I'm also a regular exhibitor. I wish you would tell me what this has to do with the police."

"You're a close friend of Mrs. Shaw's."

"That's a sinister-sounding phrase. She's a married woman, Superintendent. If you're inferring what I think you are, you'd better have a care what you say."

"Some words were sprayed on the gallery window on the night of the preview party."

A.J.'s reaction was less dramatic than Barnaby's. He was still well in control. His brown eyes looked into Diamond's and then toward the window. "How did you hear about that?"

"The words, I was informed, were 'She did for Sid.' "

"So?"

"You were one of the people who decided to remove them without reporting the matter."

"To put it in context," said A J., adopting a lofty tone, "it was obviously a piece of misplaced fun. We were having a party. People have a few drinks and do daft things. We thought it was in bad taste and wiped the window clean. If that's a crime, you'd better arrest us all."

From above came the sound of footsteps. Jessica was about to descend with her dealer.

"Another question," said Diamond. "Where were you last night from seven onward?"

"God, you really are taking this seriously. In the bar at the Royal Crescent Hotel and afterward at the Clos du Roy Restaurant, where I dined alone. But if you wish to make inquiries, a dozen bar staff and waiters can vouch for me."

"And after you'd eaten?"

"I went home and watched television. Would you like me to tell you what the program was?"

Jessica's black-stockinged legs and blue strappy shoes appeared at the top of the spiral stairs. She led down a small silver-haired man in a black overcoat and a bow tie. Quick to sense that the deal she'd been doing upstairs might be undermined if she introduced a policeman, she said smoothly, "My dear Mr. Diamond, how good of you to call again. This is quite a morning. If you'll forgive me for a moment, Mr. Peake has come specially from London, and he has another gallery to see. I'll just point him in the right direction, and then we'll do business, I promise."

Diamond nodded, allowing the subterfuge to pass, before starting up with AJ. again. "You live in Bath?"

"Queen Square."

"Nice and central."

"Yes."

"Is there anyone…?"

"I am a bachelor."

"Did you go out at all last night?"

"I went home to sleep, Superintendent, and sleep is what I did."

Back came Jessica. "Wonderful. He wants seven, including that big one of yours, AJ. We've got to celebrate. Is there any bubbly left over from the party?"

"Before you do-" Diamond began.

"You're to join us," said Jessica. "It isn't every day we do three grands' worth of business."

"Sorry, but you're joining me," said Diamond, "and there's no bubbly on offer. We might run to coffee in a plastic cup, but that's the best I can promise."

"I don't think I understand."

"I'm taking you in, Mrs. Shaw. For questioning."

Out of consideration for his passenger, he drove to the back of the central police station, and they entered through a side door. Even so, several heads swiveled when he escorted Jessica, teetering high-heeled along the corridor in the pale blue Armani suit she'd put on for the London art dealer.

In Diamond's office the phone was flashing like a burglar alarm. He pulled out a chair for Jessica and asked if she wanted that coffee tasting of plastic. She requested water.

He read the written messages left on his desk. Julie Hargreaves had spoken to Shirley-Ann Miller and confirmed that she had a good alibi for the previous night. Halliwell had traced Miss Chilmark to Lucknam Park, the country house turned hotel at Colerne, and was on his way there; lucky bastard, he wouldn't be drinking out of plastic cups. And Jack Merlin, the pathologist, couldn't, after all, get to Bath next day; the postmortem on Rupert Darby would have to be postponed unless someone else took over.

After collecting tea for himself, Diamond sat opposite Jessica, observing her, deciding on his strategy. She was drumming her fingers on the desk. There didn't seem much advantage in gentle sparring.

"Mrs. Shaw, why did you write those lists of words on the paper bag?"

The finely shadowed eyes narrowed, but there was nothing else to register the body blow this was meant to be. This lady wasn't simply going to roll over and tell all.

"The bag you used to treat Miss Chilmark's hyperventilation. I have it here." He opened his desk and took it out, enclosed in a transparent cover. "They happen to rhyme, these words. 'Jack, flak, knack, mac'… It looks like working notes for a poet-or at least a writer of verse. In this case, they rhyme with 'black.' There's a second column rhyming with 'motion' and a third with 'room.' I could be wrong, but those are words that feature in the case under investigation: Penny Black, Milo Motion, and Locked Room. Working notes?"