Peter Lovesey - Upon A Dark Night

‘Yes, and making a good living at it, I get the impression. They have an office in Gay Street. He designs those enormous out-of-town supermarkets. She’s the surveyor. Knows all about maps and land use and so on. She sizes up the site and he draws the plans.’

‘Cosy.’

‘I think they’re doing all right. Not much of the building industry is booming these days, but supermarkets are going up everywhere.’

‘Red-brick barracks with green-tiled roofs.’ Diamond had no love of them, whatever their design. He knew them from the inside, as a trolley-man in his spell in London. ‘It’s a cancer, Julie, scarring the countryside and bleeding the life out of the city centres. So the geniuses who design them choose to live in a posh Georgian terrace and work in a building that was here when Beau Nash was alive. I bet they don’t drive out of town to do their shopping.’

‘They don’t have a car.’

‘There you are, then.’

She hesitated. ‘Does it matter how they make their living?’

‘They’ve won you over, haven’t they?’

‘I take people as I find them, Mr Diamond.’

He was forced to smile. She’d scored a point. Here he was, ranting on again, no better than a feather-merchant, whatever that was. Thank God there were people like Julie to nudge him out of it. ‘And you find them more agreeable than your boss?’

She blushed deeply. ‘Actually, the couple upstairs are the friendlier ones. Mr Treadwell is still angry about having his house invaded and I think his mood rubs off on her, although she does her best to sound civilised. The Allardyces seem to take a more fatalistic view of the whole weekend.’

‘It was fatal for someone, anyway. They’re the people in public relations, aren’t they?’ He held up a pacifying hand. ‘All right, Julie, I won’t give you my views on public relations. Remind me of their first names.’

‘Sally and William.’

‘And they’re still approachable, after having their house turned over? It beggars belief.’

‘It’s in the breeding. Grin and bear it.’

‘Let’s go up and pay our respects to these models of restraint.’ He picked up his shopping. He was feeling chipper. Not a hint of hypertension.

Sally Allardyce admitted them to the living-room that featured the acanthus-leaf ceiling. Both couples were present. The lights were on and a simulated fire was flickering yellow and blue in the grate. A game of cards was in progress at the round table at the end nearest the main casement window.

Emma Treadwell had changed from her bath-robe into a pale blue dress. Made-up, bright-featured and pretty, she still showed some strain, fingering the ends of her long, dark hair.

Diamond glanced at the way the cards were arranged. ‘Whist?’

‘Solo whist, actually,’ said William Allardyce. His tracksuit top was unzipped lower than before and the lettering entirely revealed. Aptly for the man Julie had found the more friendly, it read MR RIGHT.

‘Finish the hand, then,’ Diamond urged them. ‘You can’t stop in the middle. Is someone on an abundance?’

‘Misère ,’ said Treadwell, without looking up from the cards in his hand. ‘It’s me, and it just about sums up the weekend.’

Sally Allardyce said, ‘We were only filling in time. Your inspector -Julie – said you’d be along soon. I’ll make some fresh tea.’

Diamond seized his opportunity to earn some goodwill. He became masterful. ‘No, you won’t. You’ll take your place at the table and give Mr Treadwell the chance to glory in his misère. Where’s the kitchen? Through there?’

‘What exactly…?’

‘Julie and I will prepare – what is it you call it in all the best circles? – high tea. I heard you were cleaned out by all your visitors, so I brought some food in. Is anyone game for scrambled eggs on toast? My specialty.’

After some hesitation, it was agreed. They would finish the game and take their chances with Peter Diamond’s specialty.

In the kitchen, he grabbed an apron off the back of the door and tied it on. ‘I’m a clumsy bugger,’ he explained to Julie as if it were news to her. ‘This is my best suit. There’s a cut loaf in the bag. Why don’t you get some toast and tea on the go and leave the eggs to me?’

Mastering the cooker was the first challenge. It was electric and easy and he popped in half a dozen plates, informing Julie that nothing was worse than serving a warm meal on a cold plate. The gas hob proved less amenable. The spark wouldn’t ignite the burner for some seconds, and when it finally did with a small explosion, there was a distinct whiff of singed hair. He rubbed the back of his right hand.

Sally Allardyce called out from the card-game, ‘Are you managing all right?’

Julie answered that they were and Diamond began robustly cracking eggs into a large bowl and tossing the shells across the room, aiming for – and not always reaching – the sink. ‘You need a dozen for a party this size, so I got some extra in case of accidents,’ he informed Julie with a wave of his sticky hand covered in bits of broken shell. But he seemed to know what he was doing. When she offered to pass him the milk he said, ‘Never use milk in scrambled eggs. Cream, if you want them rich. But I prefer to serve them fluffy. A little water, that’s the secret. The whole thing will be light as air.’ He found an old-fashioned whisk and attacked the mixture vigorously. ‘How’s the toast?’

‘Almost there.’

‘The tea?’

‘Will be.’ Julie hesitated. ‘What’s misère, Mr Diamond?’

‘A call in solo. You have to lose every trick.’

‘And then what?’

‘You make your misère – and the others pay up. Being a total loser isn’t so easy as you think.’

‘Guy Treadwell should be all right. He’s supposed to be the lucky one.’

He worked with two frying pans and generous knobs of butter, tipped some of the mixture into each and worked it into the right consistency with a wooden spatula. At this moment the cooking took priority over police work. He was absorbed. ‘I hope to God they’ve finished the hand. Timing is everything.’

Some deft work from Julie ensured that six portions of approximately equal size were carried steaming into the living-room. Place mats and cutlery were quickly produced.

‘They’re going to like this,’ he murmured to Julie.

Until they see the state of their kitchen, she thought.

‘Did you get it, Mr Treadwell?’ Diamond asked after compliments had been paid to the scrambled eggs on toast.

Treadwell looked up inquiringly.

‘The misère.’

‘He got it,’ said his wife. ‘With a hand like that he could have made misère ouverte.’

‘When the cards are exposed on the table,’ Diamond explained to Julie. ‘Do you tip horses, Mr Treadwell?’

A sour-faced shake of the head.

‘I only wish William were half so lucky,’ said Sally. ‘He’s never found a blessed thing on his country walks. Not so much as a bad penny.’

The attention of the CID shifted to Allardyce. ‘You’re one of those ramblers I see out with their trousers tucked into their socks?’

William Allardyce smiled. ‘Nothing so ambitious as that. Just a Sunday afternoon walk when I can get it. It’s good to get out after a week in the office.’

‘Public relations – what does it come down to?’

‘It doesn’t come down to anything – ever. If PR is doing what it should, it’s rising. We raise the profile of our clients by increasing the goodwill and understanding they achieve with their customers.’

‘Through the media?’

‘Much more than that. We’re concerned with the entire public perception of the client and his product.’