G Malliet - Death of a Cozy Writer

She held out her hand. St. Just looked at it as if a toad had sprouted in its palm.

Sergeant Fear, who had automatically flipped open his notebook, had heard enough. He shut his eyes tightly. When he opened them again, he drew a firm line under his notes and wrote beneath it, in large capital letters: FUCK.

Later, back at the station, he would take pains to blot this out, but for now, he let it stand. She really had led them up a garden path.

“I see my superior has finally notified you. I don’t have my real identification on me, for obvious reasons. My hands were tied until he gave the go-ahead to put you in the picture.”

St. Just stared at her coldly. If anything was more irritating than Scotland Yard on one’s turf, he had just decided it was Scotland Yard on one’s turf, incognito.

“What’s all this in aid of, then?” he asked.

“George, of course. Finding out what he’s really up to. And he’s up to quite a lot.”

“We ran a background check on George Beauclerk-Fisk. He came up clean-no form, at any rate.”

“He would. In your files, there would be little to implicate him-at least, not in the area of his activities in which we’re most interested. You can be certain the real investigative details aren’t in the shared database.”

“Why weren’t we told, dammit?” he demanded. “This was- is-a murder investigation.”

“I’m telling you now. It wasn’t my decision to make, it was Sir Cheek’s. My marching orders were to keep my cover, no matter what, and in my line of work, that means no matter what -I don’t have to tell you that. But now, as I say, my hands are untied. Let me give you a hint-”

“Thank you. That’s most kind. A hint from one of the professionals from London. Do take this down, Sergeant Fear; perhaps we can study it and learn from it later. Let’s have it, Miss Landeski, the whole story. If George so much as returned a videotape late, I want to know about it.”

“All right. Here you go, the short version: Almost nothing in this house is what it seems. I don’t mean the personalities-although heaven knows there’s a gold mine of dysfunction there-I mean the surroundings. The furnishings, the paintings. It’s a mixture of truly extraordinary art and antiques mixed in with the most extraordinary crap. It’s a bit hard to sort out because Sir Adrian had appalling taste to begin with, but-”

“But you think some kind of exchange has been going on.”

“Precisely.”

“The real goods, so to speak, substituted with fakes.”

“Precisely.” She beamed at him, a teacher acknowledging a promising student.

“George’s art gallery…”

“Those who can, do. Paint, that is. Those who can’t, buy art galleries. Those who really can’t make a go of that, steal, paying a starving artist to create passable substitute paintings or bits of furniture. Adrian was quite near-sighted; I tested him on that myself. He never knew the difference. If anyone else noticed, they assumed he’d been ripped off by a shady dealer, or that he was just exercising his naturally appalling taste.”

An electronic bleating erupted once again from the direction of Fear’s jacket.

“Jingle Bells,” laughed Natasha. “I say, that is jolly.”

“I thought I told you to get that thing seen to, Sergeant.”

“I tried, Sir. I.T. couldn’t figure it out, either.”

“Get Emma to change it back then.”

“She refuses, Sir.”

“For God’s sake…”

Turning again to Natasha, he said:

“How long has it been going on?”

“Since George developed expensive habits, at a guess. Drugs being the most expensive. He’s rather frugal when it comes to women. I have a theory-not yet proven-that in addition to the art theft, he’s found some of the furniture leaving the country is extremely useful for concealing whatever one wants to conceal. The earlier centuries were very clever about hidden compartments, for which the modern drug dealer has found much the same uses.”

“It’s Chloe Beauclerk-Fisk, Sir,” said Fear. “She’s been calling the station all morning, wanting to talk with you.”

“Later, Sergeant. So you’ve insinuated yourself with George, winning his confidence, to find out who the receivers are.”

“Precisely.”

“This deception includes having a child with him? Are you quite mad?”

“Of course not, Inspector. ‘All in the line of duty’ can be taken too far. That was George’s harebrained scheme, to get in good with his father. To stay on George’s good side, I had to play along. I was appalled, but what could I do? God, this family. When Ruthven was killed, I knew I was in over my head, but even then I couldn’t risk calling for instructions, not with your men crawling all over the house. You must realize, it was almost certainly George behind that, but I don’t know why or how he did it yet. I can promise you I’m working on getting it out of him. As far as I knew , he was asleep all night next to me when Ruthven was killed. As long as I can keep his confidence, he might just let the truth slip. I had to keep playing the game. It was too important-and I was closer to unraveling the case than anyone had been able to get-to blow my cover. We’re talking about two men killed over this, not to mention millions of pounds in stolen treasures, taken not only from here but from museums all over the world. We’re closer to the truth than ever before, now.”

Sergeant Fear was wishing she’d be quiet. He got it, got it, got it . It was known that Scotland Yard had its own agenda, and sometimes played by its own rules when it suited them. It wasn’t the first time they’d elbowed the “provincials” out of the way over an international case deemed to be of overriding priority. He just resented being made to feel like some kind of fucking Cambridgeshire goatherd.

“Look, Chief Inspector; Sergeant. I know you’re angry at being left out in the cold. I would be, too. I couldn’t help it; I had no control, no real authority. This is not your average smuggling scheme. We still don’t know all the receivers in Europe and the Middle East, let alone all the suppliers. It would seem George was not only stealing from his father, but using this house as sort of a warehouse for incoming goods. Paulo is in on it with him, I’m sure, but I doubt Paulo knows the magnitude of what he’s involved in.”

“Natasha, I would suggest, with all due respect, that neither do you.”

THE TWO POLICEMEN CAME stomping down the staircase into the hall to find Paulo taking Chloe’s fur coat at the main door. Just before Paulo kicked the door shut, St. Just glimpsed the black limousine that had transported her in state to the house.

The Hollywood-style sweep of staircase left him nowhere to hide. Inwardly, St. Just groaned, imagining she was there for a hand-holding session for which he had little time or inclination.

“God, but the press is vile,” she informed him. “One of them practically flung herself on the bonnet trying to stop us on the way in.” She took off her leather gloves, flapping them in his direction. “Needed to talk with you. And Mohammed wouldn’t come to the mountain.”

She marched into the library. At least, judging by her sturdy progress, she was relatively sober this time. Reluctantly, after a whispered conference with Fear, he followed, closing the door behind them.

“Seem to have been a few changes here,” she said, hands on hips, taking in the vast room. “All that military crap in the hallway is new since my time. As for this-” she waved one arm, taking in the paintings cramming the walls-“Adrian never could tell a racehorse from a plug mare. That much hasn’t changed. Speaking of plug mares, why haven’t you taken that one into custody yet?”