A Quiet Kill (14 page)

DS Richard Wilkins
was having difficulty finding the Bull's Head pub in the dark. It was raining, as usual, and the
DCI
's directions seemed somehow incomplete. He was supposed to meet the boss and Forsyth for a drink, although why Hay had picked this out-of-the-way place was beyond the youthful detective sergeant. He shifted back into second gear, peering at the numbers on the nearby row houses.

Even in his wildest fantasies, Wilkins could never imagine being anything but a police officer. From the time he first learned to play cops and robbers, he insisted on being the cop, and he had never found any reason to learn a new game. Wilkins was a good officer, maintaining a remarkable psychological balance for someone in law enforcement. Wilkins didn't understand the seemingly complex psychology of his boss, not by a long chalk, but he was delighted to be working with the moody but insightful detective chief inspector.

Wilkins was single, but not for long if Gemma, his girlfriend, had anything to say about it. His beloved had been dropping hints for so long that it was only a matter of time now. She may have had a point—even Wilkins was prepared to accept that. They had been more or less engaged for two years, but something always came up to prevent him from making any serious plans. The words
how convenient
were often enough on Gemma's lips, especially when Wilkins's work snatched him away at a particularly sensitive moment.

She hadn't been very happy about being left alone tonight, either, he reflected. But he had very much wanted to join the others for a review of the case. If he could just find the bloody pub.

The Bull's Head
was an old-style establishment, more to be expected in the countryside than situated in the heart of London. Oak-beamed and dimly lit, with wooden benches and a long, comfortable bar, it had quickly been adopted by Hay some ten years ago. The locals, being largely working folk, had originally greeted the arrival of a
CID
copper with some suspicion. That was some time ago. Hay was now part of the landscape.

The landlord, Billy Treacher, had bought the Bull's Head out of love. He had been a regular for years and had jumped at the chance to purchase the pub when the previous owner decided to sell. Billy had steadfastly refused the encroachment of anything resembling music, television—especially the large-screen variety—or, worst of all, video games. Video games were somewhere along the road to damnation. The ale was good, the food was mediocre, and the pub was everything it should be; moreover, that was how the punters liked it. The Bull's Head would retain its integrity as long as Billy Treacher survived.

Hay's arrival at the pub with a slim brunette caused several heads to turn, but by and large the regulars were a discreet lot. Settling into a booth late Thursday evening, they continued their discussion of the case.

“It's quite sad, you know,” said Liz, “but my impression is that Natalie Guévin never really did anything especially wrong in her life. Falling in love with a married man, maybe, but that's not unheard of. Yet we can sit here blithely imagining all sorts of reasons for people to want to kill her.”

“It's not the first time I've thought that, either,” said Hay, before tasting his pint. “When you spend a lot of your life conducting murder inquiries you find there are a lot of motives out there. Luckily, not everyone acts on them.”

“How long have you been in, Hay? You're starting to sound like Moses.”

“Twenty-eight years,” he said. “I joined up when I was twenty-four, having just finished a second degree. And before you ask, French literature. And before you ask again, no, I don't know why.”

“Regrets?”

“Is this where I do the Frank Sinatra shtick?” he asked. “‘I've had a few.'”

“No, I'd like to hear you do Piaf. I can just see you belting out ‘Non, je ne regrette rien.'”

Hay smiled and lit a cigarette. “You?”

“Oh yes,” she said. “More than a few regrets in my case.”

Hay wanted very much to ask her what she meant. It was difficult to accurately read her expression through the gloom. Hay usually came here by himself and had never really realized how dark it was. But before he could speak, Wilkins found them.

“There you are.” He said with a broad smile. “I had a helluva time finding this place, but at least I could tell it was you two from the clouds of smoke over the table. You right for another drink?” They nodded and he disappeared again.

His moment missed, Hay said, “He looks like a lost puppy since he lost his mate. Those two were becoming good chums. Anyway, your lad should be back soon.”

Liz nodded. “We spoke briefly today. He's going to call me tomorrow on a secure line when we're at the Residence for the reception.
Damn!
” she said suddenly.

“What is it?” he asked, startled.

“Oh, nothing,” she mumbled, but Hay thought her face might be flushing a bit in the dark. “It's just that I have to go out and buy a—dress, that's all. For the reception. I didn't bring a dress uniform; why would I? So I'll have to go as a girl.”

That shouldn't be too hard
, thought Hay, but he said nothing. You couldn't say anything to women these days.

Wilkins returned with the drinks. “You heard from Ouellette lately?”

“Oh, right. That's just what I was going to tell you. He's calling me tomorrow with a full report. Said he found some interesting stuff, but he needs to do some more work and then he'll call us at the Residence during the reception. Oh, and he finally got his bags. They'd been routed through Lisbon for some reason best known to the airlines.”

“I do hope he's come up with something interesting,” said Hay. “I had a few lights going off about that Bosnia angle as well, but I wasn't so quick to put them all together.”

“Comes of spending your birthday on your own, I guess.” Then she almost bit her tongue off.

“What's that?” said Hay, taken aback. “When was your birthday?”

“Why didn't you let anyone know?” said Wilkins, concerned. “We could have at least gone out somewhere.”

Liz muttered something about having wanted a quiet night at the hotel, but she saw Hay putting two and two together. And now he felt bad.
Damn
, she thought,
I didn't want to dredge all that up again
. She said lightly, “My own fault. Don't like acknowledging the years. Er—nice pub, this, isn't it? What's it called again?”

Hay was watching her closely. He answered slowly, “It's called the Bull's Head.”

“Well,” said Wilkins cheerily. “We'll come back for a real celebration another time.” He raised his glass. “But here's to you. Many happy returns, Inspector Forsyth.”

 

Luciano Alfredo Carillo had a
massive headache and it was only eight o'clock in the morning. Two hundred and fifty guests.
Two hundred and fifty
. Hungry, and arriving at seven o'clock tonight. This was impossible. What did they think he was? A miracle worker? Of course, there were dozens of fully loaded trays in the freezer; he and his small crew had been working like things possessed all week. But some things could only be done on the day. Like the melon and prosciutto kebabs. And the caviar-stuffed quail eggs. The stuffed mushroom caps. The deviled chicken livers. Where to start? Carillo sat down at his little wooden table, head between his hands, and moaned. Where to start? Thank God at least he had all those Canadian meat pies.

Liz hated shopping.
She hated it back home, and she hated it here. She stood in the tiny cubicle, her clothes in an undignified heap on the floor. Liz looked at herself in the mirror. Every book that Liz had read when she was young contained the line, “She smiled at her reflection.” Liz wasn't smiling. The pink monstrosity that she was wearing looked exactly like what it was: a party frock. The frills and flounces were hideous, the color was silly, and the neckline was too low. She tore it off—the tenth today—and trudged to the next shop.

So far everything had been too young or too old, too tight or not tight enough, too colorful or too dreary. She was even past looking at price tags. She couldn't understand why some women loved shopping. To her, every dress that didn't work was a personal insult, a shortcoming, an affront. Liz didn't know why she cared, really. Who did she want to impress anyway? Surely not Hay, she thought. She wondered what Sharon Carruthers—whom Liz had privately dubbed “Morticia”—would be wearing, the cow. Probably something quite stunning and outrageously expensive.

Hay had surprised her again, earlier in the week, she remembered. She had decided she needed a ride to clear her head after a particularly graphic forensics briefing. Having observed that horses were “great, unpredictable beasts with a nasty sense of humor,” Hay had nonetheless offered to drop her off at the stableyard. When she returned from an exhilarating canter around the park with Reckless, she had been surprised to find Hay's Rover still parked there. He had been deep in informed discussion with old Albert Taylor about, of all things, thoroughbred bloodlines.

She entered what appeared to be a quality dress shop. When she re-emerged she carried a large bag containing something black and probably too short that had cost a week's salary. Now came the hard part. If there was one thing she hated more than buying dresses, it was buying shoes.

Annie Mallett rarely
allowed herself to be stressed, but today even Annie was feeling the strain. Everything had to look
just so
when the guests arrived, and she had a lot of wiping and dusting and vacuuming to do. She had to do the big drawing room where the guests would have their cocktails and chat, as well as all the little rooms off to the side. The dining room and anterooms all had to be done because people always did spill over, didn't they. It would be difficult to dust, too, with those Christmas decorations all over the place. It didn't help that Mrs. High Commissioner kept following her around, criticizing and issuing instructions. Madame was in a bad mood today even for
her
, thought Annie.

And there sat Anthony Thistlethwaite, she thought, serenely polishing the silver Christmas candlesticks without a care in the world. All that he had to do tonight was see the bars were running smoothly and the waiters—hired especially for the occasion—were paid at the end of the night. Annie gingerly picked up the large Inuit carving that had fallen off the mantelpiece early in the investigation. She reddened slightly as she remembered the look on the detective chief inspector's face when he strode out to see what the racket was.

She picked up a clean rag and wiped the surface of the sideboard. Well, she wiped around the ornaments anyway. Annie wondered what Anthony would think if he knew she once believed him to be the murderer. He was, after all, the butler, wasn't he? She had told that nice detective chief inspector, too, but he had only thanked her for her assistance and told her he was very busy right now. Well, perhaps she had never really believed it was Anthony, but it had been a good excuse to go and have another look at the
DCI
. It was a shame he'd left, along with all his mates; life at the High Commission had been dead boring in the few days they'd been gone.

“I had no
idea that would take so long,” muttered Liz, entering Hay's office, where she had been installed since operations shifted to Scotland Yard. While she had initially felt uncomfortable about invading his privacy, Hay had been most hospitable, even succeeding in finding her a desk and chair in the storeroom.

“I'm glad you're back, Forsyth. I've just had a phone call from Mrs. Wilmot. She wants you and me to go over there as soon as we can.”

Liz tossed her bags on the desk and trailed him back out the door. They were soon in the Rover heading toward Wimbledon. The rain hadn't let up since last Sunday, and the windshield wipers were slapping back and forth furiously. Hay was perturbed that he had left his umbrella back at the office. The car ashtray was full of butts, his and hers, and a good deal of ash had spilled onto the floor as well. “We should empty this ashtray,” she observed.

“Or buy a new car,” he said.

“No, you shouldn't,” she objected. “It suits you. You're a bit alike, really.”

Now what the hell
, wondered Hay,
does she mean by that? Good quality, reliable, with a touch of class? Or over-the-hill, ill-maintained, and a bit cranky?
He wasn't sure what the answer would be, so he didn't ask.

It was difficult to drive in rain like this—sheets of blinding rain slicing across the windshield in great waves. “One of these days,” he said, almost jumping an unseen stop sign, “I really must move to a better climate.”

“Don't think about Canada, then. It's brutal. This is like paradise to me, for this time of year anyway.”

Hay mumbled something, then almost swerved off the road to avoid an oncoming car. “Where's that damned turnoff? I can't see a bloody thing. Oh, here it is.”

They stood once again on the front stoop of the charming bungalow, this time like two drowned cats. Mrs. Wilmot answered the door, and now there was no Mrs. Jenkins to hinder them. Even the best of neighbors have their own lives to lead.

Mrs. Wilmot seated them graciously and brought tea. It was tranquil in the little sitting room, with its comfortable blue tapestry armchairs and book-lined shelves. No radio or television was playing. The only sound heard in the small room was that of the rain hurtling itself against the windows.

“Thank you for coming out, especially on a day like this,” said Mrs. Wilmot softly. The hoarseness in her voice was gone. It had probably been due to too much crying, thought Liz. “I was sorting through some of Mr. Wilmot's things earlier today—papers and such. I've decided to sell up and go home, you see, so I needed to locate some documents. And I found something I thought you should see.”