The Blue Virgin Page 4

  Simon had met Val Rogan when she’d traveled last spring to Ramsey Lodge, right after Nora had found out she was pregnant. Val had been full of enthusiasm, bubbling over with news of her new partner, Bryn Wallace. He’d liked Val immediately, responding to her artist’s nature, and understood why she and Nora were friends. Kate had liked her too, and his sister always had good instincts about people.

  Simon recalled his first meeting with Nora, his attraction to the petite redhead immediate. After learning Nora was recovering from her fiance’s death, he had held himself in remarkable restraint; except for that one gratifying afternoon just before she found out she was pregnant. He wanted to repeat it, and soon, but more than that, he wanted to swoop down and protect her from the outside world. He’d lain awake several nights trying to figure out if the child could possibly be his.

  He recalled her shock at finding out the antibiotics she’d taken for a chest cold just before Paul’s death could destroy the efficacy of birth control pills. He hadn’t envied her the tough situation she’d been in, trying to decide whether to raise the child alone, give it up for adoption, or abort it. Simon was certain she would move back to the States at that point, to her mother, Amelia, and her new stepfather. But once she’d decided firmly not to terminate the pregnancy, it was the combination of her old friend Val and her new friend Kate who had convinced Nora she should stay at the lodge for the next year.

  “We have the room, and it would be so much easier to manage your collaboration with Simon if you were here.” Kate was the voice of reason.

  Val agreed. “You don’t have family over here, and you shouldn’t be alone during these months. As much as I’d do for you, I’m at the co-op all day. These guys are right here.”

  “Besides,” Kate persisted, “it will do us all good to have a baby around here. And when you get on your feet and can see where the books are going, you can move on.”

  Simon felt he had held his breath for a week as Nora mulled their offer over, trying not to pressure her, something he’d been guilty of in his past relationships. Finally she had acquiesced.

  “The last thing I want to do is flee home to be fussed over by my mother. I love her but only in small doses—her constant fussing makes me claustrophobic after a few days. She can fuss to her heart’s content over Roger. He adores her every suggestion. Besides, they’re enjoying traveling, and they’ve earned their retirement.”

  Once it was settled, Val returned to Oxford, and Simon spent the summer trying to ignore the chemistry that flew between them as they polished the book. At least Nora seemed capable of ignoring it, he reluctantly admitted. Why do bloody relationships have to be so difficult? Simon wondered, as Nora stretched, yawning noisily. He waited for her to push her glasses back up her nose, an endearing gesture she repeated hundreds of time a day.

  Simon stretched his left leg and rotated each hand in turn to uncramp his muscles. He insisted on doing all the driving, much to Nora’s chagrin, providing her with direct evidence of what she called his “Renaissance Man syndrome.”

  “Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I’ve ceased to function,” she complained in clear Connecticut tones as they’d packed up the car.

  “You can drive after we stop for our sandwiches,” he’d said, but then slid behind the wheel before she could get in after a quick stop for fuel and a bathroom break.

  Now she looked at the road sign they were passing. “Only about ten kilometers and we hit Banbury, then less than thirty to Oxford.” She watched the verdant countryside for a moment, and then added: “I do appreciate you driving. I know you’d rather I stay mollycoddled and such —” She put up her hand as Simon started to protest. “I just wanted to say I know you drove out of concern, not control,” she finished quickly, searching through her discs for another selection.

  Simon nodded but remained silent, carefully keeping his eyes on the road. It was like walking a bloody tightrope, but maybe Nora was seeing he respected and cared about her.

  “I wonder how Val is doing. I hate to call her if she’s talking to the police.” Nora frowned. “This is so unbelievable, Simon.” She turned to face him. “I can’t believe the police could think Val had anything to do with it.”

  It was Simon’s turn to frown. “I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding. She’ll be able to explain herself.”

  “I certainly hope so,” Nora said, ejecting Beethoven and putting in Jack Johnson.

  Simon hid a sigh. These next days were going to be difficult, helping Val cope with Bryn’s death, packing Nora’s flat, and meeting with a publisher who had shown an interest in their book. The last thing any of them needed was for Nora to go about sticking her nose into a murder investigation. In the five months he’d known her, Nora had twice taken it upon herself to solve what she called “her little mysteries.” One had involved a missing ledger at the lodge. Nora and her ever-present notebook had gone around asking the staff questions, serious in her snooping. It’d been humorous at the time, he admitted, and indeed, she’d located the ledger tucked up high on a kitchen shelf, where a grocer unloading supplies had moved it.

  The second incident had been more critical and occasioned a rebuke from Kate’s boyfriend, Detective Sergeant Ian Travers. A child in their neighborhood had gone missing, and Ian got the call as all four of them were having tea together. Nora immediately brought out her notebook and prepared to dog his tracks.

  “Leave the policing to the professionals, Nora,” he said firmly but kindly when he left.

  Simon remembered Nora had nodded solemnly, but as soon as Ian had gone, she’d decided to walk around the corner to the mother’s house and interview her. “I’m a reporter by training—questioning people is what I do,” she’d said when Simon had tried to stop her. “I might get her to remember something she’s forgotten to tell Ian in her distress.”

  Simon had snorted and given up, and yet again, Nora had prevailed. She’d calmed the hysterical mother down and asked her if anything was missing of the boy’s. The minute the mother saw his favorite rabbit was gone, she knew where he was. He’d been found at The World of Beatrix Potter down on Crag Brow, showing his rabbit to Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle.

  Simon regarded Nora. She liked to snoop and didn’t hesitate to stretch the truth or prevaricate if it served her purpose. So far she’d managed to keep herself out of genuine trouble. But this was Oxford and a real murder. He added “protecting Nora from herself” to his mental list of chores on this trip.

  Chapter Five

  “In the study of criminal psychology, one is forced to the conclusion that the most dangerous of all types of mind is that of the inordinately selfish man.”

  — Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Strange Studies from Life and Other Narratives

  8 AM

  Declan watched as Watkins guided Val Rogan into the back of the panda car then returned to his side.

  “What do you think?” Watkins asked.

  “I think Miss Rogan will need to be vetted, Watkins, but with care. We can’t afford to arrest her and blow our hours in custody without firm evidence. We’ll let her make a preliminary statement we can throw back at her later.”

  Declan ran his hand through his crop of thick hair. “McAfee!”

  An eager detective constable ran up the steps. “Sir.”

  Declan suppressed a smile as McAfee almost saluted. “Get the house-to-house started, please.”

  McAfee ran back down the steps to carry out his orders.

  “Let’s go see this lad of your downstairs,” Declan told Watkins, “and find out what he really knows.”

  His sergeant led the way back outside the entrance, opening a small gate in the railing on the side of the stairs and leading the way down four cement steps to a door. “Watkins,” he boomed, knocking on the door.

  It was opened
almost immediately by a woman police constable who looked relieved to see them.

  “He said he needs to call the bakery where he works, but you said not to let him use the phone.” The constable stopped just short of whining as the men advanced into the bedsit.

  There was a faint smell of marijuana, but that was not the purpose of this visit, Declan decided as he scanned the flat. It was one large room, with an alcove holding a two-burner hot plate, a microwave on top of a small fridge, and a tiny sink beside it. The one interior door stood ajar, revealing an equally compact bathroom with a shower stall, no tub. A poster of Rowan Atkinson as Mr. Bean was used as a dartboard. The bed had been made up as a daybed, with two long bolsters and several pillows to disguise it, and was covered in a dated brown-plaid Oxfam reject.

  As Declan and Watkins entered, the pale young man who had been slumped against the pillows sat up straight, then slid to the edge of the bed and twisted his thin black ponytail around one finger, waiting to be noticed. Declan introduced himself and Watkins, complimenting the boy on his compact lodgings.

  “Very neat and tidy,” he smiled approvingly to Davey Haskitt, who smiled back. “I’ve just been in another flat that was clean and tidy, too. If you could overlook the body on the floor and the blood, that is.” Declan gauged Davey’s reaction carefully.

  The boy flinched, his smile fading rapidly. “Gotta call work. They’d expected me at 5,” he said quietly, looking down atthe floor.

  Declan nodded, listening as the boy put through the call. It was obvious Davey worked hard to pronounce his H’s to soften his broad accent, dropping his G’s instead.

  “Peggy? It’s me, Davey … yeah, I know, don’t get barkin’. That’s why I’m callin’. Tell the boss I’ll not be in today. My neighbor’s been killed and I’m the one found the body. The police are waitin’ to talk to me.”

  Declan exchanged glances with Watkins at the undisguised pride in Davey Haskitt’s voice as he told his story to his boss.

  “Let’s sit right here and chat a bit,” he told Davey, as the young man handed the phone to the constable to give his boss confirmation. “And then you can tell me everything you know about Miss Wallace.”

  Davey launched into his explanation of meeting Bryn Wallace the day he moved into his flat eighteen months ago after getting his job at the bakery at the Covered Market. “It’s an early start, but that suits me. I like being up to see the sun rise and all that. Usually comes up just as I’m crossing Magdalen Bridge. This year I went to Magdalen Tower for the May Morning sing.”

  Declan nodded. “I’ve never done that myself, but I hear it’s quite the spectacle.”

  “Too right,” Davey said enthusiastically. “It’s not just the singin’, ya know, there’s Morris dancin’ and everythin’.”

  Declan felt the envy emanating from the boy. He intuited that Magdalen was where the boy wished he went to school, instead of working in a bakery down the road. “What’s your job at the bakery?” he asked.

  “In the mornin’ I help make the batters. I taste it all, ya know. With a clean spoon each time,” he assured Declan.

  “Certainly.”

  The boy’s narrow face lit up. “After lunch break I get to work on the fondant.” He described the process of learning to roll out the sticky fondant to fashion elaborate figures and scenes that were used to decorate the occasion cakes that were the bakery’s specialty. “It’s white, ya see, until I add just a pinch of food colorin’ and then I shape or mold it. Sometimes I even paint little details on it.” He sat back, proud of his accomplishment.

  “Sounds very meticulous,” Declan said, wondering if this were the kind of trait a savvy killer needed in order to remember to take the murder weapon away. “I understand you liked to bring Miss Wallace goodies home from the bakery?”

  The boy blushed. “Yeah, ya know, they let us take some here and there that don’t sell. But they’re still fresh. And Bryn was always happy to have them.”

  “I’m sure she was, Davey,” Declan said, wondering just how much of a crush Davey Haskitt had on his neighbor. His cell rang, and he excused himself to take it.

  Watkins took Davey over finding the body, receiving the same explanation Davey had given to the first uniform on the scene. The boy had listened to the same song playing over and over for hours, not getting any sleep before work, when it dawned on him Bryn might have fallen ill. The door had been on the latch, and when he’d seen her body, he’d backed out. His cries had brought Bryn’s neighbor to her door.

  Declan rang off and listened to Davey’s story. There was something off here. “Did you enter the flat?”

  Davey’s face turned dark. “No.”

  “Then how did you know Miss Wallace wasn’t alive? You told Miss Isaacs to call the police, not an ambulance,” he pointed out.

  Davey looked confused for a moment, then shrugged. “Don’ know. She just looked dead, ya know?”

  Declan chewed his lip and decided not to press the issue for now. “All right, Davey. Thank you for your cooperation. We’ll be in touch.” He told the constable to report to Detective Constable McAfee and motioned for Watkins to leave with him.

  Outside the crowd had thinned as people left for work. Declan ran his eyes over the remaining group. One short muscled man with a malevolent look caught his attention. The man looked away hastily when he saw Declan’s appraising eye, raising the hackles on Declan’s neck. “Your impressions of Haskitt?” Declan asked his sergeant, watching the man sidle away.

  “Hiding something, I’ll bet,” Watkins answered. “Bit of a crush on the victim, I’d say. Wonder if he stalked her?” He rubbed his eyes. “What did the station want?”

  “No confession from the Rogan woman. I told them to let her stew a bit and release her.” Declan watched the muscleman cross the street and enter a flat down the block. Good, house-to-house would find out who he was. “We need to get the mother’s details from her, do a notification so we can get the formal ID tonight.”

  The aroma of fresh-ground coffee reached the men from the cafe across the street.

  “But first let’s get a cuppa to go, Watkins.”

  *

  Cursing under his breath, Tommy Clay turned onto the busy Cowley Road, walking briskly for fifteen minutes to the triangular junction known as The Plain, which marked the branching of the Cowley, Iffley and Headington roads, all leading to those suburbs of Oxford. Tommy paused beside the Victoria Fountain for a long line of small cars and large, spewing buses to pass, before crossing during a brief break in the late-morning traffic. Purposefully continuing on his course, he passed the entrance to Magdalen College’s outdoor theatre on the River Cherwell, crossing over the bridge but ignoring the river’s punters pushing along the quiet water with long poles, trying to catch a breeze. He carried on to the Botanic Garden, past laboratory buildings and a massive stone arch. He finally turned off onto Rose Lane, his destination the field behind Merton College.

  It had become a hazy, warm summer day. He stopped to light a cigarette, inhaling deeply, getting his bearings. Merton Grove’s playing fields were bordered on the north by Dead Man’s Walk, an ancient passage for Jewish funeral processions, separated on the south from Christ Church Meadow by the wide avenue known as Broad Walk. Once the walk had been planted with elm trees, but a bout of Dutch elm disease had killed most of them. They were replaced by plane trees in the mid-seventies, but the enormous stump, more than nine feet wide, of one progenitor still remained. This was Tommy’s objective, and as he approached, he was happy to see the fine weather had beckoned to many others as well, who were spread out over the green: single sunbathers, couples in various stages of courtship, and most of all, the nannies, sitting clustered together on blankets with heads together gossiping, as their small charges ran free and unnoticed in relative safety.

 
Tommy Clay, devotee of organic foods and exercise, newly interested in the merits of meditation, had clipped, short brown hair, shorter nails, and no visible tattoos to spoil the spotless image he desired to project. The casual observer immediately noticed that he worked out with weights, the sculpted muscles of his arms and chest highlighted by his clinging T-shirt. Lighting a second cigarette from the stub of the first, one of the few pleasures he allowed himself without regret, he settled in the shade of the plane tree nearest the elm stump.

  When the police had knocked on his door in their house-to-house half an hour ago, Tommy had been prepared for them. It had been impossible that morning to live on Magdalen Road and not notice their presence, from the early-morning blue lights and sirens that woke the inhabitants to the crime scene tape and gathered crowd of gawkers outside the roped-off building. When he’d gone across to the Magic Cafe for his usual morning coffee, one of the waiters filled him in on the murder of that lithe brunette he’d watched so many times. That plainclothes guy whose eye he’d caught had sussed him out, he was almost certain, but he had been determined to remain calm and not let his anxiety show, and it had gone well. The plod had been brisk and officious, and after determining Tommy had not seen nor heard anything unusual, he had left.

  There was always the possibility his past wouldn’t come up, and he could get away from the spotlight. Even as he reassured himself on this point, Tommy felt fear knot in his intestines.

  As soon as they’d gone, he’d come out to reach his special spot, like an itch demanding to be scratched. Leaning back against one side of the huge tree stump, happy to watch the group of children climbing over and around it, he felt a surge of hunger center in his groin, uncoiling the tension. He’d memorized a definition of desire by Albert Camus he’d come across in a book of quotations in the prison’s library: “The warm beast … that lies curled up in our loins and stretches itself with fierce gentleness.”