Leaving the mobile definitely off, he went straight to Thomas Noble’s office, maybe to begin with a request for advice. It was four forty-five when he came out of the train station at Charing Cross into the winter dark. He pushed through the crowds heading home for the weekend, surprising himself by noticing which day it was, and walked slowly, like an old man with a head full of new secrets which were heavy to carry. The bitch, the elegant bitch, leaving everything in code. Marianne Shearer, pupil mistress, cunning, unhappy vixen and the best-dressed tart in London. He was also remembering that the Lover had sent him something by second-class post.
There was a reception committee at Noble’s office. The lamplight fell on the empty benches in Lincoln’s Inn Fields where the snow had fallen and melted. The whole room was in turmoil again and the fire was out.
‘I told you he would come along eventually,’ Thomas said to the other two present. ‘He’s famous for turning up in the end, however long it takes, although it doesn’t always follow that he’s there when needed, or indeed that he follows instructions to the letter.’
He waved towards the police officers, one man, one woman, plain-clothed and standing still. The man was older, the woman younger, both interested. Thomas vibrated with fury. His posture announced that enough was more than enough.
‘Think I’ve persuaded them out of arresting you,’ he said. ‘But only just, dear. I told them you were sent to interview the old boy, and maybe put a little pressure on him, but not to kill the poor sod in such a conspicuous manner. Marianne said you could be trusted to be docile, whatever your method of cross-examination. You’d have let him keep his trousers. He tried, poor dear, he really tried to preserve his reputation. Alas, I knew you had no such tendencies, either to the arcane or brutal, however strapped you are for cash, but these police officers might think otherwise. Oh, of course, you’re not up to speed, are you? You leave your mobile off. I’ve been robbed and the Lover’s dead, and him in his Sunday best, too.’
Peter was blinking in the light, shaking his head slowly like a dumb animal. He felt unsteady. He felt he should proffer his wrists for the handcuffs. The woman came towards him.
‘So this is NOT PETER. My, my. Could you face me, please?’
He turned towards her, not caring who the hell she was. There were tears behind his eyes and he could not stop them.
She touched his chin and tilted his head, inspecting him in an almost motherly fashion. He was entirely obedient, overwhelmed with sadness.
‘So this is Peter. Don’t worry, Peter. The person who throttled his ex-Honour and shoved a glass into his arse had the grace to headbutt him first. Or the other way round. Left enough blood and traces. There’s no corresponding wound on you. We’ll need a sample, but you’re not under arrest. You don’t strike me as a likely rent boy, anyway. Just sit down and tell us about it.’
‘I should never have put them together,’ Thomas said. ‘They were made for one another.’
‘Who do you mean?’
‘Oh, Marianne Shearer’s paramour and this young idiot, of course. I’m lousy at making introductions,’ Thomas said, regretting his flippancy as soon as he spoke. So unbecoming in the circumstances. The woman officer looked at him with no attempt to disguise her dislike.
‘Such a sense of humour you have, sir. Quite refreshing, really. I expect we’re supposed to be grateful. You’re actually quite good at making introductions. After all, you call us here this morning because your office has been burgled by someone who stole confidential information, and you give us a link straight away to the body of a distinguished old bloke found halfway down his own stairs not half a mile away. Then you introduce us to your colleague who might have been one of the last to see the poor sod alive. You’re doing quite well, so far.’
Thomas whimpered. In terms of client confidentiality, he was failing miserably and had already said too much. He must remember his duty to his client and remind himself that he could still take pride in that. It always came first; it was his own religion. His grasshopper mind had diverted itself to the complications of Frank Shearer’s inheritance. Insurance policies, etc, the inadvisability of a verdict of suicide: the omnipresence of Marianne Shearer. Anything in this nightmare that could be turned to some advantage and redeem him. He did not care about the death of an old, rude man.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘this new homicide raises other questions than the identity of the culprit. Such as the obvious connection to Marianne Shearer’s death. If the Lover was murdered, doesn’t it follow that she might have been too? At least it casts a doubt on her suicide. Some jealous type, out for them both? A relative of the Lover, perhaps, outraged by his double life? Does for the mistress first?’
‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about Ms Shearer’s suicide,’ Peter said.
‘Oh, Peter, do shut up. You’ve done enough damage.’
‘It certainly opens up other possibilities,’ the woman officer agreed, reluctantly, watching a whole new tranche of impossible work coming in her direction. She had been cross-examined by Marianne Shearer once and loathed her. No tears were shed in the police service when MS jumped. Looking at these two, she knew she was right to hate all lawyers. Snivelling wretches, never anything else but trouble. She was going to get out of this as soon as she could. She had no place in this story.
‘I think she committed suicide,’ Peter repeated, refusing to be sidetracked, but not adding that he might also know why. The sadness dogged him. It was going to get worse. He shook himself and faced the woman.
‘I left Mr Stanton at about nine in the evening. He was alone and… dancing.’
She nodded.
‘I bet he was rueing the day he ever met that bitch Marianne Shearer,’ Thomas said. ‘I know I do.’
‘Do you?’ Peter said. ‘I don’t. Nor did he.’
I was her thing of beauty and she was mine.
He turned to the woman.
‘I’ll make a statement whenever you want. Samples, now, if you like. I can only tell you that I met Mr Stanton for the first time yesterday evening. I see Mr Noble has already told you why I went to see him, but I’d rather not include that in the statement. It’s not relevant, is it? Do you have any idea who killed him?’
‘Whoever it was didn’t quite kill him, Mr Friel. He bloodied him and stuck a glass in him. Looks like he dressed himself and died on the stairs.’
‘Poor man.’
A moment’s respectful silence, but only a moment.
‘There’s a connection,’ Thomas said heavily, directing his remark to Peter. ‘There’s got to be. First Miss Joyce, meaninglessly mugged out there…’
‘You didn’t tell me that.’
‘… while you’re at the Lover’s. Then my office gets burgled, someone takes away his address and my notes and makes a mess of my desk. Looks like a person or persons is on a bit a spree, so to speak…’
He sensed that no one was listening. He leant against the window, looked outside into the Fields, and sighed.
‘And it used to be so peaceful here,’ he complained. ‘The only arguments we ever got were people queueing for the museum or disentangling dogs.’
Peter decided his first duty was not to Thomas Noble or his client. He turned back to the woman.
‘If I could come to you tomorrow?’
‘Yes, tomorrow,’ she said. ‘It can wait until then. We know where you are.’
Two deaths, no… three. It could all wait.
She actually smiled. Peter could suddenly see Rick Boyd, smiling from the dock. That vacant, friendly face, rising up behind the image of Marianne Shearer, falling from the balcony.
Rick Boyd, who never quite got what he wanted.