“Four,” she repeated, wonderingly. She might never have stopped to count them before. “Yes. Hard to understand, I imagine, if you weren’t of our generation. Worse if you were raised by nuns, as I was. Raised by wolves would have been better. Took me years to slake off all that nonsense.” She peered into her nearly empty glass-“Years,” she repeated-before drinking off the last inch in one go.
By now most of her lipstick had been washed away, except for a trace around the edges of her mouth. Her lips were trembling- pale, nearly white. She looked as if a child had drawn the outline of her mouth in crayon but forgotten to color inside the lines. He remained quiet, hoping she would continue, that letting her run on would at best tell him more, at least release the pressure she was under. The jangling chimes filled the silence, diverting his attention out the balcony window; he could see storm clouds chugging steadily across a sullen sky.
“God, but that racket drives me crazy,” she said.
She suddenly beelined toward the balcony. Before St. Just could reach her, he heard the sound of tearing wood, the shattering of glass. He caught up with her just in time to see the mangled chimes land in an ornamental pond in the front garden below.
Chloe stood dusting off her hands, sobbing as if her heart would break.
14. RUMOR MILL
ST. JUST HAD BEEN reluctant to leave Chloe. He doubted the antiquated dog or housekeeper were much company, even though he had left her in their protective circle. They’d paused in their ministrations only long enough to glare at him (What have you done to her?) on his way out.
He sighed, riffling through the notes Sergeant Fear had provided him. He had Manda Croom to talk with next. She was Ruthven’s girlfriend and corporate comrade-in-arms, as his e-mail account on the laptop had revealed.
St. Just was feeling the sting of urgency on this otherwise quiet Sunday-a full awareness that the clock would not stop while he interviewed suspects at leisure. It didn’t help that there were so many suspects. Something had been unleashed in Waverley Court, and although he had left the place guarded like Buckingham Palace, his policeman’s instinct told him the something was not over yet.
He navigated central London, making a deliberate pass in front of the offices of Ruthven’s company, which were housed in an Orwellian structure of what appeared from a distance to be an enormous ice tray propped against a pyramid, but on approach resolved itself into an intimidating structure of reflective silver glass cut by exposed steel beams. It was on occasions such as this St. Just felt Prince Charles’ anti-growth stance was possibly more than the dilettantish messing about of the underemployed. St. Just pictured himself being hoisted skyward in the outside lift that would carry him to the top floor, where Ruthven had been king of all he surveyed. Inside, St. Just imagined, would be a rat’s maze of cubicles housing hundreds of people toiling in front of computer screens, to what object St. Just could only guess.
He found Manda living nearby this structure in a penthouse flat in Maida Vale, albeit in quite a different part of that community from the one in which Sarah lived. The flat was modern, in that polished-industrial-steel way St. Just particularly disliked. It looked the perfect place for alien medical experiments to be carried out on unsuspecting humanoids.
Manda herself was a surprise, not matching any of the various mental pictures sorted under the general category of “mistress” which he carried in his mind. For such, Ruthven’s treasure trove of a laptop had revealed, she was, or had been.
She wore her thin hair cropped as short as a man’s. On another woman it might have been youthful, pixyish; capping Manda Croom’s somewhat heavy features it looked as if a large black spider clung to her head for dear life. And, why, oh why, did all these modern young women dress as if they were setting out either to sue someone or attend a funeral? Perhaps she was in mourning; as she led him into the flat he could hear an all-news radio broadcast rehashing the sensational news about the murder of the famous mystery writer’s son. But she did not seem unhappy. Her face as she turned to him was composed, her manner businesslike.
She had, he saw, alert, dark-gray eyes behind steel-framed glasses that matched the furnishings. Her pronounced overbite became more pronounced when she pursed her lips with displeasure, which was often during the interview. He was reminded of a rodent listening for the approach of the neighborhood tomcat. What could Ruthven have seen in this pudding-plain woman? Simply a change from Lillian-and St. Just was willing to admit, a change from Lillian seemed perfectly justified-or something more?
But if Manda reminded him of anyone, it was Chloe, albeit a younger, slimmer version. Had not Ruthven noticed the similarities?
“I really don’t see how I can help you, Inspector, and I don’t have much time, anyway,” she said by way of greeting. She walked over and turned off the radio, cutting off the announcer in mid-gasp. “It’s quite a busy time for me. I’ve summoned the staff for a meeting tomorrow morning. To announce redundancies, I’m afraid.”
St. Just thought she didn’t look in the least afraid. The excited blinking behind the glasses, the arch delivery, spoke more of relish than reluctance.
Since he had not been invited to sit down, he did so, fearing immolation as he gingerly lowered himself into the shining arms of the steel-framed leather sofa, but finding it surprisingly comfortable.
“Even in spite of what has happened to Mr. Beauclerk-Fisk?”
“Especially in light of that. Life must go on, Inspector. Ruthven would have wanted me to forge ahead. I would say it’s the least I can do to honor his memory.”
If she was aware of any irony or anything misplaced in these sentiments, she didn’t show it. She regarded him steadily, willing him to leave. He sat as far back as the chair would allow, displaying his intention to settle in for a nice long chat.
Discounting this, she walked over to the dining table in the large, open-plan room and began sorting papers into a large leather briefcase. Talking over one shoulder, she said:
“One doesn’t just walk in and discharge people, Inspector, you know, so I’ve quite a lot of paperwork to attend to. One has to be prepared.”
Again, he parsed her words for signs of either humor or compassion. Again finding none, he said:
“I’m relieved to know such things are not just done on the spur of the moment.”
“Oh, no! There are many solicitors involved.”
St. Just reflected that he and Miss Croom had so much in common in their professional lives-solicitors jamming the doorways at all hours. He would have spoken the thought aloud, but it was evident that banter was not going to be one of Manda’s strong suits.
“It is often helpful in a murder investigation, Miss Croom,” he said patiently, “to gain some insight into the state of mind of the victim. I believe, as Ruthven’s right hand, so to speak, you can be of help to us there. You mentioned the need for redundancies. Were there any business problems he was worried about?”
“There are always business problems, Inspector.” She sat down at the dining table (as far across the room as she could get from him without actually jumping out the window), made a minute and unnecessary adjustment to the alignment of the folders at her elbow, pushed her glasses higher on her nose, and folded her hands in a “Will that be all?” manner. St. Just found himself bristling. Given what he knew about her relationship with the deceased, he would have expected to see a tear, some show of emotion. Beneath the woman’s cold exterior was, apparently, a colder interior. He said, slowly, carefully, in a way that Sergeant Fear would have recognized as pre-volcanic:
“I meant, was there anything in particular that may have been preying on his mind-something related to the business?”