“Mrs. Fletcher, could I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How terrible did he look? I mean…”
“I won’t mince words with you, Maria. It was a horrible sight. Frankly, I had no idea whether it was Jason or not.”
Her eyes filled up, and she quickly left the room.
Chapter Fourteen
Lucas had wanted me to take part in a panel discussion on creating believable female detectives in fiction, but I begged off, agreeing instead to join one the next morning on the relative merits of small-town settings versus big cities.
I couldn’t get the vision of the battered face I’d seen in the Wapping police headquarters out of my mind, nor could I ignore Maria’s comments about Jason Harris’s stepbrother, David Simpson. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to maintain order in my life. Like any writer who’s made a living at it, discipline has been the key, and I’ve had to be a disciplined person.
There are times, however, when, hard as I try, I am drawn to something like a moth to a summer candle. That’s what was happening as I mulled over the circumstances of Jason’s death. How had the police known to contact David Simpson in the middle of the night? I should have asked that. Perhaps Jason carried a card that indicated in the event of emergency, his stepbrother was to be called.
Each time I raised a question-and answered it-I was dissatisfied with my reply.
I went through the London Yellow Pages until I came to the Talent Agent section, which told me to look at Booking Agents. I did, and found an agency in the listing: Simpson Talent Bookers, located on Dean Street, in Soho. I noted the address and phone number on a piece of paper and decided I needed a leisurely walk in London to help clear my mind. It might as well be to Soho. Besides, I’ve often found that simply dropping in on someone can be more effective than trying to arrange a meeting in advance. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it was the approach I decided to take.
It was a lovely afternoon as I strolled the streets of Soho. It had, like New York ’s Times Square, deteriorated because of a proliferation of striptease clubs and sex shops, but they seemed relatively innocuous in the daylight. Unlike the case with Times Square, legitimate business hadn’t fled the area, and Soho was still filled with quaint restaurants, fascinating newsstands, and boutiques.
I stopped in at St. Anne’s Church, bombed during the war, its tower and clock now faithfully restored. Behind it, in simple graves, were buried Dorothy Sayers, a churchwarden and no relation to the writer, and the other Hazlitt, William, no relationship to my friend Seth.
I stopped for tea at the York Minster Pub, known as the French Pub because its owners are probably the only French pub owners in all of Great Britain. Frank and I had enjoyed a beer there before going on to hear jazz at Ronnie Scott’s club on Frith Street. Afterward we’d had a scrumptious dinner in the Neal Street Restaurant; I could almost taste the grilled calf kidney I’d had that night, and a dessert I have never experienced again called tiramisu. Those were good memories but, because they could never be repeated, there was also a sense of sadness as I stood in front of the restaurant and looked through the window at the very table we’d shared.
Enough of that, I told myself, continuing my walk. I lingered in Soho Square, then went to Dean Street and looked for the address of Simpson Talent Bookers. I found it easily enough; it was above a strip club called Nell Gwynne’s. If the lurid photographs in the window were any indication of what went on inside, it was not a place I was likely to frequent.
I walked up a narrow set of stairs to the floor above the club. The door bearing the name of the agency was open, and I went inside. It was a waiting room, with cheap red and yellow vinyl chairs lined up along the walls, a few occupied by young women dressed either in trendy outfits or in jeans and T shirts. A middle-aged woman with orange hair and long red fingernails tipped with black sat behind a desk reading a magazine. She glanced up, and went back to her page. I approached her and said pleasantly, “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I would appreciate having a few minutes with Mr. Simpson, if he’s available.
She looked up, shifted gum from one side of her mouth to the other, pointed to a chair, and said, “Wait your turn.”
I cocked my head, was about to say something, then simply followed her instructions and sat, the new handbag Lucas had bought me at Harrods on my lap.
Ten minutes later, a door opened behind the receptionist and a handsome young man stood in the doorway. He wore gray slacks, an expensive, custom-tailored burgundy blazer with gold buttons, a white silk shirt, and a variegated ascot of primarily burgundy and blue. Black hair was carefully arranged on his head. His features were chiseled, and while he certainly was good-looking, there was a discernible cruelty to his mouth.
He looked around the room (undressed everyone is more like it) until his eyes rested upon me. He shook his head and said, “Sorry, I don’t have anything for you today.”
I got up and approached him, smiled, and said, “Mr. Simpson-”
“Look, I don’t know what your gimmick is, but you’re a little long in the tooth for what I have open. Sorry, I’d like to help you out but-”
“Mr. Simpson, I am not here looking for a job as a stripper. My name is Jessica Fletcher, and I would like to speak with you about the death of your stepbrother, Jason Harris.”
His expression changed now. He narrowed his eyes and asked, “What are you, a wopsie?”
“I don’t think so, but if you would tell me what that means, I might reconsider.”
He shook his head. “A policewoman?”
I laughed. “Heavens, no, I am not a policewoman, although I have known some. I am a writer of murder mysteries. I was one of Marjorie Ainsworth’s good friends and was unfortunate enough to have been the one to discover her body. I have been in touch with your stepbrother’s companion, Maria Giacona.” I was pleased he gave me the time to get all that out.
“Look, Mrs. Fletcher, you can see I’m busy. I’ve got jobs to fill tonight and not enough birds to fill them.”
“I can see you’re busy, and I don’t wish to intrude for more than a few minutes. Couldn’t you find those few minutes for me?”
He said to the others in the room, “Are you all available tonight?”
There was a chorus of “Yes.”
He said to his receptionist, “Carmela, send these two to Joey over at Raymond’s. Then get on the phone and see who you can hustle for these other openings. Come on,” he said to me. “Five minutes, no more.”
His office was larger than I thought it would be. The walls were covered with the sort of photographs that adorned the windows downstairs, only some of them were much bigger, life-size. In one corner of the room was a small circular platform. Spotlights covered with blue and red gel were trained on it. I assumed that was where young women auditioned for him, to stretch the use of the word. The thing about the office that gained my immediate attention, however, was the overpowering combination of perfume, cologne, makeup, and incense that burned in a bowl on his desk.
“Okay,” he said, “what is it you want to talk to me about?”
“As I said, I wanted to discuss Jason Harris’s murder. I understand you were called in last night to identify the body.”
He sat back in a chair and looked at the ceiling. “Christ, that was something I didn’t need. I couldn’t believe what they’d done to him.”
“Yes, I know, I saw the body this morning.”
He sat up straight. “Why did you look at his body?”
“Because I was with Maria Giacona. I took her to the police station this morning. She was, as you can imagine, terribly upset.”
“Yes, I dare say she would be. They’d been lovers for a while. You met Jason?”
“As a matter of fact, I did, at Marjorie Ainsworth’s house the weekend she was killed. Actually, I was to meet him again at his flat. Maria wanted me to talk to him about an allegation that he’d played some part in helping Marjorie Ainsworth write her latest novel, Gin and Daggers.”