Detective Inspector Gutkind understood why there could be no going backwards in this — and was, anyway, unable to point the finger anywhere but at the odd individual malfeasant, and by its nature individual malfeasance could not amount to conspiracy — but he was a prisoner of his upbringing. He had a careworn build — dapper, the unobservant thought him — lean as though from fretting, with a round face, apoplectic eyes and an unexpectedly wet, cherubic mouth. Had there been a conspiracy to accuse Gutkind of the pederasty that exercised Densdell Kroplik, his mouth would surely have been the basis for it. He looked like someone who pressed his lips where they had no business being pressed.
He smiled at Kevern and wondered if he might be allowed to remove his coat. Kevern could not conceal his awkwardness. It was bad enough that Gutkind was here at all, but a Gutkind without his coat, in his cottage, was more than his nerves could bear. ‘Of course,’ he said, taking the coat and then not knowing what to do with it, ‘that’s rude of me.’
He was surprised to see that under his coat Gutkind wore not a jacket but a Fair Isle buttoned cardigan.
Was this to relax the unwary, Kevern wondered. But if that was so, his eyes should have not have looked so combustible as they took in Kevern’s person and darted around Kevern’s room.
‘This Biedermeier?’ he asked, running his fingers over the elaborately carved back of the sofa.
Kevern started. ‘Imitation,’ he said.
‘Made down here?’
‘Kildromy.’
‘That’s a long way to go for it.’
‘I like the best. I’m a woodworker myself. I appreciate good craftsmanship.’
‘It doesn’t really go with this cottage, though, does it,’ Gutkind went on.
Kevern wanted to say that he didn’t think the policeman’s cardigan went with his job, but it didn’t seem a good idea to antagonise him further. ‘It goes with my temperament,’ he said.
‘And how would you describe that?’
‘My temperament? Heavy, ornate and unwelcoming.’
‘And out of place?’
‘If you like.’
‘Would you call yourself a loner?’
‘I wouldn’t call myself anything. I’m a woodturner, as I think I’ve told you.’
‘Business good?’
‘I make candlesticks and lovespoons for the tourist industry. There isn’t a fortune in that, but I get by.’
‘Why have local people given you the nickname “Coco”?’
‘You’d better ask them. But I think it’s ironic. “Coco” was the name of a famous circus clown. It must be evident to you that I am not an entertainer.’
‘But you entertain women?’
Here we go again, Kevern thought. He sighed and walked to the window. Not knowing what else to do with it, he was still carrying Gutkind’s coat over his arm. Though the sea didn’t look wild, the blowhole was busy, fine spray from the great white jet of water catching what there was of sunlight. He thought of Ailinn’s whale and suddenly felt weary. ‘Get the fuck out,’ he wanted to tell the policeman. ‘Get the fuck out of my house.’ If ever there was a time to let go, let rip, let the bad language out of his constricted system, this was it. But he was who he was. Let’s get this over with, he thought. ‘Is this about the blood?’ he asked, not turning his head.
‘What blood is that?’
‘My blood. Lowenna Morgenstern bit me the night we kissed after the fireworks. She bit me hard. I don’t doubt I was seen afterwards with blood on my shirt. I assume that’s why you wanted to talk to me.’
‘You don’t still have that shirt, do you?’
‘Well I must have because I haven’t thrown any shirt away in a long time. But I’d be hard pressed to remember which shirt I was wearing that night. And whichever it was, it will have been laundered many times since then.’
Gutkind made a perfect cupid’s bow of his transgressive lips. He knew why men washed their shirts.
‘Oh, come on, Goldberg—’
‘Gutkind.’
Goldberg/Gutkind, Kevern wanted to say, who gives a damn. .
‘Oh come on,’ he said instead, ‘you’re not telling me that laundering my shirts indicates suspicious behaviour?’
‘It could be if it was Mrs Morgenstern’s blood and not yours.’
‘Aha, and if, having got a taste of spilling her blood once, I couldn’t wait to spill it again.’
‘Well that’s a theory, Mr Cohen, and I will give it consideration. But to be honest with you it’s not Mrs Morgenstern’s blood that concerns us right now.’
‘So whose is it?’
‘Mr Morgenstern’s.’
‘Ah, well I’m glad he’s back in the picture. The village gossip mill has had him down as the murderer from day one. He’s already been found guilty and sentenced at the bar of the Friendly Fisherman. All you had to do was find him.’
‘You misunderstand. It’s not Mr Morgenstern’s blood at the crime scene I’m talking about. It’s Mr Morgenstern’s blood all over Mr Morgenstern.’
Kevern shrugged a shrug of only half-surprise. ‘That makes it easier for everyone then, doesn’t it? Husband kills wife and lover and then kills himself. Case closed. Why are you speaking to me?’
‘If only it were as simple as that. It would appear that Mr Morgenstern didn’t die by his own hand.’
‘What!’
‘As you say yourself, Mr Cohen, there’s a lot of anger and frustration out there.’
‘You’re telling me Ade Morgenstern’s been murdered now?’
‘Well if he didn’t do it to himself — which given the manner of his death he couldn’t — and if it wasn’t natural causes — which it wasn’t — and if we rule out the hand of God — which I think we must — that’s the only supposition I can make.’
Kevern Cohen shook his head. He couldn’t quite muster horror or even profound shock, but he mustered what he could. ‘Christ, what’s going on in this village?’
Detective Inspector Gutkind showed Kevern a philosophic expression. As though to say, well isn’t that precisely what I hoped you might be able to answer.
He didn’t write this in his report, but what Detective Inspector Gutkind felt in his heart was this: ‘Something smells. Maybe not this, but something.’
ii
Kevern thought he’d better prepare Ailinn for what she might hear. He had, some months before they’d met, he mustered the honour to tell her, kissed the murdered woman. He knew not to say it was nothing. He couldn’t have it both ways: if he boasted he was no citizen of Snogland, then he couldn’t claim a kiss was nothing. Besides, women didn’t like to hear men say that things they did with their bodies and which ought to involve their emotions were nothing. If it was nothing then why do it; and if it was something then don’t lie about it. But it wasn’t a long kiss and if he hadn’t thought about it much the day after — he wasn’t going to claim he hadn’t thought about it at all — he certainly hadn’t thought about it since he’d been with Ailinn who drove all trace of memory of other kisses from his mind.
She was disappointed in him. Not angry. Just disappointed. Which was worse.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘if I’ve made you jealous.’
‘Jealous?’
‘I don’t mean jealous.’
‘What do you mean?’
What did he mean? ‘You know,’ he said.