Meadows snorted sarcastically. ‘He certainly likes looking at himself, doesn’t he?’ They faced the most recent picture, a dinner-jacketed Gold sharing a smile with the Duchess of Cambridge. Past that final photo, the walls were empty. ‘Wonder why they stop halfway around the room?’
‘That, Detective Constable Meadows, is because the rest of the space is for things I have yet to achieve,’ said a familiar voice from behind them.
Brownlow and Meadows turned to see Gold enter the lounge. He wore a long dressing gown of purple silk brocade embroidered in golden thread, his shoulder-length hair somewhat unkempt compared to the day before. ‘Morning, Mr Gold,’ said Brownlow. ‘It looks like you’ve already achieved plenty.’
‘Si non consequitur, cur vivere? Or something along those lines; my Latin is rather rusty. I can remember up to amamus, amatis, amant, but beyond that…’ He waved a hand towards the blank walls. ‘But I hope to fill all that space before I depart this earth.’
‘And what if you run out of room before then?’
‘Well, then I’ll just have to buy a bigger home! Anyway, so glad you could come. I thought my call might pique your interest.’
‘If you’ve got information that affects the case, you should have told us immediately over the phone,’ said Meadows sternly. ‘Wasting police time, especially on a murder enquiry, is—’
Brownlow interrupted her in a more amiable, but still firm, tone. ‘If you’d lived any further than ten minutes from Scotland Yard, I would have asked you to come in and—’ He broke off as someone else came through the door by which Gold had entered — Tola Bamrung, another of the A380’s cabin crew. She gave the two police officers a sheepish look, prompting them to exchange glances of their own.
‘We should go,’ said Mali as Tola crossed the room to join her. Both young women were clearly awkward about being together in the light of day; whatever their plans for the previous night, they had obviously never expected to end up in a ménage à trois with an older man. ‘If that is all right with you, Mr Brownlow?’
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ said Brownlow. He tried to keep his expression neutral, caught between admiration and disapproval of Gold’s carnal excesses. ‘Just remember that we may still need to talk to you.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Both women collected their belongings. ‘Thank you for last night, Levy. It was…’ A coy, blushing smile, which she shared with Tola. ‘It was very exciting.’ Her companion nodded in agreement.
Gold beamed. ‘Thank you. I thoroughly enjoyed the evening too. You’re both absolutely wonderful.’ He kissed them both on the cheek. ‘Call me any time.’
The pair kissed him back, then he showed them out. ‘Lovely girls, both of them,’ he said as he returned to the lounge.
Meadows made little attempt to disguise that, unlike her superior, there was no admiration in her feelings. ‘Okay, now that you’ve got that little display out of the way, maybe you can tell us what you know about the murder of Desmond Perch?’
‘Oh, I don’t know for sure; it’s merely a supposition. Well, more than that, I suppose. Call it a deduction.’
Brownlow frowned. ‘But you don’t have any new evidence to give to us?’
‘Nothing I would call hard facts, I’m afraid. Can I get you something? Tea, coffee? Something stronger?’
‘No,’ snapped Meadows, anger rising. ‘Sir, he’s wasting our time — this is all just some ego trip for him, another picture for his wall. We should go — maybe after issuing him with a caution for messing us about.’
‘Before you fly off the handle, Detective Constable,’ said Gold, a new forcefulness entering his voice, ‘at least hear me out. Now,’ he indicated a glass-topped coffee table, on which were spread out the morning’s newspapers, ‘Perch’s murder obviously topped today’s headlines.’
‘You went out to get the papers dressed like that?’
Gold sniffed. ‘I have them all delivered every day. I need to know what’s being said about me, after all. Now, while I do feature quite prominently in some of the stories, at this stage none of them contain much detail beyond the basic facts that the police have issued via press statement. Therefore you, as investigating officers, have access to vastly more forensic information than any ordinary member of the public — or even a well-connected celebrity.’ A far from modest smile. ‘Correct?’
‘I’d say so,’ Brownlow agreed.
‘Now, at risk of sounding like Sherlock Holmes or Hercule Poirot—’
‘Or Jason King,’ Meadows muttered, with a pointed nod towards his ostentatious dressing gown.
Gold was not amused. ‘Very droll. But I’ve made four deductions about the murder that couldn’t possibly be known to anyone outside the police. If they’re correct, will you hear me out?’
Meadows’ only response was an impatient exhalation, but Brownlow nodded. ‘If you make it quick.’
‘Then I’ll be brief. Do take a seat.’
The two officers sat on a leather sofa. Gold remained standing, staring out of a window as if gathering his thoughts before turning on his heel to face them. ‘Deduction number one,’ he began, rattling the words out like machine-gun fire, ‘there were no powder burns on the victim. Deduction number two: the bullet had no rifling marks or other features that could allow it to be matched to a particular weapon. Deduction number three: there were flakes or some other traces of a substance like acrylic or epoxy on the victim’s clothing. And deduction number four: there was an unusual circular bruise around the entry wound. Now,’ he concluded, taking in his guests’ growing expressions of surprise, ‘am I warm?’
‘What brought you to those conclusions?’ Brownlow said warily.
‘Deduction, as I said. But would you like to hear more?’
Another exchange of glances. Brownlow nodded, with some reluctance. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I’ll take that as a sign that I was correct.’ He grinned, delight making his face seem almost boyish for a moment. ‘My first deduction, the lack of powder burns — that was obvious. Nobody heard a gunshot, and as Mr Grogan remarked to me, no gun can be made completely silent. Since none of the passengers or crew were found to have any gunpowder residue upon them — if anyone did, they would have been arrested by now and you wouldn’t be here — and no gun was found, then the only possible conclusion is that the bullet which killed Perch didn’t come from a gun.’
Meadows gave him a humourless grin. ‘So, are you saying the murderer killed Perch by pushing a bullet into him really hard?’
Gold give her an almost pitying look. ‘Considering your relative ages, I would have expected Detective Inspector Brownlow to be the cynical one. I’ll explain how the bullet was fired in a moment. But the fact that there was no gun led to my second deduction, that the bullet had no rifling marks. Am I correct so far?’
‘Obviously I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,’ said Brownlow in a measured tone, ‘but… I’d certainly like to hear more.’
‘Splendid! Then you shall.’ Gold paced across the room as he continued, going to the window and gazing out at the sky before turning back to the two police officers. ‘Once I realised that the bullet couldn’t possibly have been fired from a gun, that made me wonder: what could have fired it? Bearing in mind that it had to be something that could have been taken through airport security as carry-on luggage without arousing suspicion. So it had to be either innocuous or disguised, even under an x-ray. Also, it couldn’t use gunpowder or some other explosive to propel the bullet — too noisy. Which leaves either a physical means, like a spring, or some sort of compressed gas.’