“He’s that, for sure. But I didn’t see him as the Mariner. He fooled us, Hen, and I blame myself. I was doing the interview.”
“And I was asking you to soft-pedal,” she said. “Don’t knock yourself, Peter. You got everything else right. The British Metal connection and the fact that he was a pissed-off academic. Did you ever get that list of the people who lost their bursaries?”
“On my desk.”
“And was his name on it?”
“Yes. I just didn’t get a chance to see it on the morning we nicked him.”
“But you would have got there,” Hen insisted. “You did all right. And I hate to say that you solved my murder for me, by fingering Garth, but let’s face it, you did. I was up a gum-tree with those Aussie lads.” She opened her car door and then held out her hand to him. “But don’t let it go to your head. You’re still a pushy bastard.”
On the day Georgina Dallymore returned from her Nile cruise and let herself into the house in Bennett Street, Sultan was curled up as usual in his basket in the hall. The big ball of fur opened both eyes briefly but didn’t get out to greet her.
“Exhausted, are you, my darling?” she said. “That makes two of us. But the difference is, I’ve got every right to be tired. I’ve had such an exciting time.”
The place looked immaculate, maybe even better than she’d left it. You wouldn’t know anyone had stayed here. Yet when she opened the visitors’ book, there was the name of Anna Walpurgis with the date and the comment “I’ll always remember my visit here.” How good it was to come home to a tidy house and a famous name in the visitors’ book and a contented cat, she thought. The house sitter had been one of Peter Diamond’s better suggestions.
Peter Lovesey
