Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron
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really serious about drowning them all.
'That umbrella would be far more useful over our heads O'Malley,' Marek said dragging a chair up beside Kit.
'Where did all the water come from?' Kit asked, handing the umbrella to Marek because she didn't care in the least that she was getting soaked to the skin.
'The fish pond. The fountain was gushing like a bloody geyser when we got here and there appears to be something blocking the outlet pipe. That's what that plumber is trying to fix,' Marek said, trying to remove a cigarette from his packet with one hand, while holding the umbrella over them both with the other.
The man in the overalls had just stepped into the pond and was searching around under the water for the cause of the problem. Every time he moved, a small tidal wave surged over the edge and lapped ever so gently at the senseless body on the lawn.
'Can't you move her?' Kit said.
'We haven't got all the photographs yet,' Marek replied. 'Pete had to get more film from his car. Oh, here he is. It's about bloody time Pete. Get a move on before we all get washed away.'
'Yes sire,' said the surly Pete Fowler who always looked like he had a bad smell up his nose. Considering his job he probably did. He winked at Kit then turned his attention and camera to the task of recording Celia's penultimate resting place.
'How did you know I was going to be here?' Kit asked.
'We found this in her pocket,' Marek said, handing Kit an envelope with her name on it. It had already been opened so she removed the contents. There was a cheque, made out to O'Malley Investigations for $2000, and a small piece of paper neatly printed in red with the words: January 19, North 4; 5 p.m.; January 20 FISC, 11 p.m.
'I don't get this. Tonight was our last appointment. This is far too much money and this, whatever it is, is for next week.'
'So, fill me in O'Malley. What's the deal here?'
'She hired me to tail her husband. Where is he by the way?'
'We've sent a car to pick him up. It took us a while to find him.'
'I bet it did. Who found her then?'
'Her solicitor, Douglas Scott. He's having a stiff drink while he gives his statement to Nick, ' Marek said, finally getting his cigarette lit, while Kit looked expectantly at him.
'OK. Briefly, he had a 9 o'clock appointment with the late Mrs Robinson, but when no-one answered the bell he let himself in. The patio door was open and he found his client lying face down on the grass with her head and arms in the water. Naturally he dragged her out but says it was obvious that she'd been there for some time. He rang an ambulance and called us. End of story. Except that, judging by the empty bottle under that statue over there, it looks like she probably had a bit too much and fell down; maybe she hit her head or maybe she was too pissed to realise it was water she was trying to breathe and not air.'
'You're so crass, Marek. People like Celia Robinson don't get 'pissed', not on Moet anyway and certainly not when they're expecting company,' Kit snapped. 'Something is definitely sus here.'
'You think so?' Marek said in his best patronising voice, which Kit chose to ignore. 'It looks pretty straightforward to me. Her solicitor said she was a drinker.'
'A drinker, yes; but not a rolling drunk.'
'You knew her well enough to make that judgement?'
'I think so. Though not well enough, I must admit, to know that she was as bald as a bandicoot. Where's her hair?'
'Good question. And I have another. Why did you assume that a he had been killed?'
'Because it's quicker and cheaper than divorcing a priapic husband.'
Marek stared at his eyebrows for a few seconds before saying 'I give up. That one hasn't come up in the cryptic crossword yet.'
A shout from the fish pond saved Kit from having to detail the licentiousness that accompanied Geoffrey's permanent hard on, though she knew she may eventually have to. Meanwhile the plumber, who was triumphantly holding aloft what was left of Celia's yellow wig as if it was the scalp of a conquered foe, was shouting that he'd found the source of the problem.
'I think I'm going to puke,' Kit said making for the patio door before she witnessed any more of the circus that was going on around the sodden body of her ex-client. She found a bathroom, locked herself in and took off her cotton shirt to wring it out over the hand basin. She shook her head vigorously and ran her hands through her wet hair before putting the shirt back on. Then she went looking for Douglas Scott.
She found him in the lounge, a plushly furnished room full of couches, cushions, potted palms and begonias, heavy curtains drawn against the proceedings in the Forum outside, and the best-stocked bar Kit had ever seen.
Nick was diligently recording everything that Scott was saying. He looked up when she entered, quickly suppressing an inappropriate grin, and got to his feet.
'Don't let me interrupt, Detective Jenkins,' she said. 'I just want a word with Mr Scott when you're finished.'
I think we're done,' Nick said. 'Unless you have anything else to add Mr Scott.'
A lock of snowy hair fell forward across a pair of unbelievably tangled eyebrows as Douglas Scott shook his head and turned to face Kit. He was visibly distressed and obviously agitated at the thought of having to go through the details yet again. Nick excused himself and left the room, picking up Kit's cue that he should make himself scarce.
'I'm sorry to bother you right now Mr Scott. My name is Katherine O'Malley and...'
'I know who you are Miss O'Malley,' he said, reaching for his glass only to find it empty.
'Call me Kit. Can I get you another?' Kit offered, holding out her hand.
'Yes. Please. A whisky thanks.'
He watched Kit, with the concentration of someone determinedly trying to ignore everything else that was going on around him, as she refilled his glass with the Glenlivet which stood open on the bar, and filled another with Wild Turkey.
'This is a damn tragedy. She was such a fine woman,' he said, accepting the drink as he blinked back the tears pricking his pale blue eyes. Kit liked this man already, and not simply because he looked remarkably like a Old English sheepdog. She guessed he was about sixty though his gentle face had scarcely a line, except around the eyes where the telltale creases hinted at a disposition more accustomed to deriving great amusement from life. It was easy to understand why Celia had trusted him so, though seeing him sitting there barely able to control his grief, Kit suspected his loyalty had a bit to do with the fact that he'd been more than a little in love with their mutual client.
Kit sat down opposite and knocked back her bourbon in one swallow, wondering how, or even whether, she should proceed. She had expected to close the case tonight but not by default. The fact that her client was dead meant, effectively, that she had no client, despite Celia's cryptic note and generous cheque which suggested she had changed her mind.
'You and I probably have a few things to go over Miss O'Malley. Kit. But not tonight, if you don't mind. And I don't think the police need to know all the details, especially when Geoffrey is likely to turn up at any minute.'
'Off course Mr Scott,' Kit said relieved. 'Do you know where he was expected to be this evening?'
'Douglas, please,' he said. 'Luckily, he was in acceptable company - for a change. I suggested to that detective in charge that they contact Geoffrey's secretary Adele. She was apparently out shopping, which is why it's taken so long, but she told them that Geoffrey was dining with Miles and two visiting reps from OHP's printers in Hong Kong.'
'What about Byron? He seems to know everything that goes on around here.'
'He wasn't home.' Douglas looked pathetically at his empty glass so Kit went to the bar, refilled her own and brought the bottle of Glenlivet back for him.
'God, I'll have to ring Elizabeth and tell her,' he was saying.