Just Murdered Page 3

  Pansy, her black hair arranged in an elegant chignon, smiled radiantly as a male model stepped towards her and offered his arm. She and her escort advanced slowly along the catwalk, giving the audience time to appreciate every detail of the design and the brides-to-be a chance to picture themselves walking down the aisle in Florence Astor’s gown of the season.

  ‘Bravo!’ Terence Blair’s grin was all teeth. Beside him, Maggie Blair also applauded, though her smile was tentative and quick to fade.

  Backstage, Florence Astor prepared to step into the spotlight while Lewis Knox, peering around a corner so he could see the main room, waited for the right moment. At the far end of the catwalk, Pansy stepped away from her escort and struck a pose.

  Now.

  Knox pulled a lever and the amethyst curtain at the back of the catwalk began to rise.

  Bit by bit, the tiers of a gigantic faux wedding cake were revealed to the delighted oohs and aahs of the audience. Over eight feet tall—and with each layer festooned with swags and flowers crafted from strips of plaster-soaked linen—the cake had taken the Blair’s window-dressers weeks to construct.

  Florence Astor was moving around the base of the cake as the curtain rose the last few feet, exposing the topmost tier. As she stepped to the centre of the catwalk, she was conscious of the crowd’s approval of her and the collection. Florence smiled graciously and watched as Pansy, one arm curved elegantly towards the sky, began to turn a slow circle.

  A hush fell over the audience.

  Then someone screamed.

  In an instant, the room descended into chaos. Chairs scraped across the parquetry and fell, more screams and shouts pierced the air and one matronly woman slid to the floor in a dead faint, her Oleg Cassini suit in disarray.

  Florence, glancing desperately left and right, realised the audience’s attention was no longer focused on Pansy or the designer herself but on something behind her. Pansy’s slow turn had become a shocked pivot, and now she stared at Florence, eyes wide. Then her gaze moved up and she let out a blood-curdling shriek before swooning into the arms of her handsome escort.

  Florence spun around. The giant wedding cake towered above her in all its ostentatious glory, except for the top. Instead of the delicate tulle heart she had asked for, splayed across the top of the cake was the missing model, Barbie Jones. She was wearing a short wedding dress, but her staring eyes, protruding tongue and blue complexion made it clear that Barbie was very, very dead. A long veil fixed in her copper-red hair had somehow become caught in the curtain’s mechanism, which was still in operation. Florence watched in horror as the curtain continued to rise, pulling on the dead model’s head and causing her stiff body to jerk about like a broken wind-up toy.

  ‘Bring it down! Bring it down!’ Mr Blair was shouting, his stentorian voice finally cutting through the din.

  But the mechanism had jammed and the amethyst curtain did not fall. Barbie Jones remained in full view. Flashbulbs popped as newspaper photographers, sent to capture the parade and its attendees for the society pages, found themselves on the scene of a far bigger story.

  ‘Everyone out!’ Having failed to shield his well-heeled clients from the appalling spectacle, Terence Blair had decided his best option was to clear the room as quickly as possible. ‘Everyone out! Now! Please!’

  He began trying to herd women towards the doors at the far end of the hall and gestured for his son to do the same. Maggie Blair remained seated in the front row, forgotten. Her sunglasses were still in place, masking both her expression and the direction of her gaze.

  Florence took charge of Pansy and the other models, corralling them backstage out of sight of the wedding cake and helping them into street clothes. She sent Knox in search of hot tea, but before he returned, one of the girls produced a small flask which passed rapidly from hand to hand. Florence was tempted to take a decent slug herself, but the last thing she needed was to face Mr Blair and the police with alcohol on her breath.

  Closing her eyes, Florence tried to forget the sight of Barbie, dead, on top of the cake. At least she’s not wearing one of my creations, she thought, then hated herself for thinking it. It hardly mattered anyway. The show was ruined. Suddenly it felt like the walls were closing in: she needed fresh air, and the police could find her outside. Florence snatched up her bag and ducked out through the nearest door.

  Gradually, the sound of shocked voices and hurrying feet diminished as the staff and management of Blair’s Emporium cajoled and soothed their customers while bundling them out of the Mural Hall and away.

  The quiet was quickly replaced by the heavy thump of police boots. Terence Blair, standing off to one side with his secretary, watched morosely as the police photographer began setting up his camera, and pointed mutely when a couple of uniformed officers asked where they might find a ladder, in preparation for bringing Barbie down. He contemplated the scene in front of him. All the doors to his magnificent Mural Hall were now closed, and in front of each one stood a policeman, ready to deny entry. Or exit. The gilded chairs on which the cream of Blair’s clientele had so recently perched were a scattered mess, as though someone had suddenly announced a sale in the shoe department. He glanced at his secretary. Behind her thick glasses, Joyce Hirsch’s eyes glittered with tears, but she stood with notepad and pencil poised, just in case he had any orders to issue.

  ‘Poor Barbie,’ Joyce murmured.

  ‘The customers!’ Terence Blair groaned.

  Colin Blair approached his father. ‘Mother …’

  ‘She’s over there.’ Blair senior gestured to where his wife now stood at the back of the Mural Hall, either fascinated by the goings-on or shocked into immobility. ‘Get her out of here, Colin. Take her home.’

  Colin opened his mouth to respond then snapped it shut again. Collecting his mother, he put a comforting arm around her shoulder then, after a brief discussion with one of the police officers, ushered her out of the nearest exit. The door had only just closed behind them when it was flung open again and a heavy-set man pushed through, overcoat flapping. He paused to take in the room, settled his greasy hat more firmly on his head, then stomped directly towards Terence Blair.

  ‘Blair? Chief Inspector Sparrow. Central Police.’ He stuck out a meaty hand.

  Blair hesitated a moment before shaking it. ‘Did you say Central? I went to school with your superior. Had dinner with him just last week.’

  Sparrow forced a tight smile then turned to survey the scene. ‘Bit of publicity! This’ll be front page in the evening edition. Congratulations! The whole town will be talking about your store.’ ‘You can’t seriously think I want Blair’s Emporium linked with a story like this? The only person who’ll be happy about this is the competition. Harvey White will expect my customers to beat a path to the door of his second-rate store now! If this isn’t cleared up quickly, and with a minimum of fuss, it’ll be a disaster.’

  Another man entered the Mural Hall in the inspector’s wake. Tall, with a chiselled profile and conservatively cut brown hair, everything about his appearance screamed ‘police’, but his approach was far more subtle than that of Inspector Sparrow. Detective James Steed had already taken statements from several witnesses, including Florence Astor, whom he’d found outside smoking one cigarette after another. Now he went straight to the wedding cake and watched as Barbie Jones was brought down and laid on a stretcher. He waited until a sheet was arranged over her lower body before bending in for a closer look at the angry red mark around her neck. After several minutes he stepped back and signalled to the ambulance attendants, then watched respectfully as they covered Barbie’s face and slowly wheeled her from the room. Detective Steed made a slow circuit of the wedding cake, examining its construction while wondering how—and why—the victim had been placed on top. On the floor behind the cake he was surprised to find a few items of women’s clothing, dumped in a pile. Steed used the tip of his pencil to pick through them, lifting each garment and scrutinising it carefully.
>
  ‘Steed? Steed!’ The shout came from the other side of the cake and was followed quickly by Inspector Sparrow himself.

  ‘Sir.’ The young detective stepped forward smartly.

  ‘Do we know how Barbie Doll died?’

  ‘From the mark on her neck it looks like Barbie Jones was strangled with something—a cord or belt of some sort, perhaps—but there’s no sign of the murder weapon. I’ll organise some officers to conduct a thorough search of the hall and the backstage area.’ ‘What about when? Do you have any idea when she died, Steed?’ Detective Steed sucked in a breath and kept his voice controlled. ‘I’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report and confirm her movements last night, but at this stage I’m working on the assumption that Miss Jones was killed in the early hours of the morning, before the store opened.’

  ‘You’re working on an assumption.’ Inspector Sparrow rocked back and forth on his heels as he studied Steed’s face.

  ‘Until I can confirm more details, yes. Sir.’

  ‘Right. Good. What about this morning after the store opened? Who was around?’

  ‘Quite a few people actually. According to the witnesses I’ve spoken to so far, Miss Astor, the designer, was here early, as were Mr Terence Blair and his secretary, Joyce Hirsch.’ Steed consulted his notebook. ‘The models were backstage in the dressing room and the storeman, Lewis Knox, was mainly in the loading dock but was also up here on and off, attending to a few final details for the fashion parade.’

  ‘What about Blair’s missus? Saw her on the way in. She looks a bit …’ Sparrow held out a hand, palm down, and waggled it. ‘Rather him than me!’

  ‘Maggie Blair and her son Colin—who’s the assistant manager—were running late. They arrived together after the fashion parade had started.’

  Sparrow stared at him for a moment, but there was nothing missing from Steed’s report, nothing to criticise. Instead, the inspector poked the scuffed toe of his shoe at the pile of clothing on the floor. ‘What about this lot then?’

  ‘Undergarments—slip, corset and brassiere—that appear to belong to the victim, sir, but they’re badly torn, as though they were removed with force.’

  ‘So our killer ripped her clothes off, then dressed her like a fairy.’

  ‘A bride, sir.’

  ‘Bride, fairy …’ Inspector Sparrow shrugged. ‘Either way, whoever did it is clearly a fruitcake. Give me a straightforward shooting during an armed robbery any day.’

  Sparrow took another look around, his gaze lingering briefly on Pansy Wing as she leaned in the dressing room doorway, a slim cigarette held between her fingers. ‘Right. I’ll leave you to it, Steed,’ he said, ‘but I’m expecting a report on my desk today.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And I want to hear what that Astor woman has to say with my own ears. Get her to come into the station at her earliest convenience. Actually, forget the convenience part.’ He pushed his fists deep into the pockets of his rumpled coat and turned away.

  James Steed watched his boss depart then tipped his head from side to side, trying to get rid of some of the tension in his neck. He looked across and caught Pansy Wing’s eye. She met his gaze for a moment, then abruptly stubbed her cigarette on the sole of her shoe and disappeared into the dressing room. By the time he got there, she was already putting on her coat.

  ‘A few questions before you go, Miss … Wing, is it?’ He pretended to glance at his notebook.

  Pansy sighed and waved a hand at him to continue.

  ‘Were you and Barbie Jones close?’

  Pansy shook her head. ‘Only in the sense that we’ve modelled together at Blair’s for ages.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’ he asked.

  ‘All I can tell you is that she didn’t turn up for the show. And then …’ Pansy gestured towards the Mural Hall.

  ‘And you took her place as star of the show?’

  ‘Just what are you—’ she began, hands on hips.

  ‘Someone had to.’ The soft voice came from behind Detective Steed and he spun around.

  Lewis Knox emerged from among the racks of wedding dresses.

  ‘You’re the storeman, aren’t you?’ Steed asked.

  Knox nodded as he moved to stand next to Pansy. ‘Someone had to take Barbie’s place. The show would have been ruined otherwise.’

  The detective winced, but Knox seemed completely oblivious to the irony of his words.

  ‘Did either of you see Miss Jones this morning?’ Steed looked from one to the other.

  ‘We were all busy getting ready for the show,’ Pansy said.

  ‘And you weren’t concerned when she didn’t turn up?’

  ‘It wasn’t a problem until about half an hour before the show, when Miss Astor started asking for Barbie. Models just come and go whenever they like.’ There was a note of belligerence in the storeman’s voice.

  ‘I just thought she was running late … as usual!’ Pansy shrugged. ‘Barbie never cared about holding everyone up and she loved to make an entrance.’

  Steed’s eyebrows rose and he stared at Pansy. ‘I see.’ He scrawled something in his notebook and let the silence stretch before asking his next question. ‘Why didn’t anyone notice Miss Jones on the cake until the end of the parade?’

  ‘The curtain was in place, and after Miss Astor made her final adjustments at yesterday’s rehearsal she gave us all strict orders not to touch anything,’ Knox said.

  ‘Florence Astor is always very particular.’ Pansy rolled her eyes. ‘You should have heard the argument she had with Barbie yesterday!’

  ‘Really? They were arguing? Miss Astor didn’t mention that.’ Detective Steed flipped his notebook closed. ‘Is she still here?’

  Pansy Wing and Lewis Knox looked at each other and shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Never mind. I know where to find her.’ Steed slapped the notebook into the palm of his hand and, with a nod, took his leave.

  Peregrine stood in front of the Adventuresses’ Club. Or, rather, she stood in front of a solid metal gate set into a high brick wall. From the other side of the narrow street, it had been possible to see the tops of trees and the decorative roofline of a large building, but from where she was standing now, all Peregrine could see was the door, a buzzer and a highly polished brass plate etched with the name The Adventuresses’ Club and, beneath that, Members Only. Walking through the city, with the sun shining and bustle of people around her, Peregrine had felt excited and hopeful. But now, standing in the cool shadows of Greenwood Place, she felt suddenly alone.

  Peregrine shivered, then, closing her eyes, she pushed the buzzer and waited.

  Nothing happened, so she pushed it again.

  Still no response.

  She put her finger on the buzzer and kept it there.

  Suddenly, a small hatch set in the door flew open and a man’s face appeared.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Oh!’ Peregrine gasped and put a hand to her chest. ‘I didn’t notice there was a little window there! Hello.’

  ‘Good morning. Do you have an appointment?’ The man had a pleasant, no-nonsense sort of voice.

  ‘Well, not strictly speaking, except …’

  ‘Who are you here to see?’

  ‘I don’t quite know, but …’ Peregrine began patting down her pockets, trying to find the letter that had brought her there. ‘I have it here somewhere.’

  ‘Do you have an invitation for the lecture? If you’re here for the lecture, you’re late.’

  ‘No. I’m not here for the lecture. Just hang on a minute!’ She plunged a hand into her tote bag and rummaged in its depths.

  The man on the other side of the gate pressed his face closer to the Judas hatch and looked at Peregrine more closely. His gaze fell on her suitcase.

  ‘You’re not an Avon lady, are you? We don’t do Avon. They should have told you not to call here.’

  ‘I’m not an Avon lady, but I—’

  ‘Do you have the password?’<
br />
  Peregrine stopped her rummaging to stare at him incredulously. ‘Password? Are you serious?’

  ‘No appointment, no invitation and no password. That means no entry. Sorry.’ He slammed the door of the hatch.

  ‘Hey! Wait! I’m here for a meeting! Come back!’ Peregrine pounded her fist on the door. ‘Ow.’

  She pressed the buzzer a few more times but the iron gate remained steadfastly closed.

  ‘Not very welcoming,’ she muttered to herself, then took a few steps back and sized up the wall. Clearly, she wasn’t going to get in through the gate, but one thing Peregrine’s mother had taught her was not to give up easily. And during her teenage years, Peregrine herself had dedicated many a Friday and Saturday night to developing her skills in the complementary arts of sneaking out and sneaking in. It would take more than one officious man and his precious password to stop her.

  The wall was too high to climb, but at least the top was smooth and free of anything sharp or spiky: clearly the Adventuresses were more concerned with privacy than security. Picking up her case, Peregrine walked further along Greenwood Place until she found what she was looking for. At the furthest end of the wall that marked the boundary of the Adventuresses’ domain was a neat row of galvanised metal garbage bins, their lids firmly in place. Peregrine looked back up the street, but she was entirely alone, and far enough away from the busy main road that she was unlikely to be seen. It only took her a few minutes to arrange several of the bins into a rough pyramid, high enough so that, with a small jump, she should be able to grab the top of the wall.

  Peregrine slung her tote bag across her body and clambered to the top of the stack of bins. The suitcase went first. She grunted with the effort of throwing it up and over the wall, then listened, bracing herself for the crash or outcry when it landed on the other side. All she heard was the swish of branches and a dull thud. Peregrine grinned, wiped her palms down the sides of her trousers, then swung her arms up and sprang for the top of the wall. She managed to get her upper chest half across, but her legs flailed as she scrabbled to find a toehold. Behind her, the rubbish bins clattered in a heap, but Peregrine ignored the noise, all her attention focused on pulling herself up.