Just Murdered Page 6

  Peregrine sprang around the corner, brandishing the statue in front of her like a knife.

  ‘Stop!’ she yelled. ‘Who are you and what the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  A man was standing on the other side of the room. He stared at her, a slow grin spreading across his face. Of average height, he wore a gaberdine coat over a shabby suit, with a battered trilby clamped on his grey hair. He was holding an open, leather-bound book in one hand which he snapped shut and tucked under one arm.

  ‘I could ask you the same question, girly,’ he said, completely unfazed by her sudden appearance.

  Peregrine’s eyes darted around the room. Other books—similar to the one the stranger held—were tumbled on the floor, drawers were pulled open and a tangle of tape spewed from a reel-to-reel recorder.

  ‘Give that back.’ Peregrine used the statue to gesture at the book he held. ‘It belongs to me.’

  The man laughed. ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law, which means it’s mine now. I’m an associate of the late Miss Fisher. Just had to deal with some unfinished business now she’s gone.’

  He turned his back on Peregrine and left the room by another door, moving through the rooms along the back of the house while Peregrine mirrored his path at the front.

  ‘Hey! Stop!’ she shouted as he strolled through the galley kitchen and she hurried through the lounge room.

  He crossed the corner of the lounge in front of her and started down the stairs. Peregrine realised she’d lost the book, but for the moment she was just glad the man was leaving.

  ‘Get out now, or I’m calling the cops!’ She brandished the statue again.

  The man paused, his torso still visible over the top of the planter.

  ‘What a good idea. You should definitely do that.’ He raised his hat and smirked, then continued down the stairs.

  Peregrine waited to hear the door slam, peered over the edge to make sure he’d really gone, then slumped, letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She gave herself a shake, trying to get rid of the impression of slimy menace the man had left behind.

  She hurried back through the house, desperate to work out exactly what he’d taken. The small room between the kitchen and the lounge wasn’t one of the ones she’d already explored: it seemed to double as both breakfast room and study. A drop-front desk sat open, its contents in disarray and covered with shards of coloured glass: scattered writing implements suggested the broken item had been a pencil holder. But as Peregrine scanned the room, she could see that a lot of things appeared to be untouched. Cotton gloves were draped carefully over one end of a chrome shelving unit, binoculars and a camera were undisturbed … the stranger had only been interested in books and papers. Peregrine put the statue down and knelt in front of the shelves. She studied the volumes in front of her, scanning the spines and picking up a couple from the floor. They looked like diaries or journals of some sort, all identically bound in the same red Morocco leather and numbered sequentially. Peregrine replaced the fallen copies and ran her hands over the books, counting them off until she came to the empty space where number twenty should have been.

  ‘That bastard,’ she murmured, angry with herself for letting the man simply walk out with the book under his arm. Peregrine decided to make good on her threat and report the break-in to the police.

  But first she needed to change. It wasn’t that she thought her purple trousers and red shirt were inappropriate for a police station, but they bore the marks of her long and somewhat strenuous day.

  In the main bedroom, Peregrine tipped the contents of her suitcase out and selected a pleated blue skirt, white blouse and tangerine cardigan. Twenty minutes later, dressed, hair tidied and carrying one of the journals, Peregrine trotted down the stairs and shut the front door firmly behind her, giving the handle a jiggle to make sure it was properly locked. Then she turned and contemplated the tarpaulin-draped car. The shape told her it was something low to the ground, and after the revelation of the house itself, Peregrine knew her aunt would have chosen something special. She put down the book and, moving to the back of the car, took hold of the tarp and whipped it away.

  Peregrine stared at the car and felt her heart beat a little faster. ‘No way,’ she breathed. It was as though her unknown aunt had chosen the car with Peregrine in mind.

  She ran her hand along the side of the baby blue Austin-Healey 3000, admiring its sleek, curved lines and the polished chrome of the fenders. The car could only be a year old at the most, and someone had clearly been looking after it, even in her aunt’s absence. The top was up and Peregrine wasted no time in folding it back: if you were driving a convertible, she reasoned, you should feel the wind in your hair. She settled into the royal blue leather of the driver’s seat and caressed the steering wheel.

  ‘Well, hello, beautiful!’ she crooned.

  Peregrine opened the glovebox and pulled out a pair of large, round sunglasses, settling them on her face. Somehow she’d known they’d be there.

  The engine turned over on the first try, and she took a moment to enjoy its throaty growl before releasing the handbrake and rolling down the drive. She was itching to stamp her foot on the accelerator, but the leafy suburban streets were not the right place; instead, Peregrine contented herself with getting to know her new toy, deciding to stick to main roads until she found a police station. Cruising along beside the river, she snapped the radio on, unsurprised to find it was tuned to a station playing the top forty. She turned up the volume, changed down to a lower gear, and for the next few minutes forgot about the past and the future. There was only her, the music and her gleaming new car.

  Peregrine swung the Austin-Healey into a space marked Police Cars Only, made a half-hearted attempt to tidy her windblown hair, then grabbed the journal and strode into the police station.

  The front desk was unmanned and she tapped her foot impatiently. From where she stood, Peregrine could see through into a communal office, crowded with grey metal desks and filing cabinets. Men sat at a number of the desks, some in suits, others with jackets off, shirtsleeves rolled up and gun holsters on full display. Only one or two actually appeared to be working. She watched as a young female constable, blonde hair pulled back in a tight bun, crossed the room with an armful of files, weaving between desks, dropping off documents as required and effortlessly dodging a hand that reached to slap her backside as she passed by. Peregrine had thought the woman’s tightly buttoned uniform looked uncomfortable and a bit dowdy, but seeing the young constable doing her job so calmly, she decided the heavy blue wool was actually a suit of armour. The policewoman ended her run at the desk closest to the counter where Peregrine stood. It was occupied by a youngish, rather good-looking man in a blue suit. He was busy flipping backwards and forwards through the pages of a notebook, occasionally jotting something on a foolscap pad to his right. The constable collected a stack of folders from his out-tray and moved around to a nearby bank of filing cabinets, where she began to sort and file the papers.

  ‘Beats me why men don’t know their ABCs,’ the policewoman said.

  Peregrine smiled but the detective looked up with a frown.

  ‘Keep your thoughts to yourself, Constable,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, Detective Steed.’ She pressed her lips together and bent her head to the task.

  Tired of waiting and more than a little bit annoyed by what she’d just witnessed, Peregrine raised the flap in the front counter and marched through into the detectives’ room. She flashed a smile at the policewoman as she steamed by, coming to a stop in front of the desk where the blue-suited detective sat, regarding her with some consternation.

  ‘I’ve come to report a theft. Can you please help me?’ Peregrine said, dropping the red journal down in front of him.

  Detective Steed tilted his body sideways to look past her. ‘Have you seen the front desk?’

  ‘I’ve not only seen it, we’ve spent time together and got acquainted. It’s very nice
. If you like standing around.’ Peregrine folded her arms, aware that the policewoman had abandoned her work and was now watching with avid interest and a broad smile. ‘A man broke into my house and took one of my books. Well, I say “my books” but they were really my aunt’s. They’re mine now, though, and I don’t like people coming into my house and stealing my stuff. It looked just like this’—Peregrine slid the leather-bound journal closer to Steed—‘but it was number twenty.’

  Detective Steed picked up the red book, opened it at random and looked at the handwriting. His eyes grew wide and he flicked through the pages, stopping here and there to read a sentence or two. Finally he closed the cover and looked up at Peregrine, taking in her tousled hair, her frosted pink nail polish and the imperious arch of her eyebrows.

  ‘You’re Phryne Fisher’s niece? Really?’

  Peregrine met his gaze. ‘Peregrine Fisher. Were you listening to what I said? There was a man in my house and he took one of these books! I’ll never forget his nasty smirk. He was a horrible little man in a greasy hat and bad suit. No manners and a—’ Peregrine broke off, realising Detective Steed was no longer listening but staring past her. She turned to see what had caught his attention.

  ‘Sir?’ Detective Steed sprang to his feet, the chair scraping across already-worn linoleum.

  The man in the greasy hat, hands deep in the pockets of his crumpled coat, took two slow steps into the room. ‘Is this young lady causing a disturbance, Detective?’

  Peregrine’s mouth opened in shock and she looked back and forth between Detective Steed and the new arrival. ‘Not yet,’ she snapped, ‘but I’m about to!’

  Steed hurried around his desk. ‘Chief Inspector Sparrow, this is Peregrine Fisher.’

  ‘Fisher?’ The inspector’s eyes widened.

  ‘Phryne Fisher’s niece,’ Steed replied.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Peregrine stepped into the inspector’s space and looked him in the eye. ‘You were trespassing on private property and you took something of mine, which I would like back.’

  Sparrow smiled, a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘Well, this is all very convenient. I’m glad you dropped by because we obviously got off on the wrong foot. Now you’re here we can get a few things straight.’

  The inspector tipped his head, inviting Peregrine to accompany him away from the detectives’ room. She hesitated for a moment then squared her shoulders and followed him into a side hallway. Sparrow pulled the door shut behind them, but instead of ushering her to an office, he immediately rounded on Peregrine, forcing her to back up until she was against the wall, his face inches from her own.

  ‘Just so we’re perfectly clear,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘it’s my job to make sure things run smoothly in this town, which means I can go wherever I want. Anywhere. Anytime. So don’t ever get in my way. End of discussion.’

  ‘Perhaps next time you could wait for an invitation, or at least phone ahead. Or didn’t your mother teach you manners?’ Peregrine raised her chin, refusing to let the inspector intimidate her.

  Sparrow took a step back, but only so he could point a finger in Peregrine’s face. ‘Your aunt was a thorn in my side. The day I heard she’d crashed in the jungle was a happy, happy day. But you …’ His lip curled and he ran his eyes over her, from her toes to the crown of her head. ‘Little Miss Fisher,’ he said, ‘you’re just a tiny fish in a very big, deep, dangerous sea. Don’t annoy me, Little Fish. Because if you start to annoy me …’

  Sparrow put his hands on his hips, emphasising his paunch and a shirtfront stained with the remnants of lunch. And the gun holstered under his right arm. Then he leaned in again. ‘If you annoy me, I’ll come after you. And do you know what I do when I catch little fish? I batter them. And cook them. Then I chew them up and spit out their bones.’

  His breath was hot and sour in Peregrine’s face and she was just contemplating the wisdom of a well-placed knee when the roar of a motorcycle attracted the inspector’s attention. With a smirk on his face, he strolled off down the hallway, opened an exterior door and was gone.

  Peregrine leaned against the wall, breathing heavily and swallowing down her anger and humiliation. Straightening up, she dusted herself off and headed back towards the detectives’ room. Her hand was on the doorknob, but she didn’t turn it. Instead, she spun around and hurried in the inspector’s wake. Easing open the exterior door, she saw Sparrow standing in the car park. To Peregrine’s surprise, he was talking to Birdie from the Adventuresses’ Club. Helmet under her arm and wearing a grey leather jacket, she was standing next to a gleaming BSA motorcycle, Florence Astor by her side. Peregrine slipped out the door and stood quietly, curious to see what was going on.

  ‘Birnside!’ Inspector Sparrow greeted her cheerily. ‘Dreadfully sorry to hear you’ve gone and lost your henchwoman in the jungle. Very careless! Still, it was bound to happen sooner or later. Guess it’s all up to you now.’

  ‘Chief Inspector Sparrow,’ Birdie said tightly. ‘Miss Astor is here for her interview.’

  ‘I can’t tell you how delighted I am. I’m sure you’re keen for the whole thing to go … smoothly.’

  Florence opened her mouth to speak, but Birdie held up a hand to stop her.

  Sparrow pulled Phryne Fisher’s red-bound book from his pocket and waved it in Birdie’s direction. ‘You know what I want. Every dirty little accusation that Fisher woman made against the police. Hand over the proof. All of it.’

  Peregrine gasped then clamped a hand over her mouth; fortunately none of the group had heard her.

  Birdie made a grab for the book, but Inspector Sparrow pulled back his hand and returned the volume to his pocket.

  ‘Those were Phryne Fisher’s private notebooks,’ Birdie said angrily. ‘I have no idea what’s in them and no idea what you’re talking about. You may as well be speaking Swahili.’

  ‘Of course, Birdie does actually speak Swahili, and a number of other languages as well,’ said Florence, lowering her sunglasses to peer at the inspector over the top of the rims. ‘But it’s been a while since she had to converse with someone whose native language is oafish.’

  ‘Florence, go inside and wait for me,’ Birdie said to her friend, gesturing towards the door where Peregrine stood, her gaze fixed on the inspector. ‘Go on!’

  Florence backed away, her attention still on Birdie and Inspector Sparrow; it wasn’t until she spun around that she noticed Peregrine standing right in front of her.

  ‘Oh! It’s the heiress presumptive.’ She removed her sunglasses and smiled at Peregrine. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’

  ‘Hello, Florence.’

  The two women were silent as they watched the scene playing out in the car park. The inspector was now prowling around Birdie’s motorbike. He came to a stop in front of the bike and shook his head. ‘Oh dear, Birnside. That’s not roadworthy! How long have you had that busted headlight?’

  Birdie frowned at him, clearly puzzled. ‘My headlight’s not—’

  Before she could finish the sentence, Inspector Sparrow pulled his gun free of its holster and slammed it butt-first into the headlight of Birdie’s BSA.

  She clenched her fists, but said nothing.

  ‘Better get that seen to,’ Sparrow said. ‘I’ll look the other way this time, but we don’t want you getting a ticket now, do we?’

  He smiled at Birdie, touched the brim of his hat and turned away.

  ‘You must’ve had a very bad war, Inspector,’ Birdie called after his retreating figure.

  Sparrow froze and his head came up slightly. He seemed to be about to say something or to swing around and confront Birdie again, but after a tense moment he resumed his walk back towards the police station.

  Peregrine decided they’d seen enough; she didn’t want the inspector to notice he had an audience. ‘Come on, Florence.’ She put an arm around the other woman’s shoulder and ushered her through the door. ‘I know a nice detective.’ />
  Back inside the police station, Peregrine settled Florence into the visitor’s chair on the far side of Detective Steed’s desk.

  ‘Miss Astor is here to make a statement about the murder of Barbie Jones,’ she said, collecting a second chair for herself and sitting next to Florence.

  Steed spread his hands in apology. ‘The chief inspector has to be here for this.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Peregrine tilted her head and picked up the nameplate prominently positioned on the front of the desk. ‘It says here that you’re a detective. Detective James Steed. This is you, right? Or have you stolen someone’s desk?’

  Steed snatched the nameplate from her and put it out of Peregrine’s reach. ‘Chief Inspector Sparrow is in charge.’

  ‘Of what? Intimidation and harassment? Or is that just his hobby? Come on, Detective Steed, now’s your chance to do some detecting!’ Peregrine raised her eyebrows and sat back in her chair.

  The detective was saved from answering by the arrival of the blonde policewoman.

  ‘Your tea and biscuits, Detective Steed,’ she said, placing the cup and saucer at his elbow. ‘It’s those digestives you really like—I’ve just opened a fresh packet.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable,’ Steed replied.

  ‘Constable … ?’ Peregrine smiled encouragingly at the young officer.

  ‘Connor, ma’am. Fleur Connor.’ She ducked her head and hurried off.

  ‘Now that we’ve clarified you are a detective’—Peregrine stared pointedly as Steed bit into a biscuit—‘was that a policewoman or a tea lady? Because she looked like a policewoman to me.’