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  He brought the Manhattans, some glacéed apricots, and a tall glass of water for her on a tray. “Drink the water,” he said. “And put that see-through thing back on. I fancy you in that.” The CD of Jacquet was long finished, so she scooted over to the low shelf with his collection of vinyl and began to flip through the albums. This must be the music he’d bought as a young man. The Beatles. The Who’s Quadrophenia. Van Morrison. U2’s albums from the early 80’s. John Lee Hooker. And…“Julie London?” she asked, surprised. There were several original albums showing the sultry Julie in evening gowns. One, called Julie is Her Name, featured a head shot with bare shoulders and full decolletage; only a hint of her gown could be discerned. She looked like a cross between Rita Hayworth and Jane Russell. Laura was familiar with her music, but had never seen the original album art from the fifties.

  “Those belonged to Fergus. I kept them because I liked her voice. A guilty pleasure, I suppose.”

  “Oh, yes, she’s an absolute sex bomb. Have you ever heard her sing ‘My Heart Belongs to Daddy’? Or ‘Go Slow’? But why would you feel guilty?”

  “You don’t think I’m a bit sexist for being keen on her? Or some of those songs? I thought you were more of a feminist.”

  “Of course I’m a feminist.” She paused to consider his comment. “I have certain aesthetic standards and if I enjoy something that doesn’t fit them, it’s a guilty pleasure. Like eating Doritos.” He laughed at this. “But I don’t apply moral standards to the enjoyment of art,” she went on. “So taking pleasure in art that happens to have sexist —or sexy— elements doesn’t bother me. In fact, why don’t you put that one on?” she said, pointing to the bare shouldered Julie, and settling back on a pile of cushions and pillows with her Manhattan.

  As the first bars of “Cry Me a River” flowed through the room, she said, “I’d forgotten what a ritual it used to be, playing a record. Just now you removed Miss Julie from the cover, and then you gently pulled off the inner sleeve. The knickers, if you will. And then you laid her down on the turntable, and tenderly placed the needle in her groove. Now tell me, could anything be sexier than that?”

  He set both their drinks on a tray and climbed onto her, pressing her down against the pillows. “Only the sight of you in this wee frock,” he said. “I can’t take my eyes from you.” He started to kiss the side of her face, and her neck, little nibbling kisses. “Tell me what your guilty pleasures are,” he said into her ear. “What doesn’t meet your aesthetic standards, but you like it anyway. I want to know.”

  “In music? Well, you have to consider my age. I was a teenager in the late seventies and early eighties. And I wasn’t listening to U2.”

  “Oh no,” he said, looking up from his kisses. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”

  “Saturday Night Fever came out in 1977.” His only response to this was a pained look.

  “Yes. I really liked the Bee Gees. And —I know you’ll abhor this— I also liked ABBA. Still do.”

  “ABBA? Laura, that is utterly revolting,” he said, an almost gleeful note in his voice.

  “I knew you’d say that. It’s a weakness of mine.”

  “It’s okay,” he whispered. “I love you anyway.”

  Looking into his eyes as he said this, she believed him. The rush of joy she felt in hearing him say the words was tempered by a feeling of despair. “What are we going to do?” she said. “It seems an impossible situation.”

  “I don’t know. We’ll think of something. We have to.”

  Because she couldn’t bear to discuss it, she changed the subject. “I saw what they wrote in the papers about you and Jenna. Especially the Sun.”

  “It’s just what I would have expected from that prick Jacques. He and I used to compete for stories, and I usually got the better of him. And what they wrote about Jenna, and the pictures. That’s to be expected in our profession as well, but still, I’d like to beat them to a mis—” he stopped suddenly and bit his lip.

  She couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t bother to deny it. You were going to say you’d like to beat them to a miserable jelly.”

  27.

  That Which Men Call Death

  On Monday morning her phone rang as she was working amid the controlled chaos of the study desk in her flat. She normally made and received very few calls, so when it rang, she always felt a frisson of worry that it might be bad news from home. She managed to grab it before it went to voice mail.

  “Laura? This is James. Where are you right now?” His voice sounded odd. She could tell he was in the newsroom by the background buzz of conversation and office noises.

  “I’m at my flat. Why, what’s happened? Are you okay?”

  “Ellen Porteous is dead. She was found in a hotel room on Sunday night.” Laura was silent. She felt as though her brain synapses had been dipped in cool molasses and were now moving very sluggishly. She sank back onto her desk chair, nearly missing it.

  “Laura, are you still there? Say something.”

  She forced herself to speak. “How? How did it happen?”

  “She was stabbed, but that’s all we know at this point. This is going to be in all the papers. It’s huge. I wanted to prepare you. I’m sorry; I know you liked her.”

  “Hamish did it,” she said, before she realized she was speaking out loud.

  “What? What are you talking about? Laura, you spent a lot of time at their house. Is there something you’re not telling me? What reason do you have to think Hamish is involved?”

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “It’s just a feeling. I’m sorry, I’m getting dizzy. I need to put my head between my knees or lie down.”

  “Right. Don’t leave your place. Lie down. Do you want me to stop by after work?”

  “No, I think I want to be alone. But we’ll see each other on Saturday?”

  “I’ll have to work this weekend. I’ll call you as soon as this blows over.” He hung up after giving her instructions to drink a shot of the Talisker scotch before lying down. Laura went to the bathroom and bathed her face in cool water, and lay on the bed for about an hour. Then she got up and opened her laptop. She found the website for the Metropolitan Police and searched through the Specialist and Crime operations listings until she found the name: Magdalena Banacek, Detective Chief Superintendent. She saw no direct number, so she called the “Non-Emergency” number recommended to report a crime.

  “My name is Laura Livingston. I would like to speak to DCS Magdalena Banacek. It’s about the murder of Ellen Porteous.”

  “DCS Banacek oversees a large number of cases. It’s Detective Chief Inspector John Middleton who’s supervising that case, ma’am. I can put you through to his office,” said the operator.

  “No, I want to speak to DCS Banacek. It’s important.” she said. She needed to meet Magda and take her measure. Romantic rival though Magda might be, Laura had at least seen her before and knew something of her. And she was a woman. The idea of telling her story to an endless succession of males in the police station made her feel queasy.

  After a few more transfers of her call and a few more repetitions of her request, a cool voice on the line finally said, “Miss Livingston? This is DCS Banacek.”

  “Thank you for taking my call,” said Laura.

  There was a pause on the other end. “You’re seeing James Whelan, aren’t you? May I ask what this is about?” So someone, most likely James, had mentioned her name to Magda.

  “I’ve been working nearly every week at the Porteous home. Some things happened while I was there, things that you should know.”

  “DCI Middleton is the senior investigating officer—” Magda began, but Laura cut her off. “I want to talk to you.”

  “Can you be at the Westminster Station in two hours?” She gave Laura instructions for the tube and hung up. When Laura arrived, she was taken to an interview room and left there alone for twenty minutes. Finally the door opened and Magda walked in, wearing one of her fitted suits
and a pair of three-inch heels. In the bright lights of the interview room, it was clear that Magda was in her late forties or early fifties, though still very attractive. Even with minimal makeup she had a fine, smooth complexion. Her dark blue eyes held intelligence, but didn’t look particularly friendly. With her was a fit-looking man in his early forties. He had ruddy skin and strawberry blond hair, and was wearing a tie, already slightly loosened, but no jacket. He looked like someone with too much to do. “This is DCI Middleton,” said Madga. “Miss Livingston, I hope what you have to say to us is worth our time.”

  “You’ll have to be the judge of that,” said Laura. She related the story of her visits from Ellen, the Porteous children’s refusal to let anyone see their father, the note in the Pine’s Horace, and how the two men had shown up thereafter to speak to Mr. Porteous. At that, DCI Middleton looked surprised and leaned over to whisper to Magda.

  “Do you still have this note?” asked Middleton. She drew it from her purse and handed it over. “What about the men’s names? Are you certain of them?” Laura pulled out her notebook, in which each day’s notes were dated, to show them the names John Curtis Esq. and Mr. Terence Drake.

  “Miss Livingston,” said Middleton, “what exactly are you trying to tell us?”

  “I believe Mr. Porteous’ mail is being monitored, he likely has no phone, and he is bedridden so he has no way to communicate with the outside world. I think he changed his will that day and told Hamish that he’d done so.” She described the sudden unexpected visit from Hamish and his tête à tête with her in the kitchen. “He acted very seductively toward me, but all the time he only wanted to know whether I’d spoken to his father. I said no and it was the truth, but not the whole truth.”

  “Did Hamish Porteous appear to believe your statement?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Did he mention a will?”

  “No.”

  “When was the last time you saw Ellen Porteous?” asked Magda.

  “The day I gave her the note for her father,” said Laura. She was feeling very tired now, but there was something else she needed to know. “Was Ellen sexually assaulted?” she asked them. “Did she have sex before she was killed?”

  “Miss Livingston, we can’t share that information with you.”

  Laura’s mind drifted back to the image of Hamish hooking his arm angrily around his sister’s waist. “If there’s DNA, check it against Hamish,” she said.

  28.

  Ashes in the Mouth

  By that evening, the news was out on the web, and the next day’s papers were full of the story. There were numerous pictures of Ellen, looking stunning in evening gowns or designer suits, and a shot of the budget hotel in Brixton where she was found. Laura purchased several papers, and noticed that the Herald seemed to have more extensive coverage than the rest. Jenna’s was one of the bylines, and she read that all the members of the Porteous household had been questioned. There were lurid details about the state of Ellen’s murdered body. She wondered how the reporters had obtained the information. Weren’t such things often kept confidential, at least until a murder was solved? She followed the stories over the next couple of days, making a point to read Jenna’s contributions.

  Trying to make sense of her feelings, Laura called her father. In their previous conversations, she had mentioned Ellen in passing, but hadn’t discussed the strange attraction that she felt for her.

  “Pappy, I only saw Ellen a few times, and didn’t get to know her,” she said. “Why should I feel so devastated?”

  “You felt eros, which means you were moved by her beauty. All the beautiful things around us can be doorways that lead away from daily experience toward the transcendent. For you, Ellen was one of those doorways.”

  “So I’m mourning that loss?”

  “Yes. Emmet often had experiences like that. Sometimes he would unexpectedly fixate on people or things and be filled with feelings of love for them. He said it made him remember what life was for.” Emmet was her father’s older brother, the uncle whose personality was much like Laura’s, according to Pappy.

  “You always say that Emmet was normal, but Mom says he can’t have been because he killed himself.”

  Pappy sighed. “Your mother doesn’t accept that suicide can be a rational choice.” A few weeks after learning he had Lou Gehrig’s disease, Emmet had shot himself, having written loving letters of farewell to his relatives and friends. Characteristically, he’d laid out plastic sheeting on the walls and floor of the room in order to make the cleanup easier. All this had happened when Laura was still in diapers. “Until the diagnosis, Emmet was as happy as anyone else, though he struggled, as you do, with the conflict between his need for love and his desire to be alone. Laura, I’ve observed both of you from the time you were children. People react to your separateness, your apartness, in one of two ways. Some of them find you cold and aloof.” Laura wondered whether her own mother was one of those people. “Others are attracted by it,” Pappy continued. “They want to break through your wall and know everything about you. They also feel protective toward you. Emmet always said that women, and even some of his male friends, tried to mother him.”

  Laura thought of the way James and June and even George and Babur looked out for her. Though it was kind of them, she didn’t think she needed their protection. But now she knew that she needed love. “Did Emmet have someone he loved?” she asked, dreading the answer and expecting to hear that he had spent his entire life alone.

  “Eventually, yes. He needed sex, but he didn’t want to marry, so most of his relationships didn’t last long. He tried visiting prostitutes, but those experiences weren’t satisfying, and he felt guilty about using women that way. Finally, he met Patricia. Her husband had early onset Alzheimer’s. Emmet said that she still loved her husband deeply, but was terribly lonely. She and Emmet had an arrangement that gave them both a great deal of happiness.”

  “I’m glad you told me all this, Pappy.”

  “I knew you’d ask me some day.”

  **

  James didn’t call until the next Monday evening. “They’re going to charge Hamish Porteous with the murder of his sister,” he said. “Hamish confessed after they found his semen in Ellen’s body. Alexander Porteous had changed his will, and Hamish bribed a clerk in the law office for information. He’d witnessed the will and knew that it left Hamish’s share of the estate to Ellen.” Laura nodded to herself. The clerk was Terence Drake, the man who came to the Porteous house with John Curtis.

  James paused, and then said, “You said it was Hamish. Why didn’t you tell me what you knew?” He sounded angry and hurt.

  “I didn’t want it in the newspaper.”

  “So you don’t trust me.”

  “I didn’t think it was right to put you in a position where you had to choose between using the information and breaking my trust.”

  “Can you meet me at Roxana’s for dinner? I want to see you.”

  They agreed to meet in a half hour. She didn’t have much time to see to her clothes, but threw a jacket over what she had on, her tan corduroy trousers and silky brown V-neck top. She arrived first and was shown by Babur to a table in the middle of the long dining room. She sat facing away from the door, but she could feel it in her bones the moment he came in and strode down the aisle to the table. He bent and kissed her on the cheek before removing his jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair, and sitting down. Babur came to take her order, and his eyes widened at the sight of her with James, but he didn’t comment.

  “Hello, mate,” said James to Babur. “What would you like, Laura?”

  “I’ll have the kadu,” she said. It was a dish of sautéed pumpkin with mild spices and yogurt, served over rice.

  “The braised lamb shank, and some garlic naan. Gewürztraminer okay with you?” he asked, glancing at Laura. She nodded, and Babur left to get their wine. James leaned forward, his eyes on her neck and chest.

  “That
’s the top you were wearing the evening we met.”

  “Yes, I think you’re right,” she answered. She recalled their conversation that night, how exciting it had been, and her mingled feelings of arousal and embarrassment. She looked up into his eyes and she could tell he was thinking about it too.

  “Do you remember the week after, when I didn’t show up here?”

  “Yes. I thought you’d dropped me because I didn’t sleep with you that night.”

  “No. I went to Belfast. It was me older sister Maeve’s birthday and I hadn’t seen her for a long time. We had a talk and she told me to stop mucking about with lasses who were too young for me. She has her spies in London, you see,” he said, in a tone that showed he didn’t mind the fact that Maeve kept an eye on him.

  “What does she do?”

  “She’s a grammar school English teacher,” he said, and laughed, as Babur poured their wine. “Sometimes we trade Shakespeare quotes. I told her that food is the music of love, not the other way around.”

  “I agree with you,” said Laura. “What did she say?”

  “She liked the sentiment but said it ruins the meter. Then she said I needed to find someone who loves food as much as I do and settle down. ‘Jamie,’ she said, ‘kissin’ don’t last, cookery do.’”

  Laura nodded. “That’s from one of George Meredith’s novels. Maeve got the quote exactly right. Most people don’t.” In the back of the dining room, she saw the kitchen doors open and George’s head pop out. He looked at her questioningly and she glared at him. By the time James turned his head to see what she was looking at, George’s head was gone.

  “Laura, I’ve got the sack,” said James, picking up his wine glass and draining it. He poured more wine into both glasses.

  “What? You mean you’re being fired?” She was shocked.

  “More or less. We’ve a bit of a scandal about to break. Some of the lads have been paying the cops for information, and the boss would like to have done with me. I’ve not been happy in the job. An odd thing, that, after I’d worked so hard to get the promotion. So I told him I’d go under certain conditions.”