Bloodhounds

'May I read it?'

'It's being photocopied right now. You'll get one if you want it.'

'What do you intend to say about Bumblebee?'

Wigfull looked into the distance like a camel unwilling to move. 'I won't be mentioning Bumblebee. The Turner's got nothing to do with this. I've no doubt that we prevented a possible crime in the Victoria Gallery, but there's no connection with the loss of this stamp.'

'I think you'll find there is, John, and I think the press boys will be onto it. They're not slow. You're going to face questions, so you might as well have something ready to say.'

'About the Turner?' Wigfull was still uninterested.

'The message we had on the radio this morning.' He fished it from his pocket again and read it to Wigfull.

'J.M.W.T.

Surrounded by security.

Victoria, you challenge me.

I shall shortly come to thee.

Wigfull stared at him without a glimmer of comprehension. 'Well?'

'Isn't it clear to you?' said Diamond through the din made by the phone. 'We were set up, John. The Turner was a distraction. The Victoria he was talking about wasn't the name of the gallery. It was the stamp. The Penny Black with Queen Victoria's head on it.'

'Do you think so?' Wigfull said. His weary eyes held Diamond a moment, slipped away, and came back to him twice as large. ' 'Victoria, you challenge me.' My God. Why didn't I think of it?'

'There's nothing to be ashamed of,' Diamond generously said. 'It could have happened to any of us. So easy to get bogged down in one line of inquiry.'

'When did you put two and two together?'

'A few minutes ago, when I heard about the break-in.'

'The bastard's made a laughingstock of me. He told us what he was planning, and I didn't see it.'

'Which is why you should be boxing clever when you meet the press. They will have cottoned onto this, John.'

Wigfull raked his fingers across his scalp. 'How would you handle it?'

'Tell them it's no ordinary break-in. It was well planned and boldly carried out. You're dealing with a smart aleck who takes pleasure in announcing his plans, but in cryptic form. Take them through the rhyme showing how devious it was. That 'Victoria' could have referred to half a dozen locations in Bath. Tell them this aleck is not so smart as all that, because he won't be able to sell the stamp. It would be like trying to unload the Mona Lisa.'

'Good point,' said Wigfull. 'What does he hope to do with it-demand a ransom?'

'Probably. But I wouldn't open that can of worms with the press, even when they suggest it. If you'll take advice from someone who has dealt with those guys, don't be tempted to speculate on what might happen next. Deal with the facts as known. Tell them a full-scale investigation has been launched, and leave it at that.'

'Peter, I appreciate this,' said Wigfull.

'Forget it.'

'No, I mean it.'

'All right. Don't forget it until you've bought me a drink.'

Chapter Nine

In the window of the Walsingham Gallery were two large oils of clowns painted in such a way that the makeup didn't entirely mask the features. The artist had sacrificed some realism to reveal the character of the men and women in performance, and it was skillfully done. It took you a moment to see through the — greasepaint, but once your eye adjusted to the effect, you could tell that one clown was grinning under the painted smile and another was scowling; one appeared to be giving another, a woman, a predatory look; she was staring out, aware of his interest, yet disdainful. The idea was not remarkable, but the artistry was. Shirley-Ann spent some time studying the canvases before going in.

Instead of Jessica, a man popped up from behind an arrangement of blue and yellow irises on a desk at the rear of the gallery. 'Hi. Just looking around, or is there anything in particular you wanted to see? He was dressed casually for the job, in a check shirt and black jeans. His teeth were so regular that they must have been fixed. An actor? Shirley-Ann didn't recognize him from television, but the dark curls and brown eyes would have suited him for a role as a heartbreaker in a soap.

'Actually, I just called in to see Jessica.'

'Shopping,' he told her. 'She won't be long if you don't mind waiting.'

Something in his manner suggested he had a more lofty status than a mere minder of the gallery. Shirley-Ann wondered if this could be Barnaby, the husband. She told him she hadn't come about anything important. She would call back another time.

He assessed her with a long look. 'You wouldn't be Shirley-Ann Miller, by any chance?'

She felt the blood rise and redden her cheeks. 'How did you know?'

'Jess was talking about you. You just joined that coven she belongs to. The crime fiction people. What is it the Baskervilles?'

'The Bloodhounds. I wouldn't call it a coven, but how did you recognize me?'

'She said you might call in sometime.'

'Yes, but of all the people in Bath…' An uncomfortable thought had come to her. Had Jessica told him about the kinds of clothes she wore? Was it so obvious that she dressed out of charity shops?

'We don't get all the people in Bath dropping in and asking for her by name. I know most of the regular clients here.' He stepped from behind the desk and toward her with right hand extended. 'I'm known as A.J., and don't ask what it stands for, because I don't much care for the name I was given.' His hand was cool, the grip firm. 'I'll put the kettle on, unless you want to sample the cheap sherry she keeps.'

'No, really,' said Shirley-Ann, telling herself that he couldn't be Barnaby, the husband, unless Jessica used the name he didn't care for-which wouldn't be very loyal.

'Really what?' said A.J. 'Really tea or really sherry or really you're in a frightful hurry? — because that patently isn't true if you dropped in for a chat with Jess. Sweet discourse makes short days and nights, so the saying goes, and I know of no one it fits better than Jess. My God, wouldn't she be flattered to hear that from me, always accusing her of being a motormouth?'

He was leaving her in no doubt that he knew Jessica extremely well. Personally, if Shirley-Ann had owned a gallery she wouldn't have left an overbearing man like this in charge.

'All right,' she said. 'Tea will be nice if you really think she won't be long.'

'Take a look around,' he said, as he stepped toward the alcove where the kettle must have been kept. 'See what strikes you as worth the asking price. Between you and me, we have a new exhibition coming up later this week. You should come to the preview if you want to buy.'

She didn't care at all for that male assumption that women would do as they were told, so she went straight to a tall-backed Rennie Mackintosh chair and tested it for comfort, still wondering what A.J.'s role was in the business, and in Jessica's life.

When he appeared again and saw her in the chair he said, 'Careful, that's where you're supposed to sit to write the check.' He handed her the tea. It came in a white porcelain cup and saucer, and there were two tea leaves floating, as if to let her know that he hadn't used a teabag. 'She'll be back any second. She can smell tea brewing a mile away.'

He was talking like a husband, but Jessica had definitely said she was married to someone called Barnaby. How could you get A.J. from that? Shirley-Ann tried some guesswork of her own. 'You look like a painter.'

'How come?' he said. 'Spots on my jeans-or did I leave a brush behind my ear? Yes, I paint figures.'

'The clowns in the window?'

'Christ, no. That isn't my style at all. I do nudes, but very Bath Spa, very tasteful, heavily shadowed over the