‘K. Tom Davis, I am arresting you for the murder of Lisa Davis. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be taken down and used in evidence.’
There was a chair for a visitor in the corner. I sat on it, hoping the photographer wouldn’t be long. The marks had been on Davis’s arm for twelve days but I didn’t want my case thwarted by a miracle recovery. I rocked back on two legs, leaning against the wall at an impossible angle, watching him, wondering if I’d still be able to make it to Annabelle’s for supper. I wanted to — I deserved it — but there was work to do, and people to talk to. Happy, happy, happy, happy talk.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The waiter slid Annabelle’s chair underneath her and, when she was settled, lowered the huge leather-bound menu into her hands. She was wearing her purple suit, no make-up, no blouse visible, no jewellery. If the architecture is right, you don’t need decoration. Her hair had grown longer, and she’d tied it up on the top of her head. I dragged my eyes away to study the menu the waiter was manoeuvring into my grasp.
It could have been The Book of Kells, hand illuminated, written with the imagination of a Stephen King, but it was only a menu. I studied it for key words, like chicken, or steak.
Annabelle leant across and whispered, ‘Can we afford this, Charles? There are no prices in my menu.’
I smiled at her, saying, ‘Don’t worry about it. I think the prices in mine are for two.’
‘Ho ho,’ she laughed. ‘You will be lucky.’
The wine waiter brought the bottle we’d ordered earlier and went through the usual ritual. I waved a hand for him just to pour it. When he’d gone, Annabelle said, ‘You were telling me about K. Tom Davis. So how did you prove it was him?’
‘Right,’ I replied. ‘It was all down to highly skilled detective work.’
‘Well, of course.’
‘Absolutely. I took a SOCO round to Broadside — Justin’s house — and he cut a slice of apple that was just the right thickness. Don’t ask me how he worked that out. Justin offered it to the parrot — Joey — who promptly bit straight through it and ate the piece. So he tried again, this time with a piece of turnip. Joey sank his beak into that and either didn’t like it or it was too tough for him, so he let go. SOCO sliced into the turnip and unfolded it, and voila! A perfect imprint of Joey’s beak. Have you ever studied a parrot’s beak?’
‘No, not at close range.’
‘They’re amazing. Incredibly powerful, yet they can be so gentle. When they bite, the top part makes a puncture wound, but the lower mandible leaves two incisions, so you receive three bites for the price of one. Justin says it’s the most excruciating pain imaginable, and he should know — he’s broken most of his bones at various times.’
‘And the imprint of Joey’s beak matched the mark on K. Tom Davis’s arm?’
‘Mmm. Exactly. We couldn’t prove it was Joey, but he’s certainly been bitten by a macaw. According to Justin, it’s a wonder he didn’t mark K. Tom for life. Any idea what you’re having?’
‘So Joey was in the bathroom with poor Lisa?’
‘That’s right. They were inseparable.’
‘In a way, I suppose he did, bless him.’
‘Did what?’
‘Mark K. Tom for life.’
I folded the menu, being careful not to swipe everything off the table, and gazed across at her. She looked sad. I wanted to hold her hand, but she was too far away.
‘I’ve decided,’ I announced. ‘It’s either the flamingo’s kneecaps, on a bed of lily petals in a cage of baby asparagus stems, or — wait for it — the Beef Wellington.’
‘I knew you would have the beef,’ Annabelle declared.
‘Am I so depressingly predictable?’
‘Not at all. It’s probably the best thing they do. I think I will have the salmon. So how much gold did you recover?’
‘Just the one bar, unless Sparky concealed half a dozen in his car boot.’
‘Good gracious. Where did it all go?’
I shook my head. ‘No idea. Somewhere on the Continent, we presume, concealed inside K. Tom’s bullbar. We think that part of the deal was that he deliver the gold over there, to work off his debts to Michael Angelo Watts.’
‘Because of the diamonds failure?’
‘That’s right. And for madam’s starter?’
‘Umm, the duck pate, I think. Yes, the duck pate.’
‘Ah!’ I exclaimed.
‘Ah? Why “Ah”?’
‘Oh, er, nothing. A wise choice if I might say so.’ I reached across and she gave me her menu. The waiter ceased to hover and went into a dive, pulling out alongside me with inches to spare. When he’d gone, taking our orders to the kitchen and the menus back to their air-conditioned vault in the Bodleian, Annabelle repeated, ‘Why “Ah”? What do you know about the duck pate?’
I sighed and unfolded my napkin, draping it over my knees like a travel rug. ‘I’d, er, rather not say,’ I told her.
‘Now you are being infuriating, Charles,’ she insisted, in her pretend-school-ma’am voice.
‘Well, this involves my eating humble pie, and it will ruin my appetite.’
‘Gosh. The great detective having to admit he was wrong. Tell me all about it.’
I took a sip of wine. ‘This is nice,’ I said, turning the glass in my fingers.
‘Tell me!’
‘OK! OK! We, er, caught someone for killing the swans in the park.’
A smile crept over her face. ‘You mean — poor Donald is no longer a suspect. What’s the phrase? He’s not… in the frame, any more?’
I pulled my best grimace. ‘For the time being,’ I growled, ‘but I’ll have him, one day.’
‘You can’t win ’em all, Charlie boy,’ Annabelle smirked, tipping me a wink. The waiter returned to give us the appropriate cutlery.
‘It’s a sad story,’ I told her. ‘Young man, only twenty-one. Lots of problems, into drugs and anything else he could find or steal, probably schizophrenic. Another one let down by the care in the community system. I actually arrested him, later that day, but we never thought to associate him with the swans.’
‘Poor chap. What had he done?’
‘Tried to break into a flat. He was up a ladder, threatening to throw a dog down. I managed to talk him out of it.’
‘Donald wouldn’t do anything like that,’ Annabelle assured me.
‘No. Maybe I owe him an apology. No I don’t. What am I saying? He comes and digs your garden, has morning coffee with you, and I’m jealous. I’ll get him, one day.’
‘That reminds me!’ she exclaimed. ‘I am the one you owe an apology. Thanks to you, Donald now charges me four pounds an hour. He says you told him to!’
‘He’s worth every penny,’ I countered. ‘You were exploiting him.’
The first courses arrived, arranged on the plates to look like something knocked up by Paul Klee. I was selecting the correct implements when a thought occurred. ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, ‘wait a minute.’
Annabelle looked up from her work of art.
‘This money you pay Donald,’ I continued. ‘I don’t suppose you know if he declares it to the Inland Revenue, do you?’
Annabelle placed her knife and fork back on the table.
‘Oh, Charles,’ she giggled. ‘You are impossible,’ and her nose wrinkled the way it does when the happiness
