This way, it sounded as if he was touting for sympathy. He told her about the sting and she made the appropriate remarks.
“How was your meeting with Jake Pinkerton?” she asked when it was clear that he wished to talk about something else than his thumb.
He summed up. “He just confirmed what we know: he and Britt dumped each other more than a year before the murder. He reckoned it was mutual. No resentment. And she had no interest in dishing the dirt on him because it had all been done by others when he was younger. The only mildly interesting thing that came up was that he was at the funeral and remembers seeing a bunch of red roses among the floral tributes.”
“Who from?”
“No message. Pretty tasteless in the circumstances, don’t you think?”
“Sick, I think.”
“So how about you?” he asked. “Did you get to see the photographer lady?”
“Prue Shorter-yes. She lives out at Steeple Ashton. She was certainly worth the trip. She took the pictures-or pics, as she calls them-for three stories with Britt. Well, only one, actually. The last two were never completed.”
“One of those being the college expose?”
“Yes, she took some exteriors of the building and she was going to get some of Mountjoy when the opportunity came, but Britt didn’t want them taken until she’d finished her investigation. She intended to confront him with her evidence on the night she was killed.”
“That’s what I always assumed, but it’s good to have it confirmed,” said Diamond. The case against Mountjoy wasn’t crumbling. It was being reinforced. “What was the story that did get into print?”
“She did an exclusive feature on Longleat House and Viscount Weymouth. He’s Lord Bath now, of course. Well, the whole emphasis of the story was the gallery of portraits he has of his lovers, his ‘wifelets,’ as he calls them, all fifty-four of them.”
Diamond smiled. “I once attended a meeting about security at Longleat and we were shown inside the Kama Sutra room, with its four-poster bed and the murals painted by the Viscount. Allegedly erotic.”
“Allegedly? I’ve seen the photos,” said Julie.
“Well, if they struck you as erotic, fine.”
She colored.
“I mean, it’s all in the mind, isn’t it?” Diamond teased her.
She stayed staunchly with the story she was reporting. “The family were extremely obliging. Prue Shorter took any number of photos while Britt got the interview with the Viscount and wrote the story. The press made a great splash out of it. She did some very big deals with continental magazines. Anything out of the ordinary about the British aristocracy sells well in Europe.”
“Out of the ordinary? Yes, I think that sums it up.” Privately he thought the Longleat story unlikely to have influenced the murder. “You said there were three stories Prue Shorter photographed for Britt. The Longleat portraits, the Mountjoy scam and what else?”
“The other was Trim Street.”
“Really?” He leaned forward in the chair.
“Well, you found this out yourself,” said Julie. “The crusties got into one of the empty houses and declared squatters’ rights. Britt got to know them and succeeded in getting Prue inside to photograph the place.”
“When?”
“She couldn’t pin down the date, but it was only a week or so before the murder. Britt’s story never got written. Prue Shorter has some excellent shots of the crusties inside the place. She showed them to me.”
Diamond examined his thumb again. Every so often it gave a twinge and his face prickled as if he were sitting in a draught. “I can’t think what she hoped to do with the story. There are homeless people all over Europe occupying empty houses.” Recalling a comment of Pinkerton’s, he said, “Did she say what the angle was?”
“The angle?”
“The point the article was making.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Maybe I should meet this woman. Steeple Ashton, you said? Is she likely to be there this morning?”
Julie thought so. She had gathered that Prue Shorter worked from home these days. She had given up the photography.
They drove there together, Julie at the wheel of the Escort. So far, he was glad he had asked her to act as his assistant. The decision hadn’t been taken out of any strong conviction that women deserved a better deal in the police. He judged people on their merits, and Julie was a good detective. John Wigfull was also a good detective, much more experienced than Julie, but a pain to work with.
Steeple Ashton lies west of Bath, across the county border, in Wiltshire. Strictly, he should have informed the Wilts Constabulary that he was pursuing inquiries on their patch, and Wigfull would have reminded him of the fact, but Julie had the good sense to say nothing.
Prue Shorter’s cottage was stone-built and thatched, south of the village, up a lane much used by cows. There were some ancient apple trees in the garden.
“Is she friendly?” Diamond asked.
“I think you’ll find her so. With that sore thumb of yours, I wouldn’t shake hands. She’s big.”
“Hearty?”
“Yes.”
Smoke was coming from the chimney, a promising sign. The hearty occupant must have heard the car because she opened the door before they reached it. “You again, love?”
“This is Mr. Diamond, my boss,” said Julie, sidestepping the trifling matter of rank. “He won’t shake hands because he was stung by a bee this morning.”
“Poor lamb!” said Prue Shorter. “Have you put something on it?”
He didn’t care to start that again. “It’s under control, thanks. I wanted to meet you because you worked with Britt Strand, the woman who was murdered. I don’t know how much Inspector Hargreaves told you.”
“I know Mountjoy is on the run,” she said. “I can relax. He never met me. Doesn’t even know I exist. Are you coming in? I’ll get the kettle on.”
When she opened the door wider and turned, she made Diamond feel undersized, a mere tug beside an ocean liner. Such encounters were rare. She had to ease her way into the kitchen, where something rich was cooking.
Left in the living room, which was the greater part of the ground floor of the cottage, he looked around for signs of the work Miss Shorter did from home, and saw none. Maybe she had an office upstairs, he speculated, because this room was furnished for relaxation, with a chintz sofa and armchairs, a music center and a television set. It also contained the stone hearth and a log fire. The framed pictures of Redoute roses, the vases and ornaments and the cut chrysanthemums in a glass vase were arranged with a bold sense of design. Large as she was, Prue Shorter was not ham-fisted. A violin in a white alcove was elegantly displayed.
“You’re a musician, I gather?” he said sociably when she returned with a laden tray.
“What makes you say that? Ah-the fiddle. It’s not full-size. It belonged to my daughter. She died.”
“Sorry-I wouldn’t have…”
“It’s all right. I’m thick-skinned. And I like to listen to music. I play things most of the time-CDs, I mean. The recorder was the only instrument I mastered, and there’s not much joy playing that.”
“Music is nice as a background, if it doesn’t interfere with your work,” he ventured. This was subtle stuff, and he hoped Julie was taking note.
“Oh, it’s just the thing for what I do,” Prue Shorter said. “I make and decorate cakes. There’s one in the oven right now.”
“It smells irresistible. No more photography, then?”
“Only pics of the cakes.” She set down the tray. “You can sample one I made for myself.”
“I’d love to.”
“That’s the kind of man I like,” she said, raising her fist in tribute. “Sod the calories, forward the cakes.” She cut a generous slice of iced fruit cake and handed it to him. “How about you, Inspector? Do you good.”
“Thanks, but it’s a little early in the day,” Julie said.
