“And last night it was too late. When do you eat? Never mind, love.” She went through the maneuver of sitting down, in free fall for the last foot or so, severely testing the frame of the sofa, never mind the springs. “Yes, the press photography suffered in the recession-and without Britt. I was always freelance, you see. Didn’t want to live in London, where the well-paid work is. So I went back to making cakes. I learned it years ago. Won competitions for my icing. The great thing about all this-and I’m not referring to my figure-is that even in a recession people get married and want wedding cakes. Whatever damn-fool things the government does to ruin the economy, babies get christened-that means more cakes-and Christmas comes up every year-and that’s another batch.”
“It sounds like good sense to me,” said Diamond.
“You’re in the same happy position, ducky,” she remarked. “Crime is always going to be around. You’re never going to be short of work.”
He let that pass. “I’d like to ask you a couple of things that could be helpful without going over the ground you covered with Inspector Hargreaves. About Mountjoy. Did Britt say much to you about what she was uncovering at the college?”
“About as much as I needed to know, my dear, and that was all. She was a shrewd operator.”
“She must have admired your work.”
“I was reasonably competent,” she said. “No-why be modest?-I’m bloody brilliant with a camera. When I showed her my book, she hired me.”
“That’s how you met?”
“In that business, you have to hustle for the work, darling. I heard about this top journalist living in Bath, so I turned up on her doorstep one morning and showed her what I did. Getting photographers down from London each time she had a story to cover was a real drag, and as I was on the spot she gave me a dry run with the Longleat story. I got some nifty pics and-bingo! It sold all over the world.”
“Coming back to Mountjoy…”
“You wanted to know how much Britt let me in on the story, right? I knew she enrolled there as a student to dig some dirt, but I hadn’t the faintest idea it was about Iraqi spies. She just wanted pics of the exterior, which I took, and she said when the time was right she’d want some of the principal. My best guess was that the old goat was having it away with some princess from a tinpot European state who had come to learn English. Improper verbs, you might say.” She popped most of a slice of fruit cake into her mouth.
“Were you in close touch with Britt in the last days of her life?”
After some rapid work on the cake, she said, “Not unless you count a phone call as close touch. We spoke the day before she died, updating on the projects I was doing with her. She said the college investigation was coming along nicely and I had better stand by to get some pics of the principal as soon as she gave me the word.”
“Did she sound the same as usual?”
“Absolutely. Very calm, with that precise way the Swedes have of speaking English. Always made me sound a blethering idiot by comparison.”
“Did she mention anyone she was planning to see?”
“No.”
“The dinner with Mountjoy wasn’t mentioned?”
“No. She wasn’t one for chatting. It was all strictly business with Britt.”
“Do I sense that you didn’t like her?”
Prue Shorter weighed the question.
“Didn’t like her much?” Diamond pressed.
“I liked the money she paid. We respected each other professionally. As for friendship, she was the ice maiden. Maybe she was only interested in men. She could put it on with them, for sure. I watched her in action.”
There was disapproval in the tone she used. It crossed Diamond’s mind that some sort of jealousy was at work. If he hadn’t heard about the daughter who had died, he might have assumed that Prue Shorter was a lesbian, frustrated in her overtures to Britt. Of course, it wasn’t impossible that she was or had become one.
“Would you go so far as to say that she used her looks to further her career?”
She mocked this with a huge laugh. “What is this pussyfooting ‘would you go so far as to say?” Is this what they call political correctness? Load of horseshit. Of course she maximized her assets, and good luck to her.” She turned to Julie and said, “Don’t you agree?”
Julie reddened and said ineffectually, “Well…”
Diamond was tempted to point out that “maximized her assets” was pussyfooting, too, but he wasn’t there for an argument. He moved on. “I’d like to ask about the Trim Street job that you did for her. The squat.”
“What about it?”
“How did she persuade them to let you inside with your camera?”
Prue Shorter opened her hands to stress how obvious the answer was. “Like I said, my dear, she exercised her charm. They had a leader. He was called G.B. Don’t ask me why. The crusties all had made-up names like Boots and Tank, even the girls. G.B. used to hang around the Abbey Churchyard- you know, in front of the abbey, right in the center of Bath, and that’s where Britt linked up with him. I don’t know how she could. These people pong like a stable, you know. He had a dog on a piece of rope, a vicious-looking thing, and she would buy meat for it. Just getting G.B.’s confidence. She knew if she could get in with him, he’d square it with the rest of them in Trim Street.”
“But why? What was the object?”
“To get into the house and get some pics.”
“I know that,” said Diamond. “What I mean is that it’s no big deal, some derelict people in a derelict house. As a piece of journalism it doesn’t compare with the story she was doing on Mount joy.”
She nodded. “There must have been something about it that she wasn’t telling. She guarded her secrets, did Britt. I remember wondering at the time if it was worth risking head lice and fleabites for, but she was very insistent. She got us in and I took five rolls of film.”
“Anything of interest?”
“You can see the prints if you want. As pics, they’re bloody good, but I wouldn’t know where to sell them now. Young people with rings through their noses and tattoos and punk hairstyles lying around a gracious Georgian fireplace drinking beer and cider. Rather boring.”
“Were there any objections?”
“From the crusties, you mean? A couple of the girls told me to piss off, I think, but G.B. gave them a mouthful back and they fell into line. No, we had the freedom of the house.”
“This G.B. Is he still about?”
“In Bath? I’ve seen him from time to time in various states of inebriation. They moved out of Trim Street quite soon after we were there.”
“Do you know why?”
She shook her head.
“Since you mentioned it, I’d like to see your pictures of the crusties.”
“All right. Give me a hand, will you?”
She literally wanted a hand to help haul her up from the sofa. He supplied it and got a sense of the weight her legs had to support. He’d been about to take another bite of cake, but he left a piece on his plate.
Their hostess had to go upstairs for the photos. Diamond returned the cups to the tray and carried it to the kitchen. Julie offered, but he shook his head. He wanted to see that kitchen. It was orderly and well equipped, with a solid, square table, a German oven and a set of French saucepans. A cork notice board over one of the work surfaces was covered with the sort of ephemera that people often feel obliged to keep for a time out of sentiment or necessity: a faded drawing that a young child must have done of a stick figure apparently female with a bush of hair and hands like toasting forks; postcards from Spain and Florida; a Gary Larson cartoon; two newspaper cuttings of local weddings; and a couple of business cards. There was also an engagement diary with every Saturday in the month marked as a wedding.
He was back in the living room when Prue Shorter came downstairs carrying a manila folder. She took out the photos and spread them across the coffee table. “Help yourself, folks. I’d better check that cake.”
