“
“You obviously didn’t read the side of Mr Denjhi’s van.”
“You mean he didn’t do it? But I saw him – ” Jerry was aghast.
“We won’t know what he did until the body has been blood-typed and fingerprinted, and his clothes have been sent to a forensic lab. There’s a bit of a queue these days. There are still several Whitstables in the line ahead of him. But there’s certainly no reason to assume that he has any connection with the other murders.”
“He
“Did you get a good look at him?”
“No, not exactly. His head and shoulders were in shadow.”
“What I fail to understand,” said Bryant, “is what you were hoping to achieve by following Peggy Harmsworth. All right, you thought you could get your friend compensation for losing his job. There had to be an easier way of doing that, surely? The motorcycle isn’t registered in your name. Then there’s a charge of reckless driving. Do you have insurance?”
“No.”
“How about a licence?”
“No.”
“Foolish of me to ask. You really think you can screw us about, don’t you?”
Jerry shifted uncomfortably on her seat. “The man was trying to kill me.”
“What is it that keeps you coming back?” asked Bryant. “You always manage to be in the right place at the right time. Is it merely a ghoulish interest in police procedure, or were you planning to trap the killer by yourself?”
Jerry wanted to describe how she felt, but in the harsh light of the crime unit’s interview room, she knew her explanation would sound foolish.
May was watching her. “Tell me about your family, Jerry,” he said, sensing something unspoken between them.
“Family.” She shook her head, as if failing to recognize the word. “If you met them you’d understand. Gwen’s been following the whole thing in the papers. She really admires the Whitstables. My father’s company even worked for them once. They represent everything my parents aspire to, and I’m supposed to be like them. The Whitstables know what’s going on. Families like that always do. They’re just trying to protect themselves from something they don’t want to face.”
“And if the Whitstables are discredited, your parents won’t admire them any more,” concluded May. “They want to decide your career, but you won’t let them.”
Jerry didn’t answer. She could hear Gwen now.
She wanted to see the Whitstable family fall into disgrace. Then perhaps Gwen and Jack would be forced to put their faith in her, the daughter who had exposed them.
“You’ll be interviewed by the Met about your involvement in the accident that killed Mr Denjhi,” Bryant told her. “They’ll decide what to do with you, not us. But we can protect you to some extent by placing you under our supervision. For the record, I happen to agree with you. I think the Whitstables are deliberately hiding knowledge of something that is causing all this to happen. Daisy’s parents have already refused to let anyone interview her. Nobody will talk openly to us.”
“I could get you inside information,” said Jerry, sitting forward.
“Out of the question,” said Bryant.
“You said they won’t talk to you, but they might to me.”
“Go home, Jerry. Get some sleep.” Bryant rubbed his forehead wearily. “You’ll be contacted in due course. Until then, you do nothing, understand?”
They watched as the girl was escorted from the room. “Involving her would be taking a terrible risk,” warned May.
His partner waved the suggestion aside. “I have a feeling she’ll continue whether we sanction her or not.”
“It doesn’t look like we’re going to get any sleep tonight,” May warned.
Bryant wound his scarf pythonlike around his neck. There was no point in going off duty when the body of Peggy Harmsworth’s attacker waited in the morgue. “In a world like this, only the innocent can afford to sleep. Let’s go and wake Oswald Finch. Nobody rests while I’m up. Tell me about Peggy Harmsworth.”
“She was taken to the Royal Free Hospital, sedated, and placed under observation. She assaulted the ambulance men and bit one of the nurses. Screaming and laughing, suffering the effects of a hallucinogenic drug, they think.”
“At least
“That’s an extremely tasteless remark, Arthur. They’re pumping her stomach without knowing what she’s taken. That’s what this case needed on top of murder and kidnap – a madwoman in a cemetery.”
“Wait a minute…” Bryant’s eyes widened gleefully. “Of course!
“What on earth are you on about?”
“Peggy’s another name for Margaret, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it is. Why?”
“Don’t you see? She’s become Mad Margaret. An insane woman, creeping through a darkened graveyard. A character from
¦
As she was escorted back along the corridor, Jerry peered through the window of the next office and spotted Joseph. He lay curled up on a row of seats, wrapped in a heavy grey blanket with his huge boots sticking out of the end. His eyes were closed, his face framed by a corona of wild hair. He looked like Burne-Jones’s painting of Perseus, except he was covered in scratches and bruises, had a bloody nose, and was black.
She wanted to place her arms around him and kiss the curve of his bandaged neck, to be wrapped in his sleeping warmth. She wanted to tell him things she had never told any man. He would probably never want to speak to her again. She had done nothing but cause him trouble. It felt as if she had never given anyone reason to admire or even like her. Perhaps it was too late.
She stayed beyond the smeared glass for a moment more, then followed the officer out on to the freezing street.
? Seventy-Seven Clocks ?
28
Visited by Devils
David Balbir Denjhi, aged twenty-nine, was survived by a wife and three children, Janice Longbright noted as she pulled back a corner of her hastily compiled background file. He and his young bride had met in London, having both emigrated to England with their respective parents. David had clashed with the legal system several times, first with tax inspectors over a filed claim for company bankruptcy, then over an accusation of handling stolen goods. This had attracted the unwelcome attentions of the immigration authorities, but he’d come through the ordeal and had satisfactorily proved his right to remain in the country. The woman seated before Longbright seemed calm and sensible. If she had been crying earlier, she gave no sign of it. Mrs Denjhi poured coffee and sat back in her chair, waiting to be asked more questions. The sergeant knew that her life had become a nightmare, culminating in the identification of her husband’s body. Sirina Denjhi had spent several hours making statements to the police, and now faced another interview. Matters would not improve for her; soon she would receive the less sympathetic attention of the press.
“I must understand what happened to my husband,” said Sirina softly.
Standard interview procedure dictated that the sergeant could not reveal details of the investigation in
