'No thanks. Just visiting Ms Pomona,' said Novello, pressing the bell.
A long minute passed before the door opened.
Rye stood there wearing only a cotton wrap. She looked terrible. Either, thought Novello, casting an expert eye over the deep shadowed eyes, the pallid cheeks, the hunched shoulders and the lifeless hair, she'd been at a Twelfth Night party even wilder than the one she herself didn't remember attending, or she was sick.
'Hey, I'm sorry, have I got you out of bed?'
'No, I was up.'
'Can I come in?'
Rye looked as if she'd like to say No, then glanced at the still-spectating neighbour and said, 'Morning, Mrs Gilpin. Yes, come in.'
Unless as well as admitting the suspected journalist, Rye had also hidden her in the bedroom, it looked as though she was alone.
'So what do you want… nothing's happened to Hat, has it?'
For the first time some spark of life touched the lacklustre eyes.
'No, nothing to do with Hat. He's fine.'
‘Relief, then the light died. No need to worry her with anything else, not till she'd got the photos developed and had a word with King Kong. 'No, I was just passing and thought I'd say hello, check that everything was all right.'
'Yeah, fine. Why shouldn't it be?'
'You know, what we talked about, journalists and such. There hasn't been anyone bothering you?'
Rye said, 'How could anyone bother me?'
Strange answer, but she was a strange girl. And not a well girl by the look of her.
'Sorry to bother you then. I'll let you get back to bed.'
'Bed? No, I'm getting ready for work.'
'Work?' said Novello. Then, catching the echo of her own incredulity, she went on rapidly, 'Monday morning's are hell, aren't they? Especially if you've been partying over the weekend. You should have seen me an hour ago. Coffee and a spot of breakfast's the thing for getting back on track. You had any breakfast yet? Let me give you a hand. I could murder another cup of coffee.'
'No thanks,' said Rye. 'I'm not hungry. Bit of an upset tummy.'
Hell, thought Novello. Has Hat got carried away, put her in the club? Stupid sod! Or maybe (don't rush to judgment in this world 'cos you surely won't want to be rushing to judgment in the next, as Father Kerrigan was forever telling his flock) it was planned, what they both wanted, only as always the woman gets the shit, the man gets the cigars.
'Look, none of my business, but are you sure you're OK? You look, well, not a hundred per cent
'Is that right? How much would you say then? Ninety-five per cent? Fifty? Less?'
That was better. Spark back in her eyes, bit of a flush in her cheeks.
'Sorry,' said Novello. 'I'll be off then, let you get dressed. Take care.'
'Yes. Thank you for calling.'
Again a strangeness of phrase and intonation, this time sounding like Eliza Doolittle reciting some newly learned social mantra.
Novello left. No sign of Mrs Gilpin, thank God. She ran lightly up the next flight of stairs. The top landing was empty. The woman must have heard her pursuing feet and continued up here, listened to the exchange below, then slipped back down and away while she was wasting time in Pomona's apartment. So, a bad decision, she didn't doubt that was how the Fat Man would see it, though she still didn't know what she was supposed to have done if she had confronted this putative journalist.
At least he wasn't going to be able to say she took her time facing the music. As soon as he came in she was knocking at his door. In her hand she held her camera.
'What's this then? Want me picture for your scrap-book?'
Quickly she explained what had happened, playing up her foresight in having the camera, playing down her failure to keep track of the mystery woman. As she spoke she hooked up the camera to the computer which stood on a side table in the superintendent's office, like a memorial to futurity.
When the woman's face came up, he crashed a great fist down on his desk. Novello, anticipating this was the first salvo in a full-blooded assault on her performance, winced. But all he said was, 'Can I send this down the tube so it comes out at the other end?'
'Yes, sir’ she said. 'But I'll need an address.'
'Commander Jenkinson, Scotland Yard’ he said.
There was a service directory by the phone. She picked it up, thumbed through and said, 'Would that be Aneurin Jenkinson? Media Division?'
'That's the bugger.'
'And a message, sir?'
He thought a moment then dictated Nye – who she? – luv Andy.
She typed the message, attached the photo and sent it. Dalziel twisted the screen round so that he could see it.
Novello recalled a story told by the nun who taught deportment at the convent school she'd been expelled from. It concerned Queen Victoria attending a banquet hosted by the Empress Eugenie in Paris. Taking her seat at the dinner table, the Empress momentarily glanced down as most people do to make sure the flunkey was manoeuvring her chair into position. But to the French guests' huge admiration, Victoria seated herself without hesitation or downward glance, as if completely confident that, should the flunkey be remiss in his duty, God Himself would move the chair forward to receive her royal behind.
So, it seemed to her, the Fat Man glowered at the computer in the God-underwritten certainty that his message would receive an instant reply.
It took only a couple of minutes, but that great slab of a face was already beginning to darken with impatience.
She Mai Richter German journalist. CV follows. Watch your balls. She bites. Nye
She printed off the CV, handed it to the Fat Man and read it on the screen herself.
Mai Richter was thirty nine years old, set out to be an academic, had her proposals to do a thesis on American political patronage in the post-war era blocked, dug into the reasons for this and found that certain very senior state officials who controlled the university purse-strings had made it clear this was not an area they cared to see put under the microscope, got her findings published in a national paper, was sued, fought the case to a draw, found that her academic career was on the rocks before it had left harbour, so directed her talent for digging beneath the surface of things to journalism instead.
A list followed of her investigations, mainly in Germany but with some forays into France and the Netherlands. She was an accomplished linguist with perfect Dutch, English, and French. She worked freelance, selling her stories to the highest appropriate bidder. She wasn't a member of any political party but had strong left-wing radical sympathies. She trod a narrow line of legality which, it was theorized, she probably crossed far more often than the couple of times when she'd been caught, which occasions justified her inclusion in international police records. Another reason was that there had been death threats made against her and at least one known attempt.
'Seems to be a dangerous trade, hers’ said Novello.
'She'll find out just how dangerous next time I get my hands on her’ growled Dalziel. 'Let's have another look’
'Next time…? There's been a first time, sir?' said Novello, bringing the image back up.
'Oh aye. I've danced with her and given her a big wet kiss’ said Dalziel. 'This cow calls herself Myra Rogers. She's Rye Pomona's next-door neighbour and best mate!'
Novello's surprise was diluted with relief. She hadn't cocked up after all. That's how she'd disappeared, simply by going into her own apartment. The Fat Man dictated another note.
So she bites? Well, I'm used to that, you Welsh git! And I've still got the scars to prove it. How about a spiky-haired runt, answers to Tris, face like a fucked-up ferret, tanned like an old pub ceiling, dresses like a Polynesian pox-doctor and carries a handbag?
