door, he could see several young assistants silently going about their business. All of them wore the same uniform of black jeans and a black fleece. None of them came into the room. None of them so much as glanced at him as they went past. Even more gallingly, no one had even offered him a cup of coffee.
Carlyle yawned, noisily.
‘Inspector?’
‘Yes.’ He quickly finished his yawn and turned to face a smiling blonde woman, her hair tied back in a ponytail. About his height, in her late twenties or early thirties, she was wearing jeans and a heavy orange jumper over a grandpa shirt; a pair of thick, black-framed glasses were perched on the top of her head. ‘John Carlyle, from the Charing Cross station.’
He extended a hand and she shook it limply.
‘Fiona Allcock.’
‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘Not a problem,’ she smiled. ‘Thank you for coming to the studio.’ She gestured towards the table. ‘Do you like my birds?’
‘Well. .’ Carlyle forced himself not to take another peek. He didn’t like dead things. And, as a London boy through and through, he thought animals were best suited to the countryside. ‘What are they?’
‘Sparrows.’ Allcock stepped over to the table and picked up one of the birds, placing it face up in the palm of her hand. She lifted the bird towards Carlyle and two little dead eyes stared up at him. He swallowed uncomfortably. ‘We got sent these little beauties from Lincolnshire only yesterday.’
‘What will you do with them?’ he asked, although he was not interested in the slightest.
‘One of my assistants will skin the creatures today,’ Allcock said, placing the dead bird back on the table along with its two chums. ‘It’s like removing the skin from a chicken before you cook it.’
‘I see.’ Carlyle, who had never skinned a chicken in his life, nodded wisely.
‘Once that is done, the muscle fibres and bones are measured and posed,’ she continued, reciting what was clearly a practised monologue. ‘The carcass is then moulded in plaster and we make a final polyurethane mannequin. The skin is tanned and then fitted to the mannequin. Finally we add glass eyes and put it in a display.’
‘Interesting.’
‘These little ones are already sold.’ Allcock perched herself on the edge of the table. ‘They are going to a collector in Bristol.’
Despite himself, Carlyle was curious. ‘And how much will they cost?’
‘The final display will cost?8,500, plus vat.’
She gave him a suspicious look and slipped back into salesperson mode. ‘Of course, what you’ve got to remember is that you are looking at weeks and weeks of work. It’s a highly skilled professional job.’
‘And you have many takers?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she beamed. ‘Taxidermy is really fashionable at the moment. We’re rushed off our feet.’
‘I won’t keep you long, then,’ Carlyle said briskly. ‘I wondered if I could have a quick word with you about Joe Dalton.’
‘Ah yes, Joe.’ She folded her arms and stared into the middle distance.
‘I know that you already spoke to the officers who investigated his death,’ he said gently, ‘and I really don’t want to go over old ground, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.’ He had read her statement in the original report; it had been perfunctory in the extreme.
‘Of course,’ she nodded. ‘Are you reopening the investigation?’
‘No, but there may be a connection with something else that I am looking into.’
‘Oh?’ She studied him carefully. ‘How so?’
Carlyle smiled. ‘That’s what I’m trying to work out. Do you happen to know why Joe decided to kill himself?’
‘No, not really.’ She sighed, staring at the floor. ‘Joe could always be a bit up and down. I saw him about a week before he died; I remember that he was rather gloomy but nothing off the scale.’ She shrugged. ‘I could put up with it, in small doses.’
‘He was your boyfriend?’
She grinned. ‘He was
Carlyle felt himself redden slightly, but kept going. ‘Did he see your relationship differently? Is that what pushed him over the edge?’
She glanced at the dead birds, as if for inspiration. ‘I don’t think so. It was more than just a casual thing, but neither of us was prevented from seeing other people.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘At some party a few years ago. I remember he was quite a novelty. You don’t meet many policemen in my social circle.’
‘I suppose not.’
‘No offence.’
‘Of course not,’ he smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean. I don’t meet many taxidermists in
‘Yes?’
‘What was the connection? What was a copper like Joe Dalton doing hanging out with the beautiful people of the arts set?’
Allcock didn’t rise to the bait. ‘It’s not so surprising really. We work-’ she corrected herself, ‘he
‘What kind of people?’
‘Some of my clients are royalty.’
Carlyle raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, minor royalty.’ She looked at him with an amused smile. ‘Don’t you read the papers?’
‘Sometimes,’ he grinned. ‘But usually only the football pages.’
‘Let me show you.’ Allcock marched over to a pile of magazines in the corner, rising about four feet from the floor. Rooting through the stack, she found what she was looking for, five or six down from the top. Holding up an old copy of
‘The Earl of Falkirk.’ Carlyle immediately recognised the arrogant-looking man wearing a dinner jacket, black tie undone.
‘One of my clients. He’s taken an ocellated turkey and a Japanese raccoon dog from me so far this year.’
‘Did he know Joe Dalton?’
‘Of course. Falkirk’s twentieth to the throne or something. It was Joe who introduced us a couple of years ago. He worked as one of the guy’s bodyguards.’
‘He was a CPO?’
She looked at him blankly.
‘A Close Protection Officer, CPO.’
Allcock frowned. ‘Like I said, he was a bodyguard. It seemed like a cool gig. Joe liked the travel and the overtime. He said that some of the other bodyguards could be right sods, though.’
‘How so?’
‘Just, you know, annoying. He never really specified anything in particular.’
‘Did he ever mention a guy called Dolan?’
Allcock thought about it for a moment.
‘Tommy Dolan,’ Carlyle repeated.
