Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ for the van on the lawn. Kit heard a familiar yet unexpected voice in the hall so she just walked in through the open doorway to find her friend and ex-partner Detective Sergeant Jon Marek giving his undivided attention to a large, uncooperative black umbrella. His mane of tousled grey hair belied the fact that he was only 35 years old and was quite at odds with his Adonis-like face and athlete's body. He had always maintained, throughout their three-year partnership, that it had been the strain of working with Kit that had turned him prematurely grey.

      'Don't you know it's bad luck to open an umbrella inside,' she said.

      'Eh? Oh, it's you O'Malley,' he said as if he'd been expecting her. 'I've been expecting you,' he added.

      The ruddy-faced man brushed past Kit again, this time lugging an armful of metal poles and a tarpaulin. He was having a great deal of trouble with the latter so rather than lose the lot he dropped the tarp then grabbed one corner and dragged it up the hallway. The metal rivets screeched across the marble tiles sending a fingernails-on-a-blackboard shiver up Kit's spine.

      'What the hell is going on?'

      'A local citizen has met with an untimely demise, ' Marek said, thrusting the umbrella at Kit and indicating she should follow him.

      'Who killed him?' Kit asked, expecting to see Celia handcuffed to a standard lamp in the lounge room.

      'I said demise. What makes you think someone's been murdered,' Marek said, turning to face Kit so suddenly that she ran into him.

      'I said killed. And I have no idea what I should be thinking. But your presence suggests something other than death by misadventure Jonno,' Kit said, fighting with the umbrella which had sprung open during the collision.

      'Yeah, well you know that when a ratepayer as rich as this one kicks the golden bucket our lords and masters like to have all the bases covered. But seeing as the only weapon, as such, that we've found is a fish pond, I'd say it's a case of accidental death by drowning. And it's a her not a him by the way. Leave that up, you'll probably need it out here,' Marek said, opening the door to the patio.

      Kit suddenly felt sick to her stomach, and stepped with great trepidation onto the patio overlooking the floodlit Forum. The rain, which slid so silently down the marble torso of the motionless Perseus, thumped with an irritating urgency on the caps of the three officers trying to raise a canvas canopy over the bald-headed body of Celia Robinson.

      'Oh shit, what happened?' Kit asked, collapsing into one of the patio chairs. She was unable to take her eyes from the dismal scene before her, but couldn't help thinking that it looked like a carefully designed set for a Miss Marple movie. A now sodden blanket covered most of her body, as if someone had put it there to keep her warm, and Celia lay on her back on the lawn with her arms neatly by her side, looking for all the world as if she was taking a nap. The only things that looked out of place were Celia's extremely hairless pate and the extraordinary amount of water in which she was lying. In fact there was far too much water lying around for it to have come from the rain which was only now getting really serious about drowning them all.

      'That umbrella would be far more useful over our heads O'Malley,' Marek said dragging a chair up beside Kit.

      'Where did all the water come from?' Kit asked, handing the umbrella to Marek because she didn't care in the least that she was getting soaked to the skin.

      'The fish pond. The fountain was gushing like a bloody geyser when we got here and there appears to be something blocking the outlet pipe. That's what that plumber is trying to fix,' Marek said, trying to remove a cigarette from his packet with one hand, while holding the umbrella over them both with the other.

      The man in the overalls had just stepped into the pond and was searching around under the water for the cause of the problem. Every time he moved, a small tidal wave surged over the edge and lapped ever so gently at the senseless body on the lawn.

      'Can't you move her?' Kit said.

      'We haven't got all the photographs yet,' Marek replied. 'Pete had to get more film from his car. Oh, here he is. It's about bloody time Pete. Get a move on before we all get washed away.'

      'Yes sire,' said the surly Pete Fowler who always looked like he had a bad smell up his nose. Considering his job he probably did. He winked at Kit then turned his attention and camera to the task of recording Celia's penultimate resting place.

      'How did you know I was going to be here?' Kit asked.

      'We found this in her pocket,' Marek said, handing Kit an envelope with her name on it. It had already been opened so she removed the contents. There was a cheque, made out to O'Malley Investigations for $2000, and a small piece of paper neatly printed in red with the words: January 19, North 4; 5 p.m.; January 20 FISC, 11 p.m.

      'I don't get this. Tonight was our last appointment. This is far too much money and this, whatever it is, is for next week.'

      'So, fill me in O'Malley. What's the deal here?'

      'She hired me to tail her husband. Where is he by the way?'

      'We've sent a car to pick him up. It took us a while to find him.'

      'I bet it did. Who found her then?'

      'Her solicitor, Douglas Scott. He's having a stiff drink while he gives his statement to Nick, ' Marek said, finally getting his cigarette lit, while Kit looked expectantly at him.

      'OK. Briefly, he had a 9 o'clock appointment with the late Mrs Robinson, but when no-one answered the bell he let himself in. The patio door was open and he found his client lying face down on the grass with her head and arms in the water. Naturally he dragged her out but says it was obvious that she'd been there for some time. He rang an ambulance and called us. End of story. Except that, judging by the empty bottle under that statue over there, it looks like she probably had a bit too much and fell down; maybe she hit her head or maybe she was too pissed to realise it was water she was trying to breathe and not air.'

      'You're so crass, Marek. People like Celia Robinson don't get 'pissed', not on Moet anyway and certainly not when they're expecting company,' Kit snapped. 'Something is definitely sus here.'

      'You think so?' Marek said in his best patronising voice, which Kit chose to ignore. 'It looks pretty straightforward to me. Her solicitor said she was a drinker.'

      'A drinker, yes; but not a rolling drunk.'

      'You knew her well enough to make that judgement?'

      'I think so. Though not well enough, I must admit, to know that she was as bald as a bandicoot. Where's her hair?'

      'Good question. And I have another. Why did you assume that a he had been killed?'

      'Because it's quicker and cheaper than divorcing a priapic husband.'

      Marek stared at his eyebrows for a few seconds before saying 'I give up. That one hasn't come up in the cryptic crossword yet.'

      A shout from the fish pond saved Kit from having to detail the licentiousness that accompanied Geoffrey's permanent hard on, though she knew she may eventually have to. Meanwhile the plumber, who was triumphantly holding aloft what was left of Celia's yellow wig as if it was the scalp of a conquered foe, was shouting that he'd found the source of the problem.

      'I think I'm going to puke,' Kit said making for the patio door before she witnessed any more of the circus that СКАЧАТЬ