Blood Guilt. Lindy Cameron

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СКАЧАТЬ was going on around the sodden body of her ex-client. She found a bathroom, locked herself in and took off her cotton shirt to wring it out over the hand basin. She shook her head vigorously and ran her hands through her wet hair before putting the shirt back on. Then she went looking for Douglas Scott.

      She found him in the lounge, a plushly furnished room full of couches, cushions, potted palms and begonias, heavy curtains drawn against the proceedings in the Forum outside, and the best-stocked bar Kit had ever seen.

      Nick was diligently recording everything that Scott was saying. He looked up when she entered, quickly suppressing an inappropriate grin, and got to his feet.

      'Don't let me interrupt, Detective Jenkins,' she said. 'I just want a word with Mr Scott when you're finished.'

      I think we're done,' Nick said. 'Unless you have anything else to add Mr Scott.'

      A lock of snowy hair fell forward across a pair of unbelievably tangled eyebrows as Douglas Scott shook his head and turned to face Kit. He was visibly distressed and obviously agitated at the thought of having to go through the details yet again. Nick excused himself and left the room, picking up Kit's cue that he should make himself scarce.

      'I'm sorry to bother you right now Mr Scott. My name is Katherine O'Malley and...'

      'I know who you are Miss O'Malley,' he said, reaching for his glass only to find it empty.

      'Call me Kit. Can I get you another?' Kit offered, holding out her hand.

      'Yes. Please. A whisky thanks.'

      He watched Kit, with the concentration of someone determinedly trying to ignore everything else that was going on around him, as she refilled his glass with the Glenlivet which stood open on the bar, and filled another with Wild Turkey.

      'This is a damn tragedy. She was such a fine woman,' he said, accepting the drink as he blinked back the tears pricking his pale blue eyes. Kit liked this man already, and not simply because he looked remarkably like a Old English sheepdog. She guessed he was about sixty though his gentle face had scarcely a line, except around the eyes where the telltale creases hinted at a disposition more accustomed to deriving great amusement from life. It was easy to understand why Celia had trusted him so, though seeing him sitting there barely able to control his grief, Kit suspected his loyalty had a bit to do with the fact that he'd been more than a little in love with their mutual client.

      Kit sat down opposite and knocked back her bourbon in one swallow, wondering how, or even whether, she should proceed. She had expected to close the case tonight but not by default. The fact that her client was dead meant, effectively, that she had no client, despite Celia's cryptic note and generous cheque which suggested she had changed her mind.

      'You and I probably have a few things to go over Miss O'Malley. Kit. But not tonight, if you don't mind. And I don't think the police need to know all the details, especially when Geoffrey is likely to turn up at any minute.'

      'Off course Mr Scott,' Kit said relieved. 'Do you know where he was expected to be this evening?'

      'Douglas, please,' he said. 'Luckily, he was in acceptable company - for a change. I suggested to that detective in charge that they contact Geoffrey's secretary Adele. She was apparently out shopping, which is why it's taken so long, but she told them that Geoffrey was dining with Miles and two visiting reps from OHP's printers in Hong Kong.'

      'What about Byron? He seems to know everything that goes on around here.'

      'He wasn't home.' Douglas looked pathetically at his empty glass so Kit went to the bar, refilled her own and brought the bottle of Glenlivet back for him.

      'God, I'll have to ring Elizabeth and tell her,' he was saying. 'I don't imagine she would want to hear of her mother's accident from Geoffrey.'

      'Um, don't you think this whole 'accident' thing is a little suspicious?' Kit said hesitantly.

      Douglas looked pained but not surprised by the suggestion. 'A little,' he said quietly. Further discussion was put on hold as a commotion in the hall heralded the arrival of Geoffrey Robinson, his breathless voice demanding the whereabouts of his wife.

      Kit got to the lounge door in time to see a uniformed officer escorting Geoffrey into the Forum. They had passed Donald Grenville, the coroner, in the hall.

      'Well, well, well, if it isn't Katherine O'Malley,' he said with a warm smile.

      'Hi Donald, how goes it?' Kit said, moving away from the lounge and out of Douglas's earshot.

      'Couldn't be better, my dear. I wouldn't be dead for quids. And I see you have managed to survive and flourish without Flash Marek to hold your hand. I like the wet look; you look positively ravishing, but then that's nothing new.'

      'And you haven't changed one bit, you old bastard.'

      'Flattery will get you nothing but my undying passion Katherine,' Donald said, twirling the thicket of whiskers under his nose.

      'How about the lowdown on the task at hand?'

      'Well, it's so damn wet out there I could do little more than rudimentary examination. My guess is the woman drowned somewhere between 6 and 9 p.m. The rest will have to wait till we've both dried out a bit.'

      'Was it an accident?'

      'It seems so. The evidence, as it stands, fits the theory that she stumbled, probably in a state of intoxication, headfirst into the water. There is bruising on the forehead and another on the chin consistent with a fall. Either injury may have rendered her unconscious or in no fit state to extricate herself from the pond. But that is just the theory; I shall know more on the morrow.'

      'Jesus Christ, what a bloody mess,' bellowed Geoffrey, as he and Marek, followed by the stretcher carrying Celia's shrouded body, crowded in through the patio door.

      Kit took her leave of Donald and headed back to the lounge. She wanted to be there when Geoffrey entered. Douglas was in the process of topping up his glass again.

      'You'd better have another yourself Kit,' he said. 'I think we're in for one hell of a performance.'

      'God, Douglas. I just don't know what to do next. And what a thing for you to have to go through. She was just so, so...' Geoffrey turned aside dramatically to compose himself or, rather, to decide which of the emotions that were running uncontrolled across his face best suited the present company. He settled on a mournful look complete with an exaggerated and regular blinking-back of an imaginary wellspring of tears. Douglas extracted his hand from Geoffrey's and, ushering him to the couch, poured him a whisky.

      The elegant walking cane that Geoffrey had traded his crutches for sometime on Wednesday provided more than adequate support for his grief and gave him something to do with the hand that wasn't holding the whisky glass.

      Kit watched Marek shuffling from one foot to the other, waiting. He hated these scenes. Having to question a grieving individual was an odious task, but Marek had his own emotions so securely locked up in a cupboard somewhere that he had a harder time than most dealing with what he scathingly called the 'raw, seething quagmire of self pity'.

      'I'm sorry to put you through this right now, Mr Robinson, but I will have to ask you some questions,' he said.

      'Of course. I understand,' Geoffrey said with a sigh that was audibly cut short when he СКАЧАТЬ